A step sounded along the front platform, and Madame looked round the corner of the house, saying that lunch was ready. Her husband and Rex joined her immediately. ``Ze young ladees are wizin,'' she said, and led the way.
The sun-glare on the limestone rocks outside made the little room seem almost black at first, and all Rex could distinguish as he followed the others was Ruth's bright smile as she stood near the door and a jumble of dark figures farther back.
``Permit me,'' said Monsieur, ``to introduce you to our Belle Hélène.'' Rex had already bowed low, seeing nothing. ``Mademoiselle Descartes – Monsieur Gethryn – '' Rex raised his head and looked into the white face of Yvonne.
``Ah, yes! as I was saying,'' gossiped Monsieur while they were taking their places at table, ``I shoot when I can, but merely the partridge and rabbit of the turnip. Bah! a man may not boast of that!''
Rex kept his eyes fixed on the speaker and forced himself to understand what was being said.
``But the sanglier?'' His voice sounded in his ears like noises one hears with the head under water.
``Mon Dieu! the sanglier! yes, that is also noble game. I do not deny it.'' Monsieur talked on evenly and quietly in his self-possessed, reasonable voice, about the habits and the hunt of the wild boar.
Ruth, sitting opposite, forcing herself to swallow the food, to answer Madame gaily and look at her ease, felt her heart settle down like lead in her breast.
What was this? Oh! what was it? She looked at Mademoiselle Descartes. This young, gentle stranger with the dark hair and the face like marble, this girl whom she had never heard of until an hour ago, was hiding from Rex behind the broad shoulders of Madame Bordier. The pupils of her blue eyes were so dilated that the sad, frightened eyes themselves looked black. Ruth turned to Gethryn. He was listening and answering. About his nostrils and temples the hollows showed; the flush of sunburn was gone, leaving only a pallid brown over the ashen grey of his face; his expression varied between a strained smile and a fixed stare. The cold weight at her heart melted and swelled in a passion of pity.
``Someone must keep up! Someone must keep up!'' she said to herself; and turned to assure Madame in tones which deserved the name of ``crystal and silver,'' that, Yes, for her part she had not been able to see any reason why hearing Parsifal at Bayreuth should make one forget that Bizet was also a great master.
But the strain became too great, and at the first possible moment she said brightly to Rex, ``I'm going to feed Zimbach. Sepp said I might.'' She collected some scraps on a plate and went out. The hound rose wagging as she approached. Ruth stood a moment looking down at him. Then she knelt and took his brown head in her arms. Her eyes were full of tears. Zimbach licked her face, and then wrenching his head away began to dance about her, barking and running at the platter. She took a bone and gave it to him; it went with a snap; so bit by bit she fed him with her own hands, and the tears dried without one falling.
She heard Rex come out and stood up to meet him with clear grey eyes that seemed to see nothing but a jest.
``Look at this dog, Rex! He hasn't a word to say about the bones he's eaten already; he merely remarks that there don't seem to be any more at present!''
Rex was taking down his gun. ``Monsieur wants to see this,'' he said in a dull, heavy voice. ``And Ruth – when you are ready – your father, perhaps – ''
``Yes, I really would like to join him as soon as possible – '' They went in together.
An hour later they were taking leave. All the usual explanations had been made; everyone knew where the others were stopping, and why they were there, and how long they meant to stay, and where they intended to go afterward.
The Bordiers, with Yvonne, were at a lake on the opposite side of the mountain, but a visit to the Forester's house at Trauerbach was one of the excursions they had already planned.
It only remained now, as Ruth said, to fix upon an early day for coming.
The hour just past had been Ruth's hour.
Without effort, or apparent intention, she had taken and kept the lead from the moment when she returned with Rex. She it was who had given the key, who had set and kept the pitch, and it was due to her that not one discordant note had been struck. Vaguely yet vividly she felt the emergency. Refusing to ask herself the cause, she recognized a crisis. Something was dreadfully wrong. She made no attempt to go beyond that. Of all the deep emotions which she was learning now so suddenly, for the first time, the dominant one with her at present was a desire to help and to protect. All her social experience, all her tact, were needed to shield Rex and this white-faced, silent stranger, who, without her, must have betrayed themselves, so stunned, so dazed they were. And the courage of her father's daughter kept her fair head erect above the dead weight at her heart.
And now, having said ``Au revoir'' to Monsieur and Madame, and fixed upon a day for their visit to the Försthaus, she turned to Yvonne and took her hand.
``Mademoiselle, I regret so much to hear that you are not quite strong. But when you come to Trauerbach, Mama and I will take such good care of you that you will not mind the fatigue.''
