The Rocks of Valpré

by Ethel M. Dell

"I am all right," he said with emphasis, but he returned the hand-grip with a warmth that left no doubt as to the cordiality of his feelings. He was ever too polished a gentleman to be discourteous.

Left alone, Mordaunt sat down at his writing-table to clear off some work which he had taken out of his secretary's hands earlier in the day. It was midnight before he finished, and even then he sat on for a long time deep in thought.

It was probably true, what Bertrand had said. Tenderly as he loved his young wife, he had not succeeded in winning her confidence. There was no friendship between them in the most intimate sense of the word, and so she feared him. His love was to her a consuming flame from which she shrank. Bitterly he admitted the fact, since there was no ignoring it. She was frightened at the very existence of his passion, restrain it how he would. She was his and yet not his. She eluded him, even when he held her in his arms.

His thoughts travelled backwards, recalling incident after incident, all pointing to the same thing. And yet he knew that he had been patient with her. He had held himself in check perpetually. And here again Bertrand's words recurred to him. If he had asked more, might he not have obtained more? Was it possible that he had failed to win her because he had not let her feel the compulsion of his love? Was it perchance his very restraint that frightened her? Had he indeed asked too little?

Again his thoughts went back and dwelt upon their wedding-night. He had kindled some answering flame within her then. She had not attempted to withhold herself. The memory of her shy surrender swept over him, setting the blood leaping in his veins anew. She had been his that night, and his throughout the brief fortnight that followed. They had been very intent upon the renovations, and no cloud had even shadowed their horizon. How was it she had slipped away from him since? Was it the advent of that tempestuous youngster that had caused the change? Undoubtedly Chris was less a Wyndham when alone with him. Or was there some other cause, arising possibly from some hidden fluctuation of mood, some restlessness of the spirit, of which he had had no warning? Her aunt's declaration that they were all lacking in stability recurred to him. Was it so with her? Was she fickle, was she changeable, his little Chris?

Her own words came back to him, uttered with tears upon her wedding-day: "Don't you often think me silly and fickle? You'll find it more and more, the more you see of me. You'll be horribly disappointed in me some day."

He rose abruptly. No, that day had not dawned yet. If she had slipped away from him, he, and he alone, was to blame. He had not won the friendship which alone brings trust, and he knew now that he could not hold her without it. As Bertrand had said, he had not been enough her friend. Even now she was probably crying herself ill in solitude over the loss of Cinders.

The thought quickened him to action. He turned out the light, and went swiftly from the room.

Upstairs, outside her door, he stopped to listen, but he heard no sound. She had cried herself to sleep, then, and he had not been there to comfort her. His heart smote him. Had she deemed him unsympathetic? She had seemed to wish to be alone, and for that reason he had left her as soon as he had satisfied himself that she had all she needed in a physical sense. She had not wanted him. She had shrunk from his touch. She had probably seen him go with relief. But—he asked himself the question with sudden misgiving—would it have been better if he had ignored her evident desire and stayed? He had feared exhaustion for her and had avoided any word or action that might have led to a renewal of her grief. Had he seemed to think too lightly of her sorrow? Had she been repelled by his very forbearance?

He passed on softly to his own room. The door that led from this into hers was ajar. He pushed it a little wider, and looked in.