THE LURE OF THE SNOW
Etta Wyndcliffe had changed her mind. It was a frequent habit of
hers. At the last moment she had decided that it was a little too
early for the Riviera, therefore she chose winter sports in
Switzerland as a prelude to the Côte d’Azur. Hence, a week after her
angry parting with the estimable Ashe, she, with Sibell, Brinsley, and
her maid, left London for Nature’s white wonderland at Gurnigel, the
new palatial winter resort, high in the mountains above Berne.
After stepping from the comfortable _wagon-lit_ of the Oberland
Express, which had brought them in the night from Calais to Berne,
they found awaiting them a powerful car, with chains upon its wheels
on account of the mountain snows, and soon they were on their way, in
the bright morning sunshine, upon a fine, open road which ran along
the lower slope of a steep hill, affording a wide view of the
snow-clad but fertile valley of the Gürbe towards Thun; then, rising
higher, they passed through cherry orchards now white with snow, but
in April white with blossom. Everywhere the spotless mantle of Nature
lay thickly piled upon the wide, overhanging roofs of wooden chalets
and outbuildings. Through quiet little hamlets they passed, one after
another, until, after leaving the pretty, homely village of
Riggisberg, the real steep ascent of the mountain lay before them.
“How perfectly wonderful!” cried Sibell, gazing delightedly through
the window to where, far across the lake of Thun, rose the giants, the
Eiger, Mönch, Jungfrau, and others of that chain, with their eternal
glaciers and everlasting snows.
“Yes,” exclaimed her lover, who sat opposite her. “What a complete
change from dark, dreary London, with its fogs and rain! How
glorious!”
“They call it Glorious Gurnigel,” remarked Lady Wyndcliffe, gazing
around. “And it really seems as though the adjective is appropriate.”
They were now in the heart of rural Switzerland, and, as the steep
road rose higher and yet higher by many curves, they entered the great
snow-laden pine-forests, those forests which abound everywhere in that
region and breathe their health-giving odor into the crisp, frosty
air.
Another sudden turn of the road, and there suddenly came into view the
great, long white building where high piled wood fires and a warm
welcome from the genial director, Mr. Schelb, awaited them.
Inside the huge hotel they quickly found themselves in the midst of a
merry winter sports crowd of young English people, the girls mostly in
bright-colored jerseys and breeches, including a few in black, and gay
scarves, with well-cut trousers which some girls prefer to stockings.
The men were mostly in ski-ing kit, and the chatter at lunch was, of
course, of ski-ing, skating, or bobbing. There was an irresponsible
atmosphere of gaiety everywhere, either in the hotel or out of it, for
everybody was bent on enjoyment, the high spirits being contagious;
for even the elderly quickly find themselves feeling rejuvenated by
the wonderful pine-laden air at four to five thousand feet above sea
level.
On every side the country belonged to the hotel. To give one an idea
of the size of the estate, there are over thirty miles of walks and
paths on it!
They rested after their journey, then they donned their sports-clothes
and snow-resisting boots, and went forth into the picturesque white
world to take the Belle Vue Walk, and so make their first acquaintance
with Glorious Gurnigel, the aristocrat among resorts.
Outside, Sibell and Otway, walking alone together, were at once in a
great forest of snow-laden pines and firs in which the whispering wind
was the only sound, for they were now high up above the abode of man.
The trees bring an income to the great estate--not very much in these
days, but sufficient to employ many peasants. In the colony which has
arisen about the hotel there is a sawmill, and in it about a thousand
trees are annually cut into boards, to be sent down to Berne and sold
for the construction of chalets, while the useless branches are cut up
for firewood which, in addition to the radiators, heat the hotel in
winter. Of the thousand or so trees cut down, many straight stems,
after seventy or eighty years of growth, go down to the lowlands to
rise again as telegraph-poles. And, for those thousand cut down in the
thinning process of those delightful woods, four thousand saplings are
planted each year. The number is such that only one tree in four comes
to maturity, for many die or grow with crooked trunks, and hence are
sacrificed for firewood early in their growth.
Thus the forestry on the huge estate is no mean matter, and it was an
interesting reflection, as they sauntered along a descending path
beside a brook--now frozen in winter’s grip--that on those woodland
paths, or open ski slopes, stretching everywhere, nobody could say
them nay.
After luncheon Lady Wyndcliffe was busy with her maid, unpacking,
therefore the lovers wandered along that romantic forest path,
picturesque and sparkling like a Christmas card at every turn, which
eventually led to the wonderful viewpoint called the Belle Vue.
At last, in the twilight, they came to a steep descent, and, rather
than reclimb it, they sat upon a convenient seat to rest.
