FROM their windows, high up and at the front of the big hotel, Julia looked down upon the Lake of Geneva. She was in such haste to behold it that she had not so much as unbuttoned her gloves; she held her muff still in her hand. After one brief glance, she groaned aloud with vexation.
Beyond the roadway, and the deserted miniature pier of Territet, both dishevelled under melting and mud-stained snow, there lay a patch of water—motionless, inconspicuous, of a faded drab colour—which at some small distance out vaguely ceased to look like water and, yet a little further out, became part and parcel of the dull grey mist. Save for the forlorn masts of a couple of fishing boats, beached under the shelter of the pier, there was no proof in sight that this was a lake at all. It was as uninspiring to the eye as a pool of drippings from umbrellas in a porch.
While her uncle and brother occupied themselves with the luggage being brought up by the porters, she opened a window and stepped out upon the tiny balcony. A flaring sign on the inner framework of this balcony besought her in Swiss-French, in the interests of order, not to feed the birds. The injunction seemed meaningless to her until she perceived, over by the water, several gulls lazily wheeling about. They were almost as grey as the fog they circled in. Suddenly they seemed to perceive her in turn, and, swerving sharply, came floating toward the hotel, with harsh, almost menacing cries. She hurried in, and shut the window with decision. It seemed to her that the smile with which, as she turned, she was able to meet her uncle's look, was a product of true heroism.
Apparently this smile did not altogether delude him. “Oh, now, you mustn't get down on your luck,†he adjured her. “We're going to be awfully cozy here. Have you seen your room? It's just there, in a little alley to the right of the door. They say it has an even finer view than these windows. Oh, you needn't laugh—this is the best view in the world, I'm told by those who know. And as a winter-resort, why——â€
“I say, look here!†The interruption came from Alfred, who, having gone out on one of the balconies, put in his head now to summon them. “Come here! Here's some fun.â€
He pointed out to Thorpe the meaning of the inscription on the sign, and then pulled him forward to observe its practical defiance. A score of big gulls were flapping and dodging in excited confusion close before them, filling their ears with a painful clamour. Every now and again, one of the birds, recovering its senses in the hurly-burly, would make a curving swoop downward past the rows of windows below, and triumphantly catch in its beak something that had been thrown into the air.
Thorpe, leaning over his railing, saw that a lady on a balcony one floor below, and some yards to the left, was feeding the birds. She laughed aloud as she did so, and said something over her shoulder to a companion who was not visible.
“Well, that's pretty cool,†he remarked to his niece, who had come to stand beside him. “She's got the same sign down there that we've got. I can see it from here. Or perhaps she can't read French.â€
“Or perhaps she isn't frightened of the hotel people,†suggested the girl. She added, after a little, “I think I'll feed them myself in the morning. I certainly shall if the sun comes out—as a sort of Thanksgiving festival, you know.â€
Her uncle seemed not to hear her. He had been struck by the exceptional grace of the gestures with which the pieces of bread were flung forth. The hands and wrists of this lady were very white and shapely. The movements which she made with them, all unaware of observation as she was, and viewed as he viewed them from above, were singularly beautiful in their unconstraint. It was in its way like watching some remarkable fine dancing, he thought. He could not see much of her face, from his perch, but she was tall and fashionably clad. There was a loose covering of black lace thrown over her head, but once, as she turned, he could see that her hair was red. Even in this fleeting glimpse, the unusual tint attracted his attention: there was a brilliancy as of fire in it. Somehow it seemed to make a claim upon his memory. He continued to stare down at the stranger with an indefinable sense that he knew something about her.
Suddenly another figure appeared upon the balcony—and in a flash he comprehended everything. These idiotic, fighting gluttons of gulls had actually pointed out to him the object of his search. It was Lady Cressage who stood in the doorway, there just below him—and her companion, the red-haired lady who laughed hotel-rules to scorn, was the American heiress who had crossed the ocean in his ship, and whom he had met later on at Hadlow. What was her name—Martin? No—Madden. He confronted the swift impression that there was something odd about these two women being together. At Hadlow he had imagined that they did not like each other. Then he reflected as swiftly that women probably had their own rules about such matters. He seemed to have heard, or read, perhaps, that females liked and disliked each other with the most capricious alternations and on the least tangible of grounds. At all events, here they were together now. That was quite enough.
The two ladies had gone in, and closed their window. The sophisticated birds, with a few ungrateful croaks of remonstrance, had drifted away again to the water. His niece had disappeared from his elbow. Still Thorpe remained with his arms folded on the railing, his eyes fixed on the vacant balcony, below to the left.
When at last he went inside, the young people were waiting for him with the project of a stroll before dinner. The light was failing, but there was plenty of time. They had ascertained the direction in which Chillon lay; a servant had assured them that it was only a few minutes' walk, and Alfred was almost certain that he had seen it from the window.
Thorpe assented with a certain listlessness, which they had never noted in his manner before, but when Julia begged him not to stir if he were in the slightest degree tired, he replied honestly enough that he would do anything rather than be left alone. Then, of course, they said, there should be no walk, but to this he would not listen. The party trooped downstairs, accordingly, and out into the street. The walking was vile, but, as Julia had long ago said, if they were to be deterred by slush they would never get anywhere or see anything.
