"MIT DEINEN SCHOeNEN AUGEN."
Well, the first time Will fulfilled his promise to Dove was when he and
Annie Brunel, Mrs. Christmas and the Count (Hermann and another of the
Count's servants being in another carriage), were rolling southwards in
the Dover express. Here and there he caught a glimpse of the moon, as
it loomed suddenly and nearly over the top of some tall embankment; but
somehow his attention was so much taken up by the young girl opposite
him, that Dove and her pretty request were in danger of being forgotten.
Besides themselves there was only a young Frenchman in the carriage--a
grave, handsome young man, with melancholy black eyes and a carefully
waxed moustache--who sate and covertly stared at Miss Brunel all the
way. Perhaps he had seen her in the theatre; but in any case, the
beautiful, clear, dark artist-face of the young actress, with its large
deep eyes, was quite sufficient to imbue a susceptible young Frenchman
with a vague sadness. Fortunately, she dropped a glove; and he, having
picked it up and handed it to her with a grave and earnest politeness,
leant back in his seat, apparently thrilled with a secret happiness.
The little party was in very good spirits; and Annie Brunel was
especially bright and cheerful in her subdued, motherly way. Will
suddenly found himself released from the irritating pleasure of having
to humour the whims and coax the moods of an almost childish, petulant,
pretty and engaging girl; and talking instead with one who seemed to
have a gift of beautifying and ennobling everything of which she spoke.
Whatever she mentioned, indeed, acquired a new importance in his eyes.
He had never discovered so many things of which he would like to know
more; he had never discovered that the things he did know, and the
places he had seen, and the people he had met, were so full of life, and
colour, and dramatic interest.
"You two people talk like children going off for holidays," said the
Count, disentangling himself from a series of discursive theatrical
reminiscences offered him by Mrs. Christmas.
"So we are," said Annie Brunel.
The Count introduced himself into the conversation; and then the colour
and light seemed to Will to die out of it. The fact was, Count
Schoenstein was very much pleased to see that Miss Brunel took so kindly
to his friend, as it rendered his own relations with her more secure.
He was very grateful to Will, also, for coming with him on this
particular excursion; knowing thoroughly that he could never have
induced Mrs. Christmas and Miss Brunel to go with him alone. These
considerations were well enough in their way; but at the same time he
did not think it quite fair that Will should have all the pleasure of
Miss Brunel's society to himself. To be shut out from their
conversation not only annoyed him, but made him feel old. As it was,
Miss Brunel had a provoking habit of speaking to him as if he really
were old, and only capable of affording her information. Worst of all,
she sometimes inadvertently spoke of herself and Will as "we;" and
referred to the Count as if he were some third party whom the two young
people were good enough to patronise.
"But then," said the Count to himself, "she has not seen Schoenstein.
Anerley is perhaps a more suitable companion for her; but then she knows
that he has no money, and that he has already mated himself. Once I
have shown her Schoenstein, I shall be able to dispense with his
services: she will need no further inducement. And I never should have
had the chance of showing her Schoenstein but for him."
The night was so fine that they all remained on deck during the short
passage over to Calais; walking up and down in the pale moonlight, that
lay along the sea and touched the great black funnels and the tall,
smooth masts and yards. Looking down upon the deck beneath, Will had
seen Hermann tenderly wrap up the fat little English girl who was to be
Miss Brunel's maid, and who was very melancholy indeed over parting with
her mother, the Count's Kentish housekeeper; and then the stalwart
keeper went forward to the bow and smoked cheap cigars fiercely for the
rest of the voyage, thinking probably of the old companions he was going
to see.
The Count was very quiet. He scarcely spoke. He sate down and wrapped
himself up in his great Viennese travelling-coat; allowing Will and Miss
Brunel to promenade the deck. It was simply impossible for any one to
become sick on such a night; but I do not think the Count considered
himself quite safe until he stood, tall, stout, and pompous, on Calais
pier.
"You are a good sailor, I suppose, Anerley?" he said, grandly. "I do
think it ridiculous when a man can't cross the Channel without becoming
sick."
