Far up the valley was a large white village, tossing on undulating
meadows like a ship in the sea, and at its prow, breasting a sharp
incline, stood a majestic tower of new grey stone. As they looked at
the tower it became vocal and spoke magnificently to the mountains, who
replied.
They were again informed that this was Vorta, and that that was the
new campanile--like the campanile of Venice, only finer--and that the
sound was the sound of the campanile's new bell.
"Thank you; exactly," said Colonel Leyland, while Miss Raby rejoiced
that the village had made such use of its prosperity. She had feared to
return to the place she had once loved so well, lest she should find
something new. It had never occurred to her that the new thing might be
beautiful. The architect had indeed gone south for his inspiration, and
the tower which stood among the mountains was akin to the tower which
had once stood beside the lagoons. But the birthplace of the bell it
was impossible to determine, for there is no nationality in sound.
They drove forward into the lovely scene, pleased and silent. Approving
tourists took them for a well-matched couple. There was indeed nothing
offensively literary in Miss Raby's kind angular face; and Colonel
Leyland's profession had made him neat rather than aggressive. They
did very well for a cultured and refined husband and wife, who had
spent their lives admiring the beautiful things with which the world is
filled.
As they approached, other churches, hitherto unnoticed, replied--tiny
churches, ugly churches, churches painted pink with towers like
pumpkins, churches painted white with shingle spires, churches hidden
altogether in the glades of a wood or the folds of a meadow--till the
evening air was full of little voices, with the great voice singing in
their midst. Only the English church, lately built in the Early English
style, kept chaste silence.
The bells ceased, and all the little churches receded into darkness.
Instead, there was a sound of dressing-gongs, and a vision of
tired tourists hurrying back for dinner. A landau, with _Pension
Atherly-Simon_ upon it, was trotting to meet the diligence, which was
just due. A lady was talking to her mother about an evening dress.
Young men with rackets were talking to young men with alpenstocks.
Then, across the darkness, a fiery finger wrote _Grand Hôtel des
Alpes_.
"Behold the electric light!" said the driver, hearing his passengers
exclaim.
_Pension Belle Vue_ started out against a pine-wood, and from the
brink of the river the _Hôtel de Londres_ replied. _Pensions Liebig_
and _Lorelei_ were announced in green and amber respectively. The
_Old-England_ appeared in scarlet. The illuminations covered a large
area, for the best hotels stood outside the village, in elevated or
romantic situations. This display took place every evening in the
season, but only while the diligence arrived. As soon as the last
tourist was suited, the lights went out, and the hotel-keepers, cursing
or rejoicing, retired to their cigars.
"Horrible!" said Miss Raby.
"Horrible people!" said Colonel Leyland.
The _Hôtel des Alpes_ was an enormous building, which, being made of
wood, suggested a distended chalet. But this impression was corrected
by a costly and magnificent view-terrace, the squared stones of which
were visible for miles, and from which, as from some great reservoir,
asphalt paths trickled over the adjacent country. Their carriage,
having ascended a private drive, drew up under a vaulted portico of
pitch-pine, which opened on to this terrace on one side, and into the
covered lounge on the other. There was a whirl of officials--men with
gold braid, smarter men with more gold braid, men smarter still with
no gold braid. Elizabeth assumed an arrogant air, and carried a small
straw basket with difficulty. Colonel Leyland became every inch a
soldier. Miss Raby, whom, in spite of long experience, a large hotel
always flustered, was hurried into an expensive bedroom, and advised to
dress herself immediately if she wished to partake of table d'hôte.
As she came up the staircase, she had seen the dining-room filling with
English and Americans and with rich, hungry Germans. She liked company,
but tonight she was curiously depressed. She seemed to be confronted
with an unpleasing vision, the outlines of which were still obscure.
"I will eat in my room," she told Elizabeth. "Go to your dinner: I'll
do the unpacking."
She wandered round, looking at the list of rules, the list of prices,
the list of excursions, the red plush sofa, the jugs and basins on
which was lithographed a view of the mountains. Where amid such
splendour was there a place for Signor Cantù with his china-bowled
pipe, and for Signora Cantù with her snuff-coloured shawl?
When the waiter at last brought up her dinner, she asked after her host
and hostess.
He replied, in cosmopolitan English, that they were both well.
"Do they live here, or at the _Biscione_?"
"Here, why yes. Only poor tourists go the _Biscione_."
"Who lives there, then?"
"The mother of Signor Cantù. She is unconnected," he continued, like
one who has learnt a lesson, "she is unconnected absolutely with us.
Fifteen years back, yes. But now, where is the _Biscione_? I beg you
contradict if we are spoken about together."
