Читать книгу The Rocks of Valpré - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 16

She hugged him to her heart in the darkness, all her fears swept away in the immensity of her joy at his recovery.

"But, Cinders, how could you? How could you?" was the utmost reproof she could find it in her heart to bestow upon the delinquent.

Cinders explained in his moist, eager way that it had been quite unintentional, and that he was every whit as thankful to be back safe and sound in her loving arms as she was to have him there. They discussed the subject at length and forgave each other with considerable effusion, eventually arriving at the conclusion that no blame attached to either.

And upon this arose the question, What of the Frenchman, Chris's preux chevalier, who had so nobly adventured himself upon a fruitless quest?

"He promised he wouldn't be long," she reflected hopefully. "We shall just have to wait till he turns up, that's all."

She would not suffer her rescued favourite to leave her arms again, and they wiled away some time in the joy of reunion. But the minutes began to drag more and more slowly, till at length anxiety came uppermost again.

Chris began to grow seriously uneasy. What could have happened to him?

Had he really lost his way? And if so what could she do?

Plainly nothing, but wait—wait—wait! And she was so tired of the darkness; her eyes ached with it.

Her fears mustered afresh, fantastic fears this time. She began to see green eyes glaring at her, to hear stealthy footfalls above the long, deep roar of the sea, to feel the clammy presence of creatures unknown and hostile. Cinders, too, weary of inaction, began to whimper, to lick her face persuasively, and to suggest a move.

But Chris would not be persuaded. She could without doubt have groped her way back to the cave where Bertrand kept his magic, and even thence to the shore. But she did not for a moment contemplate such a proceeding. She would have felt like a soldier deserting his post. Sooner or later Bertrand would return and look for her here, and here he must find her.

But her fears were growing more vivid every moment, and when Cinders, infected thereby, began to growl below his breath and to bristle under her hand she became almost terrified.

Desperately she grappled with her trepidation and flung it from her, chid Cinders for his foolish cowardice, and fell again to whistling Bertrand's melody with all her might.

Clear and flutelike it echoed through the desolate tunnels, startlingly distinct to her strained nerves. Sometimes the echoes seemed to mock her, but she would not be dismayed. It might be a help to Bertrand, and it certainly helped herself.

A long time passed, how long she had not the vaguest notion. Cinders, grown tired of his own impatience, rested his chin on her shoulder and went phlegmatically to sleep, secure in her assurance that there was nothing whatever to be afraid of. Small creature though he was, her arms ached from holding him, yet she would not let him go, he was too precious for that; and each minute that passed, so she told herself, brought the end of her vigil nearer.

Her heart was like lead within her, but she would not give way to despair. He was bound to come in the end.

And come in the end he did, but not till her hopes had sunk so low that when she heard the first faint sound of his returning feet she would not believe her ears. But when Cinders heard it also, and raised his head to growl, she suffered herself to be convinced. He really was coming at last.

His progress was very slow, maddeningly slow it seemed to Chris. She watched eagerly for the first sign of light from his lantern, but she watched in vain. No faintest ray came to illumine the darkness. Surely it was he; it could be none other!

Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, slow and groping. She listened till she could bear it no longer; then "Bertrand!" she cried wildly. "Bertie! Oh, is it you! Do speak!"

Instantly his voice came to her out of the darkness. "Yes, yes. It is me, little one. I have had—an accident. I am desolated—afflicted; there are no words that can say. And you awaiting me still, my little bird of Paradise, singing so bravely in the darkness!"

"Whistling," corrected Chris; "I can't sing. What on earth has happened?

Are you hurt?"

"No, no! It is nothing—a bagatelle. Ah, but you have found the good Cinders! I am rejoiced indeed!"

"Yes, he came to me—ages ago. It is you I have been waiting for all this time. I thought you were never coming. At least, of course, I knew you would come; but oh"—with a great sigh—"it has been a long time!"

