Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  It was about half past two in the afternoon and Ruth began to be very, very tired, when a Jodel from Sepp greeted the ``Hütte’’ and the white cross rising behind it. As they toiled up the steep path to the little alm, Ruth said, ``I don’t see Papa, but there are people there.’’ A man in a summer helmet, wound with a green veil, came to the edge of the wooden platform and looked down at them; he was presently joined by two ladies, of whom one disappeared almost immediately, but they could see the other still looking down until a turn in the path brought them to the bottom of some wooden steps, close under the platform. On climbing these they were met at the top by the gentleman, hat in hand, who spoke in French to Gethryn, while the stout, friendly lady held out both hands to Ruth and cried, in pretty broken English:

  ``Ah! dear Mademoiselle! ees eet possible zat we meet a — h — gain!’’

  ``Madame Bordier!’’ exclaimed Ruth, and kissed her cordially on both cheeks. Then she greeted the husband of Madame, and presented Rex.

  ``But we know heem!’’ smiled Madame; and her quiet, gentlemanly husband added in French that Monsieur the colonel had done them the honor to leave messages with them for Miss Dene and Mr Gethryn.

  ``Papa is not here?’’ said Ruth, quickly.

  Monsieur the colonel, finding himself a little fatigued, had gone on to the Jaeger-hütte, where were better accommodations.

  Ruth’s face fell, and she lost her bright color.

  ``But no! my dear!’’ said Madame. ``Zere ees nossing ze mattaire. Your fazzer ees quite vell,’’ and she hurried her indoors.

  Rex and Monsieur Bordier were left together on the platform. The amiable Frenchman did the honors as if it were a private salon. Monsieur the colonel was perfectly well. But perfectly! It was really for Mademoiselle that he had gone on. He had decided that it would be quite too fatiguing for his daughter to return that day to Trauerbach, as they had planned, and he had gone on to secure the Jagd-hütte for the night before any other party should arrive.

  ``He watched for you until you turned into the path that leads up here, and we all saw that you were quite safe. It is only half an hour since he left. He did us the honor to say that Mademoiselle Dene could need no better chaperon than my wife — Monsieur the colonel was a little fatigued, but badly, no.’’

  Monsieur Bordier led the way to the usual spring and wooden trough behind the house, and, while Rex was enjoying a refreshing dip, he continued to chat.

  Yes, as he had already had the honor to inform Rex, Mademoiselle had been his wife’s pupil in singing, the last two winters, in Paris. Monsieur Gethryn, perhaps, was not wholly unacquainted with the name of Madame Bordier?

  ``Madame’s reputation as an artist, and a professor of singing, is worldwide,’’ said Rex in his best Parisian, adding:

  ``And you, then, Monsieur, are the celebrated manager of `La Fauvette’?’’

  The manager replied with a politely gratified bow.

  ``The most charming theater in Paris,’’ added Rex.

  ``Ah! murmured the other, Monsieur is himself an artist, though not of our sort, and artists know.’’

  ``Colonel Dene has told you that I am studying in Paris,’’ said Rex modestly.

  ``He has told me that Monsieur exhibited in the salon with a number one.’’

  Rex scrubbed his brown and rosy cheeks with the big towel.

  Monsieur Bordier went on: ``But the talent of Mademoiselle! Mon Dieu! what a talent! What a voice of silver and crystal! And today she will meet another pupil of Madame — of ours — a genius. My word!’’

  ``Today?’’

  ``Yes, she is with us here. She makes her debut at the Fauvette next autumn.’’

  Rex concealed a frown in the ample folds of the towel. It crossed his mind that the colonel might better have stayed and taken care of his own daughter. If he, Rex, had had a sister, would he have liked her to be on a Bavarian mountaintop in a company composed of a gamekeeper, the manager of a Paris theater and his wife, and a young person who was about to make her debut in opera-bouffe, and to have no better guardian than a roving young art student? Rex felt his unfitness for the post with a pang of compunction. Meantime he rubbed his head, and Monsieur Bordier talked tranquilly on. But between vexation and friction Gethryn lost the thread of Monsieur’s remarks for a while.

