known as the Alpine
glow—a momentary transfiguration of the mountains that turned their
snow-slopes into the appearance of pink blancmange. All Miss Faulkner’s
party rushed out of the hotel into the middle of the roadway to stare hard,
Miss Faulkner with them. And there, on the terrace opposite, the
man—her man—was staring hard like everyone else. Miss
Faulkner’s heart experienced a sudden Alpine glow of its own; she knew,
at that moment, that the world was full of beauty, that Switzerland was
marvellous, that the Jungfrau was superb, that even the orchestrola tinkling
away from the neighbouring bar was in tune with her own emotions at the sight
of that saffron summit. Never had she experienced such a sensation of being
at one with everything, part of the tumultuous earth; her eyes filled up as
she edged her way through the crowd to the line of shrubs that fringed the
“Oberland” terrace. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” she
breathed.
The man looked down at her. “Oh, good evening. … Yes, it’s
great. I wouldn’t mind being up there now.”
“Yes… yes…. Oh yes….” Trite remark and trite reply, yet
how impossible it seemed for either of them to have said anything more, less,
or different.
A moment later the glow had faded into the cool grey distance, and the
crowd was filtering back into the hotel. But Miss Faulkner stayed
talking—talking less fluently than usual, for she was struggling for
mastery with forces that seemed to split her sentences in two just as she had
them nicely shaped. It was queer; there was something now that made the
barrier higher and more difficult than ever, and her emotion was a pain as
well as a pleasure. The mountain-spectacle had made her feel that she must,
at any cost, secure a repetition of that magic day with him—not at the
Joch again (which would doubtless be impossible to contrive), but somewhere,
anywhere that would give them time and opportunity to talk. “Have you
made any plans for to-morrow?” she asked.
“I rather thought of going for a long walk somewhere beyond
Lauterbrunnen.”
“Splendid idea! There are some lovely paths along the
valley.”
It was a few minutes later, re-entering her hotel, that she began to lose
her sense of humour. She had already arranged a trip to Kandersteg for the
following day, but she suddenly came to a new decision and announced there
and then, to those of her party who were in the hotel lobby, that Kandersteg
was “off.”
“It’s rather a long trip, you see, and as most of you are
leaving for England by the evening train I thought that a shorter one might
be more suitable—the Trummelbach Waterfall; we could leave comfortably
during the morning and be back for tea.” She felt quite victorious when
they all agreed. For the waterfall was just beyond Lauterbrunnen, and there
was only one road along the valley, so that if he were to be taking his long
walk….
But the next morning it was raining hard. She took her people to the fall
and they all got soaked to the skin and there was no sign of the pedestrian
hero. When she returned in the late afternoon she found that, like a sensible
person, he had stayed indoors all day. It was the friendly porter of the
“Oberland” who told her that. And he added: “He was asking
me about you this morning, miss.”
Miss Faulkner could not repress a start of joy. “He WAS? Was he
REALLY? I hope—I do hope you gave me a good character.”
The porter grinned. “Oh, yes, miss. I said you were very
clever— could speak French, German, Italian,
Spanish—”
“What nonsense!” she interrupted, with gay indignation. But
she was not without hope that the porter’s account of her might have
been nearly as impressive.
The party went back to England that evening, having presented Miss
Faulkner with an embroidered handbag and received in return her customary
speech of thanks and farewell. She saw them off on the Calais train at
glow—a momentary transfiguration of the mountains that turned their
snow-slopes into the appearance of pink blancmange. All Miss Faulkner’s
party rushed out of the hotel into the middle of the roadway to stare hard,
Miss Faulkner with them. And there, on the terrace opposite, the
man—her man—was staring hard like everyone else. Miss
Faulkner’s heart experienced a sudden Alpine glow of its own; she knew,
at that moment, that the world was full of beauty, that Switzerland was
marvellous, that the Jungfrau was superb, that even the orchestrola tinkling
away from the neighbouring bar was in tune with her own emotions at the sight
of that saffron summit. Never had she experienced such a sensation of being
at one with everything, part of the tumultuous earth; her eyes filled up as
she edged her way through the crowd to the line of shrubs that fringed the
“Oberland” terrace. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” she
breathed.
The man looked down at her. “Oh, good evening. … Yes, it’s
great. I wouldn’t mind being up there now.”
“Yes… yes…. Oh yes….” Trite remark and trite reply, yet
how impossible it seemed for either of them to have said anything more, less,
or different.
A moment later the glow had faded into the cool grey distance, and the
crowd was filtering back into the hotel. But Miss Faulkner stayed
talking—talking less fluently than usual, for she was struggling for
mastery with forces that seemed to split her sentences in two just as she had
them nicely shaped. It was queer; there was something now that made the
barrier higher and more difficult than ever, and her emotion was a pain as
well as a pleasure. The mountain-spectacle had made her feel that she must,
at any cost, secure a repetition of that magic day with him—not at the
Joch again (which would doubtless be impossible to contrive), but somewhere,
anywhere that would give them time and opportunity to talk. “Have you
made any plans for to-morrow?” she asked.
“I rather thought of going for a long walk somewhere beyond
Lauterbrunnen.”
“Splendid idea! There are some lovely paths along the
valley.”
It was a few minutes later, re-entering her hotel, that she began to lose
her sense of humour. She had already arranged a trip to Kandersteg for the
following day, but she suddenly came to a new decision and announced there
and then, to those of her party who were in the hotel lobby, that Kandersteg
was “off.”
“It’s rather a long trip, you see, and as most of you are
leaving for England by the evening train I thought that a shorter one might
be more suitable—the Trummelbach Waterfall; we could leave comfortably
during the morning and be back for tea.” She felt quite victorious when
they all agreed. For the waterfall was just beyond Lauterbrunnen, and there
was only one road along the valley, so that if he were to be taking his long
walk….
But the next morning it was raining hard. She took her people to the fall
and they all got soaked to the skin and there was no sign of the pedestrian
hero. When she returned in the late afternoon she found that, like a sensible
person, he had stayed indoors all day. It was the friendly porter of the
“Oberland” who told her that. And he added: “He was asking
me about you this morning, miss.”
Miss Faulkner could not repress a start of joy. “He WAS? Was he
REALLY? I hope—I do hope you gave me a good character.”
The porter grinned. “Oh, yes, miss. I said you were very
clever— could speak French, German, Italian,
Spanish—”
“What nonsense!” she interrupted, with gay indignation. But
she was not without hope that the porter’s account of her might have
been nearly as impressive.
The party went back to England that evening, having presented Miss
Faulkner with an embroidered handbag and received in return her customary
speech of thanks and farewell. She saw them off on the Calais train at
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