CHAPTER II.
hat day was the beginning of a week of pure delight to Catherine. In proportion as her body drank in the pure sweet air, so her mind and outlook developed and expanded. It was much for her to have the constant companionship of a woman like Margaret Gray, a woman whose generous nature viewed the girl’s beauty without jealousy, and delighted in setting it off to the best advantage. At first, indeed, she had had a qualm. Suppose that Granville, in spite of his apparent indifference, should take a fancy to this penniless teacher. What would become of all his sister’s ambitious schemes for his promotion by a marriage with Lord Mayne’s sister, a scheme not utterly absurd in the face of that lady’s marked esteem for him? That, indeed, would be a disastrous ending to Margaret’s benevolent plans, and she determined to avert it by a little talk with her new friend. She read Catherine through and through, and knew that she was one of those women who take a highly idealistic view of love and marriage; who conceive that even a suspected preference of a man for a particular woman makes him sacred to her, and who would shrink from desiring another girl’s lover as they would shrink from a robbery. If she could convey to Catherine that Granville’s affections were already engaged, she knew that she would have little to fear.
They were sitting out on the verandah after dinner, reviewing the delightful experiences of the day, spent in the ascent of a neighbouring hill.
“And to-morrow we will go into the valley for a change. Wouldn’t it be nice to go on the lake? Granville rows splendidly; he was in his college boat the last year at Oxford,” said Margaret.
“Don’t you think you two had better go alone?” asked Catherine. “I am sure you would enjoy it more, and I can easily find something else to do.”
“Oh, but you must come,” urged Margaret. “You would be frightfully dull alone, and I want you.”
“It’s awfully good of you, but——”
“But what?”
“I don’t think your brother likes the trouble of always having another person to look after.”
Margaret laughed.
“Oh, you mustn’t think that; he really likes you very much, but you are rather incomprehensible to him. He would be so distressed if he thought that you stayed away on that account.” Secretly Margaret thought, “Rather a dangerous symptom, that she should be so sensitive to his indifference.”
“Granville is not quite an ordinary person, you know,” added his sister, speaking very fast, in order to cover Catherine’s confusion. “It takes a long time for him to get to like people, but when he has once formed a friendship no one could be more loyal. I envy Lady Blanche.”
“Lady Blanche?” asked Catherine. “Who is she?”
“Oh, she is Lord Mayne’s sister. Long ago, before our father died, Granville and Maurice—Lord Mayne, you know—were at Oxford together. They were great chums, and Granville used to spend most of his vacations at Grimshaw. He and Lady Blanche were certainly very good friends, and I think there might have been an engagement had not my father died suddenly, leaving his affairs in an inextricable muddle. He was overwhelmed with debt; and instead of inheriting a large fortune, as we had imagined would be the case, Granville and I found ourselves with only a comparatively small capital. The interest on that is still going to pay off the debts. Of course, Granville couldn’t speak then, and it was fortunate for him that Lord Mayne entered Parliament at that time, and insisted on his becoming his secretary. Between ourselves it was quite equally fortunate for Lord Mayne, because Granville is ten times as clever as he is; and when people praise his speeches, and talk of him as the ‘most brilliant of our younger politicians,’ I hug myself and think that he is inspired by my brother.”
“But how sad!” cried Catherine sympathetically. “And did Lady Blanche care for him all the time?”
“That I can’t tell, but though all this is seven years ago, she is still unmarried, and if Granville ever recovered any of our fortune I am sure he would ask her. It would be a splendid thing for him, for Blanche has heaps of money of her own. Think—he could go into Parliament and make quite as great a figure as Lord Mayne.”
“That would be splendid,” cried the girl enthusiastically, “but if she loves him, surely she would be glad to marry him without the money.”
“No doubt; but he can’t ask her, at least, not yet. But sometimes I hope that by some lucky chance they may come to an understanding, and the difficulty may be solved. Come, we must say ‘Good night’ now, if we are to start early to-morrow.”
Margaret’s stratagem had quite succeeded in one way, and the girl looked on Granville henceforth as an engaged man. But this made an enormous difference to her. Absurdly conscious of her lack of means, and fearful lest anyone should think that she looked forward to matrimony as a deliverance from her daily toil, her manner to the few men she had met had been almost repellant. But if Mr. Gray were engaged, he could not (she thought, in the innocence of her heart) imagine that she had any designs on him. And so the constraint which had hitherto affected her manner to him wore off; she met him as frankly and as unaffectedly as she did his sister.
Margaret had given him a hint to persuade Catherine to come with them the next day, and as she came downstairs, she found him waiting in the hall.
“Why, are you not ready yet?” he asked, seeing that she was without her hat.
“I—did not think of coming to-day,” she said, hesitating, and smiling to conceal the disappointment in her tone.
