At last, slowly, as though he weighed each word before he uttered it, Mordaunt spoke.

“You may trust her to me,” he said.

And the hand in his stirred and gripped in gratitude, Bertrand de Montville had not spent himself in vain.

CHAPTER VII

THE MESSENGER

“Roses!” said Chris.  “How nice!”

She held the white blossoms that Jack had sent her against her face, and smiled.

It was a very pathetic smile, a wan ghost of gaiety, possessing more of bravery than mirth.  She lay on a couch by the window, looking out under the sun-blinds at the dusty green of the park.  Though October had begun, the summer was not yet over, and the heat was considerable.  It seemed oppressive after the fresh air of the moors, and Hilda watched her cousin’s languor with some anxiety.  For her face had scarcely more colour than the flowers she held.

“Is the paper here?” asked Chris.

She also was closely following the progress of the Valpre trial.  Though she never discussed it, Hilda was aware that it was the only thing in life in which she took any interest just then.

She gave her the paper containing the last account that Mordaunt had written, and for nearly an hour Chris was absorbed in it.  At last, with a sigh, she laid it down, and drew the roses to her again.

“It’s very dear of Jack to send them.  Hilda, don’t you want to go out?  You mustn’t stay in always for me.”

“I want you to come out too, dear,” Hilda said.

“I?  Oh, please, dear, I’d rather not.”  Chris spoke quickly, almost beseechingly.  She laid a very thin hand upon Hilda’s.  “You don’t mind?” she said persuasively.

Hilda took the little hand and stroked it.  “Chris darling,” she said, “do you know what is the matter with you?”

The quick blood rushed up over the pale face, spread to the temples, and then faded utterly away.  “Yes,” whispered Chris.

Hilda leaned down, and very tenderly kissed her.  “I felt sure you did.  And that’s why you will make an effort to get strong, isn’t it, dear?  It isn’t as if it were just for your own sake any more.  You will try, my own Chris?”

But Chris turned her face away with quivering lips.  “I think—­and I hope—­that I shall die,” she said.

“Chris, my darling—­”

“Yes,” Chris insisted.  “If it shocks you I can’t help it.  I don’t want to live, and I don’t want my child to live, either.  Life is too hard.  If—­if I had had any choice in the matter, I would never have been born.  And so if I die before the baby comes, it is the best thing that could possibly happen for either of us.  And I think—­I think”—­she hesitated momentarily before a name she had not uttered for weeks—­“Trevor would say the same.”

“My dear child, I am quite sure he wouldn’t!” Hilda spoke with most unaccustomed vigour.  “I am quite sure that if he knew of this, he would be with you to-day.”