"Ah, pardon me!" he said. "But why did you wait?"

"Of course I waited," said Chris. "I said I would."

"And you were not afraid? No?"

He was standing close to her now, and Cinders was wriggling to reach and welcome him.

"Yes, a little," Chris admitted. "That's why I whistled. But it's all right now. Do let us get out."

"Ah!" he said. "But I fear—"

"What?" she asked, with sudden misgiving.

He hesitated a moment, then, "The tide," he said.

"Bertie!" For the first time Chris's bravely sustained courage broke down. She thrust out a clinging hand and clutched his arm. "Are we going to be drowned—here—in the dark?" she said, gasping.

"No, no, no!" His reply was instant and reassuring. He took her hand and held it. "It is not that. The water will not reach us. It is only that we cannot return until the tide permit."

"Oh, well!" Chris's relief eclipsed her dismay. "That doesn't matter so much," she said. "Let us get out of this horrid little tunnel, anyhow. Oh, darling Cinders! He wants to kiss you. Do you mind?"

Bertrand laughed involuntarily. But she was droll, this English child! Was it possible that she did not realize the seriousness of the dilemma in which she found herself? Well, if not—he shrugged his shoulders—it was not for him to enlighten her. As comrades in trouble they would endure their incarceration as bravely as they might.

There was a faint spice of enjoyment in Chris's next remark: "Well, we are all together, that's one thing, and we've got the cake for supper, if we can only find it. Will you go first, please, so that I can hold on to you. It will be nice to see the light again. What happened to the lantern? Did you drop it?"

"I fell," he said. "I thought that I heard the good Cinders in front of me, and I ran. I tripped and struck my head. It stunned me. Après cela, I lay—depuis longtemps—insensible till I awoke and heard you singing so far—so far away."

"Whistling," said Chris.

"I thought it was a bird at the dawn," he said, "flying high in the sky.

And I lay and listened."

"My dear chevalier, you wanted shaking," she interposed, with pardonable severity. "Are you sure you are awake now? Oh, look! There is a ray of light! How heavenly! But why didn't you relight the lantern?"

"It was broken," he said, "and useless. Also I found that I had only three matches."

"I hope it will be a lesson to you," she rejoined, breathing a sigh of relief as they emerged into the dim twilight of the cave. "Oh, isn't it nice to see again! I feel as if I have been blindfolded for years."

"Poor little one!" he said. "Can you ever pardon me?"

They stood together in the deep gloom. They could hear the water lapping the sides of the passage that led inwards from the shore.

"It must be knee-deep round the bend," said Chris. "Yes, I'll forgive you, Bertie. I daresay it wasn't altogether your fault, and I expect your head aches, doesn't it? I hope it isn't very bad. Is there a very big lump? Let me feel."

She passed her hand over his forehead till her fingers encountered the excrescence they sought.

"Oh, you poor boy, it's enormous!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me before? We must bathe it at once."

But Bertrand laughed and gently drew her hand away. "No—no! It is only a bagatelle. Think no more of it, I beg. I merited it for my negligence. Now, while there is still light, let us decide where you can with the greatest convenience pass the night."

He was prepared for some measure of dismay, as he thus presented to her the worst aspect of the catastrophe. But Chris remained serene. She was rapidly recovering her spirits.

"Oh, yes," she said. "And poor Cinders too! We must find him a nice comfy corner. He can lie on my skirt and keep me warm. Oh, do you know, I heard such a funny story the other day about this very cave. I'll tell you about it presently. But do find the cake first. I'm so hungry. We needn't go to bed yet, need we? It must be quite early. What time do you think the tide will let us get out? Poor Mademoiselle will think I'm drowned."

Chris's awe of the Magic Cave had evidently evaporated. The picnic mood had returned to take its place, and Bertrand knew not whether to be more astounded or relieved. He began to feel about for the basket containing the remnants of their feast, while Chris with much volubility and not a little merriment explained the situation to Cinders.