A bevy of laughing girls in bright sports costumes, accompanied by
several young English undergraduates, passed by on their way back for
tea, making the forest echo with their merriment, while after them
came a tall, athletic man in dark blue, and wearing a guide’s cap,
gliding along on skis.
In the latter both were interested, for neither had before seen a
person on those long wooden laths.
“I’m quite sure I’ll never be able to ski!” Sibell declared--as she
watched the man disappearing along the path.
“Oh, yes, you will. Harman, who was at Bart’s with me, went out to
Wengen one season and learnt in a week,” he replied. “You’ll soon do
all right under a good instructor. I’ll see about it to-morrow.”
“But look how long and unwieldy the things are!” protested the girl.
“When you’ve once learned, you can do anything on them. It’s only a
question of knack and balance, like learning to cycle.”
“I can cycle all right.”
“Then you’ll very soon be able to ski,” he assured her. “I asked the
concierge, and he tells me there’s an excellent instructor here, one
of the best in the Oberland. He’s a Swiss from Mürren named von
Allmen--all the English here call him ‘John.’”
“Very well,” she laughed. “I’ll have John to teach me.”
“Good! I’ll fix the lesson for to-morrow,” said her lover; and then,
taking her thickly gloved hand in his, he looked into her fine eyes,
and added: “Is not this place a perfect paradise, darling--a paradise
for you and me? Compare the hectic, artificial life of overdressing,
vice, and gambling on the Riviera with this clean, wholesome,
germ-free air--this gorgeous scenery, these great forests, and
towering mountains, this spot where all is natural and of God’s
creation. Is it not all wonderful--glorious!”
The girl held her breath for a moment; then, as she looked into her
lover’s eyes, she replied:
“Yes, it is, Brin! I am so very happy to-day--too happy, because
I--well, I somehow feel that this perfect bliss is too complete to
last! I----”
But Otway did not allow her to express any further apprehensions, for
he suddenly took her in his arms and, holding her firmly, kissed her
many times upon her lips.
Then, as it was growing dark in the forest, they rose and, arm in arm,
found their way back to the huge, brilliantly-lit hotel, where, in the
great lounge at the end of the magnificent ballroom, Sibell’s aunt had
secured a table for tea.
“We’ve been exploring the place, auntie,” Sibell said as she sat down.
“The walks are simply wonderful. I’m so delighted we came here!”
“So am I,” declared Otway.
“Ena Oxenford told me about it,” said her ladyship. “She was here last
summer. No doubt it will become a second St. Moritz very soon--when
people know of it. I agree that at present it is charming.”
Sibell looked very chic in her tailor-made, black ski-ing suit and
well-cut trousers, the only touch of color being her bright blue and
red scarf which matched her Norwegian anklets. She wore a peaked
guide’s cap, and into it she had already pinned the little pale-blue
and white badge of the Gurnigel Ski Club, which she had joined at once
on arrival.
As they sat amid the gay, chatting English crowd, they had full view
of the ballroom--perhaps one of the finest in all Switzerland--where
people were dancing to an excellent orchestra. There was merriment and
bonhomie on every hand, even though a party of about sixty Germans of
the better class were also visitors there. Such an incident was not
usual, for in winter Gurnigel is kept essentially English.
Nevertheless, that season such was the fact, and it was especially
noticeable that no racial hatred existed between the two
nationalities. In neutral-Switzerland they were upon common ground.
Unseen by either Sibell or her lover, there was, however, sitting on
the opposite side of the hall a dark, sleek-haired young man,
thick-lipped and sensuous, who, from behind one of the marble columns,
was eyeing the girl furtively as he lazily sipped his tea and smoked
his Egyptian cigarette.
He had attempted a familiar conversation with the fair-haired,
muslin-aproned Swiss maid who had served him, but had been ignored,
and now his large black eyes were fixed upon Sibell, whose beauty and
smartness were outstanding, even amid that very smart crowd.
“I really think that winter sports are a fitting prelude to the
Riviera,” Sibell’s aunt was saying, as she lazily selected a cigarette
from her gold case and tapped it. “Agatha, that little American cat
whom I took around last season, wanted to go to St. Moritz, but I
refused. I’m sorry now that I didn’t go. Of course, you two will go
ski-ing to-morrow.”
“Yes,” replied the girl. “We’re both having our first lesson with
John. I saw him in the hall just as we came in. Isn’t he a
good-looking boy, Brin?”
Her lover agreed, and then suggested to her that they should dance.
