And for the last morning again a strange surprise. Mountains and valley
were hidden behind impenetrable mist, even the nearest objects were
screened by the thickly falling snow. Alpine winter tremendously at
work, holding her fascinated at windows downstairs, upstairs; mighty
preparation for the beauty of days she would not see, robbing her of
farewell, putting farewell back into yesterday’s superficial seeing
which had not known it was the last.
But when she was forced to turn away to her packing she found, within
the light of this veiled world that cast within doors a strange dark
brilliance, something of the London gloom, and the enjoyment of a
concentrated activity that had always been one of the gifts of a London
fog. It was as if already she were translated, good-byes said and the
journey begun. The hours ahead became a superfluous time, to be spent in
a Switzerland whose charm, since London had reached forth and touched
her, had fallen into its future place as part of life: an embellishment,
a golden joy to which she would return.
And when she saw the guests assembled at lunch in full strength it was
as though having left them for good she returned for a moment to find
them immersed in a life to which she was a stranger. Confined by the
weather, they had produced the pile of letters waiting in the lounge and
were now rejoicing in unison over the snowfall. In speech and silence
each one revealed himself, but as a dream-revival of someone known long
ago; and in the dream it was again as on that first evening when she had
sat a listening outsider, fearing and hoping to be drawn in, and again
it was Mrs. Harcourt who, when her association with these people was
seeming to be a vain thing cancelled, drew her in with a question.
The short hour expanded. Once more she was caught into the medium of
their social vision, into the radiance that would shine unchanged when
she was gone and was the secret of English social life and could, if it
were revealed to every human soul, be the steering light of human life
throughout the world. These people were the fore-runners, free to be
almost as nice as they desired.
And then, with the suddenness of a rapid river, her coming freedom
flowed in upon her, carrying her outside this pleasant enclosure towards
all that could be felt to the full only in solitude amongst things whose
being was complete, towards that reality of life that withdrew at the
sounding of a human voice.
It was already from a far distance that, alone with her upon the
landing, she promised Mrs. Harcourt remembrance and letters, said
good-bye and saw once more her first diffident eagerness; felt that it
was she, withdrawn since the first days, who had yet lived her life with
her, transferred something of her being into the gathered memories and
would keep them alive, keep the mountain scene in sight near at hand.
Alone in her room still thinking of Mrs. Harcourt, she remembered from
“Ships that Pass in the Night” how on the last day all but one person
had forgotten the departing guest.
Then in getting up from lunch she had seen them all, unknowing, for the
last time—as yesterday the mountains. For all these people hidden away
in their rooms, immersed in their own affairs, she was already a figure
slid away and forgotten. With the paying of Frau Knigge’s bill her last
link with the Alpenstock had been snapped.
But when the coach-horn sounded and she went down into the hall, there
they all were, gathering round, seeing her off. Hurriedly, with the door
open upon the falling snow and the clashing of sleighbells, she clasped
for the first time strange and friendly hands, saw, in eyes met full and
near, welcome from worlds she had not entered. Beside the door she met
Daphne forgotten, who clutched and drew her back into the window space
for desperate clinging, and entreaties sounding lest for this new
slow-witted lover the searching gaze should not be enough.
It was not until she was inside the dark coach and its occupants had
thanked heaven she was English and let down a window, that she
remembered Vereker. He alone had made no farewell.
The coach pulled up outside the post-office and there he stood in the
driving snow, and all the way down the valley she saw them one by one
and saw him standing in great-coat and woollen helmet, heard his elegant
light distressful voice begging her to come out next year.
And brighter now than the setting they had charmed was the glow these
people had left in her heart. They had changed the aspect of life, given
it the promise of their gentle humanity, given her a frail link with
themselves and their kind.
She climbed into a carriage whose four corners were occupied and sat
down to the great journeying.
“History repeats itself.”
Looking up she found all about her the family from Croydon, met the
father’s quizzical brown eyes.
“Had a farewell kick-up at our place last night. We’re feeling the
effects. _You_ look very fit. Enjoyed yourself?”
“I’ve had a splendid time.”
“You collared the handsomest man in Oberland anyhow—that young giant of
a Russian.”
“Italian.”
“Bless my soul! Hear that, Doris?”
“We were up till _fave_ this morning,” said Doris.
The train moved off, but only Doris, once more grown-up with her hair in
a staid bun under her English winter hat, turned to watch the station
disappear.
“Want to go back, Doris?”
“Ah love,” she breathed devoutly, “could thou and aye with feete
conspire——”
Miriam joined the sister in intoning the rest of the lines.
“Ah Moon——” began Doris, and the brother leaned forward holding towards
her a gloved hand whose thumb protruded through a fraying gap:
“A little job for you in Paris.”
She regarded it undisturbed and turned away the scornful sweetness of
her face towards the window and the snowflakes falling thickly upon the
shroud of snow.
Transcriber’s Notes
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
errors were silently corrected. Further careful corrections, some after
consulting other editions, are listed here (before/after):
[p. 46]:
... “Schön, die letzte Gluh,” he said quietly. ...
... “Schön, die letzte Glüh,” he said quietly. ...
[p. 57]:
... “Man soll sich des Leben’s freuen, im Berg ...
... “Man soll sich des Lebens freuen, im Berg ...
[p. 57]:
... und Thal. In so wass kann sich ein’ Engländerin ...
... und Thal. In so was kann sich ein’ Engländerin ...
[p. 148]:
... his own path from which his tacit meeting ...
... his own path from which this tacit meeting ...