CHAPTER XV. THE CORTèGE

The siesta at Andana is an event of the day and differs from other siestas chiefly in the fact that no one goes to sleep.

Visiting the plateau before the Palace Hotel upon an afternoon of February a stranger will discover the arts, the professions and the industries of Great Britain in some disorder and not a little comfort. Accrediting the best chairs to generals and colonels, whom a gracious King employs no longer upon active service, mere lawyers and persons who write will be found in accommodating attitudes which a diversity of luges, camp-stools and even rugs make possible; while commerce, stiff-backed and upright, flirts amiably in amatory markets and appears to think little of Protection.

Everyone has done something during the morning, and this make-believe of a siesta is the due reward. Here upon the brink of the valley topographers yawn and discover mountains; matrons remember their complexions; mere youth its volatility.

All bask in a wonderful sunshine and are tolerant of evil. There is no protest upon the projectile aimed erringly and discovering unsought targets. The prettiest girls do not always show the prettiest ankles, nor the middle-aged ladies the least desirable qualities. There is flippancy of talk and act, a craving for ease not always gratified, and a worship of the glories of Switzerland as honest as any article in the social creed. If a subject be chosen and pursued, it is haltingly and at intervals. Men yawn upon other men's bons-mots—they have quick ears chiefly for the whispers.

They were discussing Lily Delayne upon the afternoon of this particular day, and not without that charity which remembered her as a baronet's wife. Led by Bess Bethune—whose father had known Sir Frederick Kennaird—and kept in order by Dr. Orange, who was a man of the world with good perceptions, it was unanimously resolved by the meeting that her ladyship had been foolish to go to the chalet and would be more foolish if she remained there. Had she not been a baronet's wife, the assembly might have arrived with justice at another conclusion; but the daughter of Burnham Priory was a desirable acquisition, and as Lady Coral-Smith remarked: "Not in any way responsible for the vices of an irresponsible man." So the meeting carried the resolution nem. con., and having carried it, settled down to remember all the "good things" about Sir Luton which ready tongues and readier newspapers had recorded these ten years.

Dr. Orange said very little, except to admit that Lady Delayne was a very charming person, and to express his surprise that she had not divorced the baronet long ago. This remark escaped him at a moment when Bess Bethune had deserted the study of social jurisprudence for that of the velocity of snow when obstructed by the bald head of a choleric sleeper. When the young lady returned from her occupation, Lady Coral-Smith took up the running with the observation that the measure of a woman's endurance is often the measure of her intellect, and that bad men should certainly marry fools. This remark, directed to the dull understanding of Major Boodle, pleased that worthy mightily, and he echoed it with a succession of "Eh, what's," which trilled like the warblings of an asthmatic bird.

Thereafter silence fell and endured until the major thought that he remembered a good story concerning the Delaynes, and was about to tell it, when what should happen but that her ladyship appeared suddenly among the company, and brought the men to their feet as though a bombshell had fallen amongst them.

Social credulity is a curious thing, and is apt to become incredulity on next to no provocation at all. The man or woman, whom all discuss, remains just the man, or the woman, when introduced to the company. All the stories concerning him or her seem to be forgotten in a moment; nothing is remembered but the personality of the intruder, and should that be satisfying, the recording finger ceases to write. So, at Andana, this little company would now have been prepared to swear in any court that none but the most flattering observations concerning her ladyship had fallen from its lips, and that it was ready to welcome this charming lady with the cordiality her position (and her father's money) demanded.

To this happy state of things Lily's own charm contributed not a little. She was, for some of these good middle-class folk, as an ambassador from another kingdom, and one which they might not hope to enter. Her unaffected manner, her gentleness, conquered the men, and did not provoke the women. Had she been of their own sphere, they would have envied her beauty and complained of it. But being of a race apart, even the mayor's relict could grant her some natural "advantages." As for homely Mrs. Rider, particularly honoured by her ladyship's attentions, she, good soul, was in the seventh heaven. This would make a fine story in Bayswater when she got back. "My friend, Lady Delayne, travelling incognito"—how well it sounded. Her lips were already prepared for that delicacy.

Lily drew a chair close to the prospective mother of "the boys," and began to talk to her in low tones. Sir Gordon, after a vain attempt to join in, had the wit to perceive that he was making no impression, and turned his attention to "the little savage," as he called Mistress Bess. When he was gone, Lily approached the dangerous topic of Messrs. Robert Otway and Richard Fenton. She thought that they were pleasant young men and would start in life with some pecuniary advantages.

