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CHAPTER XIX
THE DOLOMITES

The summer was a very hot one, and the travellers, in spite of the charm of new scenes, and the wonders of everything to their unsophisticated eyes, found it trying.  Constance indeed was in a state of constant felicity and admiration, undimmed except by the flagging of her two fellow-travellers in the heated and close German railway cars.  Her uncle’s head suffered much, and Lady Northmoor secretly thought her maid’s refusal to accompany them showed her to be a prudent woman.  However, the first breath of mountain air was a grand revival to Lord Northmoor, and at Innsbruck he was quite alive, and walked about in fervent delight, not desisting till he and Constance had made out every statue on Maximilian’s monument.  His wife was so much tired and worn-out, that she heartily rejoiced in having provided him with such a good little companion, though she was disappointed at being obliged to fail him, and get what rest she could at the hotel.  But then, as she told him, if he learnt his way about it now, he would be able to show it all to her when they had both gained strength at Ratzes.

Bertha had obtained full instructions and a welcome for them from Mrs. Bury, a kindly person, who, having married off her children while still in full health and vigour, remained at the service of any relation who needed her, and in the meantime resorted to out-of-the-way places abroad.

The railway took them to Botzen, which was hotter still, and thence on to Castelruth, whence there was no means of reaching Ratzes but by mule or chaise à porteux.  Both alike were terrible to poor Mary; however, she made up her mind to the latter, and all the long way was to her a dream of terror and discomfort, and of trying to admire—what she knew she ought to admire—the wonderful pinnacle-like aiguilles of the Schern cleaving the air.  For some time the way lay over the great plateau of the Scisser Alp—a sea of rich grass, full of cattle, where her husband and niece kept on trying to bring their mules alongside of her to make her participate in their ecstasy, and partake of their spoils—mountain pink, celestially blue gentian, brilliant poppy, or the like.  Here the principal annoyance was that their mules were so obstinately bent on not approaching her that she was in constant alarm for them, while Constance was absolutely wild with delight, and even grave Frank was exhilarated by the mountain air into boyish spirits, such as impressed her, though she resolutely prevented herself from lowering them by manifesting want of sympathy, though the aiguilles that they admired seemed to her savage, and the descent, along a perilous winding road, cut out among precipices, horrified her—on, on, through endless pine forests, where the mules insisted on keeping her in solitude, and where nothing could be seen beyond the rough jolting path.  At last, when a whole day had gone by, and even Constance sat her mule in silence and looked very tired, the fir trees grew more scanty.  The aiguilles seemed in all their wildness to be nodding overhead; there was a small bowling-green, a sort of châlet in two divisions, united by a gallery: but Mary saw no more, for at that moment a loose slippery stone gave way, and the bearers stumbled and fell, dragging the chair so that it tipped over.

Constance, who had ridden on in front with her uncle, first heard a cry of dismay, and as both leaped off and rushed back, they saw her aunt had fallen, and partly entangled in the chair.

‘Do not touch her!’ cried Frank, forgetting that he could not be understood, and raising her in his arms, as the chair was withdrawn; but she did not speak or move, and there was a distressing throng and confusion of strange voices, seeming to hem them in as Constance looked round, unable to call up a single word of German, or to understand the exclamations.  Then, as she always said, it was like an angel’s voice that said, ‘What is it?’ as through the crowd came a tall lady in a white hat and black gown, and knelt down by the prostrate figure, saying, ‘I hope she is only stunned; let us carry her in.  It will be better to let her come round there.’

The lady gave vigorous aid, and, giving a few orders in German, helped Lord Northmoor to carry the inanimate form into the hotel, a low building of stone, with a high-pitched shingle roof.  Constance followed in a bewilderment of fright, together with Lenchen, the Swiss maid, who, as well as could be made out, was declaring that a Swiss bearer never made a false step.

