A FAMILIAR HANDWRITING
PHYLLYS sat alone in the garden of Châlet S. Jacques, intent on the
scene before her. Ah, but it was lovely!
Had she never come across Colin Keith, it would have been less to her
than now; yet the underflow of her mind was towards Giles, not Colin.
Which seemed, perhaps, ungrateful.
Ten days earlier she and Mrs. Keith, travelling with Mr. and Mrs.
Forsyth, had reached this villa or "châlet," lately purchased as a
summer resort by Mrs. Keith's friends. Here they would remain another
ten days. After that, possibly, Mrs. Keith and she might move to
another part of Switzerland before returning home.
The wailings of an ill-handled violin from the châlet behind disturbed
her musing. Mr. Forsyth, kindest of men, never dreamt that his tuneless
dirges could affect others unpleasantly. He was always happy, violin
in hand. So was his wife, while she could talk. A ceaseless murmur
travelled through the open window, underneath that which held the
violin. The two elder ladies had been at work for an hour, discussing
the latest fashion in toques and bodices; one of the two with her back
to Nature's sublimity, the other with eyes on her knitting. Of course
they had both looked out, and had said how pretty it was.
Phyllys was content to be left to her studies of that sublimity. They
were always fearing she would be dull, with no young companions of
her own age. She laughed at the notion. Dull!—with this to look upon!
Dull!—with Giles to think about!
It could hardly be called a "lawn" on which she sat. It was more like a
field, sloping downward. Two small trees sheltered her head; below the
garden lay more grass-land; then the road which skirted the lake; then
some rough wooden structures and a vegetable garden; then the lake;
then the mountain amphitheatre.
Prominent in front, across the translucent blue-green water, stood a
mountain of pyramidal shape, by name the "Niesen"—a useful friend to
the neighbourhood, acting as weather barometer by the simple process
of putting on and pulling off his cloud-cap. He had slipped it on and
whisked it off three or four times this day, as if unable to make up
his mind. A range of half-cumulous clouds was creeping along the sides;
and above towered the hoary mass of the Blumlisalp, one keen-cut edge
over a dull barrier of rock glowing like a piece of white enamel.
Far away to the left stood forth the three chief giants of the
scene—the mighty Jungfrau, sharply outlined, pure and snowy, with grey
hollows and shades; the white Mönch; and the rocky Eiger.
Phyllys drank it all in, finding each minute some new beauty, some
fresh dent or fold, some perfect moulding, some wonderful contrast in
light and shade, some unexpected harmony of form.
"One would never get to the end," she whispered; "not in years and
years."
Doleful sounds ceased, and hardly had she congratulated herself, before
she found Mr. Forsyth at her side; an elderly man, scarcely taller than
herself, with eyes full of kindness and full also of anxious worry,
echoed by horizontal lines on his retreating forehead. Not that he had
anything to worry about, but that he never could resist worrying about
nothing. He suffered from nervous depression, and found chief solace in
his violin.
He came with a cautious step, as if picking his way; yet when he spoke,
words tumbled fast, one upon another.
"Well, Miss Wyverne, tired of sitting here all alone! Pretty view,
eh?—very pretty! I've been trying that tune over again—you know it."
Phyllys had vainly sought to pin a name to the concatenation of wails.
"Couldn't manage it yesterday. Goes better now. Just a matter of
practice. We'll try again after dinner?"
And she smiled assent, though with an internal shiver at the prospect.
"First-rate thought of my wife, hiring that piano. A little music,
always cheerful. Would you like a run into Thun—get tea, and come back
for dinner?"
Phyllys jumped up. A "run" to any part of the lake was charming, and
in a few minutes they were off, hurrying through the village of brown
and yellow châlets, with their verandahs and overhanging eaves. It was
about ten minutes' walk to the boat-station, and they were in time for
the next steamer, zigzagging from side to side of the lake, in progress
from Interlaken to Thun. She had been to the quaint old town more than
once, but one could not go too often, and Mr. Forsyth made an excellent
conductor. They wandered through the streets, visited the castle,
admired the views, and enjoyed themselves.
"Pity Randolph refuses to come out! Great pity!" remarked Mr. Forsyth.
Phyllys had not heard this.
"Mrs. Keith was sure he would come. Can't understand it! She didn't
want her own son—odd, rather!—come to think of it. Bent on having
Randolph. My wife and I quite willing, of course—room enough for both.
