THE HEATHER PULLS
The sensation of dazzling light and the sound of tinkling silvery bells
woke me early, and I jumped up and looked out of the window. The bells
belonged to a herd of goats which were being driven slowly to pasture.
Stalwart guides, with stout alpenstocks in their hands, and apparently
heavy cloth bags upon their backs, were standing near the hotel and on
the station platform. Tourists of both sexes were getting ready to
accompany the guides, and there was much loud questioning and emphatic
gesticulation on both sides. A few mules stood near, presumably for
the use of the ladies. It was all too provocative, and I flung myself
into my clothes and went out.
If I were writing a guide book I could wax eloquent, I believe, in my
descriptions of Zermatt; but I am not, and I therefore refrain.
The squire was delighted with my enthusiasm, and insisted upon my
"doing" the place thoroughly. He did not rise until noon, so that my
mornings were always free, and the Greys took me all the shorter
excursions. One day we had quite a long trip to the top of the Gorner
Grat, whence one gets an unrivalled view of snow peaks and glaciers;
and from thence we walked to the Schwarz See, where the Matterhorn
towers in front of you like an absolute monarch in loneliness and
grandeur.
Oh, those ravines, where the glacier-fed streams rage furiously in
their rapid descent! Oh, those gorges, in whose depths the pent-up
waters leap onward between high walls of rock to which the precarious
gangway clings where you stand in momentary fear of disaster! Oh,
those woods, with the steep and stony footpaths, and the sudden
revelation of unsuspected objects: of kine munching the green herbage;
of the women who tend them, working industriously with wool and needle;
of wooden _chalets_ with stone-protected roofs; of trickling cascades
and roaring waterfalls!
Oh, those pastures, green as emerald, soft as velvet, where one might
lie as on a couch of down and feast the eye on mountain and vale and
sky, and never tire! Oh, those sunsets, and particularly the one which
struck my imagination most, when the sky was not crimson, but
topaz-tinted, and the huge cloud which hung suspended from the neck of
the Matterhorn was changed in a second into beaten gold, as though
touched by the rod of the alchemist; when the Breithorn flushed deep
for a moment at the sun's caress, and the land lay flooded in a
translucent yellow haze that spread like a vapour over the works of God
and man, and turned mere stones and mortar into the fairy palaces of
Eastern fable!
It seems now like a wonderful dream, but, thank God! it is something
much less transient. For a memory is infinitely better than a dream:
the memory of an experience such as this is a continual feast, whereas
a dream too often excites hopes that may never be realised, and
presents visions of delight which are as elusive as the grapes of
Tantalus.
I stored up every detail for the squire's benefit. I cultivated my
powers of observation more for his sake than my own, and reaped a
double reward. All I saw is impressed still upon my brain with
photographic sharpness, and it will be a long, long time before the
image becomes faded or blurred. But what was better still, I saw the
squire's eyes brighten and the "yonderly" look depart, as he came back
to earth evening by evening and followed the story of my adventures.
I believe he would have been content to stay on indefinitely and give
me as good a time as my heart could have desired, but that would not
have been right. I had not gone out to enjoy a frolic, and at times I
felt almost ashamed of myself for enjoying life so much. "Grace
Holden," I said, "you are a very considerable fraud. Your special role
just now is supposed to be that of the ministering angel, whereas you
are flinging away your own time and somebody else's money like an
irresponsible tripper."
Dr. Grey laughed when I told him that I had qualms of conscience on
this score.
"Don't worry," he said; "Providence has her own notions of how angels
can best minister, and I fancy you are carrying out her scheme pretty
successfully, It's three days since the old gentleman spoke a word
about dying, and I'm certain he is not nearly as anxious to be gone as
he was before you came. But cannot you tempt him back to England by
any means? My wife and I cannot remain here much longer, and I would
like to help you to take him home."
I did my best, but I made little headway. The squire seemed to have
lost all desire for home, and had quite made up his mind that his body
would soon be laid to rest amid the eternal snows. He was constantly
anticipating some further attack which would cut him down without
warning, and Gottlieb seemed to find a mournful satisfaction in
encouraging these forebodings, less perhaps by what he said than by
what he left unsaid.
A tinge of annoyance began to mix with Dr. Grey's laugh, and he spoke
to the squire with a touch of asperity. He had subjected him again to
a thorough examination, and on its conclusion he broke out:
"Look here, Mr. Evans, I stake my professional reputation upon my
verdict that you are not a dying man physically. If you die it's your
own fault. There is no reason why we should not start for home
to-morrow."
The squire took his hand and held it. "Grey," he said, "has science
taught you that man has an inward voice that sometimes speaks more
authoritatively and convincingly than doctor or parson, and that
insists upon its dicta? Miss Holden knows it and calls it her 'Inner
Self.'"
"No, sir," he replied, "science has taught me nothing of the kind. I
am no psychologist, for my business is with the body rather than the
soul. But science has taught me what the body is and is not able to
accomplish, and whatever your 'Inner Self' may say I am convinced that
your body is quite competent to take that perverse autocrat home if he
will let it. But it cannot otherwise."
"Intuition is sometimes more powerful than logic," said the squire.
