The Eavesdropper
"THERE she is again!" uttered Pressford in dismay, as a familiar
figure sailed up the garden. "For pity's sake, keep her off."
Mrs. Pressford being out, Amy had to throw herself into the breach.
She was rather in awe of Mrs. Brutt.
"I've brought a few flowers for your poor invalids. Just to cheer them
up, you know. So dull to be kept indoors this lovely weather! I have
been thinking—could you not make a little more use of me, now they are
better? If you would allow me to sit with your husband for an hour,
while you get out with Mrs. Pressford, I should be delighted."
Mrs. Ramsay's childlike eyes widened with dismay.
"It would be no trouble—none whatever. So I hope you will not
hesitate. Invalids need to be amused; and I would do my best. A little
cheerful talk, you know—"
If she had known how Pressford loathed "talk."
"Thanks! It is most kind. Oh, what pretty flowers!"
"Then you will let me appear, some time this afternoon."
"I'm afraid not yet. They have to be kept so quiet."
"I assure you, my dear, I am most quiet. I know so well the need.
The least stir—the smallest creak—in certain states become agonising.
Simply agonising! I know too well from experience. But you may depend
upon me. So if I might look in this afternoon—"
"I'm afraid we must not think of it at present. Thanks very much,
all the same."
"Really! I am sorry. It would give you a short rest. Well,—if it must
not be—By the bye, is dear Doris with you this morning?"
"I've not seen her to-day."
"Then she does not always come directly after breakfast?"
Mrs. Ramsay said—"Oh no,"—not seeing whither the question tended.
"Ah,—she gets a little walk first. And Mr. Maurice?"
"He generally comes in about eleven or twelve."
"I see. Yes, I see. And you are quite sure you cannot make any use
of me. I should have been charmed."
Mrs. Brutt withdrew, sweetly smiling; her mind busy.
"Now I wonder where they are," she said to herself, as she sauntered
away; for by this time she was in a state of highly-strung alertness
with regard to the lovers, besides being eaten up with curiosity.
From a worldly-wise point of view, if they wished to secure secrecy,
Maurice and Doris would have been wise to take the widow into their
confidence. Had they done so, she would have fussed and protested,
but the being told would have gratified her sense of importance,
and she would have arrayed her forces on their side.
To be made acquainted with the affair before even the Rector and the
Squire, would have meant a degree of distinction, which she would
thoroughly have appreciated. Despite her love of talk, she could keep
a secret entrusted to her care; and she loved to be confided in.
But the mere fact of anything being hidden from herself aroused
another side of her nature, calling into play a spirit of
self-assertive inquisitiveness. The secret and all who were concerned
in it became at once in her eyes "fair game;" and she could know
no rest till, by hook or by crook, she had discovered that which was
hidden. Towards this end she would strain every nerve; nor would she
be scrupulous in her methods. Not to be told what another might know,
amounted to a personal grievance.
Until the evening of the Petit Chamossaire expedition, she had looked
upon Maurice as her own property. She was not so clear-sighted as she
imagined. "Nothing ever escapes me!" was a pet phrase with her; yet a
good deal did escape her. Once aroused, however, she could be
sagacious enough.
On the return of the two that evening, towards the close of
table d'hôte, fresh from their day of intercourse, he must indeed have
been nonobservant who should have seen nothing unusual in Maurice's
look, however carefully repressed,—who should not have detected
an unwonted brightness in Doris's eyes, and noted her soft brilliancy
of colouring.
The girl looked lovely,—no less! It was useless for them to expatiate
on their ramble, on the views they had enjoyed, on the wondrous
after-glow. No sunset hues on rocky heights had brought that look!
"I know better!" Mrs. Brutt said to herself, and she waited to be
informed.
But she was not informed. It dawned upon her that, whatever might have
passed, she was not to be told. Then she became angry. Since they did
not choose to confide in her, she would find out for herself. With
newly-quickened attention, she became aware of Maurice's absorption
in Doris; of Doris's dreamy abstraction when he was absent; and also,
not seldom, of a troubled expression in the girl's face. She observed
too how each would quietly slip away after breakfast,—no doubt for a
tête-à-tête elsewhere.
"So very deceitful!" she said to herself. "So wrong of them!"
