by Susan Barrie
“Very wise,” he agreed at once. “And I shall not disturb her.”
“But you will sit down.” She indicated the chair facing her. “And perhaps you would like some coffee—?”
He revealed hard, white teeth in a pleasant smile.
“I would certainly love some coffee.”
“Then I will ring for Trudi to bring some more.” With her hand on the bell-push she thought of the cocktail cabinet behind her, and wondered whether he would prefer to sample its well-stocked contents. “Or perhaps you would like something—something else?” a little shyly, looking towards the cabinet.
“I thank you, no,” he answered, quite definitely. “But coffee—yes.”
When Trudi had come and gone with the fresh coffee, and she had poured him some out, he offered her his cigarette case, and then held a match to her cigarette. She thought he seemed inclined to regard her rather closely, as if something about her interested him, and there was a kind of gentle speculation in his voice as he asked her.
“You, too, will be glad of a rest and change here in our pleasant spring sunshine, Miss Brooks? It will bring back the roses to your cheeks.”
She looked a little surprised.
“I am normally rather pale.”
“But you do not normally have such sombre eyes, and there is a pallor which is a natural pallor, and a pallor which is the result of excessive weariness. I think you are very weary tonight, Miss Brooks, and your heart is perhaps a little heavy for—the home you have left?”
She looked at him in even greater surprise. His age she judged to be somewhere in the middle thirties, but his shrewdness was the shrewdness of more advanced years.
“Perhaps,” she admitted, and knew that it was simply the truth.
“Never mind,” he told her. “A good night’s rest—several good nights’ rest—and the excellent food with which Trudi will see that you are served, combined with the effects of our exhilarating air, and you will feel a new being. No longer will you have the slightest regret—believe me!”
She smiled—she could not help it. He was smiling, too, a friendly, warm, heartening smile, which yet had a faint touch of humor in it, and she knew instinctively that he was a man to be trusted absolutely, and that under his pleasantly good-looking exterior he was both shrewd and clever.
“I’m not sure that I have any real regrets now,” she confessed. “I’ve never been abroad before, and this is a fresh experience for me, but I have certain responsibilities which will prevent me from regarding it as a holiday.”
He nodded with suitable gravity.
“That is understandable,” he agreed. “But, even so, it will be a holiday for you. And a holiday in Zindenbourg at this season of the year—hardly any tourists, all the wonder of our spring flowers, nothing but summer ahead—is something to be remembered always. At any rate I think you will find it so.”
“I will let you know my reactions in a week or so,” she told him, still smiling.
“And I will look to see the roses in a week or so! Very well, Fraulein.” He stood up. “In a day or so I will call to see the little one, and now I will leave you to stop drinking coffee and go to bed like a sensible young woman. Auf Wiedersehen!”
And she found herself echoing: “Auf Wiedersehen, Dr. Muller!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE days and the weeks passed, and Melanie knew that Kurt Muller was right—she was enjoying a holiday. Impossible to do otherwise in such a wonderful atmosphere, and with Noel growing stronger before her eyes.
The picture of Noel actually becoming tanned, and losing that frightening fragile look, would have been sufficient in itself to compensate her for being cut off from England and the things she had become so closely attached to there—and by “things” were meant the Wold House, and Murchester, Peter the Great Dane and Baxter the cat, but human beings such as Richard Trenchard were not included in that category!—but the chalet in its fairy-tale setting, the marvel of the snows which lingered on the mountain peaks, the green beauty of the valleys, these things were something to be wondered at.
And Trudi and her brother Max, who was as like her as two peas in a pod, even to the expansive smile, save that he belonged to the sterner sex, and chopped all the wood and carried all the water for her, while she baked and swept and polished, were two very pleasant human beings to have about one. Trudi had a voice like a nightingale and used it all the time she was working about the house, and Max frequently joined her in a duet. Together they often roused the echoes, and Melanie always knew when Max was coming up with the milk and the letters because his singing voice went ahead of him, and at dusk he softened it miraculously to fit in with the softened music of the cow-bells stealing up from the lush pastures.
On the balcony outside their two rooms the girls spent many hours of daylight, lying in the long chairs. They even breakfasted on the balcony, enjoying hot crisp rolls fresh out of the oven, and golden butter and cherry jam, while the air at that early hour was full of intoxicating flower scents, and their surroundings stood forth from an unreal haze like a backcloth at the theatre. Noel could not walk very much during those first few weeks, but they strolled in the dim green twilight of pine woods, and picnicked on the aromatic pine needles. They lay full length in the meadows, staring upwards at the incredibly blue sky, and wished that they had wings to soar upwards to those tantalizing peaks which soared above them, and seemed to have no contact at all with the earth.
Indeed, thought Melanie—who sometimes regarded them a little wistfully from such an eminence one might look straight into the heart of the dawn or the sunset, and learn secrets which might make the baffling purpose of Life itself a little less obscure.
