The Cry from the Châlet
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?"