Black William
In Silk Attire: A Novel
CHAPTER XX.
HOMEWARDS
"If mademoiselle chooses," said Grete, "we can walk along the side of the Titi See, and allow the carriage to go on by itself. The road is very pretty from the lake onwards to the Feldberg."
Mademoiselle was in that frame of mind when any change involving action was a delicious relief, and she gladly embraced the proposal.
"If the old lady prefers to drive all the way," said Grete, with a touch of maidenly pride, "Hermann ought to accompany her. I can find the way for us two, mademoiselle."
That also was agreed to, the distance being too great for Mrs. Christmas to walk. And so Annie Brunel and Grete Halm set out upon the winding path, or rather track, which runs along the shore of the beautiful Titi See – here skirting the edge of the rocky promontories which jut out into the still blue lake, there cutting through the dense coppices lying in the sunshine along the foot of the hills, or again passing some deep-roofed and sleepy farmhouse, with its small stone chapel standing in the yard. Grete reverentially crossed herself every time they passed one of these numerous private chapels; and her companion, peeping in through the wooden bars, generally saw within the sanctuary a large framed lithograph of the Virgin Mary in red and blue, with a vast number of little gilt trinkets and other pious offerings lying on the altar. Some of these chapels had forms within capable of accommodating a congregation of from twelve to twenty persons. One or two people had built no chapel at all, but had hollowed out a niche in the wall surrounding their garden, and had placed therein a wooden crucifix, more or less painted, exhibiting the details of the Crucifixion with mediæval exactitude. And Grete, being a good girl, crossed herself as she saw these humble memorials of a devout faith.
"Why did you send Hermann away, Grete?" said Annie Brunel, as they walked along.
"Because, mademoiselle, I wished him to know that I could do without him," said Grete Halm.
"You are very fond of him, are you not?"
"Yes, mademoiselle, but – "
"And he of you?"
"He is very fond of me, I know," said Grete, simply.
"I don't wonder at it; but have you ever asked yourself why he is fond of you?"
"Why, mademoiselle? Because – because I am a girl and he is a man, and he wants to be married."
Annie Brunel laughed; it was the first smile her companion had seen on her face for some days.
"But suppose he did not want to be married – suppose he could not be married to you – would he be fond of you? Or suppose you knew, Grete, that he was to marry some one else, what would you do?"
"I should do nothing, mademoiselle; I should be miserable."
"You would not cease to love him?"
"If I could, yes; if not, – "
"If not, you would only be miserable."
The tone in which the words were uttered caused Grete to look up suddenly in her companion's face. She saw nothing there but the inwardly-reflecting eyes, the beautiful, pale, dark complexion, and the placid sweetness of the unkissed lips.
"In England, Grete, I am an actress. They say that an actress must never reflect, that she lives for immediate gratification, that she educates impulses, and that she cannot pause, and regard her position, and criticise herself. If I cease to feel any pleasure in immediate gratifications, if I feel ill at ease and dissatisfied with myself, and fancy that the stage would no longer give me any pleasure – must I cease to be an actress?"
"Is mademoiselle in earnest?"
Grete Halm could not believe that her companion was an actress. Had she ever seen, even in Carlsruhe itself, an actress with such a noble air, with such a face, and such a manner?
"I am in earnest, Grete. I have been an actress all my life; I feel as if I were one no longer."
"What has changed you, mademoiselle, may I be permitted to ask?"
"I do not know myself, Grete. But I have turned an old woman since I came to the Black Forest; and I shall go back to England with a sort of fear, as if I had never been there before."
Since she came to the Black Forest. For a moment a suspicion crossed Grete's mind that she must be miserable through loving some one; but so completely had she been imbued with the idea of her companion being some mysteriously beautiful and noble creature, who could not be moved by the meaner loves and thoughts of a girl like herself, that she at once dismissed the supposition. Perhaps, she thought, the shock of severely injuring her friend still affected her, and had induced a temporary despondency. Grete therefore resolved, in her direct way, to be as amusing as possible; and she never tired of directing her companion's attention to the beautiful and wonderful things they saw on their way – the scarlet grasshoppers which rattled their wings among the warm grass, the brilliantly-coloured beetles, the picturesque crucifixes by the wayside, or the simultaneous splash of a lot of tiny fish among the reeds as some savage pike made a rush at them from the deeper water.