“Oh, but you must, please! Margaret will be so disappointed—we shall both be disappointed if you don’t. Look outside; can you resist it?”
The sun was shining on the twin peaks at the head of the valley, the sky was a brilliant blue, the air dry and clear with that sweet freshness peculiar to mountainous places. Catherine wavered in her decision.
“Come,” said Granville decidedly, “run up and get your hat, and I will have coffee for you by the time you come down. We have only ten minutes before we must start.”
The girl, feeling half ashamed of her own weakness, yet, at the same time, happy and pleased, returned in a minute, equipped for the day. Margaret’s confidences and Granville’s own cordiality had broken down the barrier. Catherine soon found herself talking quite easily and naturally to the brother of her friend, while he, on his part, realised that his early prejudices were fast disappearing. How fresh and unaffected the girl was, and how simplicity and wisdom mingled in her conversation! They talked of books, and he was surprised to find how apt and sympathetic her criticisms were, though they betrayed at every moment the speaker’s ignorance of the world, and her extravagantly ideal view of human nature. Margaret, walking beside them, would listen quietly, now and then putting in some shrewd comment or witty parenthesis, which set them all laughing, and relieved the strain of a too intense conversation.
So five days passed, the intimacy deepening hourly, while every evening brought its gift of quiet converse on the starlit verandah, and every morning its glad summons to another day of enthusiastic activity. Catherine counted these days as a miser counts his gold. The High School, and all the premature anxieties and responsibilities that poverty had laid upon her seemed so far away. Now, for the first time, she realised what life might mean, what for some few it did mean.
“Only seven days more!” she sighed, as she bound her hair before the looking-glass, just a week after her arrival. “What a glorious week it has been! If only the next is as good!”
Brilliant weather still smiled upon them. They were to go that day for a longer excursion than any they had as yet undertaken, a long climb, which involved the aid of guides, and which was to be shared by some of the other visitors.
Margaret was waiting for Catherine on the verandah.
“How lovely you are!” she exclaimed, in a sudden burst of admiration, as the sun caught the girl’s bright brown hair, and bathed her figure in a kind of golden glory. “Do you know, if you were not you, I might be afraid”—she added in a whisper, looking significantly at Granville who was some yards away, talking to the guide.
Catherine’s face crimsoned. “Oh, how can you say such things?” she asked indignantly.
“Forgive me, dear, it was too bad. But I never knew a girl less conscious of her own power, or less of a coquette than you. I would trust you not only with my brother, but with my lover, if by any possibility one should fall to my share.”
“Margaret! When everyone loves you!” cried her friend.
“Now we are getting sentimental, and we had better join the others,” laughed Margaret. And so at last they started, a merry chattering party, up the steep ascent to the mountains.
Catherine never forgot that day; the first few miles of shady forest, where ferns and bilberries nestled by quiet springs of water, and the shy inhabitants of the pine-trees fled away with a rustling of branches and nimble feet at their approach. And then the gradual cool emergence on wide green fields, in whose hollows lay the quiet blue lakes, troubled only by the gentle hoofs of the dainty bell-adorned cattle. Here they found, by bubbling springs, bright patches of blue gentian, that outrivalled the sky in brilliancy, and bade defiance to the vanishing mantle of half-melted snow that lay around them. All these things Catherine seemed to see in a kind of glorified vision, and though Granville was beside her, neither spoke much; the rest of the party had hastened on with mirth and laughter; Margaret especially had discovered that one of the guides was a most interesting companion, and was chattering gaily to him in German.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Catherine’s companion suddenly, and there was a new accent in his voice, that was an imperative summons to her subdued emotions.
“Immensely!” she replied, sighing.
“Then why sigh?” he asked, laughing; and then, looking down, he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“I believe you are tired!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “Suppose we sit down and have a little rest.”
“No, really, I am not at all tired; only everything is so perfect.”
“Then let us prolong perfection,” he answered. “We are nearly at the top now, and we shall soon find the others again. Here is a comfortable place; you can lean against this rock, and I will put a stone for your feet.”
But at that moment, there was a sudden sound of falling rock, a rush of loosened stones and gravel, and just within an ace of her shoulder a huge fragment of rock broke away, and was hurled down the slope beneath them, followed by a mass of mingled snow and débris.
His arm went quickly round her, and drew her from the spot.
“My darling! What an escape! And you didn’t even scream!” he said, not withdrawing his arm. “There, don’t tremble; it’s all right,” he continued, soothing her as he would a frightened child, and for a moment his lips rested on hers.
This recalled Catherine to her senses.
