"I didn't till after you did. I wouldn't have done it then if--if I
hadn't been so--well, to put it plainly, so damned lonely."
She gave him one of the smiles that stabbed him. "Well, then? Doesn't
that answer your question?"
He thought it did, and for a while they listened to the blackbird's song
in silence. It was their last talk. They parted at the door of the Ritz
with the intention of spending the next day in Windsor Forest--or some
other romantic wood; but within a few minutes she had telephoned him
that the summons had arrived. Next morning she left for Paris.
And so he went to Berne. He hadn't meant to go there when he said
good-by to her at Victoria. He had no intention of following her or
putting himself in her way. He had purposely asked nothing of her plans,
or so much as the date of her return to America. He had not precisely
made up his mind that they were parting for good, but he was too stunned
to forecast the future. He was stunned and sickened. He was stunned and
sickened and disconsolate to a degree beyond anything he had thought
possible in life. If it hadn't been for the bit of business that had
brought him to London he would hardly have had courage enough to get
through the days.
But, the business coming to an end, he was stranded. There was nothing
to do but go back to the wife and child whose existence he never
remembered except with a pang of self-reproach. He meant to go back to
them--but not yet. It was too soon. Edith was too much with him. The
fact that her physical presence was withdrawn made her spiritually the
more pervasive. The afterglow of their days together couldn't fade
otherwise than slowly, like light when the sun goes down.
So, when he should have been going to New York, he went to Berne. It was
not really in the hope of being face to face with her again or of having
speech with her. Even if she came there the dread presence would come
with her and keep them apart. But Berne was a little place, a quiet
place, restful, soothing, a haunt of ancient peace. It had struck him,
on former visits there, that on this spot ignored by the tourist, who
changes trains subterraneously, consecrated to old sturdiness and modern
wisdom, serenely heedless of the blatant and the up-to-date, a bruised
spirit might heal itself in a seclusion cheered by green hills and
distant snowy ranges. It was such solitude that, in the first place, he
sought now. If in addition he could see the shadow of Edith passing
by--no more!--he felt that he would soon be inwardly strong again.
At Berne there is a hotel known chiefly to wise travelers--a hotel of
old wines, old silver, old traditions, handed down from father to son,
and from the son to the son's son. Standing on the edge of the bluff
which the city crowns, it dominates from its windows and terraces the
valley of the Aar. Swift and unruffled, the river glides through the
meadows like a sinuous ice-green serpent. Beyond the river and behind
the pastoral slopes of the Gurten hangs a curtain of mist, which lifts
at times to display the line of the Bernese Oberland, from the
Wetterhorn to the Bettfluh.
It is a hotel with which the learned people who sit in international
conferences and settle difficult questions are familiar. It was
sheltering a conference when Chip Walker arrived. Each of the nations
had appointed three distinguished men to consult with three
distinguished men from each of the other nations on possible
modifications in the rules of the Postal Union when the use of
aeroplanes became general in that service. The distinguished men met
officially in a great room of the Bundespalast; but unofficially they
could be seen strolling along the arcaded medieval streets, or feeding
the civic bears with carrots at the bear-pit, or reading or smoking or
sipping coffee and liqueurs in the fine semicircular hall of the hotel.
They were French, or Austrian, or Russian, or German, or English, or
Danish, or Dutch, as the case might be. There were also some Americans.
The great national types were more or less easy to discern--except the
Americans. That is, Chip Walker could see no one whom he could recognize
offhand as a fellow-countryman. Three gentlemanly, jovial Englishmen
were easily made out, because, in Walker's phrase, they "flocked by
themselves" and in the intervals of sitting in the Bundespalast
complained that Berne had no golf-links. They also dressed for dinner
and dined in the restaurant. A few others did the same. But the majority
of the distinguished men preferred to spend the evening in the costumes
they had worn all day, and, with their wives--there were eight or ten
dumpy, dowdy, smiling little wives--were content with the _table
d'hote_. Indeed, the popularity of the _table d'hote_ sifted the simple,
scholarly professors of Gottingen, Freiburg, or Geneva from the
representatives of the larger and more sophisticated social world,
leaving the latter to eat in the restaurant, _à la carte_.
