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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Rocks of Valpré," Ethel M. Dell weaves a poignant narrative set against the backdrop of the picturesque yet tumultuous cliffs of Valpré. The novel combines rich, evocative descriptions with intricate character development, reflecting Dell's mastery of blending romance and drama. The plot follows the tumultuous love story between its protagonists, set within a layered exploration of societal expectations and personal desires. Dell's literary style is characterized by its emotional depth and vivid imagery, firmly placing the book within the early 20th-century tradition of English romantic fiction, yet also showcasing a keen awareness of the complexities of human relationships. Ethel M. Dell rose to prominence in the early 1900s as a leading British novelist known for her compelling tales of love and longing. Raised during an era of fast-changing social norms, Dell's own experiences likely contributed to her exploration of romantic struggles amidst societal constraints. Her ability to create relatable characters and situations reflects a deep understanding of the human condition, making her work resonate across generations. Though often labeled a romantic writer, her novels are steeped in profound psychological insights and ethical dilemmas. "The Rocks of Valpré" is a must-read for anyone drawn to the intricacies of romance imbued with emotional truth. Dell's eloquent prose and relatable characters invite readers to journey through love's challenges and triumphs, making it a timeless exploration of the human heart. This work not only entertains but also offers readers an opportunity to reflect on their own relationships and the societal forces that shape them. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Rocks of Valpré
Table of Contents
Introduction
A love forged by chance on a perilous shore must withstand the pounding forces of duty, memory, and public judgment until something stronger than fear endures.
Ethel M. Dell’s The Rocks of Valpré is a romantic drama from the early twentieth century, written by a British author best known for emotionally charged bestsellers of the Edwardian and Georgian eras. The book belongs to a popular tradition of high-stakes romance and moral testing, set against a rugged coastal backdrop that lends the story its name and atmosphere. Within this context, Dell shapes a narrative where personal loyalty collides with social convention, and private vows meet the public gaze. The result is a novel that moves between intimacy and spectacle, grounded in the era’s appetite for earnest, sweeping storytelling.
Without disclosing more than the initial setup, the story begins with a seaside encounter at Valpré that binds two lives in a way neither can easily escape. From those dramatic rocks spring choices that echo through time, testing courage, patience, and faith. Readers can expect passages of sea-battered suspense alongside quiet interludes of reflection, as danger and desire alternately surge and subside. The experience is less about intricate plotting than about the pressures on conscience and the cost of loyalty. Dell’s focus falls on how first impressions, unguarded promises, and sudden crises create obligations that must be either borne bravely or broken.
Central themes include honor, sacrifice, and the tension between inward conviction and outward reputation. The titular rocks operate as both setting and symbol: steadfast yet perilous, constant yet capable of destruction. Against this backdrop, the book explores how love negotiates the treacherous ground of pride, rumor, and duty. It raises questions about what is owed to self versus society, how far one may go to protect another, and whether redemption can be earned when circumstances turn hostile. The novel’s emotional core lies in the struggle to reconcile tenderness with resilience, and hope with the bitter knowledge of consequence.
Dell’s style favors intensity over restraint, offering vivid natural description, earnest moral contrasts, and a momentum powered by feeling. The prose is shaped by the period’s melodramatic tradition, yet it is disciplined by a clear sense of cause and effect: moments of peril lead to choices, choices to character, and character to fate. Dialogue serves to expose conflicting codes of honor, while the sea and sky mark shifts in mood and meaning. Rather than ironic detachment, the book offers sincerity and sweep, trusting in heightened emotion to carry readers through reversals, separations, and the steady testing of devotion.
Modern readers may find the novel’s questions strikingly current: how to act when public judgment is swift, how to love without losing autonomy, how to weigh compassion against self-preservation. Though shaped by early twentieth-century sensibilities, it examines forms of pressure still familiar today—social scrutiny, gendered expectations, and the demand to perform virtue under watchful eyes. The book invites empathy for flawed perseverance and asks whether steadfastness is strength or burden. In doing so, it offers an exploration of trust and accountability that remains relevant, not because circumstances are identical, but because the stakes of conscience and care endure.
To approach The Rocks of Valpré is to enter a coastal world where landscape intensifies feeling and choices reverberate like surf against stone. The narrative promises storms and calms, intimacies and ordeals, and a tone that unabashedly treats love and honor as matters of consequence. Readers who appreciate early twentieth-century popular fiction, atmospheric settings, and emotionally forward storytelling will find a compelling invitation here. Those seeking intricate historical detail may instead discover a symbolic terrain that privileges moral weather over documentary texture. Either way, Dell’s novel offers a measured plunge into danger and devotion, sustained by the austere beauty of Valpré.
Synopsis
The novel opens on the wild Atlantic coast at Valpré, where a young English girl experiences a formative holiday. Drawn to the dangerous beauty of the rocks and tides, she meets a daring stranger whose courage and self-possession leave a lasting impression. A small seaside incident—part rescue, part adventure—binds them in memory and establishes an unspoken understanding. The place itself becomes a touchstone, promising freedom and fate together. The episode ends quietly, yet it plants motives that will later govern choices about loyalty, truth, and the obligations owed to family and society.
After the summer ends, the story follows her return to England and the constraints of upbringing. Guardians and relatives encourage prudence, steering her toward a future consistent with class and security. Correspondence fades and the French coast recedes, but Valpré remains a private emblem that shapes her measure of courage and love. Suitors appear, each offering stability rather than wonder. Pressures mount when a respectable match promises to solve practical difficulties. The decision she makes, influenced by duty as much as inclination, sets the course for a marriage that is outwardly proper, yet shadowed by a memory she cannot dismiss.
Married life introduces a world of influence and self-control. Her husband, established in public life, values order, discretion, and loyalty to principle. The home she enters is dignified and exacting, circled by politics, social expectation, and the need for appearances. She becomes a capable partner, learning tact and patience, while the marriage settles into a courteous rhythm that leaves little room for confidences. The coast of Valpré seems remote, yet the sense of an unfinished chapter persists. The narrative shows how comfort and respectability can steady a life, even as they conceal unspoken conflicts that will surface when tested.
The past re-enters quietly when the one she met at Valpré crosses her path again under altered circumstances. He has endured danger and hardship, and his presence carries urgency that contrasts with her measured days. Their meeting, hesitant and constrained, revives the old understanding without violating the limits she now lives within. A mutual recognition grows: the sea-bound promise remains, but there are vows and reputations to guard. Their conversations are careful, shaped by gratitude and by a belief in honour. The sense of impending trial deepens as outside events begin to press upon their private history.
