The night passed quickly, and amid all this bewilderment of music and dancing and introductions, Nan very soon forgot even the existence of the young Lieutenant whose acquaintance she had made. Moreover, the succession of these rapid excitements left no room for anything resembling stage-fright—although, it is true, each time the band began anew she felt a little throb. But Lady Stratherne, who had now all her guests assembled, was so indefatigable in seeing that Nan should not be left neglected, and the dancing in this crowd was so much a matter of experiment and accident, and the fact that she was introduced to one or two partners who seemed no more expert than herself, was so reassuring, that on the whole Nan was very much delighted in her demure way, and that delight showed itself in her face and in her clear bright eyes. Her hair was a little wild, and she had lost some of her forget-me-nots, and there were one or two flying tags that had got dissociated from the skirt of her dress; but was not that all part of the play? Nan's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were pleased and bright; the only thing that troubled her in this whirl of excitement was an occasional qualm about her mother. Had she not promised to keep the poor mamma company? But a time would come, and then she would make amends by being particularly affectionate.
The time did come. On consulting the programme Nan found opposite the next dance a scrawl that might be made out to be 'F. H. King;' and then she bethought herself of the young sailor. Well, he had left. That was very opportune. She would devote the time of this dance to her mother, and take her into the tea-room, and ask which of her old friends she had met, and even offer to go home with her if she felt fatigued.
'Mamma,' she said to Lady Beresford, 'don't you think I've done enough? England can't expect you to do more than your duty, even with all those flags overhead. Come away, and I will get you some tea, though what would be better for you still would be some B. and S.'
'Nan, how dare you!' said her mother, angrily, and glancing round at the same time. 'You may use such expressions, if you like, when you are with your brother. Pray don't disgrace the whole family when you are elsewhere.'
'Mamma, dear,' said Nan, contritely, 'it is madness, pure madness. The excitement of my first ball has got into my brain——'
'Into your what?' said her mother, with a smile. Nan, and Nan alone, could pacify her in a second.
At the same moment the band began again; and somehow Nan, looking up, found before her some one who was no other than the young Lieutenant she had met at the beginning of the evening. She was somewhat bewildered by this Jack-in-the-box sort of appearance.
'I think you promised me this next dance, Miss Beresford,' said he. He was a grave-looking young man for his years—a Corsican Brother—the Ghost inHamlet. She did not know what to make of him.
'I thought you had left,' she stammered. 'You have not been dancing?'
'No, I have not been dancing,' he repeated.
'I will come back to you soon, mamma,' she said, and she put her hand on his arm, and moved away with him.
'The fact is,' said he, 'I don't like much being introduced to strangers. Most girls stare at you so, with a sort of hold-off air, and it is so difficult to get on pleasant and friendly terms with them.'
'I should not have thought you were so shy,' said Nan, with an honest laugh.
He flushed a little, and said—
'If you've lived most of your life on board ship, you may feel a little bit awkward; but mind,' he added with some eagerness, 'sometimes, not often (once in half a dozen years, maybe), you meet with a girl who is quite different from the others, quite different. You know it at once from her manner, and you can make friends with her with the greatest ease, simply because she is intelligent and quick in appreciation, and not affected in her ways, or stiff.'
This eager encomium passed upon an imaginary person struck Nan as being somewhat out of place; for the waltz had already begun, and she wanted to get back to her mamma: whereas this Lieutenant King seemed to wish to stand there and talk to her.
'Of course, that's special good luck for a sailor,' said he with a smile, 'to be able to make friends in a short time; for it's only a short time he has. Ashore to-day, and off to-morrow again; and what's worse, out of sight out of mind.'
'Oh, not always,' said Nan, cheerfully.
'Oh yes, it is,' he said; 'people on shore are too much concerned among themselves to think about the people away at sea. Why, you yourself now; after you leave this house to-night you will completely forget that there are such things as either ships or sailors until you come back here to another ball, and then the bunting will remind you.'
'Now there you are quite wrong,' said she firmly, 'for I see ships and sailors every day of my life.'
'Why, how is that?' he exclaimed with great interest.
'We live in Brighton,' said Nan simply, 'and I walk a good deal along the downs towards Newhaven, you know. The ships are a good way off, generally; still, you watch them, and you are interested in them.'
'You walk along the downs between Brighton and Newhaven?' he said, as if that was an extraordinary matter. 'Alone?'
'Usually.'
'When I am passing I will look out for you; I will imagine that I can see you.'
Nan thought this was idle talk, so she said with a smile,
'Shall we give up this dance too? The fact is, I want to take mamma and get her some tea, or an ice, or something.'
'Oh, don't do that!' said he eagerly; 'introduce me to her, and I will take you both down to supper. There are some people there already——'
'But I must not go down—not yet,' said Nan, remembering her youth.
'Why not?' said he boldly. 'I know Lady Stratherne well enough for anything. Why, nothing could be more natural. Of course you will come down with your mamma.'
'I'm very hungry, and that's the truth,' said Nan; 'for I was too excited or frightened to think about dinner. But if I went down now, wouldn't they think it was a little bit——'
She was about to say 'cheeky,' but she remembered in time that this was not her brother. He broke in abruptly—
'Never mind what any one thinks; come away, Miss Beresford, and introduce me to your mamma.'
Then he looked at the various couples rapidly moving round that open space to the sound of the seductive music, and he said, rather wistfully—
'Don't you think we might have one turn? I shall not dance again this evening.'
'Oh yes, certainly, if you wish it,' she said, quite blithely; and she gave him her fan to hold, and arranged her train, and a couple of seconds thereafter they were lost in that slowly circling whirlpool of muslin and silk and satin.
When they came out of it again he was introduced to Lady Beresford, and although he was quite anxiously humble and courteous to the elder lady, he would hear of nothing but that she and Nan should forthwith go downstairs to supper. By and by there would be too great a crush. It was a kindness to Lady Stratherne to go before everybody else wanted a place. And Miss Anne was hungry, which was a great matter.