Had Mrs. Rider known them long—were they very old friends? To which that good lady replied with warmth that this was her third season at Andana, and that the boys had been there on each occasion. Then, with an aside of some moment, she hastened to confess that it was embarrassing to be the mother of two grown-up daughters at her age: "For I am but nine-and-thirty, Mrs. Kennaird, and my poor husband has been dead these five years."

Lily expressed her sympathy in a kindly way and led the good soul insensibly to other confessions. Each of the girls had three hundred a year in her own right, and, naturally, their mother would like to see them happily married. She, herself, was not too old to resign "all the pleasures of life," as she put it na?vely; but what could she do with these great grown-up girls and their perpetual activities? Men naturally thought a woman as old as her children believed her to be; and young people nowadays have such strange notions about years.

As to the young men, she liked them well enough. They were noisy, to be sure; but, then, might not others say the same with justice of Nell and Marjory?

"I'm ashamed of their boisterousness sometimes," the good lady admitted. "I'm sure I was never like that when I was a girl, and what happiness they can find in it, I don't know. Believe me, Mrs. Kennaird, they never are at rest. When it's not skating and sliding, it's golf and hockey. If you ask them to read a book, they think you want to do them an injury. I gave Marjory the 'Pilgrim's Progress' on her last birthday, and all she said was that 'Christian won on the last green.' There's levity for you—there's improper behaviour. Oh, I shall be sorry to lose them, but sorrier still for the man who marries them—indeed I shall. You couldn't understand it yourself, for you have no daughters of your own, they tell me; but I've a mother's heart, and they wound it every day that I live. Oh, yes, I shall be sorry for the man who marries them."

Lily smiled, but did not comment upon the grammar of the observation, or its suggestions. The situation was now quite plain to her. Here was a good woman who would enter the holy bonds for the second time, one who found a serious obstacle in the presence of these hoydens who proclaimed their mother's age urbi et orbi. Little it mattered to her whether the worldly prospects of likely suitors were good or ill. Lily perceived that the boys were already married, so far as Mrs. Rider was concerned, and she determined to push the suggestion no further. So she led the conversation to more general topics, and finally turned to Dr. Orange, who had been waiting for an opportunity to speak to her.

Lily confessed to the doctor that she had come out with the intention of doing a little shopping in the village of Andana, and he, with ready gallantry, offered to accompany her thither. His art in mundane affairs was considerable, and no one who overheard their talk would have guessed that he knew this lady's story to the last line. Not until the narrow path carried them to the heart of the wood by the Sanatorium did he begin to speak of intimate affairs at all, and then in so general a way that it was impossible not to be frank with him.

"By the way," he said—joining her after the passage of a bob sleigh steered by that dashing pilot, Keith Rivers, who rarely broke his collar-bone more than twice in any season—"by the way, do you know a person of the name of Paul Lecroix—I think he is a gentleman's servant, and has been staying at Andana, recently—do you know anything of him?"

Lily guessed the object of the question and would not fence with it.

"Yes," she said in a low voice, "he was my husband's valet; what of him, Dr. Orange?"

The doctor continued as though it were an ordinary affair.

"He has been recently in the employment of a Mr. Faikes, also staying at Vermala. The fellow has a long tongue, and is not to be encouraged. I fear he has said many things in the hotel here which you would not wish him to have said. They make no difference to any of us, of course, it goes without saying; but should you be perplexed by them, I hope you will give the credit where it is due."

"You mean, that people know my real name—the name under which I choose not to travel?"

The doctor was surprised by her candour.

"Yes," he said slowly, "that is what I wanted to say. Your incognito is an incognito no longer—if it concerns you that it should not be. Most possibly it does not. I have often taken a nom de voyage myself and found it useful. I can understand that it might be helpful to a lady, especially to the daughter of one so influential as Sir Frederick Kennaird. If you wish it to be respected at Andana, you have but to say the word. Perhaps, however, you will think that it has served its purpose in Egypt and the Balkans. I was almost expecting you to tell me so when I first mentioned it."

This was subtly put, and it pleased her. He expected her to say that it mattered no longer whether anyone called her Lady Delayne or Mrs. Kennaird, and she met him as readily. It was a matter of indifference to her. In any case, she did not expect to be many days in Andana, and would be returning almost immediately to London. Perhaps the doctor would come and see her in town?

"I am on the north side of the Park, and that is quite reprehensible," she said with a smile. "My address is Upper Gloucester Place, but I will give you a card. Doctors find themselves in strange places, and cultivate an uncritical attitude, I suppose. But I shall be very glad to see you, if you care to come, and perhaps some of my Italian curiosities will interest you."

He admitted an interest: it would have been the same had she said that the golden gods of Burma were her hobby; and when he had informed her that he was now living at Hastings, which proposed shortly to indulge in the luxury of a pageant, they came to the little village of Andana and to its bazaar.

