Two Hearts Drawing Nearer
PRESSFORD was for several days hors de combat; and Ramsay could hardly
yet be called convalescent; so the two wives had enough to do. Mrs.
Brutt, deeply interested in the invalids, confident of her own
infallibility, and always anxious to be "in" whatever might be going,
begged permission to lend her help. She was so accustomed to sick
folks; she would know exactly how to manage.
"Not for worlds! Keep her off, at any cost!" growled the dismayed
Pressford.
Excuses were politely framed; but Mrs. Brutt, like many who are
abnormally sure of themselves, proved impervious to hints. If she
might not share in the actual nursing, she was bent on at least
supplementing the efforts of her "dear young doctor."
So she brought to the door, now a bottle of medicine for one patient,
then a prescription for the other; now a plate of fruit, then a bunch
of grapes; now a recipe for soup, then a pictorial newspaper. It was
all most kindly meant; but her incessant comings and goings between
hotel and châlet began to get upon people's nerves.
Since the accident, she had taken fright about mountain-ascents, and
had put her foot down flat, refusing consent for another attempt. No,
she really couldn't! It was out of the question. If Doris were killed,
what did they suppose would be thought of her? This seemed to be a
question of greater importance in her eyes, than the actual tragedy.
Go up the Glückhorn again! Certainly not! Doris must first get leave
from her parents. Mrs. Brutt washed her hands of any such
responsibility.
It was a severe disappointment; for Doris had set her heart on a
second and successful climb. She doubted if leave would be given,
after the manner of letter which Mrs. Brutt was sure to write. And
days were passing! Maurice's time of absence was nearly up, though it
had been slightly extended.
Thus far, in writing home, she had said very little about him,—vaguely
dreading to have her present happiness cut short. She would have found
it difficult to express by post her own half-defined feelings; and—
whether consciously or half-unconsciously—she had not mentioned his
name, but had alluded to him as the "English doctor in our hotel."
This was distinctly not ingenuous. From the first she ought to have
written more fully. And in her heart Doris knew it!
Until the day of the Glückhorn ascent, she had not definitely allowed
even to herself that the growing intimacy meant more than friendship.
And, though now her eyes were being opened, still—Maurice had not
spoken.
After divers protestations from Mrs. Brutt, and the quashing of
various schemes, Maurice begged to take Doris to the summit of the
Petit Chamossaire. He was bent on having her once more to himself.
Something had to be said before they parted; something that he had no
wish to say—that he would thankfully have deferred saying. But
conscience spoke loudly, and would not be denied.
So he made his request, and explained that no risks would be run.
A magnificent view could be gained at small cost. The summit stood
some 7600 feet above the sea-level; yet to get there meant a mere
walk, with no real climbing; a walk which any lady might venture
to take. Any robust lady, he hastened to add, as he perceived dawning
recollections of past gazelle-like agility. He did not wish Mrs. Brutt
to forth a third in the expedition; and he knew that she dreaded
nothing more than to be counted "robust."
After some fuss, leave was granted. Mrs. Brutt had her doubts whether
Mrs. Winton would approve of the plan—just Doris and Mr. Maurice going
together! She might have been perfectly sure that Doris's mother would
very much disapprove. But since her dear young doctor thought it
right, she could not refuse. And really girls nowadays did that sort
of thing. Nobody thought anything of it.
She had not the resolution to oppose him; and she honestly believed
that his "kindness" to Doris was wholly for her sake. He was really
so agreeable, she said to one of her English-speaking German cronies;
so charmingly "domesticated." This was another of her misused
adjectives, which might give the impression of a man of the "tame-cat"
order. Dick Maurice was not that. But it satisfied her; and she was
delighted with his attentions to herself.
So the expedition was arranged.
No need this time for axes and goggles. And they started between six
and seven, instead of between two and three.
Much of their way was a rough sledge-path through pine-woods, where
footing might take care of itself; and they talked without a break.
Well as they felt that they had known one another before, mutual
knowledge that day advanced by strides. No third person was present
to act as a drag.
Somehow, Doris had told him much more about herself than he had told
her about himself, up to this date.
He could talk with enthusiasm of his profession, his work, his
friends, his aims and objects, the books he had read, the places he
had seen, the mountains he had climbed. And that was all right enough.
But from the first he had said little about his home. She knew that
his work lay in Edinburgh. She did not know whether his home was
there; and, though aware that his mother lived, she knew nothing more
about his family. Sometimes she had caught herself wondering over this
persistent silence.
Through the long early morning walk, he still said nothing; but she
had a curious sense that he wanted to say something. There were
occasional slight breaks and pauses, when his attention seemed adrift,
his mind preoccupied.
They had a second breakfast at Bretaye, in the small open restaurant,
with a fine distant view of Mont Blanc. Then they mounted the only
steep place which had to be climbed; a mere nothing, after recent
experiences.
On the summit, a lofty headland, they found themselves at the centre
of a splendid panorama.
By the way they had come, the descent though sharp was grassy and
gradual. On the other side, close to where they had found seats, a
narrow belt of sloping grass ended in a deep precipice, facing the
Rhone Valley. It was a day of glorious sunshine, tempered by a light
breeze; and a few cloudlets, like wisps of cotton-wool, lay in far off
hollows. The heaven was one unbroken expanse of rich blue.
Maurice pointed out to her in a subdued voice some chief features
in the landscape; beginning with the Lake of Geneva, a misty blur,
bounded by dim Jura outlines; and travelling thence to the left, by
way of the rugged Gramont and the pale blue Dent du Midi. Between the
latter and the Dent du Morcles was a radiant vision of the monarch of
Swiss mountains, pure and spotlessly white; also of the massed turrets
and glaciers of the Valaisian Range.
Viewed beside these snow-clad giants the Dent du Midi, imposing enough
when observed from a lower level, was dwarfed, much as some worthy
village magnate is dwarfed in the presence of Royalty.
Farther to the left lay the grand rocky range, which Doris had been
daily studying; and the individuals of that range also fell into their
true places. Seen from this lofty standpoint, indeed, many heights
which had claimed to be great grew small; while others, hitherto
modestly in the background, rose to their real greatness.
Yet more to the left, as the eye travelled round, and beyond rocky
ranges, was a vision of the Oberland giants; especially of the
Jungfrau and her two mighty neighbours. Of all the vast mountain array
that day, the stately Jungfrau alone, a coy maiden of substantial
proportions, hid her fair face behind a veil of cloud.
Farther still came more and more masses of tangled rocks and pine-clad
summits; following which, the circuit was completed; and at length the
dim Geneva lake once more claimed attention.
But no words can give the scene as a whole; no brain could grasp all
its infinite complexity of finish.
Solid mountains and spreading valleys; hollowed ravines and rifted
sides; towering summits and wall-like precipices; steep white
glaciers, with tiny transverse lines suggestive of crevasses, and pure
broad snowfields; lifted horns and jagged ridges; great pine-forests
and fair green pastures; scattered villages and distant towns—all
these went to the making of the picture. And over everything, far and
near, a delicate intangible veil of pale blue mist, hiding nothing,
dimming nothing, only adding to the perfect beauty by a slight
softening of outline, while permitting every detail to be seen.
And, in the midst of it all, two human beings, a man and a girl; two
hearts drawing hourly nearer together.
And the heart of a man is greater than the mightiest of mountains,
as spirit is greater than matter.