"'Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident;It is the very place God meant for thee!'"
"'Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident;It is the very place God meant for thee!'"
"'Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident;It is the very place God meant for thee!'"
"'Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident;
It is the very place God meant for thee!'"
"And if He meant it—chose it—arranged it all—don't you see?—it must be right, because He loves me."
"The place—perhaps. But the pain—"
"That's part of it all—part of what He gives me to bear. It is all from Him—and through it all He loves. He couldn't give me more to bear than it's right for me to have—because He loves me."
Doris laid her gloved hand on Winnie's.
"I like to hear you. Some day you must say more." She had often herself spoken some such words to a sufferer in a cottage, because she supposed that she ought. It was a different matter to hear them uttered out of a girl's own experience. But she was shy of pursuing the subject just then. "Can you ever get out for walks?" she asked.
"When it is warm enough I sit in the garden."
"And—church?"
"It is too far off, and I can't sit up for so long. Last time I tried, the pain got so bad that I fainted."
"Have you no friends to come and see you?"
"Oh, yes—there's—" and she hesitated. "We left most of our friends in Norfolk."
"Did you like coming?"
"Uncle wanted mother; and she thought we ought. He was alone—and this had been her home when she was a girl—till she went to be trained as a nurse."
"And she nursed Miss Stirling—when was that?"
"When Miss Stirling was quite a little child. And then mother married. I think uncle didn't much like mother's marriage. She saw nothing of him, or he of her, for years and years after."
"I should like to come and see you, sometimes, Winnie. I might cycle over, now and then." Winnie's face brightened. "And I shall speak to Mr. Stirling about you. He always likes to know when people are in trouble."
This brought a flush. "He does come—"
"I suppose he calls to see Mr. Paine on business."
"He comes to see us too. He gives me presents. He is—so kind. He has done such a lot for us. I shouldn't like him to be asked to do anything more."
Doris had not thought of money-help. "I only meant that he might advise your mother to make you see a doctor."
"He would say, if he thought she ought." Winnie plainly deprecated interference. "Next time he is here he will say if it is right. Mother always does what he advises."
Doris noted the form of expression. "Then you have seen him a good many times."
"Only twice since we moved here. He is so busy. But—he has always been our friend—our very best and kindest friend. I don't know what we should have done without him."
Doris was rather astonished. Even in Winnie's soft tones, this sounded to her like taking a liberty.
"I suppose he is everybody's friend, in a way," she remarked. "I know he has property in Norfolk.".
"Yes; and we lived in one of his houses. And he sent Raye to college— my brother, I mean. Raye is so very, very clever. Mr. Stirling said that, with his talents, it was right he should go. So he helped mother. Raye is such a dear brother."
Winnie stopped, and a shadow crept over her face.
"I ought not to have told you that—about Raye at college. It was wrong of me. We never talk about it, because Mr. Stirling doesn't like it to be known. I can't think how I came to say what I did. Please, please, never tell it again to anybody."
"But why should he mind? It is only telling how generous he is."
"I know! But please promise."
Doris assured her of secrecy.
UNKNOWN to Mrs. Brutt, links were being forged in a chain of influences which was to bring about her pet scheme.
Katherine did not at once make mention of the visit to Wyldd's Farm. Not that she had intended delay, but that friends came to dinner two evenings in succession, and her uncle was out to luncheon and to tea. No good opportunity occurred, and it slipped out of her mind. The third evening, when they were alone at dessert, she named it simply as an unimportant matter. To her surprise, his face changed, and she met a look of severe rebuke, to which she was quite unused.
"You went!—after my expressed wish to the contrary! That was unlike you."
Katherine showed dismay.
"But I did not understand. I am very sorry. Did you really mean—?"
"I meant precisely what I said."
She tried to recall what he had said.
"I thought you were only warning me to be careful—advising me not to see too much of the family, because of the elder girl. If I had imagined—but indeed I had no idea that you forbade it altogether."
The Squire's brow was deeply dented, with not only displeasure but disquietude. Seeing her distress, he pulled himself together, and smiled.
"Tell me what passed."
Katherine did her best. She was in a mental condition to be easily upset, and her voice was not steady, as she related what little there was—in her estimation—worth relating. She was not gifted as a raconteur, and the tale sounded bare.
"Was that all?"
"Nearly all, uncle. Mrs. Morris seems an odd woman—not at all pleased to see me, I thought, so really I need not go again. Doris was a good deal taken with the poor delicate daughter—Winnie, they called her. Doris said afterwards that she meant to go and see her sometimes, and to take her books to read. It was a kind idea. And Mrs. Brutt—"
"Yes—"
"She talked a good deal, as she always does."
"About the farm people?" The Squire seldom showed so keen an interest in aught that might be described as verging on gossip.
"Yes. She seems to me to have found a mare's nest. I did not quite follow her line of thought—but it was about Mrs. Morris's past, and what she imagined to be the truth. She was sure there was some secret. It sounded rather absurd. But Mrs. Morris certainly is singular. The elder girl I did not like."
"I warned you. She will take liberties, if she is allowed."
"She did not try to take any. I found her rather subdued. It seemed to me only right to see Mrs. Morris, after what I owe to her. But of course, if I had understood, I would not have gone—and I will not go again. You know I always try to do what you wish."
Katherine stood up, with the words, and he went to open the door; courtly as usual. As she passed she gave him a slight wistful glance, and he took her hand in his own, then bent to kiss her forehead, as her own father might have done.
"I know!" he said. "You are my child!—my all!" The word came emphatically. "It startled me to think that you could go against my will. But it is all right now."
Both were by nature undemonstrative; and he dropped her hand. She gave him a gentle little smile in response, and moved on, her soft skirt sweeping the floor noiselessly. Within the drawing-room, when alone, she stood still and repeated the words half aloud—"His child! His all!"
Yes, it was true; and she knew it. She was his all; she had been his all, ever since the death, ten years earlier, of his adored wife, her adored aunt, the sweet, gentle, winsome Lady Mary, who when dying had given over her husband to Katherine's devoted care. She had most faithfully fulfilled her charge, with only the one doubt in her mind as to future days—if Hamilton should want her!
But he would not now. He would only want—Doris.
"As well, perhaps," she murmured. "How could I leave him—after what she said?"
But two great tears fell slowly.
Meanwhile the Squire went back to his seat, not to drink more wine, for he was the most abstemious of men, but to remain long motionless, lost in thought, with bent head. Gradually he saw his way, and determined what to do.
