CHAPTER XXVI

AN UNQUIET MIND

NO persuasions would induce Mrs. Keith to put off her departure more than one night. The Forsyths had a fight to gain that concession.

"But I must and will have a clear day for the Schynige Platte," Mrs. Forsyth declared to her husband. "Phyllys has been promised that excursion from the first."

She gained her point; though, probably, if Mrs. Keith had guessed what her consent would involve, it would not have been granted. When she was further enlightened, too late to draw back, she hotly combated the plan, then insisted on being one of the party.

Phyllys was allowed no voice. She still kept silence about her supposed glimpse of Giles; and Mrs. Keith talked confidently of finding him at Castle Hill. Phyllys had begun to distrust her own eyesight. If he were at Interlaken, he would surely have appeared. If, on the contrary, he were at Castle Hill, she could not regret going there—unless her appearance would be unwelcome; but as she recalled the past, she could not believe that. Her "friend" would not be untrue, though he might never be more than "friend." She was gaining hope.

A lurid sunset made them anxious about next day. Heavy clouds clothed the mountain tops; and the Niesen had donned a dark cap and short mantle. But the sun shone brightly over Thun, and shed crimson upon the lower slopes and lake. Strangers could not decipher what this meant.

Phyllys, an early riser, did not fail next morning. She sprang out of bed and went to the open window, with chestnut hair falling loose over her frilled nightdress.

It was a sight worth waking for—the pale lake lying in shadow, the pyramidal Niesen mass rising darkly beyond. Further shone the snow-peaks of the Blumlisalp and tips of the Jungfrau range with a silver glow from the coming sun. The tint could hardly be otherwise described. It was not rose or gold, nor was it ordinary "cold" silver, but a pale rose-silver, if such a colour exists. She watched breathlessly, kneeling, lost in admiration; unknowing whether the sight appealed more to her artistic or her spiritual self. It made her think of Colin and his ideals. It made her think of Giles. It lifted her heart to the Divine Source of all earthly and heavenly beauty. She whispered her prayers softly, looking with bodily and mental eyes on that indescribable light, while her spiritual eyes were uplifted to her Father in heaven.

Then the ascending monarch of day crushed out the delicate tinting, and flooded heights and vales with gold.

By half-past six Phyllys was down to breakfast, as was Mr. Forsyth, but the elder ladies were later. Had they not arranged to drive to the boat-station, they would have failed to catch the steamer.

A sharp air assailed them on the lake, and Mrs. Keith looked blue, by no means in condition for exertion. She held to her point, however, and refused to turn back.

Phyllys could have been in dancing spirits. The beauty of lake and mountain, the charms of the coming ascent, the prospect of Castle Hill, the hopes that her fears would prove groundless and that Giles would be in the future all he had been in the past—these buoyed her up; and the one wet blanket was Mrs. Keith's unhappiness. As they neared Interlaken, she did indeed force a cheerful manner; but when they landed her eyes were everywhere, nervously on the look-out. Phyllys could not but notice this, could not but conjecture explanations.

From Interlaken they went by train to a station at the base of the mountain, where they entered the tiny mountain-train.

Mrs. Keith would not be hurried, and they nearly lost their first chance. Though late in the season, enough tourists appeared to fill the train—but they managed to pack in; Mrs. Keith close to a window; Phyllys beside her; the Forsyths in front, whence they could lean back to talk. As the gradient became more steep, the engine puffed vigorously.

"Schynige Platte—not far from seven thousand feet high," announced Mr. Forsyth, dividing his attention between his Guide-book and Phyllys. "Subtract from that the eighteen hundred feet altitude of the lake—leaves a respectable amount still to climb! Engine worked with a cog-wheel—very safe—all precautions taken. Ascent lasts about an hour and a half—or less. I beg your pardon—" at a gasp from Mrs. Keith.

"I thought it lasted twenty minutes!"—in dismay.

"Dear me, no. You are thinking of S. Beatenberg. This is a longer affair."

"It won't seem any time at all—there is so much to see," murmured Phyllys.

As they rose, the landscape widened by leaps and bounds. From one side, then from the other, they gazed over a growing expanse. The Lake of Thun lay far beneath. The Lake of Brienz had shrunk to a puddle of greenish water. There was an overmastering sense of loftiness, as they looked into sheer depths, across valleys, over precipitous walls of rock falling from the very verge of the line on which they travelled. Moat of the travellers took the journey composedly. It was the correct thing to do; everybody did it; and nobody expected to be the worse. To Phyllys the outlook was too wonderful to whisper of fear. But she became aware that the lady on her other side was growing nervous, and that Mrs. Keith trembled like a leaf.