“Oh, you mustn’t,” she cried, breaking from him in an agony of shame. One clear thought possessed her mind; either that kiss was treason to Lady Blanche, or he had taken advantage of her defenceless position to insult her. To her intense relief, as she hurried forwards round the turning of the path, she came upon all the others, who had stopped to drink at a little wayside spring.
“Oh, did you hear that noise?” asked Margaret. “I suppose it was a miniature avalanche.”
“Not a very insignificant one,” said Granville, who was close behind. “It nearly knocked us over. However, all’s well that ends well,” he added gaily. “Miss West, do you want a drink?”
His light, conversational tone struck on Catherine’s overstrained emotions with a sudden chill. How could he manage such a sudden transition? But she summoned all her self-control, and took the cup in as matter-of-fact a way as he handed it to her.
For the rest of the day she clung close to Margaret. She felt that to let Granville approach her would be treason to the friend who had reposed so much confidence in her. Suppose Margaret should think that she had been trying to attract her brother’s attention! And then, again, with a sudden pang came the cruel thought that his conduct might imply no real attachment to her; that he had merely given way to the impulse of the moment, or, worse still, was a deliberate flirt. And yet she could not believe this; all that she knew of him militated against such a view; she could not think that she had been so greatly mistaken in her estimate of his character, nor that he could thus belie the traditions of a gentleman. Her heart confirmed her faith in him, and amidst the tumultuous emotions of the moment, she was surprised and ashamed to recognise an irrepressible elation, and a strange absence of that feeling of angry humiliation which she supposed to be the correct state of mind under the circumstances. Notwithstanding this, when the hotel was again reached, she pleaded fatigue, and slipping away to her own room, did not reappear that evening.
Granville was walking up and down the verandah in a state of suppressed excitement, longing to see the flutter of her skirt in the doorway, yet conscious that her manner to him since the episode of the avalanche had been a tacit reproof. How stupid he had been to frighten her so; and yet, although he was not a vain man, he could not pretend to think that she had been very angry with him. She had permitted his embrace, and that from a girl of her stamp was a sufficient avowal of the state of her feelings. His honour as well as his inclination required that he should make a definite claim to her affection, and if Catherine had ventured to come down that evening he would have done so. But her absence gave him time for reflection, and as the wave of emotion subsided, he realised how fatal such a step would be to his career. He was an extremely ambitious man, and success to him would involve either a long celibacy, or a rich marriage. Hitherto his intellect had been developed at the expense of his affections, and except for his warm attachment to his sister, and a loyal friendship for Lord Mayne, his heart had remained untouched. He had dallied with the idea of a marriage with Blanche, but had not regarded it with much seriousness; from a worldly point of view it would certainly be advantageous, but, on the whole, he preferred the independence of the bachelor state. He remained on cordial terms with the heiress, and awaited the development of affairs without the least impatience, only laughing at his sister’s frequent hints as to Lady Blanche’s inclination for him. Perhaps, little as he suspected it, he was all the while guided by his own nobility of heart, which withheld him from the sacrilege of a loveless marriage. And would his heart now vindicate its authority over his intellect and triumph over the closely-laid schemes, the absorbing aims, the ceaseless industry of years? Supposing that Catherine should confirm her unspoken confession, was he prepared to relinquish for her his long-cherished ambitions, and resign himself to a life of insignificance and dependence?
But in the midst of the conflict something happened which revealed to him the strength of his passion, and brought him to a swift decision. His sister at this moment came running to him, her face flushed with excitement, holding a letter and telegram in her hand.
“What do you think?” she cried. “A letter from Blanche! Actually, she is at Interlaken, and wants to meet us there. She has been travelling with the Brookes, but they are going back through Paris, which she hates. The telegram has just come, too. She would like us to go there to-morrow, and bring her back with us.”
Secretly Margaret was thinking, “What a stroke of luck! Could anything be more favourable to an explanation than all these circumstances?” But Granville’s first exclamation was not promising.
“What a nuisance!” he cried.
Margaret looked at him with mingled dismay and surprise, and his next words were not reassuring.
“What is to become of Miss West if we go away? She will be all alone.”
“Nonsense, Granville, what absurd objections you do make! We need not be away more than two days, and Catherine is quite able to take care of herself.”
“Poor little girl!” he began, and then bit his lip at his own indiscretion. “Very well, I suppose we must go. I’ll find the time-table.”
But how unwelcome to him at this moment was the thought of the new arrival! Though his conscience was quite clear with regard to her, he felt that Blanche would prove a discordant element. He did not for a moment suppose that his engagement would be the least trouble to her; but he would have preferred to conduct his wooing under less vigilant eyes; besides, if he did not speedily acquaint Margaret with the true state of affairs, he knew that she would be continually planning to leave him and Blanche together, and the opportunities for seeing Catherine by herself would be rendered much fewer. After much thought he determined that as soon as he saw the latter he would come to some definite understanding with her; but this could not be till after their return from Interlaken, as they would have to start early the next morning, probably before she was up. He would therefore send her a note explaining his absence, and expressed in such a manner as to leave no doubt as to his attachment; and having written this, and seen about its safe delivery, he turned in, prepared to bear the vexations of the morrow with as good a grace as possible.