The sad blue eyes looked into the clear grey ones, and once more Ruth responded with a passion of grief and pity.
How Rex made his adieux Ruth never knew.
When he overtook her, she and Sepp were well started down the path to the Jagd-hütte. They seemed to be having a duet of silence, which Rex turned into a trio when he joined them.
For such walkers as they all were the distance they had to go was nothing. Soft afternoon lights were still lying peacefully beside the long afternoon shadows as they approached the little hut, and Sepp answered the colonel's abortive attempt at a Jodel with one so long and complicated that it seemed as if he were taking that means to express all he should have liked to say in words. The spell broken, he turned about and asked:
``Also! what did the French people,'' – he wouldn't call them Herrschaft – ``say to the gracious Fraulein's splendid shot?''
Ruth stopped and looked absently at him, then flushed and recovered herself quickly. It was the first time she had remembered her stag.
``I fear,'' said she, ``that French people would disapprove a young lady's shooting. I did not tell them.''
Sepp went on again with long strides. The four little black hoofs of the chamois stuck pitifully up out of the bag on his broad back. When he was well out of hearing he growled aloud:
``Hab' 's schon g' wusst! Jesses, Marie and Josef! was is denn dös!''
That evening, when Rex and the Jaeger were fussing over the chamois' beard and dainty horns inside the Hütte, Ruth and her father stood without, before the closed door. The skies were almost black, and full of stars. Through the wide fragrant stillness came up now and then a Jodel from some Bursch going to visit his Sennerin. A stamp, and a comfortable sigh, came at times from Nani's cows in their stall below.
Ruth put both arms around her father's neck and laid her head down on his shoulder.
``Tired, Daisy?''
``Yes, dear.''
Fifteen
Supper was over, evening had fallen; but there would be no music tonight under the beech tree; the sky was obscured by clouds and a wet wind was blowing.
Mrs Dene and Ruth were crossing the hall; Gethryn came in at the front door and they met.
``Well?'' said Rex, forcing a smile.
``Well,'' said Ruth. ``Mademoiselle Descartes is better. Madame will bring her down stairs by and by. It appears that wretched peasant who drove them has been carrying them about for hours from one inn to another, stopping to drink at all of them. No wonder they were tired out with the worry and his insolence!''
``It appears Miss Descartes has had attacks of fainting like this more than once before. The doctor in Paris thinks there is some weakness of the heart, but forbids her being told,'' said Mrs Dene.
Ruth interposed quickly, not looking at Gethryn:
``Papa and Monsieur Bordier, where are they?''
``I left them visiting Federl and Sepp in their quarters.''
``Well, you will find us in that dreadful little room yonder. It's the only alternative to sitting in the Bauernstube with all the woodchoppers and their bad tobacco, since out of doors fails us. We must go now and make it as pleasant as we can.''
Ruth made a motion to go, but Mrs Dene lingered. Her kind eyes, her fair little faded face, were troubled.
``Madame Bordier says the young lady tells her she has met you before, Rex.''
``Yes, in Paris''; for his life he could not have kept down the crimson flush that darkened his cheeks and made his temples throb.
Mrs Dene's manner grew a little colder.
``She seems very nice. You knew her people, of course.''
``No, I never met any of her people,'' answered Rex, feeling like a kicked coward. Ruth interposed once more.
``People!'' said Ruth, impatiently. ``Of course Rex only knows nice people. Come, mother!''
Putting her arm around the old lady, she moved across the hall with decision. As they passed into the cheerless little room, Rex held open the door. Ruth, entering after her mother, looked in his face. It had grown thinner; shadows were deep in the temples; from the dark circles under the eyes to the chin ran a line of pain. She held out her hand to him. He bent and kissed it.
He went and stood in the porch, trying to collect his thoughts. The idea of this meeting between Ruth and Yvonne was insupportable. Why had he not taken means – any, every means to prevent it? He cursed himself. He called himself a coward. He wondered how much Ruth divined. The thought shamed him until his cheeks burned again. And all the while a deep undercurrent of feeling was setting toward that drooping little figure in black, as he had seen it for a moment when she alighted from the carriage and was supported to a room upstairs. Heavens! How it reminded him of that first day in the Place de la Concorde! Why was she in mourning? What did the doctor mean by ``weakness of the heart''? What was she doing on mountaintops, and on the stage of a theater if she had heart disease? He started with a feeling that he must go and put a stop to all this folly. Then he remembered the letter. She had told him another man had the right to care for her. Then she was at this moment deserted for the second time, as well as faithless to still another lover! – to how many more? And it was through him that a woman of such a life was brought into contact with Ruth! And Ruth's parents had trusted him; they thought him a gentleman. His brain reeled.
