This was amusing – rich, in fact. She did not even turn away her head to conceal a bitter curl of the lips, for she flattered herself she was past showing the faintest sign of feeling. But a ruling passion is difficult to conceal entirely, especially when it consists of a surging, deadly hatred.
“Is he?” she said vacantly.
“Rather. I see you don’t believe it though. But, between ourselves, he is a good bit of a woman-hater. So I suppose the sex instinctively reciprocates the compliment. But, I say, Mrs Daventer. It was awfully good of you to come and see me as you did – and the other people too,” added Phil, in the half-shamefaced way in which nineteen men out of twenty are wont to express their thanks or appreciation as regards a kindness rendered.
“That was nothing. Mrs Wharton’s very nice, isn’t she? I’m very sorry they’re leaving to-morrow.”
“Are they? I hope I shall see them again before they go. Wharton’s a rare good sort although he’s a parson. Don’t look shocked. I’m afraid I don’t get on with ‘the cloth’ over well. I daresay it’s my own fault though.”
“I daresay it is,” she returned with a laugh.
During the latter days of his captivity Philip had not been without visitors. The British subject, when outside his (or her) native land, is the proprietor of a far more abundant and spontaneous fount of the milk of human kindness than when hedged around by the stovepipe-hat-cum-proper-introductions phase of respectability within the confines of the same. Several of the people sojourning in the hotel had looked in upon the weary prisoner to lighten the irksomeness of his confinement with a little friendly chat, and foremost among them had been Mrs Daventer.
“Are you doing anything particular this morning, Mrs Daventer? Because, if not, I wish you’d get a chair – I can’t get one for you, you see – and sit and talk to me,” said Phil, in that open, taking manner of his that rendered him almost as attractive to the other sex as his handsome face and fine physique.
“Well, I suppose I must,” she answered with a smile.
“It would be a real act of Christian charity. And – ”
He broke off in confused amazement, caused by the arrival of a third person upon the scene. “A good-looking girl,” was his mental verdict. “Wentworth was right, by Jove!”
“Laura, dear, see if there are any chairs in the hall,” said Mrs Daventer. “Thanks, love,” she went on, as her daughter returned, bearing a light garden-chair. “Mr Orlebar claims that it is a Christian duty on our part to sit and gossip with him. I suppose one must concede him the privileges of an invalid.”
“I am glad your ankle is so much better,” said the girl, quite unaffectedly, but with the slightest possible tinge of shyness, which added an indescribable piquancy to her rich Southern type of beauty. “It must be so hideously trying to see every one else going about enjoying themselves, while you feel yourself literally chained.”
“That’s just how it is,” assented Philip. “And they say it’s the best climbing season that has been known for ten years.”
“You are a great climber, I suppose?”
“No. A rank greenhorn, in fact. The Rothhorn was the first – the first real high thing – I’ve done, and it seems likely to be the last.”
“We heard about your accident the morning after we arrived. It made quite a little excitement.”
“I suppose so,” said Philip, with a laugh. “‘Terrible tragedy. A cow fell over the bridge and broke one horn,’ as the country reporter put it.”
“Get yourself a chair, dear,” said Mrs Daventer. And as the girl moved away with that intent, Philip could not, for the life of him, keep his glance from following the graceful, lithe gait. She was a splendid-looking girl, he told himself.
“How is it you are not away among the glaciers this lovely day, Miss Daventer?” he asked, when she had returned.
“I don’t know. I suppose I felt lazy. Some of the people near us at table have gone up to the Théodule to-day, and wanted me to go with them. But I should have had to decide last night; besides, they were going to make such a woefully early start. So I didn’t want to tie myself.”
“Quite right,” said Philip. “That early start side of the question takes half the edge off the fun of any undertaking here. Still, once you are squarely out it’s all right, and you feel all the better for it.”
“Always provided you have had a fair night’s rest. But these big hotels are apt to be very noisy – people getting up at all hours and taking abundant pains to render the whole house aware of the fact.”
