“Your imprisonment has rendered you satirical, Mr Orlebar,” said Mrs Daventer, in mild reproof, though at heart joining in the laugh wherewith the remark was received by her daughter, as, indeed, nineteen women out of twenty are sure to do whenever a man makes a joke at the expense of another member of their own sex.
Thus they sat, exchanging the airiest of gossip, laughing over mere nothings. Then the luncheon bell rang. Philip’s countenance fell. It was surprising how soon the morning had fled. He said as much – but dolefully.
“Why, what’s the matter?” said the elder lady, as she rose to go indoors.
“Oh, nothing. Only that I shall be left all alone again.”
“Poor thing!” said Laura, mischievously. “But perhaps, if you promise to be very entertaining, we’ll come and take care of you again. Shall we, mother?”
“Perhaps. And now, Mr Orlebar, is there anything you want? Anything I can tell them to do for you – or to bring you out?”
“You’re awfully good, Mrs Daventer. They know they’ve got to bring me something to pick at out here; but they may have forgotten. Yes, if you don’t mind just sending Alphonse here. And – I say – Mrs Daventer – you’ll – you’ll come around again presently yourselves – won’t you?”
“Perhaps – only perhaps!” answered Laura for her mother, with a mischievous, tantalising glance, which, however, said as plainly as possible, “Why, you old goose, you know we will.”
His face brightened. “Thanks awfully,” he mumbled. And then, as they left him, the sun did not seem to shine quite so brightly as before. However, he would not be left alone for long.
What had become of all the dismal and bitter reflections which had been crowding in upon him when he first took up his position in that chair barely two hours ago? Well, the cause of them existed still, but somehow, however reluctant to own it he might be, there was no disguising altogether a sneaking idea that the sting might be dulled. Somehow, too, his anxiety to be able to get about had become greatly enhanced, but not so his eagerness to seek out fresh scenes. That, curiously enough, had proportionately abated.
Chapter Twenty Six
One Nail Drives Out Another
“That there are as good fish in the sea as any that ever came out may or may not be a sound proverb, but it’s one that our friend Orlebar seems to believe in – eh, Fordham?”
Beyond a grunt, his companion made no answer, and Wentworth continued —
“Just look at the fellow now. The widow and daughter mean ‘biz,’ if ever any one did. And Orlebar is such an easy fish to hook, provided they don’t allow him too much play. If they do, the chances are ten to one he’ll break away and rise to another fly.”
It was a warm, sunshiny Sunday afternoon, about a fortnight after Philip’s first appearance downstairs. The two thus conversing were strolling along the road which leads to the Zmutt-thal, and in the green meadows beyond the roaring, churning Visp, walked three figures which, in spite of the distance, they had no sort of difficulty in identifying with the objects under discussion.
“Yes, Orlebar is a fish that requires prompt landing,” pursued Wentworth. “They have had a fortnight to do it in. If they don’t effectually gaff him within the next week, they may give it up. Some one else will happen along, and he will think it time for a change. The fair Laura will get left. Do you a bet on it, Fordham, if you like.”
“Not worth betting on, is it?” was the languid reply. “I have done what I could for the boy – kept him out of numberless snares and pitfalls. I’m a trifle tired of it now. If he is such a fool as to plunge in headlong – why, he must.”
In spite of this admirable indifference, the speaker was, in fact, watching the game keenly, and so far it was progressing entirely to his own satisfaction. Did his female accomplice – in obedience to her better instincts, or to a natural tendency to revolt against dictation – show any signs of slackness, there he was, ruthless, unswerving, at hand to remind her of the consequences of failure. She must succeed or fail. In the latter alternative no palliation that she had done her best would be admitted, and this she knew. No such excuse – indeed, no excuse – would avail to save her and hers from the consequences of such failure, and the result would be dire. She was in this man’s power – bound hand and foot. She might as well expect mercy from a famished tiger as one shade of ruth from him did the task which he had set her to fulfil fail by a hair’s breadth. And she judged correctly.