A public crisis arises from private threads when letters, meetings, or movements are interpreted against a backdrop of national tension. Questions of allegiance intersect with personal debt and old kindnesses. An official investigation gathers pace, and with it comes gossip, surveillance, and the possibility of disgrace. The man from Valpré becomes a focus of suspicion, while her husband must weigh conscience, ambition, and the reputation of his household. The heroine faces conflicting loyalties, choosing words that protect without betraying. This section pivots on restraint, establishing the stakes for honour, marriage, and survival as the matter passes into the courts.
The legal proceedings advance with measured formality. Evidence is circumstantial yet compelling, and the defense is hampered by a refusal to reveal confidences that could endanger others. In the courtroom, public duty collides with private promise, and no witness can resolve the contradiction without loss. The verdict does not close the matter; it widens it, imposing a cost that falls on more than one life. Public sympathy divides, and the household at the center of events retreats into discipline. The marriage endures its severest test, defined by silence, endurance, and diverging ideas of what justice requires.
Time passes under altered conditions. For one character, hardship becomes routine; for another, duty fills the days with purposeful quiet. Secondary figures—friends, colleagues, and kin—show their colors, either by fidelity that sustains or by compromises that erode trust. Rumor hardens into legend, but a few continue to seek the true pattern behind the case. The heroine’s capacity for resolve grows, and she learns to balance caution with compassion. The narrative marks small shifts: a letter saved, a promise kept, a clue overlooked. These accumulations prepare the ground for a final movement that returns to where it began.
The closing act gathers the main players at Valpré once more, called there by necessity and by memory. Sea and stone frame a confrontation shaped by tide and timing: danger on the rocks, a daring attempt, and choices made in seconds with lasting reach. Words long withheld are spoken, and withheld again, as each person claims a share of truth. The landscape functions as test and witness, demanding courage and clarity. In the turmoil, secrets find their measure, and the central question—what loyalty truly demands—receives an answer that is earned rather than announced.
The novel concludes by reconciling its strands of romance and duty in a manner consistent with the characters’ earlier choices. Without detailing the final turn, it affirms that promises given in youth can govern destinies, yet must be reinterpreted through experience, law, and conscience. The rocks of Valpré, enduring and perilous, symbolize the cost of steadfastness and the necessity of truth. The closing pages emphasize accountability, mercy, and the calm that follows decision. What remains is the sense of a life measured against an ideal, and of love that prevails by accepting its rightful boundaries.
Historical Context
Ethel M. Dell situates The Rocks of Valpré in late nineteenth-century France, during the Belle Époque (c. 1871–1914), with a strong cross-Channel axis to Britain. Valpré itself is a fictional seaside locale evoking resorts on the Normandy or Breton coasts—places like Étretat, Dinard, or Saint-Malo—whose cliffs and tidal rocks furnish both scenery and peril. The era’s railways and steamship routes made such resorts accessible to British visitors, while strict codes of propriety still governed Anglo-French social mixing. The narrative also intersects with English drawing rooms and legal structures, contrasting British respectability with a French milieu shaped by militarism, bureaucratic secrecy, and a volatile public sphere forged after the upheavals of 1870–71.
The Franco-Prussian War (1870–71) and its aftermath frame the political climate into which Dell’s story fits. France’s defeat at Sedan (1–2 September 1870), the capture of Napoleon III, and the Siege of Paris culminated in the Treaty of Frankfurt (May 1871) and the loss of Alsace-Lorraine to the new German Empire. The short-lived Paris Commune (March–May 1871), suppressed by forces under Adolphe Thiers with thousands killed, left deep scars. The Third Republic, proclaimed on 4 September 1870, developed a centralized military-bureaucratic state animated by revanchism and suspicion of internal enemies. The novel mirrors this legacy in its portrayal of official rigidity, nationalist sensitivities, and the precarious position of foreigners on French soil.
The Belle Époque saw a boom in seaside leisure, which formed the social setting of Valpré. Imperial patronage had made Biarritz fashionable since the 1850s under Napoleon III and Empress Eugénie, while Dinard on the Brittany coast became a notable “British colony” by the 1880s. Rail networks such as the Chemins de fer de l’Ouest (serving Normandy/Brittany) and the Chemin de fer du Midi (to Biarritz) shortened journeys; cross-Channel ferries linked Southampton, Portsmouth, or Newhaven to Le Havre, Saint-Malo, and Dieppe. Within this cosmopolitan traffic, chaperonage, propriety, and class signals remained decisive. The novel’s windswept rocks, promenades, and salons arise from this tourism economy and its rules for encounters across national and class boundaries.
The Dreyfus Affair (1894–1906) dominated French politics and law and is the key historical touchstone for the novel’s themes of wrongful accusation and state secrecy. Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish artillery officer, was arrested in October 1894, publicly degraded in January 1895, and exiled to Devil’s Island. Evidence later uncovered by Lieutenant Colonel Georges Picquart (1896) implicated Major Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy, while a forged document by Major Henry intensified the scandal. Émile Zola’s “J’Accuse…!” (13 January 1898) polarized France between Dreyfusards and anti-Dreyfusards. After a contentious retrial at Rennes (1899), Dreyfus was pardoned by President Émile Loubet and fully exonerated in 1906. The book’s plot echoes this climate of treason trials, secret dossiers, and the conflict between raison d’État and due process, translating it into personal tragedy and moral testing.
Closely related is the history of the French Guiana penal colony, whose most notorious site was Devil’s Island (Île du Diable) in the Salvation Islands off Cayenne. Established by decree in 1852 under Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, the bagne sent approximately 56,000 convicts to French Guiana between 1852 and 1938 (with additional transports to New Caledonia). Mortality from malaria, yellow fever, and malnutrition was high, especially in the nineteenth century; isolation and shackling regimes were routine. Devil’s Island served for political detainees, including Dreyfus (1895–1899), while Île Royale and Île Saint-Joseph held common-law prisoners. Official abolition came in 1938, with repatriations continuing into the 1950s. The novel’s use of condemnation, remote imprisonment, and the specter of escape or return dramatizes the era’s penal cruelty and the disproportion between minor, ambiguous offenses and catastrophic punishment.
The 1890s also witnessed an anarchist wave and a harsh security response that influenced the judicial atmosphere. Notable incidents included Ravachol’s bombings (1892), Auguste Vaillant’s bomb in the Chamber of Deputies (9 December 1893), Émile Henry’s attack on the Café Terminus (12 February 1894), and the assassination of President Sadi Carnot in Lyon by Sante Geronimo Caserio (24 June 1894). The lois scélérates (1893–94) restricted press freedoms and broadened conspiracy prosecutions. This climate normalized surveillance, informers, and elastic evidentiary standards. The novel reflects how, amid fears of spies and political violence, personal misconduct could be reinterpreted as treason, enabling private vendettas to hijack the machinery of state justice.