Dr. Kurt Muller, whenever he looked in upon them, appeared entirely satisfied. Noel was young, and for her he felt confident in predicting complete restoration to health if she remained where she was long enough. And Melanie’s clear pallor was beginning to be invaded by a delicate color which lent an added lustre to her large brown eyes. He thought her a serious and unnaturally composed young woman for her age, which he guessed correctly at what it was, and wanted to hear her laugh more often. And to that end he offered to take them for trips in his car, and organized little outings and excursions unlikely to tire the invalid which did gradually break down a considerable amount of the elder girl’s reserve. It was too late for skiing, but there were towns to be visited, and beauty spots to be admired. Melanie was entranced by the strange mediaeval charm of the towns, and she enjoyed shopping in such quaint surroundings. She bought herself a dress length of exquisite broderie anglaise in one of the palest shades of peach, and Noel acquired a tiny model chalet which was so fascinatingly perfect that she kept it on her dressing-table and played with it constantly. And on another occasion they had lunch at the little local hotel where, it being out of season, they were almost overpowered by the attentions of the waiters, and afterwards Dr. Muller drove them out to visit a farmhouse belonging to a friend of his, where they were regaled with some of the first wild strawberries of the year, and a huge bowl of clotted cream which was served with them.
On yet another occasion Melanie and Dr. Muller climbed half-way up a mountain. It was his suggestion, since she had never climbed a mountain in her life, and to him it was no more than a lazy uphill stroll to an eminence which was far below the other peaks, but overlooked a wonderful valley carpeted thickly with wildflowers.
Melanie drew in her breath when first they reached the eminence—which to her seemed rather a dizzy perch. For it was rather like sitting on the outside of an aeroplane and watching the world dropping away below her.
But she quickly conquered the sensation of wanting to look hastily away which assailed her, and realized that this was an unforgettable experience. As she had imagined that the great peaks still towering above and all around her had no connection with the solid earth, so she, now that she had achieved this altitude, seemed just as remote and unattached, as if her spirit had been somehow g
iven wings and was free to soar and hover as it pleased, without doubts or fears or burdens to oppress it. The troubles of earth were hers no longer, and looking down on the far-off blues and greens and golds of the valley—the tiny specks which were cows grazing knee-deep in perfumed sweetness, the minute spire of a church, the vague white blur which was a farmhouse—she knew instead a kind of temporary exaltation which showed in her face, and looking at her thoughtfully the brown-faced Kurt Muller observed:
“Of course, this is not the right time of day to be up here. We should be here to watch the sunrise, or the sunset. To watch the sun come up from a high pinnacle like this is a wonderful experience.”
Melanie looked at him in a vague way.
“I expect so.”
What she was suddenly thinking—his voice having broken the spell which had held her—was that Richard Trenchard, her employer, had perhaps stood here on this very ledge at some other time or another, since he was such a frequent visitor to Zindenbourg as to maintain a chalet there. And she wondered all at once how he would have felt—looked—in such a situation...
Would he, too, have found it easy to forget about the world ...?
“I’ve watched many a dawn come creeping up over the mountains from this ledge,” Kurt told her, wondering why she suddenly looked as if a good deal of the pleasure of her existence had been wiped away. “Pale at first, like the wings of a moth, and then spreading and glowing as golden as high summer. And I’ve watched the stars put out by all that grandeur, and the sky turn to a sea of amethyst, and the sun make its very first appearance—like a lamp lighted suddenly by an invisible hand!”
“It sounds wonderful,” Melanie said, her interest captured by the poetry of his words.
“It is wonderful,” he assured her quietly.
Melanie glanced at him sideways. He was hatless, and his hair was very crisp and dark in the mellow light of afternoon, and he had very serious and level brows belied by the little quizzical quirk at one corner of his mouth, and a chin which was incapable of weakness. He was tall and broad-shouldered even as Richard Trenchard was tall and broad-shouldered, but whereas Richard had a natural elegance which would set him apart in any community, to say nothing of his air of distinction which also always gained him approving looks, Dr. Muller was simply and naturally himself, and a retiring, unostentatious self at that. He would never command Very much attention in the world, although he would probably render many valuable services to his fellow human beings through the profession he had chosen, but Melanie felt extraordinarily safe with him up there on that somewhat perilous natural platform which overhung the valley.
He slipped a hand beneath her elbow to guide her back along the path up which they had climbed, and he suggested, with rather a hopeful note in his voice: “Perhaps now that the early mornings are growing steadily warmer you might be tempted up here to witness the miracle yourself?”
“With you, you mean?” Melanie asked.
“With me—of course!” His grip tightened, and he warned her of a sudden large outcrop of rock around which they must edge their way. ‘“This sort of excursion is possible only with an experienced climber.”
And he, of course, was an experienced climber! Melanie allowed him to retain possession of her arm until there was no longer any slightest danger of her missing her footing, and then she said slowly, as if she had been thinking the matter over, “I think I would love to watch the dawn break over the mountains in the way you have described. But you mustn’t let me take up so much of your time, Dr. Muller. There are your duties at the clinic—and in your off-duty you must have many other things to do.”
“Nothing which is so important that it would be allowed to prevent me from assisting you to enjoy your holiday.”