Lady Beresford looked at Nan, but that young lady was unconscious. The end of it was that these three very speedily found themselves below, in the supper-room, where as yet there were only a number of elderly people who had grown tired of the duties of chaperoning. And they had scarcely sat down when Frank King, who was most assiduous in his attentions to Lady Beresford, and scarcely saw Nan at all, discovered that the mamma knew certain relatives of his, and knew all about his own family, and had even on one occasion visited Kingscourt a good many years ago. Lady Beresford was very kind to him. He was a pleasant-mannered, clever-looking young man, and he had a distinguished air that lent value to the little courtesies he paid. She even said, as they were talking of chance meetings and the like, that she would be glad if he called on them while she and her daughters were in London.
'May I be allowed to call on you at Brighton, some day, Lady Beresford?' he said quickly. 'The fact is, my leave is out; I have to rejoin my ship at Portsmouth to-morrow.'
At this Nan pricked up her ears. She suddenly remembered that to her had been entrusted the covert intelligence of his promotion. But was it necessary it should be kept so great a secret, she asked herself, rather breathlessly, and with her heart beginning to beat quickly? If he were to know on the morrow, why not now? It would make him very happy; it would indeed add a few hours of happiness to his life; and surely Sir George Stratherne, who was the very soul of kindness, would rather approve?
Well, she let these two talk on for a time; she wished to be discreet; she wished to be less nervous. For was it not a great event in the career of a young man? And how might he take it? She said to herself, 'The old monarchs used to kill the messengers who brought them bad news, and they used to give heaps of presents to those who brought them good news. I am glad I shall be able to tell him of his promotion, for he has been so excessively kind to mamma.'
She waited her opportunity.
'Oh, Lieutenant King, do you know a ship called theFly-by-Night?' she said, quite casually, and in an off-hand way.
'Yes,' he said, regarding her with some surprise. 'She's what they call a school-brig—a training brig. I think she's at Plymouth.'
'A training-brig?' said Nan, innocently. 'Then they want a clever officer, I suppose, to be in command of a training-brig.'
'Yes, they want a smart fellow,' said he, without any great interest; and he was about to turn to Lady Beresford again when Nan continued—
'Would it—would it surprise you if you heard you were to be transferred to theFly-by-Night?'
'I shouldn't like to hear of it,' said he, laughing; 'I am satisfied where I am.'
'But I mean to command her.'
'I'm afraid that's a long way off yet,' said he, lightly.
'Oh no, it isn't,' said Nan timorously. 'I am sure it is no great secret—you will know to-morrow—you are to be appointed to-morrow to the command of theFly-by-Night!
His face flushed a deep red.
'You are joking, Miss Beresford.'
'Oh no, I am not,' said Nan, hastily. 'Sir George told me to-night; I am not joking at all——Captain King,' said she, at a wild venture.
For an instant she saw his under lip quiver. He sat quite silent.Then he said—
'That is Sir George's doing—if it is possible.'
He had scarcely uttered the words when the Admiral himself appeared, bringing in a little old lady with a portentous head-dress. Nan instantly conjectured that she must be a dowager-duchess, for she thought that no one but a dowager-duchess would dare to wear such a thing.
Sir George paused as he passed them.
'Hillo, here's my sweetheart. I told you I wanted to drink a glass of wine with you. Doing your duty, Frank King? When's your leave out?'
'I am going down to Portsmouth to-morrow, Sir George.'
'No, no; you'll have a message from the Admiralty to-morrow. I didn't see you dancing to-night; you young fellows are getting lazy.'
He passed on. Nan looked triumphantly across the corner of the table.Frank King said—laughing off his embarrassment—
'I have a vague impression that I ought to thank you for it, Miss Beresford; and I don't know how. I hope it is true. They never gave me a hint of it. You would have thought Charley Stratherne would have known.'
'It was very imprudent of my daughter,' said Lady Beresford, severely, 'to mention such a thing; but Sir George makes a pet of her, and I hope no harm has been done.'
Frank King warmly protested. How could any harm be done? And he redoubled his attentions to Lady Beresford. Not only that, but when they returned to the ball-room he was very anxious to be introduced to Nan's sisters, and was most polite to them, though he did not ask them for a dance. Moreover, he got hold of Charley Stratherne, and through him made the acquaintance of Mr. Tom Beresford; and these three, having adjourned for a time to a certain remote snuggery where were sherry and soda and cigarettes, Frank King was quite content to accept from Mr. Tom hints concerning things about town. There was in especial a famous 'lion comique'—the Great Dunse, or the Jolly Ass, or some such creature—about whom Mr. Tom was much exercised; and Frank King professed himself quite interested in hearing about this person. The grave young Lieutenant was indeed extraordinarily complaisant this evening. He was unusually talkative—when he was not a most attentive listener. You would have thought that he had acquired a sudden admiration for the brilliant social qualities of Mr. Tom, and that he had never heard such good stories before.
Well, the Beresfords left about three; and that was the end of Nan's first ball. On the whole she had every reason to be pleased. She had acquitted herself fairly well; she had gratified the soft-hearted old Admiral; she hadn't fallen in love with anybody; and she had seen a number of celebrated persons in whom she was interested. She thought she had done a kindness, too, in telling Lieutenant King beforehand of his appointment.
She was surprised, however, and a little bit annoyed when, on the afternoon of the next day but one, her brother Tom brought in this same Frank King to five o'clock tea. He said, with something of a blush, that he wished to tell her that her news had been true; he had heard from the Admiralty that morning, and he wished to thank her. Nan was somewhat cold in her manner; she had thought with some pride that he was not like the other gentlemen who came about the house in the afternoon. She had seen enough of them and their idleness, and aimless flirtations, and languid airs. She had taken Frank King to be of firmer stuff, and not likely to waste his time at afternoon teas.
He was kind and polite enough, no doubt, and he distributed his attentions in the most impartial manner—even including two young lady visitors to whom he was introduced; but Nan seized an early opportunity of slipping away to her own room, where she resumed certain very serious studies that occupied her mind at this time. When she came downstairs again Lieutenant King was gone.
On the following day her holiday ended, and she went down to Brighton. Many a time she thought of the ball, and always with a pleasurable recollection. When, however, she happened to think of Frank King—and it was seldom—it was always with a slight touch of disappointment. No doubt his leave was extended; probably he was still in town, and repeating those afternoon calls in Bruton Street. As for Nan, she honestly did not care to which train of admirers he might attach himself—whether he was to be Mary's captive or Edith's slave. But she was disappointed.
