Chapter 48

THE WAY OF THE WYNDHAMS

When Mordaunt returned from his ride, it was close upon the luncheon-hour. He went straight upstairs to prepare for the meal.

Chris's room was empty. He wondered where she was, but Noel bounded in and enlightened him before he descended.

"She's doing the pretty to Aunt Philippa," he reported. "Only three more hours now! Hip, hip, hooray!"

His yell caused Mordaunt to fling the towel he was using at his head, a compliment which seemed to please him immensely. He draped it round his neck and proceeded to deliver himself of that which he had come to say.

"Look here, Trevor, you've been bullying Chris, haven't you? You needn't say you haven't, because I know you have."

"Did she tell you so?" Mordaunt sounded grim.

Noel turned to look at him. "No. She said you hadn't. But she always tells a cram when it suits her purpose. I knew you had all the same."

Mordaunt was silent.

"She's horribly down in the mouth," Noel proceeded. "She never used to be before she married you. It's a pretty beastly thing to have to say, but someone ought to say it, and if I don't no one else will."

"Go on," said Mordaunt. "Your sense of duty does you credit."

"Don't be a beast! It isn't duty at all. I'm simply pointing out the obvious. I should think you could see it for yourself, can't you?"

Mordaunt brushed his hair in silence.

"It's got to stop anyhow," Noel went on with determination. "She's not to be bullied. It's worse than shabby,--it--it's damned mean to--to treat her as if--as if--" He became suddenly agitated and lost the thread of his discourse.

Mordaunt had laid down his brushes to listen. His eyes were gravely attentive. They held no indignation. "Go on," he said again. "You are quite right to use strong language if you consider the occasion requires it."

But Noel's flow of language had failed him. He sprang suddenly at his brother-in-law, and caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, do stop it, old chap!" he urged, with husky vehemence. "We all of us rely on you. And if you fail us--can't you see we're done for?"

Mordaunt looked down at him with a faint smile. "Perhaps I had better tell you what has happened," he said. "The trouble at the present moment is that Bertrand has robbed me, and has left in consequence."

"Great Scotland!" ejaculated Noel. "How much did he take?"

"Five hundred pounds. That's a detail of small consequence." Mordaunt spoke with grim precision. "It has upset Chris--quite naturally. But even you can hardly hold me responsible for that."

"I should think not! I say, I'm sorry I spoke." Impetuously Noel hugged him to obliterate the effect of his words. "I'm a silly ass. You mustn't mind me. Do you know, I always thought he would somehow, though Chris was so keen on him."

"I was keen on him too," Mordaunt observed, without much humour.

"I'm awfully sorry, old chap. It's a bit of a facer for you. But, you know, you can't trust foreigners. It doesn't do. There was that chap at Valpré. He simply bewitched Chris. She never would hear a word against him, but I'm sure he was a bounder. I've often thought since that he probably manoeuvred that cave business. They're such a wily lot, these Frenchies."

"What cave business?" There was a hint of sharpness in Mordaunt's voice; his brows were drawn.

Noel looked surprised. "Why, the time they got hung up by the tide all night. Mean to say you never heard of it? Oh, my eye!" he broke off blankly. "Then I've let the cat out of the bag!"

"Don't distress yourself. It is of no importance." Mordaunt's tone was suddenly very deliberate. He turned away and began to put on his coat. "Are you ready for luncheon? I'm going down now."

Noel surveyed him doubtfully. "You won't let on I told you, will you?" he said uneasily. "Chris may have asked me to keep it dark."

"I don't suppose she did." Very quietly Mordaunt made reply. "She has more probably forgotten all about it. But I won't give you away in any case. You are ready? Then suppose we go!"

They descended together to find Aunt Philippa and Chris awaiting them in the hall. Chris scarcely looked at her husband. She was very pale.

He followed her to her end of the table to pour her out a glass of wine.

"Please don't!" she said nervously. "I don't like it. I can't drink it."

"I think you can," he answered. "Try!"

He went to his own place, and proceeded to engage Aunt Philippa in conversation. But Aunt Philippa was looking even more severe than usual, and responded so indifferently to his efforts that he presently suffered them to flag. There fell a dead silence. Then Noel struck in with furious zest, and Mordaunt turned to him with relief. But Chris scarcely opened her lips.

At the end of the meal he addressed her with quiet authority. "Chris, you must rest this afternoon. Your aunt will excuse you."

"Certainly," said Aunt Philippa stiffly.

Chris rose from the table in unbroken silence. She came slowly down the long room. Mordaunt got up to open the door, and followed her out.

"Don't worry about me, please!" Chris besought him as he closed the door behind them. "I shall be all right to-morrow."

He ignored the protest, and accompanied her upstairs. She glanced at him uneasily as they went. "I can't help being--unhappy just for to-day," she murmured. "You--you couldn't expect me--not to care?"

He did not speak till they reached her room. Then: "You saw Bertrand," he said, in a tone that was hardly a question.

"Yes." She began to tremble a little. "I am sorry," she said. "But--I had to." She stood before him, not meeting his eyes, waiting for him to speak. "I couldn't let him go--for good--without saying good-bye," she said, as he remained silent.