Anglo-French relations and contrasting social laws form another backdrop. After the Fashoda crisis (1898), the Entente Cordiale (8 April 1904) eased tensions, but earlier decades were marked by rivalry and nationalist pride. Legal norms differed: Britain’s Matrimonial Causes Act (1857) secularized divorce and the Married Women’s Property Act (1882) expanded women’s rights, while in France divorce—abolished in 1816—was only restored by the Naquet Law (27 July 1884). The Napoleonic Code vested strong paternal authority; dueling, though illegal, persisted in elite circles into the early twentieth century. In the novel, mismatched codes of honor, marriage expectations, and reputation management across the Channel amplify conflicts that state actors then harden into legal catastrophes.
By setting private loyalties against an authoritarian legal culture, the book functions as a critique of the period’s conflation of honor, nationalism, and justice. It exposes how secret dossiers, press frenzies, and bureaucratic rigidity could obliterate individual rights, and how class status or gendered reputations tilted outcomes before evidence was weighed. The penal colony’s specter indicts a system that prized deterrence over humanity. Cross-Channel misunderstandings and dueling codes of conduct illustrate the arbitrariness of social judgment. In dramatizing wrongful condemnation and the steep moral cost of public virtue, the novel challenges the era’s complacency about state power and the inequities embedded in respectable society.
The Rocks of Valpré
PART I
I. THE PRECIPICE II. THE CONQUEST III. THE WARNING IV. DOUBTS V. DE PROFUNDIS VI. ENGAGED VII. THE SECOND WARNING VIII. THE COMPACT IX. A CONFESSION X. A SURPRISE VISIT XI. THE EXPLANATION XII. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY XIII. PALS XIV. A REVELATION XV. MISGIVINGS XVI. MARRIED
PART II
I. SUMMER WEATHER II. ONE OF THE FAMILY III. DISASTER IV. GOOD-BYE TO CHILDHOOD V. THE LOOKER-ON VI. A BARGAIN VII. THE ENEMY VIII. THE THIN END IX. THE ENEMY MOVES X. A WARNING VOICE XI. A BROKEN REED XII. A MAN OF HONOUR XIII. WOMANHOOD
PART III
I. WAR II. FIREWORKS III. THE TURN OF THE TIDE IV. "MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND" V. A DESPERATE REMEDY VI. WHEN LOVE DEMANDS A SACRIFICE VII. THE WAY OF THE WYNDHAMS VIII. THE TRUTH
PART IV
I. THE REFUGEE II. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR III. A FRUITLESS ERRAND IV. THE DESIRE OF HIS HEART V. THE STRANGER VI. MAN TO MAN VII. THE MESSENGER VIII. ARREST IX. VALPRÉ AGAIN X. THE INDESTRUCTIBLE XI. THE END OF THE VOYAGE XII. THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I
THE KNIGHT OF THE MAGIC CAVE
When Cinders[1] began to dig a hole no power on earth, except brute force, could ever stop him till he sank exhausted. Not even the sight of a crab could divert his thoughts from this entrancing occupation, much less his mistress's shrill whistle; and this was strange, for on all other occasions it was his custom to display the most exemplary obedience.
Of a cheerful disposition was Cinders, deeply interested in all things living, despising nothing however trivial, constantly seeking, and very often finding, treasures of supreme value in his own estimation. It was probably this passion for investigation that induced him to dig with such energy and perseverance, but he was not an interesting companion when the digging mood was upon him. It was, in fact, advisable to keep at a distance, for he created a miniature sand-storm in his immediate vicinity that spoiled the amusement of all except himself and successfully checked all intrusive sympathy.
"It really is too bad of him," said Chris, as she sat on a rock at twelve yards' distance and dried her feet in melancholy preoccupation. "It's the third day running, and I'm so tired of having nobody to talk to and nothing to do—not even a crab-hunt."
There was some pleasure to be extracted from crab-hunting under Cinders' ardent leadership, but alone it held no fascinations. It really was just a little selfish of Cinders.
She glanced towards him, and saw that the sand-storm had temporarily abated. He was working away the heap that had collected beneath him in preparation for more extensive operations.
"Cinders!" she called, in the forlorn hope of attracting his attention. "Cinders!" Then, with a sudden spurt of animation, "Cinders darling, just come and see what I've found!"
But Cinders was not so easily deceived. He stood a moment with his stubby little body tensely poised, then plunged afresh with feverish eagerness to his task.
The sand-storm recommenced, and Chris turned with a sigh to contemplate the blue horizon. A large steamer was travelling slowly across it. She watched it enviously.
"Lucky people!" she said. "Lucky, lucky people!"
The wind caught her red-brown hair and blew it out like a cloak behind her. It was still damp, for she had been bathing, and when the wind had passed it settled again in long, gleaming ripples upon her shoulders. She pushed it away from her face with an impatient hand.
"Cinders," she said, "if you don't come soon I shall go and find the Knight of the Magic Cave[2] all by myself."
But even this threat did not move the enthusiastic Cinders. All that could be seen of him was a pair of sturdy hind-legs firmly planted amid a whirl of sand. Quite plainly it was nothing to him what steps his young mistress might see fit to take to relieve her boredom.
"All right!" said Chris, springing to her feet with a flourish of her towel. "Then good-bye!"
She shook the hair back from her face, slipped her bare feet into sandals, slung the towel across her shoulders, and turned her face to the cliffs.
They frowned above the rock-strewn beach to a height of two hundred feet, tunnelled here and there by the sea, scored here and there by springs, rising mass upon mass, in some places almost perpendicular, in others overhanging.
They possessed an immense fascination for Chris Wyndham, these cliffs. There was a species of dreadful romance about them that attracted even while it awed her. She longed to explore them, and yet deep in the most private recesses of her soul she was half-afraid. So many terrible stories were told of this particular corner of the rocky coast. So many ships were wrecked, so many lives were lost, so many hopes were quenched forever between the cliffs and the sea.
But these facts did not prevent her weaving romances about those wonderful caves. For instance, there was the Magic Cave, for which she was bound now, the entrance to which was only accessible at low tide. There was something particularly imposing about this entrance, something palatial, that stirred the girl's quick fancy. She had never before quite reached it on account of the difficulty of the approach; but she had promised herself that she would do so sooner or later, when time and tide should permit.
Both chanced to be favourable on this particular afternoon, and she set forth light-footed upon the adventure, leaving Cinders to his monotonous but all-engrossing pastime. A wide line of rocks stretched between her and her goal, which was dimly discernible in the deep shadow of the cliff—a mysterious opening that had the appearance of a low Gothic archway.
"I'm sure it's haunted," said Chris, and fell forthwith to dreaming as she stepped along the sunlit sand.
