CHAPTER IX.

THE LURE OF THE SNOW

Etta Wyndcliffe had changed her mind. It was a frequent habit of hers. At the last moment she had decided that it was a little too early for the Riviera, therefore she chose winter sports in Switzerland as a prelude to the Côte d’Azur. Hence, a week after her angry parting with the estimable Ashe, she, with Sibell, Brinsley, and her maid, left London for Nature’s white wonderland at Gurnigel, the new palatial winter resort, high in the mountains above Berne.

After stepping from the comfortable _wagon-lit_ of the Oberland Express, which had brought them in the night from Calais to Berne, they found awaiting them a powerful car, with chains upon its wheels on account of the mountain snows, and soon they were on their way, in the bright morning sunshine, upon a fine, open road which ran along the lower slope of a steep hill, affording a wide view of the snow-clad but fertile valley of the Gürbe towards Thun; then, rising higher, they passed through cherry orchards now white with snow, but in April white with blossom. Everywhere the spotless mantle of Nature lay thickly piled upon the wide, overhanging roofs of wooden chalets and outbuildings. Through quiet little hamlets they passed, one after another, until, after leaving the pretty, homely village of Riggisberg, the real steep ascent of the mountain lay before them.

“How perfectly wonderful!” cried Sibell, gazing delightedly through the window to where, far across the lake of Thun, rose the giants, the Eiger, Mönch, Jungfrau, and others of that chain, with their eternal glaciers and everlasting snows.

“Yes,” exclaimed her lover, who sat opposite her. “What a complete change from dark, dreary London, with its fogs and rain! How glorious!”

“They call it Glorious Gurnigel,” remarked Lady Wyndcliffe, gazing around. “And it really seems as though the adjective is appropriate.”

They were now in the heart of rural Switzerland, and, as the steep road rose higher and yet higher by many curves, they entered the great snow-laden pine-forests, those forests which abound everywhere in that region and breathe their health-giving odor into the crisp, frosty air.

Another sudden turn of the road, and there suddenly came into view the great, long white building where high piled wood fires and a warm welcome from the genial director, Mr. Schelb, awaited them.

Inside the huge hotel they quickly found themselves in the midst of a merry winter sports crowd of young English people, the girls mostly in bright-colored jerseys and breeches, including a few in black, and gay scarves, with well-cut trousers which some girls prefer to stockings. The men were mostly in ski-ing kit, and the chatter at lunch was, of course, of ski-ing, skating, or bobbing. There was an irresponsible atmosphere of gaiety everywhere, either in the hotel or out of it, for everybody was bent on enjoyment, the high spirits being contagious; for even the elderly quickly find themselves feeling rejuvenated by the wonderful pine-laden air at four to five thousand feet above sea level.

On every side the country belonged to the hotel. To give one an idea of the size of the estate, there are over thirty miles of walks and paths on it!

They rested after their journey, then they donned their sports-clothes and snow-resisting boots, and went forth into the picturesque white world to take the Belle Vue Walk, and so make their first acquaintance with Glorious Gurnigel, the aristocrat among resorts.

Outside, Sibell and Otway, walking alone together, were at once in a great forest of snow-laden pines and firs in which the whispering wind was the only sound, for they were now high up above the abode of man. The trees bring an income to the great estate--not very much in these days, but sufficient to employ many peasants. In the colony which has arisen about the hotel there is a sawmill, and in it about a thousand trees are annually cut into boards, to be sent down to Berne and sold for the construction of chalets, while the useless branches are cut up for firewood which, in addition to the radiators, heat the hotel in winter. Of the thousand or so trees cut down, many straight stems, after seventy or eighty years of growth, go down to the lowlands to rise again as telegraph-poles. And, for those thousand cut down in the thinning process of those delightful woods, four thousand saplings are planted each year. The number is such that only one tree in four comes to maturity, for many die or grow with crooked trunks, and hence are sacrificed for firewood early in their growth.

Thus the forestry on the huge estate is no mean matter, and it was an interesting reflection, as they sauntered along a descending path beside a brook--now frozen in winter’s grip--that on those woodland paths, or open ski slopes, stretching everywhere, nobody could say them nay.

After luncheon Lady Wyndcliffe was busy with her maid, unpacking, therefore the lovers wandered along that romantic forest path, picturesque and sparkling like a Christmas card at every turn, which eventually led to the wonderful viewpoint called the Belle Vue.

At last, in the twilight, they came to a steep descent, and, rather than reclimb it, they sat upon a convenient seat to rest.