'I did think he was a little bit different from the others,' she would say to herself; and then she would turn to Mr. Lockyer's last discoveries in spectrum analysis.
'Nan, do you see that ship out there?' said Mary Beresford.
'I saw it as I came along,' said Nan. This was the afternoon on which she had fallen in with Singing Sal. Nan was rather tired after her long walk, and was not inclined to show much interest in that now lessening vessel, which was slowly sinking into the dusk of the west.
'Do you know what her name is?' said Mary Beresford, still regarding her younger sister.
'No,' said Nan. 'I heard people say she was a man-of-war.'
'That is theFly-by-Night.'
'Oh, indeed,' said Nan, with no greater interest than before.
'And Lieutenant King has just called here,' the elder sister said, pointedly.
'Oh, indeed,' said Nan. 'I wish I had been in; I should like to have seen him in uniform.'
That was all she said, and all she thought; for now there were far more serious things than ballrooms and young lieutenants occupying Nan's attention. She and her sisters were going abroad—she for the first time; and she was busy with foreign languages, and lives of the great painters, and catalogues, and guide-books, and dressing-cases. The world she hoped to plunge into on the following week was, in her imagination, composed of nothing but cathedrals and picture-galleries; and she could have wished that the picture-galleries might contain nothing but the labours of Botticelli and Andrea del Sarto. The clear ethereal beauty and tenderness of the one, the solemn thoughtfulness of the other: these were things that filled her mind with a mysterious gladness, as if something had been added to her own life. Rubens she cordially hated. Of Titian she had as yet seen hardly anything.
At last the wonderful day of setting out arrived, and Mr. Tom graciously consented to accompany his sisters as far as Newhaven. It was towards the afternoon that they started, in an open carriage, the maid on the box beside the coachman. Tom was making facetious remarks about south-west gales, and his two elder sisters were angrily remonstrating with him. Nan was silent. She had not a thought for the ships and sailors out there, or for any pensive young officer bitterly saying to himself that out of sight was out of mind; and she had forgotten for a moment all about Singing Sal and her free-and-easy ways. Nan's mind was at this time filled with Dante, and Florence, and the young Raphael, and the Doge wedding the Adriatic, and Pompeii, and Savonarola, and goodness knows what else. When they reached Newhaven—when they forced her to descend from the carriage—her eyes had a bewildered look. She had not seen Newhaven at all. She had been watching the execution of Savonarola—she standing in the middle of the great crowd in a square in Florence.
They stayed the night at the hotel at Newhaven. Next morning falsified all Mr. Tom's malicious forecasts; the weather was fine, and they had a smooth passage across. In due time they reached Paris.
To Nan, Paris meant picture-galleries. The streets were new-looking, non-historical, filled with commonplace people; but in the picture-galleries she was with great names, in great times.
'Nan,' her sisters remonstrated, 'what is the use of dawdling over pictures like this? The Old Masters are all alike. There are plenty of Holy Families and broken-necked angels in England. Why don't you put off all this till you get back to the National Gallery?'
Fortunately, Nan was the most biddable of companions. She seemed to be in dreamland. You could do what you liked with her if only you allowed her to gaze with her great eyes, and think, and be silent.
Now it is unnecessary to follow in detail the various journeyings and adventures of these three young ladies and their maid; we may pass on to a certain evening when they found themselves in Lucerne. It was an exceedingly hot evening; and after dinner the crowd in this great hotel had been glad to pour out into the spacious verandah, which was formed by a succession of arches all hanging with evergreens. There they formed little groups round the small tables, lit up by the orange glow streaming out from the windows of the hotel, some taking coffee, some smoking, all chatting idly.
'It feels like thunder,' said Mary Beresford to her sister Edith. 'It would be odd if we were to have a real thunderstorm just after listening to the imitation one in the cathedral.'
'Thevox humanastop is better at some things than at others,' said Miss Edith, critically. 'In the chanting the boys' voices are good, and the tenor voices are good; but the bass is too musical. You hear that it is the organ. And it vibrates too much.'
'They must make a good deal of money by it,' said the elder sister, 'in the tourist season. I am sure there were a hundred people there.'
'I wish I knew the name of the piece. I should like to try one or two of the airs.'
'It was considerate of them to finish up in time to let us get back for thetable d'hôte.'
'Sooner or later that organ will shake the Cathedral to bits: the vibrations were fearful. I thought there was a great deal too much noise. You lose effect when you pile up the agony like that: people only want to stop their ears to prevent their heads being split.'
So they chatted on. But what was it that Nan, who had accompanied them, had heard as she sat in the great, empty, dimly-lit Cathedral, with her hands clasped, her head bent forward on them, her eyes closed? Or, rather, what was it that she saw?—for this seemed to be a picture in music. She saw a small chapel far away up in the mountains, the trembling red rays in the windows looking strange above the snow. She heard the monks at their midnight chanting—low, and sad, and distant. And then it seemed, as she listened, as if the stars overhead were being blurred out, and a murmuring wind came down the gorge, and the air grew cold. The darkness deepened; the wind rose and moaned through the pine forests; then an angry gust swept along, so that the intoning of the monks was lost altogether. There was a rumble of distant thunder—overhead, among the unseen peaks. But still, unconscious of the threatening storm, those within the small building went on with their holy office, and there were snatches of the clear singing of boys—so faint that you could scarcely hear; and again the strong, sad, sombre voices of the men. Then the tempest broke, fierce and terrible: the elements seemed mingled together. She lost sight of the chapel in the whirling snow; the heavens rattled overhead; and the wind swept down so that the whole earth trembled. A horror of wrath and darkness has overwhelmed the world; and what of the patient choristers now? No longer are their voices heard amid the appalling fury of the hurricane; the sudden lightning-flash reveals nothing in the blackness; the powers of evil have overcome; and the universe has lost its hope. But now there comes a lull; and suddenly—far away, and faint, and triumphant—rises the song of reliance and joy. The demons of the night mutter and moan; but the divine song rises clearer and more clear. It is the voice of faith, silver-toned and sweet; and the very heavens themselves seem to listen; and the thunders rumble away into the valleys; and the stars, shining, and calm, and benignant, come out again over the mountain-peaks. And lo! once more she can descry the faint red rays above the snow; and she can almost see the choristers within the little building; and she listens to the silver-clear song; and her heart is filled with a strange new gladness and trust. What must she do to keep it there for ever? By what signal self-sacrifice—by what devotion of a whole life-time—by what patient and continuous duty—shall she secure to herself this divine peace, so that the storms and terrors and trials of the world may sweep by it powerless and unregarded?
