CHAPTER VII.

_THE WORK OF MARGARET'S MESSENGER BEGUN._

Sometimes we feel the wish across the mind Rush like a rocket tearing up the sky, That we should join with God and give the world The slip; but while we wish the world turns round, And peeps us in the face--the wanton world! We feel it gently pressing down our arm.

Maurice and his servant reached the hotel in safety. Its situation was fine, though not to be compared with that of the Englishman's chosen dwelling. It was perhaps too much shut in with the great giants that enclosed the valley in their apparently indissoluble embrace, too much under their shadow for their true grandeur to be felt. In the summer and early autumn it was a busy place, for it was a favorite resting-point and suitable centre for many excursions. But at this time, as Karl had wisely predicted, it was nearly empty. The flock of guides who during the summer months had been accustomed to haunt its approach had gone home to their families and their winter-life among the herds of cattle and goats; the _dependances_ were entirely closed, and many of the windows of the hotel itself showed white blinds and a general appearance of being shut up for the time.

Nevertheless, in the village of Grindelwald a slight commotion seemed to be on foot, of which the hotel was apparently the centre. Curious men in white ties were discussing volubly with the few rough outsiders who, in the vague hope of further spoil, were haunting the outskirts of the hotel with bare-backed mules and alpenstocks; from the little shop where carvings and views were temptingly exhibited the ancient proprietor was looking curiously across at the hotel; and the village people were gathered together in small knots, evidently discussing some object of common interest. Into the midst of this excitement Maurice Grey and his servant walked quietly about noon on this bright autumnal day.

Karl pricked up his ears. "Something has happened, meinherr," he ventured with the familiarity of a favorite attendant; then, perceiving no sign of disapproval, "Travellers lost in yesterday's mist. Ach! wie schrecklich!" he continued, lapsing into German as exciting scraps of one of the many conversations reached his ears. "Meinherr has without doubt heard. 'II ne peut pas se consoler.' An Englishman, it may well be, who has lost his son, perhaps even two. Will meinherr permit that I make inquiry?"

Maurice could not help laughing at the man's overweening curiosity. "Ask about my room and luggage first," he said, "then you may do as you like."

But by this time the landlord had seen the Englishman, and had advanced, hat in hand, to ask his pleasure. The rarity of new arrivals in this season made an extra coating of politeness desirable.

"Is anything wrong?" asked Maurice when the trivial matter of accommodation had been settled.

The landlord answered in French; he had never been able to acquire English: "Ah, monsieur, a sad event indeed; but come within and you shall hear of it. We are idle now, and my people have nothing better to do than to talk about these things. Better not--better not," and he shook his head seriously.

"But why?" asked Maurice, his curiosity aroused. "Is there anything particularly mysterious about this event, which seems to have excited you all so much?"

"Mysterious! Monsieur has truly chosen a right word to describe this occurrence."

And he proceeded to pour into Maurice's ear some account of the sensational event which had that day formed the one topic of conversation in the little village.

It will be as well, perhaps, to take the story out of his hands and to give in a few words a _resume_ of what, with interruptions and circumlocutions manifold, the landlord made comprehensible at last to his new guest.

It seemed that a few days before the Englishman's arrival several travellers had put up at the hotel, apparently with the intention of staying there some time.

The first party consisted of only two, an elderly gentleman who appeared to be in a bad state of health, and a child strikingly lovely if the impassioned description of the landlord was at all worthy of belief.

They took three rooms _en suite_, and the little lady was to be constantly attended by one of the chambermaids.

Later in the same day the second party arrived. It consisted of two gentlemen and a lady, all of whom gave Austria as their country. The lady, a peculiarly proud and beautiful woman, seemed to be the wife of one of the gentlemen, but they both treated her with a tolerable amount of carelessness.

For two days these different families had remained in the hotel without meeting or having any intercourse one with the other, for the elderly gentleman had been suffering so acutely that he never left his room, and the child would not leave his side.

On the third or fourth day he appeared at the _table d'hote,_ accompanied by the little girl, and seats were placed for them exactly opposite to those occupied by the Austrians. The lady and one of the gentlemen were already seated when they entered.

