The Little Rift within the Lute
"There comes a mist, and a weeping rain,
And nothing is ever the same again;
Alas!"
--GEORGE MACDONALD.
We devoted three days to some exquisite excursions, which more than
half consoled me for sacrificing Mont Blanc to make a tyrant's
holiday, and then decided to push on to Aix-les-Bains, stopping on the
way for a glimpse of Annecy.
The Contessa had planned to go from Chamounix to Aix by rail with her
friends, but she had either fallen in love with our mode of travelling
or pretended it. A hint to the Boy, and Fanny-anny was placed at her
disposal for a ride from Chamounix to Annecy, a lady's saddle being
easily picked up in a town of shops which miss no opportunities. As
for the Baron and Baronessa, it was plain to see the drift of their
minds. So angry were they at the change of programme, that it would
have been a satisfaction to quarrel with Gaetà, and leave her in a
huff. But their devotion to Paolo, which was almost pathetic, forbade
them this form of self-indulgence. They curbed their annoyance with
the bit of common-sense, though it galled their mouths, and consented
to drive to Annecy in a carriage provided by Gaetà for their
accommodation. They even constrained themselves to be civil to the Boy
and me, though their heavy politeness had the electrical quality of a
lull before a storm. How that storm would break I could not foresee,
but that it would presently burst above our heads I was sure.
There was no longer a question that Boy was hot favourite in the race
for Gaetà's smiles. There might have been betting on me for "place,"
but it would have been foolish to put money on my chances as winner.
The young wretch scarcely gave me a chance for a word with the
Contessa, for if I walked on the left he walked on the right of her as
she rode, his little brown hand on the new saddle, which had taken the
place of the old one sent on to Annecy by _grande vitesse_. I would
have surrendered, being too lazy for a struggle, had I not been
somewhat piqued by the Boy's behaviour. He had affected not to care
for Gaetà at first, and had even feigned annoyance at the temporary
addition to our party, while in reality he could have had little
genuine wish for my society, or he would not now betray such eagerness
in the game he was playing. The vague sense of wrong I suffered gave
me a wish for reprisal of some sort, and the only one convenient at
the moment was to prevent the offender from having a clear course. I
found a certain mean pleasure in stirring the Boy to jealousy by
reviving, when I could, some half-dead ember of Gaetà's former
interest in me, and his face showed sometimes that my assiduity
displeased him.
This was encouragement to persevere, and I praised the Contessa to him
when we happened to be alone together. "You have a short memory it
seems," said he. "You told me not so long ago that you'd been in love
with a girl who jilted you. Have you forgotten her already?"
I winced under this thrust, but hoped that the Boy did not see it.
His stab reminded me that I had found very little time lately to
regret Miss Blantock, now Lady Jerveyson; and Molly Winston's words
recurred to me: "If I could only prove to you that you aren't and
never have been in love with Helen." I had retorted that to accomplish
this would be difficult, and she had confidently replied that she
would engage to do it, if I would "take her prescription." I had taken
her prescription, and--indisputably the wound had become callous,
though I was not prepared to admit that it had healed. However, if I
had ceased actively to mourn the grocer's triumph, it was not Gaetà
who had wrought the magic change. What had caused it I was myself at a
loss to understand, but I did not wish to argue the matter with the
Boy. He was welcome to think what he chose.
"Hearts are caught in the rebound sometimes, if for once a proverb can
be right," said I evasively; though a few weeks ago, when Molly had
been constantly alluding to her friend Mercédès, I had told myself
that no one could achieve such a feat with mine.
To this suggestion the Boy made no response, save to tighten his lips,
resolving, I supposed, that if hearts were flying about like
shuttlecocks, his battledore should be ready to catch the Contessa's.
Our road from Chamounix to Annecy led us past gorges and over high
precipices and among noble mountains, but my mind was no longer in a
condition to receive or retain strong impressions of natural beauty. I
was irritable and "out of myself," vainly wishing back the days when
the Boy and I, undisturbed by feminine society, had travelled
tranquilly, side by side, giving each other thought for thought.
"Nothing can be as it has been;
Better, so call it, only not the same,"
Browning said; and so, I feared, it would be after this with me.
We were all to stay at Annecy for a night and a day, the Contessa
having announced that she and her friends would stop too; then Gaetà
and the others were to go on to Aix-les-Bains by rail, and the Boy and
I were to follow on foot, attended by our satellites. Later, we were
to spend a few days at the Contessa's villa and get upon our way
again, journeying south. But it did not seem to me that my little Pal
and I would ever be as we had been before, even though we walked from
Aix-les-Bains all the way down to the Riviera shoulder to shoulder. I
had the will to be the same, but he was different now; and though we
left Gaetà in the flesh at her villa, entertaining guests, Gaetà in
the spirit would still flit between us as we went. The Boy would be
thinking of her; I should know that he was thinking of her, and--there
would be an end of our confidences.
The way, though kaleidoscopic with changing beauties, seemed long to
Annecy. By the time that we arrived, after two days' going, the
Contessa had eyes or dimples or laughter for no one but the Boy.