  The first word which recalled his wandering attention was ``Chamois?’’ and he saw that Monsieur Bordier was pointing to the game bag and looking amiably at Sepp, who, divided between sulkiness at Monsieur’s native language and goodwill toward anyone who seemed to be accepted by his ``Herrschaften,’’ was in two minds whether to open the bag and show the game to this smiling Frenchman, or ``to say him a Grobheit’’ and go away. Sepp’s ``Grobheit’’ could be very insulting indeed when he cared to make it so. Rex hastened to turn the scale.

  ``Yes, Herr Director, this is Sepp, one of the duke’s best gamekeepers — Monsieur speaks German?’’ he interrupted himself to ask in French.

  ``Parfaitement! Well,’’ he went on in Sepp’s native tongue, ``Herr Director, in Sepp you see one of the best woodsmen in Bavaria, one of the best shots in Germany. Sepp, we must show the Herr Director our Gems.’’

  And there was nothing for Sepp but to open the bag, sheepish, beaten, laughing in spite of himself, and before he knew it they all three had their heads together over the game in perfect amity.

  A step sounded along the front platform, and Madame looked round the corner of the house, saying that lunch was ready. Her husband and Rex joined her immediately. ``Ze young ladees are wizin,’’ she said, and led the way.

  The sun-glare on the limestone rocks outside made the little room seem almost black at first, and all Rex could distinguish as he followed the others was Ruth’s bright smile as she stood near the door and a jumble of dark figures farther back.

  ``Permit me,’’ said Monsieur, ``to introduce you to our Belle Hélène.’’ Rex had already bowed low, seeing nothing. ``Mademoiselle Descartes — Monsieur Gethryn—’’ Rex raised his head and looked into the white face of Yvonne.

  ``Ah, yes! as I was saying,’’ gossiped Monsieur while they were taking their places at table, ``I shoot when I can, but merely the partridge and rabbit of the turnip. Bah! a man may not boast of that!’’

  Rex kept his eyes fixed on the speaker and forced himself to understand what was being said.

  ``But the sanglier?’’ His voice sounded in his ears like noises one hears with the head under water.

  ``Mon Dieu! the sanglier! yes, that is also noble game. I do not deny it.’’ Monsieur talked on evenly and quietly in his self-possessed, reasonable voice, about the habits and the hunt of the wild boar.

  Ruth, sitting opposite, forcing herself to swallow the food, to answer Madame gaily and look at her ease, felt her heart settle down like lead in her breast.

  What was this? Oh! what was it? She looked at Mademoiselle Descartes. This young, gentle stranger with the dark hair and the face like marble, this girl whom she had never heard of until an hour ago, was hiding from Rex behind the broad shoulders of Madame Bordier. The pupils of her blue eyes were so dilated that the sad, frightened eyes themselves looked black. Ruth turned to Gethryn. He was listening and answering. About his nostrils and temples the hollows showed; the flush of sunburn was gone, leaving only a pallid brown over the ashen grey of his face; his expression varied between a strained smile and a fixed stare. The cold weight at her heart melted and swelled in a passion of pity.

  ``Someone must keep up! Someone must keep up!’’ she said to herself; and turned to assure Madame in tones which deserved the name of ``crystal and silver,’’ that, Yes, for her part she had not been able to see any reason why hearing Parsifal at Bayreuth should make one forget that Bizet was also a great master.

  But the strain became too great, and at the first possible moment she said brightly to Rex, ``I’m going to feed Zimbach. Sepp said I might.’’ She collected some scraps on a plate and went out. The hound rose wagging as she app
roached. Ruth stood a moment looking down at him. Then she knelt and took his brown head in her arms. Her eyes were full of tears. Zimbach licked her face, and then wrenching his head away began to dance about her, barking and running at the platter. She took a bone and gave it to him; it went with a snap; so bit by bit she fed him with her own hands, and the tears dried without one falling.

  She heard Rex come out and stood up to meet him with clear grey eyes that seemed to see nothing but a jest.

  ``Look at this dog, Rex! He hasn’t a word to say about the bones he’s eaten already; he merely remarks that there don’t seem to be any more at present!’’

  Rex was taking down his gun. ``Monsieur wants to see this,’’ he said in a dull, heavy voice. ``And Ruth — when you are ready — your father, perhaps—’’

  ``Yes, I really would like to join him as soon as possible—’’ They went in together.

