What Next?
MRS. BRUTT'S self-control was limited; and, despite her best efforts,
she failed to meet Doris as if nothing had happened. There was a
constraint of manner, which set the girl studying her, and wondering
what had happened.
Another letter to Mrs. Winton went off that afternoon. Mrs. Brutt
explained wordily that, to her extreme distress, she had noted signs
of a growing love-affair between Doris and the young surgeon,—
no longer her "dear young doctor."
She regretted not having found it out earlier, and felt that she had
trusted too implicitly. Mr. Maurice's conduct had been most
reprehensible. She would not have believed him to be capable of
anything so underhand,—or Doris either, with whom she felt sorely
disappointed. However, though Doris had said nothing to her, she had
doubtless kept her parents well informed. Mrs. Brutt certainly did
feel hurt at having been left so completely in the dark; but her state
of health had rendered her unusually blind. Some medical details
followed.
All this and much more Mr. and Mrs. Winton were desired to look upon
as in close confidence. Doris did not know that she was writing. She
counted it her plain duty to send a word of warning, in case they had
not yet heard.
They might, no doubt, fully approve of their daughter's lover. People
viewed things so differently. The young doctor was on the whole quite
presentable—quite well-behaved. And no doubt, too, he had principles,
though in this affair he was to be blamed. He seemed clever, and might
do well in his profession. So far as she could gather, there was
something rather hazy about his parentage; but she had only found this
out from observation and intuition,—she had really been told nothing
definite. That was a matter about which some parents were particular;
and she confessed to a sense of particularity herself as to people's
antecedents. Still, in this democratic age, the most unlikely unions
did take place, and not always unsuccessfully.
Two letters crossed this effusion, arriving next morning. One, from
Mrs. Winton, desired her daughter to return without delay, giving no
reason, except that she had been absent long enough. The other, from
Mr. Stirling to Mrs. Brutt, intimated that an escort for the girl had
to be immediately found. If any difficulty existed, might he—in a
friendly spirit, and in strict secrecy—offer to frank the widow's
return-journey, that she might bring Doris? He apologised and
expressed himself gracefully. Mrs. Brutt at once decided that
no escort save her own should be available.
She saw that her earlier letter to Mrs. Winton had brought this about,
making the second unnecessary. Still, she did not regret launching
that shaft. In her present mood it gratified her to trouble anyone
belonging to Doris.
Since Mr. Stirling's letter meant urgency, she settled to start in two
days, making the best terms she could with the hotel people. Doris
offered no objections. She knew from her own letter that it had to be;
and though she was sorry, she also felt relief. Things could not go on
as they were. Conscience was worrying her a good deal.
The last day fled on wings, wrapped in a golden haze, mingled with
pain. On the part of Maurice, there was strenuous hope; on the part
of Doris, a restless disquiet. She could not fathom herself. In Dick's
presence she was content, wanting nothing. He controlled her,
satisfied her, filled her life. He was so dear—so good! He loved her
so intensely.
And she loved him, clung to him, did not know how to think of life
without him. As he had once said, it was with them—"Just you and I!"
Nothing else, for the moment, signified. They had hours together; for
Mrs. Brutt let them severely alone; and they made the most of the
remaining time. Each had the other; and that was enough.
Yet Doris had a dim consciousness of questionings, somewhere far
below, which would not be stilled; questionings intangible,
unexpressed, but real. For her world consisted of more than just Dick
and herself; and that which was enough at the present moment might not
always be enough.
Late in the afternoon they found their way up the mountain to a quiet
spot, away from everybody. It had been a day of dull weather, and the
heights were heavily capped with clouds. One or two distant growls
heralded a storm. Maurice sat beside her on the steep grass-slope, his
stick across his knees, his brown hands grasping it. Ever and anon
the honest grey eyes wandered towards Doris.
"I'm off too," he said.
"But you've got a day or two more."
"I can't stand this place without you."
"And then you come to Lynnbrooke."
"You've made me promise not to arrive till after yourself." Maurice
shifted the stick. "Mr. Stirling won't approve."
"Won't approve of what?"
"My going to Lynnbrooke. He has always kept me away."