“Rather,” said Philip. “Every one turns in ridiculously early, but what’s the good of that when just as you are dropping off to sleep somebody comes into the room above you and practices for the next day’s walk during about two hours, in a pair of regulation nail boots? I’ve been having a bad time of late. Getting no exercise in the daytime, I find it hard to sleep at night, and there’s always some one stumping about overhead. I was obliged to ring up the night porter at last and send him up to inform the gentleman overhead that I should take it as very kind of him if he would defer his rehearsal of step-cutting, jumping crevasses, etc, until he could practise upon real ice the next day. Well, the porter went, for I heard his voice through the floor. I asked him in the morning if the gentleman had sworn a great deal or only a little. ‘Gentleman?’ he said, in mild surprise. ‘It was not a gentleman, it was a lady.’”
“Wasn’t she awfully sorry?” said Laura.
“She may have been, but she didn’t seem so. By way of impressing me with the honour I ought to consider it to be lulled to sleep by the tread of her fairy feet, I am bound to record that she made rather more row than before.”
“Who was it? Do you know?”
“I don’t. I had my suspicions, but they were only suspicions.”
“Well, it couldn’t have been either of us,” laughed Mrs Daventer, “for we happen to be on the same floor. But to whom do your suspicions point?”
“I fancy it must have been one of those two grim spinsters who have been keeping me supplied with sacred literature.”
“No – have they?” said the girl, a swift laugh darting from her dark eyes. “I know who you mean, though I don’t know their names. They are dreadful old people. I notice at table they never have the same next-door neighbours two days running. I suppose they force their ideas on that head upon everybody, judging from the scraps of conversation that float across.”
“I ought to be grateful to them,” went on Philip. “Every day I found a fresh tract slipped under my door. The titles, too, were uniformly appropriated to the sojourner in Zermatt. ‘Where are you going to climb to-day?’ or ‘Looking Upward.’ ‘The Way that is Dark and Slippery,’ which reminded me of that high moraine coming down from the Rothhorn the other night. But what really did hurt my feelings was one labelled, ‘On whomsoever it Shall Fall it shall Grind him to Powder.’ It seemed too personal. I felt that they were poking fun at my misfortune, don’t you know, and it didn’t seem kind. But it occurred to me that they meant well. They meant to amuse me, and assuredly they succeeded. By the way, these interesting documents bore the injunction: ‘When done with, pass this on to a friend.’ Wherefore, Miss Daventer, I shall feel it my duty to endow you with the whole lot.”
“I must decline the honour. I couldn’t think of depriving you of so valuable a possession,” was the laughing reply. “But we are wandering dreadfully from the point. Why do you think it was one of those old things who was walking about over your head?”
“It is only bare suspicion, mind, and founded upon circumstantial evidence – acreage, I mean. I have become observant since my enforced detention, and while contemplating the populace – from a three-storey window – I have noticed that nobody else could show such an acreage of shoeleather.”
“Your imprisonment has rendered you satirical, Mr Orlebar,” said Mrs Daventer, in mild reproof, though at heart joining in the laugh wherewith the remark was received by her daughter, as, indeed, nineteen women out of twenty are sure to do whenever a man makes a joke at the expense of another member of their own sex.
Thus they sat, exchanging the airiest of gossip, laughing over mere nothings. Then the luncheon bell rang. Philip’s countenance fell. It was surprising how soon the morning had fled. He said as much – but dolefully.
“Why, what’s the matter?” said the elder lady, as she rose to go indoors.
“Oh, nothing. Only that I shall be left all alone again.”
“Poor thing!” said Laura, mischievously. “But perhaps, if you promise to be very entertaining, we’ll come and take care of you again. Shall we, mother?”
“Perhaps. And now, Mr Orlebar, is there anything you want? Anything I can tell them to do for you – or to bring you out?”
“You’re awfully good, Mrs Daventer. They know they’ve got to bring me something to pick at out here; but they may have forgotten. Yes, if you don’t mind just sending Alphonse here. And – I say – Mrs Daventer – you’ll – you’ll come around again presently yourselves – won’t you?”
“Perhaps – only perhaps!” answered Laura for her mother, with a mischievous, tantalising glance, which, however, said as plainly as possible, “Why, you old goose, you know we will.”
His face brightened. “Thanks awfully,” he mumbled. And then, as they left him, the sun did not seem to shine quite so brightly as before. However, he would not be left alone for long.
