And for the last morning again a strange surprise. Mountains and valley were hidden behind impenetrable mist, even the nearest objects were screened by the thickly falling snow. Alpine winter tremendously at work, holding her fascinated at windows downstairs, upstairs; mighty preparation for the beauty of days she would not see, robbing her of farewell, putting farewell back into yesterday’s superficial seeing which had not known it was the last.
But when she was forced to turn away to her packing she found, within the light of this veiled world that cast within doors a strange dark brilliance, something of the London gloom, and the enjoyment of a concentrated activity that had always been one of the gifts of a London fog. It was as if already she were translated, good-byes said and the journey begun. The hours ahead became a superfluous time, to be spent in a Switzerland whose charm, since London had reached forth and touched her, had fallen into its future place as part of life: an embellishment, a golden joy to which she would return.
And when she saw the guests assembled at lunch in full strength it was as though having left them for good she returned for a moment to find them immersed in a life to which she was a stranger. Confined by the weather, they had produced the pile of letters waiting in the lounge and were now rejoicing in unison over the snowfall. In speech and silence each one revealed himself, but as a dream-revival of someone known long ago; and in the dream it was again as on that first evening when she had sat a listening outsider, fearing and hoping to be drawn in, and again it was Mrs. Harcourt who, when her association with these people was seeming to be a vain thing cancelled, drew her in with a question.
The short hour expanded. Once more she was caught into the medium of their social vision, into the radiance that would shine unchanged when she was gone and was the secret of English social life and could, if it were revealed to every human soul, be the steering light of human life throughout the world. These people were the fore-runners, free to be almost as nice as they desired.
And then, with the suddenness of a rapid river, her coming freedom flowed in upon her, carrying her outside this pleasant enclosure towards all that could be felt to the full only in solitude amongst things whose being was complete, towards that reality of life that withdrew at the sounding of a human voice.
It was already from a far distance that, alone with her upon the landing, she promised Mrs. Harcourt remembrance and letters, said good-bye and saw once more her first diffident eagerness; felt that it was she, withdrawn since the first days, who had yet lived her life with her, transferred something of her being into the gathered memories and would keep them alive, keep the mountain scene in sight near at hand.
Alone in her room still thinking of Mrs. Harcourt, she remembered from “Ships that Pass in the Night” how on the last day all but one person had forgotten the departing guest.
Then in getting up from lunch she had seen them all, unknowing, for the last time—as yesterday the mountains. For all these people hidden away in their rooms, immersed in their own affairs, she was already a figure slid away and forgotten. With the paying of Frau Knigge’s bill her last link with the Alpenstock had been snapped.
But when the coach-horn sounded and she went down into the hall, there they all were, gathering round, seeing her off. Hurriedly, with the door open upon the falling snow and the clashing of sleighbells, she clasped for the first time strange and friendly hands, saw, in eyes met full and near, welcome from worlds she had not entered. Beside the door she met Daphne forgotten, who clutched and drew her back into the window space for desperate clinging, and entreaties sounding lest for this new slow-witted lover the searching gaze should not be enough.
It was not until she was inside the dark coach and its occupants had thanked heaven she was English and let down a window, that she remembered Vereker. He alone had made no farewell.
The coach pulled up outside the post-office and there he stood in the driving snow, and all the way down the valley she saw them one by one and saw him standing in great-coat and woollen helmet, heard his elegant light distressful voice begging her to come out next year.
And brighter now than the setting they had charmed was the glow these people had left in her heart. They had changed the aspect of life, given it the promise of their gentle humanity, given her a frail link with themselves and their kind.
She climbed into a carriage whose four corners were occupied and sat down to the great journeying.
“History repeats itself.”
Looking up she found all about her the family from Croydon, met the father’s quizzical brown eyes.
“Had a farewell kick-up at our place last night. We’re feeling the effects. You look very fit. Enjoyed yourself?”
“You collared the handsomest man in Oberland anyhow—that young giant of a Russian.”
“Italian.”
“Bless my soul! Hear that, Doris?”
“We were up till fave this morning,” said Doris.
The train moved off, but only Doris, once more grown-up with her hair in a staid bun under her English winter hat, turned to watch the station disappear.
“Want to go back, Doris?”
“Ah love,” she breathed devoutly, “could thou and aye with feete conspire——”
Miriam joined the sister in intoning the rest of the lines.
“Ah Moon——” began Doris, and the brother leaned forward holding towards her a gloved hand whose thumb protruded through a fraying gap:
“A little job for you in Paris.”
She regarded it undisturbed and turned away the scornful sweetness of her face towards the window and the snowflakes falling thickly upon the shroud of snow.