It proved to be too late and too dark to either enter the castle or get much of an idea of its exterior. Returning, they paused again to look into the lighted window of the nice little book-shop. The numerous photographs of what they were entitled to behold from the windows of their hotel seemed more convincing than photographs usually were. As the young people inspected them, they became reassured. It was not credible that such a noble vista would forever deny itself to such earnest pilgrims. When their uncle introduced this time his ancient formula about the certainty of brilliant sunshine in the morning, they somehow felt like believing him.
“Yes—I really think it must change,†Julia declared, with her fascinated glance upon the photographs.
Alfred looked at his watch. “We'd better get along to the hotel, hadn't we?†he suggested.
“By the wayâ€â€”Thorpe began, with a certain uneasiness of manner—“speaking of dinner, wouldn't you like to dine at the big table d'hote, instead of up in our sitting-room?â€
“If you're tired of our dining alone—by all means,†answered Julia, readily. There was obvious surprise, however, in both her look and tone.
“Tired nothing!†he assured her. “I like it better than anything else in the world. But what I mean is—I was thinking, seeing that this is such a great winter-resort, and all the swagger people of Europe come here—that probably you youngsters would enjoy seeing the crowd.â€
Julia's glance, full of affectionate appreciation, showed how wholly she divined his spirit of self-sacrifice. “We wouldn't care in the least for it,†she declared. “We enjoy being a little party by ourselves every whit as much as you do—and we both hate the people you get at table d'hotes—and besides, for that matter, if there are any real swells here, you may be sure they dine in their own rooms.â€
“Why, of course!†Thorpe exclaimed swiftly, in palpable self-rebuke. “I don't know what I could have been thinking of. Of course they would dine in their rooms.â€
Next morning, Thorpe rose earlier than ever—with the impression of a peculiarly restless and uncomfortable night behind him. It was not until he had shaved and dressed that he noted the altered character of the air outside. Although it was not fully daylight yet, he could see the outlines of the trees and vinerows on the big, snow-clad hill, which monopolized the prospect from his window, all sharp and clear cut, as if he were looking at them through an opera-glass. He went at once to the sitting-room, and thrust the curtains aside from one of the windows.
A miracle had been wrought in the night. The sky overhead was serenely cloudless; the lake beneath, stirring softly under some faint passing breeze, revealed its full breadth with crystalline distinctness. Between sky and water there stretched across the picture a broad, looming, dimly-defined band of shadow, marked here and there at the top by little slanting patches of an intensely glowing white. He looked at this darkling middle distance for a moment or two without comprehension. Then he turned and hurriedly moved to the door of Julia's room and beat upon it.
“Get up!†he called through the panels. “Here's your sunrise—here's your Alpine view. Go to your window and see it!â€
A clear voice, not unmirthful, replied: “I've been watching it for half an hour, thanks. Isn't it glorious?â€
He was more fortunate at the opposite door, for Alfred was still asleep. The young man, upon hearing the news, however, made a toilet of unexampled brevity, and came breathlessly forth. Thorpe followed him to the balcony, where he stood collarless and uncombed, with the fresh morning breeze blowing his hair awry, his lips parted, his eyes staring with what the uncle felt to be a painful fixedness before him.
Thorpe had seen many mountains in many lands. They did not interest him very much. He thought, however, that he could see now why people who had no mountains of their own should get excited about Switzerland. He understood a number of these sentimental things now, for that matter, which had been Greek to him three months before. Unreceptive as his philistinism may have seemed to these delightful youngsters, it was apparent enough to him that they had taught him a great deal. If he could not hope to share their ever-bubbling raptures and enthusiasms, at least he had come to comprehend them after a fashion, and even to discern sometimes what it was that stirred them.
He watched his nephew now—having first assured himself by a comprehensive downward glance that no other windows of the hotel-front were open. The young man seemed tremendously moved, far too much so to talk. Thorpe ventured once some remarks about the Mexican mountains, which were ever so much bigger, as he remembered them, but Alfred paid no heed. He continued to gaze across the lake, watching in rapt silence one facet after another catch the light, and stand out from the murky gloom, radiantly white, till at last the whole horizon was a mass of shining minarets and domes, and the sun fell full on his face. Then, with a long-drawn sigh, he turned, re-entered the room, and threw himself into a chair.
“It's too good!†he declared, with a half-groan. “I didn't know it would be like that.â€
“Why nothing's too good for us, man,†his uncle told him.
“THAT is,†said the boy, simply, and Thorpe, after staring for a moment, smiled and rang the bell for breakfast.
When Julia made her appearance, a few minutes later, the table was already laid, and the waiter was coming in with the coffee.
“I thought we'd hurry up breakfast,†her uncle explained, after she had kissed him and thanked him for the sunrise he had so successfully predicted—“because I knew you'd both be crazy to get out.â€
He had not over-estimated their eagerness, which was so great, indeed, that they failed to note the excessive tranquility of his own demeanour. He ate with such unusual deliberation, on this exciting morning, that they found themselves at the end of their repast when, apparently, he had but made a beginning.