Miss Raby said quietly: "I have made a mistake. Would you kindly give
notice that I shall not want my room, and say that the luggage is to be
taken, immediately, to the _Biscione_."
"Certainly! certainly!" said the waiter, who was well trained. He added
with a vicious snort, "You will have to pay."
"Undoubtedly," said Miss Raby.
The elaborate machinery which had so recently sucked her in began to
disgorge her. The trunks were carried down, the vehicle in which she
had arrived was recalled. Elizabeth, white with indignation, appeared
in the hall. She paid for beds in which they had not slept, and for
food which they had never eaten. Amidst the whirl of gold-laced
officials, who hoped even in that space of time to have established
a claim to be tipped, she moved towards the door. The guests in the
lounge observed her with amusement, concluding that she had found the
hotel too dear.
"What is it? Whatever is it? Are you not comfortable?" Colonel Leyland
in his evening dress ran after her.
"Not that; I've made a mistake. This hotel belongs to the son; I must
go to the _Biscione_. He's quarrelled with the old people: I think the
father's dead."
"But really--if you are comfortable here----"
"I must find out tonight whether it is true. And I must also"--her
voice quivered--"find out whether it is my fault."
"How in the name of goodness----"
"I shall bear it if it is," she continued gently. "I am too old to be a
tragedy queen as well as an evil genius."
"What does she mean? Whatever does she mean?" he murmured, as he
watched the carriage lights descending the hill. "What harm has she
done? What harm is there for that matter? Hotel-keepers always quarrel:
it's no business of ours." He ate a good dinner in silence. Then his
thoughts were turned by the arrival of his letters from the post office.
* * * * *
"DEAREST EDWIN,--It is with the greatest diffidence that I write to
you, and I know you will believe me when I say that I do not write
from curiosity. I only require an answer to one plain question. Are
you engaged to Miss Raby or no? Fashions have altered even since my
young days. But, for all that an engagement is still an engagement,
and should be announced at once, to save all parties discomfort.
Though your health has broken down and you have abandoned your
profession, you can still protect the family honour."
"Drivel!" exclaimed Colonel Leyland. Acquaintance with Miss Raby had
made his sight keener. He recognized in this part of his sister's
letter nothing but an automatic conventionality. He was no more moved
by its perusal than she had been by its composition.
"As for the maid whom the Bannons mentioned to me, she is not a
chaperone--nothing but a sop to throw in the eyes of the world.
I am not saying a word against Miss Raby, whose books we always
read. Literary people are always unpractical, and we are confident
that she does not know. Perhaps I do not think her the wife for
you; but that is another matter.
"My babes, who all send love (so does Lionel), are at present an
unmitigated joy. One's only anxiety is for the future, when the
crushing expenses of good education will have to be taken into
account.
"Your loving NELLY."
How could he explain the peculiar charm of the relations between
himself and Miss Raby? There had never been a word of marriage, and
would probably never be a word of love. If, instead of seeing each
other frequently, they should come to see each other always it would
be as sage companions, familiar with life, not as egoistic lovers,
craving for infinities of passion which they had no right to demand and
no power to supply. Neither professed to be a virgin soul, or to be
ignorant of the other's limitations and inconsistencies. They scarcely
even made allowances for each other. Toleration implies reserve; and
the greatest safeguard of unruffled intercourse is knowledge. Colonel
Leyland had courage of no mean order: he cared little for the opinion
of people whom he understood. Nelly and Lionel and their babes were
welcome to be shocked or displeased. Miss Raby was an authoress, a kind
of radical; he a soldier, a kind of aristocrat. But the time for their
activities was passing; he was ceasing to fight, she to write. They
could pleasantly spend together their autumn. Nor might they prove the
worst companions for a winter.
He was too delicate to admit, even to himself, the desirability of
marrying two thousand a year. But it lent an unacknowledged perfume to
his thoughts. He tore Nelly's letter into little pieces, and dropped
them into the darkness out of the bedroom window.
"Funny lady!" he murmured, as he looked towards Vorta, trying to detect
the campanile in the growing light of the moon. "Why have you gone to
be uncomfortable? Why will you interfere in the quarrels of people who
can't understand you, and whom you don't understand? How silly you are
to think you've caused them. You think you've written a book which has
spoilt the place and made the inhabitants corrupt and sordid. I know
just how you think. So you will make yourself unhappy, and go about
trying to put right what never was right. Funny lady!"
Close below him he could now see the white fragments of his sister's
letter. In the valley the campanile appeared, rising out of wisps of
silvery vapour.
"Dear lady!" he whispered, making towards the village a little movement
with his hands.