VII
WhenLois came down next morning she found Ray on the front doorstep, deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman of most impressive appearance. He was tall and straight, and had white hair and beard and moustache, a very kindly face, and extremely polished manners. When he spoke, an occasional very slight nasal intonation, which none but a well-trained ear would have detected, suggested the United States—most likely Boston, she thought, since it reminded her of a Boston girl with whom she had been friendly at the Conservatorium.
Ray unblushingly introduced her as his sister, and said,
“Our friend here is advising me to change our route, Lois.”
“Oh—why?” she asked, looking up a little anxiously into the pleasant, interested face.
“Because, my dear young lady, I got through from Bâle myself only late last night, and not without difficulty. The situation is becoming worse every hour. Austria declared war against Servia yesterday. What that may lead to no man knows,—unless, perhaps, the Kaiser and his advisers. And even they are not absolutely omniscient. It may all peter out as it has done before, but I am bound to say that this time I fear Germany means business, and if she does it will mean very grim and ghastly business indeed. Mobilisation is going on quietly and quickly, everywhere, even in Switzerland. The clash will come on the French frontier if it comes at all, and I believe it to be inevitable. The Swiss fear for their neutrality, and their fears are justifiable. If it suits Germany’s book shewill trample across Swiss or any other territory that happens to be in her way.”
“But—it is too amazing. Why should Germany break out like this?”
“Simply because she thinks her time is ripe. Some of us have been expecting this war for years past. Now it is upon us.”
“And how do you think we ought to go?”
“I was just telling your brother that any attempt to get through on any of the direct routes is quite out of the question. Every carriage and truck on every line is packed with soldiers. Your best way, I think, will be to get across country. Make for the Rhone Valley and get down to Montreux or Geneva, and wait there till things settle down somewhat, when you will be able no doubt to get across France and so home.”
“It means footing it, Lois. How does it strike you?” said Ray.
She knitted her brows prettily while she considered the matter. It was certainly all very disturbing.
“And are you going across country also?” she asked the American gentleman.
“No. I’m going back to my home in Meran. I have lived there for the last five years, and my wife is there. I had to run over to London on some business, and I’m glad to have got back in time. Another day and it might have been impossible.”
“And how long will it take to walk from here to the Rhone Valley?”
“You can still get a train to Landeck. Then strike right up the Lower Engadine Valley,— Stay! I’ll show you on the map,” and he turned to the one on the wall. “Now,—see!—you go first to Landeck. Then follow up the Inn to Süss. Then strike across by the Flüela Pass to Davos, and then by the Strela Pass to Chur. Then by Ilanz and Disentis to the Gothard. There are no difficulties. The roads are good. It will be an exceedingly fine walk.”
“What about our bags?” asked Lois.
“Get a couple of rucksacs. Pack in as much as you can carry, and the rest.... You could have them forwarded from here. But I should be very doubtful if they’d ever reach you in the present state of matters.... Would you care to leave them in my charge? I will take them to my house and send them on as soon as things settle down.”
And he pulled out his pocket-book and handed Ray his card—Charles D. Lockhart. Schloss Rothstein. Meran.
“I came across a very fine book on Tirol by a Mr Lockhart not long since——” began Ray.
“Quite right! I have written much on Tirol. Since I made my home here I have grown very fond of both the country and the people. I fervently hope we shall have no more than back-wash of the war here. But there’s no telling. Once the spark is in the stubble the flames may spread wide.”
“We are greatly indebted to you, Mr Lockhart,” said Ray, “and since you are so good we will take advantage of your very kind offer. That is—if you can get all you will want till we get to Montreux into a rucksac, Lois.”
“I’ll manage all right.”
So they all had breakfast together, and much talk of the gigantic possibilities the near future might hold if it came to a universal war. Then, under their new friend’s experienced guidance, they made a quick round of the shops, bought rucksacs, alpenstocks, a Loden cloak each, and had their boots nailed in Swiss fashion.