"Grey, you are a good fellow and I owe you a debt of gratitude, but
don't inconvenience yourself on my account. Go home, if you must, and
believe me, I am sincerely thankful for all your goodness and
attention."
The doctor tackled me again at dinner. "I'm not going home," he said,
"and I'm not going to let him die without a struggle. But you'll have
to make that Inner Self of his listen to reason. Now put your thinking
cap on, and good luck to you."
"I cannot understand him," I replied; "he was always inclined to
melancholy, but he was not morbid and listless as he now shows himself.
He seems sometimes pitiably weak and childish, whereas ordinarily he is
full of shrewd common sense."
"Of course he is," said the doctor, "and will be again. His Inner Self
is sick just now, consequent upon his long seclusion from friends and
home associations. It needs to be roused. If you can once make him
_want_ to go home, his body will take him there hard enough. I can't
do that: you must. Can't you tell him you have got to go back?"
I had thought of that. I had left my work at the busiest season of the
year, and, after all, it was my living. And there was Mother Hubbard,
who had learned to lean upon me, and had yielded me so willingly to the
more pressing duty. I owed something to her. As I thought upon these
things a feeling of homesickness stole over me, and I went in and sat
at the squire's feet.
It was falling dusk, and the cool breath of evening fanned our cheeks
as we sat by the open window and watched the lights twinkling in the
celestial dome, and the mountains growing more black and mysterious
with the advancing night.
"It is very lovely," murmured the squire.
"Yes," I said, "it is. But close your eyes and I will paint you a more
attractive picture than this. You will not interrupt me, will you? and
I will try to tell you what I saw not long ago, and what I am aching to
see again."
"No, my child," he replied, pressing my hand fondly "I will be quite
still and you shall paint your picture on my brain."
I hesitated a moment, and I think a wordless, formless prayer for help
ascended to heaven. I endeavoured to visualise the scene in its
fairest colours, and trembled lest my effort should be in vain. I
closed my own eyes, too, for I feared distraction. Then I began:
"I am standing in a country lane, with ragged hedges on either hand.
The hedges are brightly green, for they have been newly washed with the
warm rain of summer, and they sparkle like gems in the bright sunshine
of a glorious morning. There is a bank of grass, rank, luxurious
grass, on one side of the roadway, and I clamber up to secure a wider
view of the bounties nature has provided.
"There is a merry, frolicsome breeze--a rude one, in truth, for it
winds my skirt about my limbs and blows my hair over my ears and eyes;
and yet I love it, for it means no harm, and its crisp touch braces my
body and gives me the taste of life.
"From my elevated standpoint I see the distant horizon, miles and miles
away. Far off upon my right the clouds lie in long grey strata, like
closely-piled packs of wool, but on my left the remoter sky is washed
in silver, with here and there a rent revealing wonderfully delicate
tints of blue.
"Overhead the wool-packs have been burst open by the wind which is
tearing them apart and scattering their contents over the deep blue
zenith. They are dazzlingly white, whether heaped together in massive
bulk, or drawn out--as so many of them are--into transparent fluff
which drifts in the rapid air current like down of thistles.
"The morning is cold and the air is keen, so that the sky-line is
sharply defined and hints a threat of rain. But who cares about the
evil of the hour after next when there are so many glories to delight
the present sense? See, the sky-line of which I speak is dusky purple
and reddish-brown, but broad, flat washes of verdigris stretch up to
it, with here and there a yellow patch betokening fields of grain, and
in the foreground meadows and pastures of brighter hue.
"In front of me is a clump of trees--fine, tall trees they are, with
shining grey boles--standing erect and strong in spite of the fury of
the gales. Sycamore and beech and elm, majestic, beautiful. I hear
the cawing of the rooks from out the dark shadows.
"I climb over the wall a little farther on and walk fifty paces
forward. I now see a grey Hall, a dear old place, stone-roofed and
low, with tiny old-world window-panes around which the dark-hued ivy
clings tenaciously. There are brightly coloured flower-beds in front,
and a green lawn to one side, and a cluster of beeches stands sentinel
before the closed door. For the door, alas! is closed, and as I look a
thick thundercloud hangs over the house, and I turn away depressed and
seek the sunshine on the other side.
"And now it is waste land upon which my delighted eyes rest, and the
west wind brings to my nostrils the scent of the moors. Waste land!
Who shall dare to call that russet-coloured hillside with the streaks
of green upon it, waste? That stretch of country, bracken-covered,
ending in the long expanse of heath which is now violet-purple in tint,
but will soon be glowing and aflame when the heather bursts its
bonds--can that be waste? Surely not!
"I see tiny cottages from whose chimneys the blue smoke is being
twisted into fantastic forms by the wind's vagaries, and gardens gay
with bloom, and a green-bordered street, and through an open door the
dancing flame on a homely hearth. It is all very lovely and peaceful,
and when I turn for a last look at the old Hall where the door is
closed, lo! the thunder-cloud has gone, and the sky is blue over the
smokeless stacks, and hope arises within my breast, and I go on my way
with joy and peace in my heart. That is my picture!"
I stopped and opened my eyes. A tear was stealing down the squire's
face, and the grasp on my hand had tightened.
"Have you finished, Grace?"
"Yes," I whispered.
"I think I should like to go home," he said. "I believe I could manage
it, after all."