“Now you mustn't wait for me at all,†he announced to them then. “I'm a little tired this morning—and I think I'd just like to lie around and smoke, and perhaps read one of your novels. But you two must get your things on and lose no time in getting out. This is the very best time of day, you know—for Alpine scenery. I'd hate to have you miss any of it.â€
Under his kindly if somewhat strenuous insistence, they went to their rooms to prepare for an immediate excursion. He was so anxious to have them see all there was to be seen that, when Julia returned, properly cloaked and befurred, and stood waiting at the window, he scolded a little.
“What on earth is that boy doing?†he exclaimed, with a latent snarl in his tone which was novel to her ear. “He'll keep you here till noon!â€
“He's shaving, I think. He won't be long,†she replied, with great gentleness. After a moment's pause, she turned from the window and came gayly forward.
“Oh, I forgot: I was going to feed the birds. There are several of them out there now.†As she spoke, she busily broke up some of the rolls on the table. Her face was bright with the pleasure of the thought.
“If you don't much mind, Julia,†her uncle began, with almost pleading intonations, “I rather think I wouldn't feed those birds. The rule is there before our eyes, you know—and it's always been my idea that if you're at a hotel it's the correct thing to abide by its rules. It's just an idea of mine—and I daresay, if you think about it, you'll feel the same way.â€
The girl freed the last remaining bread-crumb from her gloves. “Why, of course, uncle,†she said, with promptitude.
Although there was no hint of protest in her tone or manner, he felt impelled to soften still further this solitary demonstration of his authority. “You see I've been all round the world, my little girl,†he explained, haltingly, “and when a man's done that, and knocked about everywhere, he's apt to get finicking and notional about trifles every once in a while.â€
“You're less so than anybody I ever knew,†she generously interposed.
“Oh, no I'm not. You don't know me well enough yet; that's what's the matter. And you see, Julia—another thing just because you saw that lady throwing out bread, that aint a very good reason why you should do it. You don't know what kind of a person she may be. Girls have got to be so frightfully careful about all that sort of thing.â€
Julia offered a constrained little laugh in comment. “Oh, you don't know how careful I can be,†she said.
“But you're not annoyed?†he entreated her—and for answer she came behind him, and rested an arm on his shoulder, and patted it. He stroked her hand with his own. “That's something like the nicest niece in the world!†he exclaimed, with fervour.
When at last she and her brother had gone, he made short work of his breakfast, and drank his coffee at a gulp. A restless activity suddenly informed his movements. He lit a cigar, and began pacing up and down the room, biting his lips in preoccupation as he went. After a little, he opened a window, and ventured cautiously as far out on the balcony as was necessary to obtain a view of the street below. Eventually, he identified his nephew and niece among the pedestrians beneath him, and he kept them in sight till, after more than one tiresome halt at a shop window, they disappeared round a bend in the road. Then he turned and came back into the room with the buoyant air of a man whose affairs are prospering.
He smiled genially to himself as he gathered from the table in one capacious hand all the pieces of bread his beloved niece had broken up, and advanced again to the open window. Waiting here till one of the dingy gulls moving aimlessly about was headed toward him, he tossed out a fragment. The bird dashed at it with a scream, and on the instant the whole squawking flock were on wing. He suffered the hubbub to proceed unappeased for a little while he kept a watchful though furtive eye on that balcony to the left, below. Unhappily he could not get out far enough to see whether the inner curtains of its window were drawn. He threw another bit of bread, and then looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past nine. Surely people travelling to see scenery would be up by this hour.
The strategy of issuing just enough bread to keep the feathered concourse in motion commended itself to his mind. As a precautionary measure, he took all the rolls remaining on the table, and put them in the drawer of a desk by the window. It even occurred to him to ring for more bread, but upon consideration that seemed too daring. The waiter would be sufficiently surprised at the party's appetites as it was.
Half an hour later, his plan of campaign suddenly yielded a victory. Lady Cressage appeared on her balcony, clad in some charming sort of morning gown, and bareheaded. She had nothing in her hands, and seemed indifferent to the birds, but when Thorpe flung forth a handful of fragments into the centre of their whirling flock, she looked up at him. It was the anxious instant, and he ventured upon what he hoped was a decorous compromise between a bow and a look of recognition.
She was in no haste to answer either. He could see rather than hear that she said something to her invisible companion within, the while she glanced serenely in the general direction of his balcony. It seemed to him that the answer to her remark, whatever it was, must have exerted a direct influence upon his destiny, for Lady Cressage all at once focussed her vague regard upon him, and nodded with a reasonably gracious smile.
“It's wonderful luck to find you here,†he called down to her. Having played their part, he wished now that the birds were at Jericho. Their obstreperous racket made conversation very difficult. Apparently she made him an answer, but he could catch nothing of it.
“I'm here with my niece and nephew,†he shouted down. “I don't hear what you say. May I come down and pay my respects—later on? What is your number, and when may I come?â€
These questions, as he flashed them in review through his mind, seemed to be all right from the most exacting social point of view. Doubtless it was equally all right that, before replying, she should consult her companion, as she did at some length. Then she replied—and he had no difficulty now in hearing her above the birds—that it would be very nice of him to come, say, in an hour's time. She told him the number—and then almost abruptly went in.
