Miriam turned swiftly back into the room, but she had seen the pain in his face, seen him wince. Daphne on her last words had taken a little impatient step and stood averted with clenched fists, and now their voices were going together up the stairs, hers eagerly talking.
She made ready to go out amongst the mountains standing there in their places as for countless ages they had stood, desolate, looking down upon nothing.
A door opened at the far end of the corridor and Vereker’s footsteps came swiftly trotting, went by and paused at a door further down: Maud Hollebone’s, at which now he was urgently tapping. A few words at the opened door and he had returned. A moment later came Maud, swishing along at a run: for more discussion.
Her thoughts turned to the promontory within easy reach. But it would be absurd to sit about visibly hung up by the bustle of events that were not even remotely her events. It was too late to do the valley run and walk back before lunch.
“I shall die.” Who was comforting Daphne? No one. No one could. Somewhere outside she was disposed of, walking with her nurse, uncomforted.
She peered into Daphne’s future, into the years waiting ahead, unworthy of her.
Vereker’s door opened again, letting out the returning Maud; coming back to go on with her packing, to talk to Mrs. Sneyde. The two of them, surrounded by the opulence of wealthy packing, talking, skipping about in talk: family affairs, and in both their minds Maud’s journey to Milan with the mild and foolish bronze.
When the footsteps had passed she went out into the corridor and across the space of sunlight streaming through Mrs. Harcourt’s door open upon its empty room. Far away in the landscape, with those people from the Kursaal, Mrs. Harcourt was forgetfully skiing, knowing nothing of all this bustle.
But Maud’s door too was set wide. Her room deserted, neat and calm as Mrs. Harcourt’s … Where was Maud?
From the room beyond came Mrs. Sneyde, dressed for outdoors, brilliant in green and gold, turning, coming forward with laughter and an outstretched restraining hand, suppressing her laughter to speak in the manner of one continuing a confidential talk; laughter remaining in her eyes that looked, not at the stranger she addressed for the first time, but away down the passage.
“I’ve just,” she whispered, “been in their room tyin’ up Daphne’s finger. Cut it on one of their razors. The poor things were terrified. Had her sittin’ on the table with her finger in a glass of water!
“No. It’s nothing; but those two great fellows were jibberin’ with fright. She’s a little demon. Two towels on the floor. One all over chocolate and the other bright with gore. They wanted to fetch old stick-in-the-mud.”
“What a tragedy for Mr. Eaden’s last hours.”
“He’s not goin’; stayin’ for the Fest. Nobody’s goin’ but the dear Skerrys.”
“Didn’t know they were going.”
“Nor nobody else. Till Ma suddenly began about her luggage. Wants to save the sleigh fare. Vereker’s arranged it; the luggage is goin’ by the Post and they’re toboggannin’; can’t you see them? ‘Whee don’t ye see goodbee to Daphnee,’ says she to Tammas.”
Cruel, a little cruel.
“They found out a good deal about the peasants.”
“The peasants? The village desperadoes? Is there anything to find out about them?”
“The lives they lead.”
“Tammas been tryin’ to convert them? With his weak eyes? Through his smoked glasses?”
“You know he smashed his glasses?”
“He would.”
“Yes. I heard his mother scolding him on the balcony and he slowly trying to explain; all in that low tone, as if they were conspiring.”
“In an enemy camp. They were like that if you spoke to them. We all tried; but by the time they’d thought and begun to answer you’d forgotten what you said.”
“I suddenly remembered some glasses I’d been advised to bring. They seemed astonished and suspicious and yet eager. ‘Try them on, Thomas,’ she said.”
“Tree them on, Tammas. I hear her.”
“And yesterday he handed them back jammy round the edges. I thought he was tired of them. They said nothing about going. But he told me about the peasants.”
“They had jam teas, on their own, upstairs.”
“Anyhow, they got in touch with the natives.”
“I ain’t surprised. Natives themselves.”
“With the people in the châlet behind.”
“Old Methuselah? Not difficult if you smash things. The old boy mended Daphne’s watch. Of course she went in to see him do it. Went in jabberin’ German which she won’t talk with Frederika. Was there an hour till I went to fish her out. Couldn’t see her, my dear—couldn’t see anything; smoke, like a fog, couldn’t breathe. Made her out at last squatting close up to the filthy old villain on his bench. Lost, in the insides of watches. She’s goin’ to be a watchmaker now.”
“It must be his son.”
“Who must?”
“The one Thomas told me of. A woodcutter. Terrible. In the snow. It’s only on snow they can bring the wood down from the higher places. Someone bought a high copse, cheaply, because the higher—”
“Higher you go, the fewer—now I know what that means.”
“The cheaper. Over two hours climb from here; somewhere across the valley. And the men and sleds must be there by daylight.”
“Poor devils!”
“Yes. And the horses for the climbing must be fed two hours before the start. Sometimes they have to feed them before three in the morning. One lot of men was caught up there by an avalanche and were there four days before they could be got down.”
“Ai-eee; don’t tell us.”
“At the best it’s dangerous work. They get maimed; lose their lives. All the winter this is going on. We don’t read their papers, don’t know the people and don’t hear of it.”
“Isn’t it just as well? We can’t help it.”
“It ought to be done some other way. Men’s lives ought not to be so cheap.”
“How did Tammas get all this learning?”
“Speaks German.”
“Jee-roozlum!”
“And French.”
“And Scotch. And having no one to talk Scotch to, talks to the peasants, about