What had become of all the dismal and bitter reflections which had been crowding in upon him when he first took up his position in that chair barely two hours ago? Well, the cause of them existed still, but somehow, however reluctant to own it he might be, there was no disguising altogether a sneaking idea that the sting might be dulled. Somehow, too, his anxiety to be able to get about had become greatly enhanced, but not so his eagerness to seek out fresh scenes. That, curiously enough, had proportionately abated.
Chapter Twenty Six
One Nail Drives Out Another
“That there are as good fish in the sea as any that ever came out may or may not be a sound proverb, but it’s one that our friend Orlebar seems to believe in – eh, Fordham?”
Beyond a grunt, his companion made no answer, and Wentworth continued —
“Just look at the fellow now. The widow and daughter mean ‘biz,’ if ever any one did. And Orlebar is such an easy fish to hook, provided they don’t allow him too much play. If they do, the chances are ten to one he’ll break away and rise to another fly.”
It was a warm, sunshiny Sunday afternoon, about a fortnight after Philip’s first appearance downstairs. The two thus conversing were strolling along the road which leads to the Zmutt-thal, and in the green meadows beyond the roaring, churning Visp, walked three figures which, in spite of the distance, they had no sort of difficulty in identifying with the objects under discussion.
“Yes, Orlebar is a fish that requires prompt landing,” pursued Wentworth. “They have had a fortnight to do it in. If they don’t effectually gaff him within the next week, they may give it up. Some one else will happen along, and he will think it time for a change. The fair Laura will get left. Do you a bet on it, Fordham, if you like.”
“Not worth betting on, is it?” was the languid reply. “I have done what I could for the boy – kept him out of numberless snares and pitfalls. I’m a trifle tired of it now. If he is such a fool as to plunge in headlong – why, he must.”
In spite of this admirable indifference, the speaker was, in fact, watching the game keenly, and so far it was progressing entirely to his own satisfaction. Did his female accomplice – in obedience to her better instincts, or to a natural tendency to revolt against dictation – show any signs of slackness, there he was, ruthless, unswerving, at hand to remind her of the consequences of failure. She must succeed or fail. In the latter alternative no palliation that she had done her best would be admitted, and this she knew. No such excuse – indeed, no excuse – would avail to save her and hers from the consequences of such failure, and the result would be dire. She was in this man’s power – bound hand and foot. She might as well expect mercy from a famished tiger as one shade of ruth from him did the task which he had set her to fulfil fail by a hair’s breadth. And she judged correctly.
Not by accident was Fordham strolling there that afternoon. The strongest of all passions – in a strong nature – the vindictive, vengeful hate of years thoroughly awakened in him, he watched the puppets dancing to his wires. His accomplice must be kept alive to the fact that his eye was ever upon her, that she dare not do, or leave undone, anything, however trivial, that might risk the game. And now his companion’s remarks only went to confirm his previously formed decision. It was time the curtain should be rung down upon the first act of the three-act drama – time that the second should begin.
“The most susceptible youngster that ever lived! I believe you’re right, Wentworth,” he pursued, in reply to one of the aforesaid remarks. “And the worst of it is he takes them all so seriously – throws himself into the net headlong. Then, when he finds himself caught – tied tight so that no amount of kicking and swearing will get him out – he’ll raise a great outcry and think himself very hardly used. They all do it. And I’m always warning him. I warned him against this very girl who’s trying all she knows to hook him now.”
“The deuce you did. I should be curious to know in what terms,” said Wentworth.
“In what terms? I preached to him; I spake parables unto him; I propounded the choicest and most incisive metaphors. No use – all thrown away. ‘A woman, my dear chap,’ I said – ‘an attractive woman, that is – is like a new and entertaining book, delightful – for a time. But when you have got from cover to cover you don’t begin the book again and go through it a second time, and then a third, and so on. Even the few books that will bear going through twice, and then only after a decent interval, will not keep you in literary pabulum all your life. So it is with a woman. However attractive, however entertaining she may be, she is bound to pall sooner or later – some few later, but the vast majority, like the general run of books – sooner. So that in chaining yourself to one woman all your life, as you seem bent upon doing, you are showing about as much judgment as you would be in condemning yourself to read one book all your life. Less, indeed, for, if the book bores you, you can chuck it out of the window; but if the woman bores you, or leads you the life of a pariah dog, you can’t chuck her out of the window, because if you do you’ll likely be hanged, and she certainly will see you so before she’ll walk out of the door, once in it. Philip, my son, be warned.’”