The latter was situated picturesquely enough at the summit of the narrow winding street, and was itself a gabled chalet which would have served for a picture book. An ancient dame, whose English ran to half a dozen inaccurate phrases, here vended grotesque knick-knacks at prices still more grotesque. There were post cards embracing every possible view of Andana at every possible season; fabulous distortions of the Matterhorn; panoramas showing the whole of the Rhone Valley, and portraits of peasants, who seemed to have dressed themselves especially for the stage of the Gaiety Theatre. Elsewhere, the stock was hardly more attractive. Cheap jewellery from Birmingham; cheap glass from Italy; German ingenuity vended for "two francs-fifty," lay cheek by jowl with skis to be sold for twice their market value, and luges upon which a child could sit with difficulty. The carved wooden trifles alone represented the genius of Switzerland, and were to be valued. Lily bought some half a dozen of them as an excuse—her real object had been the quest of writing-paper—and then remembering that it was growing dark, she paid her bill hastily, and set out to return to her chalet.

The night falls swiftly and often with bitter cold in the Rhone Valley. It had been twilight when they entered the shop; it was quite dark when they emerged. The village street, usually the resort of gossips, now welcomed men of more serious aspect, who were clustered round three sleighs about to go down to Sierre. Lily delighted in these sleighs, as a rule, in the music of their bells, and the primitive caparison of their long-suffering horses; and when she came thus face to face with an unexpected cortège, she stopped, despite the cold, to remark upon it. Hardly had the words been spoken when she regretted them. This was no common spectacle. She perceived in a moment that it was the harbinger of death.

"Oh," she had exclaimed, "how very picturesque," and then with the truth of it arresting her, she turned upon the doctor inquiring eyes.

"What are they doing, Doctor Orange? Why are they here?"

He answered as frankly that he did not know.

"Have you heard of any death in Andana? Has there been any illness?"

He shook his head.

"It would be a soldier's funeral. There have been rumours in the hotel about an accident up at Vermala. I will speak to them, if you like—"

He crossed over to one of the officers and exchanged a few words with him. Other gendarmes emerged from the little café, carrying lanterns. A captain, whose sword jangled upon the flags, uttered an order in a commanding tone, and sent some of his men to the horses' heads. He also exchanged a brusque word with the doctor, and saluted Madame when he passed her. The bells swung musically as the procession set out and disappeared slowly round the bend upon its way to the valley.

Dr. Orange meanwhile had returned to Lily's side, and ignorant that his news had any meaning for her, he hastened to tell her what had been told to him.

"They say that a gendarme from Martigny has been killed up on the Zaat. I heard something about it this morning, but did not pay much attention. The officer was not very communicative. We shall have to wait until we get to the Palace before we hear the whole story. Perhaps it will not be very exciting after all. These accidents are not so common as English people believe. Five or six bodies of men who have been lost on the heights are discovered under the snow every spring, when the great thaw comes. The Alpine chasseurs, too, have a good deal of trouble with some of the rogues who haunt the passes. Shall we walk on? I am sure you must be feeling the cold."

Lily had not stirred from the spot; but now, with a determination which surprised her, she set out for her house, and did not betray even by a word the tumultuous thoughts which afflicted her.

As for the doctor, he dismissed the affair almost immediately, and continued to gossip of lighter things. There would be a dance at the Palace that night; would she care to come down? Or perhaps she would like him to make up a rubber at bridge? Old Gordon Snagg played well, but parsimoniously, and Lady Coral-Smith was the terror in petticoats. Failing that, there would be some passable music in the drawing-room—he confessed that he himself played, but did not tell her what a very fine pianist he really was—nor did he notice her indifference and the effort it cost her to answer him at all. When they parted it was at the door of her own chalet, where he stood a moment to light a cigarette in the shelter of the porch. And there for the first time a suggestion of the truth flashed upon him from the darkness, and spoke both of the living and of the dead in one instant, of utter bewilderment.

Lily had entered her house and gone straight to the sitting-room upon the right-hand side of the door. There she switched on the electric light, and the blinds being drawn up, the doctor saw the whole room quite plainly, and the figure of the woman as she laid aside her cloak and threw back her head to unpin her hat. Attracted by the grace of her attitudes, and perplexed by the extraordinary pallor of her face, he continued to stand until she turned about suddenly, and pressing both her hands to her forehead, sank suddenly into a chair, and burst into a passionate flood of weeping. Then he understood, and fearing to be detected, set off instantly toward the hotel.

"By God!" he said as he went, "Luton Delayne is the man!"