The waiter who brought Felicia's telegram into the smoking-room
found Raine walking up and down, pipe in mouth, in a state of caged
irritation. A fine, penetrating rain was falling outside, the wet
dribbled down the windows, the air was impregnated with mist, and great
rolls of fog hid the mountains. The guides had prophesied a clearing up
of the weather at midday, but it was half-past eleven, and the prospect
was growing drearier every minute. Hockmaster was yawning over a cigar
and a battered copy of the _Louisville Guardian_ which some compatriot
had bequeathed to the hotel.
Raine seized the telegram eagerly, read it, crumpled it into his pocket
in some excitement, and turned to the waiter.
“There is a diligence to Cluses--when does it start?”
“At 12.15, Monsieur.”
“And the train to Geneva?”
“At 5.50.”
“Good. Secure me a seat in the diligence, and have my bill made out.”
The waiter bowed and departed.
“I am sorry to break our engagement to-day, Hockmaster,” said Raine to
the American, who had been watching the effect of the telegram with some
curiosity, “but I must start for Geneva at once.”
“I like that,” replied Hockmaster; “it's slick. Nothing like making up
your mind in a minute. It's the way to do business. I guess I'll come
too.”
“You'll have a disgusting drive,” said Raine, viewing the proposal with
less than his usual cordiality.
“That's so,” retorted the other imperturbably, “I wasn't expecting the
sun to shine just because I choose to travel. I am a modest man.”
“Well, hurry up,” said Raine, seeing that the American was decided.
“Perhaps you're wise in getting out of this.”
“I should have done so a couple of days ago, if it had not been for you.
You seem to have a sort of way of pushing the lonesomeness off people's
shoulders.”
There was an ingenuous frankness, an artless simplicity in the man's
tone, that touched a soft spot in Raine's nature.
“That's devilish good of you,” he replied, with an Englishman's
awkwardness of acknowledgment. “You have done me a good turn too. Come
along.”
In spite of Hockmaster's special efforts towards entertainment, the
drive to Cluses was particularly dreary. The rain never ceased falling,
the damp hung thick upon leaves and branches, and clustered like wool
among the pine stems. The mountains loomed vague and indistinct, fading
away into mist in the middle-distance. The Arve, as the road approached
it, seethed below, a muddy torrent. The desolate district beyond St.
Martin heaved like an Aceldama of mud and detritus oozing through the
fog.
Besides external depression, certain anxieties lay on Raine's mind. His
father's health was never very strong. A dangerous illness was to be
dreaded. His deep affection for his father magnified his fears. There
was Katherine, too. His heart yearned towards her. He closed his eyes
to the hopeless landscape, and evoked her picture as she stood in pale
saffron and sapphire and a dash of pale gold, the morning's colours, in
the morning sunlight. But why had she left him so long without news of
her? A lover's question, which he sought to answer lover-wise.
Cluses at last, the little watchmakers' town; an hour's wait for the
train. They went into a _café_ and sat down. After a while Hockmaster
rose, went up to an old plate-glass mirror on one side of the room,
smoothed his thin sandy hair with his fingers, arranged his cravat, and
then returned. With the exception of two elderly townsmen playing
at dominoes in the corner, while the host sat looking on in his
shirtsleeves, they were the only customers. They conversed in desultory
fashion on the rain, the journey, the forlorn aspect of the place.
“If we had a town with an industry like this one in America,” said
Hockmaster, after his second _petit verre_ from the carafe in front of
him, “we should hitch it on to Wall Street and make a go-ahead city of
it in a fortnight, and manufacture timepieces for half the universe.”
“That would be rather rough on the universe,” said Raine idly. “American
watches--”
“The very tip-topest articles in the world!” interrupted Hockmaster
warmly. “Just look at this!”
He drew from his pocket a magnificent gold watch, opened all its cases
rapidly, and displayed the works before Raine's eyes.
“There! See whether that can be beaten in Europe. Made, every bit of it,
in Chicago. That watch cost me 450 dollars. It did that.”
Raine admired the watch, mollified the owner, who drank another glass of
_fine champagne_ on the strength of his country's reputation. Then with
an inconsequence that was one of the quaint features of his conversation:
“Mr. Chetwynd,” he said, lighting a fresh cigar, “I am about tired to
death of these gilded saloons in continental hotels. Imitation palaces
are not in my line. I should like something homier. I was thinking, if
you could recommend me a snug sort of boarding-house in Geneva, it would
be very good of you.”
“Why not come to the one I am staying at?” said Raine good-naturedly.
“There is a very companionable set of people there.”
“Right,” replied Hockmaster. “That's real kind of you. When you come
to Chicago, you track straight for Joseph K. Hockmaster. You'll find
gratitude.”
“My dear fellow!” laughed Raine deprecatingly.
“No,” said the other in his serious way. “I repeat, it's real kind. Most
of your countrymen would have shunted me off to another establishment. I
think I tire folks by talking. I am always afraid. That's why I tell you
to mention when you grow weary of conversation. It won't offend me. It's
as natural for me to talk as it is for a slug to leave his slime behind
him. I think I'm chock full of small ideas and they overflow in a liquid
kind of way. Now big ideas are solider and roll out more slowly--like
yours.”
