Chapter XIV: The Stranger

DORIS wondered at herself. Only a fortnight and three days since she had left home! The almanack must surely be wrong. It looked like six weeks, at the very least.

She was leaning idly out of her little bedroom window, surveying the hotel garden below, and the Rhone valley beyond, bounded by its stately mountain ramparts. Bex lies at the bottom of a tea-cup, closed in around by lofty heights, like the sides of the cup. She had always so longed to see Swiss mountains. And they were very grand, ineffably beautiful, clothed in pine-woods, streaked with ravines and valleys. Yet Doris, possessing her wish, was by no means in tip-top spirits.

She tried to smother down a sense of flatness, of disappointment, and hummed a tune softly. But it would not do. Things were not all she had expected. That is to say—Mrs. Brutt was not! Doris was growing deadly tired of her companion's talk.

It went on endlessly, like a babbling stream. In certain moods Doris herself could go on thus; but that was occasional. In Mrs. Brutt it was perpetual.

By this time the girl knew all, and more than all, that there was to be known, about that lady's early charms, her relatives, her friends, her admirers, her conquests, the places she had seen, the people she had known, the dresses she had worn, the troubles she had endured, the illnesses she had survived. Once and again a little of this might have been interesting; but when it recurred day after day, with endless repetitions, patience was put to a severe test.

And patience was not one of Doris's strong points. It seldom is with anyone of her age. It has to be slowly learnt, through years of strife.

"I don't believe you know what you are going in for," Mrs. Winton had said. "It all sounds smooth. But you don't really know Mrs. Brutt. She is a woman who will have her own way; and you will be at her mercy. You need not suppose she will give up anything she wants, just to please you. If I'm not very much mistaken, you will soon wish yourself at home again."

Doris had indignantly repudiated the possibility. She was aware that Mrs. Brutt's seemingly generous offer was rather a trial to her parents; neither of them caring to be thus indebted to a comparative stranger. But she was frantic to accept; and she overbore all opposition. She was so fond of Mrs. Brutt. She would enjoy herself most awfully. It would be so frightfully disappointing to give it up. She couldn't—she really couldn't!—lose the delight. In the end she overcame or swept away all opposition; and leave was practically given for her to stay, within reasonable limits, as long as Mrs. Brutt might wish.

The idea that her friend's fascinations might wane on a closer acquaintance seemed to the girl absurd; till close acquaintance had lasted a few days. Then she began to realise that the agreeable widow, to whom she might escape for an hour's relief from home-frets, and the manager of a tête-à-tête trip abroad, were different beings.

Not that Mrs. Brutt meant to be different. She was simply now her natural self. Hers was essentially a self-centred nature; and she had a temper, not under good control. She expected unlimited attentions from those around; and she expected, as a matter of course, that Doris's will should always yield to her own.

Their tastes were in opposition, to begin with. Doris, young and active, wanted to go everywhere, to see everything. Mrs. Brutt had done it all before, and had no wish to do it all again. She cared not a rap for scenery, though given to piling on ecstatic adjectives. All that she really wanted was—a host of new acquaintances, with herself for their centre.

They had travelled direct to Geneva, spending a week there; and they had now been over a week at Bex.

On their arrival at the former place, Mrs. Brutt had enlarged on coming excursions. Doris must go up the Salève—such a view! Enchanting! She must visit the Park Arian—magnificent tapestry! She must see the junction of the two rivers—absolutely a unique spectacle! But day after day slipped by, and nothing was done. Each morning something prevented action. The weather was wrong; or shopping claimed attention; or Mrs. Brutt was tired,—so sorry, but really quite unequal.

And she was mistress of the situation. Doris, by this time painfully conscious of her obligations, could say nothing. She would gladly have gone alone, having pluck enough, despite useless school-room French. But Mrs. Winton had exacted from her a reluctant promise to attempt no solitary excursions; and her hands were tied.

Here in Bex it was the same. Mrs. Brutt talked about a day in Montreux, a trip to Lausanne, boating on the lake; but a week was over, and they had done nothing. Soon they would leave for a little mountain village, where rooms had been secured.

Mrs. Brutt had an eye to economy. Mr. Stirling had named no time-limit. He suggested the spending of a weekly amount, liberal enough to cover, not only Doris's expenses, but with care part of Mrs. Brutt's also. She did not scruple to use it thus; and he certainly had said: "Pray consider it your own, to be employed as you think best." These words she construed into full permission.