The surging waves of shame and self-contempt subsided, were forgotten. He heard the wind sough in the Luxembourg trees, he smelled the pink flowering chestnuts, a soft voice was in his ear, a soft touch on his arm, her breath on his cheek, the old, old faces came crowding up. Clifford's laugh rang faintly, Braith's grave voice; odd bits and ends of song floated out from the shadows of that past and through the troubled dream of face and laugh and music, so long, so long passed away, he heard the gentle voice of Yvonne: ``Rex, Rex, be true to me; I will come back!''
``I loved her!'' he muttered.
There was a stir, a door opened and shut, voices and steps sounded in the room on his left. He leaned forward a little and looked through the uncurtained window.
It was a bare and dingy room containing only a table, some hard chairs, and an old ``Flügel'' piano with a long inlaid case.
They sat together at the table. Ruth's back was toward him; she was speaking. Yvonne was in the full light. Her eyes were cast down, and she was nervously plaiting the edge of her little black-bordered handkerchief. All at once she raised her eyes and looked straight at the window. How blue her eyes were!
Rex dropped his face in his hands.
``Oh God! I love her!'' he groaned.
``Gute Nacht, gnädige Herrn!''
Sepp and Federl stood in their door with a light. Two figures were coming down from the Jaeger's cottage. Gethryn recognized the colonel and Monsieur Bordier.
At the risk of scrutiny from those cool, elderly, masculine eyes, Rex's manhood pulled itself together. He went back to meet them, and presently they all joined the ladies in the apology for a parlor, where coffee was being served.
Coming in after the older men, Rex found no place left in the little, crowded room, excepting one at the table close beside Yvonne. Ruth was on the other side. He went and took the place, self-possessed and smiling.
Yvonne made a slight motion as if to rise and escape. Only Rex saw it. Yes, one more: Ruth saw it.
``Mademoiselle has studied seriously since I had the honor – ''
``Oui, Monsieur.''
Her faint voice and timid look were more than Ruth could bear. She leaned forward so as to shield the girl as much as possible, and entered into the lively talk at the other end of the table.
Rex spoke again: ``Mademoiselle is quite strong, I trust – the stage – Sugar? Allow me! – As I was saying, the stage is a calling which requires a good constitution.'' No answer.
``But pardon. If you are not strong, how can you expect to succeed in your career?'' persisted Rex. His eyes rested on one frail wrist in its black sleeve. The sight filled him with anger.
``I would make my debut if I knew it would kill me.'' She spoke at last, low but clearly.
``But why? Mon Dieu!''
``Madame has set her heart on it. She thinks I shall do her credit. She has been good to me, so good!'' The sad voice fainted and sank away.
``One is good to one's pupils when they are going to bring one fame,'' said Rex bitterly.
``Madame took me when she did not know I had a voice – when she thought I was dying – when I was homeless – two years ago.''
``What do you mean?'' said Rex sternly, sinking his voice below the pitch of the general conversation. ``What did you tell me in your letter? Homeless!''
``I never wrote you any letter.'' Yvonne raised her blue eyes, startled, despairing, and looked into his for the first time.
``You did not write that you had found a – a home which you preferred to – to – any you had ever had? And that it would be useless to – to offer you any other?''
``I never wrote. I was very ill and could not. Afterward I went to – you. You were gone.'' Her low voice was heartbreaking to hear.
``When?'' Rex could hardly utter a word.
``In June, as soon as I left the hospital.''
``The hospital? And your mother?''
``She was dead. I did not see her. Then I was very ill, a long time. As soon as I could, I went to Paris.''
``To me?''
``Yes.''
``And the letter?''
``Ah!'' cried Yvonne with a shudder. ``It must have been my sister who did that!''
The room was turning round. A hundred lights were swaying about in a crowd of heads. Rex laid his hand heavily on the table to steady himself. With a strong effort at self-control he had reduced the number of lights to two and got the people back in their places when, with a little burst of French exclamations and laughter, everyone turned to Yvonne, and Ruth, bending over her, took both her hands.
The next moment Monsieur Bordier was leading her to the piano.
A soft chord, other chords, deep and sweet, and then the dear voice:
Oui c'est un rêve,
Un rêve doux d'amour,
La nuit lui prête son mystére
The chain is forged again. The mists of passion rise thickly, heavily, and blot out all else forever.