And he poured himself out the last glass of _fine champagne_ that
remained in the decanter.
They reached the pension at half-past seven. Mme. Boccard appeared at
Raine's summons, wreathed in smiles, welcomed Hockmaster graciously and
assigned him a room. Dinner had just begun, she had put it back half an
hour, in compliment to Mr. Chetwynd. It was charming of him to have sent
her a private telegram. Everyone was well; the professor had taken a
turn for the better during the day.
Raine went straight up to his father, and, to his intense relief, found
his fears of a dangerous illness to be almost groundless.
“And Felicia?” he asked, after the first affectionate questionings.
“Well,” replied the old man--“very bonny. Do you know, Raine, I think
we may have made a mistake. It has been all my fault. It would be the
greatest kindness to forget--and to forgive your meddling old father.”
Raine laughed in his kind way, reassuring the old man.
“It was not I that sent for you,” continued the latter. “It was Felicia.
There was no longer any reason for you to stop away--and she insisted.
Girls' hearts are mysterious books. Don't search into hers, Raine.
Forget it--seek your happiness where it is truest, my son--and then it
will be mine.”
Raine did not press the subject. He was somewhat puzzled, but he
gathered that she had spoken and that silence would be the more delicate
part. He postponed further consideration of the matter; for which he may
be forgiven, as the longing for Katherine was tugging at his heart-
strings. Besides, he was honestly very hungry, and dinner was in
progress.
After a hurried toilet he went down to the dining-room. The first sound
that struck his ear, as he entered, was the pop of a champagne cork and
the voice of Hockmaster, who was sitting at the lower end, with his back
to the door, next to Mme. Boccard. The waiter was in the act of filling
his glass from a large bottle of champagne. The blaze of light after the
darkness of the corridors dazzled Raine, and he paused for a second
on the threshold, glancing up the table. He was greeted by two rows of
welcoming faces turned towards him and a chorus of kind salutations.
The old commandant stretched up his hand behind his chair and gave a
vigorous handshake. Mme. Popea looked up at him, with a smile over
her good-natured face, as he passed along. But he had eyes only for
Katherine. A curious little spasm passed through him, as he met her
glance. It seemed to contain a world of fears. She was looking pale and
ill.
Mme. Boccard, in her high-pitched voice, directed him to take the
professor's place at the head of the table. He found himself thus
between Felicia and Katherine. Felicia greeted him naturally. Katherine
gave him a cold, trembling hand, and an almost furtive look. Evidently
something had happened during his absence, of whose nature he was
ignorant. She was no longer the same woman. Mere feminine shyness would
not account for this suppressed agitation. The food on her plate had
remained untouched. For a moment he lost sense of the scene round him.
The universe consisted in this woman with the ashen face and quickly
heaving bosom. He bent towards her,--“Are you ill?” he whispered, his
emotion expressing itself by the first chance commonplace.
“No,” she returned hurriedly, in the same tone. “A sudden faintness--my
heart, perhaps. Don't notice me--for heaven's sake! I shall be better
soon.”
Question and answer passed too quickly to attract attention. Raine
recovered his balance, and turned to Felicia.
“My father seems to be getting on nicely, thanks to you,” he said
kindly.
“Ca, not to me. To you. Since your reply came to-day.”
“I am always so nervous when he gets seedy. He is not strong, I have
been full of direful imaginations all the afternoon.”
Felicia sketched the history of the case, touched on the abandoned trip
to Lucerne, condoled with Raine on the disappointment at not meeting
his friends at Chamonix. She talked bravely, all the pride of her
young-womanhood up in arms to help her. Perhaps she could convince him
that he had made a mistake. She devoted to the task all her energies.
Her modesty and intuitive tact saved her from over-acting. Her
concentration, however, prevented her from realizing the silent
agitation of Katherine. She attributed it to embarrassment at meeting
Raine after his absence, and felt a little thrill of gratified vanity
at the inversion of parts. It used to be Katherine who was outwardly
at perfect ease and self-contained, and herself who was embarrassed and
tongue-tied.
It seemed a little victory in the handling of life.
Raine spoke brightly enough of his adventures at Chamonix, including
Miss Bunter, who was sitting very subdued and wan next to Felicia, in
the conversation, and drew from her an account of a far-off visit to the
Mer de Glace. But he was feeling low at heart. If he addressed a chance
remark to Katherine, she greeted it with a forced smile, which he felt
like a stab. He could see from the very fear in her eyes that it was
not merely sudden faintness. He noticed that on trying to lift her
wine-glass, which he had accidentally refilled too full, her hand shook
so much that she abandoned the attempt. He silently poured some wine
into one that he had not used and exchanged glasses with her. She
acknowledged the act with a bow of her head and drank the wine somewhat
feverishly.
“My American friend seems to be enjoying himself,” said Raine to
Felicia, as Hockmaster's somewhat sharply pitched voice was heard
expounding his artlessly paradoxical philosophy of life to those around
him.
Felicia leant forward, so as to catch a glimpse of him down the long
table.