When she rose and blindly followed her sisters, she was all trembling, and there was a great lump in her throat. She was, indeed, in that half-hysterical state in which rash resolves are sometimes made that may determine the course of a human life. But Nan had the sense to know that she was in this state; and she had enough firmness of character to enable her to reason with herself. She walked, silent, with her sisters from the Cathedral to the hotel; and she was reasoning with herself all the time. She was saying to herself that she had had a glimpse, an impression of something divinely beautiful and touching, that at some time or other might influence or even determine her course of life. When that time came she could remember. But not now—not now. She was not going to resolve to become a Catholic, or join a sisterhood, or give herself up to the service of the poor, merely because this wonderful music had filled her heart with emotion. It was necessary that she should think of something hard and practical—something that would be the embodiment of common sense. She would force herself to think of that. And, casting about, she determined to think—about Singing Sal!
It was rather hard upon Sal, who had a touch of vanity, and was quite conscious of what she deemed the romantic side of her way of life, that she should be taken as the sort of incarnation of the prosaic. Nevertheless, all through thattable d'hôtedinner, Nan kept to her self-imposed task, and was busying herself about the wages of the coastguardsmen, and the probable cost of mackerel, and the chances of Sal's having to face a westerly squall of wind and rain when she was breasting the steep hill rising from Newhaven. Was Sal singing that night before the Old Ship? Or was she in the littlecul-de-sacnear the Town-hall where the public-house was that the fishermen called in at on their way home? Nan was apparently dining at thetable d'hôteof a hotel in Lucerne; but in reality she spent that evening in Brighton.
And she was still thinking of Brighton when, as has been related, there was a migration from the dining-saloon to the verandah outside; so that she did not hear much of what her sisters were saying.
'We are certainly going to have a real thunderstorm after the imitation one,' Miss Beresford repeated. 'Do you hear that?'
There was a low rumble of thunder; likewise some pattering of rain-drops on the leaves outside.
'It won't be half as fine though,' said the musical sister.
There was a sudden white flash of light that revealed in a surprising manner the sharp outline of Pilatus; then darkness and a crashing peal of thunder. The rain began to pour; and some passers by took shelter under the densely-foliaged trees fronting the gravelled terrace of the hotel. The light that came through the tall windows fell on those dark figures; but dimly.
Nan had been thinking so much of Brighton, and Sal, and the downs, and ships and sailors, that when this orange glow fell on a gentleman whom she thought she recognised as Lieutenant Frank King she was scarcely astonished. She looked hard through the dusk; yes, surely it was he.
'Mary,' she said, but without any great interest, 'isn't that LieutenantKing standing by that farthest tree?'
The eldest sister also peered through the obscurity.
'Well, yes, it is. What an extraordinary thing! Oh, I remember, he said he was going abroad. But what a curious coincidence! Why don't you go and speak to him, Nan?'
'Why should I go and speak to him?' said Nan. 'I should only get wet.'
'What can have brought him here?' said Edith.
'Not his ship, at all events,' said Mary Beresford, smartly. 'It's onlyShakspeare who can create seaports inland.'
'You ought to know better than that,' said Nan with some asperity, for she was very valiant in protecting her intellectual heroes against the attacks of a flippant criticism. 'You ought to know that at one time the Kingdom of Bohemia had seaports on the Adriatic; every school-girl knows that nowadays.'
'They didn't when I was at school,' said Mary Beresford. 'But aren't you going to speak to Lieutenant King, Nan?'
'Oh, he won't want to be bothered with a lot of girls,' said Nan; and she refused to stir.
A few seconds thereafter, though there was still an occasional flash of lightning, the rain slackened somewhat; and the young Lieutenant—who was clad in a travelling-suit of gray, by-the-way, and looked remarkably like the other young Englishmen loitering about the front of the hotel—emerged from his shelter, shook the rain-drops from his sleeves, and passed on into the dark.
The very next morning the Beresfords left Lucerne for Zurich. They stayed there three days—Nan busy all the time in teaching herself how to propel a boat with two oars, her face to the bow; and she liked to practise most in moonlight. Then they left Zurich one afternoon, and made their way southward into the mountainous region adjacent to the sombre Wallensee. The stormy sunset deepened and died out; rain, rain, rain pursued them all the way to Chur. They got to their hotel there in an omnibus that jolted through the mud and the darkness.
But next morning, when Nan Beresford went to the window of the little sitting-room and looked abroad, she uttered a cry of surprise that was also meant as a call to wake her sleeping sisters. She stepped out on to a wooden balcony, and found herself poised high above the flooded river that was roaring down its channel, while in front of her was the most vivid and brilliant of pictures, the background formed by a vast semicircle of hills. She had it all to herself on this lovely morning—the fresh air and sunlight; the plunging river below; the terraced gardens on the opposite bank; over that again, the tumbled-about collection of gleaming white houses, and green casements, and red roofs, and old towers and belfries; and then, higher still, and enclosing, as it were, the picturesque little town, the great ethereal amphitheatre of pale blue mountains, with here and there a sprinkling of snow glittering sharply, as if it were quite close at hand. How fresh and cold the morning air was, after the sultry atmosphere of the lakes! How beautiful the snow was! Nan did not like to be alone. She wished to share her delight with some one. 'Edith! Edith!' she called. There was no answer.
Suddenly she found she was no longer the solitary possessor of this brilliant little picture. Happening to turn her head somewhat, she perceived some one coming across the bridge; and, after a minute's surprise and doubt and astonishment, she convinced herself that the stranger was no other than Frank King. The discovery startled her. This time it could be no mere coincidence. Surely he was following them? Could it be possible that he had come with bad news from Brighton?