Hélène's song ceased. He heard them praise her, and heard ``Good nights'' and ``Au revoirs'' exchanged. He rose and stood near the door. Ruth passed him like a shadow. They all remained at the foot of the stairs for a moment, repeating their ``Adieus'' and ``Remerciements.'' He was utterly reckless, but cool enough still to watch for his chance in this confusion of civilities. It came; for one instant he could whisper to her, ``I must see you tonight.'' Then the voices were gone and he stood alone on the porch, the wet wind blowing in his face, his face turned up to a heavy sky covered with black, driving clouds. He could hear the river and the moaning of the trees.
It seemed as if he had stood there for hours, never moving. Then there was a step in the dark hall, on the threshold, and Yvonne lay trembling in his arms.
*
The sky was beginning to show a tint of early dawn when they stepped once more upon the silent porch. The wind had gone down. Clouds were piled up in the west, but the east was clear. Perfect stillness was over everything. Not a living creature was in sight, excepting that far up, across the stream, Sepp and Zimbach were climbing toward the Schinder.
``I must go in now. I must you – child!'' said Yvonne in her old voice, smoothing her hair with both hands. Rex held her back.
``My wife?'' he said.
``Yes!'' She raised her face and kissed him on the lips, then clung to him weeping.
``Hush! hush! It is I who should do that,'' he murmured, pressing her cheek against his breast.
Once more she turned to leave him, but he detained her.
``Yvonne, come with me and be married today!''
``You know it is impossible. Today! what a boy you are! As if we could!''
``Well then, in a few days – in a week, as soon as possible.''
``Oh! my dearest! do not make it so hard for me! How could I desert Madame so? After all she has done for me? When I know all her hopes are set on me; that if I fail her she has no one ready to take my place! Because she was so sure of me, she did not try to bring on any other pupil for next autumn. And last season was a bad one for her and Monsieur. Their debutante failed; they lost money. Behold this child!'' she exclaimed, with a rapid return to her old gay manner, ``to whom I have explained all this at least a hundred times already, and he asks me why we cannot be married today!''
Then with another quick change, she laid her cheek tenderly against his and murmured:
``I might have died but for her. You would not have me desert her so cruelly, Rex?''
``My love! No!'' A new respect mingled with his passion. Yes, she was faithful!
``And now I will go in! Rex, Rex, you are quite as bad as ever! Look at my hair!'' She leaned lightly on his shoulder, her old laughing self.
He smiled back sadly.
``Again! After all! You silly, silly boy! And it is such a little while to wait!''
``Belle Hélène is very popular in Paris. The piece may run a long time.''
``Rex, I must. Don't make it so hard for me!'' Tears filled her eyes.
He kissed her for answer, without speaking.
``Think! think of all she did for me; saved me; fed me, clothed me, taught me when she believed I had only voice and talent enough to support myself by teaching. It was half a year before she and Monsieur began to think I could ever make them any return for their care of me. And all that time she was like a mother to me. And now she has told everyone her hopes of me. If I fail she will be ridiculed. You know Paris. She and Monsieur have enemies who will say there never was any pupil, nor any debut expected. Perhaps she will lose her prestige. The fashion may turn to some other teacher. You know what malice can do with ridicule in Paris. Let me sing for her this once, make her one great success, win her one triumph, and then never, never sing again for any soul but you – my husband!''
Her voice sank at the last words, from its eager pleading, to an exquisite modest sweetness.
``But – if you fail?''
``I shall not fail. I have never doubted that I should have a success. Perhaps it is because for myself I do not care, that I have no fear. When I had lost you – I only thought of that. And now that I have found you again – !''
She clung to him in passionate silence.
``And I may not see your debut?''
``If you come I shall surely fail! I must forget you. I must think only of my part. What do I care for the house full of strange faces? I will make them all rise up and shout my name. But if you were there – Ah! I should have no longer any courage! Promise me to come only on the second night.''
``But if you do fail, I may come and take you immediately before Monsieur the Maire?''
``If you please!'' she whispered demurely.
And they both laughed, the old happy-children laugh of the Atelier.
``I suppose you are bad enough to hope that I will fail,'' added she presently, with a little moue.
``Yvonne,'' said Rex earnestly, ``I hope that you will succeed. I know you will, and I can wait for you a few weeks more.''
``We have waited for our happiness two years. We will make the happiness of others now first, n'est ce pas?'' she whispered.
The sky began to glow and the house was astir. Rex knew how it would soon be talking, but he cared for nothing that the world could do or say.
``Ah! we will be happy! Think of it! A little house near the Parc Monceau, my studio there, Clifford, Elliott, Rowden – Bra– all of them coming again! And it will be my wife who will receive them!''
She placed a little soft palm across his lips.
``Taisez-vous, mon ami! It is too soon! See the morning! I must go. There! yes – one more! – my love, Adieu!''