"A man would have to try very hard to be sick to-night. Hermann, you
speak French, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," said the tall keeper, as he bundled the trembling Polly up
the gangway, and then began to look out for such articles of his
master's luggage as had not been booked to Cologne.
They were going the Rhine way, instead of _via_ Paris and Strasbourg;
and so in due time they found themselves in the Brussels and Cologne
train. We have at present nothing to do with their journey, or any
incident of it, except that which befel two of the party that evening in
a commonplace hotel overlooking the Rhine.
Romance in a Rhine hotel! exclaims the reader; and I submit to the
implied indignation of the protest.
Perhaps the first time you saw the Rhine you thought romance possible.
Perhaps you went round that way on your wedding trip; but in any case,
the man who lingers about the noble river, and hides himself away from
hasty tourists in some little village, and finds himself for the first
time in the dreamland of the German ballad-singers, with a faint
legendary mist still hanging about the brown ruins, and with a mystic
glamour of witchcraft touching the green islands and the dark hills, may
forget the guide-books and grow to love the Rhine. Then let him never
afterwards use the river as a highway. The eight or ten hours of
perspiring Cockney--the odour of cooking--the exclamations and
chatter--the parasol-and-smelling-bottle element which one cannot help
associating with the one day's journey up or down the Rhine, are a
nightmare for after years. One should never visit the Rhine twice;
unless one has plenty of time, no companions, an intimacy with German
songs, a liking for Ruedesheimer, a stock of English cigars, and a
thorough contempt for practical English energy.
Yet it was the Rhine did all the mischief that night. Imagine for a
moment the position. They had arrived in Cologne somewhere about five
in the afternoon, and had driven to the Hotel de Hollande, which, as
everybody knows, overlooks the river. Then they had dined. Then they
had walked round to the Cathedral, where the Count proudly contributed a
single Friedrich towards helping King William in his efforts to complete
the building. Then they had gone to one of the shops opposite, where
the Count, in purchasing some photographs, insisted on talking German to
a man who knew English thoroughly. Then he had stalked into Jean Marie
Farina's place at the corner, and brought out one of Farina's largest
bottles for Miss Brunel; he carrying it down to the hotel, the observant
townspeople turning and staring at the big Englishman. By this time the
sun had gone down, the twilight was growing darker, the faint lights of
the city beginning to tell through the grey.
There were gardens, said the porter, at the top of the hotel--beautiful
gardens, looking down on the river; if the gentlemen wished to smoke,
wine could be carried up.
"No," said the Count. "I must commit the rudeness of going off to my
room. I did not sleep, like you people, in the train."
So he bade them good-night and disappeared.
"But we ought to go up and see the gardens," said Annie Brunel.
"I think so," said Will. "Mrs. Christmas, will you take my arm? It is
a long climb. And now that you have surrendered yourself to my care,
may I recommend a luxury peculiar to the place? One ought never to sit
in Rhine gardens without sparkling Muscatel, seltzer-water, and ice, to
be drank out of frosted champagne-glasses, in the open air, with flowers
around us, and the river below----"
"You anticipate," said Miss Brunel. "Perhaps the gardens are only a
smoking-room, filled with people."
The "gardens" turned out to be a long and spacious balcony, not
projecting from the building, but formed out of the upper floor. There
were tables and chairs about; and a raised seat which ran along the
entire front. The pillars supporting the roof were wound round with
trailing evergreens, the tendrils and leaves of which scarcely stirred
in the cool night air; finally, the place was quite empty.
Annie Brunel stepped over to the front of the balcony, and looked down;
then a little cry of surprise and delight escaped her.
"Come," she said to Mrs. Christmas--"come over here; it is the most
beautiful thing I have ever seen."
Beautiful enough it was--far too beautiful to be put down here in words.