She did not stay to waken her sisters. She hastily put on her hat and went downstairs; and the first person she saw was Lieutenant King himself, who was calmly looking over the list of arrivals.
to be infectious; even Nan felt herself smiling, though she thought that the commander of a man-of-war ought not to go on like this. And how could Frank King, who had been practically all his life at sea, know so much about the rustics in Wiltshire? How could he have gone through those poaching adventures, for example? She knew that Kingscourt was in Wiltshire; but if, as he had told her, he was in the navy when the English fleet paid its famous visit to Cherbourg, he must have left Wiltshire when he was a very small boy indeed.
They got higher and higher into the mountains as the evening fell, and the mists closed down upon them. Outside they heard nothing but the rattle of the rain on the top of the carriage, and the tinkle of the horses' bells. By and by the lamps were lit. Later they were in absolute blackness—plunging through the streaming night; but they were contented enough.
When the carriage stopped they were quite surprised. Splügen already! And where was the inn? Frank King sprang out, and found himself in a sort of big square, with the rain pelting down, and the building opposite him apparently closed. But presently a man appeared with a lantern, who informed him that they could have beds certainly, but in thedépendance, as the hotel was overcrowded. Then the gentleman with the lantern disappeared.
It was fortunate, indeed, for these young ladies that they had a male protector and champion with them; for the bad weather had detained many people, the hotel was crammed full, and as this was thetable d'hôtehour, the landlord and all his staff, with every disposition in the world to be obliging, were at their wits' end. Every one was wanted in the dining-chamber: how could any one look after the new arrivals, or show them their rooms on the other side of the square, or attend to their luggage? Now it was that this young sailor began to show a touch of authority. First of all he got the young ladies to descend, and bundled them into the little reading-room; that was clearing the decks for action. The last they saw of him was that he had seized a man by the collar and was quietly, but firmly, taking him to the door, addressing him the while in an extraordinary mixture of French and German concerning luggage, and rooms, and the necessity of a lantern to show people across the square. In about a quarter of an hour he returned, dripping wet.
'Well, that's all settled,' he said, cheerfully, as he dried his face with his handkerchief. 'I've seen the rooms—very big, and bare, and cold, but the best they have. And I've left Miss Parsons in the kitchen, tearing her hair over some things that have got wet. And I've got four places at thetable d'hôte, which is going on. Now, if you wish to go and see your rooms and dress for dinner, there is a little girl waiting with a lantern; or if you prefer going in to thetable d'hôteat once——'
The desolation of that next morning! A wonder of snow outside the windows—the large dark flakes slowly, noiselessly passing the panes; snow on the open space fronting the great, gaunt hostelry; snow on the small spire of the church; and snow on the far reaches of the hills, retreating up there into the gray mists, where every pine-tree was a sharp black thing on the broad expanse of white. The girls were greatly downcast. They had their breakfast brought to them in the big cold room; they took it hurriedly, with scarcely a word. They saw Parsons rushing across the square; when she came in there were flakes of snow in her hair, and her fingers were blue with cold.
'The English go abroad for pleasure,' said Edith, with sarcasm.
By and by they heard the jingle of the bells outside, and on going below they found Frank King in the doorway, encased from head to foot in an ulster.
'This is indeed luck—this is great luck,' said he, blithely.
'Luck do you call it?' said Edith Beresford.
'Certainly,' said he; 'the first snow of the year! Most opportune. Of course you must see the Splügen Pass in snow.'
'We shan't see anything,' said Edith in gloom.
'Never mind,' said Miss Beresford, good-naturedly; 'we shall have crossed the Alps in a snowstorm, and that sounds well. And I daresay we shall amuse ourselves somehow. Do you feel inclined to give up your carriage to-day again?'
She had turned to Frank King. There was a smile on her face, for she guessed that it was no great sacrifice on his part. Moreover, she had enjoyed that drive the day before; the presence of a fourth person broke the monotony of the talking of three girls together. It is needless to add that Frank King eagerly welcomed her proposal, and in due course the two carriages drove away from the big, bare hostelry to enter the unknown mountain-world.
A strange world they found it, when once they had left the level of the little valley and begun to climb the steep and twisting road cut on the face of the mountain. The aspect of things changed every few minutes, as the rolling mists slowly blotted out this or that portion of the landscape, or settled down so close that they could see nothing but the wet snow in the road, and the black-stemmed pines beyond, with their green branches stretching out towards them through the pall of cloud. Then sometimes they would look down into extraordinary gulfs of mist—extraordinary because, far below them, they would find the top of a fir-tree, the branches laden with snow, the tree itself apparently resting on nothing—floating in mid air. It was a phantasmal world altogether, the most cheerful feature of it being that at last the snow had ceased to fall.
This decided Nan to get out for a walk.
'You will be wet through,' her elder sister exclaimed.
'My boots are thick,' said Nan, 'and Parsons has my waterproof.'
When she had got down, and disappeared, Miss Beresford said,
'She is a strange girl; she always wants to be alone.'
'She seems to think a great deal, and she always thinks in her own way,' said Frank King. 'No doubt she prefers to be alone; but—but don't you think I ought to get out and see that she is all right?'
'There are no brigands in these mountains, are there?' said MissBeresford, laughing.
'And she can't lose her way,' said the more serious Edith, 'unless she were to fall over the side.'
'I think I will get out,' he said, and he called to the driver.
He found that Nan was already some way ahead, or rather overhead; but he soon overtook her. She was startled when she saw him, for the snow had deadened the sound of his approach.
'I believe it will clear soon,' he said at a venture.
'It is altogether very strange,' Nan said in something of a lower voice. 'The fir-trees laden with snow like that, the cold, the gloom: it looks like some bygone Christmas come back suddenly. It is strange to find yourself in another part of the year: yesterday, summer; to-day, winter. I should not be surprised to meet a cart filled with holly, or to hear the bells ringing for morning service.'
'You know there are people who never see winter,' said he; 'I wonder what it feels like when you move from place to place so as to live in a perpetual spring and summer.'
'I don't think it can be the real spring,' she said, after a second. 'The summer, I suppose, is the same anywhere; it hasn't the newness and the strangeness of the spring. Wouldn't it be a nice thing now to be able to take some poor English lady who has been compelled to live all the early months of each year in the south, among hot-house sort of things, and just to show her for a minute a little English village in the real spring time, such as she must have known when she was a girl, with the daffodils in the cottage gardens, and the young leaves on the elm and the hawthorn. And perhaps a lark would be singing high up; and there might be a scent of wallflower; and the children coming home with daisy wreaths. She would cry, perhaps; but she would like it better than the hot-house flowers and the Riviera. There are some things that have a wonderful way of bringing back old memories—the first smell of wallflower in the spring is one, and the first fall of snow in the winter. And there's an old-fashioned kind of musky smell, too, that always means Sunday clothes, and a tall pew, and a village choir.'
