Chapter XXIII: Almost Over

THEY had followed the circuit of the landscape, standing up to look each way in turn; then resuming their seats. A break in the talk came. Doris twisted round, to gaze over the abrupt descent behind them—then looked again admiringly towards the wonderful Oberland dream-vision. She had anew the feeling that Maurice wanted to say something; and waited for him to say it.

Her sense spoke truly. All the morning he had been pondering how to lead up to this something—how to produce it; and conjecturing how she would take it.

He dreaded coming to the point. It might make all the difference with her; with his hopes of winning her. But the thing had to be said. And he could hope for no better opportunity. When he spoke, there was a sound of strain in his voice.

"You were asking one day—not long ago—how it was that I took to my present work."

"Yes, I remember. You said it wouldn't have been your own choice. I suppose that means that you don't care for doctoring—or rather, for surgery."

"It is a life with no end of openings."

"Openings for what?"

"Helping others. Being of use."

"But you would have liked something else."

"My real bent was for the army."

"And why didn't you—?"

"The friend who paid for my education refused his consent."

She wondered why this brought a disagreeable sensation.

"What made him refuse?"

"He gave no reason."

"And you are sorry—still!"

"Nothing is more foolish than to be a slave to useless regrets. My line is marked out for me; and I have to make the best of it."

"That is brave—anyway," she murmured.

"It is my simple duty."

He had not yet said what had to be said. It was difficult to come to the point. He was sorely tempted to put off.

"But your friend who—had he a right to forbid the army?"

"I suppose he had—in a way. He made it a condition of giving the help that I—we—needed."

"I see," she said. But she felt that she did not see. "Was he a near relative?"

"No. A friend." Doris kept uneasy silence. He added, "My mother enforced his wish."

She repeated, "Your mother?" with a note of inquiry.

"I have meant to tell you more about her. It is right that I should. Her father, my grandfather, was, I have always heard, a very superior man; head-clerk in a large house of business in Manchester. But he married beneath him—one of the mill-hands. I don't know how it came about. My mother was left an orphan very young; and her home was with an uncle—a farmer. She is not well educated. She was sent to school, I know, for two or three years—but perhaps she did not care to learn."

Doris was taken acutely by surprise. She did not know what to say; and she waited in silence for more.

"My father," he went on in a low voice, "died when I was a little child. I have no remembrance of him. But my mother once told me that he was well-born—well-connected. And I know—apart from what she said— I know, from what is in me, that he must have been of gentle birth. You understand, do you not? I have all the instincts of gentle blood. That at least I may claim, without hesitation. I have them—not from training only, but by inheritance."

Another pause. Doris had not stirred.

"Still—I must tell you frankly—I am afraid there may have been about him something not satisfactory. I only conjecture this, for my mother has said nothing of the kind. She is by nature extraordinarily reserved; and she scarcely ever mentions him. He may, possibly, have done something which she does not like to tell. But that my father was a gentleman, I have no doubt."

Doris made an indistinct sound.

"By the wish of this friend, who undertook my education, I have been very little with my mother and sisters. He has insisted on keeping me as much as possible away from them."

She managed to say, "That must make things difficult."

"It makes things very difficult. When we do meet, there is a gulf which nothing can bridge over. Our lives, our aims, our whole outlook— are different. I suppose the separation was wrong. But I had no responsibility there. Nothing now can undo the past."

"And this friend—does he still wish you to keep away from them?"

"The same as ever. And though he has no real control over me, we owe him much. Besides—he makes other things depend upon—this!"—in a lower tone.

Another break. "You have sisters," Doris observed.

"Two. One of them has inherited—as I hope I have—the instincts of gentle blood. Poor little Winnie! But—Jane—"

He stopped short. Doris had started to her feet, crimson and half choked, hardly able to believe her own ears.

Winnie!—and Jane! Morris!—and Maurice!—the same name, differently spelt.

His father—a gentleman! In a flash she recalled the portrait, found and opened by Mrs. Brutt; the narrow, low-browed bad face, the worse than vulgar look. That—his father! And his mother—the heavy, blunt, silent woman, Mrs. Morris! And his sister—the impossible Jane, in yellow blouse and furious fringe and cheap gorgeous hat!

It was like an abyss opening before her! This new sweet world of happiness, in which for days she had lived, underwent eclipse.

In a flash she saw it all; and she forgot where she was. She forgot everything, except the dire discovery that Dick Maurice, the man to whom she had lost her heart, was the son of Phil Morris and Nurse Molly, and—the brother of Jane!