Fruit of which cogitations appeared in the morning, when his horse was brought to the door, and he said to Katherine,—"Don't wait for me. I hardly think I can be back to luncheon. I have a long round."
He proposed to see Doris, the Rector, Mrs. Brutt, and the farm people. Which first?—was the question. He decided to begin with the widow.
A touch sufficed to draw from her a flood of details. She described the farm and its belongings, animate and inanimate, with her usual wealth of adjectives, appropriate and inappropriate. Another touch—and she launched into speculation.
"There's something distinctly mysterious about those people, Mr. Stirling. Of course it is no business of mine—" this was the usual preface. "But one can't help noticing, you know. And there's something about the woman that gives one such a sensation of something underneath. Something almost uncanny, don't you know? I always feel that sort of thing. I always know when there's more than shows on the surface."
The Squire said "Really!"—with an air of incredulity.
"Yes, indeed, I am certain of it. Mrs. Morris is not exactly what she makes believe to be. It's perfectly clear to me that there is something or other in her past that she is bent on hiding. If one asked any questions—the most innocent questions—she kept slipping away from the subject, and would tell nothing. And why should she? If there was nothing to conceal, why should she conceal it?"
"People do not commonly care to pour out to strangers," the Squire observed dryly.
"But Miss Stirling was not a stranger. And then there is her face—the extraordinary unlikeness to what is said to be her picture when she was a girl. Really, quite unbelievable. People do alter—but there are limits. And I have serious doubts—"
"Doubts?"
"Whether in point of fact she is Nurse Morris at all! If you had seen how she tried to shirk the question—how she showed no pleasure or gratitude for your niece's kindness—how she seemed to shrink from every allusion to her past—you would understand. Why should she not be somebody else—just posing as Nurse Morris? The real Nurse Morris may have died. The man may have married a second time."
The Squire smiled again dryly. "I am afraid your interesting theory is not likely to be true. I happen to have followed Nurse Morris's career, and never for any length of time to have lost sight of her. She is hardly worth the trouble of exercising your imagination upon so vividly."
Mrs. Brutt was dimly conscious of being rebuked; and Mr. Stirling, dropping that subject as unimportant, introduced another. He referred to the idea she had mooted, of taking Doris abroad. Had she seriously meant it? He had given the matter some consideration, and he was inclined to agree with her in thinking it a wise plan for the girl. It might do her good in more ways than one.
Mrs. Brutt echoed and enlarged upon his words. Mentally, so good!— so wholesome!—so widening!—so precisely what the dear child needed! She could speak from her own experience of the effects of foreign travel upon the mental make.
The Squire did not care a "ha'p'orth" for the widow's mental make; but he listened with patience.
Mrs. Brutt poured on. The dear girl was really too much "sat upon" in her present sphere. Of course this was quite between themselves. Doris needed training, widening, developing—didn't he think? Exactly as Mrs. Brutt in the past had been trained, widened, developed. She held up her own mind for inspection, as a proof. And nothing would charm her more than to take that dear enchanting girl abroad—if only it were possible.
"But I ventured one day to put out a feeler at the Rectory, and I found it to be hopeless. Mr. Winton set his foot down, quite conclusively. Said he saw no need, and could not afford it."
Mr. Stirling suggested that the difficulty might be met. He wished the Wintons not to know that he had a hand in arrangements; and he unfolded his plan. Would Mrs. Brutt be willing to offer on her own account to take Doris, if he privately supplied the funds? No cost to the parents would be involved; and the scheme must be in strict confidence between himself and the widow; on no account to be breathed to any other human being.
Mrs. Brutt's face was wreathed in smiles. He might depend upon her— absolutely! She never talked. She never repeated anything.
Mr. Stirling had his own opinion as to the "never;" but for her own sake she would be silent here. He asked how soon she would care to go, and dates were discussed.
"Then you will speak to the Wintons," were the Squire's parting words. "I may perhaps say a word to prepare them. Better not to name definitely the length of your absence. If Doris is enjoying herself, and you wish to stay a little longer, I shall be willing."
IN his beloved old coat, ragged and paint-stained, and his workman's apron, the Rector stood before a half-finished piece of woodcarving, a handsome lectern, destined for a poor East-End parish. Other carved work, just begun or nearly done, lay around him. In one corner a pile of unglazed picture-frames awaited attention. The shed boasted little furniture, as such, but it held a carpenter's bench, a turning-lathe, and a multiplicity of tools. At present he was entirely engrossed by the lectern.
He was always happy with chisel and mallet. Handiwork was with him a passion; and though his life-business lay in other lines, he found here his recreation and his joy.
Lines that he would not have chosen for himself! Strong pressure through years had been used, to force him thitherward. His mother, a woman of determined will, had made up her mind that he should take holy orders, and had refused to hear reason. The son had slowly yielded, believing that this insistent pressure might in itself constitute a "call."
A born mechanic, he might have excelled as an engineer. With the best intentions, the most earnest endeavour, he never would excel as a "Parson." Critics spoke of him often as an unmitigated failure; and they went too far. No man who puts his heart into his work, and does his utmost, even though he has no natural gift for it, can be an unmitigated failure. But a success, from the ordinary point of view, he was not.
Though duty was never neglected by him, parish work ranked as a perpetual burden, and the visitation of sick and bereaved folk as a never-ending terror. Few guessed the fact, while condemning his uncouthness. His was a childlike nature, combining genuine enthusiasm with a man's shrewdness; but also it included something of animal dumbness. He could not voice his own emotions, could not say what he thought, could not express what he felt.
There were indeed seasons when, unexpectedly, he would break through these restraining bonds, when some sudden emergency would call forth his real strength of character. Then dumbness ceased, and he could take the lead, and take it well. But such occasions were few and far between. Usually, he only asked to be left in the background which he loved.
He was a square man in a round hole; and, do what he might, he never could fill the empty space. In the nature of things, this was impossible. A touch of the pathetic in such a sight, is there not? But has it ever occurred to you, how much grander a thing it is for a square man to be striving his heroic best to fill a round hole—even though the result be failure!—than for a round man to slip easily and without effort into a round hole which just fits him? The one means exertion, struggle, self-denial. The other means—nothing!
Do you question this? Think of a boat on a powerful river. From which does the looker-on gain most—from a man fighting bravely against the stream, whether he succeeds or fails, or from a man swept easily down by the force of the current? Mr. Winton's daily battle formed an object-lesson to more than one silent observer.
When Doris came to the shed, and found her father in pleased contemplation of his handiwork, she had come to the right place. She was in a cloudy mood this morning, and things looked awry. And she felt that, though the dear old daddy—she called him "daddy" still, when they were alone—might say little, he would understand.