Thorpe, during this hour that ensued, smoked with volcanic energy. He tried to interest himself in one after another of half a dozen Tauchnitz novels his niece carried about, with a preposterous absence of success. He strove to arrange in some kind of sequence the things that he should say, when this momentous interview should begin, but he could think of nothing which did not sound silly. It would be all right, he argued to himself in the face of this present mental barrenness; he always talked well enough on the spur of the moment, when the time came—and still was not reassured.
He wondered if both ladies would be there to receive him, and decided that they would probably regard that as indispensable to the proprieties. In that case, their conversation would necessarily be of the most casual and general character. He would tell them a good deal about his niece, he foresaw. A man travelling about with a niece—and such a delightfully lady-like and engaging little niece—would take on some added interest and dignity, he perceived, in the eyes of ladies travelling alone. He essayed to estimate just how much they would probably like Julia. Of course he would say nothing about her mother and the book-shop; a vague allusion to a widowed sister would be ample on that head. But there could be confident references to Cheltenham; he knew from what Julia had said that it suggested the most satisfactory social guarantees, if taken strictly by itself. And then so much would depend upon Julia herself! If she succeeded in striking up a friendship with them—ah, then everything would be all right. Perhaps they would take a fancy to Alfred too! He was a boy, of course, but conceivably the fact that he wanted to paint, and knew about pictures, would appeal to them. He seemed to have heard somewhere that artists were the very devil among women.
At last the weary time of waiting had worn itself out, somehow, and, after a final polishing before his glass, he went down, and found his right corridor, and knocked at the door. A pleasant voice bade him enter, and, hat and gloves in hand, he went in.
As he had imagined, both ladies were present. He had not been prepared, however, for the fact that it was the American who played the part of hostess. It was she who received him, and invited him to sit down, and generally made him free of the apartment. When he shook hands with Lady Cressage, there was somehow an effect of the incidental in the ceremony, as if she were also a guest.
Nothing could have been simpler or more pleasing than the little visit turned out to be. Miss Madden had suddenly grown tired of the snowless and dripping English winter, and had as promptly decided to come to Switzerland, where the drifts ought to be high enough, and the frosts searching enough, in all conscience. They had selected Territet, because it was familiar to her, and because it was on the way to Martigny and Brieg, and she had had a notion of crossing either the Simplon or the St. Bernard in winter. As she found now, the St. Bernard was quite impracticable, but admittedly a post road was kept open over the Simplon. It was said now that she would not be allowed to proceed by this, but it often happened that she did the things that she was not allowed to do. The hotel-people at both Brieg and Berisal had written refusing to let their horses attempt the Simplon journey, and they were of course quite within their rights, but there were other horses in Switzerland. One surely could buy horses—and so on.
Thorpe also had his turn at autobiography. He told rather whimsically of his three months' experiences at the tail of the juvenile whirligigs, and his auditors listened to them with mild smiles. He ventured upon numerous glowing parentheses about Julia, and they at least did not say that they did not want to know her. They heard with politeness, too, what he could contrive to drag in about his artist-nephew, and said it must be very pleasant for him to have such nice company. At least Miss Madden said this: her companion, as he thought it over afterward, seemed hardly to have said anything at all. She answered the few remarks which he found it possible to direct to her, but the responses took no hold upon his memory. He fancied that she was bored, or unhappy, or both.
Finally, in the midst of commonplaces which, to his apprehension, were verging upon flatness, a bold inspiration disclosed itself—as splendid as the Dent du Midi revealing its glaciers above the mounting sunrise—in his brain.
“We should all be charmed if you would come up and dine with us tonight,†he said, under the abrupt impulsion of this idea. “It's been such an age since we wanderers have had the privilege of company at our table!â€
The felicity of these phrases from his lips attracted his admiring attention, even while he waited in suspense for an answer to them.
The ladies exchanged a look. “Yes,†said Miss Madden, after the slightest of pauses, “we shall be very happy.â€
Shortly thereafter Thorpe took his leave, and went downstairs and out. He wandered about till luncheon time, observing the mountains across the lake from various standpoints, and, as it were, with new eyes. He was interested in them in a curious new fashion; they seemed to say things to him. His lip curled once at the conceit that he was one of the Alps himself.
IT did not happen until three days later that Thorpe's opportunity to speak alone with Lady Cressage came.
In this brief period, the two parties seemed to have become fused in a remarkable intimacy. This was clearly due to the presence of the young people, and Thorpe congratulated himself many times each day upon the striking prescience he had shown in bringing them.
Both the ladies unaffectedly liked Julia; so much so that they seemed unwilling to make any plans which did not include her. Then it was only a matter of course that where she went her brother should go—and a further logical step quite naturally brought in their willing uncle. If he had planned everything, and now was ordering everything, it could not have gone more to his liking.
Certain side speculations lent a savour to the satisfaction with which he viewed this state of affairs. He found many little signs to confirm the suspicion that the two ladies had been the readier to make much of Julia because they were not overkeen about each other's society. The bright, sweet-natured girl had come as a welcome diversion to a couple who in seclusion did battle with tendencies to yawn. He was not quite convinced, for that matter, that the American lady always went to that trouble. She seemed to his observation a wilful sort of person, who would not be restrained by small ordinary considerations from doing the things she wanted to do. Her relations with her companion afforded him food for much thought. Without any overt demonstrations, she produced the effect of ordering Lady Cressage about. This, so far as it went, tended to prejudice him against her. On the other hand, however, she was so good to Julia, in a peculiarly frank and buoyant way which fascinated the girl, that he could not but like her. And she was very good to Alfred too.