Lady Northmoor was carried into a bedroom, and Constance was shut out into a room that photographed itself on her memory, even in that moment—a room like a box, with a rough table, a few folding-chairs, an easel, water-coloured drawings hung about in all directions, a big travelling-case, a few books, a writing-case, Mrs. Bury’s sitting-room in fact, which, as a regular sojourner, she had been able to secure and furnish after her need.  From the window, tall, narrow, latticed, with a heavy outside shutter, she saw a village green, a little church with a sharp steeple, and pointed-roof houses covered with shingle, groups of people, a few in picturesque Tyrolese costume, but others in the ordinary badly cut edition of cosmopolitan human nature.  There was a priest in a big hat and white bordered bands discussing a newspaper with a man with a big red umbrella; a party drinking coffee under a pine tree, and beyond, those strange wild pointed aiguilles pointing up purple and red against the sky.

How delightful it would all have been if this quarter of an hour could be annihilated!  She could find out nothing.  Lenchen and the good-natured-looking landlady came in and out and fetched things, but they never stayed long enough to give her any real information, the landlady shouting for ‘Hemzel,’ etc., and Lenchen calling loudly in German for the boxes, which had been slung on mules.  She heard nothing definite till her uncle came out, looking pale and anxious.

‘She is better now,’ he said, with a gasp of relief, throwing himself into a chair, and holding out his hand to Constance, who could hardly frame her question.  ‘Yes, quite sensible—came round quickly.  The blow on the head seems to be of no consequence; but there may be a strain, or it may be only the being worn out and overdone.  They are going to undress her and put her to bed now.  Mrs. Bury is kindness itself.  I did not look after her enough on that dreadful road.’

‘Isn’t there a doctor?’ Constance ventured to ask.

‘No such thing within I know not how many miles of these paths!  But Mrs. Bury seems to think it not likely to be needed.  Over-fatigue and the shake!  What was I about?  This air and all the rest were like an intoxication, making me forget my poor Mary!’

He passed his hand over his face with a gesture as if he were very much shocked and grieved at himself, and Constance suggested that it was all the mule’s fault, and Aunt Mary never complained.

‘The more reason she should not have been neglected,’ he said; and it was well for the excluded pair that just then the boxes were reported as arrived, and he was called on for the keys, so that wild searching for things demanded occupied them.

After a considerable time, Mrs. Bury came and told Lord Northmoor that he might go and look at his wife for a few moments, but that she must be kept perfectly quiet and not talked to or agitated.  Constance was not to go in at all, but was conducted off by the good lady to her own tiny room, to get herself ready for the much-needed meal that was imminent.

They met again in the outer room.  There was a great Speise saal, a separate building, where the bathers dived en masse; but since Mrs. Bury had made the place her haunt, she had led to the erection of an additional building where there was a little accommodation for the travellers of the better class who had of late discovered the glories of the Dolomites, though the baths were scarcely ever used except by artizans and farmers.  She had this sitting-room chiefly made at her own expense with these few comforts, in the way of easy folding-chairs, a vase of exquisite flowers on the table, a few delicate carvings, an easel, and drawings of the mountain peaks and ravines suspended everywhere.

Besides this there were only the bedrooms, as small as they well could be.

They were summoned down to the evening meal, and the maid Lenchen was left with Lady Northmoor.  There was only one other guest, a spectacled and rather silent German, and Constance presently gathered that Mrs. Bury was trying to encourage and inspirit Lord Northmoor, but seemed to think there might be some delay before a move would be possible.

They sent her to bed, for she was really very tired after the long walk and ride, and she could not help sleeping soundly; but the first thing she heard in the morning was that the guide had been desired to send a doctor from Botzen, and the poor child spent a dreary morning of anxiety with nothing to do but to watch the odd figures disporting themselves or resting in the shade after their baths, to try a little sketching and a little letter-writing, but she was too restless and anxious to get on with either.

All the comfort she got was now and then Mrs. Bury telling her that she need not be frightened, and giving her a book to read; and after the midday meal her uncle was desired by Mrs. Bury, who had evidently assumed the management of him, to take the child out walking, for the doctor could not come for hours, and Lady Northmoor had better be left to sleep.

So they wandered out into the pinewoods, preoccupied and silent, gazing along the path, as if that would hasten the doctor.  Constance had perceived that questions were discouraged, and did her best to keep from being troublesome by trying to busy herself with a bouquet of mountain flowers.