In this way Chip came to observe a man of some distinction who took his
meals at a small table alone and kept to himself. He was a man who would
have been noticeable anywhere, if it were for no more than the dignified
gravity of his manner and the correctness of his dress. Not only did he
wear what was impeccably the right thing for the right occasion, but his
movements were of the sedate precision that never displaces a button. As
straight and slim and erect as a guardsman, he was nevertheless stamped
all over as a civilian. From the lines in his gray, clean-shaven face of
regular profile, and the silvery touches in his hair, Chip judged him to
be fifty years old. He puzzled the analyst of nationalities--though, as
Chip put it to himself, it was clear he must belong to one of the
peoples who were chic. He was, therefore, either English or French or
Russian or Austrian or American. There was a bare chance of his being a
Dane or a Swede. When he spoke to a waiter or a passing acquaintance,
it was in so low a tone that Walker couldn't detect the language he
used. All one could affirm from distant and superficial observation was
that he was Somebody--Somebody of position, experience, and
judgment--Somebody to respect.
That, perhaps, was the secret of Walker's curiosity--that he respected
him. He would have liked to talk to him--not precisely to ask his
advice, but to lay before him some of the difficulties that were
inchoate in his soul. He had an idea that this man with the grave,
suffering face--yes, there was suffering in his face, as one could see
on closer inspection!--would understand them.
He came to the conclusion that he was a Russian, though he had an early
opportunity to find out. As he stood one day by the concierge's desk the
stranger entered, paused, spoke a few words inaudible to Walker, and
passed on. It was a simple matter to ask his name of the one man who
knew every name in the hotel, and he was on the point of doing so. He
had already begun: "Voulez vous bien me dire--?" when he stopped. On
the whole he preferred his own speculations. In the long, idle hours
they gave him something to think of that took his mind from dwelling on
his own entangled affairs.
He counted, too, on the hazards of hotel life throwing them one day
together. He was already on speaking or nodding terms with most of the
distinguished men whom he could address in a common language. This had
come about by the simple means of propinquity on the terrace or in the
semicircular hall. He soon saw, however, that no diligence in
frequenting these places of reunion would help him with the stately
stranger whose interest he desired to win. The gentleman took the air
elsewhere.
For contiguous to the terrace of the hotel is a little public park
called the Kleine Schanze--haunt of well-behaved Bernese children, of
motherly Bernese housewives supplied with knitting and the gossip of the
town, of Bernese patriarchs in search of gentle exercise and sunshine.
This little park possesses a music-pavilion, a duck-pond, a monument to
the Postal Union of 1876, many pretty pathways, and an incomparable
promenade. The incomparable promenade has also an incomparable view on
those days when the Spirit of the Alps permits it to be visible.
Two such days at least there were during that month of June. Glancing
casually over his left shoulder as he marched one afternoon with head
bent and back turned toward the east, Chip saw that which a few minutes
before had been but the misty edge of the sky transformed into a range
of ineffable white peaks. The unexpectedness with which the glistering
spectacle appeared made his heart leap. It was like a celestial
vision--like a view of the ramparts of the Heavenly City. He clutched
the stone top of the balustrade beside which he stood, seeking terms
with which to make the moment indelible in his memory. Nothing came to
him but a few broken, obvious words--sublime!--inviolate!--eternal! and
such like.
What he chiefly felt was his inadequacy for even gazing on the sight,
much less for recording it, when he became aware that in the crowding of
people to the edge of the terrace the stranger was standing near him. It
was an opportunity not to be missed.
"Ça, c'est merveilleux, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?"
The words were banal, but they would serve to break the ice.
"Yes; and it becomes more marvelous the oftener it appears. I've never
seen it more beautiful than to-day; but perhaps that's because I've seen
it so many times."
Chip was disappointed to be answered in English, and especially in the
English of an American. It brought the man too near for confidence. They
might easily find themselves involved in a host of common acquaintances,
a fact that would preclude intimate talk. Had he been a Russian the
remoteness of each from the other's world would have made the exchange
of secrets--perhaps of secret griefs--a possibility. Not so with a man
whom one might meet the next time one entered a club in New York. Such a
man might even be.... But he dismissed that alarming thought as out of
the question. Edith wasn't at Berne. If she had been he would have seen
her. He would not inquire at the hotel, nor at any other hotel; but he
knew that in so small a town he must have had a glimpse of her
somewhere. While it was conceivable that her husband might have come to
Berne leaving her elsewhere, this was not the sort of man she would
have married. The type to appeal to her would be something like his
own--of course!
Nevertheless, as he had begun the conversation, he felt that in courtesy
he must go on with it. He did so by pointing with his stick to what he
took to be the highest summit of the range, and saying: "I suppose
that's the Jungfrau."