There was, indeed, he perceived, a great deal of individuality about the friendship which had sprung up between Miss Madden and his nephew. She was years his senior—he settled it with himself that the American could not be less than seven-and-twenty,—yet Alfred stole covert glances of admiration at her, and seemed to think of nothing but opportunities for being in her company as if—as if—Thorpe hardly liked to complete the comparison in his own thoughts. Alfred, of course, said it was all on account of her wonderful hair; he rather went out of his way to dilate upon the enthusiasm her “colour schemeâ€â€”whatever that might mean—excited in him as an artist. The uncle had moments of profound skepticism about this—moments when he uneasily wondered whether it was not going to be his duty to speak to the young man. For the most part, however, he extracted reassurance from Miss Madden's demeanour toward the lad. She knew, it seemed, a vast deal about pictures; at least she was able to talk a vast deal about them, and she did it in such a calmly dogmatic fashion, laying down the law always, that she put Alfred in the position of listening as a pupil might listen to a master. The humility with which his nephew accepted this position annoyed Thorpe upon occasion, but he reasoned that it was a fault on the right side. Very likely it would help to keep the fact of the lady's seniority more clearly before the youngster's mind, and that would be so much gained.
And these apprehensions, after all, were scarcely to be counted in the balance against the sense of achieved happiness with which these halcyon days kept Thorpe filled. The initiatory dinner had gone off perfectly. He could have wished, indeed, that Julia had a smarter frock, and more rings, when he saw the imposing costumes and jewelled throats and hands of his guests—but she was a young girl, by comparison, he reflected, and there could be no doubt that they found her charming. As for Alfred, he was notably fine-looking in his evening-clothes—infinitely more like the son of a nobleman, the gratified uncle kept saying to himself, than that big dullard, the Honourable Balder. It filled him with a new pleasure to remember that Alfred had visiting cards presenting his name as D'Aubigny, which everybody of education knew was what the degenerate Dabney really stood for. The lad and his sister had united upon this excellent change long ago at Cheltenham, and oddly enough they had confessed it to their uncle, at the beginning of the trip, with a show of trepidation, as if they feared his anger. With radiant gayety he had relieved their minds by showing them his card, with “Mr. Stormont Thorpe†alone upon it. At the dinner table, in the proudest moment of his life, he had made himself prouder still by thinking how distinguished an appearance his and Alfred's cards would make together in the apartment below next day.
But next day, the relations between the two parties had already become too informal for cards. Julia went down to see them; they came up to see Julia. Then they all went for a long walk, with luncheon at Vevey, and before evening Alfred was talking confidently of painting Miss Madden. Next day they went by train to St. Maurice, and, returning after dark, dined without ceremony together. This third day—the weather still remaining bright—they had ascended by the funicular road to Glion, and walked on among the swarming luegers, up to Caux. Here, after luncheon, they had wandered about for a time, regarding the panorama of lake and mountains. Now, as the homeward descent began, chance led the two young people and Miss Madden on ahead.
Thorpe found himself walking beside Lady Cressage. He had upon his arm her outer wrap, which she said she would put on presently. To look at the view he must glance past her face: the profile, under the graceful fur cap, was so enriched by glowing colour that it was, to his thought, as if she were blushing.
“How little I thought, a few months ago,†he said, “that we should be mountaineering together!â€
“Oh, no one knows a day ahead,†she responded, vaguely. “I had probably less notion of coming to Switzerland then than you had.â€
“Then you don't come regularly?â€
“I have never seen either Germany or Switzerland before. I have scarcely been out of England before.â€
“Why nowâ€â€”he paused, to think briefly upon his words—“I took it for granted you were showing Miss Madden around.â€
“It 's quite the other way about,†she answered, with a cold little laugh. “It is she who is showing me around. It is her tour. I am the chaperone.†Thorpe dwelt upon the word in his mind. He understood what it meant only in a way, but he was luminously clear as to the bitterness of the tone in which it had been uttered.
“No—it didn't seem as if it were altogether—what I might call—YOUR tour,†he ventured. They had seen much of each other these past few days, but it was still hard for him to make sure whether their freedom of intercourse had been enlarged.
The slight shrug of the shoulders with which, in silence, she commented upon his remark, embarrassed him. For a moment he said nothing. He went on then with a renewed consciousness of risk.
“You mustn't be annoyed with me,†he urged. “I've been travelling with that dear little niece of mine and her brother, so long, that I've got into a habit of watching to notice if the faces I see round me are happy. And when they're not, then I have a kind of fatherly notion of interfering, and seeing what's wrong.â€
She smiled faintly at this, but when he added, upon doubtful inspiration—“By the way, speaking of fathers, I didn't know at Hadlow that you were the daughter of one of my Directorsâ€â€”this smile froze upon the instant.
