In Silk Attire Part 26

FLIGHT.

It was a change indeed! Life all at once became solemn and full of mystery to her-full of trouble, too, and perplexity. So soon as a messenger had been despatched to Donaueschingen, for a surgeon who was skilled in the extraction of buck-shot, Annie Brunel went up to her own room, and sat down there alone. And she felt as if the air had grown thick around her, and was pressing on her; she felt that the old audacious cheerfulness had gone from her; and that the pa.s.sion, and glow, and terrible earnestness of her stage-life were invading this other life, which used to be full of a frivolous, careless happiness.

Do the other animals become frightened and nervous when the love-making season comes suddenly upon them? Does the lark, when her lover comes down from the sky and sings, "My dear soft-breasted little thing, will you be my wife; will you come and build a nest with me, and let me bring you sc.r.a.ps of food when you are tired?"-does she get into a state of great tremor, and fancy that the world has suddenly s.h.i.+fted its axis?

We know how the least impressionable of men are overawed by this strange natural phenomenon. The old ridiculousness of love-its silliness and comic aspects-are immediately blotted out from their mind by the contemplation of the awful truth-the awful change that lies before them.

They shrink from physiology as a species of blasphemy. They will not accept scientific explanation of their idealisms; nor will they believe that any man has ever experienced the sensation they now experience.

But the ordinary awakening of a man or woman to the consciousness of being in love was a very different thing from the sudden revelation which confronted the young actress, as she sat there and pondered, in a bewildered way, over the events of the past hour. To love this man was a crime-and its fatal consequences seemed to stretch on and on, and interweave themselves with her whole future life. How had she fallen into the snare? And he was equally guilty; for his eyes, more fully than his words, had in that supreme moment told her his tragic story.

She thought of the violet-eyed Dove down in that Kentish vale. She thought of her, and mentally prayed for forgiveness.

She had but one sad consolation in the matter-her secret was her own.

There now remained for her but to leave Schonstein at once, and the morning's events had paved the way for her decision. So she sent for Mrs. Christmas, and said to her-

"Don't you think a cooler air than what we have here would suit you better?"

The old woman scrutinized her face curiously.

"What's the matter with you, Miss Annie? You look as if you had just come off the stage, and were half-bewildered by the part you had been playing!"

"I want an answer, Mrs. Christmas. But I may tell you that I ask because I wish to leave this place at once. You needn't ask why; but if it will not incommode you to travel, I should like to go away now.

There is Switzerland, not a day's journey from here; and there are some mountainous districts in this neighbourhood-you may choose which you please--"

"Only I must choose to go," said the old woman, patting her cheek.

"That's yourself all over as you used to be in the days when you tyrannized over me, and would always have your own way about arranging your parts. Well, Miss Annie, I'm ready to go now, if you like-only Hermann promised to give me two of the most beautiful deer-skins to be got in the Black Forest--"

"They can be sent after us."

The evening was drawing towards dusk when the Count returned. He was greatly shocked on discovering that the accident Will had met with was much more serious than had been fancied, and that the surgeon only stared in astonishment when asked if his patient could come downstairs to dinner.

"A man who has lost so much blood," said he, significantly, and speaking slowly, that the Count might understand him, "and who suffers from four or five gunshot wounds, is not likely to sit at table for a day or two."

Annie Brunel did not hear this conversation, and as she still believed that Will had only been slightly hurt, and would be able to go about as usual, she informed the Count at dinner of her intended departure. The Herr Graf looked from one to the other of his guests, without being able to utter a syllable. He had been congratulating himself on the brilliant success of this excursion-on the evident gratification experienced by Miss Brunel, on her expressed admiration for Schonstein and all its surroundings. This decision of hers quashed his dearest hopes.

"You surely do not intend to leave us so soon?" he said. "Mrs.

Christmas, are you the traitor in the camp?"

Mrs. Christmas prudently forbore to reply.

"Think of leaving Mr. Anerley, after having knocked him over in that sportsmanlike fas.h.i.+on!" exclaimed the Count. "He will think it very ungenerous of you."

"I am extremely sorry," she said, with a look of pained embarra.s.sment on her dark beautiful face; "but I hope he will forgive our going."

"He may, but I shan't," said the Count. "However, if you will, you will. In any case, I hope I may be allowed to escort you towards your new resting-place."

"We should be more cruel still," said the young girl, "if we took you away from your friend. Believe me, we shall want no a.s.sistance."