In process of time they left the soft blue breadth of the lake behind them, and found themselves in the valley leading up to the Feldberg. Grete struck an independent zigzag course up the hill's side, clambering up rocky slopes, cutting through patches of forest, and so on, until they found themselves on the high mountain-road loading to their destination. Nothing was to be seen of the carriage; and so they went on alone, into the silence of the tall pines, while the valley beneath them gradually grew wider, and the horizon beyond grew more and more distant. Now they were really in the Black Forest of the old romances – not the low-lying districts, where the trees are of modern growth, but up in the rocky wilderness, where the magnificent trunks were encrusted and coated with lichens of immemorial age – where the spongy yellow-green moss, here and there of a dull crimson, would let a man sink to the waist – where the wild profusion of underwood was rank and strong with the heat of the sun and the moisture of innumerable streams trickling down their rocky channels in the hillside – where the yellow light, falling between the splendid stems of the trees, glimmered away down the narrow avenues, and seemed to conjure up strange forms and faces out of the still brushwood and the fantastic grey lichens which hung everywhere around. Several times a cock capercailzie, with two or three hens under his protection, would rise with a prodigious noise and disappear in the green darkness overhead; occasionally a mountain-hare flew past; and Grete, with an inherited interest, pointed out to her friend the tiny footmarks of the deer on the sand of the rough and winding road.
"See, mademoiselle, there is Aenchen Baumer's house."
They had come to an opening in the pines which revealed the broad yellow valley beneath, with its sunlit road running like a thread of silk through it. Grete's friend's house was a little white building, with green casements, and a few vines growing up one of the gables; it was separated from the road by a paling which interrupted the long line of rough stone posts which a paternal government had stuck in the ground to prevent carriages tumbling still farther down into the bed of the hollow.
"You have come a long way out of your road, Grete," said Miss Brunel.
"I came to accompany you, mademoiselle. I can easily go back to Aenchen's house before the evening."
The upward road now grew more and more jagged, rough, and full of mud-holes, until, at last, they left the forest region altogether, and got into the high pasture districts of the mountain. Finally, as the path became a track, grass-grown and rocky, they arrived at a square grey building, with a small garden attached, which stood on the summit of the shoulder of the hill.
"It is the Feldberg Inn," said Grete.
"Is it pleasant to live on the top of the mountain?" asked her companion.
"Oh, yes, mademoiselle; only it is a little cold. And when you look out at night – in the moonlight – it frightens one; for all the house seems surrounded by a yellow mist, which floats about and makes figures, and then it sweeps away, and you see the garden sharp and clear. It is the clouds, you know. Franz Gersbach has told me of his having been on the top of the Niessen one morning before sunrise, and while all the great mountains opposite – the Jungfrau, and the Mönch, and the Eiger, and all these – were still cold and dark, he saw Monte Rosa and Mont Blanc, away down in the south, with a pale pink flame on their peaks in the midst of the green sky. Here we have no snow on our mountains, except in the winter-time; and then sometimes the people up here have their supplies cut off for a long time."
There was a tall, fair-faced, sleepy-looking man standing at the door of the inn, with whom Grete shook hands. The giant blushed slightly, answered her questions in laconic monosyllables, and then led the way into the house, apparently relieved to be out of the observation of the two girls.
"It is the landlord's brother," said Grete, "and a friend of mine."
"You have a number of friends," said Annie Brunel, with a smile; "and they seem to be all big men. If you were as small as I am, one might account for your liking big men."
Grete Halm looked at her companion. There could be no doubt about the German girl being the taller and certainly the stouter of the two; and yet until that moment she had fancied that Miss Brunel was ever so much taller than she.
"It is the manner of your walk, mademoiselle, and your figure – and perhaps the expression of your face – that make me think you tall. No, I see you are not tall."
For a moment Margarethe's soft brown eyes dwelt on her companion – perhaps with a touch of wistful, puzzled longing to know why grace of form should so touch our sympathies; then she turned to the large Heinrich Holzmann – whose big shoulders should have been more attractive to a girl's eye than another girl's waist – and said that the young English lady wished the best apartments in the house. Margarethe further gave him to understand that his guests would be very particular about their cookery; and, above all, that they would not submit to have but one fork and knife to attend them through four or five courses. Heinrich said "Yaw" in a grave manner to all her directions, and begged her to tell the English lady that his brother, who spoke French, would be home next day.
"But the lady and her friend – who will be here presently – must not starve till to-morrow," said the practical Grete.
"Nein," said Heinrich, absently.
"I mean they must have dinner here, and you must look after it, Heinrich Holzmann."
"Ja, ja."
"You have plenty in the house?"
"Ja."
"The lady says that after the carriage arrives, you can have dinner prepared: that is, the lady and her friend at one table, and Hermann Löwe, the coachman, and I at another. Do you understand?"
"Freilich.",
"If the girls want help, ask me."
"Danke schön, Grete."
"And as you don't seem to have anybody here, shall I take the lady upstairs and pick out what rooms she wants?"
"Yes, if that pleases you," said the fair-haired giant; and therewith he opened the door for Miss Brunel, and made her a grave bow as she went with Grete into the passage, and so up to the rooms above.