Mrs. Keith seems to have urged it—but letter this morning decisive.
No—yesterday, was it? I've no memory. Says he has too much to do—can't
get away. Mrs. Keith will have told you."
"No. Was I meant not to know it?"
"She told us—spoke openly. By-the-by—that wretched memory of mine!—she
did say she wanted his coming to be a surprise. But now of course—no
matter, since he can't come."
"It would have been nice if he could," she said.
A shadow had fallen; for this might mean much. If Mrs. Keith had tried
to persuade Giles to join them, and had urged in vain, it looked
as if he did not greatly care to see more of Phyllys. Was he so
overwhelmingly busy that he could not spare a few days? She found it
hard to believe. He was his own master.
"Getting tired, eh?" demanded Mr. Forsyth.
"O no," and she roused herself. "But ought we not to go back?"
He assured her there was no hurry, and they started for a fresh tramp.
She did her best to seem interested, and to laugh at his little jokes;
but the strain became severe. Soon she could not hide that she really
was tired—with a heartsickness which he did not suspect. He grew
concerned, and took her to the nearest inn, insisting on a fresh supply
of tea, though they had had some earlier. She remonstrated in vain. He
wandered into the passage, and came back, laughing.
"Now how is that?" he asked, holding out a letter. "Sent to this inn,
of all places! 'To be kept till called for.' What chance that Mrs.
Keith ever would call?"
Phyllys' heart gave a throb. "From Giles!" escaped her lips.
"Giles Randolph?" Mr. Forsyth examined the envelope. "Now you mention
the fact, I 'have' seen his hand. Characteristic! But I say—" turning
the letter round—"if so, he is in Switzerland. The postmark is
Swiss—Interlaken."
Another throb, this time of hope.
"But you said he would not come."
"So Mrs. Keith assured me—yesterday—or was it the day before? I'm
wretched at dates. He may have changed his mind. Though why he should
stay at Interlaken, and should address a letter to Mrs. Keith at a Thun
hotel beats me!" Mr. Forsyth passed a puzzled hand across his forehead.
"Beats me!" he repeated.
Phyllys' colour was bright.
"Beats me utterly!" he said a third time. Then—"Fine fellow, Randolph."
"He and Colin are both nice."
"Well, yes—Colin rather handicapped, poor chap. But Randolph—very fine
fellow. Good landlord—good shot—makes himself liked."
Phyllys had lost her tired look, and was eager to get home. They went
to the boat-station, and caught the next steamer.
"We'll have a little fun with her," suggested Mr. Forsyth, as they
mounted the hill. Phyllys smiled, full of the thought that Giles was
near—perhaps already on the way to join them. He would come that
evening. No doubt he meant to take them by surprise. On arrival, her
colour was commented on by Mrs. Keith. "Swiss air is doing you good,"
she said.
"By-the-by, did you say Randolph was still at home," asked Mr.
Forsyth—"not able to come out?"
She glanced towards Phyllys. "I hope he may join us—but yesterday I
heard he was too busy. I have another letter to-day, saying the same."
She tapped the floor with her foot. "I don't mean to let him off."
"What would you say—if he is already in Switzerland?"
She looked in astonishment. "Giles in Switzerland! Certainly not."
"But he must have come! He must have changed his mind,"—and Phyllys
laughed with happiness. "He is at Interlaken."
"Nonsense. Why are you trying to take me in?" with a suspicious glance.
"We are not so unkind," Mr. Forsyth protested. "It is the oddest
thing—we happened to go into an inn at Thun, and we found a letter for
you, waiting. 'To be left till called for.'"
She made a movement—and tried to smile.
"I must have given the wrong address to some friend. How absurd!"
"But Giles knows your address." A strong sense of Mrs. Keith's
untruthfulness took possession of Phyllys. She could conjecture no
reason for false statements, yet that something of falsity underlay the
other's last utterance was evident.
"I was not speaking of Giles—of course—" hurriedly.
"And this letter is from Giles. It is his own handwriting; and it has
the Interlaken postmark. Giles must be at Interlaken."
Mrs. Keith received the envelope from Mr. Forsyth—turned it over—looked
at the postmark—muttered something indistinct—then, to the amazement of
all present, she fainted dead away.