FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
'Nan, do you see that ship out there?' said Mary Beresford.
'I saw it as I came along,' said Nan. This was the afternoon on which
she had fallen in with Singing Sal. Nan was rather tired after her long
walk, and was not inclined to show much interest in that now lessening
vessel, which was slowly sinking into the dusk of the west.
'Do you know what her name is?' said Mary Beresford, still regarding her
younger sister.
'No,' said Nan. 'I heard people say she was a man-of-war.'
'That is the _Fly-by-Night_.'
'Oh, indeed,' said Nan, with no greater interest than before.
'And Lieutenant King has just called here,' the elder sister said,
pointedly.
'Oh, indeed,' said Nan. 'I wish I had been in; I should like to have
seen him in uniform.'
That was all she said, and all she thought; for now there were far more
serious things than ballrooms and young lieutenants occupying Nan's
attention. She and her sisters were going abroad--she for the first
time; and she was busy with foreign languages, and lives of the great
painters, and catalogues, and guide-books, and dressing-cases. The world
she hoped to plunge into on the following week was, in her imagination,
composed of nothing but cathedrals and picture-galleries; and she could
have wished that the picture-galleries might contain nothing but the
labours of Botticelli and Andrea del Sarto. The clear ethereal beauty
and tenderness of the one, the solemn thoughtfulness of the other: these
were things that filled her mind with a mysterious gladness, as if
something had been added to her own life. Rubens she cordially hated.
Of Titian she had as yet seen hardly anything.
At last the wonderful day of setting out arrived, and Mr. Tom graciously
consented to accompany his sisters as far as Newhaven. It was towards
the afternoon that they started, in an open carriage, the maid on the box
beside the coachman. Tom was making facetious remarks about south-west
gales, and his two elder sisters were angrily remonstrating with him.
Nan was silent. She had not a thought for the ships and sailors out
there, or for any pensive young officer bitterly saying to himself that
out of sight was out of mind; and she had forgotten for a moment all
about Singing Sal and her free-and-easy ways. Nan's mind was at this
time filled with Dante, and Florence, and the young Raphael, and the Doge
wedding the Adriatic, and Pompeii, and Savonarola, and goodness knows
what else. When they reached Newhaven--when they forced her to descend
from the carriage--her eyes had a bewildered look. She had not seen
Newhaven at all. She had been watching the execution of Savonarola--she
standing in the middle of the great crowd in a square in Florence.
They stayed the night at the hotel at Newhaven. Next morning falsified
all Mr. Tom's malicious forecasts; the weather was fine, and they had a
smooth passage across. In due time they reached Paris.
To Nan, Paris meant picture-galleries. The streets were new-looking,
non-historical, filled with commonplace people; but in the
picture-galleries she was with great names, in great times.
'Nan,' her sisters remonstrated, 'what is the use of dawdling over
pictures like this? The Old Masters are all alike. There are plenty of
Holy Families and broken-necked angels in England. Why don't you put off
all this till you get back to the National Gallery?'
Fortunately, Nan was the most biddable of companions. She seemed to be
in dreamland. You could do what you liked with her if only you allowed
her to gaze with her great eyes, and think, and be silent.
Now it is unnecessary to follow in detail the various journeyings and
adventures of these three young ladies and their maid; we may pass on to
a certain evening when they found themselves in Lucerne. It was an
exceedingly hot evening; and after dinner the crowd in this great hotel
had been glad to pour out into the spacious verandah, which was formed by
a succession of arches all hanging with evergreens. There they formed
little groups round the small tables, lit up by the orange glow streaming
out from the windows of the hotel, some taking coffee, some smoking, all
chatting idly.
'It feels like thunder,' said Mary Beresford to her sister Edith. 'It
would be odd if we were to have a real thunderstorm just after listening
to the imitation one in the cathedral.'
'The _vox humana_ stop is better at some things than at others,' said
Miss Edith, critically. 'In the chanting the boys' voices are good, and
the tenor voices are good; but the bass is too musical. You hear that it
is the organ. And it vibrates too much.'
'They must make a good deal of money by it,' said the elder sister, 'in
the tourist season. I am sure there were a hundred people there.'
'I wish I knew the name of the piece. I should like to try one or two of
the airs.'
'It was considerate of them to finish up in time to let us get back for
the _table d'hote_.'
'Sooner or later that organ will shake the Cathedral to bits: the
vibrations were fearful. I thought there was a great deal too much
noise. You lose effect when you pile up the agony like that: people only
want to stop their ears to prevent their heads being split.'
So they chatted on. But what was it that Nan, who had accompanied them,
had heard as she sat in the great, empty, dimly-lit Cathedral, with her
hands clasped, her head bent forward on them, her eyes closed? Or,
rather, what was it that she saw?--for this seemed to be a picture in
music. She saw a small chapel far away up in the mountains, the
trembling red rays in the windows looking strange above the snow. She
heard the monks at their midnight chanting--low, and sad, and distant.