“And how did he take that undoubtedly sound counsel?” said Wentworth, with a laugh.
“Oh, abused me, of course – swore I was a brute and a savage – in fact, he rather thought I must be the devil himself. That’s always the way. Show a man the precipice he’s going to walk over, and ten to one he turns round and damns you for not minding your own business. And as a general rule he’s right. Talking of precipices, Wentworth, did you hear that man’s idea at table d’hôte when we were talking of the difficult state the Dent Blanche was in this year?”
“No. It must have been after I went out.”
“Why, he suggested, in the most matter-of-fact way, fixing a hawser from the top of it to the glacier below. Gaudy idea, wasn’t it, doing the Dent Blanche by means of a hawser? And, just as we had done guffawing over the notion, he added that the only drawback to the scheme was that somebody would be sure to creep up and steal it. Whereupon that sheep-faced parson on the other side of the table cut in with a very aggrieved and much hurt amendment to the effect that he was sure the mountain people were much too honest. We all roared in such wise as to draw the attention of the whole room upon us, including an overheard remark from one of the tract-dispensing old cats that some people were never happy unless they were making a noise – even upon a Sunday.”
Philip meanwhile was assuredly doing everything to justify the observations of our two misogynists aforesaid. The expression of his face as he walked beside Laura Daventer, the tone of his voice as he talked to her, told quite enough. The past fortnight of daily companionship had done its work. Already there was a familiar, confidential ring in his tone – a semi-caressing expression in his eyes, which told unmistakably that he more than half considered her his own property. And what of Laura herself?
She, for her part, seemed disposed to take kindly to this state of affairs. She had tacitly acquiesced in the gradual proprietorship he had set up over her – had even abetted his efforts to glare off any presumptuous intruder who should seek to infringe his monopoly. The present arrangement suited her very well – on the whole, very well indeed.
“Do you really mean, Mrs Daventer,” Philip was saying, talking across Laura to her mother – “do you really mean you are going away at the end of this week?”
“I’m afraid so. We have been a long time abroad already, and we can’t remain away from home for ever.”
“N-no, I suppose not,” he assented, ruefully. “But what on earth shall I do here when you’re gone?”
“Just what you did before we came,” answered Laura, mischievously. “There are plenty more people here.”
“Just as if that’s the same thing! I don’t believe I’ll stay on myself. In fact, I should have gone back before now if it hadn’t been for my confounded ankle.”
“And that same ‘confounded ankle’ would have been a great deal more ‘confounded’ but for us,” rejoined Laura. “You would have used it again too soon – much too soon – only we wouldn’t let you. You would have started up the Matterhorn, or done something equally insane, if we hadn’t taken care of you and kept you quiet at home.”
There was more than a substratum of truth underlying this statement. The speaker had indeed done all she said. To one of Phil’s temperament it was infinitely more congenial to lounge through the days, sitting about in sequestered nooks in the fields and woods with a very attractive girl who chose to make much of him, than to undertake sterner forms of pastime in the company of such unsympathetic spirits as Fordham and Wentworth. And therein lay an epitome of the last fortnight. These two had been thrown together. When Philip’s ankle had improved sufficiently to admit of moderate locomotion it was Laura who had been his constant companion during his earlier and experimental hobbles. Indeed, it is to be feared that the sly dog had more than once exaggerated his lameness, in justification of an appeal for support on the ground of the insufficiency of that afforded by his stick, though somehow, when the said support was very prettily accorded, the weight which he threw upon his charming prop was of the very lightest. So the bright summer days of that fortnight had passed one by one, and it was astonishing what a large proportion of the hours composing each had been spent à deux.
