Two letters crossed this effusion, arriving next morning. One, from Mrs. Winton, desired her daughter to return without delay, giving no reason, except that she had been absent long enough. The other, from Mr. Stirling to Mrs. Brutt, intimated that an escort for the girl had to be immediately found. If any difficulty existed, might he—in a friendly spirit, and in strict secrecy—offer to frank the widow's return-journey, that she might bring Doris? He apologised and expressed himself gracefully. Mrs. Brutt at once decided that no escort save her own should be available.
She saw that her earlier letter to Mrs. Winton had brought this about, making the second unnecessary. Still, she did not regret launching that shaft. In her present mood it gratified her to trouble anyone belonging to Doris.
Since Mr. Stirling's letter meant urgency, she settled to start in two days, making the best terms she could with the hotel people. Doris offered no objections. She knew from her own letter that it had to be; and though she was sorry, she also felt relief. Things could not go on as they were. Conscience was worrying her a good deal.
The last day fled on wings, wrapped in a golden haze, mingled with pain. On the part of Maurice, there was strenuous hope; on the part of Doris, a restless disquiet. She could not fathom herself. In Dick's presence she was content, wanting nothing. He controlled her, satisfied her, filled her life. He was so dear—so good! He loved her so intensely.
And she loved him, clung to him, did not know how to think of life without him. As he had once said, it was with them—"Just you and I!" Nothing else, for the moment, signified. They had hours together; for Mrs. Brutt let them severely alone; and they made the most of the remaining time. Each had the other; and that was enough.
Yet Doris had a dim consciousness of questionings, somewhere far below, which would not be stilled; questionings intangible, unexpressed, but real. For her world consisted of more than just Dick and herself; and that which was enough at the present moment might not always be enough.
Late in the afternoon they found their way up the mountain to a quiet spot, away from everybody. It had been a day of dull weather, and the heights were heavily capped with clouds. One or two distant growls heralded a storm. Maurice sat beside her on the steep grass-slope, his stick across his knees, his brown hands grasping it. Ever and anon the honest grey eyes wandered towards Doris.
"I'm off too," he said.
"But you've got a day or two more."
"I can't stand this place without you."