For a long time that letter lay on my table like a challenge--neither
accepted nor refused. Something that had slumbered in me for twenty
years awoke. The enchantment of my youthful days, long since evaporated
as I believed, rose stealthily upon me at the sight of this once
familiar handwriting. LeVallon, of course, had found the woman. And my
word was pledged.
To say that I hesitated, however, would be no more true than to say
that I debated or considered. The first effect upon me was a full-blown
amazement that I could ever have come under the spell of so singular a
kind or have promised co-operation in anything so wildly preposterous
as Julius had proposed. The second effect, however--and, as it turned
out, the deeper one--was different. I experienced a longing, a thrill
of anticipation, a sense even of joy--I know not what to call it;
while in its train came a hint, though the merest hint, of that vague
uneasiness I had known in my school and university days.
Yet by some obscure mental process difficult to explain, I found
myself half caught already in consent. I answered the letter, asking
instructions how to reach him in his distant valley of the Jura
Mountains. Some love of adventure--so I flattered myself--long denied
by my circumscribed conditions of life, prompted the decision in part.
For in the heart of me I obviously wished to go; and, briefly, it was
the heart of me that finally went.
I passed some days waiting for a reply, LeVallon’s abode being
apparently inaccessible to the ordinary service of the post--“poste
restante” in a village marked only upon the larger maps where, I
judged, he had to fetch his letters. And those days worked their due
effect upon me; they were filled with questions to which imagination
sought the answers. How would the intervening years have dealt with
him? What changes would have come upon him with maturity? And this
woman--what melancholy splendours brought from “old, forgotten, far-off
things” would she bring with her down into the prosaic conditions
of this materialistic century? What signs and evidences would there
be that she, like himself, was an adept at life, seeking eternal
things, discerning what was important, an “old soul” taught of the
gods and charged with the ideals of another day? I saw her already in
imagination--a woman of striking appearance and unusual qualities. And,
how had he found her? A hundred similar questions asked themselves,
but, chief among them, two: Would she--should I, _remember?_
The time passed slowly; my excitement grew; sometimes I hesitated,
half repented, almost laughed, but never once was tempted really to
change my mind. For in the deeper part of me, now so long ignored,
something of these ancient passions blew to flame again; symptoms of
that original dread increased; there rose once more the whisper “we
are eternally together; the thing is true!” And on the seventh day,
when the porter handed me the letter, it almost seemed that Julius
stood beside me, beckoning. I felt his presence; the old magic of
his personality tightened up a thousand loosened threads; belief was
unwillingly renewed.
The instructions were very brief, no expression of personal feeling
accompanying them. Julius counted on my fidelity. It had never occurred
to him that I could fail. I left my heavy luggage in the care of the
hotel and packed the few things necessary for the journey. The notes of
our school and university days I have just jotted down I sent by post
to my London chambers. A spirit of recklessness seemed in me. I was off
into fairyland, mystery and wonder about me, possibly romance. Nothing
mattered; work could wait; I possessed a small competency of my own;
the routine of my life was dull and uninspiring. Also I was alone in
the world, for my early attachment had not resulted in marriage, and I
knew no other home than that of chambers, restaurants, and the mountain
inns where my holidays were usually spent. I welcomed the change with
its promise of adventure--and I went. This feeling of welcome owned
perhaps a deeper origin than I realised.
Travelling via Bienne and Neuchâtel to a point beyond the latter
town, I took thence, according to instructions, a little mountain
railway that left the lake behind and plunged straight into the purple
valleys of the Jura range. Deep pine woods spread away on all sides
as we climbed a winding ravine among the folds of these soft blue
mountains that are far older than the Alps. Scarred cliffs and ridges
of limestone gleamed white against the velvet forests, now turning red
and yellow in the sunset, but no peaks were visible and no bare summits
pricked the sky. Thick and soft, the trees clothed all. Their feathery
presence filled the air. The clatter of the train seemed muffled, and
the gathering shadows below the eastern escarpments took on that rich
black hue that ancient forests lend to the very atmosphere above them.
We passed into a world where branches, moss and flowers muted every
sound with a sense of undisturbable peace. The softness of great age
reigned with delicious silence. The very engine puffed uphill on wheels
of plush.
Occasional hamlets contributed a few wood-cutters by way of passengers;
strips of half-cleared valley revealed here and there a farm-house with
dark brown walls and spreading roof; little _sentiers_ slipped through
the pine trees to yet further recesses of unfrequented woods; but
nowhere did I see a modern building, a country house, nor any dwelling
that might be occupied by other than simple peasant folk. Suggestion of
tourists there was absolutely none; no trees striped blue and yellow by
Improvement Committees; no inns with central-heating and tin banners
stating that touring clubs endorsed them; no advertisements at all;
only this air of remote and kindly peace, the smoke of peat fires, and
the odour of living woods stealing upon the dusk.