One of the waiters, it appeared, was a particularly observant character, though, indeed, there are always observant characters at hand when such are found convenient, and a waiter's life at some large hotel is specially favorable to the cultivation of this habit of mind. Many a waiter might frame exciting romances, the materials drawn simply from the sphere of his own observations. The waiter in question was German, a man of an inquiring turn of mind, and specially given to the study of character. Some peculiarity of countenance, as he afterward declared, led him to look rather attentively at the dark, handsome face of the Austrian lady. Lost in his favorite study, he forgot to notice, by the necessary bustle, the drawing out of chairs and readjustment of knives and forks, the entry of the elderly Frenchman and his fair-haired child. He could not, therefore, have been mistaken in his assertion that as the lady lifted her eyes from her plate and caught a glimpse of the new arrival, her face became suddenly convulsed. She started violently, first flushed crimson, then turned as pale as death.

This circumstance made the intelligent waiter think. He turned his attention instantly from the strangely-affected lady to the apparent cause of her agitation, but here he was partially baffled. There seemed to have been a kind of flash of recognition in the face of the gentleman with the iron-gray hair as he seated himself opposite to her; even this, however, was so slight that possibly he might only have imagined it, for the Frenchman's conduct during the time allotted to dinner was absolutely natural. Once or twice he even looked across at his companions with that quiet species of scrutiny which is allowable between perfect strangers meeting in this way, and several times he addressed himself in French to one or other of the gentlemen who faced him. The lady made no further sign, only to the far-seeing German she seemed to be making a violent effort to control herself. On the evening of that day something--he did not explain what--led this particular waiter to the part of the house in which the suite of rooms taken by the gentleman (who will have been recognized as M. L'Estrange) was situated. He stated afterward that he had been chained to the spot--the spot being the outside of the door of the Frenchman's apartment--by strange and unusual sounds. He heard a woman's voice, interrupted often with tears and sobs; she was speaking in tones of entreaty or expostulation, raising her voice violently from time to time as her excitement grew with her theme. What that was the waiter could not precisely say. He was an exact man, who never liked to go beyond his authority. In fact, as he was eminently practical and had never cultivated his imaginative faculties, perhaps he chose the easiest course.

Stern, low tones answered from time to time the woman's impassioned appeals, and at last, very suddenly as it seemed, the door was thrown violently open, and cloaked and hooded, her face covered by a thick black veil, there walked out the proud Austrian lady. He recognized her by her exceptional height and her stately carriage.

The door was closed softly from the inside, and the lady walked rapidly through the passage to her own rooms, which were situated in another part of the house.

This happened two days before the arrival of Maurice. In the night the lady had disappeared. A French waiter went at the same time, whether as her attendant or not no one could discover. One thing alone was certain--the deed had been cleverly done. During the whole of those days the lady had been sought, but sought in vain.

"We thought her husband careless," said the landlord in conclusion, "but ever since he has been like a madman. We dare not tell him what monsieur knows about the conversation that has been overheard: the life of the French gentleman, who seems still very ill, would scarcely be safe; and, after all, who can say? He seems to have acted well. A woman's caprice, an old attachment. Monsieur will doubtless be of my advice. It would be useless to arouse ill feeling without just cause."

And so saying, the landlord shrugged his shoulders. Why should he affect himself at all with the miseries of forsaken husbands or runaway wives? It is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the landlord, to speak truly, was not discontented with the kind of notoriety which this romantic tale, told and retold as it might very probably be--especially if the _denouement_ should turn out to be tragic--would bring upon his house.

Maurice Grey read something of this in the man's eyes, and in his turn he shrugged his shoulders, a sign with him of bitter contempt.

Not "What fools," but "What knaves these mortals be!" was the constant cry of his sick soul. It was meeting him again as he emerged from his solitude.