Of course she would find an enchanted hall, peopled by crabs that were not crabs at all, but the afore-mentioned knight and his retinue, all bound by the same wicked spell. "And I shall have to find out what it is and set him free," said Chris, with a sigh of pleasurable anticipation. "And then, I suppose, he will begin to jabber French, and I shall wish to goodness I hadn't. I expect he will want to marry me, poor thing! And I shall have to explain—in French, ugh!—that as he is only a foreigner I couldn't possibly, under any circumstances, entertain such a preposterous notion for a single instant. No, I am afraid that would sound rather rude. How else could I put it?"
Chris's brow wrinkled over the problem. She had reached the outlying rocks of the belt she had to cross, and was picking her way between the pools in deep abstraction.
"I wonder!" she murmured to herself. "I wonder!"
Then suddenly her rapt expression broke into a merry smile. "I know! Of course! Absurdly easy! I shall tell him that I am under a spell too—bound beyond all chance of escape to marry an Englishman." The sweet face dimpled over the inspiration. "That ought to settle him, unless he is very persevering; in which case of course I should have to tell him—quite kindly—that I really didn't think I could. Fancy marrying a crab—and a French crab too!"
She began to laugh, gaily, irrepressibly, light-heartedly, and skipped on to the first weed-covered rock that obstructed her path. It was an exceedingly slippery perch. She poised herself with arms outspread, with a butterfly grace as airy as her visions.
Away in the distance Cinders, nearing exhaustion, leaned on one elbow and scratched spasmodically with his free paw.
"Good-bye, Cinders!" she called to him in her high young voice. "I'm never coming back any more."
Lightly she waved her hand and sprang for another rock. But her feet slipped on the seaweed, and she splashed down into a pool ankle-deep.
"Bother!" she said, with vehemence. "It's these silly sandals. I'll leave them here till I come back."
She scrambled out again and pulled them off. "If I really don't come back I shan't want them," she reflected, with her merry little smile.
She arranged sandals and towel on the flat surface of a rock and pursued her pilgrimage unhampered.
She certainly managed better without the sandals, but even as it was she slipped and slid a good deal on the treacherous seaweed. It took her considerably longer than she had anticipated to cross that belt of rocks. It was much farther than it looked. Moreover, the pools were so full of interest that she had to stop and investigate them as she went. Anemones[5], green and red, clung to the shining rocks, and crabs of all sizes scuttled away at her approach.
"What a lot of retainers he must have!" said Chris.
She was nearing the Gothic archway[4], and her heart began to beat fast in anticipation. What she really expected to find she could not have said. But undoubtedly this particular cave was many degrees more mysterious and more eerie than any other she had ever explored. It was very lonely, and the cliff that frowned above her was very black. The afternoon sun shone genially upon all things, however, and this gave her courage.
The waves foamed among the rocks but a few yards from the jutting headland. Already the tide was turning. That meant that her time was short.
"I won't go beyond the entrance to-day," said Chris. "But to-morrow I'll start earlier and go right in. P'raps Cinders will come too. It wouldn't be so lonely with Cinders."
The rocks all about her lay scattered like gigantic ruins. She stood upon a high boulder and peered around her. There was certainly something awe-inspiring about the place, the bright sun notwithstanding. It seemed to lie beneath a spell. She wondered if she would come across any bits of wreckage, and suppressed a shudder. The Gothic archway looked very dark and vault-like from where she stood. Should she, after all, go any nearer? Should she wait till Cinders would deign to accompany her? The tide was undoubtedly rising. In any case she would have to turn back within the next few minutes.
Slowly she pivoted round and looked again from the smiling horizon whereon no ship was visible to the Magic Cave that yawned in the face of the cliff. The next instant she jumped so violently that she missed her footing and fell from her perch in sheer amazement. Something—someone—was moving just within the deep shadow where the sunlight could not penetrate!
It was not a big drop, but she came to earth with a cry of pain among a mass of fallen stones, whereon she subsided, tightly clasping one foot between her hands. She had stumbled upon wreckage to her cost; a piece of rusty iron at her side and the blood that ran out between her locked fingers testified to that.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she wailed, rocking herself, and then glanced nervously over her shoulder, remembering the mysterious cause of the disaster.
The next moment swiftly she released the injured foot and sprang up. A man, attired in white linen, had emerged from the Magic Cave.
He stood a second looking at her, then came bounding towards her over the rocks.
Chris shrank back against her boulder. She was feeling dizzy and rather sick, and the apparition frightened her.
As he drew near she waved a desperate hand to stay his approach. "Oh, please go away!" she cried in English. "I—I don't want any help. I'm only looking for crabs."
He paid no attention whatever to her gesture or to her words. Only, reaching her, he bowed very low, beginning with some formality, "Mais, mademoiselle; permettez-moi, je vous prie," and ending in tones of quick compassion, "Ah, pauvre petite! Pauvre petite!"
Before she knew his intention he was on his knees before her, and had taken the cut foot very gently into his hands.
Chris leaned back, clinging to the boulder. The sunlight danced giddily in her eyes. She felt as if she were slipping over the edge of the world.
"I can't—stand," she faltered weakly.
"No, no, petite! But naturally!" came the reassuring reply. "Be seated, I beg. Permit me to assist you!"
Chris, being quite incapable of doing otherwise, yielded herself to the gentle insistence of an arm that encircled her. She had an impression—fleeting at the time but returning to her later—of friendly dark eyes that looked for an instant into hers; and then, exactly how it happened she knew not, she was sitting propped against the rock, while all the world swam dizzily around her, and someone with sure, steady hands wound a bandage tightly and ever more tightly around her wounded foot.
"It hurts!" she murmured piteously.
"Have patience, mademoiselle! It will be better in a moment," came the quick reply. "I shall not hurt you more than is necessary. It is to arrest the bleeding, this. Mademoiselle will endure the pain like a brave child, yes?"
Chris swallowed a little shudder. The dizziness was passing. She was beginning to see more clearly, and her gaze travelled with dawning criticism over the neat white figure that ministered so confidently to her need.
"I knew he'd be French," she whispered half aloud.
"But I speak English, mademoiselle," he returned, without raising his black head,
"Yes," she said, with a sigh of relief. "I'm very glad of that. Must you pull it any tighter? I—I can bear it, of course, but I'd much rather you didn't if—if you don't mind."
She spoke gaspingly. Her eyes were full of tears, though she kept them resolutely from falling.
"Poor little one!" he said. "But you are very brave. Once more—so—and we will not do it again. The pain is not so bad now, no?"
He looked up at her with a smile so kindly that Chris nearly broke down altogether. She made a desperate grab after her self-control, and by dint of biting her lower lip very hard just saved herself from this calamity.
It was a very pleasing face that looked into her own, olive-hued, with brows as delicate as a woman's. A thin line of black moustache outlined a mouth that was something over-sensitive. He was certainly quite a captivating fairy prince.