Twice he glanced up from the work which he had resumed, with a scrutinising glance.
"Eh, child?" came at length. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm only tired of things, daddy. I should like to get away."
"Where?"
"Anywhere. I don't mind. Don't you sometimes feel so?"
"I've had the sensation."
"And only yesterday I thought I wouldn't. I saw poor Winnie Morris, and she made me ashamed of not being contented. But this morning— somehow—"
Her father's broad hand, with its delicate capabilities, just touched hers. "I know—" it said.
"What do you do when you get a fit like that, daddy?"
"Knock it down," the Rector said grimly.
"And if it knocks you down?"
"Get up and fight it."
She laughed a little.
"I suppose one never ought to wish for anything one hasn't got."
"I don't say that. There is a right as well as a wrong way of wishing. And there is a Divine discontent, as well as a discontent which isn't Divine."
"And the Divine discontent—?" she questioned.
"Do you remember Mrs. Gatty's Parables? I suppose it is the sort that makes the grub climb out of the pond, to become the winged creature."
"I'm afraid mine is the discontent that isn't Divine," she said slowly. "I want things changed —different—and—Winnie said things were right because God had arranged them for us. I don't think I feel like that in the least."
The Rector looked up in her face. The one person with whom he was not tongue-tied was this daughter?
"My dear—some of God's saints have taken fifty years to learn that lesson perfectly."
"To learn that things are right—because—"
"To learn that, whatever our conditions may be, those conditions are the best that can be for us—in view of the future. It means a great deal. It means—knowing God, knowing Christ, with a personal intimate knowledge—as man knows man—and trusting His love and wisdom—as friend trusts friend. We begin with infantine knowledge. We go on to that."
"And Winnie has got to that, you think!"
"I don't know how far Winnie has got. I don't suppose she knows herself. She is learning—we are all learning. Some are more willing to be taught than others. And our Father puts us, each one, into just that class in His earthly school where we can best be taught."
"Then one ought never to wish for change?"
"One ought never to give in to a spirit of discontent. Natural 'wishing' is a different matter—if we keep our hold on the reins. But always remember—He loves—and He knows best."
Doris kept silence so long that he went back to his work, and presently lost himself in it, forgetting all else. She would not interrupt him again, but after watching a little while, she went out; and the Squire soon came in her stead. He too stood gazing. For the Rector with his tools was a sight worth looking at; a picture of power and perfect content. Sermon-writing had hung fire, and in despair he had escaped hither. Often he could not command his brain to work; but always he could command his hands.
"Morning—" he murmured in response to a movement. "Sit down, please. I'll attend—two minutes."
Mr. Stirling obeyed, using the one chair. He knew that the two minutes would expand, for Mr. Winton at work had no consciousness of time. But for once it was the latter who spoke.
"I say—what has put into that child's wanting to get away?"
"Doris's?"
"Aye." "Why not let her go?"
The Rector looked up, shook his head, and gazed at the lectern.
"You think she could not be spared."
"Can't afford it."
"But if her expenses were undertaken?
"That's not likely. And after all—the child is well. Her turn will come some day. No need yet."
"Well, if an offer does come—and I have a notion that it may—don't refuse, that is all. A few weeks or months abroad would do her no end of good."
"Not months." But the Rector had grown thoughtful. Mr. Stirling, satisfied to have set the stone rolling, went to the Rectory garden, and there came across Doris, busy with her pigeons. She wore a pink blouse and a holland skirt; and her pretty face, with its dusky hair and deep-set eyes, broke into smiles at the sight of him. The pigeons rose with their startled swish, and her mind reverted to Winnie Morris. Here was an opportunity! True, Winnie had asked her not to speak; but she had confidence in her own judgment; and of course she would not let slip that which she had promised not to mention.
"Real June weather," she remarked, forgetful by this time of her discontent. "Mr. Stirling, I want to say something. We went the other day to Wyldd's Farm—Katherine and Mrs. Brutt and I."
"So I hear."
"And we saw Farmer Paine's niece and her girls. I don't care for the elder one; but Winnie is sweet."
He made a hole in the bed with his walking-stick, and pushed neatly in a fallen leaf.
"You know them, don't you? Winnie said you had always been their friend. It sounded droll—put in that way!"—and she laughed. "That queer Mrs. Morris, and that vulgar Jane—and you!" She glanced up with girlish admiration at the pale dignified Squire. "But of course I knew what she meant. You have been good to them, as you are to everybody. But don't you think Winnie ought to see a doctor?"
"Mrs. Morris will, no doubt, call one in if necessary."
"But Winnie said you would know you would tell them, if she ought. She almost seemed to think her mother wouldn't do anything without asking you first. Funny—wasn't it?" Doris stopped, noting the tension of his face, and he spoke with constraint—
"It is kind of you to feel an interest in the girl. She is delicate; and I believe not much can be done for her. Mrs. Morris must herself decide whether to have a doctor."
"Yes,—so I should have thought, but for what Winnie said. Poor girl, I'm so sorry for her. One day she fainted in church, and she says she almost always has pain. It must be frightfully hard to bear. And she looks so patient! I mean to cycle over sometimes, and try to cheer her up. I should like to know her better."
"You must be careful. The elder girl is pushing. Your mother would dislike the companionship for you."
Doris laughed merrily. "Oh, that is nothing. We 'clergy-folk' have to know everybody, and we don't mind. I'm not in the very least afraid of being taken for one of Jane Morris's friends!" No young princess could have held herself with more stateliness than Doris at that moment. "It's odd, two sisters being so unlike. Somebody said that Jane lived for years with her mother's relatives—not dear old Farmer Paine, of course, but others—and that she got into their ways. But I should like to be a friend to poor Winnie."
"I think you should be cautious. Better not to take steps in a hurry, and then have to draw back."
He left Doris vaguely impressed, and rather puzzled also, and made his way to Wyldd's Farm.
Jane was out, and he had first a private talk with Mrs. Morris. Then he returned to the sitting-room, and took a chair by Winnie's side. She was on the sofa, suffering too much to sit up. His manner had a touch of coldness, and she scanned him with anxious eyes.
"Winnie, I don't wish to find fault, and you are not to distress yourself. But I have a request to make."
Her lips parted with a gasp.
"I think you have been indiscreet. Yesterday you saw Miss Winton."
Her face fell.
"Yes. I'm sorry. I know! She was so kind, and for a moment I forgot." To herself Winnie added bitterly, "I didn't think she would have let it out."
"You forgot—what?"
