Chapter XXVII: The Eavesdropper

"THERE she is again!" uttered Pressford in dismay, as a familiar figure sailed up the garden. "For pity's sake, keep her off."

Mrs. Pressford being out, Amy had to throw herself into the breach. She was rather in awe of Mrs. Brutt.

"I've brought a few flowers for your poor invalids. Just to cheer them up, you know. So dull to be kept indoors this lovely weather! I have been thinking—could you not make a little more use of me, now they are better? If you would allow me to sit with your husband for an hour, while you get out with Mrs. Pressford, I should be delighted."

Mrs. Ramsay's childlike eyes widened with dismay.

"It would be no trouble—none whatever. So I hope you will not hesitate. Invalids need to be amused; and I would do my best. A little cheerful talk, you know—"

If she had known how Pressford loathed "talk."

"Thanks! It is most kind. Oh, what pretty flowers!"

"Then you will let me appear, some time this afternoon."

"I'm afraid not yet. They have to be kept so quiet."

"I assure you, my dear, I am most quiet. I know so well the need. The least stir—the smallest creak—in certain states become agonising. Simply agonising! I know too well from experience. But you may depend upon me. So if I might look in this afternoon—"

"I'm afraid we must not think of it at present. Thanks very much, all the same."

"Really! I am sorry. It would give you a short rest. Well,—if it must not be—By the bye, is dear Doris with you this morning?"

"I've not seen her to-day."

"Then she does not always come directly after breakfast?"

Mrs. Ramsay said—"Oh no,"—not seeing whither the question tended.

"Ah,—she gets a little walk first. And Mr. Maurice?"

"He generally comes in about eleven or twelve."

"I see. Yes, I see. And you are quite sure you cannot make any use of me. I should have been charmed."

Mrs. Brutt withdrew, sweetly smiling; her mind busy.

"Now I wonder where they are," she said to herself, as she sauntered away; for by this time she was in a state of highly-strung alertness with regard to the lovers, besides being eaten up with curiosity.

From a worldly-wise point of view, if they wished to secure secrecy, Maurice and Doris would have been wise to take the widow into their confidence. Had they done so, she would have fussed and protested, but the being told would have gratified her sense of importance, and she would have arrayed her forces on their side.

To be made acquainted with the affair before even the Rector and the Squire, would have meant a degree of distinction, which she would thoroughly have appreciated. Despite her love of talk, she could keep a secret entrusted to her care; and she loved to be confided in.

But the mere fact of anything being hidden from herself aroused another side of her nature, calling into play a spirit of self-assertive inquisitiveness. The secret and all who were concerned in it became at once in her eyes "fair game;" and she could know no rest till, by hook or by crook, she had discovered that which was hidden. Towards this end she would strain every nerve; nor would she be scrupulous in her methods. Not to be told what another might know, amounted to a personal grievance.

Until the evening of the Petit Chamossaire expedition, she had looked upon Maurice as her own property. She was not so clear-sighted as she imagined. "Nothing ever escapes me!" was a pet phrase with her; yet a good deal did escape her. Once aroused, however, she could be sagacious enough.

On the return of the two that evening, towards the close of table d'hôte, fresh from their day of intercourse, he must indeed have been nonobservant who should have seen nothing unusual in Maurice's look, however carefully repressed,—who should not have detected an unwonted brightness in Doris's eyes, and noted her soft brilliancy of colouring.

The girl looked lovely,—no less! It was useless for them to expatiate on their ramble, on the views they had enjoyed, on the wondrous after-glow. No sunset hues on rocky heights had brought that look!

"I know better!" Mrs. Brutt said to herself, and she waited to be informed.

But she was not informed. It dawned upon her that, whatever might have passed, she was not to be told. Then she became angry. Since they did not choose to confide in her, she would find out for herself. With newly-quickened attention, she became aware of Maurice's absorption in Doris; of Doris's dreamy abstraction when he was absent; and also, not seldom, of a troubled expression in the girl's face. She observed too how each would quietly slip away after breakfast,—no doubt for a tête-à-tête elsewhere.

"So very deceitful!" she said to herself. "So wrong of them!"