Sometimes he was seized with sudden moods of rebellion against his new
slavery, and was almost rude to her, saying things which she would not
have forgiven readily from another, but the child-woman appeared to
find a keen delight in forgiving him. Seeing the preference bestowed
upon the young American, Paolo's brother and sister were inclined to
make common cause with me.
In the garden of the old-fashioned hotel at Annecy where we all took
up our headquarters, they came and encamped beside me, at a table near
which I sat alone, smoking, after our first dinner in the place. A
moment later Gaetà passed with the Boy, pacing slowly under the
interlacing branches of the trees.
"I believe that youth to be a fortune-hunter!" exclaimed the thin,
dark Baron.
"You're wrong there," said I, "he's very rich."
"At all events, it is ridiculous, this flirtation," exclaimed the
plump Baronessa. "He is a mere child. Gaetà is making a fool of
herself. You are her friend. You should see this and put a stop to the
affair in some way."
"As to that, many women marry men younger than themselves," I replied,
willing to tease the lady, though I could have laughed aloud at the
bare idea of marriage for the Boy. "Still," I went on more
consolingly, "I hardly think it will come to anything serious between
them."
"Ah, if you say that, you little know Gaetà," protested Gaetà's
friend. "She is infatuated--infatuated with this youth of seventeen or
eighteen, whom she insists, to justify her foolishness, is a year
older than he can possibly be. Something must be done, and soon, or
she is capable of proposing to him, if he pretend to hang back."
"Something will be done, my dear; do not be unnecessarily excited,"
said the Baron. "I fear we have not the full sympathy of Lord Lane."
"If you mean, will I do anything to keep the two apart, I confess you
haven't," I answered. "The Contessa di Ravello is her own mistress,
and I should say if she wanted the moon, it would be bad for anyone
who tried to keep her from getting it."
[Illustration: "HERE WE WERE AT ANNECY".]
"We shall see," murmured the Baron, as the Boy had murmured a few days
ago; and behind this hint also I felt that there lurked some definite
plan.
I had been to Aix-les-Bains years before, but it had not then occurred
to me to visit Annecy, so near by. It was the Boy who had suggested
coming, and we had planned excursions up the lake, looking out on our
guide-book maps various spots of historic or picturesque interest
which we should see _en route_, especially Menthon, the birthplace of
St. Bernard. Now, here we were at Annecy, and in all the world there
could not be a town more charming. By the placid blue lake--whose
water, I am convinced, would still be the colour of melted turquoises
if you corked it up in a bottle--you could wander along shadowed
paths, strewn with the gold coin of sunshine, through a park of dells
as bosky-green as the fair forest of Arden. In the quaint,
old-fashioned streets of the town you were tempted to pause at every
other step for one more snap-shot. You longed to linger on the bridge
and call up a passing panorama of historic pageants. All these things
the Boy and I would have done, and enjoyed peacefully, had we been
alone, but Gaetà elected to find Annecy "dull." There was nothing to
do but take walks, or sit by the lake, or drive for lunch to the Beau
Rivage, or go out for an afternoon's trip in one of the little
steamers. Beautiful? Oh, yes; but quiet places made one want to scream
or stand on one's head when one had been in them a day or two. It
would be much more amusing at Aix. There were the Casinos, and the
_fêtes de nuit_, with lots of coloured lanterns in the gardens, and
fireworks, and music; and then, the baccarat! That was amusing, if
you liked, for half an hour, and when you were bored there was always
something else. She must really get to Aix, and see that the Villa
Santa Lucia was in order. We would promise--promise--_promise_ to
follow at once? We would find our rooms at her villa ready, with
flowers in them for a welcome, and we must not be too long on the way.
Gaetà left in the evening, the Boy and I seeing her off at the train;
and twelve hours later we started for Châtelard, Joseph taking us away
from the highroads--which would have been perfect for Molly's
Mercédès--along certain romantic by-paths which he knew from former
journeys. Conversation no longer made itself between us; we had to
make it, and in the manufacturing process I mentioned my "friends who
were motoring."
"They may turn up before long now," I said, "judging from the plans
they wrote of in a letter I had from them at Aosta. It's just possible
that they will pass through Aix. You would like them."
"I have run away from my own friends, and--gone rather far to do it,"
said the Boy. "Yet I seem destined to meet other people's. It was with
very different intentions that I set out on this journey of mine."
"'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,'" I quoted carelessly. "Perhaps
yours will end so."
"I thought I had done with lovers," said the Boy, with one of his odd
smiles.
"You're not old enough to begin with them yet."
"I was thinking of--my sister. Her experience was a lesson in love I'm
not likely to forget soon. Yet sometimes I--I'm not sure I learned the
lesson in the right way. But we won't talk of that. Tell me about
your friends. I'm becoming inured to social duties now."
"You don't seem to find them too onerous. As for my friends--they're
an old chum of mine, Jack Winston, and his bride of a few months, the
most exquisite specimen of an American girl I ever met. Perhaps you
may have heard of her. She's the daughter of Chauncey Randolph, one of
your millionaires. Look out! Was that a stone you stumbled over?"