  An hour later they were taking leave. All the usual explanations had been made; everyone knew where the others were stopping, and why they were there, and how long they meant to stay, and where they intended to go afterward.

  The Bordiers, with Yvonne, were at a lake on the opposite side of the mountain, but a visit to the Forester’s house at Trauerbach was one of the excursions they had already planned.

  It only remained now, as Ruth said, to fix upon an early day for coming.

  The hour just past had been Ruth’s hour.

  Without effort, or apparent intention, she had taken and kept the lead from the moment when she returned with Rex. She it was who had given the key, who had set and kept the pitch, and it was due to her that not one discordant note had been struck. Vaguely yet vividly she felt the emergency. Refusing to ask herself the cause, she recognized a crisis. Something was dreadfully wrong. She made no attempt to go beyond that. Of all the deep emotions which she was learning now so suddenly, for the first time, the dominant one with her at present was a desire to help and to protect. All her social experience, all her tact, were needed to shield Rex and this white-faced, silent stranger, who, without her, must have betrayed themselves, so stunned, so dazed they were. And the courage of her father’s daughter kept her fair head erect above the dead weight at her heart.

  And now, having said ``Au revoir’’ to Monsieur and Madame, and fixed upon a day for their visit to the Försthaus, she turned to Yvonne and took her hand.

  ``Mademoiselle, I regret so much to hear that you are not quite strong. But when you come to Trauerbach, Mama and I will take such good care of you that you will not mind the fatigue.’’

  The sad blue eyes looked into the clear grey ones, and once more Ruth responded with a passion of grief and pity.

  How Rex made his adieux Ruth never knew.

  When he overtook her, she and Sepp were well started down the path to the Jagd-hütte. They seemed to be having a duet of silence, which Rex turned into a trio when he joined them.

  For such walkers as they all were the distance they had to go was nothing. Soft afternoon lights were still lying peacefully beside the long afternoon shadows as they approached the little hut, and Sepp answered the colonel’s abortive attempt at a Jodel with one so long and complicated that it seemed as if he were taking that means to express all he should have liked to say in words. The spell broken, he turned about and asked:

  ``Also! what did the French people,’’ — he wouldn’t call them Herrschaft — ``say to the gracious Fraulein’s splendid shot?’’

  Ruth stopped and looked absently at him, then flushed and recovered herself quickly. It was the first time she had remembered her stag.

  ``I fear,’’ said she, ``that French people would disapprove a young lady’s shooting. I did not tell them.’’

  Sepp went on again with long strides. The four little black hoofs of the chamois stuck pitifully up out of the bag on his broad back. When he was well out of hearing he growled aloud:

  ``Hab’ ‘s schon g’ wusst! Jesses, Marie and Josef! was is denn dös!’’

  That evening, when Rex and the Jaeger were fussing over the chamois’ beard and dainty horns inside the Hütte, Ruth and her father stood without, before the closed door. The skies were almost black, and full of stars. Through the wide fragrant stillness came up now and then a Jodel from some Bursch going to visit his Sennerin. A stamp, and a comfortable sigh, came at times from Nani’s cows in their stall below.

  Ruth put both arms around her father’s neck and laid her head down on his shoulder.

  ``Tired, Daisy?’’

  ``Yes, dear.’’

  Fifteen

  Supper was over, evening had fallen; but there would be no music tonight under the beech tree; the sky was obscured by clouds and a wet wind was blowing.

  Mrs Dene and Ruth were crossing the hall; Gethryn came in at the front door and they met.

  ``Well?’’ said Rex, forcing a smile.

  ``Well,’’ said Ruth. ``Mademoiselle Descartes is better. Madame will bring her down stairs by and by. It appears that wretched peasant who drove them has been carrying them about for hours from one inn to another, stopping to drink at all of them. No wonder they were tired out with the worry and his insolence!’’

  ``It appears Miss Descartes has had attacks of fainting like this more than once before. The doctor in Paris thinks there is some weakness of the heart, but forbids her being told,’’ said Mrs Dene.

  Ruth interposed quickly, not looking at Gethryn:

  ``Papa and Monsieur Bordier, where are they?’’