The less spent upon excursions, the more for herself. Mrs. Brutt saw this plainly. Mr. Stirling had not seen it. His one object had been, if possible, to prolong the absence of both travellers, until their new-found interest in Wyldd's Farm should have died a natural death.

Another unexpected factor arose to interfere with the girl's enjoyment; and this was—jealousy! Mrs. Brutt was never happy to find herself in the position of Number Two. She expected always to be first; always to be the centre of attraction. She had quite left off praising Doris's face and figure, and had ceased to talk of her coming successes. It dawned early upon the latter that, if she wished for peace, she must refrain from competing with the elder lady.

And Doris knew that she had good looks, knew that she could win the liking of others. If, when a chance occurred, she let herself go, the instant result was—neglect of Mrs. Brutt. And Mrs. Brutt's displeasure on those occasions was plainly shown. Doris, secretly indignant, remembered again her indebtedness, felt that she owed her presence there to Mrs. Brutt, and in silent vexation drew back.

Three especially dull days were ending. A middle-aged lawyer, on Mrs. Brutt's other side, had taken up her whole attention at meals. Doris, with Germans in front and Spaniards at her side, was condemned to silence. It never seemed to occur to her companion that she might feel neglected. If the lawyer would have preferred speech with the pretty girl, two seats off—as was only natural—he was allowed no chance.

Three days of this; and as Doris leant out of the window, peeping at the people below, all happy and chattering one with another, she had an unwonted sensation of loneliness. Her thoughts turned homeward, with a longing to be there. She pictured lovingly the old father, saying little, but ever on the look-out for his child; and the somewhat managing mother who, though at times a little trying, made her chief aim in life—this daughter. Never till now had Doris realised the sweetness of being always wanted, always thought of, always cared for, always welcome.

"I suppose it will be the same thing again this evening," she thought, observing that only ten minutes remained before the hour for table d'hôte. "I wish I could talk German. That is rather a nice-looking German lady opposite me. But I can't make out a single word she says. No hope of any change yet, I'm afraid."

There were changes, however. Mrs. Brutt's middle-aged lawyer had disappeared; and an elderly lady took his place. Also on Doris's other side two talkative Spaniards were gone; and she waited with curiosity to see who would fill the vacant seats.

They remained empty till the end of the first course. Then a man drew back the chair by her side, and slipped into it—bowing to those opposite.

Another "foreigner," Doris decided. What a pity! She was longing to exchange ideas with somebody. Perhaps he might prove to be a linguist.

One glance revealed to her a spare and muscular figure, broad-shouldered and of medium height. She saw that the sunburnt well-shaped hand, lying on the table, made no needless movements. "English—surely!" An odd feeling of confidence in the owner of that strong still hand took possession of her.

"Would you please pass the mustard?" she had to say; and the ice was broken.

"Pretty place, Bex," he remarked. So she had conjectured rightly.

"Rather shut in," she observed, brightening.

"Well, yes. One would not care to stay too long. I'm going higher."

"So are we in two or three days."

She gave another glance, and met a pair of good grey eyes bent upon herself. A good face too; not exactly handsome, but she liked it.

"I thought at first that you were a foreigner," she remarked.

"Properly speaking, we are both foreigners here." When he smiled, no question existed as to his good looks. The whole face changed. It reminded Doris of somebody—or something. "May I ask why you took me for a 'foreigner'?"

"Only because you bowed. We English don't generally, you know,—till we have begun an acquaintance."

"A bow isn't a bad preliminary. And sometimes it's not a bad plan to adopt foreign ways in a foreign land."

Again she met those dark-grey eyes, and their intense honesty, their abundant kindliness, impressed her. Also their self-forgetfulness. They seemed to be too fully occupied with others' interests to have time for their own.

"I think I'll begin, the next place we go to." She heard a little murmur of approval, followed by—"It would save misunderstandings, if each nation would respect the rules of good manners in other nations."

"But don't you think foreigners quite as often offend against our rules, as we against theirs?"

"Yes; and perhaps as unconsciously. No reason why we should not be pioneers in trying not to cause needless annoyance."

"There was a Polish lady here, when we first came; and she told me her little boy said he hoped to be an Englishman when he grew up, 'because the English were always so polite.' I thought that rather nice."

"It looks as if our characters as travellers were improving. We might perhaps take more trouble than we do to be understood. The average Englishman is a little too apt to stand calmly aloof, and to say: 'Only a foreigner! What the dickens does it matter?'"

"I suppose you have been a great deal abroad."

"I was at school on the Continent for some years."