It was nearly half an hour afterwards that the carriage arrived, and Mrs. Christmas, with much excitement, caught Annie in her arms and kissed her, declaring she had never expected to see her again. The road they had come! – the precipices they had skirted, with the three horses slipping on the smooth rocks at the very brink! – the vehicle leaning over as if it were about to topple headlong down! – the jolting into deep ruts and over blocks of stone!
"I screamed," she said, "and insisted on being helped out of the carriage; for they would have me sit still, declaring there was no danger. Danger! – "
And the little woman shivered.
"So you walked all the way?"
"Until we got down into the valley."
Grete and Hermann were invited to dine with the two ladies; and, in the evening, they all convoyed the young German girl down to the house of her friend.
For several days they remained on the Feldberg, beguiling the time as best they might. Mrs. Christmas had now quite recovered her normal condition of health and spirits, and laboured hard to discover why her companion was so preoccupied, restless, and absent in manner. Why, too, was this journey down through Switzerland being indefinitely postponed? Every morning it was —
"Miss Annie, do we start to-day?"
"Not to-day, mother. Let us have another day's quiet."
"You will kill yourself with dulness, Miss Annie. There is nothing for you to do."
"Let us climb to the top of the peak, and see the tower – "
"I have tried twice, and failed. And if you persist in going up there alone, you will tumble down into that horrible lake you told me of."
"Then let us descend to the lake to-day, if you please."
She could not leave the neighbourhood. She lingered there, day after day, that she might have tidings from Schönstein. Two letters she had received from the Count told her nothing definite; they were very polite, grave, respectful communications, in which he hoped she would visit Schönstein again on her return. Hermann, on going back to his master, had written to Grete Halm, and merely mentioned that the English gentleman was still in his room, and that the surgeon did not speak very confidently of the case.
This day, also, she prevailed on Mrs. Christmas to stay; and together, after breakfast, they set out in quest of the Feldsee, the small lake that lies deep down in the heart of the mountain. They were furnished with a few directions from Heinrich Holzmann's brother; but as neither time nor direction was of much consequence to them, they plunged carelessly into the forest, and proceeded slowly to descend the side of the mountain. At last, they came upon a path which led down through the jumbled and picturesque confusion of shattered rock, smooth boulder, moss, fern, and herbage, that lay around the foot of the tall, resinous-smelling pines; and this track they leisurely followed until, from the twilight of the trees, it led them out into the obscure daylight which dwelt over the gloomy tarn they sought.
Nothing could well be more lonely or melancholy than this dark and silent lake lying in its circular bed – evidently an extinct volcanic crater – overshadowed by tall and perpendicular crags hemming it in on every side, and scarcely ever having a breath of wind to stir its leaden-like surface. The tall thinly-clad rocks, rising to the circular breadth of white sky above, were faintly mirrored in the black water underneath; and the gloomy stillness of the quiet motionless picture was not relieved by the least stir or sound of any living thing. This hideous hole, its surface nearly four thousand feet above the level of the sea, is of unknown depth: no wonder that the superstitious Schwarzwalders have legends about it, and that the children tell you of the demon-deer that was wont to spring over the tall precipices above, and so lure on the unwary huntsman and his horse to destruction.
There was a boat lying moored in a creek at one corner of the lake, and of this Annie Brunel at once took possession. She insisted on Mrs. Christmas getting into it; and then, with a few strokes of the oars, she pulled out to the centre of the lake. Mrs. Christmas did not at all like the aspect of the place; and, if she had known that she was floating over an extinct volcano, she would probably have liked it less.
"It looks like a place for murders to be committed," she said.
When they had reached the centre of the dark water, Annie laid aside the oars, and seated herself in the stern of the boat with her companion. There was no wind, no current: the boat remained almost motionless.
The old woman took the young girl's hand, and said to her —
"Come now, Miss Annie, you must tell me what has been the matter with you lately – what has vexed you – or what troubles you?"
"I have been thinking of returning to England," she said, absently.
"Why should that trouble you?"
"I am afraid of going back."
"Bah! I have no patience with you. You are as much a child as ever – as when you used to whimper in a makebelieve way, and cause your mother to laugh and cry together over your natural turn for acting."
"My natural turn for acting is going – is nearly gone," said she, with a smile; "and that is what I am afraid about. I am beginning to fear a lot of faces."
"Then why will you remain in such a dreadfully lonely place as this mountain inn? That it is which breeds strange fancies in you, my girl, don't doubt of it. Afraid of faces! Didn't you use to tell me that you were never conscious of seeing a face at all when you were on the stage?"
"I may have said so," she replied, musingly. "I don't think I ever did see faces – except as vague orange-coloured lamps in a sort of ruddy darkness – over the blaze of the footlights, you know. Certainly I never thought of them, nor heeded them. When I went off, and heard the noise of their hands and feet, it seemed like the sound of some machine with which I had no concern. I don't think I ever feared an audience in my life. My mother used to be my audience, as she stood in the wings and looked at me with the half-smile and kindly eyes I remember so well; and then I used to try to please you, you know, and never succeeded, as you also know, Lady Jane; and lately I have not thought of pleasing anybody, but of satisfying a sort of delirium that came over me."