When the landlord left him to answer some summons, Maurice Grey looked out upon the mountains, and laughed a laugh that was sad to hear, for under the mirth lay a weary weight of misery and bitterness. Women inconstant, man faithless--everywhere self-interest the great ruling motive of life, and in all the green earth no spot where he could lay his head, feeling "Here I may rest with a perfect confidence." The man's heart contracted painfully; from such a standpoint as his the outlook on humanity is gloomy indeed. He felt for a moment that he would fain be out of it all. The frank, round face of Karl aroused him to a sense of his position, and to the recollection that while such simple souls as his were left all honesty had not passed away from the earth. It was certainly a relief.

"Meinherr's rooms are ready, his fire lit and his clothes airing. Will he please to see if everything is to his liking?" said the German.

"Where is my room?"

"In the best part of the house, eccellenz, close to the apartments occupied by the gentleman of whom he has doubtless heard."

"The inconsolable husband?" Maurice's lips were curled into a kind of sneer as he asked the question.

"No, meinherr; the other person concerned, as they say, in this sad business--a Frenchman, I believe."

"So all these details are the common talk of the place," said Maurice to himself. "Unfortunate man!" And then he set his teeth together. "I acted wisely," he muttered; "such a scandal as this would have killed me."

He said nothing more to Karl, and the honest soul, who had rejoiced in the interest his master was taking in sublunary affairs, who had been congratulating himself, in fact, on the very rapid success of his plan for drawing his master out of his dark moods, was distressed and perplexed to see the old frown gather on his brow, to hear his fierce, impatient sigh, and to find himself banished summarily from his room with the curt abruptness to which Karl had become accustomed.

Left alone, Maurice sat down by the little wood-fire, which had been kindled solely in consideration for his feelings as an Englishman, and returned to his sad pondering. He was playing a dangerous game with himself, for he was in that mood which has often tempted a man to tamper with his humanity--to put out his rash hand and experimentalize on the nature whose fearful beauty and hidden mystery it is impossible for him to understand. It would have been better, a thousand times better, for the Englishman at such a moment as this to have thrown himself into any kind of work, to have sought society, however humble, to have looked for some interest in the outer world; anything would have been better, indeed, than this giving way to the spirit that possessed him--this looking for and searching into what no son or daughter of humanity may fathom. Like a fiend's temptation ran backward and forward through his mind, haunting him with its dull rhythm, the burden of a song that he remembered to have heard in some bygone time:

"A still small voice, it spake to me-- Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?"

And again, with an added force--

"Thou art so steeped in misery, Surely 'twere better not to be--better not to be."

As he repeated these words half aloud, Maurice rose and paced the room excitedly.

"Yes," he said to himself, "a wise counsel. Men, women, what are they?" He knit his brows and his eyes looked fierce. "What are we?--miserable, and our misery makes us bad. God!--if there be a God!"--he lifted his pale, agitated face, but underlying his wretched, wild doubts might have been read there the reverence of a fine soul--"why are we miserable, seeking good for evermore, and finding evil, inconstancy, falsehood? Why is our fair world the abode of fiends incarnate, who burden the ages with their folly? And if we were happy"--again he lifted his pale face, and the dazzling snow-peaks against their azure background met his gaze--"if we were happy," he repeated slowly--"if _she_ had been happy--O God! she would have been good, for the soul of purity was in her; but misery brings madness to the blood and thoughts of evil to the heart; and for misery there is no cure under the sun."

For a few moments he remained perfectly still and silent, his arms folded, his brow contracted, looking out upon the snow-fields; then added, this time half aloud, "_But one!_"

He turned from the window and cast a rapid, hungry glance round the room. It was comfortably arranged, the small wood-fire crackling merrily, the clothes he was about to wear hanging on a chair beside it carefully brushed, his bed turned down, exhibiting the whitest of white linen; but what specially drew Maurice's attention was his portmanteau, which, after the necessary articles had been taken from it, Karl had left open, that the expediency of further unpacking might be decided by his master. It was a large travelling portmanteau, evidently full of a miscellaneous collection of articles--books, dressing-apparatus, clothes, curiosities picked up in wandering from place to place. On one of these curiosities, which was lying near the top of the open side, Maurice's eyes finally rested.