The moon had arisen by this time--the yellow moon of the Rhine--and it
had come up and over the vague brown shadows of Deutz until it hung
above the river. Where it touched the water there was a broad lane of
broken, rippling silver; but all the rest of the wide and silent stream
was of a dull olive hue, on which (looking from this great height) you
saw the sharp black hulls of the boats. Then far along the opposite
bank, and across the bridges, and down on the quays underneath were
glittering beads of orange fire; and on the river there were other
lights--moving crimson and green spots which marked the lazy barges and
the steamers out there. When one of the boats came slowly up, the
olive-green plain was cleft in two, and you saw waving lines of silver
widening out to the bank on either side; then the throb of the paddle
and the roar of the steam ceased; a green lamp was run up to the
masthead, to beam there like a fire-fly; the olive river grew smooth and
silent again; and the perfect, breathless peace of the night was
unbroken. A clear, transparent night, without darkness; and yet these
points of orange, and green, and scarlet burned sharply; and the soft
moonlight on the river shone whiter than phosphorus. So still a night,
too, that the voices on the quays floated up to this high
balcony--vague, echo-like, undistinguishable.
Annie Brunel was too much impressed by the singular loveliness of the
night and of the picture before her to say anything. She sate up on the
raised bench; and looking out from between the pillars, Will could see
her figure, framed, as it were, by the surrounding leaves. Against the
clear dark sky her head was softly defined, and her face caught a pale
tinge of the moonlight as she sate quite still and seemed to listen.
He forgot all about the iced wine and his cigar. He forgot even Mrs.
Christmas, who sate in the shadow of one of the pillars, and also looked
down on the broad panorama before her.
Then Miss Brunel began to talk to him; and it seemed to him that her
voice was unusually low, and sad, and tender. It may have been the
melancholy of the place--for all very beautiful things haunt us and
torture us with a vague, strange longing--or it may be that some old
recollections had been awakened within her; but she spoke to him with a
frank, close, touching confidence, such as he had never seen her exhibit
to any one. Nor was he aware of the manner in which he reciprocated
these confidences; nor of the dangerous simplicity of many things he
said to her--suggestions which she was too much preoccupied to notice.
But even in such rare moments as these, when we seem to throw off the
cold attudinizing of life and speak direct to each other, heart to
heart, a double mental process is possible, and we may be unconsciously
shaping our wishes in accordance with those too exalted sentiments born
of incautious speech. And Will went on in this fashion. The past was
past; let no harm be said of it; and yet it had been unsatisfactory to
him. There had been no generous warmth in it; no passionate glow; only
the vague commonplaces of pleasure, which left no throb of regret behind
them. And now he felt within him a capacity, a desire, for a fuller and
richer life--a new, fresh, hopeful life, with undreamed of emotions and
sensations. Why should he not leave England for ever? What was England
to him? With only one companion, who had aspirations like his own, who
could receive his confidences, who might love with a passion strong as
that he knew lay latent in his own heart, who had these divine, exalted
sympathies--
He was looking up at the beautiful face of the young girl, cold and
clear-cut like marble, in the moonlight; and he was not aware that he
had been thinking of her. All at once that horrible consciousness
flashed in upon him like a bolt of consuming fire; his heart gave one
big throb, and he almost staggered back as he said to himself, with
remorse, and horror, and shame--
"O God, I love this woman with my whole soul; and what shall I say to my
poor Dove?"
She sate up there, pure and calm, like some glorified saint, and saw
nothing of the hell of contending emotions which raged below in her
companion's breast. Unconscious of it all, she sate and dreamed the
dreams of a happy and contented soul. As for him, he was overwhelmed
with shame, and pity, and despair. And as he thought of Dove, and St.
Mary-Kirby, the dull sonorous striking of some great bell suddenly
reminded him of his promise.
He hastily pulled out his watch--half-past ten, English time. She, down
in the quiet Kentish vale, had remembered his promise (indeed, had she
not dreamed of it all day?) had gone to her window, and tenderly thought
of her lover, and with happy tears in her eyes had sent him many a
kindly message across the sea; _he_--what his thoughts had been at the
same moment he scarcely dared confess to his awakened self.