Chris shook the thick hair back upon her shoulders and surveyed him with interest. "It's getting better," she said. "It was a horrid cut, wasn't it? You don't know how it hurt."
"But I can imagine it," he declared. "I saw immediately that it was serious. Mademoiselle cannot attempt to walk."
"Oh, but I must indeed!" protested Chris in dismay. "I shall be drowned if I stay here."
He shook his head. "Ah no, no! You shall not stay here. If you will accept my assistance, all will be well."
"But you can't—carry me!" gasped Chris.
He rose to his feet, still smiling. "And why not, little one? Because you think that I have not the strength?"
Chris looked up at him speculatively. She felt no shyness; he was not the sort of person with whom she could feel shy. He was too kindly, too protecting, too altogether charming, for that. But he was of slender build, and she could not help entertaining a very decided doubt as to his physical powers.
"I am much heavier—and much older—than you think," she remarked at length.
He laughed boyishly, as if she had made a joke. "Mais c'est drôle, cela! Me, I have no thoughts upon the subject, mademoiselle. I believe what I see, and I assure you that I am well capable of carrying you across the rocks to Valpré. You lodge at Valpré?"
Chris nodded. "And you? No," hastily checking herself, "don't tell me! You live in the Magic Cave, of course. I knew you were there. It was why I came."
"You knew, mademoiselle?" His eyes interrogated her.
She nodded again in answer. "You have lived there for hundreds of years. You were under a spell, and I came and broke it. If I hadn't cut my foot, you would have been there still. Do you really think you can lift me? And what shall you do when you come to cross the rocks? They are much too slippery to walk on."
He stooped to raise her, still smiling. "Have no fear, mademoiselle! I know these rocks by heart."
She laughed with a child's pure merriment. "Oh, I am not afraid, preux chevalier. But if you find me too heavy—"
"If I cannot carry the queen of the fairies," he interrupted, "I am not worthy of the name."
He had her in his arms with the words, holding her lightly and easily, as if she had been an infant. His eyes smiled reassuringly into hers.
"So, mademoiselle! We depart for Valpré!"
"What fun!" said Chris.
It seemed she was to enjoy her adventure after all, adverse circumstances notwithstanding. Her foot throbbed and burned, but she put this fact resolutely away from her. She had found the knight, and, albeit he was French, she was very pleased with him. He was the prettiest toy that had ever yet come her way.
Possibly in this respect the knight's sentiments resembled hers. For she was very enchanting, this English girl, fresh as a rose and gay as a butterfly, with a face that none called beautiful but which most paused to admire. It was the vividness, the entrancing vitality of her, that caught the attention. People smiled almost unwittingly when little Chris Wyndham turned her laughing eyes their way; they were so clear, so blue, so confidingly merry. There was a rare sweetness about her, a spontaneous charm irresistibly winning. She loved everybody without effort, as naturally as she loved life, with an absence of self-consciousness so entire that perhaps it was not surprising that she was loved in return.
"You are much stronger than you look, preux chevalier[3]," she remarked presently. "But wouldn't you like to set me down while you go and fetch my sandals? They are over there on the rocks. It would be a pity for them to get washed away, and I might manage to walk with them on."
He had brought her safely over the most difficult part of the way. He seated her at once upon a flat rock, and stooped to assure himself as to the success of his bandage.
"It gives you not so much of pain, no?" he asked.
"It scarcely hurts at all," she assured him. "You will be quick now, won't you, because I ought to be getting back. If you see Cinders, you might bring him too."
"Cinders?" he questioned, pausing.
"My dog," she explained. "But he doesn't talk French, so I don't suppose he will follow you."
He received the information with a smile. "But I speak English, mademoiselle," he protested for the second time.
"Ah yes, you do—after a fashion," admitted Chris. "But I don't suppose Cinders would understand it. It's not very English English."
He raised his shoulders in a gesture that was purely French. "La belle dame sans merci!" he murmured ruefully. "Bien! I will do my possible."
"Splendid!" laughed Chris. "No one could do more."
She watched him go with eyes that sparkled with merriment. The trim, slight figure was quite good to look upon. He went bounding over the rocks with the sure-footed grace of a chamois.
"I wonder who he really is," said Chris, "and where he comes from."
CHAPTER II
DESTINY
Over the rocks went the stranger with the careless speed of youth, humming to himself in a soft tenor, his brown face turned to the sun. The pleasant smile was still upon it. He had the look of one in whose eyes all things are good.
Ahead of him gleamed the towel with the sandals upon it, sandals that might have been fashioned for fairy feet. He quickened his pace at sight of them. But she was charming, this English child! He had never before seen anyone quite so dainty. And of a courage unique in one so young!
He was nearing the sandals now, but the sun was in his eyes, and he saw only the towel spread like a tablecloth over the rock. He sprang lightly down on to a heap of shingle, and reached for it, still humming the chanson that the little English girl had somehow put into his head.
The next instant a deep growl arrested him, and sharply he drew back. There was something more than a pair of sandals on the towel above him, something that crouched in an attitude of tense hostility, daring him to approach. It was only a small creature that thus challenged him, only a weird black terrier of doubtful extraction, but he bristled from end to end with animosity. Quite plainly he regarded the sandals as his responsibility. With glaring eyes and gleaming teeth he crouched, prepared to defend them.
The young Frenchman's discomfiture was but momentary. In an instant he had taken in the situation and the humour of it.
"But it is the good Cinders!" he said aloud, and extended a fearless hand. "So, my friend, so! The little mistress waits."
Cinders' growl became a snarl. He sucked up his breath in furious protest, threatening murder. But the stranger's hand was not withdrawn. On the contrary it advanced upon him with the utmost deliberation till Cinders was compelled to jerk backwards to avoid it.
So jerking, he missed his footing as his mistress had before him, lost his balance, and rolled, cursing, clinging, and clambering, over the edge of the rock.
Had the Frenchman laughed at that moment he would have made an enemy for life. But most fortunately he did not regard an antagonist's downfall as a fit subject for mirth. In fact, being of a chivalrous turn, he grabbed at the luckless Cinders, clutched his collar, and dragged him up again. And—perhaps it was the generosity of the action, perhaps only its obvious fearlessness—he won Cinders' heart from that instant. His hostility merged into sudden ardent friendship. He set his paws on the young man's chest, and licked his face.
Thenceforth he was more than welcome to sandals and towel and even the effusive Cinders himself, who leaped around him barking in high delight, and accompanied him with giddy circlings upon his return journey.
Chris, who had viewed the encounter from afar with much interest, clapped her hands at their approach.
"And you weren't a bit afraid!" she laughed. "I couldn't think what you would do. Cinders looked so fierce. But any one can see you understand dogs—even English dogs."