"We were talking, and I—somehow I said—something. I forgot that you don't like people to know how kind you've been to us—paying for Raye, and all that!" She glanced up penitently. "I know it was wrong. But I didn't mean—"
"You told Miss Winton about Raye!" This was news, and his face darkened.
"I'm so sorry. It—somehow it just slipped out. I don't think I said 'school,' but I did say 'college.'"
"You have always been told that these things were not to be mentioned."
"I know! I forgot."
Winnie was fighting to keep down sobs. "She—she—promised—she wouldn't tell anybody."
This brought a frown.
"She! Do you mean Miss Winton? What reason did you give for asking her to be silent?"
"I said—oh, I said—you didn't—didn't—like people to know it."
"I do not. Stop crying, and listen to me." But he ordered in vain. The little thin hands were clenched over her face. He put a kind hand on her shoulder, and that only made her worse.
"Winnie—stop!" She obeyed this time, and sobbed no more, but the slight frame was convulsed. Mrs. Morris brought a glass of water, and he made her sip it.
"Now you are better. Don't begin again. If you do, I shall have to go away."
She clutched at his sleeve. "Oh please—please—don't."
He waited in silence, till the struggles for self-control were successful.
"Now you must listen to me. I wish you once for all to understand. People do not know what you mean, when you talk in that way; and it causes gossip. Remember, I owe much to your mother, for her care of Miss Stirling in infancy. I am always grateful for it; and if I choose to show particular kindness to her and you, that is my affair. But I do not choose my actions to be made the talk of Lynnbrooke. Even Jane knows this. I have warned her; and she does not forget. I did not think it would be needful to warn you."
The girl pressed her handkerchief to quivering lips.
"Miss Winton did not tell me that you had talked about Raye's expenses. What she did say was that you spoke of me as your 'friend."
"Yes—" faintly.
"I hope I am a friend to you, and to all my tenants. But I object to have comparisons made, and jealousies aroused. If I have helped you as a family more than other families, I am perfectly free to do so; and I have my reasons, which do not concern other people. If it is talked about, those other people, not understanding, will expect the same for themselves. You see now! I want you to act with discretion, like a woman, not like a thoughtless child. It did not matter so much in Norfolk, but it does matter here. You must say nothing; you must tell nothing; either to Miss Winton or to anybody else."
She nodded silently.
"Then I need say no more. Come—there is no need to cry. Only be careful in future."
He stayed a few minutes longer, then said good-bye. Winnie hid her face in the cushion. He had never before shown displeasure towards her.
"It's your own fault," Mrs. Morris said stolidly. "If you hadn't been a little goose, you wouldn't have brought it on yourself. And I'll tell you what—if Miss Winton takes to coming here, it's got to be stopped somehow."
"Why?"
"He says so."
Winnie sighed, as her one scrap of blue sky clouded over.
But the difficulty did not arise. Doris was too much excited, too fully occupied, with the projected foreign trip, to have leisure for aught else. She did not forget her promise; and she still meant to go "some time." But the Squire had thrown cold water, and everything seemed to conspire to prevent her. When the time came to start with Mrs. Brutt, she had not again seen Winnie.
DORIS wondered at herself. Only a fortnight and three days since she had left home! The almanack must surely be wrong. It looked like six weeks, at the very least.
She was leaning idly out of her little bedroom window, surveying the hotel garden below, and the Rhone valley beyond, bounded by its stately mountain ramparts. Bex lies at the bottom of a tea-cup, closed in around by lofty heights, like the sides of the cup. She had always so longed to see Swiss mountains. And they were very grand, ineffably beautiful, clothed in pine-woods, streaked with ravines and valleys. Yet Doris, possessing her wish, was by no means in tip-top spirits.
She tried to smother down a sense of flatness, of disappointment, and hummed a tune softly. But it would not do. Things were not all she had expected. That is to say—Mrs. Brutt was not! Doris was growing deadly tired of her companion's talk.
It went on endlessly, like a babbling stream. In certain moods Doris herself could go on thus; but that was occasional. In Mrs. Brutt it was perpetual.
By this time the girl knew all, and more than all, that there was to be known, about that lady's early charms, her relatives, her friends, her admirers, her conquests, the places she had seen, the people she had known, the dresses she had worn, the troubles she had endured, the illnesses she had survived. Once and again a little of this might have been interesting; but when it recurred day after day, with endless repetitions, patience was put to a severe test.
And patience was not one of Doris's strong points. It seldom is with anyone of her age. It has to be slowly learnt, through years of strife.
"I don't believe you know what you are going in for," Mrs. Winton had said. "It all sounds smooth. But you don't really know Mrs. Brutt. She is a woman who will have her own way; and you will be at her mercy. You need not suppose she will give up anything she wants, just to please you. If I'm not very much mistaken, you will soon wish yourself at home again."
Doris had indignantly repudiated the possibility. She was aware that Mrs. Brutt's seemingly generous offer was rather a trial to her parents; neither of them caring to be thus indebted to a comparative stranger. But she was frantic to accept; and she overbore all opposition. She was so fond of Mrs. Brutt. She would enjoy herself most awfully. It would be so frightfully disappointing to give it up. She couldn't—she really couldn't!—lose the delight. In the end she overcame or swept away all opposition; and leave was practically given for her to stay, within reasonable limits, as long as Mrs. Brutt might wish.
The idea that her friend's fascinations might wane on a closer acquaintance seemed to the girl absurd; till close acquaintance had lasted a few days. Then she began to realise that the agreeable widow, to whom she might escape for an hour's relief from home-frets, and the manager of a tête-à-tête trip abroad, were different beings.
Not that Mrs. Brutt meant to be different. She was simply now her natural self. Hers was essentially a self-centred nature; and she had a temper, not under good control. She expected unlimited attentions from those around; and she expected, as a matter of course, that Doris's will should always yield to her own.
Their tastes were in opposition, to begin with. Doris, young and active, wanted to go everywhere, to see everything. Mrs. Brutt had done it all before, and had no wish to do it all again. She cared not a rap for scenery, though given to piling on ecstatic adjectives. All that she really wanted was—a host of new acquaintances, with herself for their centre.
They had travelled direct to Geneva, spending a week there; and they had now been over a week at Bex.
On their arrival at the former place, Mrs. Brutt had enlarged on coming excursions. Doris must go up the Salève—such a view! Enchanting! She must visit the Park Arian—magnificent tapestry! She must see the junction of the two rivers—absolutely a unique spectacle! But day after day slipped by, and nothing was done. Each morning something prevented action. The weather was wrong; or shopping claimed attention; or Mrs. Brutt was tired,—so sorry, but really quite unequal.
