THE LOOK BACK.
How still the lake of Thun lay, under the fierce heat! The intense blue
of it stretched out and over to the opposite shore, and there lost
itself in the soft green reflection of the land; while the only
interruption of the perfect surface was a great belt of ruffled light
stirred by the wind underneath the promontory of Spiez. Then overhead
the misty purple mass of the Niessen; and beyond that again the snowy
peaks of the Schreckhorn, Moench, and Jungfrau glimmering through the
faint and luminous haze of the sunlight; and over these the serene blue
of a Swiss sky. Down in front of the house the lake narrowed to the
sharp point at which it breaks suddenly away into the rapid, surging
green-white waters of the Aar; and at this moment, as seen from the open
window, two men in a low flat boat were vainly endeavouring to make head
against the powerful current.
At the window sate a little girl of about four years old, with large
dark grey eyes, a bright, clear face, and magnificent jet-black curls; a
doll-looking little thing, perhaps, but for the unusual depth and
meaning of those soft, large eyes. All at once she put her elbows on a
tiny card-table opposite her, clasped her hands, and said, with a
piteous intonation:
"Nu, Nu; oh, I don't know what to do!"
Her father, who had been lying silent and listless on a couch in the
shadow of the room, looked up and asked her what was the matter.
"My doll is lying out in the sun," she said, in accents of comic
despair, "and the poor thing must be getting a headache, and I am not
allowed, Nu says, to go out just now."
"What a little actress she is!" her father muttered, as he returned,
with a slight laugh, to his day dreaming.
And she _was_ an actress--every atom of her. She had not the least
self-consciousness; the assuming of appropriate speech and gesture was
to her more natural than the bashful sense of personality with which
most children are burdened. A true actress will smile quite naturally
into the Polyphemus eye of a camera; a false actress will be conscious
of deceit even in dressing herself to have her portrait taken. This
child of four had the self-abandonment of genius in her mimetic efforts.
She coaxed her mother and wheedled her father with an artless art which
was quite apparent; and her power of copying the tender phrases she
heard used was only equalled by the dramatic manner in which she
delivered them. The appeal to "Nu"--which was a contraction for
"nurse"--was her invariable method of expressing intense despair. If
her mamma reprimanded her; if she lost one of her toys; or if she merely
felt out of sorts--it was all the same: down went the elbows and out
came the pitiful exclamation, "Oh, Nu, Nu, I don't know what to do."
This little girl was the daughter of the Marquis of Knottingley, who now
lay upon the couch over there; and it is of her that the present history
purposes to speak.
For Harry Ormond had been right in his surmise. The young actress begged
him not to insist upon her meeting his friends and acquaintances; and
he, to whom no sacrifice was then great enough to show his gratitude for
her love, readily consented to go abroad after the quiet little ceremony
which took place down in Berkshire. They went to Thun, and lived in
this house which lay some short distance from the village, overlooking
the beautiful lake; and here Lord Knottingley forgot his old world, as
he was by it forgotten. His marriage was known only to a few, though it
was suspected by many, and coupled with the unexpected withdrawal from
the stage of Annie Napier. In the end, however, the matter dropped into
oblivion, and Harry Ormond was no more thought of.
For several years they lived there a still and peaceful existence,
varied only by an occasional excursion southward into Italy. The halo
of his romantic passion still lingered around his young wife; and in the
calm delight of her presence he forgot old associations, old friends,
old habits.
"You cannot expatriate a married man," he used to say, "for he carries
with him that which makes a home for him wherever he goes."
She, too, was very happy in those days. She could never be persuaded
that her husband had not made a great sacrifice in coming abroad for her
sake; and she strove to repay him with all the tenderness and gratitude
and love of a noble nature. She simply worshipped this man; not even
the great affection she bore her bright-eyed quaint little daughter
interfered with the one supreme passion. To her he was a miracle of all
honourable and lovable qualities; never had any man been so generous,
heroic, self-denying.
And yet Harry Ormond was a weak man--weak by reason of that very
impulsiveness which often drove him into pronounced and vigorous action.
As he leant back on his couch, after hearing the pathetic complaint of
his little daughter, there were some such thoughts as these vaguely
flitting before him:
"She will be an actress, too; a real actress, not a made one, thank God.
And if I take her back to England as my child, will not all the poor
would-be actresses of my acquaintance assume a fine air of patronage
towards her and her mother? But, after all, Annie was on the stage--I
cannot deny it; and I cannot quarrel with anybody for reminding me of
the fact. All the tipsy ruffians of the town have sate and stared at
her--d----m them! And just as surely is it impossible that I can remain
here all my life. Annie is very well, and very affectionate; but I did
not bargain for a life-long banishment. And one might as well be dead
as live always out of London."
This was the first seed sown; and it grew rapidly and throve in such a
mind as his. He became peevish at times; would occasionally grumble
over the accidents of his present life, and then took to grumbling at
that itself; sometimes held long conversations with the small Annie
about England, and strove to impress her with the knowledge that
everything fine and pleasant abode there; finally--and this process had
been the work of only a week or two--he announced his intention of going
to London on business.
His wife looked up from her work, with dismay on her face; he had never
proposed such a thing before.
"Why cannot Mr. Chetwynd do that business for you also, Harry?" she
asked.
"Because it is too important," he said, a little impatiently. "You need
not fear so much my going to London for a fortnight."
He spoke in almost an irritated tone. Indeed, he did not himself know
how impatient he was to get away from trammels which he had found
irksome.
She went over to him, and placed her hand gently on his head.
"Am I too jealous of you, Harry? I hate England because I think
sometimes you have still a lingering wish to be back there. But I do
not _fear_ your going; I know you will be as anxious to come to me as I
shall be to see you."
So Lord Knottingley went forth from that house, which he never saw
again. His wife and daughter were at the window; the former pale and
calm, the latter vaguely unhappy over an excitement and disturbance
which she could not understand. As the horses started he kissed his
hands to them both, tenderly as he had kissed them three minutes before
on the threshold; and as the carriage disappeared round the first
turning of the road he waved his handkerchief. Annie Napier had seen
the last of her husband she was to see in this world. She came away
from the window, still quite calm, but with a strange look on her pale
and beautiful face; and then she sate down, and took her little girl on
her knee, and put her arms round her, and drew her closely to her.
"Mamma, why do you cry?" the little one said, looking up into the sad,
silent face.
Her mother did not speak. Was the coming shadow already hovering over
her? She drew her daughter the more closely to her; and the little
girl, thrown back on her usual resource for expressing her alarm, only
murmured disconsolately, "Oh, Nu, Nu, I don't know what to do."