Margaret had meanwhile run up to Catherine’s room and tapped gently at the door. The girl opened it with trembling hands.
“Oh, you mustn’t get up, dear,” said Margaret. “I only came to tell you something. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but Granville and I are obliged to go to Interlaken to-morrow. We shall be away all day, and I don’t want you to get up to see us off, so I thought I would come and say good-bye now.”
Catherine, whom she had forced down on the couch again, raised herself on one elbow, and looked at her in some bewilderment.
“Going away? I don’t quite understand. Do you mean that you are going home?”
“My dear child! What an idea! Haven’t we promised to look after you, and take you with us when that unhappy day does arrive? No, but Lady Blanche has telegraphed to us to meet her at Interlaken; she wants to join us here. Now, congratulate me, dear. She is evidently not averse to my pet scheme; and what could be more favourable to an understanding than these romantic surroundings? Oh, I hope very much that the engagement will be definitely announced as soon as we get back.”
“You think it would be a good thing for your brother?” asked Catherine, glad that the darkening room hid her face.
“What a question to ask! It would be his making. Blanche is just the wife for him—a tall, clever girl, who would make a capital hostess, and help him in his political career. If it hadn’t been for his horrid pride, which makes him dread the mere suspicion of interested motives, the thing would have come off long ago. And now I think I may promise you a ticket for the Ladies’ Gallery when he makes his maiden speech.”
“Is he so very proud? Does he really care for her?” faltered Catherine.
“Well, I don’t pretend that he is passionately in love. He is so reserved and so self-controlled, and all his interests are intellectual; love would never play an absorbing part in his life, though, if he once made up his mind, no one would be more loyal. Oh, I think Lady Blanche will be very happy, and if I didn’t think the main advantage would be with her, I wouldn’t try so hard to bring it about. Now, good-bye, dear; only for a day, you know. And mind you have a good rest while we are away.”
Margaret disappeared, and Catherine did the obvious and feminine thing under the circumstances; she buried her face in the sofa cushion and burst into tears. Till then, she felt, she had never known what grief was. “But it is much better for him,” she sobbed. “How could I help him, or ever do anything for him? It was all a mistake—and how silly I am!”
Presently she dried her tears, and carefully bathing her eyes and brushing her hair, she exchanged her dressing-gown for the dress she had travelled in. Then she dragged out her portmanteau, and began to fold her clothes, preparatory to packing them in it. In the midst of these preparations, there came another knock at the door. This time it was the chambermaid with a note.
Catherine took it with a feeling that almost amounted to dread, and tore it open.
“Dearest,” it ran, “I am obliged to be away to-morrow, and shall not be able to see you before I start. I shall try to be back in the evening. Good-bye for a little while.
“G. G.”
This was the signal for a fresh burst of tears. She held the letter to her lips for a minute, and then folded it away in the bosom of her dress. Then she went on with her packing. In another hour it was all done.
Ten o’clock. She wondered whether Margaret and Granville were still up. Even tourists go to bed early in Switzerland, and, considering their plans for the next day, she thought it doubtful. So she slipped downstairs, and told the porter that she was obliged to go away suddenly, and would like to leave by the first train in the morning. Which was it?
“Ah, there is one at sigs o’clock, mees,” he said. “There is a party leaving at five to catch it. Ze young lady will perhaps like to travel with them?”
On further inquiry Catherine found that the train she would go by left the station half an hour after the one by which the Grays would travel. She determined to remain in her room till they had started, and thus manage her departure unobserved. She went upstairs again, and wrote two little notes, one to Margaret and one to Granville.
“Dearest Margaret,” said the first, “please don’t think me ungrateful for going away like this. I shall never forget you or your kindness. Perhaps some day I shall be able to thank you, but for the present I implore you not to try to find out where I am gone.”
The other was more difficult of composition; but after two or three attempts she produced the following—
“Please do not think me unkind if I say that I think it better for both of us not to meet again. I cannot explain why, but I am sure that I am right. Good-bye, my dear.”
She could not refrain from the little touch of tenderness at the end, though afterwards she would have given worlds to recall it. “After all,” she argued, “he must know that I do care; and I would rather he thought that than that he should believe I let him behave so, without loving him.”
And so it happened that the next morning she was on her way back to England, a week before she had anticipated; certainly her holiday had not failed to bring her adventures.
(To be continued.)