Not by accident was Fordham strolling there that afternoon. The strongest of all passions – in a strong nature – the vindictive, vengeful hate of years thoroughly awakened in him, he watched the puppets dancing to his wires. His accomplice must be kept alive to the fact that his eye was ever upon her, that she dare not do, or leave undone, anything, however trivial, that might risk the game. And now his companion’s remarks only went to confirm his previously formed decision. It was time the curtain should be rung down upon the first act of the three-act drama – time that the second should begin.
“The most susceptible youngster that ever lived! I believe you’re right, Wentworth,” he pursued, in reply to one of the aforesaid remarks. “And the worst of it is he takes them all so seriously – throws himself into the net headlong. Then, when he finds himself caught – tied tight so that no amount of kicking and swearing will get him out – he’ll raise a great outcry and think himself very hardly used. They all do it. And I’m always warning him. I warned him against this very girl who’s trying all she knows to hook him now.”
“The deuce you did. I should be curious to know in what terms,” said Wentworth.
“In what terms? I preached to him; I spake parables unto him; I propounded the choicest and most incisive metaphors. No use – all thrown away. ‘A woman, my dear chap,’ I said – ‘an attractive woman, that is – is like a new and entertaining book, delightful – for a time. But when you have got from cover to cover you don’t begin the book again and go through it a second time, and then a third, and so on. Even the few books that will bear going through twice, and then only after a decent interval, will not keep you in literary pabulum all your life. So it is with a woman. However attractive, however entertaining she may be, she is bound to pall sooner or later – some few later, but the vast majority, like the general run of books – sooner. So that in chaining yourself to one woman all your life, as you seem bent upon doing, you are showing about as much judgment as you would be in condemning yourself to read one book all your life. Less, indeed, for, if the book bores you, you can chuck it out of the window; but if the woman bores you, or leads you the life of a pariah dog, you can’t chuck her out of the window, because if you do you’ll likely be hanged, and she certainly will see you so before she’ll walk out of the door, once in it. Philip, my son, be warned.’”
“And how did he take that undoubtedly sound counsel?” said Wentworth, with a laugh.
“Oh, abused me, of course – swore I was a brute and a savage – in fact, he rather thought I must be the devil himself. That’s always the way. Show a man the precipice he’s going to walk over, and ten to one he turns round and damns you for not minding your own business. And as a general rule he’s right. Talking of precipices, Wentworth, did you hear that man’s idea at table d’hôte when we were talking of the difficult state the Dent Blanche was in this year?”
“No. It must have been after I went out.”
“Why, he suggested, in the most matter-of-fact way, fixing a hawser from the top of it to the glacier below. Gaudy idea, wasn’t it, doing the Dent Blanche by means of a hawser? And, just as we had done guffawing over the notion, he added that the only drawback to the scheme was that somebody would be sure to creep up and steal it. Whereupon that sheep-faced parson on the other side of the table cut in with a very aggrieved and much hurt amendment to the effect that he was sure the mountain people were much too honest. We all roared in such wise as to draw the attention of the whole room upon us, including an overheard remark from one of the tract-dispensing old cats that some people were never happy unless they were making a noise – even upon a Sunday.”
Philip meanwhile was assuredly doing everything to justify the observations of our two misogynists aforesaid. The expression of his face as he walked beside Laura Daventer, the tone of his voice as he talked to her, told quite enough. The past fortnight of daily companionship had done its work. Already there was a familiar, confidential ring in his tone – a semi-caressing expression in his eyes, which told unmistakably that he more than half considered her his own property. And what of Laura herself?
She, for her part, seemed disposed to take kindly to this state of affairs. She had tacitly acquiesced in the gradual proprietorship he had set up over her – had even abetted his efforts to glare off any presumptuous intruder who should seek to infringe his monopoly. The present arrangement suited her very well – on the whole, very well indeed.
“Do you really mean, Mrs Daventer,” Philip was saying, talking across Laura to her mother – “do you really mean you are going away at the end of this week?”
“I’m afraid so. We have been a long time abroad already, and we can’t remain away from home for ever.”
“N-no, I suppose not,” he assented, ruefully. “But what on earth shall I do here when you’re gone?”
“Just what you did before we came,” answered Laura, mischievously. “There are plenty more people here.”
“Just as if that’s the same thing! I don’t believe I’ll stay on myself. In fact, I should have gone back before now if it hadn’t been for my confounded ankle.”