“You must introduce him,” she said.
“With pleasure. He will amuse you. I think if Bret Harte had known him,
he would not have asked whether the Caucasian was played out. He is as
childlike and bland as Ah Sin himself. But he is a capital fellow.”
They paused for a moment to catch what he was saying. Raine saw him
leaning across the table and addressing a new arrival, evidently a
compatriot.
“No. I am not a married man. But I am fond of ladies' society. To get
along without ladies is like washing your hands without soap.”
There was laughter at the remark, which was increased by his attempts to
convey his meaning in French to Mme. Boccard.
Felicia looked at Raine and laughed too. Then out of kindly impulse, by
chance catching Katherine's eye,--
“Mr. Chetwynd has brought us quite an acquisition, don't you think so?”
Katherine forced a smile and uttered a semi-articulate “yes.” Then her
eyelids closed for a few seconds and quivered, as in a nervous attack.
This sign of agitation could not escape Felicia's notice. She became
aware that something was happening. A suspicion of a tragic element in
the relations between the man she loved and the woman she hated, flitted
in the twilight of her mind. The laugh died from her lips, as she looked
more keenly at Katherine. She turned her glance towards Raine, saw his
eyes fix themselves for a moment on Katherine with an indescribable
expression of pain and longing. It was the first time she had seen for
herself that he loved her. The pang of it gripped her heart. But she
disregarded it. Again she remembered Frau Schultz's innuendoes and
tittle-tattle, and involuntarily brought them to bear on the present
situation. The impression left on her mind by the tragedy in the life of
the poor little lady by her side had not yet been effaced. It aided in
the suggestion of another tragedy in the lives of these two others. The
strain upon herself had also somewhat exalted her system and produced
a certain nervous sensitiveness. Something was happening--something
fateful or tragic. A feeling akin to awe came over her young mind, and
suppressed her own simpler girlish fancies. A silence fell upon her,
as it had fallen upon Raine and Katherine. The constraint began to grow
painful, the meal seemed endless. Hockmaster's voice in the distance
began to irritate her nerves.
At last the dinner was over. There was the usual scuffling of chairs and
_frou-frou_ of skirts, as the guests rose. With a common impulse Raine
and Katherine moved a step aside.
“Katherine!”
She put one hand up to her bosom, and steadied herself with the other on
the back of her chair.
“I am feeling very ill,” she said, thickly. “Don't think me cruel--I
can't see you tonight. To-morrow. I shall be better then. You have
seen I am not myself--this last hour has been martyrdom--forgive
me--good-night.”
“Don't forget that I love you, dear--let that give you strength,” said
Raine, in a low voice.
A cry came involuntarly to her lips, wrung from her suffering.
“Ah, don't!”
She turned quickly, and followed the departing guests. Raine stood
bewildered, looking with contracted brow at her receding form.
Hockmaster was standing at the door, his dinner napkin over his arm,
a few yards away from the group of men who had remained to smoke. He
opened the door a little wider for her. But she passed out like an
automaton, looking neither to right nor left.
The American closed the door, and came up to Raine.
“Say, Chetwynd, can one get a liqueur brandy here?”
“The waiter will be here in a minute for orders,” replied Raine. “How
are you getting on?”
“First class. Liveliest meal I've had since I dined on a burning ship
sailing from New York to Cuba. Did I ever tell you the story?--My hell!
It was a hot time! Have a cigar.”
“No, thanks,” replied Raine. “I must go and fetch my pipe. When I come
back you can tell me.”
Deeply troubled about Katherine, he was not in the humour for
Hockmaster's stories, and he seized eagerly at the excuse for being free
from him for a time. He went out on to the balcony, with the intention
of passing through to the drawing-room, where he expected to find
Felicia. An idea had occurred to him which he was anxious to put into
execution. But after passing two or three ladies, he discovered Felicia
alone in the dimness of the furthest end of the balcony.
“Felicia,'” he said, calling her for the first time by her Christian
name, “you are a dear good girl--you will help me if you can. Has
Katherine been ill during my absence?”
The direct, frank appeal touched the girl to the heart. It seemed to
raise her with one great leap in her own esteem, above all the burning
shame she had suffered. Raine's vigorous, sympathetic instinct had
pierced through externals to the innermost of her maidenhood. She
answered his question gently.
“No. She has been quite as usual all the time. But I think she has
looked sadder these last few days.”
“She has not been looking ill--as at dinner to-night?”
“No. That was sudden.”
And then with a strange, absolutely new, almost delicious sense of the
strong man weakly depending upon her for comfort, she said timidly,--
“You mustn't be unhappy. She may have been longing for you to come
back--for she loves you--and this evening--she is very delicate, you
know. Sometimes when I am with her, she seems so fragile--she will be
better to-morrow--and you will be happy.”
“Ah! Thank you, Felicia,” said Raine, greatly moved. “I wish--I wish you
would let me kiss you for it.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He stooped, and touched her cheek with his lips, and then strode away
feeling somehow stronger and serener.
And Felicia remained on the balcony deep in thought, her girlish love
purified by the brotherly kiss.