Three or four tunnels had to be gone through, and the breaking out from each into a broader world was grand. Ascent by rail has an unromantic sound; yet no man, climbing slowly on foot or on mule-back, gains these marvellous upward leaps.

The nervous lady fidgeted anew. "Well, one comfort is," she remarked, "if anything 'did' go wrong, it wouldn't be a case of getting mangled only. It would be—the end!"

"My dear, don't talk nonsense. Nothing is going wrong," a man's voice made reply.

Mrs. Keith clutched the window, and Phyllys slipped a hand through her arm. "It's all right," the girl said cheerily. "Nothing to be afraid of. These trains go all through the summer."

She met the haggard eyes, with a look in them which she would not easily forget. A look of shrinking dread.

"But—if it 'did'—" she heard.

They stopped at a small station, and Mrs. Keith started up. Phyllys caught her hand.

"This isn't the top yet."

"Sit down, Mrs. Keith. A little longer. We are two-thirds up," added Mrs. Forsyth.

But she dragged her hand from Phyllys, and pushed her way out. "I must—I can't stand this any longer," she panted. "It—terrifies me! I can't stand it!"

Remonstrances were useless. She stood on the platform, her face a mottled pallor.

"I can't—I tell you, I can't—I won't!" she declared. "I haven't the nerve for it. No use asking me. I'll never again get into a funicular train after to-day. You are all to go on without me, and you can take me up as you come back. I shall be all right till then. No, I won't have any of you. I won't allow it."

So imperious was her manner, that resistance was impossible. Mr. Forsyth had sprung out, but she almost pushed him back, with insistence, in the face of his polite desire to stay. He had to yield, and she was left standing on the platform.

Since she refused their help, all they could do was to put aside the thought of her, and to enjoy the views. Another tunnel was gone through; and as they emerged, the Jungfrau burst upon them in dazzling radiance.

The last station was reached, and a walk of twenty minutes took them to the top. A party of loud-voiced Germans, who had kept up a rattle during the ascent, now did their best to mar the solemn grandeur of Nature. Phyllys and the Forsyths moved to a distance, where they might study the scene in quiet.

Far below, branching different ways, lay the Lauterbrunen and the Grundelwald Valleys; and in front, from right to left, swept a range of snowy heights and towering peaks, including the three giants daily scanned from Châlet S. Jacques—the Jungfrau, the Mönch, the Eiger—a lordly trio. These and other mountains of the Bernese Oberland seemed to have placed themselves in a stately order, on view. It was a perfect day; some clouds floating, but all the greater heights sharp in definition. Through a binocular Phyllys could see the very crevasses in the Grundelwald glacier, the châlets dotting the Grundelwald valley.

When the time came to return, they kept a look-out for Mrs. Keith at the station; but she was not visible. Mr. Forsyth left the train to inquire.

"She has set off to walk down," he said on return, with a lined forehead. "Very unwise! Of course she's not equal to it. Over four miles! I must go after her. She might have a fainting-fit."

No time to discuss the question, for the train was starting. Mrs. Forsyth could not resist a murmur of—"Really too bad!"

The small engine, which had puffed and snorted on its upward way, kept silence in descent. Down and down they slipped—winding to and fro from edge to edge; the mountains gaining in height as they slid into valleys between; the distant views contracting, the horizon narrowing.

Nothing below was seen or heard of Mrs. Keith or Mr. Forsyth; and Mrs. Forsyth decided on going at once to Interlaken, there to await their appearance. It was surely impossible that Mrs. Keith could yet have walked the whole way.

The wait was a long one. Mrs. Forsyth and Phyllys had tea, then hovered about the boat-station, till patience was exhausted. When the absent pair drove up, Mrs. Keith, drooping and feeble, seemed not to realise the trouble she had given. Mr. Forsyth had overtaken her not far from the foot of the mountain, and she had been so ill as to make a halt needful. She was barely able now to drag one foot after the other. They helped her on board—Mr. Forsyth moving away for a talk with his wife.