“And that same ‘confounded ankle’ would have been a great deal more ‘confounded’ but for us,” rejoined Laura. “You would have used it again too soon – much too soon – only we wouldn’t let you. You would have started up the Matterhorn, or done something equally insane, if we hadn’t taken care of you and kept you quiet at home.”
There was more than a substratum of truth underlying this statement. The speaker had indeed done all she said. To one of Phil’s temperament it was infinitely more congenial to lounge through the days, sitting about in sequestered nooks in the fields and woods with a very attractive girl who chose to make much of him, than to undertake sterner forms of pastime in the company of such unsympathetic spirits as Fordham and Wentworth. And therein lay an epitome of the last fortnight. These two had been thrown together. When Philip’s ankle had improved sufficiently to admit of moderate locomotion it was Laura who had been his constant companion during his earlier and experimental hobbles. Indeed, it is to be feared that the sly dog had more than once exaggerated his lameness, in justification of an appeal for support on the ground of the insufficiency of that afforded by his stick, though somehow, when the said support was very prettily accorded, the weight which he threw upon his charming prop was of the very lightest. So the bright summer days of that fortnight had passed one by one, and it was astonishing what a large proportion of the hours composing each had been spent à deux.
Thus had come about that good understanding, that sense of proprietorship definite on the part of the one, dissimulated, yet tangible and existent, on that of the other, which reigned between them. But if she intended that proprietorship to become permanent – in fact, lifelong, neither by word or sign did Laura do anything to proclaim such intention. Kind, sympathetic, companionable as she was, she could not with fairness be accused of doing anything to “throw herself at his head.” She was a perfect model of tact. When he waxed effusive, as it was Phil’s nature to do upon very slight provocation, she would meet him with a stand-offishness the more disconcerting that it was wholly unexpected. Sometimes, even, she would invent some excuse for leaving him alone for half a day – just long enough to cause him grievously to miss her, yet not long enough to render him disgusted and resentful. But withal she had managed that her presence should be very necessary to him, and now her forethought and cleverness had their reward, for she knew she could bring him to her feet any moment she chose.
“Yes, I should have gone back before now,” repeated Philip. “I sha’n’t stay on after you leave. It’ll be too dismal all round. By Jove! I don’t see why – er – why we shouldn’t go back together. It would be awfully jolly for me having some one to travel with, and I could help you looking after the boxes and things – eh, Mrs Daventer?”
“But what about your friend, Mr Orlebar? He doesn’t want to go back yet; and, even if he did, I think I see him travelling with a pair of unprotected females.”
“Fordham? Oh, he and Wentworth have got together now, and they’ll be swarming up every blessed alp within fifty miles around before they think of moving from here. No; on the whole I think my escort may be of use to you – in fact, I think you ought to have it.”
“I believe ours is far more likely to be of use to you – in your present state,” answered Mrs Daventer, with a smile. “Well, Mr Orlebar, I was going to ask you to spend a few days with us on your return, and if you care to do so, you may as well come straight home with us now – that is, of course, unless you have anything more important or attractive among your plans.”
But this he eagerly protested he had not. Nothing would give him greater pleasure, and so on.
“Ours is a very quiet little place on the Welsh coast,” went on Mrs Daventer. “I don’t know how we shall amuse you – or rather how you will amuse yourself.”
Here again Philip raised his voice in protest. He did not want amusing. He was sure it would be quite delightful. He was tired of the abominable racket of hotel life. Quiet, and plenty of it, was just the thing he wanted. It would do him more good than anything else in the world.
“Well, then, we may look upon that as settled,” was the gracious rejoinder – and Mrs Daventer could be very gracious, very fascinating, when she chose. “If you are half as pleased with your stay as we shall be to have you, we shall consider ourselves fortunate. And now, Laura, I think we had better be turning back. I really must put in an appearance at church this afternoon, especially as I missed it this morning and last Sunday as well.”
The girl’s face clouded. “Why, mother, the best part of the afternoon is only just beginning,” she objected. “Such a heavenly afternoon as it is, too.”
“Let church slide, Mrs Daventer,” urged Phil, impulsively. “Besides, if you’re going away what does it matter!”