By the time they had packed their rucksacs and repacked their bags it was time for Mr Lockhart to catch his train for Botzen and Meran, and they accompanied him to the station and said good-bye to him and their property.
And when the train had disappeared they looked at one another and burst out laughing.
“I’m sure it’s quite all right,” laughed Lois, “But itdoes feel odd to send off all one’s belongings like that with a man one never set eyes on till an hour ago.”
“It’s quite all right, my dear. I’d trust that old fellow with all I have—even with you. He’s a fine old boy, and we’ve got to thank him for putting us on to a gorgeous trip. Nothing like padding it for seeing the country!”
And an hour later they had turned their backs on Landeck and the snow peaks of the Lechtaler Alps, and were footing it gaily up the right bank of the roaring Inn, with the northern spurs of the Oetztaler towering up in front of them beyond the dark mouth of the Kaunser-Tal.
It was a gray day and none too warm, but excellent weather for walking, and there was in them an exuberant spirit of relief at having shaken off the trammels of ordinary life and left behind, for the time being at all events, the gathering war-clouds and ominous preparations. If it had rained in torrents they would still have been perfectly happy, for that which was within them was proof against outside assault of any kind whatsoever.
It was a lonely walk, and so the more delightful to them. They desired no company but their own. Beyond an occasional man of the hills hastening towards Landeck, with sober face, coat slung by its arms at his back, and jaunty cock-feathered hat on the back of his head, they did not meet a soul till they came to Ladis.
As a rule these hurrying ones passed them with a preoccupied ‘Grüss Gott!’ and a hungry look which craved news but grudged the time.
One stopped for a moment and asked anxiously, “Is it true, then, Herr? Is it war?”
And Ray answered him, “With Servia, yes! How much more no man knows.”
“War is the devil,” said the man soberly, and hurried on.
They talked cheerfully,—of the folks at home and all the recent happenings there,—dived into happy reminiscence of their own feelings towards one another, and how and when and where these had begun to crystalliseinto the radiant certainty of mutual love,—and more than once, in the solitude of the little mountain sanctuaries where they stopped at times for a rest, Ray caught her to him and kissed her passionately in the overflowing fulness of his heart.
It was the most entrancing walk Lois had ever had, and the glow in her face and the star-shine in her eyes told their own tale.
They crossed the river where the road wound away into Kaunser-Tal, and again by the bridge at Prutz, and six o’clock found them within sight of the castle of Siegmundsried, with the pretty little village of Ried below.
“We’ll stop the night there,” said Ray. “We’ve done about ten miles and all uphill, and that’s quite enough for a first day. How are the feet?”
“First rate. I feel as if I could go on for ever.”
“If you went on for ever you’d wish you hadn’t next day. We’ve got a long way to go and there’s no great hurry,—unless you feel as if you’d like to get it over and done with.”
“Oh, but I don’t. I’d like it to last for ever and ever.”
“Mr and Mrs Wandering Jew,” laughed Ray. “What would your mother say?”
“She would say, ‘She’ll be all right since she’s with Ray.’”
“See what it is to have a good character,” and they turned into the ‘Post’ and demanded rooms and supper.
Next day they walked on, first on one side of the river, then on the other, loitering on every bridge to watch the gray water roaring among the worn gray rocks below.
They ate their lunch on the terrace of the little inn at Stuben, looking across at Pfunds lying in the mouth of the valley opposite. And when they came to the Cajetan Bridge, instead of crossing it with the high-road, Ray kept to the old path along the left bank, through the narrow Finstermünz Pass, and made straight for Martinsbruck, and so avoided the long bends and steep zig-zagsleading to and from Nauders in the mouth of the Stillebach Valley.
It was rough walking, but he explained,
“It cuts off a lot, you see, and when we cross that bridge at Martinsbruck we’re in Switzerland.”
“That sounds like getting near home,” said Lois.
“It’s a neutral country anyway, and maybe we’ll get news there of what’s really happening. But it’s a good long way from home. I believe you’re tired of tramping already.”
