_ PART IV CHAPTER XII. THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! The procession was passing under the windows.
Bertrand de Montville, the vindicated hero, was being borne to his soldier's grave on the hill by the fortress. Soldiers preceded him. Soldiers followed him. A mixed crowd of journalists--men from all parts of Europe--came after. And from the window above, his little pal looked down.
Max Wyndham stood beside her, the corners of his mouth drawn down and a very peculiar expression in his green eyes. He had amazed his French friend by refusing to follow the _cortege_. Even Chris did not know why, for he had clothed himself in an impenetrable cloak of reserve since Bertrand's death, and he was not apparently minded to lift it even for her benefit.
Yet she was glad to have him with her, for Noel had elected to go with Mordaunt; and though she was quite willing to be left alone, she found Max's presence a help. She had seen but little of him until the moment that they stood together looking down upon the passing procession.
It was a grey day. Down on the shore the long waves rolled in to break in wide lines of surf up the rock-strewn beach. The thunder of their breaking mingled with the roll of muffled drums. The full honours of a soldier's funeral were to be accorded to the man who had died before France could make amends.
Slowly the procession wound along the _plage_, and back upon Chris's memory flashed the day when she and Cinders had waited at the garden gate to see the soldiers pass. She saw again the handsome face of the young officer marching behind his men, the sudden animation leaping into it at sight of her, the eagerness with which he turned to greet her, his momentary hesitation at her request, his smiling surrender. What would have happened, she asked herself, if he had managed to resist her that day? Had that been the beginning of his downfall? Might he otherwise have passed on unscathed?
A sudden sense of coldness assailed her. The street below was empty. She stood alone. She leaned her head against the window-frame. How grey it was!
"Sit down!" said Max practically.
She started. "Oh, Max!" she said weakly.
"Here you are," he said, and guided her down into a chair. "That's the way. Now lean back and shut your eyes."
She obeyed him, without question, as she always did. A vague sense of consolation began to steal through her. His hand, holding hers, dispelled the loneliness.
After a while she opened her eyes and found him watching her. "Oh, Max," she said, "I'm so glad you are here."
"It seems as well," he rejoined, rather grimly. "Don't you think it's time you began to behave rationally?"
"Have I been very silly?" she asked.
"Very, I should say." He sat down on the arm of her chair, and drew her head to lean against him, a very rare demonstration with him.
She relaxed with a sigh. "I can't help it," she said wistfully. "I used to think life was just splendid--it was good to be alive. And now--I sometimes wish I'd never been born."
"Which is a mistake," said Max. "There's no time for that sort of thing. Besides, it's futile. Now, don't cry! That's futile, too, when there is anything else to be done. I don't suppose Trevor will be feeling particularly jolly when he gets back from this show--though there's something rather funny about it to my mind--and you'll have to cheer him up. I suppose you won't be upset if I smoke?"
"What can you see funny in it?" questioned Chris.
He lighted his cigarette before replying. "My dear girl," he said then, "I can't endow you with a sense of humour if you don't possess one. But all this pomp and circumstance has got its funny side, I assure you. Bertrand saw that; he was a philosopher. If he were here now, he would snap his fingers and laugh."
"He might," Chris admitted. "At least, he called it a dream in the midst of a great Reality."
"Which it is," said Max. "Get outside it all. Get above it if you can. And you will see. Come, you mustn't grizzle. You don't seriously suppose you've lost anything, do you?" He looked down at her suddenly, with a smile in his shrewd eyes. "I say, you must get rid of that idea," he said. "Even I know better than that. I believe in my own way I was almost as fond of him as you were. But I knew he was going long ago, and that nothing on earth could stop him. He knew it too. Between ourselves, I don't think he much wanted to stop. But there was nothing unwholesome about him. He wasn't a shirker. He played the game. And now you're going to play it, eh? You're going to buck up. You're going to give Trevor a sample of what the Wyndhams can do. I know we're a rotten tribe, but we've got our points. In Heaven's name, let's make the most of 'em!"
He bent abruptly and kissed her.
"Life's all right," he said. "And so's the world. But you've got to get used to the idea that it's not a place to stay in. It's no good sitting down by the wayside to cry. You've got to look on ahead and keep moving. It's the only possible way. If you don't, you get buried in every sand-storm."
Chris reached up her arms and clasped him very tightly. "Max, tell me Love doesn't die!"
"It doesn't," said Max stoutly.
"You are sure? You are sure?"
"Yes, I am sure."
"How do you know? Tell me--tell me!"
Chris's voice was piteous. Yet for a moment he was silent. Then, "I know," he said, "by the way that chap faced death."