“That is a very earthly view to take of it, you unprincipled boy?” was the laughing reply. “Never mind, I needn’t drag you two children back with me; so continue your walk while I go and sacrifice myself to save appearances. Perhaps I’ll meet you somewhere about here afterwards, as you come back.”
“I do think that mother of yours is one of the sweetest women I ever met – Laura,” said Phil, as they turned to resume their stroll.
The girl’s face flushed with pleasure. “You never said a truer thing than that,” she replied.
“Rather not. Hallo! she’ll be late. At least a quarter of an hour’s walk, and there’s that cracked old tin-kettle whanging away already.”
A bell sounded upon the clear, pine-scented air. It was not a melodious bell – rather did it resemble the homely implement irreverently suggested. Then they continued their walk through the sunlit pastures; but Philip, whose ankle was by no means cured, began to limp.
“Stop. We must not go any further,” said Laura. “You have been walking too much to-day as it is. We will sit down and rest.”
“Let us get up on top of these rocks then,” he suggested, as their walk had brought them to a pile of broken rocks overgrown with rhododendrons and bilberry bushes. These they clambered up, and came to a shut-in, mossy nook. One side was riven by a deep fissure through which a torrent roared. It was the very spot which had witnessed that stormy interview between Fordham and Mrs Daventer. Strange, indeed, was the irony of fate which had led these two hither.
“I tell you what it is, Laura,” said Philip, throwing himself upon the ground; “it was awfully jolly of your mother to give me that invitation. We’ll have no end of a good time down there together – won’t we, dear?” and reaching out his hand he closed it upon hers. But this, after a momentary hesitation, she drew away.
“I hope we will,” she answered, and over the dark, piquante face there crept a most becoming flush. Very attractive too at that moment was that same face, with its luminous eyes and delicate, refined beauty. Still to the physiognomist there was a certain hardness about the ripe red lips which was not altogether satisfactory. But this fault he who now looked upon them failed to realise.
He turned round quickly and fixed his eyes upon her face. There was something in her tone, her gesture, that disquieted him.
“Why, Laura! what is the matter? You speak as if you did not believe we would – have a good time, I mean. Why should we not? We shall be together, and I don’t know what I should do if you were to go away from me now – darling.”
“Stop, Phil. Don’t say any more – at least not here,” she added hurriedly. “You are much too impulsive, and you don’t know me yet, although you think you do. Yes, we will have a good time – but – don’t begin to get serious, that’s a good boy.”
Philip stared. But her unexpected rejoinder had its effect. Did she intend that it should? The fervour of his tone deepened as he replied —
“I won’t say a word that you would rather I did not, dear. Not now, at any rate.”
“You had better not, believe me,” she replied, in a tone that was almost a caress, and with a smile that set all his pulses tingling. Very alluring she looked, her dark beauty set off by her dress of creamy white, by the languorous attitude, so harmonious with the sunshine and surroundings. Overhead and around the great mountains towered, the mighty cone of the giant Matterhorn dominating them all as he frowned aloft from the liquid blue; the dull thunder of the seething Visp churning its way through emerald pasture-lands; the picturesque brown roofs of the châlets; the aromatic scent of the pines – all harmonising in idyllic beauty with the figure to which they constituted a frame, a background. Did it recall that other soft golden summer evening, not so very long ago either, when he listened to much the same answer framed by another pair of lips? Who may tell? For one nail drives out another, and a heart taken at the rebound is easily caught. Yet assuredly it was a strange, a grim, irony of fate, that which brought these two hither, to this spot of all others, to enact this scene. But in such cycles do the events of life move.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The Droop of a Sunshade
Alma Wyatt was at home again – was once more an inmate of the much-decried semi-detached which was an exact counterpart of all the Rosebanks, and Hollybanks, and Belmonts, and Heathfields, which go to line the regulation suburban road.
The said regulation road was ankle-deep in dust – even the foliage of the trees and garden patches, which fronted each monotonous row of villas, was dried and gasping, and sprinkled with the same powdery substance. The atmosphere was of the stuffy, moist, enervating character inseparable from low-lying riverside resorts. Small wonder, then, that Alma, at home again now, should find herself drawing bitter contrasts between commonplace, cockneyfied Surbiton, and the bounteous glories of the mighty Alps – the thunder of the mountain torrent, and the cool fragrance of the shadowy pine forest; the cloudless skies and the soaring peaks; the sheeny ice-slopes, and the blue, castellated masses of the séracs, and, not least, the bracing exhilaration of the air.