The feeling grew that I crossed a threshold into a region that lay
outside the common happenings of the world; life here must be very
gentle, wonderful, distinguished, and things might come to pass that
would be true yet hard to explain by the standards of the busy cities.
Those cities, indeed, seemed very far away, unreal, and certainly
unimportant. For the leisurely train itself was almost make-believe,
and the station officials mere uniformed automata. The normal world, in
a word, began to fade a little. I was aware once more of that bigger
region in which Julius LeVallon lived--the cosmic point of view. The
spell of our early days revived, worked on my nerves and thought,
altering my outlook sensibly even at this early stage of my return.
The autumn afternoon was already on the wane when at length I
reached C----, an untidy little watch-making town, and according to
instructions left the train. I searched the empty platform in vain for
any sign of Julius. Instead of the tall, familiar figure, a little
dark-faced man stood abruptly before me, stared into my face with the
questioning eyes of a child or animal, and exclaimed bluntly enough
“_Monsieur le professeur?_” We were alone on the deserted platform, the
train already swallowed by the forest, no porter, of course, visible,
and signs of civilisation generally somewhat scanty.
This man, sent by Julius, made a curious impression on me as I gave
him my bag and prepared to follow him to the cart I saw standing
outside the station. His mode of addressing me seemed incongruous. Of
peasant type, with black moustaches far too big for his features, and
bushy eyebrows reminding me of tree-lichen, there was something in his
simplicity of gesture and address that suggested a faithful animal. His
voice was not unlike a growl; he was delighted to have found me, but
did not accept me yet; he showed his pleasure in his honest smile and
in certain quick, jerky movements of the body that made me think how
a clever caricaturist could see the dog in him. Yet in his keen and
steady eyes there was another look that did not encourage levity; one
would not lightly trifle with him. There was something about the alert
little fellow that insisted on respect, and a touch of the barbaric
counteracted the comedy of the aggressive eyebrows and moustache. In
the eyes, unflinching yet respectful, I fancied to detect another
thing as well: a nameless expression seen sometimes in the eyes of men
who have known uncommon things--habitual amazement grown slowly to
unwilling belief. He was a man, certainly, who would serve his master
to the death and ask no questions.
But also he would not answer questions; I could get nothing out of him,
as the springless cart drove slowly up the steep mountain road behind
the pair of sturdy horses. _Oui_ and _non_ and _peut-être_ summed
up his conversational powers, till I gave up trying and lapsed into
silence. Perhaps he had not “passed” me yet, not quite approved me. He
was just the sort of faithful, self-contained servant Julius required,
no doubt, and, as a conductor into mysterious adventure, a by no means
inadequate figure. Name, apparently, he had also none, for Julius, as
I learned later, referred to him as simply “he.” But my imagination
instantly christened him “The Dog-Man,” and as such the inscrutable
fellow lives in my memory to this day. He seemed just one degree above
the animal stage.
But while thought was busy with a dozen speculations, the dusk had
fallen steadily, and the character of the country, I saw, had changed.
It was more rugged and inhospitable, the valleys narrower, the forests
very deep, with taller and more solemn trees, and no signs anywhere of
the axe. An hour ago we had left the main road and turned up a rough,
deep-rutted track that only the feet of oxen seemed to have used. We
moved in comparative gloom, though far overhead the heights shone still
with the gold of sunset. For a long time we had seen no peasant huts,
no sign of habitation, nor passed a single human being. Wood-cutters
and charcoal-burners apparently had not penetrated here, and the
track, I gathered, was used in summer only and led to some lonely farm
among the upper pastures. It was very silent; no wind stirred the sea
of branches; no animal life showed itself; and the only moving things
beside ourselves were the jays that now and again flew across the path
or announced their invisible presence in the woods by raucous screaming.
Although the ceaseless jolting of the cart was severe, the long
journey most fatiguing, I was sensible of the deep calm that brooded
everywhere. After the bluster of the aggressive Alps, this peaceful
Jura stole on the spirit with a subtle charm. Something whispered that
I was not alone, but that a friendly touch of welcome pervaded the cool
recesses of these wooded hills. The sense of hostile isolation inspired
by the snowy peaks, that faint dismay one knows sometimes at the foot
of towering summits, was wholly absent here. I felt myself, not alien
to these rolling mountains, but akin. I was known and hospitably
admitted, not merely ignored, nor let in at my own grave risk. The
spirit of the mountains here was kind.
Yet that I was aware of this at all made me realise the presence of
another thing as well: It was in myself, not in these velvet valleys.