“Am I? Do I look it?”
“You do not. But you look as though a kiss would encourage you—to say nothing of me.”...
The tops and sides of the mountains had been wreathed with smoke-coloured clouds all day. It was only as they drew near to Martinsbruck that the evening sun struggled out, and they saw a peak here and there soaring up above the clouds and all aglow with crimson fire,—a wonderful and uplifting vision.
“The Delectable Mountains,” murmured Lois, at this her first sight of the alpen-glüh.
“Our Promised Land lies the other way,” said Ray, “But we’ll carry our own glory-fire with us.”
They stood watching till the red glow faded swiftly up the summits of the cloud-borne peaks and left them chill and ghostly, and Lois heaved a sigh of regret.
“Wait!” said Ray, with his hand on her arm; and in a minute or two the cold white mountain-tops flushed all soft rose-pink, so exquisitely sweet and tender that Lois caught her breath and laid her hand in his, as though she must fain share so exquisite a joy with him.
“How lovely!” she whispered, profoundly moved by the sight and the warm grip of his hand, through which his heart seemed to beat up into hers. “The sun’s last warm good-night kiss! Oh, if they could only be like that always!”
“Then we would not enjoy them half as much. Don’t watch it fade,” and they turned and went. “We willalways remember it at its best.... Life is to be like that with you and me, right on and on and on for ever. It is a good omen. And here,”—as they crossed the bridge—“we are in Switzerland, and this little Post Hotel will serve us excellently.”
Those solitary suppers in the common-rooms of the little wayside inns were things to remember. Not so much for the quality of the viands and the wine, though they never had a fault to find with either, but because of the cheerful goodfellowship and delightful camaraderie they engendered. And there was without doubt a subtle crown of joy to it all, in the feeling that here they were doing something out of the common, something that would possibly administer some slight shock to the nerves of Mrs Grundy if she had been aware of it.
Their procedure, however, was not so unusual as they in their innocence imagined.
As they sat over their meal that night in the Post at Martinsbruck, there came in two later arrivals who presently joined them at table,—a strapping young fellow of five-and-twenty and a very pretty girl of a year or two less, with large blue eyes and abundant fair hair coiled in great plaits round her head, and they were soon all chatting together on the friendliest of terms.
These two were tramping also and had come up that day from Süss.
“A good walk that, mein Herr, for little feet!” said the young man, looking proudly at his companion. “Thirty-eight kilomètres, I make it, perhaps a trifle more.”
“Twenty-four miles!” said Ray. “Yes, that’s a good long stretch. Twenty miles,—say thirty, thirty-two kilomètres—is our longest. But then we’re only just beginning.”
“And we are just ending,” sighed the girl. “He has to go to the army. Do you think it will be a bad war, mein Herr?” she asked anxiously.
“All war is bad, mein Frau,” began Ray.
“Fräulein,” she corrected him with a little smile. “Iam Anna Santner. He is Karl Stecher. We are of Innsbruck.”
“And in another month—in September—she is to be Frau Stecher,” said Karl with a broader smile. “We are taking a portion of our honeymoon in advance. To see how we get on together, you understand. It is not unusual withus——”
“And I am sure you have got on very well together,” said Lois, with her prettiest smile.
“Oh, yes. You see, we love one another very much,” said Anna. “But now—! What do you think of it, mein Herr?”
“We can all only hope it will not be as bad as some people fear, Fräulein. But, at best, it is bad.”
“Yes, war is bad,” said the young fellow, with gloomy vehemence. “It is devil’s play from beginning to end. Still, those Serbs had no right to shoot our Archduke, you know, and they deserve a whipping.”
“Possibly. But the danger is that it may spread. If Russia takes umbrage, then Germany will join in, and Italy and France.”
“And your country? What will you do?” asked Stecher.
“I do not know. We certainly don’t want war, but if it comes to a general struggle we may be in it too. It is horrible to think of. In these days—all Europe at one another’s throats! It is almost inconceivable.”