All had happened rapidly, in few days. On this morning it occurred to her that, by an early call at the châlet, she might learn something. Before starting, she had seen Doris go down the village street, and perhaps the two might meet at the châlet. Finding her theory wrong, she had to hunt elsewhere.

"Really, so underhand!" she repeated.

Meeting on the road one of her new cronies, an English-speaking German lady, she expressed a wish to find her young charge; and the German lady pointed to a narrow path, ascending slantwise. "I haf seen her go dere sometimes."

Mrs. Brutt thanked her, and proceeded to investigate.

Using her eyes in all directions, she followed the path, seeing nought of beauty in mountain or valley; for her mind was taken up with one idea,—to find out whether Maurice and Doris had gone this way.

And she had her wish. After some fifteen or twenty minutes of slow progress, she caught sight of a small red-brown châlet, somewhat above the path. In front of it, side by side, two figures were seated,—a man and a girl—deep in talk.

She drew instantly back out of sight. They had not noticed her, and they should not!

"So—that is it!" she ejaculated. And again—"Really, how deceitful! One would have thought they knew better. Above all things, I do detest underhand ways." She felt that, for the unearthing of such a conspiracy, any methods were admissible.

The dear young doctor had become many degrees less delightful, though she was disposed to lay chief blame on Doris.

When the girl rejoined her an hour later, she asked no questions, made no remarks. But next morning, having risen with unusual promptitude, she was the first to vanish, making her way briskly to the small châlet.

Did they always come here? Was it a daily trysting-place? If not, her trouble might be thrown away. If they did come — she hardly knew what she would do. Her first idea was to seat herself on the farther side of the châlet, where she would be hidden as they approached, and then casually to walk out on them. But as she debated, she noticed the châlet-door to be ajar; and she went in.

Rough flooring under her feet; rough beams overhead; some upright beams also, supporting the roof; and at one side what she took for a manger. That was all. Not a bad place in which to sit, and quietly to hear what might go on outside. This thought came; and she put the door quickly to. She had not quite made up her mind; but she dwelt upon the possibility. And if a little voice whispered the words which she had been using about others,—"deceitful," and "underhand,"—she put them aside. Doris was in her charge, and surely it was her duty to find out what the girl was after.

Voices sounded, drawing near. Too late now for the other plan. She could wait here, however, just for a minute—and then make her presence known. She moved softly close to the wall, on the other side of which they would sit, if they did not pass on.

And they did not. It was a lovely spot. They believed themselves to be alone, beyond sight and hearing of all other human beings.

Thirty or forty yards below lay a fringe of shrubs and low trees; and the Rhone valley beyond was nearly hidden. Just in front stood boldly forth the great sweep of rocky heights, hard and grey, jagged and seamed. Lines of strata might there be studied, upright and horizontal, curved and twisted, telling of long-past pressure and moulding, perhaps also of great cataclysmic upheavals, in the shaping of these mountains. The vast rock-range, one of Nature's "out crops," rose high above softer grass-green alps, dotted with hay-châlets.

The Grand Muveran, as seen from this position, was still robed in morning shadow; and sunlight fell on the small glacier to the left just below the summit. The Petit Muveran, standing pertly up to his gigantic neighbour, also cast a shadow downward.

Across the fore-shortened Rhone valley, the Dent du Midi flung his stately head aloft, no longer reduced to insignificance, as when seen from the Chamossaire summit, by the greater aristocracy of the mountain-world. Yet some fair aristocrats were visible, huddled together in the distance,—rounded and snow-clad heights of the Valaisian range, above the Glacier de Trient.

The Dent du Midi, wide-spreading, solid, substantial, with great saddle-back ridges extending outward and downward, was all blue with a different blue from that of the sky. And soft cotton-wool masses of cloud lay in the ravines, not yet dispersed by the sun's power. All around was stillness, unbroken except by the continuous murmur of insects, the click of grasshoppers, the rough caw of a crow, and two alternating human voices.

Little dreamt Doris or Maurice who was on the other side of the châlet wall!

Mrs. Brutt had meant to stay where she was "only a minute." She had an uneasy consciousness that her position was far from dignified.

So she would only just listen to a word or two. Then, with scathing apologies, she would step forth upon the guilty pair.

But she stayed much longer than a minute; and she heard much more than a word or two.