"Why, what's the matter?" said the elder lady, as she rose to go indoors.

"Oh, nothing. Only that I shall be left all alone again."

"Poor thing!" said Laura, mischievously. "But perhaps, if you promise to be very entertaining, we'll come and take care of you again. Shall we, mother?"

"Perhaps. And now, Mr Orlebar, is there anything you want? Anything I can tell them to do for you--or to bring you out?"

"You're awfully good, Mrs Daventer. They know they've got to bring me something to pick at out here; but they may have forgotten. Yes, if you don't mind just sending Alphonse here. And--I say--Mrs Daventer-- you'll--you'll come around again presently yourselves--won't you?"

"Perhaps--only perhaps!" answered Laura for her mother, with a mischievous, tantalising glance, which, however, said as plainly as possible, "Why, you old goose, you know we will."

His face brightened. "Thanks awfully," he mumbled. And then, as they left him, the sun did not seem to shine quite so brightly as before.

However, he would not be left alone for long.

What had become of all the dismal and bitter reflections which had been crowding in upon him when he first took up his position in that chair barely two hours ago? Well, the cause of them existed still, but somehow, however reluctant to own it he might be, there was no disguising altogether a sneaking idea that the sting might be dulled.

Somehow, too, his anxiety to be able to get about had become greatly enhanced, but not so his eagerness to seek out fresh scenes. That, curiously enough, had proportionately abated.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

ONE NAIL DRIVES OUT ANOTHER.

"That there are as good fish in the sea as any that ever came out may or may not be a sound proverb, but it's one that our friend Orlebar seems to believe in--eh, Fordham?"

Beyond a grunt, his companion made no answer, and Wentworth continued--

"Just look at the fellow now. The widow and daughter mean 'biz,' if ever any one did. And Orlebar is such an easy fish to hook, provided they don't allow him too much play. If they do, the chances are ten to one he'll break away and rise to another fly."

It was a warm, sunshiny Sunday afternoon, about a fortnight after Philip's first appearance downstairs. The two thus conversing were strolling along the road which leads to the Zmutt-thal, and in the green meadows beyond the roaring, churning Visp, walked three figures which, in spite of the distance, they had no sort of difficulty in identifying with the objects under discussion.

"Yes, Orlebar is a fish that requires prompt landing," pursued Wentworth. "They have had a fortnight to do it in. If they don't effectually gaff him within the next week, they may give it up. Some one else will happen along, and he will think it time for a change. The fair Laura will get left. Do you a bet on it, Fordham, if you like."

"Not worth betting on, is it?" was the languid reply. "I have done what I could for the boy--kept him out of numberless snares and pitfalls.

I'm a trifle tired of it now. If he is such a fool as to plunge in headlong--why, he must."

In spite of this admirable indifference, the speaker was, in fact, watching the game keenly, and so far it was progressing entirely to his own satisfaction. Did his female accomplice--in obedience to her better instincts, or to a natural tendency to revolt against dictation--show any signs of slackness, there he was, ruthless, unswerving, at hand to remind her of the consequences of failure. She must succeed or fail.

In the latter alternative no palliation that she had done her best would be admitted, and this she knew. No such excuse--indeed, no excuse-- would avail to save her and hers from the consequences of such failure, and the result would be dire. She was in this man's power--bound hand and foot. She might as well expect mercy from a famished tiger as one shade of ruth from him did the task which he had set her to fulfil fail by a hair's breadth. And she judged correctly.

Not by accident was Fordham strolling there that afternoon. The strongest of all pa.s.sions--in a strong nature--the vindictive, vengeful hate of years thoroughly awakened in him, he watched the puppets dancing to his wires. His accomplice must be kept alive to the fact that his eye was ever upon her, that she dare not do, or leave undone, anything, however trivial, that might risk the game. And now his companion's remarks only went to confirm his previously formed decision. It was time the curtain should be rung down upon the first act of the three-act drama--time that the second should begin.