"Yes. I gave my ankle a twist. It's all right now. I daresay my sister
knows your friend."
"I must ask Molly Winston, when I write, or see her. But you've never
told me your sister's name, except that she's called 'Princess.' If I
say Miss Laurence----"
"There are so many Laurences. Did you--ever mention in your letters
to--your friends that you were--travelling with anyone?"
"I haven't written to them since I knew your name, but before that, I
told them there was a boy whom I had met by accident and chummed up
with, just before Aosta. I think I rather spread myself on a
description of our meeting."
"You _didn't_ do that! How horrid of you!"
"Oh, I put it right afterwards, I assure you, in another letter. I
told them that in spite of the bad beginning, we'd become no end of
pals. That we travelled together, stopped at the same hotels,
and--what's the matter?"
"Nothing. My ankle does hurt a little, after all. Shall you go on in
your friends' motor car if you meet them?" He looked up at me very
earnestly as he spoke.
"At one time I thought of doing so, if we ran across each other. But
now that I've got you----"
"Who knows how long we may have each other? Either one of us may
change his plans--suddenly. You mustn't count on me, Lord Lane."
"Look here," I said crossly, "do speak out. Don't hint things. Do you
mean me to understand that you wish to stop at Aix, indefinitely, and
play out your little comedy of flirtation to its close?"
"I don't know what I intend to do; now, less than ever," answered the
Boy in a very low voice, the shadow of his long lashes on his cheeks.
I was too much hurt to question him further, and we pursued our way in
silence, along the lake side, and then up the billowy lower slopes of
the Semnoz. We had showers of rain in the sunshine; and the long, thin
spears of crystal glittered like spun glass, until dim clouds spread
over the bright patches of blue, and the world grew mistily
grey-green.
We had planned long ago, before the spell of the Contessa fell upon
us, to make the journey we were taking now, by way of the Semnoz, the
so-called Rigi of this Alpine Savoy, which is neither wholly French
nor wholly Italian. But we had abandoned the idea since, in a fine
frenzy to keep our promise of rejoining her with all speed lest she
perish alone in the icy disapproval of her friends. When the mists
closed round us, we ceased to regret the decision, if we had regretted
it; for instead of seeing Savoy spread out beneath us, with its snow
mountains and fertile valleys, lit with azure lakes--as many as the
Graces--we should have been wrapped in cloud blankets.
After a walk of thirty-two kilometres, we came to Châtelard, and,
having known little or nothing of the town, we were surprised to find
that most other people knew of it as a great centre for excursions.
It was almost as unbelievable as that the places where we lived could
possibly go on existing in exactly the same way during our absence.
"There are actually three hotels, all said to be good," I remarked,
quoting from my guide-book. "To which shall we go?"
The Boy hesitated. "Choose which you like, for yourself," he replied
with a slight appearance of embarrassment. "As for me, I will make up
my mind--later."
I could take this in but one way: as a snub. Evidently he had selected
this fashion of intimating to me the change that Gaetà's intrusion had
worked in our relations. I bit back a sharp word or two which I might
have regretted by-and-bye, and answered not at all. In consequence of
this little passage, however, the Boy went to one hotel, and I to
another, where I put Joseph up also.
A sense of loneliness was upon me, therefore my conscience stirred
uneasily, and I reproached myself in that of late I had neglected the
affairs of my muleteer. At one time he and I had conversed at length
on such subjects as mules, women, perdition, and the like; but for
many days now our intercourse had consisted mostly of a "Good morning,
Joseph!" "Good morning, Monsieur!"
To-night I sent for him, and enquired whether he had anything to wish
for.
"Ah, Monsieur, there is but one thing for which I ask at present," he
said.
"Anything I can manage, Joseph?"
"I fear not, Monsieur. It is the assurance that the poor young soul I
am trying to lead out of darkness may reach the light before we have
to part."
"Innocentina's?"
"The same, Monsieur."
"You think her conversion within sight?"
"Just round the corner, if I may so express it."
"Yet I hear that she tells her employer she is devoting all her
energies towards saving you from eternal fire. It was her excuse for
letting the bag drop off Souris' back without noticing it, and for
allowing Fanny's saddle to chafe."
"Ah, Monsieur, women are ready with excuses. Do you think I would
permit any preoccupation of mine to interfere with the well-being of
Finois?"
"Even saving a pretty woman's soul? No, Joseph, to do you justice, I
don't. But I warn you, you may not have much more time before you to
finish your good work. Innocentina's employer and I may part company
before long." Though I smiled, I spoke heavily.
Joseph's melancholy dark face flushed, and the light died out of his
eyes. "Thank you, Monsieur, I will do my best to be quick," said he,
as if it had been a question of saddling Finois, instead of rescuing a
young lady from the clutches of the Scarlet Woman. Whatever progress
he had really been making with Innocentina's soul, it was clear that
she had been getting in some deadly work upon his honest heart.