He calculated that they would be at liberty in the early hours of the morning unless he tempted Fate a second time by climbing the cliff. But Chris would not for a moment consider this proposition, and he was too shaken by his recent fall to feel assured of success if he persisted. Moreover, he seriously doubted if any boat could be brought within reach of her while the tide remained high.

Plainly his only course was to follow her lead and make the best of things. If she managed to extract any enjoyment from a most difficult situation, so much the better. He could but do his utmost to encourage this enviable frame of mind.

Chris, munching cheerfully in the twilight, had evidently quite forgotten her woes. They went down the passage later as far as the bend, and looked at the seething water, all green in the evening light, that held them captive.

"I wish it wasn't going to be quite dark," she said when they returned. "But if we hold hands and talk I shan't mind. That was a lovely cake of yours, Bertie, I shall never forget it."

They found a ledge to sit on, Chris with her feet curled up; and Cinders, grown sleepy after a generous meal, pressed against her. She protested when Bertrand took off his coat and wrapped it round her, but he would take no refusal. There was a penetrating dampness about the place that he feared for her.

"If you sleep, you will feel it," he said.

"But I'm not going to sleep," declared Chris. "I never felt more wide-awake in my life. I often do at bedtime. I hope you are not feeling sleepy either, for I want to talk all night long."

Bertrand professed himself quite willing to listen. "You were going to tell me something about this cave," he reminded her.

"Oh, yes." Chris swooped upon the subject eagerly. "Manon, the little maid-of-all-work, was telling me. She said that no one ever comes here because it is haunted. That's what made Cinders and me call it the Magic Cave. She said that it was well known that no one ever came out the same as they went in even in the daytime, and if any one were to spend the night here they would be under a spell for the rest of their lives. Just think of that, Bertie! Do you think we shall be? She didn't tell me what the spell was. I expect it was something too bad to repeat. That's how Cinders and I came to make up about the knight and the dragon. I hope the dragon won't find us, don't you?"

She drew a little nearer to him and slipped a hand inside his arm. He pressed it close to him,

"Have no fear, chérie. No evil can touch you while I am here."

"I should be terrified if you weren't," she told him frankly. "Did you ever hear about the spell? Do you know what it means?"

"Yes," he said slowly; "I have heard. That was in part why I came here at first, because I knew that I should be alone. I had need of solitude in order to accomplish that which I had begun."

"Your magic?" queried Chris eagerly.

"Yes, little one, my magic. But"—he was smiling—"I have never remained here for the night. And the charm, you say, is not so potent during the day."

"You may be under it already," she said. "I wonder if you are."

"Ah!" Bertrand's tone was suddenly grave. "That also is possible."

"I wonder," she said again. "That may be what made you knock your head. One never knows. But tell me about your magic. What is it? What do you do?"

"I think," he said, "I calculate. And I build."

"What do you build?"

"It is a secret," he said.

"But you will tell me!"

"Why, Christine?"

"Because I do so want to know," she urged coaxingly. "And I can keep secrets really. All English people can. Try me!" She thrust forward the little finger of the hand that his arm held. "You must pinch it," she explained, "as hard as you can. And if I don't even squeak you will know I am to be trusted."

He took the finger thus heroically proffered, hesitated a second, then put it softly to his lips. "I would trust you with my life," he said, "with my honour, with all that I possess. Christine, I am an inventor, and I am at the edge of a great discovery—a discovery that will make the French artillery the greatest in the world."

"Goodness!" said Chris, with a gasp; then in haste, "Not—not greater than ours surely!"

He turned to her impetuously in the darkness, her hands caught into his. "Ah, you say that because you are English! And the English—il faut que les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers—is it not so—always and in all things? Yet consider! What is it—this national rivalry—this strife for the supremacy? We laugh at it, you and I. We know what it is worth."

