"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'hote_ 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 _a 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.
"I hope we will," she answered, and over the dark, _piquante_ face there
crept a most becoming flush. Very attractive too at that moment was
that same face, with its luminous eyes and delicate, refined beauty.
Still to the physiognomist there was a certain hardness about the ripe
red lips which was not altogether satisfactory. But this fault he who
now looked upon them failed to realise.
He turned round quickly and fixed his eyes upon her face. There was
something in her tone, her gesture, that disquieted him.
"Why, Laura! what is the matter? You speak as if you did not believe we
would--have a good time, I mean. Why should we not? We shall be
together, and I don't know what I should do if you were to go away from
me now--darling."
"Stop, Phil. Don't say any more--at least not here," she added
hurriedly. "You are much too impulsive, and you don't know me yet,
although you think you do. Yes, we will have a good time--but--don't
begin to get serious, that's a good boy."
Philip stared. But her unexpected rejoinder had its effect. Did she
intend that it should? The fervour of his tone deepened as he replied--
"I won't say a word that you would rather I did not, dear. Not now, at
any rate."
"You had better not, believe me," she replied, in a tone that was almost
a caress, and with a smile that set all his pulses tingling. Very
alluring she looked, her dark beauty set off by her dress of creamy
white, by the languorous attitude, so harmonious with the sunshine and
surroundings. Overhead and around the great mountains towered, the
mighty cone of the giant Matterhorn dominating them all as he frowned
aloft from the liquid blue; the dull thunder of the seething Visp
churning its way through emerald pasture-lands; the picturesque brown
roofs of the _chalets_; the aromatic scent of the pines--all harmonising
in idyllic beauty with the figure to which they constituted a frame, a
background. Did it recall that other soft golden summer evening, not so
very long ago either, when he listened to much the same answer framed by
another pair of lips? Who may tell? For one nail drives out another,
and a heart taken at the rebound is easily caught. Yet assuredly it was
a strange, a grim, irony of fate, that which brought these two hither,
to this spot of all others, to enact this scene. But in such cycles do
the events of life move.