He took her gently by the shoulders. "Chris, look at me!"

She drew back, yet in a moment with a desperate effort she raised her eyes to his. He laid his hand upon her forehead, and looked at her long and searchingly.

She endured the look in quivering silence, but she turned so deathly pale under it that he thought she would faint. Quietly he let her go.

"You will lie down now?" he said.

"Yes," she answered, under her breath.

"Don't be in a hurry to get up," he said. "I will explain to your aunt that I do not wish you to be disturbed, and I shall see her off myself."

He went to the windows and drew the curtains. She watched him silently. As he turned back into the room, she spoke.

"Trevor, are you angry with me?"

He paused, as if the question were unexpected. "No," he said, after a moment.

Her eyes shone unnaturally bright in the twilight. "You understand that--that I couldn't obey your wishes about not seeing--Bertrand--before he left?"

"I did not forbid you to see him," he said.

"But--you are vexed because I did," she persisted.

He came quietly back to her. "I believe you did the only thing possible to you," he said, in a tone she could not fathom. "Therefore there is no more to be said. Won't you lie down?"

She complied without further words. He covered her with a rug, but she shivered under it as one with an ague. He brought a quilt, and laid that also over her.

She reached out then, and caught his hand. "Trevor, forgive me!"

He bent over her. "My dear, I am not angry with you."

"Ah, but--but--" She broke off helplessly; there was something about him that unnerved her. Suddenly and inexplicably the longing surged over her to be caught to his breast and held there safe from all the tumult, the misery, the vain regrets, that tortured her quivering soul. But she could not tell him so, could not bring herself to pour out all the truth. For the first time she saw how wide was the gulf that had opened between them--that gulf which he had tried in vain to span the night before--and her heart died within her. She knew that she was powerless, that now in the hour of her adversity, now when she felt her need of a protector and comforter as never before, she dared not confide in him, dared not throw herself upon his mercy, and trust to his generosity to understand and to forgive.

And so she could only hold his hand very tightly, too agitated to utter any plea, afraid to keep him, yet even more afraid to let him go, lest, apart from her, that dread gulf should widen into an abyss too terrible for contemplation.

He waited for a little beside her, to give her agitation time to subside. But it only increased till it became so painfully obvious that he could ignore it no longer.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked her gently. "I am quite ready to listen to you. Only don't be so distressed. Really there is no need."

His tone was perfectly kind, but the caressing note she was wont to hear in it was absent. She shivered afresh, conscious of a chill. She could not answer him; her throat seemed incapable of producing sound.

A while longer, with absolute patience, he waited. Then; "I think you must let me go, dear," he said. "I am doing you more harm than good just now. By and bye, when you are calmer, we will have a talk."

And so by his very forbearance he committed the greatest mistake of his life. If he had stayed then, she might have been persuaded to tell him all that was in her heart. But--the bitter irony of it!--though she was possessed by a passionate longing to do so, in face of his quiet restraint she could not. In fear of the physical effect upon her, he held her back. And she was powerless to pass the barrier. Without his supporting tenderness, she could not lay bare to him the misery and the pain which in no other way could be relieved.

She loosened her hold upon his hand, and as he gently withdrew it she felt as if her last chance of peace were taken away. She turned her face into the pillow and lay still, and a moment later the soft closing of the door told her he had gone.

She listened to his quiet tread along the passage, and an overwhelming sense of desolation swept over her. He had left her alone to cope with her trouble, and the burden of it was greater than she could bear.

She did not know that he returned a little later and listened for many seconds at the door, fearing that she might be spending her solitude in tears. She never heard him there, or even then her tragedy might have been lifted from her. She was lying quite still, with clenched hands, staring dry-eyed into space; for she had no tears to shed.

And he, deeming her sleeping, went softly away again, to sit on the terrace and await Aunt Philippa, who had retired to make her final preparations.

A long time passed before she made her appearance, and he was beginning to wonder with some uneasiness if she had decided to postpone her departure after all, when at length she joined him, ready dressed for the journey. She sat down beside him, looking very handsome and dignified.

"I am glad of this opportunity of seeing you alone, my dear Trevor," she began, "as, after long deliberation, I have at last decided to take you into my confidence upon a matter that has been greatly troubling me."

Mordaunt laid aside the proof of an article with which he had been occupying himself, and replied with his customary courtesy, "I am always glad if I can be of use to you."

"Thank you," said Aunt Philippa.

She carried a bag upon her wrist, and she proceeded to open and search within it. Finally she extracted, a piece of folded notepaper, and handed it to him.

"Will you read that first?" she said. "It will make a difficult task easier."

Mordaunt took the paper, saw that it was a letter, and proceeded to read it under her watching eyes.

There followed a long, quiet pause before he said, "I presume that this is not addressed to you."

"There," said Aunt Philippa, "you are quite correct."

"Then--" He folded it sharply, and made as if he would hand it back to her, but altered his purpose and closed his fingers upon it instead. "Will you explain?" he said.

Aunt Philippa proceeded to do so in her most judicial manner. "That