The stranger moved nearer him. "No, you're too far to the west. That's
the Breithorn. There's the Jungfrau"--he, too, pointed with his
stick--"sentineled by the Eiger and the Mönch."
He went on to indicate the Wetterhorn, the Schreckhorn, the Blumlisalp,
the Finsteraarhorn, and the Ebnefluh. They were like a row of shining
spiritual presences manifesting themselves to an unbelieving world.
For the moment they served their turn in helping Chip Walker to subjects
of conversation with his fellow-countryman, in whom he had lost some
interest because he was a fellow-countryman.
"You know a lot about Switzerland, don't you?" he observed, as the
stranger, still pointing with his stick and naming names--the
Silberhorn, the Gletschhorn, the Schneehorn, the Niesen, the
Bettfluh--that impressed the imagination with the force of the great
white peaks themselves, resolved the panorama into its minor elements.
The stick came down and the explanation ceased. "I've lived a good deal
abroad," was the response, given quietly. "You, too, haven't you?"
With the question they turned for the first time and looked each other
in the eyes. While Chip explained that he had spent his early years in
France or Italy or England, according to the interests of his parents,
he was inwardly remarking that the gray face, with its stiff lines, its
compressed lips, its unmoving expression, and its stamp of suffering,
was really sympathetic. Something in the composure of the manner and the
measured way of speaking imposed this new acquaintance on him as a
superior. Instinctively he said "sir" to him, as to an elder, though the
difference in their ages could not have been more than seven or eight
years. It flattered him somewhat, too, that the man who kept aloof from
others should make an exception of him and welcome his advances. They
parted with the tacit understanding that for the future, in the routine
of the hotel, they should be on speaking terms.
There was, however, no further meeting between them till after dinner on
the following evening. Turning from the purchase of stamps at the
concierge's desk, Chip saw his new acquaintance, wearing an Inverness
cloak over his dinner-jacket, and a soft felt hat, lighting a cigar.
There was an exchange of nods. On the older man's lips there was a ghost
of a smile. It seemed friendly. He spoke:
"You don't want to smoke a cigar in the little park? It's rather
pleasant there, with a full moon like this."
So it was that within a few minutes they found themselves seated side by
side on one of the benches of the terraced promenade where they had met
on the previous day. Though the row of shining spiritual presences had
withdrawn, the valley was spanned by a Velvety luminosity, through which
the lights of the lower town shone like stars reflected in water. The
talk was of the conference. The stranger spoke of himself:
"I've been interested in the various methods of international
communication for many years. In fact, I've made some slight study of
them. When the authorities were good enough to appoint me on this
commission I was glad to serve."
"Quite so," Chip murmured, politely.
"It's an attractive little town, too--one of the few capitals in Europe
that remain characteristic of their countries, and nothing else--wholly
or nearly unaffected by the current of life outside. But," he went on,
unexpectedly, "I wonder what a man like you can see in it--to remain
here so long?"
Chip was startled, but he managed to say: "It isn't that I see anything
in particular. I'm--"
"Waiting?"
The query was perfectly courteous. It implied no more than a casual
curiosity--hardly that.
"No; resting," Chip answered, with forced firmness.
"Ah, it's certainly a good place for resting." Then, after a pause:
"You're married, I think you said."
Chip didn't remember having said so, and replied to that effect. The
stranger was unperturbed.
"No? But you are?" By way of pressing the question, he added, with a
glance at Chip through the moonlight: "Aren't you?"
"I've a wife and little boy in New York," Walker answered, soberly.
"Ah!" There was no emphasis on this exclamation. It signified merely
that a certain point in their mutual understanding had been reached. "A
happy marriage must be a great--safeguard."
The tone was of a man making a moral reflection calmly, but Chip was
startled again. It was his turn to stare through the moonlight, where
the length of the bench lay between them. He felt that he was being
challenged, but that he must not betray himself too soon. "Safeguard
against what, sir?"
There was a faint laugh, or what might have been a laugh had there been
amusement in it. "Against everything from which a married man needs
protection."
Chip would have dropped the subject but for that sense that a challenge
was being thrown him before which he could not back down. Nevertheless,
he determined to keep from committing himself as long as possible. "I'm
not sure that I know what you mean."
The stranger seemed to examine the burning end of his cigar. "Oh,
nothing but the obvious things--pursuing another man's wife, for
instance. A man who's happily married doesn't do that."