“Du meine Güte!” said Anna, clasping her hands tightly together. “It is too terrible. What will happen to me if you get killed, my Karl?” and she could hardly see him for the tears that filled her large blue eyes.
“I don’t feel a bit like getting killed, my little one, I assure you.”
“That won’t stop those horrid bullets, all the same.”
“Ach, my Nanna, don’t weep for me before it begins anyway! Let us talk of something else.... And you, Herr and Frau?—Fräulein?—you are married?—yes?—no?—orhave you this same pleasant custom with you?”
“Like you,” said Ray, “we are to be married very soon, and we are having our honeymoon in advance. You see, the Fräulein was in Leipsic, studying, when we heard this ill rumour of war. And her mother gave me permission to go and bring her home. And as they are mobilising inGermany——”
“Ah—they are mobilising?” jerked Stecher with a nod.
“We were advised to get back through Switzerland, and here we are.”
“We also were in Switzerland,” sighed Anna, reminiscently.
“You came over Flüela?” asked Ray. “How’s the walking there? That’s how we are going.”
“It is a good enough road,” said Stecher, “but you will need a full day from this end. It is all up hill, you see, and pretty stiff. You must get as far as Süss to-morrow night and start early next day. We stayed at the Flüela. It is quite good and not dear. And you can rest and eat at the Hospice under the Weisshorn. Oh, it is all quite easy. I wish we were going that way too.”
“Ach Gott—yes!” sighed Fräulein Anna. And Lois’s heart was sore for her, for her future and Karl’s was bound to contain possibilities of sorrow and misfortune, and she would have liked everyone to be as happy as she was herself.
And next morning, in the strong fellow-feeling of somewhat similar circumstances, they shook hands and parted almost like old friends,—none of them knowing to what they were going.
The four-and-twenty uphill miles from Martinsbruck to Süss were somewhat of a tax on Lois. They were on the road soon after seven, however, as Karl and Anna also had to be off early, and with occasional halts they made Schuls before mid-day, had a good dinner there and a long rest on the terrace of the hotel, with all the noble peaks, fromPiz Lad opposite Martinsbruck to Piz Nuna opposite Süss, spread wide before them. They were at Ardetz in time for an early cup of tea and another rest, and reached Süss before sunset.
But long as the way was they enjoyed every rough step of it. For one thing it was a brighter day of mixed cloud and sunshine, which wrought most wonderful atmospheric effects on the soaring peaks and sweeping mountain-sides. Their road wound along the flanks of the Silvretta. Below them the Inn foamed white among its gray boulders. Innumerable valleys, each with its thread of rushing white water, debouched on either side and gave them wonderful peeps at the monarchs behind—the Oetztalers, the Ortlers, and the Silvrettas. Running water was everywhere—gray glacier streams and sparkling falls, and every here and there, on spurs of hills and vantage points, were the grim ruins of castles that had played their parts in the days of the Grey Leaguers and the Ten Droitures.
But all this delectable outward circumstance was no more than exquisite setting for that which was within them, and each of these reacted on the other. Never had they found such charm in their surroundings before. Never before had surroundings so charming had such effect upon their spirits and feelings.
They went along hand in hand at times like country lovers, and more than once their hearts broke into song as spontaneous as the lark’s, from simple joy of living.
Lois’s voice, in the full rounded beauty of its two years’ careful cultivation at the Conservatorium, was a revelation to Ray and thrilled him to the depths.
“My dear,” he said deeply, one time, “You have a gift of the gods. It would be a sin against humanity to deprive the world of it.”
“Oh, you will let me sing even after we are married.”
“Let you!... Am I a traitor to my kind? Let you, indeed! You will lift men’s souls with that voice. The world has need of you, my child, and what am I to say it nay?”
“You’re the world to me. I’m glad it pleases you.”
And maybe the menacing war-cloud, which could not be entirely excluded from their minds, but served to brighten their radiant enjoyment of that perfect day. Stars shine brightest in a winter-black sky.