  ``I left them visiting Federl and Sepp in their quarters.’’

  ``Well, you will find us in that dreadful little room yonder. It’s the only alternative to sitting in the Bauernstube with all the woodchoppers and their bad tobacco, since out of doors fails us. We must go now and make it as pleasant as we can.’’

  Ruth made a motion to go, but Mrs Dene lingered. Her kind eyes, her fair little faded face, were troubled.

  ``Madame Bordier says the young lady tells her she has met you before, Rex.’’

  ``Yes, in Paris’’; for his life he could not have kept down the crimson flush that darkened his cheeks and made his temples throb.

  Mrs Dene’s manner grew a little colder.

  ``She seems very nice. You knew her people, of course.’’

  ``No, I never met any of her people,’’ answered Rex, feeling like a kicked coward. Ruth interposed once more.

  ``People!’’ said Ruth, impatiently. ``Of course Rex only knows nice people. Come, mother!’’

  Putting her arm around the old lady, she moved across the hall with decision. As they passed into the cheerless little room, Rex held open the door. Ruth, entering after her mother, looked in his face. It had grown thinner; shadows were deep in the temples; from the dark circles under the eyes to the chin ran a line of pain. She held out her hand to him. He bent and kissed it.

  He went and stood in the porch, trying to collect his thoughts. The idea of this meeting between Ruth and Yvonne was insupportable. Why had he not taken means — any, every means to prevent it? He cursed himself. He called himself a coward. He wondered how much Ruth divined. The thought shamed him until his cheeks burned again. And all the while a deep undercurrent of feeling was setting toward that drooping little figure in black, as he had seen it for a moment when she alighted from the carriage and was supported to a room upstairs. Heavens! How it reminded him of that first day in the Place de la Concorde! Why was she in mourning? What did the doctor mean by ``weakness of the heart’’? What was she doing on mountaintops, and on the stage of a theater if she had heart disease? He started with a feeling that he must go and put a stop to all this folly. Then he remembered the letter. She had told him another man had the right to care for her. Then she was at this moment deserted for the second time, as well as faithless to still another lover! — to how many more? And it was through him that a woman of such a life was brought into contact with Ruth! And Ruth’s parents had trusted him; they thought him a gentleman. His brain reeled.

  Th
e surging waves of shame and self-contempt subsided, were forgotten. He heard the wind sough in the Luxembourg trees, he smelled the pink flowering chestnuts, a soft voice was in his ear, a soft touch on his arm, her breath on his cheek, the old, old faces came crowding up. Clifford’s laugh rang faintly, Braith’s grave voice; odd bits and ends of song floated out from the shadows of that past and through the troubled dream of face and laugh and music, so long, so long passed away, he heard the gentle voice of Yvonne: ``Rex, Rex, be true to me; I will come back!’’

  ``I loved her!’’ he muttered.

  There was a stir, a door opened and shut, voices and steps sounded in the room on his left. He leaned forward a little and looked through the uncurtained window.

  It was a bare and dingy room containing only a table, some hard chairs, and an old ``Flügel’’ piano with a long inlaid case.

  They sat together at the table. Ruth’s back was toward him; she was speaking. Yvonne was in the full light. Her eyes were cast down, and she was nervously plaiting the edge of her little black-bordered handkerchief. All at once she raised her eyes and looked straight at the window. How blue her eyes were!

  Rex dropped his face in his hands.

  ``Oh God! I love her!’’ he groaned.

  ``Gute Nacht, gnädige Herrn!’’

  Sepp and Federl stood in their door with a light. Two figures were coming down from the Jaeger’s cottage. Gethryn recognized the colonel and Monsieur Bordier.

  At the risk of scrutiny from those cool, elderly, masculine eyes, Rex’s manhood pulled itself together. He went back to meet them, and presently they all joined the ladies in the apology for a parlor, where coffee was being served.

  Coming in after the older men, Rex found no place left in the little, crowded room, excepting one at the table close beside Yvonne. Ruth was on the other side. He went and took the place, self-possessed and smiling.

  Yvonne made a slight motion as if to rise and escape. Only Rex saw it. Yes, one more: Ruth saw it.