Their eyes met afresh. Something in his was certainly familiar; or in the face as a whole. She had a curious feeling that he and she were not strangers. Yet she could attach no name to the memory-association, vaguely aroused. She was unconscious of her puzzled scrutiny, till he said—

"No. I don't think we are old acquaintances."

Doris promptly withdrew her gaze. "But how did you know? What made you think—?"

"Some people's faces are easily read."

"I did think I must have come across you before, somewhere—I can't imagine where."

"I have never come across you!" He spoke with absolute conviction.

She allowed the question to drop, and they fell into a very pleasant conversation, discussing places that he and she had seen, spots that should be visited, excursions which ought to be made. He was surprised to learn how little she had yet done.

Thence they turned to books, comparing notes over what each had read, and exchanging impressions. He found in her an intelligence beyond the average of girls, and readiness to take in fresh ideas. She found in him a cultured mind, clear and sensible, with signs of power. He made no attempt to engross the whole talk, but set himself to draw her out. She felt like an instrument, played upon by a practised hand. It was a new experience, being manipulated by a strong masculine personality, encouraged to say what she thought, listened to with deference, treated as if her crude girlish notions were worth hearing.

Hamilton Stirling never did this. He could lecture and inform, but he could not throw open the doors of another mind; indeed he had no wish to do so. When Hamilton asked her what she thought, she always knew that he only wanted to prove her to be in the wrong. This stranger treated her as if she were a reasonable being; not an empty-pated and ignorant person, with no right to differ from him.

It is remarkable how many subjects may be skated over, in the course of one lengthy meal. Doris had no conception of the attention drawn by her own animated face,—the real charm of which few present had discovered earlier. Of course Mrs. Brutt was among those who saw; and jealousy soon awoke.

She tried to insert herself into the dialogue, scraps of which reached her ears in a tantalising fashion. Didn't the stranger think the views around perfectly enchanting—sublime—magnificent? No doubt they were; but he had not the least intention of discussing them across Doris; and Mrs. Brutt found herself dropped. She fumed in silence, and could not get over it. That she should have to her share a semi-deaf elderly woman, while Doris enjoyed masculine society, was not to be borne with patience.

Dinner neared its end. Doris had seldom passed a more delightful time. Could it be that, only an hour or so earlier, she had not known of this man's existence? Again her eyes met his, again to be deciphered; and he shook his head, smiling.

"No! No! If we had met, I could not have forgotten."

"Perhaps in a former state of existence—" and she dimpled deliciously, he thought.

"Let us hope—not as cat and dog."

"If we did, I'm sure you wouldn't have worried me."

"Nature in quadrupeds is strong."

"Besides—I might have been the dog, and you the cat!"

"In which case, I should have been the worried, not the worrier."

"We might have encountered as spiders and beetles."

"Pray don't suggest anything so awful. Nonsense apart—your imagination may be equal to it. Mine isn't."

She laughed, and with one of her quick transitions, asked: "Are you going to do any climbing?"

"I hope so. And you—?" with a glance at the lithe figure.

"Oh, I want it most frightfully. I'd give anything in the world to go up a mountain. But I've had so little practice—none with real mountains. And I've no one to go with. Perhaps I shall find somebody soon." She named casually the village where they would soon be due, and his face lighted up.

"Are you going there? So am I."

"To-morrow?" she inquired eagerly.

"No, but in a very few days. To-morrow at six in the morning I'm off to Martigny. But—I hope we may meet again."

Mrs. Brutt was standing up, and Doris had to move. She longed to find out whether he would be at the same hotel with themselves, but could not resolve to put the question. He bowed a gravely polite farewell, as the two ladies withdrew.

Often after dinner Mrs. Brutt would stay in the salon. This evening she insisted on a walk in the garden.

"That man is really too forward," she said, drawing up her head with an air which Doris had learnt to understand. "You will have to be careful about making new acquaintances. It is not safe to be friendly with people that one knows nothing whatever about. He may be a sharper, or a man of bad character. Anyhow, a person you never set eyes on before. And you were treating him precisely like an old friend."

"I wasn't!" the girl said indignantly.

"I beg your pardon! I saw and heard. And nobody knows anything about him! I don't at all like his face. There's a sort of a sinister look." Mrs. Brutt was not always happy in her choice of adjectives. "I should not imagine that he is to be trusted. In fact, I am sure he is not. I can always depend on my own sense—my instinct—of other people's characters. I am never mistaken—and I have a strong sense that he is not a man in whom one could put any confidence."

Doris held herself in with difficulty. Her own sense said exactly the opposite. She decided that it was not necessary to name the possibility of their meeting in the mountains.