The tone with which she uttered the words was decisive. It said, "You are very kind; but we mean to go alone."

The Count did not enjoy his dinner that evening. He fancied there was something wrong in the arrangement of things-something incomprehensible, provoking, beyond the reach of his alteration. When he persuaded Annie Brunel and her guardian to accept his escort as far as Schonstein, he fancied his skilful calculations had delivered her into his hand. Was there a creature on earth-especially a woman-who could fail to be smitten with a covetous desire for the possession of Schonstein? During that moody meal, while he sate almost angrily silent, two suggestions occurred to him.

Could she have failed to perceive that she might be mistress of Schonstein if she liked? The Count confessed that he had not made any demonstration of affection to her, simply because he wished the natural effect of living at Schonstein to influence her first, and predispose her towards accepting his more openly-avowed attentions.

Or was it possible that she had discovered her true position, and learned for herself the wealth and rank to which she was ent.i.tled? But if she had made this discovery, he argued with himself, she would not have allowed herself to be the guest of a parvenu Count; while he knew that she had received no letters since his arrival.

Seizing the more probable alternative, he bitterly regretted his not having made it more clear to her that a handsome fortune awaited her acceptance. In the meantime these regrets had the effect of making the dinner a somewhat dull affair; and it was rather gruffly that he consented, after dinner, to go round to the inn in order to inquire of Hans Halm the various routes to Switzerland.

As they were going out, she said-

"Will you send word to Mr. Anerley that we shall only be absent for a short time, and that I hope he may be able to come down and see us when we return?"

"The surgeon is still with him," said the Count. "I shall go up and see him myself when we come back."

It was a clear starlight night; the waning moon had not yet risen. As they neared the few houses of Schonstein, and saw the orange lights gleaming through the dusk, Mrs. Christmas caught her companion's arm.

They were by the side of the garden adjoining the inn, and from a summer-house which was half hid among apple and plum trees, there came the sweet and tender singing of two young girls-a clear and high but somewhat undeveloped soprano, and a rich, full, mellow contralto. The three stood for a moment to listen, and the singers in the darkness proceeded to another song-the old _Volksweise_ that Grete and Hermann had been wont to sing:

"Im sohonsten Wiesen-grunde Ist meiner Heimath Haus, Da zog ich manche Stunde, In's Thal hinaus: Dich, mein stilles Thal, gruss ich tausend Mal!

Da zog ich manche Stunde, in's Thal hinaus."

"It is Grete who sings, and I want to see her," said Annie Brunel, stepping softly into the garden, and advancing to the summer-house.

Grete was quite alone with her companion-a young girl who, Miss Brunel could see even in that partial darkness, was very pretty, and of a type much more common in the north of Baden and Bavaria than in the Schwarzwald. She was not over twelve years of age; but she had the soft grave eyes, the high forehead, the flaxen hair, and general calm of demeanour which characterize the intellectual South German. She was Grete's confidante and companion; and together, whenever they got a chance, they were accustomed to steal away to this summer-house, and sing those concerted melodies which the children of the Black Forest drink in with their mothers' milk.

Grete gave a little cry of surprise when she saw the dark form of the young English lady appear; and then her thought was that something had gone wrong with the gentleman who was wounded.

"I want you, Grete, for a moment," said Annie Brunel in French to her.

"Ah, mademoiselle," she said, dislocating her French in sudden compa.s.sion; "ce n'est pas que Monsieur Anerley se sent encore malade?

L'homme qui mon pere envoyait chercher le medecin me dit qu'il ya meilleur--"

"Don't disquiet yourself, Grete," said Miss Brunel. "Mr. Anerley is not severely hurt. I wanted to ask you if you would come with me to Switzerland--

"To Switzerland!" said Grete; and her companion's soft eyes looked up with a mystic wonder in them.

"Would you like to go?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, very much; but I have promised to go to see my cousin Aenchen Baumer, at the Feldberg, in a day or two."

"Come indoors, and let us hear what your father says. Your friend will forgive me for a few minutes."

They all then left the garden and went round to the front of the inn.

They found the Count and Mrs. Christmas standing outside, and listening to the prodigious singing-bout which was being held within by the keepers and the beaters; the chorus following each verse of the various hunting-songs being accompanied by the measured beating of hands and feet on the tables and wooden floor.

"If mademoiselle goes forward to the window," said the little grave German girl with the yellow hair, "she will hear better, and Herr Spiegelmann is about to sing 'Der Weisse Hirsch.'"