And then it seemed, as she listened, as if the stars overhead were being
blurred out, and a murmuring wind came down the gorge, and the air grew
cold. The darkness deepened; the wind rose and moaned through the pine
forests; then an angry gust swept along, so that the intoning of the
monks was lost altogether. There was a rumble of distant
thunder--overhead, among the unseen peaks. But still, unconscious of the
threatening storm, those within the small building went on with their
holy office, and there were snatches of the clear singing of boys--so
faint that you could scarcely hear; and again the strong, sad, sombre
voices of the men. Then the tempest broke, fierce and terrible: the
elements seemed mingled together. She lost sight of the chapel in the
whirling snow; the heavens rattled overhead; and the wind swept down so
that the whole earth trembled. A horror of wrath and darkness has
overwhelmed the world; and what of the patient choristers now? No longer
are their voices heard amid the appalling fury of the hurricane; the
sudden lightning-flash reveals nothing in the blackness; the powers of
evil have overcome; and the universe has lost its hope. But now there
comes a lull; and suddenly--far away, and faint, and triumphant--rises
the song of reliance and joy. The demons of the night mutter and moan;
but the divine song rises clearer and more clear. It is the voice of
faith, silver-toned and sweet; and the very heavens themselves seem to
listen; and the thunders rumble away into the valleys; and the stars,
shining, and calm, and benignant, come out again over the mountain-peaks.
And lo! once more she can descry the faint red rays above the snow; and
she can almost see the choristers within the little building; and she
listens to the silver-clear song; and her heart is filled with a strange
new gladness and trust. What must she do to keep it there for ever? By
what signal self-sacrifice--by what devotion of a whole life-time--by
what patient and continuous duty--shall she secure to herself this divine
peace, so that the storms and terrors and trials of the world may sweep
by it powerless and unregarded?
When she rose and blindly followed her sisters, she was all trembling,
and there was a great lump in her throat. She was, indeed, in that
half-hysterical state in which rash resolves are sometimes made that may
determine the course of a human life. But Nan had the sense to know that
she was in this state; and she had enough firmness of character to enable
her to reason with herself. She walked, silent, with her sisters from
the Cathedral to the hotel; and she was reasoning with herself all the
time. She was saying to herself that she had had a glimpse, an
impression of something divinely beautiful and touching, that at some
time or other might influence or even determine her course of life. When
that time came she could remember. But not now--_not now_. She was not
going to resolve to become a Catholic, or join a sisterhood, or give
herself up to the service of the poor, merely because this wonderful
music had filled her heart with emotion. It was necessary that she
should think of something hard and practical--something that would be the
embodiment of common sense. She would force herself to think of that.
And, casting about, she determined to think--about Singing Sal!
It was rather hard upon Sal, who had a touch of vanity, and was quite
conscious of what she deemed the romantic side of her way of life, that
she should be taken as the sort of incarnation of the prosaic.
Nevertheless, all through that _table d'hote_ dinner, Nan kept to her
self-imposed task, and was busying herself about the wages of the
coastguardsmen, and the probable cost of mackerel, and the chances of
Sal's having to face a westerly squall of wind and rain when she was
breasting the steep hill rising from Newhaven. Was Sal singing that
night before the Old Ship? Or was she in the little _cul-de-sac_ near
the Town-hall where the public-house was that the fishermen called in at
on their way home? Nan was apparently dining at the _table d'hote_ of a
hotel in Lucerne; but in reality she spent that evening in Brighton.
And she was still thinking of Brighton when, as has been related, there
was a migration from the dining-saloon to the verandah outside; so that
she did not hear much of what her sisters were saying.
'We are certainly going to have a real thunderstorm after the imitation
one,' Miss Beresford repeated. 'Do you hear that?'
There was a low rumble of thunder; likewise some pattering of rain-drops
on the leaves outside.
'It won't be half as fine though,' said the musical sister.
There was a sudden white flash of light that revealed in a surprising
manner the sharp outline of Pilatus; then darkness and a crashing peal of
thunder. The rain began to pour; and some passers by took shelter under
the densely-foliaged trees fronting the gravelled terrace of the hotel.
The light that came through the tall windows fell on those dark figures;
but dimly.
Nan had been thinking so much of Brighton, and Sal, and the downs, and
ships and sailors, that when this orange glow fell on a gentleman whom
she thought she recognised as Lieutenant Frank King she was scarcely
astonished. She looked hard through the dusk; yes, surely it was he.
'Mary,' she said, but without any great interest, 'isn't that Lieutenant
King standing by that farthest tree?'
The eldest sister also peered through the obscurity.
'Well, yes, it is. What an extraordinary thing! Oh, I remember, he said
he was going abroad. But what a curious coincidence! Why don't you go
and speak to him, Nan?'
'Why should I go and speak to him?' said Nan. 'I should only get wet.'
'What can have brought him here?' said Edith.
'Not his ship, at all events,' said Mary Beresford, smartly. 'It's only
Shakspeare who can create seaports inland.'
'You ought to know better than that,' said Nan with some asperity, for
she was very valiant in protecting her intellectual heroes against the
attacks of a flippant criticism. 'You ought to know that at one time the
Kingdom of Bohemia had seaports on the Adriatic; every school-girl knows
that nowadays.'