The little German doctor came so late that he had to remain all night, but his coming, as well as that of a brisk American brother and sister, seemed to have cheered things up a good deal.  Mrs. Bury talked to the German, and the Americans asked so many questions that answering them made things quite lively.  Indeed, Constance was allowed to wish her aunt good-night, and seeing her look just like herself on her pillows, much relieved her mind.

CHAPTER XX
RATZES

Things began to fall into their regular course at Ratzes, Lady Northmoor was in a day or two able to come into Mrs. Bury’s sitting-room for a few hours every day; but there she lay on a folding chaise-longue that had been arranged for her, languid but bright, reading, working, looking at Mrs. Bury’s drawings, and keeping the diary of the adventures of the others.

Her husband would fain never have left her, but he had to take his baths.  These were in the lower story of the larger châlet.  They were taken in rows of pinewood boxes in the vault.  He muttered that it felt very like going alive into his coffin, when, like others, he laid himself down in the rust-coloured liquid, ‘each in his narrow cell’ in iron ‘laid,’ with his head on a shelf, and a lid closing up to his chin, and he was uncheered by conversation, as all the other patients were Austrians of the lower middle class, and their Tyrolean dialect would have been hard to understand even by German scholars.  However, the treatment certainly did him good, and entirely drove away his neuralgia, he walked, rode, and climbed a good deal with Constance and a lad attached to the establishment, whose German Constance could just understand.  And while he stayed with his wife, Mrs. Bury took Constance out, showed her many delights, helped her crude notions of drawing, and being a good botanist herself, taught the whole party fresh pleasures in the wonderful flora of the Dolomites.

Now and then an English traveller appeared, and Lord Northmoor was persuaded to join in expeditions for his niece’s sake, that took them away for a night or two.  Thus they saw Caprile Cadore, St. Ulrich, that town of toys, full of dolls of every tone, spotted wooden horses, carts, and the like.  They beheld the tall points of Monte Serrata, and the wonderful ‘Horse Teeth,’ with many more such marvels; and many were the curiosities they brought back, and the stories they had to tell, with regrets that Aunt Mary had not been there to enjoy and add to their enjoyment.

So the days went on, and the end of Constance’s holidays was in view, the limit that had been intended for the Kur at Ratzes; but Aunt Mary had not been out of doors since their arrival, and seemed fit for nothing save lying by the window.

Constance had begun to wonder what would be done, when she was told that a good-natured pair of English travellers, like herself bound to school terms, would escort her safely to London and see her into the train for Colbeam, just in time for the High School term.

‘This will be the best way,’ said her aunt, kissing her.  ‘You have been a dear good girl, Conny, and a great pleasure and comfort to us both.’

‘Oh, auntie, I have not done anything, Mrs. Bury has done it all.’

‘Mrs. Bury is most kind, unspeakably kind, but, my dear dear girl, your companionship has been so much to your dear uncle that I have been most thankful to you.  Always recollect, dearest Conny, you can be more comfort to your uncle than anybody else, whatever may come.  You will always be a good girl and keep up your tone, and make him your great consideration—after higher things; promise me.’

‘Oh yes, indeed, auntie dear,’ said the girl, somewhat frightened and bewildered as the last kisses and good-byes were exchanged.  Since the travellers were to start very early the next morning on their mules for Botzen, whither Mrs. Bury meant to accompany them in order to make some purchases, Lord Northmoor went with the party to the limits of his walking powers, and on the slope of the Alp, amid the fir-woods, took his leave, Mrs. Bury telling him cheerfully that she should return the next day, while he said that he could not thank her enough.  He bade farewell to his niece, telling her that he hoped she would by and by be spending her holidays at Northmoor if all went well.

Constance had begun to grow alarmed, and watched for an opportunity of imploring Mrs. Bury to tell her whether Aunt Mary were really very ill.

Mrs. Bury laughed, and confided to her a secret, which made her at once glad, alarmed, and important.

‘Oh, and is no one to know?’ said little Constance, with rosy cheeks.