“The Dent du Midi is more impressive from the hotel, don't you think?†she remarked, “than it is from here.â€
Upon consideration, he resolved to go forward. “I have taken a great interest in General Kervick,†he said, almost defiantly. “I am seeing to it that he has a comfortable income—an income suitable to a gentleman of his position—for the rest of his life.â€
“He will be very glad of it,†she remarked.
“But I hoped that you would be glad of it too,†he told her, bluntly. A curious sense of reliance upon his superiority in years had come to him. If he could make his air elderly and paternal enough, it seemed likely that she would defer to it. “I'm talking to you as I would to my niece, you know,†he added, plausibly.
She turned her head to make a fleeting survey of his face, as if the point of view took her by surprise. “I don't understand,†she said. “You are providing an income for my father, because you wish to speak to me like an uncle. Is that it?â€
He laughed, somewhat disconsolately. “No—that isn't it,†he said, and laughed again. “I couldn't tell, you know, that you wouldn't want to talk about your father.†“Why, there's no reason in the world for not talking of him,†she made haste to declare. “And if he's got something good in the City, I'm sure I'm as glad as anyone. He is the sort that ought always to have a good deal of money. I mean, it will bring out his more amiable qualities. He does not shine much in adversity—any more than I do.â€
Thorpe felt keenly that there were fine things to be said here—but he had confidence in nothing that came to his tongue. “I've been a poor man all my life—till now,†was his eventual remark.
“Please don't tell me that you have been very happy in your poverty,†she adjured him, with the dim flicker of a returning smile. “Very likely there are people who are so constituted, but they are not my kind. I don't want to hear them tell about it. To me poverty is the horror—the unmentionable horror!â€
“There never was a day that I didn't feel THAT!†Thorpe put fervour into his voice. “I was never reconciled to it for a minute. I never ceased swearing to myself that I'd pull myself out of it. And that's what makes me sort of soft-hearted now toward those—toward those who haven't pulled themselves out of it.â€
“Your niece says you are soft-hearted beyond example,†remarked Lady Cressage.
“Who could help being, to such a sweet little girl as she is?†demanded the uncle, fondly.
“She is very nice,†said the other. “If one may say such a thing, I fancy these three months with her have had an appreciable effect upon you. I'm sure I note a difference.â€
“That's just what I've been saying to myself!†he told her. He was visibly delighted with this corroboration. “I've been alone practically all my life. I had no friends to speak of—I had no fit company—I hadn't anything but the determination to climb out of the hole. Well, I've done that—and I've got among the kind of people that I naturally like. But then there came the question of whether they would like me. I tell you frankly, that was what was worrying the heart out of me when I first met you. I like to be confessing it to you now—but you frightened me within an inch of my life. Well now, you see, I'm not scared of you at all. And of course it's because Julia's been putting me through a course of sprouts.â€
The figure was lost upon Lady Cressage, but the spirit of the remarks seemed not unpleasant to her. “I'm sure you're full of kindness,†she said. “You must forget that I snapped at you—about papa.†“All I remember about that is,†he began, his eye lighting up with the thought that this time the opportunity should not pass unimproved, “that you said he didn't shine much in adversity—-any more than you did. Now on that last point I disagree with you, straight. There wouldn't be any place in which you wouldn't shine.â€
“Is that the way one talks to one's niece?†she asked him, almost listlessly. “Such flattery must surely be bad for the young.†Her words were sprightly enough, but her face had clouded over. She had no heart for the banter.
“Ahâ€â€”he half-groaned. “I only wish I knew what was the right way to talk to you. The real thing is that I see you're unhappy—and that gets on my nerve—and I should like to ask you if there wasn't something I could do—and ask it in such a way that you'd have to admit there was—and I don't know enough to do it.â€
He had a wan smile for thanks. “But of course there is nothing,†she replied, gently.
“Oh, there must be!†he insisted. He had no longer any clear notions as to where his tongue might not lead him. “There must be! You said I might talk to you as I would to Julia.â€
“Did I?â€
“Well, I'm going to, anyway,†he went on stoutly, ignoring the note of definite dissent in her interruption. “You ARE unhappy! You spoke about being a chaperone. Well now, to speak plainly, if it isn't entirely pleasant for you with Miss Madden—why wouldn't you be a chaperone for Julia? I must be going to London very soon—but she can stay here, or go to Egypt, or wherever she likes—and of course you would do everything, and have everything—whatever you liked, too.â€
“The conversation is getting upon rather impossible grounds, I'm afraid,†she said, and then bit her lips together. Halting, she frowned a little in the effort of considering her further words, but there was nothing severe in the glance which she lifted to him as she began to speak. “Let us walk on. I must tell you that you misconceive the situation entirely. Nobody could possibly be kinder or more considerate than Miss Madden. Of course she is American—or rather Irish-American, and I'm English, and our notions and ways are not always alike. But that has nothing to do with it. And it is not so much that she has many thousands a year, and I only a few hundreds. That in itself would signify nothing—and if I must take help from somebody I would rather take it from Celia Madden than anybody else I know—but this is the point, Mr. Thorpe. I do not eat the bread of dependence gracefully. I pull wry faces over it, and I don't try very much to disguise them. That is my fault. Yes—oh yes, I know it is a fault—but I am as I am. And if Miss Madden doesn't mind—whyâ€â€”she concluded with a mirthless, uncertain laugh—“why on earth should you?â€
“Ah, why should I?†he echoed, reflectively. “I should like desperately to tell you why. Sometime I will tell you.â€
They walked on in silence for a brief space. Then she put out her hand for her wrap, and as she paused, he spread it over her shoulders.