"You never pleased me! You wicked creature! If I were blind and came into a theatre where I heard you playing your 'Juliet,' my eyes would open of their own accord."
"That time has passed over, Lady Jane. I am afraid of going to England. I should see all the faces now, and wonder what the people were saying of my hands outstretched, or of my kneeling posture, or of my elocution. I feel that if I were to get up just now, in this boat, and speak two sentences – "
"You would have us both laughing. But did you ever try before, my dear, to act to a scene? You might as well try to speak to an empty theatre as to that horrible loneliness over there. It was Mr. Bridges, the stage-manager at N – , if you remember, Miss Annie, who used to rehearse in the morning his speech before the curtain – used to wave his hand and smile to the empty benches, and then bow himself out backward. But at night, when the people were there, he always forgot the smile and the wave of the hand, and mumbled like a schoolboy. And as for your not being able to act when you hear the stir of a crowded house on the other side of the curtain, and know there are a dozen bouquets waiting for you in the boxes, why it's nonsense, my dear."
"I am afraid of it none the less, mother, and I shall dread putting myself to the test."
"All the result of this living out of the world," said Mrs. Christmas, dogmatically. "Say, shall we start to-morrow morning, Miss Annie?"
"Yes."
When they returned to the inn there was a letter from Schönstein awaiting Miss Brunel. She knew from the peculiar handwriting who had sent it, and opened it joyfully, knowing that he was at least well enough to write. These were the words: —
"Schönstein, Thursday.
"MY DEAR MISS BRUNEL, – Ever since you left I have bitterly reproached myself for having given you so much annoyance and trouble. I hear that you are living, without amusement or companions, in the Feldberg Inn. May I beg of you to return here, adding the assurance that you will not be troubled by my presence in any way whatever? Whether you do or not, I cannot permit you to leave without bidding you good-bye – especially as we may not see each other in England – and so, if you will forgive me this once, I propose to cross over to the Feldberg to-morrow and visit you," &c., &c.
She read no more; the cramped left-hand writing had told her enough. She hurriedly wrote a reply, peremptorily forbidding him to be at the trouble and danger of such an expedition; and added that, before he could possibly be at the Feldberg, she would be on her way to Freiburg and Basle. Then she called the elder Holzmann, desired him to get a messenger to take over this letter to Schönstein that day, and informed him that on the next morning she and her companion would set out for the south.
It was a point of maidenly honour with her that she should go away with her sad secret her own; and who could tell what disclosure might happen, were she to see him suffering from the effects of the wound, entreating her to stay, and with his own love for her speaking in his eyes? He was a man, and it did not matter; as for her, she closed this fatal tenderness in her heart, and would fain have deceived herself into denying its existence. Truth to say, she felt a touch of shame at her own weakness; was dimly conscious that her virginal purity of soul was tainted by a passion which she dreamed was a guilty one; and knew that her punishment lay in the loss of that innocent gaiety and thoughtlessness which had hitherto made her life so pleasant.
"We may not see each other in England," she said to herself, gazing at the crooked and trembling lines on the paper. "Not in England, nor elsewhere, will be my constant prayer so long as I live."
So they left the gloomy mountain, and passing through the Hollenthal once more, reached Freiburg; and from thence, by easy stages, they made the round of the Swiss lakes until, as fate would have it, they came to Thun. There they rested for a day or two, preparatory to their undertaking the voyage to England.
Here a strange incident befel Annie Brunel. Their first walk lay along the shore of the lake; and no sooner had they left the side of the rapid bright-green Aar, than Mrs. Christmas noticed a strange intense look of wonder settling over her companion's face. Wistfully, and yet curiously, the dark-grey eyes dwelt on the expanding lake, on the long curving bays, on the sunlit mountains opposite, and on the far-off snow-peaks of the Bernese Alps.
"I have seen all this in a dream," she said.
"Or in a picture," suggested Mrs. Christmas.
"It is more than a dream or a picture," she continued, in a half-frightened way, as they walked along. "I know the place – I know it – the shore over there – the village down yonder at the point, and the smoke hanging over the trees; – I am getting quite giddy with – remembering – "
"My dear!" said Mrs. Christmas.
Her companion was now quite pale, and stood fixed to the spot, looking over the long scene in front of her with a wild stare. Then she turned round, as if almost in fear, and no sooner had she done so than she uttered a slight cry, and seemed ready to sink to the ground.
"I knew it! – I knew it!" she said. "I knew the house was there before I turned my head."
She looked up at the handsome building on the plateau above, as if it were some horrible thing come to torture her. It was only the house in which Harry Ormond had bidden her mother farewell.