'But you seem to have a strong faculty of association,' said youngFrank King, who was far more interested in Nan than in musk.
'I don't know,' she said carelessly. 'I don't study myself much. But I know I have a strong bump of locality—isn't that what they call it? I wish I had been born in a splendid place. I wish I had been born among great mountains, or amongst remote sea islands, or even beautiful lake scenery; and I know I should have loved my native place passionately and yearned for it; and I should have thought it was the most beautiful place in the world—especially when I was away from it—for that's the usual way. But when you are born in London and live in Brighton, you can't make much out of that.'
Then she added with some compunction,
'Not but that I am very fond of the south coast. I know it so well; and of course you get fond of anything that you are very intimate with, especially if other people don't know much about it. And there is far more solitariness about the south coast than the people imagine who come down to the Bedford Hotel for a week.'
'You are a great walker, are you not?' he said.
'Oh no; but I walk a good deal.'
'And always alone?'
'Generally. It is very seldom I have a companion. Do you know SingingSal?'
'Singing Sal? No. How should I? Who is she?'
'A kind of tramping musician,' said Nan, with a grave smile. 'She is a friend of the fishermen and coastguardsmen and sailors down there; I daresay some of your men must have heard of her. She is a good-looking woman, and very pleasant in her manner, and quite intelligent. I have seen her very often, but I never made her acquaintance till the week before last.'
'Her acquaintance!'
'Yes,' said Nan, simply; 'and I mean to renew it when I get back, if mamma will let me. Singing Sal knows far more about the coast than I do, and I want to learn more. . . . Oh, look!'
Both of them had been for some time aware of a vague luminousness surrounding them, as if the sun wanted to get through the masses of vapour; but at this moment she, happening to turn her head, found that the wind had in one direction swept away the mist, and behold, far away in the valley beneath them, they could see the village of Splügen, shining quite yellow in the sunlight. Then the clouds slowly closed over the golden little picture, and they turned and walked on. But in front of them, overhead, the wind was still at work, and there were threads of keen blue now appearing over the twisting vapours. Things began to be more cheerful. Both the carriages behind had been thrown open. Nan's face looked pink, after one's eyes had got so used to the whiteness of the snow.
'I suppose there are no people so warmly attached to their country as the Swiss are, she said (she was not ordinarily a chatterbox, but the cold, keen air seemed to have vivified her). 'I am very glad the big thieves of the world left Switzerland alone. It would have been a shame to steal this little bit from so brave a people. Do you know the song of the Swiss soldier in the trenches at Strasburg? I think it is one of the most pathetic songs in the world.'
'No, I don't,' he said. How delighted he was to let her ramble on in this way, revealing the clear, beautiful soul, as Singing Sal might have thought.
'He tells the story himself,' she continued. 'It is the sound of the Alphorn that has brought this sorrow to him, he says. He was in the trenches at night, and he heard the sound of the Alphorn far away, and nothing would do but that he must try to escape and reach his fatherland by swimming the river. Then he is taken, and brought before the officers, and condemned to be shot; and he only asks his brother soldiers to fire straight—— But I am not going to spoil it.'
She put her hand up furtively for a second to her eyes, and then she said cheerfully—
'I have had enough walking. Suppose we wait for the carriage?'
'I think I ought to apologise to you, Miss Anne,' said he. 'You prefer walking by yourself—I ought not to have come and bothered you.'
'It is of no consequence,' said Nan, looking back for the carriage, 'so long as you haven't wet your feet.'
They got into the carriage and continued on their way; and very soon it became apparent, from the flashes of sunlight and gleams of blue, that they had worked their way up through the cloud-layers. In process of time, indeed, they got clear of the mists altogether, and emerged on to the higher valleys of the Alps—vast, sterile, the white snow-plains glittering in the sun, except where the rocks showed through in points of intense black. There were no longer any pines. They were in a world of snow and barren rocks and brilliant sunlight, with a cold luminous blue sky overhead; themselves the only living creatures visible; their voices sounding strangely distinct in the silence.
When they were quite at the summit of the pass, a smurr, as we say in Scotland, came over; but it did not last. By the time they had got the drags on the wheels, the vast gorge before them—descending and winding until it disappeared in a wall of mountains of the deepest blue—was again filled with sunlight; and now they began to be a little bit sheltered from the wind as the horses trotted and splashed through the wet snow, carrying them away down into Italy.
They lunched at Campo Dolcino, still some thousands of feet above the level of the sea. Then on again, swinging away at a rapid pace down into a mighty valley; rattling through galleries cut in the solid rock; then out again into the grateful sunlight; taking the sharp curves of the road at the same breakneck speed; with always below them—and so far below them that it was silent—a rushing river sweeping down between fair pastures and dots of villages. As the evening fell, this clatter of hoofs and wheels came to a sudden end; for they were entering the town of Chiavenna, and there you must go at walking pace through the narrow little thoroughfares. It was strange for them to come down from the snow-world into this ordinary little town, and to find in the hotel not only all sorts of products of a high civilisation, but even people who were speaking the familiar English tongue.
There was a telegram addressed 'Lieutenant F. H. King, R.N.,' in the case in the bureau; when Frank King had got it out and read it he was silent for a second or two.
'I hope there is no bad news,' said Miss Beresford, in a kindly way. She was not a very sympathetic person; but Frank King had brightened up their tour during these last two days, and she was in a measure grateful to him.
'No,' he said, absently. 'Oh no, not bad news. The telegram is from the officer I left in charge of theFly-by-Night; I rather think that I shall be setting out for home again in a couple of days.'
'Oh, I am sorry for that,' she said, quite naturally.
'You go on again to-morrow, Miss Beresford?'
'We were proposing to do so.'
'And where do you think of going to when you get to Lake Como?'
'Bellagio, most probably.'
'Oh, well, I will go with you as far as Bellagio, if I may,' he said, somewhat thoughtfully.