"Because he wasn't afraid?" she whispered. "Because he died so easily?"
"Because he didn't die," said Max.
* * * * *
Late that night the clouds passed, and a new moon rose behind the fortress and threw a golden shimmer over the sea. The waves were washing over the rocks with a deep, mysterious murmuring. To Chris, kneeling at her window, it was as if they were trying to tell her a secret. She had knelt down to pray, but her thoughts had wandered, and somehow she could not call them back. Almost in spite of herself, she went in spirit over the rocks till she came to the Magic Cave. And here she would have entered, but could not, for the tide was rising and barred her out.
"Not there, _mignonne_," said a soft voice at her side.
She turned her head. Surely he had spoken in the stillness! Surely it was no dream!
But the action brought her back, back to the shadowy room, and the moonlit sea, and the prayer that was still little more than a vague longing in her heart.
She uttered a brief sigh, and rose. And in that moment she found herself face to face with her husband.
"Trevor!" she said, startled.
He was standing close to her, and suddenly she knew that he had been there for some time, waiting for her to rise.
Her first impulse was one of nervous irresolution, but it possessed her for a moment only. With scarcely a pause she went straight into his arms.
"I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "Isn't the sea lovely? Have you--have you seen the new moon?"
He held her in silence, and she heard the beating of his heart, strong and steady, where she had pillowed her head. She turned her face upwards after a little.
"Trevor, do you remember, long ago, how we saw the new moon together--and you wished? Have you wished this time?"
"It is always the same wish with me," he said.
"What! Hasn't it come true yet?" She leaned her head back to see his face the better. "Trevor," she said, "are you sure it hasn't come true?"
She saw his faint smile in the moonlight. "I think I should know if it had, dear."
"I'm not so sure," said Chris. "Men are very silly. They never see anything that isn't absolutely in black and white, and not always then. Tell me what it was you wished for."
But he shook his head. "That isn't fair, is it? If the gods hear, it will be struck off the list at once."
"Never mind the gods," said Chris despotically. "I'll get it for you somehow--even if they do. Now tell me! Whisper!" She drew down his head and waited expectantly.
"What a ghastly predicament!" he said.
"Trevor! Don't laugh! I'm not laughing."
"I'm sorry," he said. "But really I can't afford to run any risks of that sort."
"Then you still think you may get it?" questioned Chris.
"I think it possible--if the gods are kind."
"My dear," she said suddenly, "let's leave off joking. If it's something you're wanting very badly, why don't you--pray for it?"
"I am praying for it, sweetheart," he said.
"Oh, Trevor, tell me! And I'll pray, too."
She wound her arms persuasively about his neck. Her face was very sweet in the moonlight. The deep-sea eyes were very tender.
He looked into them and yielded. "Chris, I am praying for the love of the woman I love."
"Oh, but, Trevor--Trevor--"
"Yes," he said, and his voice vibrated upon a deeper note--a note that was passionate. "I want more than a little, my Chris. But I will be patient. I will wait all my life long if I must. Only--O God, let me win it at last!"
He stopped. She was looking at him strangely, and there was something about her that he had never seen before--something that compelled.
"But, Trevor dearest," she said, "it was yours long--long ago. Oh, don't you understand? How shall I make you understand?"
She clasped him closer. The moonlight was shining in her eyes--the eyes of a woman who had come through suffering into peace.
"My darling," she said, "before God, I am telling you the truth. If you hadn't come back to me, I should have broken my heart."
He took her head between his hands. He bent his face to hers, looking deep into those shining, unswerving eyes.
"Won't you believe me?" she pleaded. "Dear, I couldn't lie to you if I tried. Must I put it more plainly still? Then listen! You are more to me now than Bertie ever was. I do not say more than he might have been. But we can't put back the clock. I wouldn't if I could. No--no, not even to live again those old happy days. Trevor, do you understand now, dear? For if you don't, not even Aunt Philippa could be harder to convince. I am yours. I am yours. The other was a dream that can only come true in Paradise. But this is our Reality--yours and mine. And I can't live without you. I want you so. I love you so. Trevor--my husband!"
Her lips quivered suddenly, but in that moment his found them and possessed them. She gave herself to him in complete surrender, as she had given herself on their wedding-night. Yet with a difference. For she throbbed in his arms; she thrilled to his touch. She opened to him the doors of her soul, and drew him within...
"And now you understand?" she whispered to him later.
"Yes--I understand," he said.
She laid her head again upon his breast. "To understand all is to forgive all," she said.
To which he answered softly, "But there is nothing to forgive."
[THE END]
Ethel May Dell's Novel: Rocks of Valpre
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