The Rocks of Valpré

by Ethel M. Dell

"This is childish as well as dangerous," she said. "I shall go to the library. There will at least be peace and quietness there."

"Without doubt," said Bertrand.

He accompanied her thither with a polite regard for her comfort for which he received no gratitude, and then returned to smoke his cigarette in comfort by the open French window that overlooked the terrace.

A ruddy glare lit up the scene as he took up his stand. The failures were apparently exhausted, and Noel had begun upon the masterpieces. Chris's quick laugh came to him, as he stood there watching. Yet he frowned a little to himself as he heard it, missing the gay, spontaneous, childish ring that he had been wont to hear. What had come to her of late? Was it true that she had told him on the night of Cinders' death? Was she indeed grown-up? If so—he changed his position slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the fitful glare of one of Noel's Roman candles—had the time come for him to go? He had always faced the fact that she would not need him when her childhood was left behind. And certainly of late she had not seemed to need him. She had even—he fancied—avoided him at times. He wondered wherefore. Could it have been at her aunt's instigation? Surely not. She was too staunch for that.

There remained another possibility, and, after a little, reluctantly, with clenched teeth, he faced it. Had she by some means discovered that which he had so studiously hidden from her all this time? He cast his mind back. Had he ever inadvertently betrayed himself? He knew he had not. Never since her marriage had he given the faintest sign; no, not even on that fateful afternoon when she had clung to him in anguish of soul and he had held her fast pressed against his heart. He had been strictly honourable, resolutely loyal, all through. He had always held himself in check. He had never forgotten, never relaxed his vigilance, never once been other than faithful, even in thought, to the friend who trusted him. Yet—Max's words recurred to him, piercing him as with a stab of physical pain—without doubt women had a genius incroyable for discovering secrets. And if Chris were indeed a woman—was it not possible—

Again her laugh broke in upon his thoughts, and he turned swiftly in the direction whence it came. She was standing not more than a dozen yards from him, a red whirl of fire all about her, in her hand a whizzing, spitting-aureole of flame. The light flared upwards on her face and gleaming hair. She looked like some fire-goddess, exulting over the radiant element she had created. And, like a sword-thrust to his heart, there went through him the memory of her standing poised like a bird on the prow of a boat. Just so had she stood then; just so, goddess-like, had she exulted in the morning sunshine and the sparkling water; just so had her bare arms shone on the day that first he had consciously worshipped her, on the day that she had told him of her desire to find out all the secrets that there were. Ah! how much had she found out since then—his bird of Paradise with the restless, ever-fluttering wings? How much? How much?

A sudden cry banished his speculations—a cry uttered by her voice, sharp with dismay. "Oh, Noel! My sleeve!"

Before the words were past her lips Bertrand had leaped forth to the rescue. He traversed the distance between them as a meteor hurling through space. But even so, ere he reached her, the filmy lace that hung down from her elbow had blazed into flame. She had dropped the firework, and it lay hissing on the ground like a glittering snake. He sprang over it and caught her in his arms.

She cried out again as he crushed her to him, cried out, and tried to push him from her; but he held her fast, gripping the flaming material with his naked hands, rending it, and gripping afresh. Something white which neither noticed fluttered upon the ground between them. It must have actually passed through that frantic grip. It lay unheeded, while Bertrand beat out the last spark and ripped the last charred rag away from the soft arm.

"You are hurt, no?" he queried rather breathlessly.