“At home again! At home again!” – as she kept bitterly repeating to herself. At home again, to enact the part of a butt for her mother’s nagging and ever-discontented tongue; at home again, to fall into the old rôle of self-obliteration, to hold herself in readiness to sacrifice every inclination of her own, to devote all her time, all her energies, to the convenience of the family idol, her younger sister, and especially to look for no appreciation of, or thanks for, the same. And such is home!
How her soul sickened as she looked around on the mediocrity of it all – the flat, ditchwater circumstances of life, the stagnation, the deadly monotony. There was the same narrow round, the same bi-weekly run up to Town on shopping intent, the same local gossip and feeble attempts at entertainment, the same evening visits from the same bevy of Constance’s admirers – City youths mostly, all as like each other as the immaculacy of their collars, the sheen of their hats, the lack of expression in their countenances and the inanity of their conversation, could render them. These would redeem the time with some feeble singing and feebler wit, and evening after evening would Alma be called upon to sit it all out and endeavour to make herself agreeable. Constance on such occasions was in her element, but to the sucking Couttses and Barings and Rothschilds Alma was a stumbling-block and a wet blanket.
“Sort of garl, baai Jove, who ought to have a chappie built to her ordar, don’t cher know. Ordinary fellar not good enough,” the principal dry wag of the coterie was wont to remark.
When she had told Philip Orlebar she detested the place and everything to do with it, Alma had spoken no more than the literal truth. But if she detested it then, it strikes her now as ten times more detestable. The suburban mediocrity, the much-belauded river – a mere muddy playground for ’Arry and ’Arriet – pall upon her with nauseous monotony. Never did the hideous Cockney twang grate more offensively upon her ears, never did the obtrusive vulgarity of the low-class Briton – the most irredeemably vulgar animal in the world – revolt her sensibilities as now, when contrasted with the pleasant speech and innately refined manners of the same class of Continental peoples. Assuredly with no feeling of gladness or even contentment did Alma Wyatt return home. This may have been wrong; it was undoubtedly lamentable. But, under the circumstances, it was very natural.
We should be sorry to make oath that apart from this pardonable discontent with her most uncongenial surroundings there was not another phase of canker eating into her mind and destroying its peace. We have, elsewhere, and more than once, emphasised the fact that a certain young reprobate, hight Philip Orlebar, was one of those dangerous persons of whom the opposite sex is prone to become very fond. Now Alma’s opportunities of doing so had been exceptional and many – and, in point of fact, she had so become.
Often now, in the stagnant monotony of her home life, does that bright young face rise up before her, as she first saw it, gazing with scarcely disguised admiration upon her own, as she has so frequently, so constantly seen it since – the sunny blue eyes, with their straight, frank glance, lighting up with a world of welcoming gladness when meeting her for the first time in the day or after a few hours’ absence. She sees it, too, as she saw it in the black, driving cloud, high up on the perilous rock arête of the Cape au Moine, anxious on her account, otherwise fearless and resolute – she sees it, as she saw it in the sinking sunshine of that same day, tender, apprehensive, as its owner hung upon the reply which her lips should frame – but, oh, so attractive! Again, she sees it as she saw it last – crushed, hopeless, despairing, and as it appears thus before her the proud, self-contained nature partially breaks down, and, being alone, she cannot repress a convulsive sob or two, and a few tears damp the handkerchief which she passes rapidly over her eyes.
Does she ever regret – repent of her haste in thus giving him his congé! Does it ever occur to her that she may have judged him hastily, harshly – in fact, unheard? Well, her nature is a fearfully proud, a fearfully sensitive one. Did he not put a public slight upon her, make her the laughing stock of a number of nondescript people? Yet even here she cannot further justify herself in the idea that he had merely been amusing himself at her expense. The feeling was there, warm and genuine – as to that there could be no mistake whatever. Characteristically, however, she proceeds to impale him upon the other horn of the dilemma. He had shown weakness. If that other girl had really any claim upon him, if there was really any engagement between them, he ought to have broken it off definitely and decisively before presuming to offer his affection to herself. Yes, he had been guilty of lamentable weakness – an unpardonable fault in Alma Wyatt’s eyes.