Thus had come about that good understanding, that sense of proprietorship definite on the part of the one, dissimulated, yet tangible and existent, on that of the other, which reigned between them. But if she intended that proprietorship to become permanent – in fact, lifelong, neither by word or sign did Laura do anything to proclaim such intention. Kind, sympathetic, companionable as she was, she could not with fairness be accused of doing anything to “throw herself at his head.” She was a perfect model of tact. When he waxed effusive, as it was Phil’s nature to do upon very slight provocation, she would meet him with a stand-offishness the more disconcerting that it was wholly unexpected. Sometimes, even, she would invent some excuse for leaving him alone for half a day – just long enough to cause him grievously to miss her, yet not long enough to render him disgusted and resentful. But withal she had managed that her presence should be very necessary to him, and now her forethought and cleverness had their reward, for she knew she could bring him to her feet any moment she chose.
“Yes, I should have gone back before now,” repeated Philip. “I sha’n’t stay on after you leave. It’ll be too dismal all round. By Jove! I don’t see why – er – why we shouldn’t go back together. It would be awfully jolly for me having some one to travel with, and I could help you looking after the boxes and things – eh, Mrs Daventer?”
“But what about your friend, Mr Orlebar? He doesn’t want to go back yet; and, even if he did, I think I see him travelling with a pair of unprotected females.”
“Fordham? Oh, he and Wentworth have got together now, and they’ll be swarming up every blessed alp within fifty miles around before they think of moving from here. No; on the whole I think my escort may be of use to you – in fact, I think you ought to have it.”
“I believe ours is far more likely to be of use to you – in your present state,” answered Mrs Daventer, with a smile. “Well, Mr Orlebar, I was going to ask you to spend a few days with us on your return, and if you care to do so, you may as well come straight home with us now – that is, of course, unless you have anything more important or attractive among your plans.”
But this he eagerly protested he had not. Nothing would give him greater pleasure, and so on.
“Ours is a very quiet little place on the Welsh coast,” went on Mrs Daventer. “I don’t know how we shall amuse you – or rather how you will amuse yourself.”
Here again Philip raised his voice in protest. He did not want amusing. He was sure it would be quite delightful. He was tired of the abominable racket of hotel life. Quiet, and plenty of it, was just the thing he wanted. It would do him more good than anything else in the world.
“Well, then, we may look upon that as settled,” was the gracious rejoinder – and Mrs Daventer could be very gracious, very fascinating, when she chose. “If you are half as pleased with your stay as we shall be to have you, we shall consider ourselves fortunate. And now, Laura, I think we had better be turning back. I really must put in an appearance at church this afternoon, especially as I missed it this morning and last Sunday as well.”
The girl’s face clouded. “Why, mother, the best part of the afternoon is only just beginning,” she objected. “Such a heavenly afternoon as it is, too.”
“Let church slide, Mrs Daventer,” urged Phil, impulsively. “Besides, if you’re going away what does it matter!”
“That is a very earthly view to take of it, you unprincipled boy?” was the laughing reply. “Never mind, I needn’t drag you two children back with me; so continue your walk while I go and sacrifice myself to save appearances. Perhaps I’ll meet you somewhere about here afterwards, as you come back.”
“I do think that mother of yours is one of the sweetest women I ever met – Laura,” said Phil, as they turned to resume their stroll.
The girl’s face flushed with pleasure. “You never said a truer thing than that,” she replied.
“Rather not. Hallo! she’ll be late. At least a quarter of an hour’s walk, and there’s that cracked old tin-kettle whanging away already.”
A bell sounded upon the clear, pine-scented air. It was not a melodious bell – rather did it resemble the homely implement irreverently suggested. Then they continued their walk through the sunlit pastures; but Philip, whose ankle was by no means cured, began to limp.
“Stop. We must not go any further,” said Laura. “You have been walking too much to-day as it is. We will sit down and rest.”
“Let us get up on top of these rocks then,” he suggested, as their walk had brought them to a pile of broken rocks overgrown with rhododendrons and bilberry bushes. These they clambered up, and came to a shut-in, mossy nook. One side was riven by a deep fissure through which a torrent roared. It was the very spot which had witnessed that stormy interview between Fordham and Mrs Daventer. Strange, indeed, was the irony of fate which had led these two hither.
“I tell you what it is, Laura,” said Philip, throwing himself upon the ground; “it was awfully jolly of your mother to give me that invitation. We’ll have no end of a good time down there together – won’t we, dear?” and reaching out his hand he closed it upon hers. But this, after a momentary hesitation, she drew away.