All had happened rapidly, in few days. On this morning it occurred
to her that, by an early call at the châlet, she might learn
something. Before starting, she had seen Doris go down the village
street, and perhaps the two might meet at the châlet. Finding her
theory wrong, she had to hunt elsewhere.
"Really, so underhand!" she repeated.
Meeting on the road one of her new cronies, an English-speaking German
lady, she expressed a wish to find her young charge; and the German
lady pointed to a narrow path, ascending slantwise. "I haf seen her go
dere sometimes."
Mrs. Brutt thanked her, and proceeded to investigate.
Using her eyes in all directions, she followed the path, seeing nought
of beauty in mountain or valley; for her mind was taken up with one
idea,—to find out whether Maurice and Doris had gone this way.
And she had her wish. After some fifteen or twenty minutes of slow
progress, she caught sight of a small red-brown châlet, somewhat above
the path. In front of it, side by side, two figures were seated,—a man
and a girl—deep in talk.
She drew instantly back out of sight. They had not noticed her, and
they should not!
"So—that is it!" she ejaculated. And again—"Really, how deceitful!
One would have thought they knew better. Above all things, I do detest
underhand ways." She felt that, for the unearthing of such a
conspiracy, any methods were admissible.
The dear young doctor had become many degrees less delightful, though
she was disposed to lay chief blame on Doris.
When the girl rejoined her an hour later, she asked no questions, made
no remarks. But next morning, having risen with unusual promptitude,
she was the first to vanish, making her way briskly to the small
châlet.
Did they always come here? Was it a daily trysting-place? If not,
her trouble might be thrown away. If they did come — she hardly knew
what she would do. Her first idea was to seat herself on the farther
side of the châlet, where she would be hidden as they approached, and
then casually to walk out on them. But as she debated, she noticed the
châlet-door to be ajar; and she went in.
Rough flooring under her feet; rough beams overhead; some upright
beams also, supporting the roof; and at one side what she took for a
manger. That was all. Not a bad place in which to sit, and quietly to
hear what might go on outside. This thought came; and she put the door
quickly to. She had not quite made up her mind; but she dwelt upon the
possibility. And if a little voice whispered the words which she had
been using about others,—"deceitful," and "underhand,"—she put them
aside. Doris was in her charge, and surely it was her duty to find out
what the girl was after.
Voices sounded, drawing near. Too late now for the other plan. She
could wait here, however, just for a minute—and then make her presence
known. She moved softly close to the wall, on the other side of which
they would sit, if they did not pass on.
And they did not. It was a lovely spot. They believed themselves to be
alone, beyond sight and hearing of all other human beings.
Thirty or forty yards below lay a fringe of shrubs and low trees; and
the Rhone valley beyond was nearly hidden. Just in front stood boldly
forth the great sweep of rocky heights, hard and grey, jagged and
seamed. Lines of strata might there be studied, upright and
horizontal, curved and twisted, telling of long-past pressure and
moulding, perhaps also of great cataclysmic upheavals, in the shaping
of these mountains. The vast rock-range, one of Nature's "out crops,"
rose high above softer grass-green alps, dotted with hay-châlets.
The Grand Muveran, as seen from this position, was still robed in
morning shadow; and sunlight fell on the small glacier to the left
just below the summit. The Petit Muveran, standing pertly up to his
gigantic neighbour, also cast a shadow downward.
Across the fore-shortened Rhone valley, the Dent du Midi flung his
stately head aloft, no longer reduced to insignificance, as when seen
from the Chamossaire summit, by the greater aristocracy of the
mountain-world. Yet some fair aristocrats were visible, huddled
together in the distance,—rounded and snow-clad heights of the
Valaisian range, above the Glacier de Trient.
The Dent du Midi, wide-spreading, solid, substantial, with great
saddle-back ridges extending outward and downward, was all blue with
a different blue from that of the sky. And soft cotton-wool masses
of cloud lay in the ravines, not yet dispersed by the sun's power.
All around was stillness, unbroken except by the continuous murmur
of insects, the click of grasshoppers, the rough caw of a crow,
and two alternating human voices.
Little dreamt Doris or Maurice who was on the other side of the châlet
wall!
Mrs. Brutt had meant to stay where she was "only a minute." She had
an uneasy consciousness that her position was far from dignified.
So she would only just listen to a word or two. Then, with scathing
apologies, she would step forth upon the guilty pair.
But she stayed much longer than a minute; and she heard much more
than a word or two.