There is even more behind, however, than all this. On hearing of his accident, did she not write him a letter of condolence – a really kind letter of sympathy and interest, asking to be informed how he got on – a letter, indeed, in which it was just possible for any man not actually a born fool to “read between the lines,” affording him, with a little diplomacy, a chance of crying “Peccavi,” and eventually reinstating himself? But how had he answered it? He had not answered it at all!
No, from that day to this he had not answered it. There could be no explanation. She had learned indirectly through those who were in the same hotel at the time, that his accident, though tiresome, was not serious – never sufficiently serious to incapacitate him for writing. And she had been at Zinal long enough to have heard from him over and over again; added to which, every letter which had arrived there for her uncle and aunt, even some time after their departure, had been scrupulously forwarded and safely received. The postal arrangements could not be to blame; clearly, then, he had deliberately and of set purpose elected to take no notice of her letter.
Well, that dream was over. She felt a little hard – a little bitter. It was no easy matter to gain Alma’s good opinion, but of Philip Orlebar she had managed to become very fond – more so, in fact, than she herself had suspected at the time. And sometimes now a satirical smile would curve her lips as she reflected bitterly that after all he had certainly shown no weakness in choosing to ignore her own gracious advance, and the reflection did not tend in any degree to restore either peace or contentment to herself.
Bearing in mind Alma’s character and general temperament, it need hardly be said that concerning this, the great event of her trip abroad, she let fall neither word nor hint. She would, indeed, sometimes smile bitterly to herself as she pictured her mother’s wrath and disgust did the latter become aware that she had refused the heir to a baronetcy – a poor one certainly, but still a baronetcy. Why, life would thenceforth cease to be worth living. It would be the last straw. And for this, in her heart of hearts, she admitted that, looking at it from a strictly mundane point of view, there was some excuse. The chances matrimonial, to a girl situated as she was, were poor enough, in fact they were mainly confined to the City youths of mediocre lineage and strictly limited incomes, who constituted her sister’s sworn admirers, or a delicate handed and mustachioed curate who had for some time evinced an unmistakable partiality for herself. Still she was nothing if not characteristic. She was not going to sacrifice her clearly-formed judgment upon the altar of expediency. So she strove to dismiss Philip Orlebar from her mind, and to fall back into her old groove with what contentment she might.
That Alma did not “get on well at home” was not surprising – indeed, the wonder would have come in had things been the other way. The problematical amalgamation of oil and water was a trifle more conceivable than the existence of any cordiality or even a good understanding between herself and her mother. For the latter was not a lovable person. To start with, her brain power was of the scantiest order, her mind of the narrowest; it follows, therefore, that she was intensely, aggressively obstinate. And in the art of nagging she was a past mistress. She was one of those women to whom battle is as the air they breathe, and she had a knack of starting a fray gently, insidiously, sorrowfully even, as though marvelling herself that there should ensue any hostilities at all. Her younger daughter, Constance, then just eighteen, was an excellent replica of her in disposition – that is to say, had not a single redeeming point in her character; and, pace the gushing philanthropist, there are such persons. But the girl, with her blue eyes and smooth skin, her golden hair and fresh complexion, was extremely pretty; and in stating this we have said all there is to be said for her; for as a set-off against these advantages she was selfish, wilful, and conceited to the last degree, as, indeed, was only natural, seeing that from her birth upward she had been thoroughly and consistently spoiled.
There were those who wondered whence Alma had inherited her fine character. Those in a position to speak – old General Wyatt for instance – declared that she had inherited all her father’s good qualities and none of her mother’s bad ones, whereas in the case of Constance the positions were exactly reversed.
“Alma, I want you to get on your hat, quick, and come along up the river,” cried Constance, bursting in upon her sister one bright summer afternoon. The latter had sought out the coolest corner of the stuffy little drawing-room, and was busily engaged in the – to her in her then frame of mind – very congenial task of sticking a number of Alpine views into an album. She had a touch of headache, and was not in the most amiable frame of mind herself. In fact the above invitation struck within her no responsive chord, and she said as much.