Her first impulse was to spring to her feet, to put a space between herself and him. She obeyed the impulse unthinkingly, with a hasty backward movement.

One step, and she was on the verge of that tremendous depth, which separated this lofty headland from the valley, far far below. Dominated by the one overwhelming thought, she did not dream of danger. A second step—and her foot was over the edge, in empty air.

She tottered—staggered—flung out her hands. Maurice, springing to save her, believed for one awful hundredth of a second that he was too late; that she had surmounted the perils of a dangerous rock-climb, to perish from off this grassy mount. The shock of her staggering clutch at the air, as she swayed backwards, drove every vestige of colour from his face; and any less instantaneous leap to the rescue must have failed of its object. She was in the very act of falling, when gripped by his hand and dragged away.

"How—could you?"

She saw that he was ghastly.

"I—don't know. Did I slip?"

"What made you?"

She tried to withdraw her hand, but he kept a firm grip, led her to the edge, and bade her look over. Where they stood, it seemed that nothing lay between them and the level of the Rhone Valley, thousands of feet below. From the contemplation of that sheer depth, her eyes sought his.

"I see! I—had forgotten. And you—you saved me." She gave a shudder. "How quick you were! I can't thank you. It has given you rather a fright."

Rather a fright! He drew her to a safe distance, made her sit down, and did the same himself—his face still as white as chalk. She submitted in bewildered silence, conscious that her escapade was being commented on by two or three strangers present, though no one ventured to accost the pair.

As she sat by his side, it dawned upon her what her death would have meant to Maurice, had she been thus, in one moment, swept out of his life. Then, reverting to what had gone before, she felt a great wave of pity for him. She could see that he was unnerved, shaken, hardly able to hold himself together. If things were as he said, it was not his fault. He could not be blamed for his parentage.

"But I ought to have known sooner," she said to herself.

Maurice at length broke the silence.

"Was it—what I said? Did that startle you?"

Her reply was indistinct.

"For days I have felt that I must explain. Especially since your mention of Mr. Stirling. Don't you see?" as she looked puzzled. "It is he who paid for my education."

"Oh," vaguely. "Did I speak of him? He is a great friend of ours."

"It—has not been easy," Maurice went on, very low. "The temptation to put off has been—tremendous. More than I can explain! But I knew it had to be said. And I thought—if I could get you alone for this walk—"

"Yes. I understand."

He clenched his fingers upon his stick, till they whitened through their tan.

"Was it—what I said about my mother that startled you? Or was it—?"

"I have seen your sister Jane," was all she said; and Maurice needed to ask no more.

Doris sighed quietly.

"I suppose it is about time for us to start," she said. She spoke as one in a maze; and still to herself she kept repeating—

"The son of Nurse Molly! The brother of Jane Morris!"

Yet still Dick Maurice!—the man who was becoming so much to her!— the man by whom she could be sure she was beloved! Her eyes fell upon the strong, finely-formed brown hand, clutching his stick, the hand which had drawn her attention when first they met as strangers; and a wave of tenderness rolled through her. How hard it was for him!

"I meant to take you to the Lac des Chavonnes. It is part of the show. Perhaps you'd rather not—now."

His face was wistful; and a reckless fit carried her away. Everything was different, she told herself. This might be their last, their very last, walk together. Why cut it short? Why not make the most of it? He had been so brave, so good, speaking out the distasteful truth! This one little treat, surely, she might allow—whether to him or to herself, she did not mentally specify.

Nor did she pause to consider whether it was wise—whether, for his sake, if everything now would be different, she ought not at once to end their intercourse? The wish assailed her powerfully, and she gave in to it.

"I suppose I ought just to see the lake. It is not far off, is it?"

"Not half-an-hour's walk from Bretaye."

His face brightened, and they went at a rapid pace down the steep grass-slope, each trying to put aside the prevailing thought, and to chat lightly. If Doris succeeded, Maurice did not.

Reaching the small blue-grey piece of water, with its framework of jagged rocks and slender pines, they climbed to a shady spot, and sat long in silence, which neither was in haste to interrupt. Upon each stole a strong consciousness that, shared with the other, life offered the best that it had to give, little besides being essential for happiness. But, while this consciousness pervaded the whole being of the man, dominating his every faculty, it rested rather as a ray of brightness upon the surface of the girl's mind; not less genuine, but less deep.