"The most susceptible youngster that ever lived! I believe you're right, Wentworth," he pursued, in reply to one of the aforesaid remarks.

"And the worst of it is he takes them all so seriously--throws himself into the net headlong. Then, when he finds himself caught--tied tight so that no amount of kicking and swearing will get him out--he'll raise a great outcry and think himself very hardly used. They all do it. And I'm always warning him. I warned him against this very girl who's trying all she knows to hook him now."

"The deuce you did. I should be curious to know in what terms," said Wentworth.

"In what terms? I preached to him; I spake parables unto him; I propounded the choicest and most incisive metaphors. No use--all thrown away. 'A woman, my dear chap,' I said--'an attractive woman, that is-- is like a new and entertaining book, delightful--for a time. But when you have got from cover to cover you don't begin the book again and go through it a second time, and then a third, and so on. Even the few books that will bear going through twice, and then only after a decent interval, will not keep you in literary pabulum all your life. So it is with a woman. However attractive, however entertaining she may be, she is bound to pall sooner or later--some few later, but the vast majority, like the general run of books--sooner. So that in chaining yourself to one woman all your life, as you seem bent upon doing, you are showing about as much judgment as you would be in condemning yourself to read one book all your life. Less, indeed, for, if the book bores you, you can chuck it out of the window; but if the woman bores you, or leads you the life of a pariah dog, you can't chuck her out of the window, because if you do you'll likely be hanged, and she certainly will see you so before she'll walk out of the door, once in it. Philip, my son, be warned.'"

"And how did he take that undoubtedly sound counsel?" said Wentworth, with a laugh.

"Oh, abused me, of course--swore I was a brute and a savage--in fact, he rather thought I must be the devil himself. That's always the way.

Show a man the precipice he's going to walk over, and ten to one he turns round and d.a.m.ns you for not minding your own business. And as a general rule he's right. Talking of precipices, Wentworth, did you hear that man's idea at _table d'hote_ when we were talking of the difficult state the Dent Blanche was in this year?"

"No. It must have been after I went out."

"Why, he suggested, in the most matter-of-fact way, fixing a hawser from the top of it to the glacier below. Gaudy idea, wasn't it, doing the Dent Blanche by means of a hawser? And, just as we had done guffawing over the notion, he added that the only drawback to the scheme was that somebody would be sure to creep up and steal it. Whereupon that sheep-faced parson on the other side of the table cut in with a very aggrieved and much hurt amendment to the effect that he was sure the mountain people were much too honest. We all roared in such wise as to draw the attention of the whole room upon us, including an overheard remark from one of the tract-dispensing old cats that some people were never happy unless they were making a noise--even upon a Sunday."

Philip meanwhile was a.s.suredly doing everything to justify the observations of our two misogynists aforesaid. The expression of his face as he walked beside Laura Daventer, the tone of his voice as he talked to her, told quite enough. The past fortnight of daily companionship had done its work. Already there was a familiar, confidential ring in his tone--a semi-caressing expression in his eyes, which told unmistakably that he more than half considered her his own property. And what of Laura herself?

She, for her part, seemed disposed to take kindly to this state of affairs. She had tacitly acquiesced in the gradual proprietorship he had set up over her--had even abetted his efforts to glare off any presumptuous intruder who should seek to infringe his monopoly. The present arrangement suited her very well--on the whole, very well indeed.

"Do you really mean, Mrs Daventer," Philip was saying, talking across Laura to her mother--"do you really mean you are going away at the end of this week?"

"I'm afraid so. We have been a long time abroad already, and we can't remain away from home for ever."

"N-no, I suppose not," he a.s.sented, ruefully. "But what on earth shall I do here when you're gone?"

"Just what you did before we came," answered Laura, mischievously.

"There are plenty more people here."

"Just as if that's the same thing! I don't believe I'll stay on myself.