A bevy of laughing girls in bright sports costumes, accompanied by several young English undergraduates, passed by on their way back for tea, making the forest echo with their merriment, while after them came a tall, athletic man in dark blue, and wearing a guide’s cap, gliding along on skis.

In the latter both were interested, for neither had before seen a person on those long wooden laths.

“I’m quite sure I’ll never be able to ski!” Sibell declared--as she watched the man disappearing along the path.

“Oh, yes, you will. Harman, who was at Bart’s with me, went out to Wengen one season and learnt in a week,” he replied. “You’ll soon do all right under a good instructor. I’ll see about it to-morrow.”

“But look how long and unwieldy the things are!” protested the girl.

“When you’ve once learned, you can do anything on them. It’s only a question of knack and balance, like learning to cycle.”

“I can cycle all right.”

“Then you’ll very soon be able to ski,” he assured her. “I asked the concierge, and he tells me there’s an excellent instructor here, one of the best in the Oberland. He’s a Swiss from Mürren named von Allmen--all the English here call him ‘John.’”

“Very well,” she laughed. “I’ll have John to teach me.”

“Good! I’ll fix the lesson for to-morrow,” said her lover; and then, taking her thickly gloved hand in his, he looked into her fine eyes, and added: “Is not this place a perfect paradise, darling--a paradise for you and me? Compare the hectic, artificial life of overdressing, vice, and gambling on the Riviera with this clean, wholesome, germ-free air--this gorgeous scenery, these great forests, and towering mountains, this spot where all is natural and of God’s creation. Is it not all wonderful--glorious!”

The girl held her breath for a moment; then, as she looked into her lover’s eyes, she replied:

“Yes, it is, Brin! I am so very happy to-day--too happy, because I--well, I somehow feel that this perfect bliss is too complete to last! I----”

But Otway did not allow her to express any further apprehensions, for he suddenly took her in his arms and, holding her firmly, kissed her many times upon her lips.

Then, as it was growing dark in the forest, they rose and, arm in arm, found their way back to the huge, brilliantly-lit hotel, where, in the great lounge at the end of the magnificent ballroom, Sibell’s aunt had secured a table for tea.

“We’ve been exploring the place, auntie,” Sibell said as she sat down. “The walks are simply wonderful. I’m so delighted we came here!”

“So am I,” declared Otway.

“Ena Oxenford told me about it,” said her ladyship. “She was here last summer. No doubt it will become a second St. Moritz very soon--when people know of it. I agree that at present it is charming.”

Sibell looked very chic in her tailor-made, black ski-ing suit and well-cut trousers, the only touch of color being her bright blue and red scarf which matched her Norwegian anklets. She wore a peaked guide’s cap, and into it she had already pinned the little pale-blue and white badge of the Gurnigel Ski Club, which she had joined at once on arrival.

As they sat amid the gay, chatting English crowd, they had full view of the ballroom--perhaps one of the finest in all Switzerland--where people were dancing to an excellent orchestra. There was merriment and bonhomie on every hand, even though a party of about sixty Germans of the better class were also visitors there. Such an incident was not usual, for in winter Gurnigel is kept essentially English. Nevertheless, that season such was the fact, and it was especially noticeable that no racial hatred existed between the two nationalities. In neutral-Switzerland they were upon common ground.

Unseen by either Sibell or her lover, there was, however, sitting on the opposite side of the hall a dark, sleek-haired young man, thick-lipped and sensuous, who, from behind one of the marble columns, was eyeing the girl furtively as he lazily sipped his tea and smoked his Egyptian cigarette.

He had attempted a familiar conversation with the fair-haired, muslin-aproned Swiss maid who had served him, but had been ignored, and now his large black eyes were fixed upon Sibell, whose beauty and smartness were outstanding, even amid that very smart crowd.

“I really think that winter sports are a fitting prelude to the Riviera,” Sibell’s aunt was saying, as she lazily selected a cigarette from her gold case and tapped it. “Agatha, that little American cat whom I took around last season, wanted to go to St. Moritz, but I refused. I’m sorry now that I didn’t go. Of course, you two will go ski-ing to-morrow.”

“Yes,” replied the girl. “We’re both having our first lesson with John. I saw him in the hall just as we came in. Isn’t he a good-looking boy, Brin?”

Her lover agreed, and then suggested to her that they should dance.