There was no aggression in the tone, and yet Chip felt a curious chill.
Who was this man, and what the devil was he driving at? It was all he
could do to answer coolly, knocking the ash off the end of his own
cigar: "And yet, I've known of such cases."
"Oh, so have I. But there was always a screw loose somewhere--I mean, a
screw loose in what we're assuming to be the happy marriages."
"Are there any happy marriages?--permanently happy, that is?"
The response was surprisingly direct: "That's what I hoped you'd be able
to tell _me_."
"Then you don't know, sir?"
Again the response was surprisingly direct: "I don't know, because I'm
not happily married." A second later he added: "But other people may
be."
So they were going to exchange secrets, after all. "But you _are_
married, sir?" To clear the air, he felt himself obliged to add:
"Happily or unhappily."
"I married a lady who had divorced her husband." In the silence that
followed it seemed to Chip that he could hear the murmur of the almost
soundless river below. Somehow the sound of the river was all he could
think of. Quietly moving, low-voiced couples paced up and down the
promenade, and from the music-pavilion in the distance came the whine
and shiver of the Mattiche. "In divorce," the measured voice resumed,
"there are some dangerous risks. It's a dangerous risk for a man to
divorce his wife. It's a more dangerous risk for a woman to divorce her
husband. But to marry a divorced husband or a divorced wife is the most
dangerous risk of all."
Chip's voice was thick and dry. "May I ask, sir, on what you base
your--your opinion?"
"Chiefly on the principle that, no matter how successfully the dead are
buried, they may come back again as ghosts. No one can keep them from
doing that."
"And--and I presume, sir, that you held this theory when you married?"
"I held it _as_ a theory; I didn't know it as a fact."
Chip felt obliged to struggle onward. "And do I understand you to be
telling me now that the ghosts _have_ come back?"
"Perhaps you could as easily tell me."
It was a minute or more before Chip was able to say, in a voice he tried
to keep firm: "If they have come back, you're not more haunted by them
than--than any one else."
"So I understand."
The brief responses had the effect of dragging him forward. "And would
it be fair to ask why you say that?--that you understand?"
"Oh, quite fair. It's partly because you are here."
"Then you think I ought to go away?"
"I think--since you ask me--that you oughtn't to have come."
"I came--to rest."
"I don't question that. I'm only struck by--by the long arm of
coincidence."
"That is, you believe I had another motive?"
With a gesture he seemed to wave this aside. "That's hardly my affair.
You're here; and, since you are, I'd rather--"
"Yes?"
"I'd rather you didn't hurry away."
He rose on saying this, apparently with the intention of going back to
the hotel. Chip remained seated. He smoked mechanically, without knowing
what he did. Questions rose to his lips and died there. Was Edith in
Berne? Had she seen him? Was she keeping out of his way? Was she being
kept out of his way? Was she suffering? Was it through her that he had
been recognized? The fact that he _had_ been recognized brought with it
a kind of humiliation. The humiliation was the greater because of the
way in which he had singled out this man and approached him. During all
those days of studying the stranger with respectful discretion, seeking
an opportunity to address him, the stranger, without deigning him a
look, had known perfectly well who he was and had been imputing motives
to his presence. The reference to the long arm of coincidence was
stinging. Because it was so he tried to muster his dignity.
"I've no intention of hurrying away," he began; "but--"
"If you like, I'll put it this way," the measured voice broke in,
courteously. "If you have time to wait a little longer I should be glad
if you'd do it."
"Would there be any point to that?"
"I think you might trust me not to make the request if there were not."
He added presently: "It's a wise policy to let sleeping dogs lie; but
when they've once been roused, they've got to be quieted."
"Quieted--how?"
"I can't tell you that as yet. I may have some vague idea concerning the
process; I've none at all as to the result."
Chip was not sure that the stranger said good night. He knew he lifted
his hat and moved away. He watched him as, with stately, unhastening
step, he walked down the promenade, the Inverness cape and soft felt hat
silhouetted in the moonlight.
For the next forty-eight hours Walker hung about the hotel like a
culprit. He would have sacrificed even a glimpse of Edith to feel free
to go away. He couldn't go away while the other man's plans remained
enigmatical; but he wished he hadn't come. He felt his position
undignified, grotesque, like that of a boy detected in some bit of silly
daring.
Two days later they met again on the terrace of the Kleine Schanze. It
was not an accidental meeting. The stranger had walked directly up to
Chip to say:
"The lady to whom we were referring the other night--"