In fact, I should have gone back before now if it hadn't been for my confounded ankle."

"And that same 'confounded ankle' would have been a great deal more 'confounded' but for us," rejoined Laura. "You would have used it again too soon--much too soon--only we wouldn't let you. You would have started up the Matterhorn, or done something equally insane, if we hadn't taken care of you and kept you quiet at home."

There was more than a substratum of truth underlying this statement.

The speaker had indeed done all she said. To one of Phil's temperament it was infinitely more congenial to lounge through the days, sitting about in sequestered nooks in the fields and woods with a very attractive girl who chose to make much of him, than to undertake sterner forms of pastime in the company of such unsympathetic spirits as Fordham and Wentworth. And therein lay an epitome of the last fortnight. These two had been thrown together. When Philip's ankle had improved sufficiently to admit of moderate locomotion it was Laura who had been his constant companion during his earlier and experimental hobbles.

Indeed, it is to be feared that the sly dog had more than once exaggerated his lameness, in justification of an appeal for support on the ground of the insufficiency of that afforded by his stick, though somehow, when the said support was very prettily accorded, the weight which he threw upon his charming prop was of the very lightest. So the bright summer days of that fortnight had pa.s.sed one by one, and it was astonishing what a large proportion of the hours composing each had been spent _a deux_.

Thus had come about that good understanding, that sense of proprietorship definite on the part of the one, dissimulated, yet tangible and existent, on that of the other, which reigned between them.

But if she intended that proprietorship to become permanent--in fact, lifelong, neither by word or sign did Laura do anything to proclaim such intention. Kind, sympathetic, companionable as she was, she could not with fairness be accused of doing anything to "throw herself at his head." She was a perfect model of tact. When he waxed effusive, as it was Phil's nature to do upon very slight provocation, she would meet him with a stand-offishness the more disconcerting that it was wholly unexpected. Sometimes, even, she would invent some excuse for leaving him alone for half a day--just long enough to cause him grievously to miss her, yet not long enough to render him disgusted and resentful.

But withal she had managed that her presence should be very necessary to him, and now her forethought and cleverness had their reward, for she knew she could bring him to her feet any moment she chose.

"Yes, I should have gone back before now," repeated Philip. "I sha'n't stay on after you leave. It'll be too dismal all round. By Jove! I don't see why--er--why we shouldn't go back together. It would be awfully jolly for me having some one to travel with, and I could help you looking after the boxes and things--eh, Mrs Daventer?"

"But what about your friend, Mr Orlebar? He doesn't want to go back yet; and, even if he did, I think I see him travelling with a pair of unprotected females."

"Fordham? Oh, he and Wentworth have got together now, and they'll be swarming up every blessed alp within fifty miles around before they think of moving from here. No; on the whole I think my escort may be of use to you--in fact, I think you ought to have it."

"I believe ours is far more likely to be of use to you--in your present state," answered Mrs Daventer, with a smile. "Well, Mr Orlebar, I was going to ask you to spend a few days with us on your return, and if you care to do so, you may as well come straight home with us now--that is, of course, unless you have anything more important or attractive among your plans."

But this he eagerly protested he had not. Nothing would give him greater pleasure, and so on.

"Ours is a very quiet little place on the Welsh coast," went on Mrs Daventer. "I don't know how we shall amuse you--or rather how you will amuse yourself."

Here again Philip raised his voice in protest. He did not want amusing.

He was sure it would be quite delightful. He was tired of the abominable racket of hotel life. Quiet, and plenty of it, was just the thing he wanted. It would do him more good than anything else in the world.

"Well, then, we may look upon that as settled," was the gracious rejoinder--and Mrs Daventer could be very gracious, very fascinating, when she chose. "If you are half as pleased with your stay as we shall be to have you, we shall consider ourselves fortunate. And now, Laura, I think we had better be turning back. I really must put in an appearance at church this afternoon, especially as I missed it this morning and last Sunday as well."