And she was mistress of the situation. Doris, by this time painfully conscious of her obligations, could say nothing. She would gladly have gone alone, having pluck enough, despite useless school-room French. But Mrs. Winton had exacted from her a reluctant promise to attempt no solitary excursions; and her hands were tied.
Here in Bex it was the same. Mrs. Brutt talked about a day in Montreux, a trip to Lausanne, boating on the lake; but a week was over, and they had done nothing. Soon they would leave for a little mountain village, where rooms had been secured.
Mrs. Brutt had an eye to economy. Mr. Stirling had named no time-limit. He suggested the spending of a weekly amount, liberal enough to cover, not only Doris's expenses, but with care part of Mrs. Brutt's also. She did not scruple to use it thus; and he certainly had said: "Pray consider it your own, to be employed as you think best." These words she construed into full permission.
The less spent upon excursions, the more for herself. Mrs. Brutt saw this plainly. Mr. Stirling had not seen it. His one object had been, if possible, to prolong the absence of both travellers, until their new-found interest in Wyldd's Farm should have died a natural death.
Another unexpected factor arose to interfere with the girl's enjoyment; and this was—jealousy! Mrs. Brutt was never happy to find herself in the position of Number Two. She expected always to be first; always to be the centre of attraction. She had quite left off praising Doris's face and figure, and had ceased to talk of her coming successes. It dawned early upon the latter that, if she wished for peace, she must refrain from competing with the elder lady.
And Doris knew that she had good looks, knew that she could win the liking of others. If, when a chance occurred, she let herself go, the instant result was—neglect of Mrs. Brutt. And Mrs. Brutt's displeasure on those occasions was plainly shown. Doris, secretly indignant, remembered again her indebtedness, felt that she owed her presence there to Mrs. Brutt, and in silent vexation drew back.
Three especially dull days were ending. A middle-aged lawyer, on Mrs. Brutt's other side, had taken up her whole attention at meals. Doris, with Germans in front and Spaniards at her side, was condemned to silence. It never seemed to occur to her companion that she might feel neglected. If the lawyer would have preferred speech with the pretty girl, two seats off—as was only natural—he was allowed no chance.
Three days of this; and as Doris leant out of the window, peeping at the people below, all happy and chattering one with another, she had an unwonted sensation of loneliness. Her thoughts turned homeward, with a longing to be there. She pictured lovingly the old father, saying little, but ever on the look-out for his child; and the somewhat managing mother who, though at times a little trying, made her chief aim in life—this daughter. Never till now had Doris realised the sweetness of being always wanted, always thought of, always cared for, always welcome.
"I suppose it will be the same thing again this evening," she thought, observing that only ten minutes remained before the hour for table d'hôte. "I wish I could talk German. That is rather a nice-looking German lady opposite me. But I can't make out a single word she says. No hope of any change yet, I'm afraid."
There were changes, however. Mrs. Brutt's middle-aged lawyer had disappeared; and an elderly lady took his place. Also on Doris's other side two talkative Spaniards were gone; and she waited with curiosity to see who would fill the vacant seats.
They remained empty till the end of the first course. Then a man drew back the chair by her side, and slipped into it—bowing to those opposite.
Another "foreigner," Doris decided. What a pity! She was longing to exchange ideas with somebody. Perhaps he might prove to be a linguist.
One glance revealed to her a spare and muscular figure, broad-shouldered and of medium height. She saw that the sunburnt well-shaped hand, lying on the table, made no needless movements. "English—surely!" An odd feeling of confidence in the owner of that strong still hand took possession of her.
"Would you please pass the mustard?" she had to say; and the ice was broken.
"Pretty place, Bex," he remarked. So she had conjectured rightly.
"Rather shut in," she observed, brightening.
"Well, yes. One would not care to stay too long. I'm going higher."
"So are we in two or three days."
She gave another glance, and met a pair of good grey eyes bent upon herself. A good face too; not exactly handsome, but she liked it.
"I thought at first that you were a foreigner," she remarked.
"Properly speaking, we are both foreigners here." When he smiled, no question existed as to his good looks. The whole face changed. It reminded Doris of somebody—or something. "May I ask why you took me for a 'foreigner'?"
"Only because you bowed. We English don't generally, you know,—till we have begun an acquaintance."
"A bow isn't a bad preliminary. And sometimes it's not a bad plan to adopt foreign ways in a foreign land."
Again she met those dark-grey eyes, and their intense honesty, their abundant kindliness, impressed her. Also their self-forgetfulness. They seemed to be too fully occupied with others' interests to have time for their own.
"I think I'll begin, the next place we go to." She heard a little murmur of approval, followed by—"It would save misunderstandings, if each nation would respect the rules of good manners in other nations."
"But don't you think foreigners quite as often offend against our rules, as we against theirs?"
"Yes; and perhaps as unconsciously. No reason why we should not be pioneers in trying not to cause needless annoyance."
"There was a Polish lady here, when we first came; and she told me her little boy said he hoped to be an Englishman when he grew up, 'because the English were always so polite.' I thought that rather nice."
"It looks as if our characters as travellers were improving. We might perhaps take more trouble than we do to be understood. The average Englishman is a little too apt to stand calmly aloof, and to say: 'Only a foreigner! What the dickens does it matter?'"
"I suppose you have been a great deal abroad."
"I was at school on the Continent for some years."
Their eyes met afresh. Something in his was certainly familiar; or in the face as a whole. She had a curious feeling that he and she were not strangers. Yet she could attach no name to the memory-association, vaguely aroused. She was unconscious of her puzzled scrutiny, till he said—
"No. I don't think we are old acquaintances."
Doris promptly withdrew her gaze. "But how did you know? What made you think—?"
"Some people's faces are easily read."
"I did think I must have come across you before, somewhere—I can't imagine where."
"I have never come across you!" He spoke with absolute conviction.
She allowed the question to drop, and they fell into a very pleasant conversation, discussing places that he and she had seen, spots that should be visited, excursions which ought to be made. He was surprised to learn how little she had yet done.
Thence they turned to books, comparing notes over what each had read, and exchanging impressions. He found in her an intelligence beyond the average of girls, and readiness to take in fresh ideas. She found in him a cultured mind, clear and sensible, with signs of power. He made no attempt to engross the whole talk, but set himself to draw her out. She felt like an instrument, played upon by a practised hand. It was a new experience, being manipulated by a strong masculine personality, encouraged to say what she thought, listened to with deference, treated as if her crude girlish notions were worth hearing.