'They didn't when I was at school,' said Mary Beresford. 'But aren't you
going to speak to Lieutenant King, Nan?'
'Oh, he won't want to be bothered with a lot of girls,' said Nan; and she
refused to stir.
A few seconds thereafter, though there was still an occasional flash of
lightning, the rain slackened somewhat; and the young Lieutenant--who was
clad in a travelling-suit of gray, by-the-way, and looked remarkably like
the other young Englishmen loitering about the front of the
hotel--emerged from his shelter, shook the rain-drops from his sleeves,
and passed on into the dark.
The very next morning the Beresfords left Lucerne for Zurich. They
stayed there three days--Nan busy all the time in teaching herself how to
propel a boat with two oars, her face to the bow; and she liked to
practise most in moonlight. Then they left Zurich one afternoon, and
made their way southward into the mountainous region adjacent to the
sombre Wallensee. The stormy sunset deepened and died out; rain, rain,
rain pursued them all the way to Chur. They got to their hotel there in
an omnibus that jolted through the mud and the darkness.
But next morning, when Nan Beresford went to the window of the little
sitting-room and looked abroad, she uttered a cry of surprise that was
also meant as a call to wake her sleeping sisters. She stepped out on to
a wooden balcony, and found herself poised high above the flooded river
that was roaring down its channel, while in front of her was the most
vivid and brilliant of pictures, the background formed by a vast
semicircle of hills. She had it all to herself on this lovely
morning--the fresh air and sunlight; the plunging river below; the
terraced gardens on the opposite bank; over that again, the tumbled-about
collection of gleaming white houses, and green casements, and red roofs,
and old towers and belfries; and then, higher still, and enclosing, as it
were, the picturesque little town, the great ethereal amphitheatre of
pale blue mountains, with here and there a sprinkling of snow glittering
sharply, as if it were quite close at hand. How fresh and cold the
morning air was, after the sultry atmosphere of the lakes! How beautiful
the snow was! Nan did not like to be alone. She wished to share her
delight with some one. 'Edith! Edith!' she called. There was no answer.
Suddenly she found she was no longer the solitary possessor of this
brilliant little picture. Happening to turn her head somewhat, she
perceived some one coming across the bridge; and, after a minute's
surprise and doubt and astonishment, she convinced herself that the
stranger was no other than Frank King. The discovery startled her. This
time it could be no mere coincidence. Surely he was following them?
Could it be possible that he had come with bad news from Brighton?
She did not stay to waken her sisters. She hastily put on her hat and
went downstairs; and the first person she saw was Lieutenant King
himself, who was calmly looking over the list of arrivals.
to be infectious; even Nan felt herself smiling, though she thought
that the commander of a man-of-war ought not to go on like this. And
how could Frank King, who had been practically all his life at sea,
know so much about the rustics in Wiltshire? How could he have gone
through those poaching adventures, for example? She knew that
Kingscourt was in Wiltshire; but if, as he had told her, he was in the
navy when the English fleet paid its famous visit to Cherbourg, he must
have left Wiltshire when he was a very small boy indeed.
They got higher and higher into the mountains as the evening fell, and
the mists closed down upon them. Outside they heard nothing but the
rattle of the rain on the top of the carriage, and the tinkle of the
horses' bells. By and by the lamps were lit. Later they were in
absolute blackness--plunging through the streaming night; but they were
contented enough.
When the carriage stopped they were quite surprised. Splugen already!
And where was the inn? Frank King sprang out, and found himself in a
sort of big square, with the rain pelting down, and the building
opposite him apparently closed. But presently a man appeared with a
lantern, who informed him that they could have beds certainly, but in
the _dependance_, as the hotel was overcrowded. Then the gentleman
with the lantern disappeared.
It was fortunate, indeed, for these young ladies that they had a male
protector and champion with them; for the bad weather had detained many
people, the hotel was crammed full, and as this was the _table d'hote_
hour, the landlord and all his staff, with every disposition in the
world to be obliging, were at their wits' end. Every one was wanted in
the dining-chamber: how could any one look after the new arrivals, or
show them their rooms on the other side of the square, or attend to
their luggage? Now it was that this young sailor began to show a touch
of authority. First of all he got the young ladies to descend, and
bundled them into the little reading-room; that was clearing the decks
for action. The last they saw of him was that he had seized a man by
the collar and was quietly, but firmly, taking him to the door,
addressing him the while in an extraordinary mixture of French and
German concerning luggage, and rooms, and the necessity of a lantern to
show people across the square. In about a quarter of an hour he
returned, dripping wet.
'Well, that's all settled,' he said, cheerfully, as he dried his face
with his handkerchief. 'I've seen the rooms--very big, and bare, and
cold, but the best they have. And I've left Miss Parsons in the
kitchen, tearing her hair over some things that have got wet. And I've
got four places at the _table d'hote_, which is going on. Now, if you
wish to go and see your rooms and dress for dinner, there is a little
girl waiting with a lantern; or if you prefer going in to the _table
d'hote_ at once----'