Chapter XXII: 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.