Hamilton Stirling never did this. He could lecture and inform, but he could not throw open the doors of another mind; indeed he had no wish to do so. When Hamilton asked her what she thought, she always knew that he only wanted to prove her to be in the wrong. This stranger treated her as if she were a reasonable being; not an empty-pated and ignorant person, with no right to differ from him.
It is remarkable how many subjects may be skated over, in the course of one lengthy meal. Doris had no conception of the attention drawn by her own animated face,—the real charm of which few present had discovered earlier. Of course Mrs. Brutt was among those who saw; and jealousy soon awoke.
She tried to insert herself into the dialogue, scraps of which reached her ears in a tantalising fashion. Didn't the stranger think the views around perfectly enchanting—sublime—magnificent? No doubt they were; but he had not the least intention of discussing them across Doris; and Mrs. Brutt found herself dropped. She fumed in silence, and could not get over it. That she should have to her share a semi-deaf elderly woman, while Doris enjoyed masculine society, was not to be borne with patience.
Dinner neared its end. Doris had seldom passed a more delightful time. Could it be that, only an hour or so earlier, she had not known of this man's existence? Again her eyes met his, again to be deciphered; and he shook his head, smiling.
"No! No! If we had met, I could not have forgotten."
"Perhaps in a former state of existence—" and she dimpled deliciously, he thought.
"Let us hope—not as cat and dog."
"If we did, I'm sure you wouldn't have worried me."
"Nature in quadrupeds is strong."
"Besides—I might have been the dog, and you the cat!"
"In which case, I should have been the worried, not the worrier."
"We might have encountered as spiders and beetles."
"Pray don't suggest anything so awful. Nonsense apart—your imagination may be equal to it. Mine isn't."
She laughed, and with one of her quick transitions, asked: "Are you going to do any climbing?"
"I hope so. And you—?" with a glance at the lithe figure.
"Oh, I want it most frightfully. I'd give anything in the world to go up a mountain. But I've had so little practice—none with real mountains. And I've no one to go with. Perhaps I shall find somebody soon." She named casually the village where they would soon be due, and his face lighted up.
"Are you going there? So am I."
"To-morrow?" she inquired eagerly.
"No, but in a very few days. To-morrow at six in the morning I'm off to Martigny. But—I hope we may meet again."
Mrs. Brutt was standing up, and Doris had to move. She longed to find out whether he would be at the same hotel with themselves, but could not resolve to put the question. He bowed a gravely polite farewell, as the two ladies withdrew.
Often after dinner Mrs. Brutt would stay in the salon. This evening she insisted on a walk in the garden.
"That man is really too forward," she said, drawing up her head with an air which Doris had learnt to understand. "You will have to be careful about making new acquaintances. It is not safe to be friendly with people that one knows nothing whatever about. He may be a sharper, or a man of bad character. Anyhow, a person you never set eyes on before. And you were treating him precisely like an old friend."
"I wasn't!" the girl said indignantly.
"I beg your pardon! I saw and heard. And nobody knows anything about him! I don't at all like his face. There's a sort of a sinister look." Mrs. Brutt was not always happy in her choice of adjectives. "I should not imagine that he is to be trusted. In fact, I am sure he is not. I can always depend on my own sense—my instinct—of other people's characters. I am never mistaken—and I have a strong sense that he is not a man in whom one could put any confidence."
Doris held herself in with difficulty. Her own sense said exactly the opposite. She decided that it was not necessary to name the possibility of their meeting in the mountains.
"GOOD morning, Mrs. Brutt. I'm going to breakfast. Are you better?"
Doris's face, dimpled and radiant, made its appearance, answering a fretful "Entrez."
"Shut the door, pray. Such a draught. I can't go down this morning— I am feeling so ill. It is the fault of the food, I am sure. And the heat yesterday was fearful—positively fearful."
The elder lady was still in bed, forgetting for once to pose picturesquely. Doris could not help thinking how abnormally plain she was, when deprived of all adventitious aids. Flat and rumpled hair is not becoming; and few faces fail to look plain in a mood of annoyed self-pity. Mrs. Brutt was not well; and, like many, people, when she was bodily out of sorts, she was sure to be also mentally out of sorts—in other words, out of temper.
"You needn't be in such a desperate hurry," she complained as the girl made a move. "You are always wanting to rush away. I must speak first about my breakfast. It is quite unbearable, having no bells—no way to get hold of anybody. I never expected to find this sort of thing, when I settled to come up into the mountains."
She had made the same remark at least twenty times already.
"If I had imagined the wretched accommodation, nothing would have induced me to bind myself to stay. Six weeks of it! I shall be dead before the end."
"Oh, I don't think you will." Doris thought it best to adopt a cheerful tone.
"You are a most unsympathising person! Most unsympathetic!" The two words meant the same for Mrs. Brutt. "You have no feeling at all for others. So very selfish."
"But I'm sorry you are not well. Only—if you hadn't secured the rooms, they would have been taken by somebody else. And, you know, you wanted to come here, because it is a cheap hotel."
Mrs. Brutt objected to this view, and she spoke sharply. "I am paying an excellent price for absolutely nothing. That is not what I call cheapness. These are not rooms; they are mere cupboards. Miserable rat-holes! No comforts! No space! Actually, I have to keep one of my trunks in the verandah. All my things will be ruined."
She gazed disgustedly at the opposite wall, which indeed did not lie far off. The boarded floor had no carpet, but a rug only, beside the bed. A wash-handstand of stained wood, with drawers below, served for a dressing-table; and above it hung an anti-vanity glass of small dimensions. There were also two cane chairs, a cupboard of limited capacity, and a writing-table—that sine quâ non of foreign bedrooms.
As a make-weight to its interior simplicity, the room opened upon a balcony, with a full view of the stately Dent du Midi, seen sideways, and of less distant ranges, all bathed in sunshine. Doris wondered that anybody could grumble, with such an outlook.
She had been up herself since six o'clock; and from her little balcony, facing another way, had watched the goats of the village, starting for their day upon the alps; gathered together by the goatherd with his horn; each small beast coming composedly from its own stable at the sound. Already Doris had had one ramble, and now she was more than ready for breakfast. It was all too delicious—except Mrs. Brutt. The girl was in dancing spirits with the air, the views, the novelty, the freedom.
But the string of complaints went on. Her companion was presenting a new facet for her inspection.