Next morning also he was preoccupied and anxious, insomuch that even Nan noticed it, and good-naturedly hoped he had had no bad news. He started somewhat.
'No, oh no,' he said. 'Only the telegram I got last night makes it necessary for me to start for home to-morrow.'
'Then, at least,' said Nan cheerfully, 'you will see Lake Como before you go.'
Her eldest sister smiled in her superior way.
'Nan's head is full of romance,' she said. 'She expects to see the Como of the print-shops: don't you, Nan? Blue water and golden boats, and pink hills, and Claude Melnotte's castle lifting its—whatever was it?—to eternal summer. I am afraid the quotation is not quite correct.'
And the truth was that, despite this warning, Nan did seem somewhat disappointed, when, after hours of rattling and splashing along a muddy road, they came upon a stretch of dirty, chalky-green water that in a manner mirrored the gray and barren crags above it.
'That isn't Como!' cried Nan. 'It can't be.'
'Oh, but it is,' Miss Beresford said, laughing. 'At least it's the upper end of it.'
But Nan would not believe it; and when at last they reached Colico, and fought their way through the crowd of swarthy good-for-nothings who strove to attach themselves to every scrap of luggage, and when they had got on board the steamer and secured commanding positions on the upper deck, then Nan declared that they were about to see the real Lake of Como. It was observed that the young sailor glanced once or twice rather anxiously at the sky and the seething clouds.
Well, they sailed away down through this stretch of pallid green water, that was here and there ruffled with wind, and here and there smooth enough to reflect the silver-gray sky; and they called at successive little villages; and they began to be anxious about a certain banking up of purple clouds in the south-west. They forgot about the eternal summer, and got out their waterproofs. They were glad to find themselves drawing near to Bellagio, and its big hotels, and villas, and terraced gardens. The wind had risen; the driven green water was here and there hissing white; and just as they were landing, a pink flash of lightning darted across that dense wall of purple cloud, and there was a long and reverberating rattle of thunder.
'It seems to me we have just got in in time,' said Frank King in the hall of the hotel.
The storm increased in fury. The girls could scarcely dress for dinner through being attracted to the window by the witches' cantrips outside. The thunder blackness in the south-west had deepened; the wind was whirling by great masses of vapour; the water was springing high along the terraces; and the trees in the terraced gardens were blown this way and that, even though their branches were heavy with rain. Then it was that Edith Beresford said—
'Nan, you ought to persuade Lieutenant King to stay over another day.He hasn't seen Como. This isn't Como.'
'I?' said Nan, sharply. 'What have I to do with it? He can go or stay as he pleases.'
'Besides,' continued Edith, 'in consequence of thistempo cattivo——'
'I suppose that means weather that rains cats and dogs,' said Nan, whose anger was of the briefest duration.
'——the grandSerenatais put off till to-morrow night. Now he ought to stay and see the illuminations of the boats.'
'The illuminations,' said Nan. 'I should think he had something else to think of.'
Nevertheless, when, at dinner, Miss Edith was good enough to put these considerations before Lieutenant King, he seemed very anxious to assent, and he at once called for a time-table; and eventually made out that by taking the night train somewhere or other, he could remain at Bellagio over the next day. And he was rewarded, so far as the weather went. The morning was quite Como-like—fair and blue and calm; the sun shining on the far wooded hills, and on the sparkling little villages at their foot; the green lake still running high, with here and there a white tip breaking; a blaze of sunlight on the gardens below—on the green acacia-branches and the masses of scarlet salvia—and on the white hot terraces where the lizards lay basking.
It was a long, idle, delicious day; and somehow he contrived to be near Nan most of the time. He was always anxious to know what she thought about this or about that; he directed her attention to various things; he sometimes talked to her about his ship—and about what sailors thought of when they were far from home and friends. They went out on the lake—these four; the hot sun had stilled the water somewhat; reclining in the cushioned stern of the boat, in the shelter of the awning, they could hear the bells on shore faint and distant. Or they walked in that long allée leading from one end of the gardens—the double line of short chestnuts offering cool and pleasant shadow; the water lapping along the stone parapet beside them; and between each two of the stems a framed picture, as it were, of the lake and the velvet-soft slopes beyond. It was all very pretty, they said. It was a trifle common-place, perhaps; there were a good many hotels and little excursion steamers about; and perhaps here and there a suggestion of the toy-shop. But it was pretty. Indeed, towards sunset, it was very nearly becoming something more. Then the colours in the skies deepened; in the shadows below the villages were lost altogether; and the mountains, growing more and more sombre under the rich gold above began to be almost fine. One half forgot the Cockneyism and familiarity of the place, and for a moment had a glimpse of the true loneliness and solemnity of the hills.
As the dusk fell they began to bethink themselves of what was before them.
'It would have been a bad thing for the musicians from La Scala if they had attempted to go out last evening,' Miss Beresford remarked.
'It will be a bad thing for us,' said Edith, who was the musical one, 'if we attempt to go on board their steamer this evening. It will be far too loud. You should never be too near. And, especially where there is water, music sounds so well at some distance.'
'You can hire a small boat, then,' said Nan. 'They are all putting up their Chinese lanterns.'
'Oh, I wouldn't advise that,' said Frank King, quickly. 'I don't think it would be safe.'
'A sailor afraid of boats!' said Miss Edith with a laugh.
'Oh, as for that,' said Nan, warmly, 'every one knows that it's those who are most ignorant of boats who are most reckless in them. It's very easy to be brave if you're stupidly ignorant. I know papa used to say it was always the most experienced sportsman who took most care about unloading his gun on going into a house. Why, if you're walking along the pier, and see some young fools standing up in a boat and rocking it until the gunwale touches the water, you may be sure they're haberdashers down from the borough for a day, who have never been in a boat before.'
In the dusk they could not see that Frank King's face flushed with pleasure at this warm defence; but he only said quietly,
'You see there will be ten or twelve steamers churning about in the dark; and if some careless boatman were to make a mistake—or lose his head—you might be under the paddles in a second. I think you should either get on board or stay ashore; and I should say you were as well off here as anywhere. You will see the procession on the lake very well; and even if they should halt over there at Cadenabbia for the music, we could hear it here excellently.'