For a moment he gazed silently, then crossing the room took it up in his hand to examine it more closely. A case containing a pair of small pocket-pistols, the barrels of silvered metal richly chased with gold. One of these Maurice removed from its covering. He handled it with a certain curiosity, took it to pieces to examine its condition, cleaned it with the most delicate care, then, after putting it together again, spent a few moments in listening to its click. It looked more like an elegant toy than a dangerous weapon. Maurice put it down and returned it to the case, which contained, besides the companion pistol, a small flask of gunpowder and some bullets. These he took out, then in a quiet, leisurely manner proceeded to load the pistol. His attitude was rather that of a man who is amusing himself, trying to kill time, than of one who has any serious purpose in view. And perhaps at this moment Maurice was scarcely serious. In any case, when his work was done he did not proceed farther; he put the pistol down again. It almost seemed as if this quiet, ordinary occupation (for Maurice's firearms had always been treated by him with minute personal care--he did not allow a servant to touch them) had quieted the tone of his mind and banished some of his dark thoughts. He put down the pistol then, and turned back to the fireside to resume his unhealthy musing.

For here lay Maurice Grey's error. Instead of mastering his morbid feelings, driving them away by stress of hard work and diversity of thought, he, like many a strong man before and since, suffered them to master him.

Again and again he would return to the old mystery, bringing the energy of his soul to bear upon it. Again and again it would elude him, till, mortified and baffled, tied down to the narrow circle of self-knowledge, a broad outlook on humanity impossible by reason of his self-chosen fate, he had come to loathe his very life as an evil thing.

It is easier to meet a foe in fair fight than a giant formed by a diseased imagination--blurred, indistinct, but awful with the terrors of the unknown.

With his small pistol within reach, Maurice set to work once more thinking over humanity's woes and wrongs, gloomily seeking for the shadow of a reason why life should be thought worth having--why it would not be well to pass out from it once and for ever through the lurid portals of self-destruction. What wonder that his unhealthy pondering should point out to him no ray of light, no gleam of hope?

But happily for Maurice, and for the many who were interesting themselves in his welfare, his mind at the time could bear no further tension. Rather to his own surprise, he found it wandering from the solemn question of life versus death to the common things that surrounded him. How strange it is that at the solemnest moments the trivial and commonplace intrude the most perseveringly! And yet it is a fact that might be proved by numberless instances.

Maurice's window looked out upon the hotel garden; gradually, as the tension on his nerves grew less, he caught himself counting and remarking curiously the very few who from time to time passed up and down the snow-shrouded paths and alleys. A woman-servant, apparently looking for some kind of herb; two waiters, who walked rapidly up and down as if enjoying the keen air and glittering sunshine; the landlady, in morning undress, crossing to the _dependance_ in the grounds, and returning with some utensil which had been left there accidentally; finally--and this it was that riveted Maurice's attention--a traveller, probably a new arrival, for the landlord had given Maurice a detailed account of all those who were in his house at the time, especially giving him to understand that no English visitors remained. And this young man was certainly from England. What other country could have produced the faultless exterior with regard to form, the fair freshness of face, the well-bred nonchalance of manner?

The young man held a cigar lightly in the tips of his fingers, his lively whistle penetrated to Maurice's retreat, he walked up and down on the crystallized snow with a resolute, energetic step; there was, to the eyes of the jaded man of the world, something peculiarly pleasant and attractive about his general appearance.

"I wonder who he is?" said Maurice to himself. "It would be rather pleasant to meet anything so fresh; he has a good face, too. That young fellow is no scamp."

Inconsistency of human nature, or rather, perhaps, adaptability to circumstances. Maurice a few moments before had been condemning his generation indiscriminately, calling men and women by the harshest names in the vocabulary, longing passionately to escape from them for ever. Appears upon the scene a young man with a fair, fresh face, and he endows him immediately with the qualities in which all his kind had been pronounced deficient! Strange, but true, for such is life, so complex a thing, driven hither and thither by trifles light as air.

Maurice Grey turned away from the window, looked with a half smile, half tremor at the loaded pistol, put it in a safe place lest Karl should see fit to meddle with it, and proceeded to dress himself carefully for the early _table-d'hote_ dinner.

And thus, though he himself was all unconscious of the fact, the work of Margaret's messenger was begun.