"Not at all grateful for my going after her, I assure you," he murmured. "You'd have been astonished if you had seen the pace at which she was going—before she saw me. After that, all weakness and faintness. My dear, your friend is rather—eccentric, to say the least! However, not a word of this. She is bent on starting for home to-morrow."

Phyllys had taken a seat close to Mrs. Keith, and the latter said, "You are a kind girl!"

"I am sorry you are feeling so ill. Would it not be better to put off our journey home?"

"No, certainly not. Everything is arranged. I cannot wait a day longer. My nerves seem all to rags!"—and she tried to laugh.

The laugh turned into a shudder. "Was that thunder? I have a horror of a storm in a boat—all the iron about!"

Phyllys had hoped that she would not notice. A change had developed after the brilliant day; and lurid cloud-masses covered the summits, broken by yellow streaks.

"I don't like that. How long shall we be? An hour? More than an hour! Ask somebody if the storm will hold off so long. Find out—pray!"

Phyllys went obediently, though aware that "somebody" was not likely to have positive information. She came back to her seat, remarking, "I dare say it won't be much."

"What does Mr. Forsyth think?"

"He says it looks rather threatening."

They ploughed their way, zigzagging from side to side of the lake; and the cloud-capped heights grew more densely black. Another rumble sounded, winning a shiver from Mrs. Keith.

"If it gets worse, I shall land. I won't be stopped."

But for a while the storm held off; and when it broke, she seemed paralysed.

The Niesen, always a prominent object, showed now no pyramidal form. From summit to base it was one mass of black vapours. From within that darkness rolled heavy reverberating peals, each louder and longer than the last, issuing with solemn echoes from the shrouding canopy. Thus far no lightning had been seen. The battle of forces was carried on behind a curtain.

Then a dazzling double-forked arrow leaped forth, with a crashing roar, which drowned Mrs. Keith's scream. She clutched at Phyllys' wrist, holding it with a force which gave pain. Mr. Forsyth came to ask if she would go into the cabin, but she shook her head, moaning.

"No, no! The boat may go down. We may all go down."

Another resplendent flash, lighting up the scene with rose-colour; and another burst of heaven's artillery. Mrs. Keith hid her face, while Phyllys watched, fascinated. The black-clothed pyramid, the issuing sword-flashes, the rolling peals, had an impressive solemnity, which brought to mind the giving of the law from Mount Sinai in days of old.

At a pause in the lengthened reverberations, she heard, "If only one could—!"

Phyllys slipped an arm round her companion.

"If one could live the past over again!"

Should she say anything? But—what to say?

"Phyllys,—if death came, would God have mercy? If one had not meant—"

"Had not meant to do wrong?"

"Yes. That is—had not intended. Circumstances sometimes—"

"But circumstances never can 'make' one do wrong," the girl said staunchly.

"In the past. I mean, in the past. One can't help the past."

"One may confess and try to make amends."

"Too long ago."

"I don't think it can be too long." Phyllys thought of Zacchaeus coming to the Divine Giver of pardon, with "fourfold restitution" on his lips.

Another dazzling sword of light; another echoing crash; and the reverberations rolled from mountain to mountain.

Mrs. Keith stooped forward, shaken by a sob.

"But if one cannot—cannot—confess—will He have mercy?"

"He knows if you really cannot. If it is for the sake of others—not your own sake—that you don't speak." Afterwards she wondered what made her say this. "I think one should always tell—if not publicly, at least to some one. And then one might be helped."

No reply came. Mrs. Keith remained in the same position till they reached their station. By that time the storm was lessening, and she walked from the boat with little help, her face averted from Phyllys. The girl wondered—had she given offence?

On reaching the châlet, a fresh effort was made to induce Mrs. Keith to put off her journey, but she was obdurate. She meant to go; she would go. She was fit only for home.

Then, in her own room,—"Did I talk nonsense in the boat, Phyllys? Lightning affects my head so strangely. I never know what I am saying while a storm lasts."

Phyllys looked at her with serious eyes. "I don't know," she said. "It didn't sound at the time like nonsense."

"I've no doubt it was, if it makes you so terrifically grave. Well, thank goodness, this is nearly the end. I shall never attempt another funicular railway, and I have had enough of Switzerland. Now you must go to bed. Most of your packing is done, I suppose. You said you would see to it yesterday evening. That is right. I long to be safe at my beloved Castle Hill."

And the next day they started.