But Chris was too young to laugh. "I don't quite like it," she said. "I'm very sorry. Shall we talk of something else?"

But he still held her hands closely clasped. "Listen, Christine, my little one! These things they pass. They are as a dream in the midst of a great Reality. They are not the materials of which we weave our life. Envy, ambition, success—what are they? Only a procession that marches under the windows, and we look out above them, you and I, to the great heaven and the sun; and"—something more than eagerness thrilled suddenly in his voice—"we know that that is our life—the Spark Eternal that nothing can ever quench."

He ceased abruptly. Cinders had stirred in his sleep, and she had drawn away one of her hands to fondle him.

There fell short silence. Then, her voice a little doubtful, she spoke—

"You are not ambitious, then?"

He threw himself back against the rock, and with the movement a certain tension went out of the atmosphere—a tension of which she had been vaguely aware almost without knowing it.

"Ah, yes, I am ambitious," he said. "I am a builder. I have my work to do. And I shall succeed. I shall make that which all the world will envy. I shall be famous." He broke off to laugh exultantly. "Oh, it will be good—good!" he said. "One does not often reach the summit while one is yet young. There are times when it seems too wonderful to be true; and yet I know—I know!"

"Is it a gun?" said Chris.

"Yes, mignonne, a gun! It is also a secret—thine and mine."

She uttered a faint sigh. "I wish it wasn't a gun, Bertie. If it were only an aeroplane, or something that didn't hurt anyone! Of course, you are a soldier and a Frenchman. I couldn't expect you to understand."

He laughed rather ruefully. "But I understand all. And you do not love the French? No?"

"Not so very much," said Chris honestly. "Of course, I'm not being personal. I liked you from the first."

"Ah! But really?" he said.

"Yes, really; and so did Cinders. He always knows when people are nice.

We shall miss you quite a lot when we go home."

"Quite a lot!" Bertrand repeated the phrase musingly as if questioning with himself how much it might mean.

"Yes," she went on, "we were so lonely till you came." She broke off to yawn. "Do you know, I'm beginning to get sleepy. Is it the spell, do you think, or only the dark?"

"It is not the spell," he said, with conviction.

"No?" She moved uneasily. "I'm not very comfy," she remarked. "I wish I were like Cinders. He can sleep in any position. It must be so convenient."

"Will you, then, lean on my shoulder?" Bertrand suggested, with a touch of diffidence.

She accepted the offer with alacrity. "Oh, yes, if you don't mind. It would be better than nodding one's head off, as if one were in church, wouldn't it? But what of you? Aren't you sleepy at all?"

"I have no desire to sleep," he told her gravely.

"Haven't you?" Chris's head descended promptly upon his shoulder. "I've never been up all night before," she said. "It feels so funny. How the sea roars! I wish it wouldn't. Bertie, you're sure there isn't such a thing as a dragon really, aren't you?"

His hand closed fast upon hers. "I am quite sure, chérie."

"Thank you. That's nice," she murmured. "I haven't said my prayers. Do you think it matters as I'm not going to bed? I really am tired."

"No, dear," he said. "Le bon Dieu understands."

She moved her head a little. "Are you going to say yours, Bertie?"

"Perhaps, little one."

"Oh, that's all right," she said comfortably. "Good-night!"

"Good-night, chérie!"

His lips were close, so close to her forehead. He could even feel her hair blow lightly against his face. But he remained rigid as a sentry—watchful and silent and still.

Once during that long night she stirred in her sleep—stirred and nestled closer to him with an inarticulate murmur; and he turned, moving for the first time, and gathered her into his arms, holding her there like an infant against his breast. Thereafter she slept a calm, unbroken slumber, serenely unconscious of him and serenely content.

And the man sat motionless, with eyes wide to the darkness, grave and reverent as the eyes of a warrior keeping his vigil on the eve of knighthood. But his heart throbbed all night long like the beat of a drum that calls men into action.