"Not even a stove to boil a kettle on. I really dare not use my spirit-lamp except on a stove. In these wooden houses, it is so fearfully dangerous. Not wood! Of course it is wood. I am certain of it. At all events, there's an immense amount of wood about. And I felt so bad in the night. I would have given anything for a cup of tea. These people never seem to think of the necessaries of life."
"I suppose nobody comes here, except in hot weather; and so stoves are not needed."
"Really, I don't see what that has to do with the question. Pray don't move those shoes, Doris!"—sharply. "I put them there to dry. They are damp still, after that rain of two days ago. The weather here is always in extremes. My room is an absolute oven this morning."
"It is a perfect day," Doris could not help remarking.
"Fearfully hot. I feel quite overpowered. There was such a noise in the night; people starting on excursions, and that sort of thing. These foreigners never mind what uproar they make. And just as I was dropping off, quite worn out, that wretched creature went blowing his horn all through the village. It is barbarous."
Doris was silent. What could she say?
"The food, too, is atrocious. I do not mind how plain the cooking is— nobody can be less particular than I am. But it is most essential that I should have things good. That extraordinary mess that comes round— I believe it is tinned meat, done up in gravy, and I never could eat tinned meat. It is that, I am sure, which has made me ill."
"Shall I tell Mademoiselle that you want your breakfast in bed?"
"And such a bourgeois set! Impossible creatures. Hardly a person one cares to speak to."
"But they are nice and kind. And for six weeks what does it matter? We have the mountains," suggested Doris.
"You might at least have the grace not to argue. Yes, you can tell them that I want my breakfast, and that I must have it at once. I am quite ill and exhausted. Tell them I must have freshly-made tea—not that boiled stuff that has stood for an hour. And mind you come to me after breakfast. I must know what you are going to do."
Doris went downstairs more slowly than she had come up, feeling a little flattened. The message had to be given, and she gave it prettily, with apologies. Mademoiselle, like many Swiss girls, spoke English well, and she and Doris were on friendly terms.
Breakfast was laid out of doors, upon a wide stone terrace, which adjoined the back of the hotel on a lower level than the front door. A good many people were already at the tables. Doris glanced at none of them, but made her way to the edge, where she stood to enjoyherself.
Sharply away from the terrace fell the ground below; and deep down, out of sight, flowed a stream on its way to join another and larger torrent; whence both streams journeyed together to the Rhone.
Away to the left rose the jagged Diablerets peaks; and away to the right the spreading mass of the Dent du Midi. Just opposite, with lesser green heights between, a great range of bare rock-mountains lifted itself high into the blue sky.
Doris stood in rapt delight, drinking it all in, studying wondrous outlines, curves, and flutings. Then a feeling of being watched made her turn. She still looked at nobody, but walked to her own seat and took it, forgetting to bow as she did so. One of the smiling waitresses was already there, with a small teapot; and Doris was about to inquire whether Mrs. Brutt's needs had received attention. But the idea fled. Lifting her eyes, she met the gaze of a steady grey pair, at the same table, just on the other side.
The flash of pleasure in her face came before she was aware; and it met a like flash in his. But she knew at once that he had seen her before she saw him. He was not taken by surprise.
"So you have come to this hotel," she said, a little confused at having shown what she felt. It was like meeting an old friend, she said to herself. Yet she had seen him but once before.
He said—"Yes,"—smiling; and as before, with the smile came a nameless charm, amounting to far more than ordinary good looks. "And you are still here?"
"We've taken our rooms for six weeks. It's a perfectly—ripping place!"
"Seems so this morning. I got in last night."
"Are you going up a mountain to-day?"
"To-morrow. The Grand Muveran."
"Not alone!"
"No. I believe a guide is necessary—unless one is in a guideless party of experts."
Doris dimpled.
"I heard an English lady at Bex talking about the Grand-move-her-on, and the Petty-move-her-on."
"Which fixed the names."
"Don't you like the way the Grand Muveran stands? He throws up his head with such an air. And the Petit Muveran beside him is—Impudence beside Dignity."
He laughed, and asked: "Have you had any excursions yet?"
"Oh no, I've only wandered a little near at hand. But I'm aching to get higher—right up somewhere. Mrs. Brutt can't climb, and we keep to the roads. But I mean to do a little scrambling by myself."
He put down his knife, looking at her gravely. "That won't do! You say this is your first visit to Switzerland. You might be over a precipice, before you dreamt of danger."
"I'll be careful."
"Care is not enough without experience. The most innocent-looking grass-slopes are often the most deadly. Have you nails in your shoes?"
"No. Ought I?"
"It's not safe in these parts to leave the beaten track without them. If you take your boots to a village shoemaker, he will put in the nails. And you should get a strong pointed stick."
"And then I shall be all right?"
He shook his head.
"Not even then—going alone. Have you no one to walk with?"
"Mrs. Brutt—generally. She is a good walker; only to-day she is not well. But she doesn't care for scrambling; and I just love it. I've always loved any bit of climbing I could get hold of. And really I like going about alone. One sees so much more. And I'm beginning to find that I can make myself understood a little."
"You must be very very careful," he repeated, and he looked serious.
As before, they chatted without effort, one topic leading to another. And, as before, she had the sense of being drawn out, played upon, manipulated, made the best of. It was a delightful sensation. She was astonished presently to find that she had been more than an hour at table.
"It is getting late. I ought to go," she said.
"Have you seen any of these?" He drew from his pocket a supply of post-card views, came round to her side, and took Mrs. Brutt's vacant chair. "They are rather good."
Doris glanced through them with interest. "I've got some,—but not all."
A letter, which he had pulled from his pocket with the cards, fell on the table; and without intention she caught sight of the address—
"R. R. Mau—"
The rest was hidden by a post-card, but a movement of his arm brushed the latter inadvertently aside, and she saw the whole—
"R. R. Maurice, Esquire."
He thrust it carelessly into his pocket, and she did not feel impelled to apologise for having seen what he had allowed to lie just before her eyes.
"So now I know his name—Mr. Maurice!" she said to herself. Aloud she asked: "Are you going to take a long walk?"
"Some letters have to be written first. Then I'm going for a lengthy ramble up the valley. Not likely to be back till evening."
"Is it to be jour maigre with you?"
"I take a few sandwiches. That's enough for me."
DORIS walked down the village street, more than half lost in a dream. She had forgotten all about Mrs. Brutt and the visit to her room. The last hour had swept such recollections out of her head. And, as if she had not already enough to fill her thoughts, when she left the breakfast-table the post came in, bringing a letter from Hamilton Stirling.
