A Great Effort
DORIS threw open the little gate and ran in. "Is anything the matter?"
she asked. "Can I be any help?"
The girl seized her hands, with an exclamation. "Are you English? Oh,
tell me what to do. My husband is so ill. I don't know what to do."
Her face quivered like the face of a terrified child, and she gripped
Doris as a drowning person clutches a rope. Doris knew herself
instantly to be the more capable, the stronger, of the two.
"Has he been ill long? Tell me—" and she held the little cold hands
firmly. "Don't be frightened. Just tell me."
"Only a day or two—poorly—just poorly—only that!—and I didn't think
anything of it. He is so well always. And he tried to hide it.
He wouldn't wake me all night. I never guessed what he was going
through. And this morning he is in such pain—and he looks dreadful.
I've never had to do with any illnesses. I've never nursed anybody.
And I can't talk French—and I've no one to ask—only a girl from
another part. She doesn't know."
"He must see a doctor."
"But there's no doctor in the village."
"Then you must send to Bex."
"Will you—will you help me? I don't know how to manage. It's all so
strange—and he has done everything."
"I'll find out about doctors for you, and which is the quickest way.
There's an Englishman at our hotel—if only I can catch him before he
goes out! He is so kind, I am sure he would help. If not, Mademoiselle
will advise me. But Mr. Maurice would be best."
"Maurice!" The name arrested her. "A friend of ours—a Mr. Maurice—was
coming out to Switzerland soon."
"This is a Mr. R. R. Maurice—spelt M-a-u—"
"Dick Maurice!" She clasped her hands again. "Oh, if he is here—!"
"He was going for a long walk. I'll do my best to stop him."
"Will you? Oh, will you? How kind. If only it is our Dick Maurice!
He is a young surgeon—just starting practice—so kind and clever.
Please tell him it is Arthur and Amy Ramsay."
"I'll be sure—if only I can catch him. Anyhow, I'll let you know
quickly. Keep up heart meanwhile—don't be frightened. People are often
not so bad as they seem."
Five minutes brought her to the hotel; and she learnt that Maurice
had just started.
No thought of Mrs. Brutt might stand in the way. She knew the
direction he had meant to take; and her only chance of overtaking him
lay in instant action. At her best speed she set off; and on quitting
the village she caught sight of a masculine figure, slim and active,
not to be mistaken, some distance ahead. Already he had left the road,
and was mounting the steep hillside. One glance made clear that there
was no one within reach whom she could send in chase. She could not
risk letting him get out of sight, while she turned elsewhere to find
a man.
All depended upon her; and she braced herself for the chase. He did
not appear to be going at any great pace; but he was well in advance;
and though she was both strong and vigorous, an upward rush soon
brought her to a breathless condition. She had to pause, gasping,
and to go more leisurely.
Despite her utmost efforts, the space between them gradually widened.
Then he vanished behind some bushes; and when again he came within
view, he had taken another turn up a yet more acute slope, still at
the same long easy stride, which cleared the ground faster than it
seemed to do.
Now he was on a steep zigzag, winding to and fro; and this brought
new hope. A faint indication of a path led straight upward, ignoring
the bends; a path of rough shale, broken and jagged. If she could
mount thus, direct, she might intercept him as he, in more deliberate
fashion, followed the bends. Spurred by the recollection of that
distressed girl-face, she made the attempt.
[Illustration: GIVING IN HAD BECOME INEVITABLE, WHEN HE TURNED.]
No easy matter, as she soon found. The path, meant for use in coming
down only, grew worse and worse, more stony, more difficult. The loose
shale yielded beneath her tread; and for each step in advance, she
felt as if she slid two steps downward. Yet advance she did, though
with heart-breaking slowness.
If breath would but hold out! She was gaining upon Maurice; and she
had healthy lungs; but this was severe work. Her heart was beating
like a drum; and as she struggled on, she panted painfully. A call
now might stop him; but no voice was left. She could only gasp.
Just when she had reached the stage, at which giving in had become
inevitable, he stopped short, and turned. She waved her handkerchief
violently. He waved his, and started at a run, descending by the
steeper path. Rapid as were his movements, she was recovering herself
before he arrived.
"You want me—!" with surprise, which changed into concern, as he saw
her flushed and breathless state.
"I promised—to catch you—if I could!" She laughed at herself for
having still to gasp between the words. "I'm—all right. It's only—"
and she hurriedly explained what was wrong.
"Yes—they are my friends. I had no idea they were coming here. Thanks
for calling me. You have had hard work."
"Oh, I didn't mind—only the stones were so horrid, sliding away under
my feet. I thought I should never get up with you."