Next moment they were upon the well-kept floor of the great
white-and-gold ballroom, where at the many tables around sat a gay
crowd of winter sports devotees, yet still unaware of the pair of dark
eyes of the man, seated half-concealed, who somehow appeared
fascinated by Sibell’s outstanding beauty.
Gurnigel in summer is a marvellous woodland retreat--a gorgeous spot
where no sound disturbs the mountain silence save the singing of the
birds, the ripple of the many streams, the musical tinkle of the
cow-bells, and perhaps the blows of the woodman’s axe. But as soon as
the slow, sleek cows with their bells are driven in and the first snow
of winter falls, there comes a transformation to a great snow-clad
countryside, wherein a gay crowd disport themselves in genuine good
humor and with united efforts to make fun out of everything. There is
no standoffishness, nor are there unsociable cliques. The newcomer of
either sex is instantly welcomed, taken into the circle, so that there
is never any lack of companions for ski-ing, or partners for dancing.
The joyous convivialities of January are events one will long
remember, for neither trouble nor expense are spared to effect the
success of the various festivals, the guests entering into the true
spirit of things, so that there is not a single dull moment; all goes
with a swing, and it becomes a time of strenuous gaiety. If the
weather happens to be bad, or the snow may leave a little to be
desired, then there are all kinds of indoor games--bowls, indoor
curling, ping-pong, and hosts of other diversions, the tea-time
dancing being not the least, and the merry crowd pities the poor
drenched and fog-bound folk at home.
It was so with the new arrivals--indeed, with everyone who came fresh
from London.
Glorious Gurnigel was, they found, indeed glorious in every sense of
the term.
When, later, Sibell, in a dainty white dance frock embroidered with
beads, which suited her fair complexion so admirably, came down to
meet the young doctor for dinner, she encountered in the long,
red-carpeted corridor, that ran parallel with the ballroom, the tall,
erect young man whose eyes had been on her while she had sat at tea
and while she had danced.
He idled past her, smiled broadly, whispered something, and, bowing,
wished her “Good evening” in a low tone in German.
With her English hauteur she drew herself up, stared him full in the
face, and passed on, nevertheless remembering that at such resorts
introductions are easily made, and friendships as easily dropped.
When, a few moments later, Otway and her aunt joined her, she made no
mention of the incident. She knew it would most certainly provoke her
lover’s indignation that she could not be left for a moment alone in
the hotel without a stranger attempting to get in conversation with
her; and, besides, she did not desire a scene.
That evening, after dining in the fine restaurant, they occupied a
table at the end of the ballroom near the orchestra, and many times
the happy pair danced together, refraining only when a “Paul Jones”
was announced.
Next morning they had their first lesson in ski-ing. The tall,
athletic young Swiss ski-instructor, in his neat blue suit, with his
guide’s badge upon his breast, fitted their skis to their boots and
took them out upon what is known as the “nursery slopes,” where all
beginners make a start by learning to stand on their skis and how to
fall into the soft, powdery snow in such a manner that they do not
injure themselves.
In spite of many tumbles and much humorous banter, they thoroughly
enjoyed themselves for two hours, unconscious still that that pair of
evil, black eyes was closely watching them from a window on the first
floor with that same fixed, sinister expression.
That afternoon, after luncheon, the pair, oblivious of the attention
they had attracted, joined a small party of skiers, and climbed above
the tree-line to the summit of Mount Gurnigel, a matter of another
thousand feet or so, where, standing in the afternoon sunshine upon
the verandah of the weather-beaten shelter hut of the Swiss Alpine
Club, they gazed at one of the most marvellous panoramas of valley,
lake, and mountain in all Switzerland. Before them, far below, lay the
whole of the district of Thun and its delightful lake, flanked on one
side by the mountains of the Emmental, and on the other by the jagged,
frowning Stockhorn, and the conical Niesen, with the steepest mountain
railway in Europe, while beyond rose, white, majestic, and just tipped
by the delicate rose light of the Alpine glow, the Jungfrau and her
neighbors. The scene was like one obtained from an aeroplane, and, as
the others of the party had climbed on skis, they ran swiftly down
home, first over some wide, steep slopes, then, joining the road,
passed along its edge through Black Lake wood and straight down to the
hotel.
But Sibell and her lover, not being able to ski, stood alone and
silent in the sunset, children of the heights. Their hearts were too
full for mere words.
At last, as they stood facing the giant Jungfrau, upon whose lofty
crest the gorgeous pink glow was deepening, he bent and kissed her,
and then, hand in hand, they commenced to descend the steep, winding
road, arriving back in the hotel just as the twilight had deepened
into darkness.
And as they rejoined Lady Wyndcliffe at her tea-table in the corner,
that pair of dark, haunting eyes fell again upon them.