“I am amazed to think what we have been saying to each other,†she said, buttoning the fur as they moved on again. “I am vexed with myself.â€
“And more still with me,†he suggested.
“No-o—but I ought to be. You've made me talk the most shocking rubbish.â€
“There we disagree again, you know. Everything you've said's been perfect. What you're thinking of now is that I'm not an old enough friend to have been allowed to hear it. But if I'm not as old a friend as some, I wish I could make you feel that I'm as solid a friend as any—as solid and as staunch and as true. I wish I could hear you say you believed that.â€
“But you talk of 'friends,'†she said, in a tone not at all responsive—“what is meant by 'friends'? We've chanced to meet twice—and once we barely exchanged civilities, and this time we've been hotel acquaintances—hardly more, is it?—and you and your young people have been very polite to me—and I in a silly moment have talked to you more about my affairs than I should—I suppose it was because you mentioned my father. But 'friends' is rather a big word for that, isn't it?â€
Thorpe pouted for a dubious moment. “I can think of a bigger word still,†he said, daringly. “It's been on the tip of my tongue more than once.â€
She quickened her pace. The air had grown perceptibly colder. The distant mountains, visible ever and again through the bare branches, were of a dark and cheerless blue, and sharply defined against the sky. It was not yet the sunset hour, and there were no mists, but the light of day seemed to be going out of the heavens. He hurried on beside her in depressed silence.
Their companions were hidden from view in a convolution of the winding road, but they were so near that their voices could be heard as they talked. Frequently the sound of laughter came backward from them.
“They're jolly enough down there,†he commented at last, moodily.
“That's a good reason for our joining them, isn't it?†Her tone was at once casual and pointed.
“But I don't want to join them!†he protested. “Why don't you stay with me—and talk?†“But you bully me so,†she offered in explanation.
The phrase caught his attention. Could it be that it expressed her real feeling? She had said, he recalled, that he had made her talk. Her complaint was like an admission that he could overpower her will. If that were true—then he had resources of masterfulness still in reserve sufficient to win any victory.
“No—not bully you,†he said slowly, as if objecting to the word rather than the idea. “That wouldn't be possible to me. But you don't know me well enough to understand me. I am the kind of man who gets the things he wants. Let me tell you something: When I was at Hadlow, I had never shot a pheasant in my life. I used to do tolerably well with a rifle, but I hardly knew anything about a shot-gun, and I don't suppose I'd ever killed more than two or three birds on the wing—and that was ages ago. But I took the notion that I would shoot better than anybody else there. I made up my mind to it—and I simply did it, that's all. I don't know if you remember—but I killed a good deal more than both the others put together. I give you that as an example. I wanted you to think that I was a crack shot—and so I made myself be a crack shot.â€
“That is very interesting,†she murmured. They did not seem to be walking quite so fast.
“Don't think I want to brag about myself,†he went on. “I don't fancy myself—in that way. I'm not specially proud of doing things—it's the things themselves that I care for. If some men had made a great fortune, they would be conceited about it. Well, I'm not. What I'm keen about is the way to use that fortune so that I will get the most out of it—the most happiness, I mean. The thing to do is to make up your mind carefully what it is that you want, and to put all your power and resolution into getting it—and the rest is easy enough. I don't think there's anything beyond a strong man's reach, if he only believes enough in himself.â€
“But aren't you confusing two things?†she queried. The subject apparently interested her. “To win one's objects by sheer personal force is one thing. To merely secure them because one's purse is longer than other people's—that's quite another matter.â€
He smiled grimly at her. “Well, I'll combine the two,†he said.