This was a typical Swiss mountain village, some three thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level, straggling along the side of a deep valley. Picturesque châlets were intermingled with houses of a more prosaic stamp; and there were little primitive shops, as well as hotels. Visitors abounded, chiefly Swiss and French, together with an admixture of Germans and Russians, and a few English.
The letter from Hamilton felt uncomfortable in her hand, as she walked; and she was in no haste to open it. She wondered whether she ought to have been glad to see his writing; and she came to the conclusion that she was not—very—glad.
Going more slowly, she tore the envelope, pulled out the sheet, and at a glance saw—
"I need not apologise for writing again so soon. You will have missed, as I have, our close intercourse; and you will be expecting another letter."
But she had not missed him, she told herself indignantly; not in the very least; and their intercourse had not been "close;" and she had not expected another letter. She had not thought about him at all. What business had he to feel so sure that she wanted him? She didn't want him. It was quite a relief to escape his lectures on geology.
She put the letter into her pocket, and set off at a good pace, resolved to find some quiet retreat, where she could read it at leisure, and could try to analyse her own state of mind, which plainly needed dissection.
Missed him indeed! What nonsense! Nothing of the kind!
She held her head high, and went on with lithe and easy carriage,— a pretty picture in her shady hat. Somebody in the hotel she had left watched her from a top window, as long as she was in sight.
Possibly it might have been that steadfast gaze which conjured up a vision in her mind of a pair of grey eyes—dark-grey, earnest, solicitous—side by side with Hamilton's impassive features. She gazed at the two together.
"He's awfully nice," she murmured, not in reference to the early admirer. And then—"Missed him indeed! It's like his cheek! I've not missed him. I've never thought about him at all."
Leaving the village street behind, she went along the shady main road for a short distance; the hill uprising to her right, the wide valley down-dropping to her left.
A châlet close to the road drew attention. It was of pale brown wood, lately built, and not yet burnt by the sun to a deep red-brown, like other châlets. Carved balconies adorned the front and ran round the sides; and the pointed roof had deep overhanging eaves. Several pines grew in the garden, and on a bench outside the front door lay a book. She was interested, for someone had told her, the day before, that it was taken by un Monsieur Anglais, and his young wife. Perhaps she would get to know them.
A little later she turned off to the right along a grass-path, which led slanting upward; and then she found herself in a meadow of long grass, specked with flowers, and thronged with thousands of grasshoppers and crickets. When she bent for a closer study of them, one after another, poised on the tip of a grass-blade, seemed to survey her with its big uncanny eyes, before taking a leap—literally a flying leap!—to another spot, yards away.
Still to her right, as she went, the grassy hill rose steep and high; and on her left, beyond the road, the valley descended, with green ranges beyond, and behind them vast mountains of bare rock. To the front, across the fore-shortened Rhone valley, where flowed the historic river as a slender muddy ribbon, she could see the great spreading skirts and massive ridges of the Dent du Midi.
Following steadily a little footpath, she reached a store-châlet, with open door, revealing an empty inside. Deciding after one peep that it might be a cow-house, she perched herself on some stones outside, and heaved a sigh of content.
In front of her now a new vista had dawned, beyond the far end of the Rhone valley; a vista of snowy heights, crowded together in the distance; some sharp as needles; some lofty and rounded, with snowfields shining in sunlight, intermingled with light clouds. It was a delicate dreamland of loveliness, contrasting with the dark rocky ranges which made for it a frame.
Hardly a sound broke the stillness, except the ceaseless buzz and murmur of insects, the snapping of grasshoppers, the song of a bird.
She settled herself to gaze and listen, but soon reverted to her previous line of thought. Again she opened Hamilton's letter, and this time read it through.
It seemed rather dull. All about geology, and the make of mountains. Well, not dull exactly, for he wrote well on his own subjects, and she was an intelligent girl—only—she was not in the state of mind to-day for science. She liked to learn, and she liked to have a lover; but a scientific lover hardly appealed to her present mood. It was preferable to have the science and the love-making in separate doses.
Mr. Maurice might be scientific too. One or two things that he had said left an impression of his being, in her girlish phraseology, "most awfully clever." But she was sure that he would never sandwich in his scientific information between layers of love-making,—supposing him to be in love with anybody!
It was not as if Hamilton Stirling would be willing to give her a fair share of talk and opinions,—should she in the far off "end" consent to be his wife. She said this to herself; and she was conscious of a rising rebellion at the thought. Before leaving home, it had not seemed impossible. This morning such a future looked unattractive. She would have always—invariably—to agree with him. She would have always—invariably—to act the part of submissive listener. She would have always—invariably—to let her own ideas go down before his.
It was so much pleasanter to be allowed one's own opinions; not to be squashed flat, with a superior smile, the moment one ventured to make a suggestion. Mr. Hamilton Stirling was so fearfully superior, and sure of himself. Mr. Maurice was so different! A little laugh broke from her. Of course he had his opinions; and when he didn't agree with her he told her so, but not by way of a set-down. He explained what he thought, and why he thought it; and he let her say what she wished in answer.
She was gazing towards that distant dreamland of snowy heights; but she had ceased to see it. She had ceased to hear the snapping of grasshoppers. She only saw again that kind strong face, with its unexpected smile, and its clear truthful eyes. She only heard that well-modulated musical voice.
"How absurd!" She laughed again. "I've seen him—just twice! Why, we are strangers. I know nothing about him—nothing whatever. And yet—" she made a long pause. "And yet—I do think—I like him already in some ways better than—him—" with a swift glance at the other man. "Does that mean—I suppose it must—that I don't care so very much for him, after all? I can't see what else it can mean. And if that is it—what a mercy I've found out in time!"
She looked down at the letter on her knee.
"I won't answer it in a hurry; that's certain. And when I do, I'll say—oh, perhaps I'll say that I've been ever so much too busy to miss anybody, except of course my home-people. I should think that will about finish him."
It flashed into her mind that she had never gone to see Mrs. Brutt after breakfast, as desired.
She glanced at her watch, found the time to be not far from eleven, and wondered what that lady would say. Without delay she set off at a brisk pace through the wet grass, with its leaping grasshoppers, down the path and into the road, finding the distance less than she had thought.
Once more she had to pass the newly-built châlet, occupied by the English couple; and again she paused for a moment's interested gaze. A book still lay on the bench, and nobody was visible.
But as she stopped, a girl ran out of the front door, quite a girl in age, hardly more than a child in look, round-faced and fair, bare-headed, pale, and distraught. The blue eyes were widely opened, as if in fear, and she wrung her hands together with a despairing gesture.
"Oh, what shall I do? O God, what shall I do?"