“You will insist that it is a holiday.”
“I wish very much to make it so.”
Once again she glanced at him sideways, and all at once she experienced a little qualm of unease. He had such a serious look on his face, and his eyes were studying her ... If, perhaps, she had met him before she had met Richard Trenchard!
But, no, of course that was absurd! ... He was merely being very kind and helpful, and probably he was a little sorry for her, having no other companionship than that which the delicate Noel and the vociferous Trudi afforded her. And in any case he was extraordinarily nice and well-mannered, loving his own country so much that he wanted others to love it, too. And she saw no reason why she should not allow him to take her up the mountain again to watch the sunrise...
But that night—or early evening, rather, when she was writing her customary weekly letter, which was more in the nature of a report, to Richard Trenchard in London, which would enable him to hear of his niece’s progress—Noel, who was relaxing luxuriously on the balcony in a pretty housecoat-cum-dressing-gown of sky blue like her eyes, which had been her guardian’s last present to her before she left London, observed suddenly, “Do you know, I can’t help remembering something rather odd.”
“Yes?” Melanie inquired, a trifle abstractedly, barely lifting her eyes from her letter. She was wondering whether this time perhaps she might receive an answer to it in Richard’s own handwriting, instead of the usual polite little type-written note his secretary sent. “What sort of oddity is that?”
“Brigid,” Noel exclaimed dramatically. “Have you forgotten she saw our future in the tea leaves?”
Melanie could not restrain a smile.
“What she pretended to see I have forgotten, but apparently you have not.”
Noel regarded her with a curious kind of speculation in her glance.
“Melanie,” she said almost solemnly, “I don’t really believe you have forgotten, but in case you have I’ll recall it for you. There were to be two men in your life—both dark!—and snow and high peaks and things. The snow is on the peaks surrounding us at this minute, and one of the dark men is undoubtedly Dr. Muller, while the other—” Melanie felt her heart pounding oddly while the younger girl paused as it seemed deliberately, tantalizing her with her most unchildlike look of knowledge.
“The other,” Noel resumed emphatically, “well, the other one could be my uncle! Although perhaps you think he’s rather old,” lying back on her cushions and enjoying the sight of the hot blush which rushed up over Melanie’s face and neck.
“I don’t think he’s either old or young,” Melanie stated untruthfully. “In fact I don’t think about him at all, save as an employer, and your uncle. And I’m quite certain he doesn’t waste any time thinking about me.”
“Doesn’t he?” Noel appeared almost to be grinning a little. “But that’s only what you think, isn’t it?”
Melanie, crushing down embarrassment—because this was a subject she could never discuss with Noel, or anyone, if it came to that—studied her for a moment in silence, and realized that with renewed health the girl had become again almost startlingly pretty. And she looked older than her sixteen years, and the blue housecoat lent her additional glamor. What was it Brigid had said about Noel? ... “You will meet a man who lives amongst the snows, and you will marry him! ...”
Of course, it was ridiculous to think of Noel married at this stage of her existence, and in her present fragile condition of health, but one day, if everything went well, a man—perhaps many men! would want to marry her—maybe such a man as Kurt Muller!...
But this sort of speculation was absurd, and Noel little minx for putting it into her head. She shut up her writing pad with a snap and ordered her inside to bed, and Noel went with that annoying little Cheshire cat grin still on her face.
“When are you going to climb another mountain with Kurt? Don’t tell me he hasn’t asked you!...”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ACTUALLY it was about a fortnight later that Melanie once more climbed the mountain path which led to the dizzy pinnacle overhanging the flower-carpeted valley. But this time she climbed with the stars burning brightly overhead, and the awesome hush which precedes the miracle of
a new day’s birth lying like a mantle over the valleys.
Kurt Muller guided her footsteps as before, only this time with even greater care because of the darkness. And as they neared the ledge where they had stood before she felt excitement begin to grip her, because the dawn, she knew, could not be far off.
But Kurt refused to allow her to hurry, although he sensed her eagerness. There was plenty of time, he said, and no danger of missing the spectacle they had set out to see.
And actually when they reached the ledge they had a little time to spare. There was no lightening of the darkness—if anything it was deeper than ever in those few solemn minutes before an unseen hand painted a kind of uncertain halo about the summit of the mountain peak facing them across the valley—and they sat down to smoke a cigarette apiece whilst they were waiting. Kurt had a rucksack which contained a flask of coffee and sandwiches intended to provide them with their breakfast, but during those minutes of waiting they were content to sit silently side by side on the ledge and gaze out across the valley without even feeling the need of conversation.
Melanie had her hands about her drawn-up knees, and she was thinking how utterly insignificant they two were in that curious isolation of loneliness where human beings were of such slight importance that they need not have existed at all. Even the stars so soon to be blotted from the sky above their heads—but only temporarily—had a more fixed purpose in the scheme of things, and were of infinitely greater value to mankind. At least they guided and directed the paths of those who looked to them for guidance, and their span of life was not brief but a portion of Time itself.