'It is very good advice, Edith,' said Miss Beresford, seriously. 'I don't at all like small boats. And there goes the first dinner-bell; so let's make haste.'
At dinner Frank King did not say much; he seemed to be thinking of his departure on the morrow. Once, however, when they happened to be talking about Brighton, he looked across the table to Nan, and said,
'Oh, by the way, what was the name of the woman you told me about—whom you met on the downs?'
'Singing Sal,' answered Nan, with composure.
'I shall ask about her when I get to Portsmouth,' he said.
'She is seldom in the big towns; she prefers tramping by herself along the country roads.'
'Is this another of Nan'sprotegées?' asked Miss Beresford. 'She knows the most extraordinary people. She is like the children when they are sent down to the beach when the tide is low; they are always most delighted with the monstrous and hideous things they can pick up.'
'You must have seen Singing Sal,' said Nan quietly. 'And she is neither monstrous nor hideous. She is very well dressed, and she sings with a great deal of feeling.'
'Perhaps she will come and have afternoon tea with us?' said Edith, with a sarcastic air.
'I don't think she would find it interesting enough,' Nan answered, calmly.
When, after dinner, they went out on to the balcony above the garden, they found that the wonders of the night had already begun. Far on the other side of the lake the houses of Cadenabbia were all ablaze with millions of small gold points, the yellow glow from which glimmered down on the black water. Then in the garden here, there were rows upon rows of Chinese lanterns, of all colours, just moving in the almost imperceptible breeze; while along the shore, the villas had their frontage-walls decorated with brilliant lines of illuminated cups, each a crimson, or white, or emerald star. Moreover, at the steps of the terrace below, there was a great bustle of boats; and each boat had its pink paper lantern glowing like a huge firefly in the darkness; and there was a confusion of chaffering and calling with brightly dressed figures descending by the light of torches, and disappearing into the unknown. Then these boats began to move away—with their glow-worm lanterns swaying in the black night. The hotel seemed almost deserted. There was silence along the shores.
By and by, at a great distance, they beheld a wonderful thing come slowly into view—far away in the open space of darkness that they knew to be the lake. It was at first only a glow of crimson; but as it came nearer, this glow separated into points, each point a ruby-coloured shaft of fire, and they saw that this must be a steamer illuminated by red lamps. And then another steamer, and another, came sailing up, with different colours gleaming; until one, far higher than the others—a great mass of glittering gold—appeared in the midst of them, and round this all the fleet of small boats, that were, of course, only distinguishable by their parti-coloured lanterns, seemed to gather.
'That is the steamer that has the musicians, clearly,' said Frank King.
'Yes; but I don't hear any music,' answered Edith, in a voice that seemed rather ominous.
They sat and waited. The last of the guests had got into the small boats and gone away; they were left alone in front of the big hotel. The moon was rising behind the hills in the south, and already the surface of the lake was beginning to declare itself—a dull blue-black.
'I cannot hear the least sound; is it possible they can be playing?' said Edith, disappointedly.
It was a beautiful spectacle, at all events, even if there were no sound accompanying it. For now the moon had risen clear, and there was a pale soft light all along the northern hills, and just enough radiance lying over the bosom of the lake to show the darkness of the hulls of the distant steamers. And then, as they watched, some order seemed to grow out of that confusion of coloured lights; the high golden mass drew away; and then the others followed, until the long undulating line seemed like some splendid meteor in the night. There was no sound. Cadenabbia, with all its yellow fire, was as clearly deserted as this Bellagio here, with all its paper lanterns and coloured cups. The procession had slowly departed. TheSerenatawas taking place somewhere else. The gardens of this hotel were silent but for the occasional voices of Frank King and his companions.
Well, they laughed away their disappointment; and chatted pleasantly, and enjoyed the beautiful night, until Miss Beresford thought it was time for them to go indoors.
'But where's Nan?' she said. 'That girl is never to be found.'
'I think I can find her,' said Frank King, rising hastily. He had been regarding for some time back that long allée between the chestnuts, and a dark figure there that was slowly pacing up and down, occasionally crossing the patches of moonlight. When he had got about half-way along, he found Nan leaning with her elbows on the parapet, and looking out on the moonlit lake.
'Oh, Miss Anne,' he said, 'your sister wants you to come indoors.'
'All right,' she said cheerfully, raising herself and preparing to go.
'But I want to say a word to you,' he said hurriedly. 'I have been trying for an opportunity these two days. I hope you won't think it strange or premature or impertinent——'
'Oh no,' said Nan, with a sudden fear of she knew not what; 'but let us go indoors.'
'No, here, now,' he pleaded. 'Only one moment. I know we are young; perhaps I should not ask you to pledge yourself, but all I ask for is to be allowed to hope. Surely you understand. Nan, will you be my wife—some day?'
He would have taken her hand; but she withdrew quickly, and said with a sort of gasp—
'Oh, I am so sorry. I had no idea. It must be my fault, I am sure; but I did not know—I was not thinking of such a thing for a moment——'
'But you will give me leave to hope?' he said. 'I mean some day—not now.'
'Oh no, no!' she said with an earnestness that was almost piteous. 'If I have made a mistake before, this must be clear now. Oh, don't think of such a thing. It never could be—never, never. I am very sorry if I have pained you; but—but you don't know anything about me; and you will soon forget, for we are both far too young—at least I am—to think of such things; and—and I am very, very sorry.'
'But do you mean that I am never to think of it again, even as a hope?' he said, slowly.
'Oh, I do mean that—I do! If there has been a mistake, let it be clear now. Can I not be your friend?'
She held out her hand. After a second or so of hesitation, he took it.
'I know more of you than you suspect,' he said slowly, and with a touch of hopelessness in his voice. 'I could see what you were the first half-hour I had spoken to you. And I know you know your own mind, and that you are sincere. Well, I had hoped for something else; but even your friendship will be valuable to me—when I have had a little time to forget.'
'Oh, thank you, thank you!' said Nan, somewhat incoherently. 'I know you will be wise. You have your profession to think of; that is of far more importance. I know you will be wise, and generous too, and forgive me if the fault has been mine. Now, we will not speak of any such thing again; let it be as if it had never been. Come.'
He pressed her hand in silence—it was a token of good-bye. These two did not see each other again for more than three years.