"But—why should he?"
"I can't explain. He has insisted."
"Mrs. Brutt won't say yet whether she means to stay more than one
night in Paris. You will have to allow for that. Dick, I wonder
whether she has been making mischief. She has seemed so queer and glum
the last day or two. I can't make her out."
"She's looking rather blue at me too."
"If she has begun to suspect, it would be like her to meddle. I do
wish now that you had written off the first thing."
"Do you, darling?"
"They will think it so wrong of me. I know exactly how they will feel.
And—I'm afraid it was wrong—really wrong."
"In any case, they will blame me, not you. Don't worry your dear self.
Things will come right."
"Will they? I'm not so sure. It doesn't seem to have been quite—quite
straight of me, not to tell at once. And I have always prided myself
on being straight."
"You see, darling, it was simply a question which to do,—whether to
write, or to wait till I could see your father."
"Oh, I know. But it was wrong. I see that now. I ought to have
written. It was quite, quite wrong not to write! Or else—if I didn't—
I ought not to have been so much with you, these last days."
"Shall I write to your father now? Would you rather that I should?"
She considered gravely.
"Yes, I would. I don't like to go home, and to have to tell them.
I'd rather find them knowing it."
"I'll write this evening." He held her hand to his lips.
"You might say you are travelling home, and will go to Lynnbrooke
for your answer. Would that do?"
"It would be—diplomatic!" Dick was not a lover of diplomatic methods.
"If you give an address, they may write and stop you."
"Perhaps I wouldn't be quite so easily stopped. But I shall be
travelling, as you say. And really, on second thoughts, I don't know
what address to give for the next three or four nights. I've not
settled which route to take, or where to sleep." Then he spoke
earnestly,—"Remember, my darling, nothing can finally separate us
against our will. Even if there are difficulties—oppositions—still we
belong one to another. You to me!—I to you! Nothing can change that.
Obstacles may be overcome. In the end our love will conquer."
She smiled, but only said—
"You will tell father all about yourself, when you write."
"In general terms. It is better to leave full details till we meet."
"But I must be free to tell mother about—" she flushed up—"about Mrs.
Morris."
"You are free to say whatever you think right. Only, that must be in
confidence. It must not get about Lynnbrooke, without permission from
Mr. Stirling."
"I can't see why Mr. Stirling should mind—or what he has to do
with it."
"He has had a good deal to do with me,—and he objects to my
connections being known."
"Your—mother!" she murmured. "It seems so strange for a man not to be
able to speak of his—mother!"
It was Maurice's turn to flush. He said only—"It is strange."
Another pause; and another far off thunder-growl. A sharp line
of light traversed the sky.
"We've had a wonderful time here, Dick. I seem to have known you
for years—oh, for fifty years."
"And I you—all my life. We must have been in touch long before we met
at Bex."
"You don't mean—nonsense about previous existences."
"I don't mean nonsense of any sort. I don't think I know what I do
mean. I only know what you are to me—my own. Life without you wouldn't
be life."
"I've often thought of that day when we first met,—and I knew you
to be an Englishman by your hand. Don't, please."
"My darling, how can I help it?"
"And then, the Glückhorn day! We shall never forget that. If only we
could have gone up again! It is desperately disappointing not to have
done one single peak."
"We'll do lots on our wedding tour."
"I seemed to myself to be another person that day."
"You were splendidly courageous."
"Oh, I don't think that. It just had to be done."
Rumbling thunder again and again made itself heard. By this time
several storms were in progress, at varying distances. They ceased
talking, to watch the strife of elements.
A flash far away to the right; a zigzag line to the left; a brilliant
illumination from behind; an electric thrill to the fore. A low peal
from the front; a deep mutter from one side; a clattering roll from
the other side. This went on continuously. It was as if the mountains
were holding solemn converse in a language not understanded of the
common people,—murmuring one to another of the things of eternity,
disregarding the little human pigmies planted in their midst.
The circle of storms drew no nearer. It was an evening discussion
of Nature's forces; an adjustment of differences.
Then, as the two walked soberly downhill, Doris caught herself
wondering—"What next?"