"It is possible that at heart the English and the French resemble each other more than we think, mademoiselle," observed the Frenchman. "One can never tell."
He bent again over the injured foot with the sandal in his hand.
"It's very good of you to take all this trouble," said Chris abruptly.
He flashed her a quick smile. "But no, mademoiselle! It gives me pleasure to be of service to you."
"I'm sure I don't know what I should have done without you," she rejoined. "Ah, that is much better. I shall be able to walk now."
"You think it?" He looked at her doubtfully.
She nodded. "If you will take me as far as the sand, I shall do splendidly then. You see, I can't let you come into Valpré with me because—because—"
"Because, mademoiselle—?" Up went the black brows questioningly.
She flushed a little, but her clear eyes met his with absolute candour. "We have a French governess," she explained, "who was brought up in a convent, so she is very easily shocked. If she knew that I had spoken to a stranger, and a man"—she raised her hands with a merry gesture—"she would have a fit—several fits. I couldn't risk it. Poor mademoiselle! She doesn't understand our English ways a bit. Why, she wouldn't even let me paddle if she could help it. I shall have to keep very quiet about this foot of mine, or it will be 'Jamais encore!' and 'Encore jamais!' for the rest of my natural life. And, after all," pathetically, "there can be no great harm in dipping one's feet in sea-water, can there?"
But the Frenchman looked grave. "You will show your foot to the doctor, will you not?" he said.
"Dear me, no!" said Chris.
"Mais, mademoiselle—"
She checked him with her quick, winning smile.
"Please don't talk French. I like English so much the best. Besides, it's holiday-time."
"But, mademoiselle," he persisted, "if it should become serious!"
"Oh, it won't," she said lightly. "I shall be all right. Nothing ever happens to me."
"Nothing?" he questioned, with an answering smile.
She was hobbling over the stones with his assistance. "Nothing interesting, I assure you," she said.
"Except when mademoiselle goes to the cavern of the fairies to look for the magic knight?" he suggested.
She threw him a merry glance. "To be sure! I will come and see you again some day when the tide is low. Is there a dragon in the cave?"
"He is there only when the tide is high, mademoiselle, a beast enormous with eyes of fire."
"And a princess?" asked the English girl, keenly interested.
"No, there is no princess."
"Only you and the dragon?"
"Generally only me, mademoiselle."
"Whatever do you do there?" she asked curiously.
His smile was bafflingly direct. "Me? I make magic, mademoiselle."
"What sort of magic?"
"What sort? That is a difficult question."
"May I come and see it?" asked Chris eagerly, scenting a mystery.
He hesitated.
"I'll come all by myself," she assured him.
"Mais la gouvernante—"
"As if I should bring her! No, no! I'll come alone—with Cinders."
"Mais, mademoiselle—"
"If you say that again I shall be cross," announced Chris.
"But—pardon me, mademoiselle—the governess, might she not object?"
"Absurd!" said Chris. "I am not a French girl, and I won't behave like one."
He laughed at that, plainly because he could not help it. "Mademoiselle pleases herself!" he observed.
"Of course I do," returned Chris vigorously. "I always have. I may come then?"
"But certainly."
"When?"
"When you will, mademoiselle."
Chris considered. They had reached the firm sand, and she stood still. "I can't come to-morrow because of my foot, and the day after the tide will be too late. I shall have to wait nearly a fortnight. How dull!"
"In a fortnight, then!" said the Frenchman.
"In a fortnight, preux chevalier!" Her eyes laughed up at him. "But I dare say we shall meet before then. I hope we shall."
"I hope it also, mademoiselle." He bowed courteously.
She held out her hand. "I shall come on the tenth of the month—it's my birthday. I'll bring some cakes, and we'll have a party, and invite the dragon." Her eyes danced. "We will have some fun, shall we?"
"I think that we shall not want the dragon," he smiled back.
"No? Perhaps not. Well, I'll bring Cinders instead."
"Ah, the good Cinders! He is different."
"And we will go exploring," she said eagerly. "I shan't be a bit afraid of anything with you there. The tenth, then! Don't forget! Good-bye, and thank you ever so much! You won't fail me, will you?"
He bent low over the impetuous little hand. "I shall not fail you, mademoiselle. Adieu!"
"Au revoir!" she laughed back. "Come along, Cinders! We shall be late for tea."
He stood motionless on the sunlit sand and watched her go.
She was limping, but she moved quickly notwithstanding. Cinders trotted soberly by her side.
As she reached the little plage, she turned as if aware of his watching eyes and nonchalantly waved the towel that dangled on her arm. The sunlight had turned her hair to burnished copper. It made her for the moment wonderful, and a gleam of swift admiration shot across the Frenchman's face.
"Merveilleux!" he whispered to himself, and half-aloud, "Good-bye, little bird of Paradise!"
With a courteous gesture of farewell, he turned away. When he looked again, the child, with her glorious, radiant hair, had passed from sight.
He went back, springing over the rocks, to the Gothic archway that had fired her curiosity. The tide was rising fast. Already the white foam raced up to the rocky entrance. He splashed through it, and went within as one on business bent.
He was absent for some seconds, and soon a large wave broke with a long roar and rushed swirling into the cave. As the gleaming water ran out again, he emerged.
A single glance was sufficient to show him that retreat by way of the beach was already cut off. He recognized the fact with a rueful grimace. The long green waves tumbling along the rocks were rising higher every instant.
With a quick glance around him, the young man sprang for an upstanding rock, reached it in safety, and paused, keenly studying the black face of the cliff.
It frowned above him like a rampart, gloomy, terrible, impregnable. He shrugged his shoulders with another grimace, then, as the foam splashed up over his feet, leaped lightly onto another rock higher than the first, whence it was possible to reach a great buttress that jutted outwards from the cliff itself.
Once upon this, he began to climb diagonally, clambering like a monkey, availing himself of every inch that offered foothold. A slip would have meant instant disaster, but this fact did not apparently occur to him, or if it did he was not dismayed thereby. He even presently, as he cautiously worked his way upwards, began to hum again in gay snatches the song that a child's clear eyes had set running in his brain that afternoon.
It was a progress that waxed more perilous as he proceeded. The waves dashed themselves to cataracts below him. Return was impossible, and many would have deemed advance equally so. But he struggled on, maintaining his zigzag course upwards, with nerve unfailing and spirits unimpaired.
Gulls flew out above his head and circled about him with indignant protests. He looked somewhat like a gigantic gull himself, his slim white figure outlined against the darkness of the cliff. He cried back to the startled birds reassuringly in their own language, but the commotion continued; and presently, finding precarious foothold on a narrow ledge halfway up, he stopped to wipe his forehead and laugh with merriment unfeigned. He was plainly in love with life—one in whose eyes all things were good, but yet who loved the hazard of them even better.