Next moment they were upon the well-kept floor of the great white-and-gold ballroom, where at the many tables around sat a gay crowd of winter sports devotees, yet still unaware of the pair of dark eyes of the man, seated half-concealed, who somehow appeared fascinated by Sibell’s outstanding beauty.

Gurnigel in summer is a marvellous woodland retreat--a gorgeous spot where no sound disturbs the mountain silence save the singing of the birds, the ripple of the many streams, the musical tinkle of the cow-bells, and perhaps the blows of the woodman’s axe. But as soon as the slow, sleek cows with their bells are driven in and the first snow of winter falls, there comes a transformation to a great snow-clad countryside, wherein a gay crowd disport themselves in genuine good humor and with united efforts to make fun out of everything. There is no standoffishness, nor are there unsociable cliques. The newcomer of either sex is instantly welcomed, taken into the circle, so that there is never any lack of companions for ski-ing, or partners for dancing.

The joyous convivialities of January are events one will long remember, for neither trouble nor expense are spared to effect the success of the various festivals, the guests entering into the true spirit of things, so that there is not a single dull moment; all goes with a swing, and it becomes a time of strenuous gaiety. If the weather happens to be bad, or the snow may leave a little to be desired, then there are all kinds of indoor games--bowls, indoor curling, ping-pong, and hosts of other diversions, the tea-time dancing being not the least, and the merry crowd pities the poor drenched and fog-bound folk at home.

It was so with the new arrivals--indeed, with everyone who came fresh from London.

Glorious Gurnigel was, they found, indeed glorious in every sense of the term.

When, later, Sibell, in a dainty white dance frock embroidered with beads, which suited her fair complexion so admirably, came down to meet the young doctor for dinner, she encountered in the long, red-carpeted corridor, that ran parallel with the ballroom, the tall, erect young man whose eyes had been on her while she had sat at tea and while she had danced.

He idled past her, smiled broadly, whispered something, and, bowing, wished her “Good evening” in a low tone in German.

With her English hauteur she drew herself up, stared him full in the face, and passed on, nevertheless remembering that at such resorts introductions are easily made, and friendships as easily dropped.

When, a few moments later, Otway and her aunt joined her, she made no mention of the incident. She knew it would most certainly provoke her lover’s indignation that she could not be left for a moment alone in the hotel without a stranger attempting to get in conversation with her; and, besides, she did not desire a scene.

That evening, after dining in the fine restaurant, they occupied a table at the end of the ballroom near the orchestra, and many times the happy pair danced together, refraining only when a “Paul Jones” was announced.

Next morning they had their first lesson in ski-ing. The tall, athletic young Swiss ski-instructor, in his neat blue suit, with his guide’s badge upon his breast, fitted their skis to their boots and took them out upon what is known as the “nursery slopes,” where all beginners make a start by learning to stand on their skis and how to fall into the soft, powdery snow in such a manner that they do not injure themselves.

In spite of many tumbles and much humorous banter, they thoroughly enjoyed themselves for two hours, unconscious still that that pair of evil, black eyes was closely watching them from a window on the first floor with that same fixed, sinister expression.

That afternoon, after luncheon, the pair, oblivious of the attention they had attracted, joined a small party of skiers, and climbed above the tree-line to the summit of Mount Gurnigel, a matter of another thousand feet or so, where, standing in the afternoon sunshine upon the verandah of the weather-beaten shelter hut of the Swiss Alpine Club, they gazed at one of the most marvellous panoramas of valley, lake, and mountain in all Switzerland. Before them, far below, lay the whole of the district of Thun and its delightful lake, flanked on one side by the mountains of the Emmental, and on the other by the jagged, frowning Stockhorn, and the conical Niesen, with the steepest mountain railway in Europe, while beyond rose, white, majestic, and just tipped by the delicate rose light of the Alpine glow, the Jungfrau and her neighbors. The scene was like one obtained from an aeroplane, and, as the others of the party had climbed on skis, they ran swiftly down home, first over some wide, steep slopes, then, joining the road, passed along its edge through Black Lake wood and straight down to the hotel.

But Sibell and her lover, not being able to ski, stood alone and silent in the sunset, children of the heights. Their hearts were too full for mere words.

At last, as they stood facing the giant Jungfrau, upon whose lofty crest the gorgeous pink glow was deepening, he bent and kissed her, and then, hand in hand, they commenced to descend the steep, winding road, arriving back in the hotel just as the twilight had deepened into darkness.

And as they rejoined Lady Wyndcliffe at her tea-table in the corner, that pair of dark, haunting eyes fell again upon them.