For, while the charm of the scenery acted as a sedative, I realised
that something alert in me noted the calming influence and welcomed
it. _That_ did not go to sleep--it resolutely kept awake. A faint
instinct of alarm had been stimulated, if ever so slightly, from the
moment I left the train and touched the atmosphere of my silent guide,
the “Dog-Man.” It was, of course, that he brought his master nearer.
Julius and I should presently meet again, shake hands, look into each
other’s eyes--I should hear his voice and share again the glamour of
his personality. Also there would be--a third.
It was an element, obviously, in a process of readjustment of my
being which had begun the moment I received his letter; it had
increased while I sat in the Bâle hotel and jotted down those early
recollections--an ingredient in the new grouping of emotions and
sensations constituting myself which received the attack, so to speak,
of what came later. My consciousness was slowly changing.
Yet this, I think, was all I felt at the moment: a perfectly natural
anticipatory excitement, a stirring wonder, and behind them both a
hint of shrinking that was faint uneasiness. It was the thought of the
woman that caused the last, the old premonition that something grave
involving the three of us would happen. The potent influences of my
youth were already at work again.
My entrance into the secluded spot Julius had chosen came unexpectedly;
we were suddenly upon it; the effect was almost dramatic. The last
farm-house had been left behind an hour or more, and we had been
winding painfully up a steep ascent that led through a tunnel of dark,
solemn trees, when the forest abruptly stopped, and a little, cup-like
valley lay before me, bounded on three sides by jagged limestone
ridges. Open to the sky like some lonely flower, it lay hidden and
remote upon this topmost plateau, difficult of access to the world.
I saw cleared meadows of emerald green beneath the peeping stars; a
stream ran gurgling past my feet; the surface of a little lake held the
shadows of the encircling cliffs; and at the further end, beneath the
broken outline of the ridges, lights twinkled in a peasant’s châlet.
The effect was certainly of Fairyland. The stillness and cool air,
after the closeness of the heavy forest, seemed to bring the stars
much nearer. There was a clean, fresh perfume; the atmosphere crystal
clear, the calm profound. I felt a little private world about me,
self-contained, and impressive with a quiet dignity of its own.
Unknown, unspoilt, serene and exquisite, it lay hidden here for some
purpose that vulgar intrusion might not discover. If ever an enchanted
valley existed, it was here before my eyes.
“So this is the chosen place--this isolated spot of beauty!” My heart
leaped to think that Julius stood already within reach of my voice,
possibly of my sight as well. No meeting-place, surely, could have
been more suitable.
The cart moved slowly, and the horses, steam rising from their heated
bodies against the purple trees, stepped softly upon the meadow-land.
The sound of hoofs and wheels was left behind, we silently moved up the
gentle slope towards the lights. Night stepped with us from the hills;
the forest paused and waited at a distance; only the faint creaking
of the wheels upon damp grass and the singing of the little stream
were audible. The air grew sharp with upland perfumes. We passed the
diminutive lake that mirrored the first stars. And a curious feeling
reached me from the sky and from the lonely ridges; a nameless emotion
caught my heart a moment; some thrill of high, unearthly loveliness,
familiar as a dream yet gone again before it could be seized, mirrored
itself in the depths of me like those buried stars within the
water--when, suddenly, a figure detached itself from the background
of trees and cliffs, and towards me over the dew-drenched grass
moved--Julius LeVallon.
He came like a figure from the sky, the forest, the distant ridges.
The spirit of this marvellous spot came with him. He seemed its
incarnation. Whether he first drew me from the cart, or whether I
sprang down to meet him, is impossible to say, for in that big moment
the thousand threads that bound us together with their separate
tensions slipped into a single cable of overwhelming strength. We stood
upon the wet meadow, close to one another, hands firmly clasped, eyes
gazing into eyes.
“Julius--it’s really you--at last!” I found to say--then his reply in
the old, unchanging voice that made me tremble a little as I heard
it: “I knew you would come--friend of a million years!” He laughed a
little; I laughed too.
“I promised.” It seemed incredible to me that I had ever hesitated.
“Ages ago,” I heard his answer. It was like the singing of the stream
that murmured past our feet. “Ages ago.”
I was aware that he let go my hand. We were moving through the dripping
grass, crossing and recrossing the little stream. The mountains rose
dark and strong about us. I heard the cart lumbering away with creaking
wheels towards the barn. Across the heavens the stars trailed their
golden pattern more and more thickly. I saw them gleaming in the
unruffled lake. I smelt the odour of wood-smoke that came from the
châlet chimney.
We walked in silence. Those stars, those changeless hills, deep woods
and singing rivulet--primitive and eternal things--accompanied us. They
were the right witnesses of our meeting. And a night-wind, driving the
dusk towards the west, woke in the forest and came out to touch our
faces. Splendour and loneliness closed about us, heralding Powers of
Nature that were here not yet explained away.