"You didn't attempt the short cut!"
"I fancied it would save time. Did it?"
"Doubtful. But you must be a good climber to do it at all."
She was delighted, but said: "Ought we not to be off?"
"Are you rested enough?"
"I'm all right. And that poor girl does so want you."
"Try this way."
He turned to a different path, shorter and steeper than that by which
they had come. It meant a descent which Doris could not have tackled
alone, with nailless shoes. He went first; and two or three times his
hand caught hers; yet most of it she did unaided; and again he spoke
in praise of her sure-footedness.
"Climbing always seems to come naturally to me," she said. "If only,
only, some day I could go up a real mountain! I want that desperately—
I can't tell you how much! And I don't see the very least chance
of such a thing. Oh dear,—I wish with all my heart there were."
"Perhaps something might be arranged while you are here. We must see.
I'll think about it."
Her deep-set eyes sent him a swift grateful glance, which stirred his
blood. She was a pretty girl.
"Oh, it would be most frightfully nice!" was all she said.
"I'll see!" he repeated.
Then he spoke of these friends of his; the husband a college chum,
"an awfully decent chap,"—the young wife, barely eighteen, and married
three months earlier, whom he had known for years.
Doris would have liked to go with him to the châlet, and to see if she
might be of use there. But she felt that the neglected Mrs. Brutt
claimed first attention; and he promised to let her know if help were
needed.
On reaching Mrs. Brutt's room, she was greeted with a gale which took
her breath away, almost as the steep hillside had done. By this time
she had learnt to know the agreeable widow as a confirmed grumbler;
but till the present hour she had not seen her in a passion. It was
not a pleasant sight.
Breakfast had not been carried up till a full hour after Doris's
departure; and for that she had to bear full blame, though it was not
her fault. Mrs. Brutt had been "quite ill" in consequence, and alone
all the morning,—an additional grievance. Doris was a most selfish,
thoughtless, unkind girl! So ungrateful!—considering all that she owed
to the speaker. Mrs. Brutt would not have believed it of her. But one
knew nothing of people till one travelled with them,—a statement which
Doris could have endorsed.
She tried to explain, but in vain. The more she tried, the more Mrs.
Brutt enlarged on her wrongs. Somehow, all this did not sting like
home-worries; perhaps because Doris's mind was full of new interests.
She kept her temper, and at length said—
"If you are ill why not see a doctor?"
"So unkind!—when you know there is no doctor to be had in this
wretched place!" moaned Mrs. Brutt, by this time reduced to the
abject stage. "But I might die, for all you would care."
Doris let this pass, and remarked that there was a doctor—an English
one to boot—in that very hotel. The news proved reviving. Mrs. Brutt
loved nothing better than to be medically discussed and liberally
dosed; and her spirits at once improved.
So when Maurice came in, he found another patient awaiting him; not
always a welcome event on a man's holiday. But since she belonged
to Doris, he had not the smallest objection. To the latter he confided
that he had left Ramsay very ill, and that he feared an operation
might prove needful. He would spend the night at the châlet. No, he
could not make his intended ascent next day.
"But how awfully disappointing for you!"
He smiled at that.
"Oh, it's all right," he said cheerfully.
"You'll go another day instead?"
"I hope so." He then explained that, in the nick of time, a
brother-in-law of Ramsay's had telegraphed to say that he and his wife
were coming immediately to join them. Nothing could be better. The
wife was an experienced nurse; the husband was a first-rate climber,
a member of the Alpine Club. "Their coming will make it quite easy,
I hope, to manage our little expedition," he added. "Pressford is
equal to any guide. We'll take you somewhere between us, sooner or
later."
"Will you—really—?" in a tone of rapture.
"I'll do my very best to bring it about—I promise you."
After which he spent a full half-hour, listening to the catalogue
of Mrs. Brutt's symptoms, which were of such abounding interest for
herself, that she could not imagine their having less interest for
other people. He could have prescribed for her in five minutes, with
ease; but then he would have failed to win her confidence.
She recognised in him the "sinister" individual of Bex; but she
promptly dropped that adjective, and substituted "delightful." He was
really such a clever young fellow!—so observant!—so thoughtful!—
so sympathetic! Such penetration! He had read her whole constitution
at a glance-positively at one glance. Mrs. Brutt prided herself on the
abnormal complexity of her make, transcending the complexities of less
distinguished beings; and she felt that never before had it been so
truly perused.
Perhaps this came near the mark. Maurice had penetrating eyes, and he
read her in more ways than one. If he took particular pains to
ingratiate himself with the widow, it was hardly for her own sake.