The ledge did not permit of much comfort. Nevertheless he managed to turn upon it and to lean back against the cliff, with his brown face to sky and sea. He even, after a moment, took out a cigarette and lighted it. The sun shone full in his eyes, and he seemed to revel in it. A sun-worshipper also, apparently!
He smoked his cigarette to the end very deliberately, flicking the ash from time to time towards the raging water below. When he had quite finished, he stretched his arms wide with a gesture of sublime self-confidence, faced about, and very composedly continued his climb.
It grew more and more arduous as he neared the frowning summit. He had to feel his way with the utmost caution. Once he missed his footing, and slipped several feet before he could recover himself, and after this experience he took a clasp-knife from his pocket and notched himself footholds where none offered. It was a very lengthy business, and the sun was dipping downwards to the sea ere he came within reach of his goal. The top of the cliff overhung where he first approached it, and he had to work a devious course below it till he came to a more favourable place.
Reaching a gap at length, he braced himself for the final effort. The surface of the cliff here was loose, and the stones rattled continually from beneath his feet; but he clung like a limpet, nothing daunted, and at last his hands were gripped in the coarse grass that fringed the summit. Sheer depth was below him, and the inward-curving cliff offered no possibility of foothold.
He stood, gathering his strength for a last stupendous effort. It was a supreme moment. It meant abandoning the support on which he stood and depending entirely upon the strength of his arms to attain to safety. The risk was desperate. He stood bracing himself to take it.
Finally, with an upward fling of the head, as of one who diced with the gods, he gripped that perilous edge and dared the final throw. Slowly, with stupendous effort, he hoisted himself up. It was the work of an expert athlete; none other would have attempted it.
Up he went and up, steadily, strongly; his head came level with his hands; he peered over the edge of the cliff. The strain was terrific. The careless smile was gone from his lips. In that instant he no longer ignored what lay behind him; he knew the suspense of the gambler who pauses after he has thrown before he lifts the dice-box to read his fate.
Up, and still up! The grass was beginning to yield in his clutching fingers; he dug them into the earth below. Now his shoulders were above the edge; his chest also, heaving with strenuous effort. To lower himself again was impossible. His feet dangled over space. And the surging of the water below him was as the roaring of an angry monster cheated of its prey.
He set his teeth. He was nearing the end of his strength. Had he, after all, attempted the impossible, flung the dice too recklessly, dared his fate too far? If so, he would pay the penalty swiftly, swiftly, down among the cruel rocks where many another had perished before him.
The surging sounded louder. It seemed to be in his brain. It bewildered him, deprived him of the power to think. A great many voices seemed to clamour around him, but only one could be clearly heard; only one, and that the voice of a child close to him—or was that also an illusion born of the racking strain that had driven all the blood to his head?
"You won't fail me, will you?" it said.
Surely his grasp was slackening, his powers were passing, when like a flashlight those words illuminated his brain. He was as one in deep waters, swamped and sinking; but that voice called him back.
He opened his eyes, he drew a great breath. He flung his whole soul into one last great effort. He remembered suddenly that the little English girl, the child with the glorious hair and laughing eyes, his acquaintance of an hour, would be looking for him exactly two weeks from that moment. He was sure she would look, and—she would be disappointed if she looked in vain. One must not disappoint a child[1q].
The memory of her went through him, vivid, enchanting, compelling. It nerved his sinking heart. It renewed his grip on life. It urged him upwards.
Only a child! Only a child! But yet—
"I shall not—shall not—fail you!" he gasped, and with the words his knees reached the top of the cliff.
His strength collapsed instantly, like the snapping of a fiddle-string. He fell forward on his face, and lay prone…
A little later he worked the whole of his body into security, rolled over on his back with closed eyes to the sky, and waited while his heart slowed down to its normal rhythmic beat.
At last, quite suddenly, he sat up and looked around him. The laughter flashed back into his eyes. He sprang to his feet, mud-stained, dishevelled, yet exultant.
He clicked his heels together and faced the sinking sun, slim and upright, one stiff hand to his head. He had diced with the gods, and he had won.
"Destinée! Je te salue!" he said, and the next instant whizzed smartly round with a soldier's precision of movement and marched away towards the fortress that crowned the hill above the rocks of Valpré.
CHAPTER III
A ROPE OF SAND
Undoubtedly Mademoiselle Gautier was querulous, and equally without doubt she had good reason to be so; but it made it a little dull for Chris. Accidents would happen, wherever one went, and what was the good of making a fuss?
Of course, every allowance had to be made for poor Mademoiselle in consideration of the fact that she was torn in pieces by the valiant attempt to keep her attention focussed upon three children at once. The effort had not so far been a brilliant success, and Mademoiselle, conscious within herself of her inability to cope adequately with her threefold responsibility, being moreover worn out by her gallant struggle to do so, was inclined to shortness of temper and a severity of judgment that bordered upon injustice.
If Chris would persist in flying about the shore in that wild fashion with her hair loose—that flaming hair which Mademoiselle considered in itself to be almost indecent—what could be expected but that some contretemps must of necessity arrive? It was useless for Chris to protest that it was not her hair that had got her into difficulties, that she had only left it loose to dry it after her bathe, that there had been no one to see—at least, no one that mattered—and that the cut on her foot was solely due to the fact that she had taken off her sand-shoes to climb over the rocks. Mademoiselle only shook her head with pursed lips. Chris était méchante—très méchante, and no amount of arguing would make her change her opinion upon that point.
So Chris abandoned argument while the worried little Frenchwoman bathed and bandaged her foot anew. She would not be able to bathe again for at least a week, and this fact was of itself sufficient to depress her into silence. Yet, after a little, when Mademoiselle was gone, a cheery little tune rose to her lips. It was not her nature to be depressed for long.
Mademoiselle Gautier would have been something less than human if she had not yielded now and then under the perpetual strain in which, for many days past, she had lived. She had come to Valpré in charge of Chris and her two young brothers, both of whom had developed diphtheria within a day or two of their arrival. The children's father was absent in India; his only sister, upon whom the cares of his family were supposed to rest, was entertaining Royalty, and was far too important a personage in the social world to be spared at short notice. And so the whole burden had devolved upon poor Mademoiselle Gautier, who had been near her wits' end with anxiety, but had nobly grappled with her task.
The worst of the business, speaking in a physical sense, was now over. Both her patients—Maxwell, who was Chris's twin, and little Noel, the youngest of the family, aged twelve—had turned the corner and were progressing towards convalescence. Over the latter she still had qualms of uneasiness, but the elder boy was rapidly picking up his strength and giving more trouble than he had ever given before in the process.