“Then I suppose you will be altogether irresistible,†she said, lightly. “There will be no pheasants left for other people at all.â€
“I don't mind being chaffed,†he told her, with gravity. “So long as you're good-natured, you can make game of me all you like. But I'm in earnest, all the same. I'm not going to play the fool with my money and my power. I have great projects. Sometime I'll tell you about them. They will all be put through—every one of them. And you wouldn't object to talking them over with me—would you?â€
“My opinion on 'projects' is of no earthly value—to myself or anyone else.â€
“But still you'd give me your advice if I asked it?†he persisted. “Especially if it was a project in which you were concerned?â€
After a moment's constrained silence she said to him, “You must have no projects, Mr. Thorpe, in which I am concerned. This talk is all very wide of the mark. You are not entitled to speak as if I were mixed up with your affairs. There is nothing whatever to warrant it.â€
“But how can you help being in my projects if I put you there, and keep you there?†he asked her, with gleeful boldness. “And just ask yourself whether you do really want to help it. Why should you? You've seen enough of me to know that I can be a good friend. And I'm the kind of friend who amounts to something—who can and will do things for those he likes. What obligation are you under to turn away that kind of a friend, when he offers himself to you? Put that question plainly to yourself.â€
“But you are not in a position to nominate the questions that I am to put to myself,†she said. The effort to import decision into her tone and manner was apparent. “That is what I desire you to understand. We must not talk any more about me. I am not the topic of conversation.â€
“But first let me finish what I wanted to say,†he insisted. “My talk won't break any bones. You'd be wrong not to listen to it—because it's meant to help you—to be of use to you. This is the thing, Lady Cressage: You're in a particularly hard and unpleasant position. Like my friend Plowdenâ€â€”he watched her face narrowly but in vain, in the dull light, for any change at mention of the name—“like my friend Plowden you have a position and title to keep up, and next to nothing to keep it up on. But he can go down into the City and make money—or try to. He can accept Directorships and tips about the market and so on, from men who are disposed to be good to him, and who see how he can be of use to them—and in that way he can do something for himself. But there is the difference: you can't do these things, or you think you can't, which is the same thing. You're all fenced in; you're surrounded by notice-boards, telling you that you mustn't walk this way or look that way; that you mustn't say this thing or do the other. Now your friend down ahead there—Miss Madden—she doesn't take much stock in notice-boards. In fact, she feeds the gulls, simply because she's forbidden to do it. But you—you don't feed any gulls, and yet you're annoyed with yourself that you don't. Isn't that the case? Haven't I read you right?â€
She seemed to have submitted to his choice of a topic. There was no touch of expostulation in the voice with which she answered him. “I see what you think you mean,†she said.
“Think!†he responded, with self-confident emphasis. “I'm not 'thinking.' I'm reading an open book. As I say, you're not contented—you're not happy; you don't try to pretend that you are. But all the same, though you hate it, you accept it. You think that you really must obey your notice-boards. Now what I tell you you ought to do is to take a different view. Why should you put up all this barbed wire between yourself and your friends? It doesn't do anybody else any good—and it does you harm. Why, for example, should Plowden be free to take things from me, and you not?â€
She glanced at him, with a cold half-smile in her eye. “Unfortunately I was not asked to join your Board.â€
He pressed his lips tightly together, and regarded her meditatively as he turned these words over in his mind. “What I'm doing for Plowden,†he said with slow vagueness meanwhile, “it isn't so much because he's on the Board. He's of no special use to me there. But he was nice to me at a time when that meant everything in the world to me—and I don't forget things of that sort. Besides, I like him—and it pleases me to let him in for a share of my good fortune. See? It's my way of enjoying myself. Well now, I like you too, and why shouldn't I be allowed to let you in also for a share of that good fortune? You think there's a difference, but I tell you it's imaginary—pure moonshine. Why, the very people whose opinion you're afraid of—what did they do themselves when the South African craze was on? I'm told that the scum of the earth had only to own some Chartered shares, and pretend to be 'in the know' about them—and they could dine with as many duchesses as they liked. I knew one or two of the men who were in that deal—I wouldn't have them in my house—but it seems there wasn't any other house they couldn't go to in London.â€
“Oh yes, there were many houses,†she interposed. “It wasn't a nice exhibition that society made of itself—one admits that,—but it was only one set that quite lost their heads. There are all kinds of sets, you know. And—I don't think I see your application, in any event. The craze, as you call it, was all on a business basis. People ran after those who could tell them which shares were going up, and they gambled in those shares. That was all, wasn't it?â€
Still looking intently at her, he dismissed her query with a little shake of the head. “'On a business basis,'†he repeated, as if talking to himself. “They like to have things 'on a business basis.'â€
He halted, with a hand held out over her arm, and she paused as well, in a reluctant, tentative way. “I don't understand you,†she remarked, blankly.
“Let me put it in this way,†he began, knitting his brows, and marshalling the thoughts and phrases with which his mind had been busy. “This is the question. You were saying that you weren't asked to join my Board. You explained in that way how I could do things for Plowden, and couldn't do them for you. Oh, I know it was a joke—but it had its meaning—at least to me. Now I want to ask you—if I decide to form another Company, a very small and particular Company—if I should decide to form it, I say—could I come to you and ask you to join THAT Board? Of course I could ask—but what I mean is—well, I guess you know what I mean.â€
The metaphor had seemed to him a most ingenious and satisfactory vehicle for his purpose, and it had broken down under him amid evidences of confusion which he could not account for. All at once his sense of physical ascendancy had melted away—disappeared. He looked at Lady Cressage for an instant, and knew there was something shuffling and nerveless in the way his glance then shifted to the dim mountain chain beyond. His heart fluttered surprisingly inside his breast, during the silence which ensued.
“Surely you must have said everything now that you wished to say,†she observed at last. She had been studying intently the trodden snow at her feet, and did not even now look up. The constraint of her manner, and a certain pleading hesitation in her words, began at once to restore his self-command. “Do not talk of it any further, I beg of you,†she went on. “We—we have been lagging behind unconscionably. If you wish to please me, let us hurry forward now. And please!—no more talk at all!â€
“But just a word—you're not angry?â€
She shook her head very slightly.
“And you do know that I'm your friend—your solid, twenty-four-carat friend?â€
After a moment's pause, she made answer, almost in a whisper—“Yes—be my friend—if it amuses you,â€â€”and led the way with precipitate steps down the winding road.