By inexorable decree Chris was kept away from the two over whom Mademoiselle, aided by a convent nurse, still watched with unremitting care; and it did seem a little hard in the opinion of the harassed Frenchwoman that her one sound charge could not be trusted to conduct herself with circumspection during her days of enforced solitude. Chris Wyndham, however, had been a tomboy all her life, and she could scarcely be expected to reform at such a juncture. She was not accustomed to solitude, and her restless spirit chafed after distraction.
The conventions had never troubled her. Brought up as she had been with three unruly boys, running wild with them during the whole of her childhood, it was scarcely to be wondered at if her outlook on life was more that of a boy than a girl. She had been in Mademoiselle Gautier's charge during the past three years, but somehow that had not sobered her very materially. She was spoilt by all except her aunt, who was wont to remark with some acidity that if she didn't come to grief one way or another, this would probably continue to be the case for the term of her natural life. But it was quite plain that Aunt Philippa expected her to come to grief. Girls like Chris, unless they married out of the schoolroom, usually played with fire until they burnt their fingers. The fact of the matter was Chris was far too attractive, and though as yet sublimely unconscious of the fact, Aunt Philippa knew that sooner or later it was bound to dawn upon her. She did not relish the prospect of steering this giddy little barque through the shoals and quicksands of society, being shrewdly suspicious that the task might well prove too much for her. For with all her sweetness, Chris was undeniably wilful, a princess who expected to have her own way; and Aunt Philippa had a daughter of her own, Chris's senior by three years, as well as a son in the Guards, to consider.
No, she did not approve of Chris, or indeed of any of the family, including her own brother, who was its head. She had not approved of his gay young wife, Irish and volatile, who had died at the birth of little Noel. She doubted the stability of each one of them in turn, and plainly told her brother that he must attend to the launching of his children for himself. She was willing to do her best for them as children, but as grown-ups she declined the responsibility.
His answer to this had been that they must remain children until he could spare the time to attend to them. The eldest boy, Rupert, was now at Sandhurst, Maxwell was being educated at Marlborough, and Noel, who was never very strong, was at present with Chris in Mademoiselle Gautier's care. The summer holiday at Valpré had been Mademoiselle's suggestion, and bitterly had she lived to regret it.
Chris had regretted it, too, for a time, but now that her two brothers were well on the road to recovery it seemed absurd not to extract such enjoyment as she could from the situation. Of course, it was lonely, but there was always Cinders to fall back upon for comfort. She was thankful that she had insisted upon bringing him, though Mademoiselle had protested most emphatically against this addition to the party. How she was to get him back again she had not begun to consider. Doubtless, however, Jack would manage it somehow. Jack was the aforementioned cousin in the Guards, a young man of much kindness and resource, upon whom Chris was wont to rely as a sort of superior elder brother. He would think nothing of running over to fetch them home and to assist in the smuggling of Cinders back into his native land. In fact, if the truth were told, he would probably rather enjoy it.
In the meantime, here was she, stranded with a damaged foot, and all the delights of the sea temporarily denied to her. Perhaps not quite all, when she came to think of it. She could not paddle, but she might manage to hobble down to the shore, and sit on the sun-baked rocks. Even Mademoiselle could surely find no fault with this. And she might possibly find someone to talk to. She was so fond of talking, and it was a perpetual regret to her that she could not understand the speech of the Breton fishermen.
It was on the morning of the second day after her accident that this idea presented itself. All the previous day she had sat soberly in a corner of the little garden that overlooked the little plage where none but bonnes and their charges ever passed. Nothing had happened all day long, and she had been bored almost to tears. The beaming smiles of Mademoiselle, who was thankful to have her within sight, had been no sort of consolation to her, and on the second day she came rapidly to the conclusion that she would die of ennui[6] if she attempted to endure it any longer.
She did not arouse Mademoiselle's voluble protests by announcing her decision. Mademoiselle was busy with the boys, and what was the good? She was her own mistress, and felt in no way called upon to ask her governess's leave.
Her foot was much better. The nurse had strapped it for her, and, beyond some slight stiffness in walking, it caused her no pain. Her hair was tied discreetly back with a black ribbon. It ought to have been plaited, but as Mademoiselle had no time to bestow upon it and Chris herself couldn't be bothered, it hung in glory below the confining ribbon to her waist.
Whistling to Cinders, who was lying in the sunshine snapping at flies, she rose from her chair in the shade, dropped the crochet with which Mademoiselle had supplied her on the grass, and limped to the gate that opened on to the plage.
At this juncture a rhythmical, unmistakable sound made her pause. A quick gleam of pleasure shone in her blue eyes. She turned her head eagerly. A troop of soldiers were approaching along the plage.
Sheer fun flashed into the girl's face. With a sudden swoop she caught up the lazy Cinders.
"Now you are not to say anything," she cautioned him. "Only when I tell you, you are to salute. And mind you do it properly!"
Cinders licked the animated face so near his own. When not drawn by his one particular vice, he was always ready to enter into any little game that his mistress might devise. He watched the oncoming soldiers with interest, a slight frown between his brows.
The soldiers were interested also. Chris of the merry eyes was not a spectacle to pass unheeding. She smiled upon them—there were about forty of them—with the simplicity of a child.
Rhythmically the blue and red uniforms began to swing past. Their wearers stared and grinned at the smiling little Anglaise who was so naively pleased to see them.
She raised an imperious hand. "Cinders, salute!" And into Cinders' ear she whispered, "They are only French, chappie, but you mustn't mind."
And Cinders, quite unconcerned, obeyed his mistress's behest and lifted a rigid paw to his head.
A murmur of appreciation ran through the ranks. The grins widened. One boy, with bold admiration for the petite Anglaise in his black eyes, raised his hand abruptly and saluted in return. Every man who followed did likewise, and Chris was enchanted. Mademoiselle Gautier would have been horrified had she seen her frank nods of acknowledgment, but mercifully Fate spared her this.
Behind the last line of marching men came a trim young officer. His sword clanked at his heels. He swung along with a free swagger, head up, shoulders back, eyes fixed straight before him. A gallant specimen was he, for though of inconsiderable height, he was well made and obviously of athletic build. His thoughts were evidently far away, his handsome, boyish face so preoccupied that it had the look of a face in a picture, patrician, aloof, immobile.
But a sudden glimpse of the girl at the gate—the child with the shining hair—brought him back in a fraction of time, transformed him utterly. Recognition, vivid surprise, undoubted pleasure, flashed over his face. With an eager smile, he paused, clicked his heels together, saluted.
She extended an eager hand—her left; Cinders monopolized her right.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "you! I didn't know you were a soldier!"
He took the hand over the gate, stooped and kissed it. "But I am delighted, mademoiselle!" he said.
Cinders was also delighted, and struggled with yelps of welcome to reach him. He stood up, laughing, and patted the little creature's head.
"And the foot?" he questioned.