‘Not till leave is given,’ said Mrs. Bury.  ‘You see there is still so much risk of things going wrong, that they both wish nothing to be said at present.  I thought they had spoken to you.’

‘Oh no.  But—but—’ and Constance could not go on, as her eyes filled with tears.

‘Is there special cause for anxiety, you mean, my dear?  Hardly for her, though it was unlucky that she was as unknowing as you, and I don’t see how she is to be taken over these roads into a more civilised place.  But I shall stay on and see them through with it, and I daresay we shall do very well.  I am used enough to looking after my own daughters, and nobody particularly wants me at home.’

‘That’s what Aunt Mary meant by saying you were so very good!’

‘Well, it would be sheer inhumanity to leave them to themselves, and the mercies of Ratzes, and there seems to be no one else that could come.’

‘I’m glad I know!’ said Constance, with a long breath.  ‘Only what shall I do if any one asks me about her?’

‘Say she had a nasty fall, which makes it undesirable to move her just yet.  It is the simple truth, and what you would have naturally said but for this little communication of mine.’

‘I suppose,’ said Constance, in a tone Mrs. Bury did not understand, ‘it will be all known before my Christmas holidays?’

‘Oh yes, my dear, long before that.  I’ll write to you when I have anything to tell.’

For which Constance thanked her heartily, and thenceforth felt a great deal older for the confidence, which delighted as well as made her anxious, for she was too fond of her uncle and aunt, as well as too young and simple, for it to have occurred to her how the matter might affect her brother.

After seeing much more on her road than she had done before, and won golden opinions from her escort for intelligence and obligingness, she was safely deposited in the train for Colbeam, without having gone home.

She had made up her mind to pass Sunday at her boarding-house, and was greatly surprised when Lady Adela called on Saturday to take her to Northmoor for the Sunday.

‘Now tell me about your uncle and aunt,’ the good lady began, when Constance was seated beside her.  ‘Yes, I have heard from Mrs. Bury, but I want to know whether the place is tolerably comfortable.’

‘Mrs. Bury has made it much better,’ said Constance.  ‘And it is so beautiful, no one would care for comfort who was quite well.’

‘And is your uncle well?  Has he got over his headaches?’ she asked solicitously.

In fact, the absence of Lord and Lady Northmoor had done more than their presence to make Lady Adela feel their value.  She was astonished to find how much she missed the power of referring to him and leaning on his support in all questions, small or great, that cropped up; and she had begun to feel that the stick might be a staff; besides which, having imbibed more than an inkling of the cause of detention, she was anxious to gather what she could of the circumstances.

She was agreeably surprised in Constance, to whom the journey had been a time of development from the mere school girl, and who could talk pleasantly, showing plenty of intelligence and observation in a modest ladylike way.  Moreover, she had a game in the garden which little Amice enjoyed extremely, and she and her little Sunday class were delighted to see one another again.  It resulted in her Sundays being spent at Northmoor as regularly as before, and in Amice, a companionless child, thinking Saturday brought the white afternoon of the week.

CHAPTER XXI
THE HEIR-APPARENT

‘My Dear Addie,

‘You have no doubt ceased from your exertions in the way of finding nurses, since the telegram has told you that the son and heir has considerately saved trouble and expense by making his appearance on Michaelmas morning.  It was before there was time to fetch anybody but the ancient village Bettina.  Everything is most prosperous, and I am almost as proud as the parents—and to see them gloat over the morsel is a caution.  They look at him as if such a being had never been known on the earth before; and he really is a very fine healthy creature, most ridiculously like the portrait of the original old Michael Morton Northmoor in the full-bottomed wig.  He seems to be almost equally marvellous to the Ratzes population, being the first infant seen there unswaddled—or washed.  Bettina’s horror at the idea of washing him is worth seeing.  Her brown old face was almost convulsed, and she and our Frau-wirthin concurred in assuring me that it would be fatal to der kleine baron if he were washed, except with white wine and milk at a fortnight old; nor would they accept my assurance that my three daughters and seven grandchildren had survived the process.  I have to do it myself, and dress him as I can, for his wardrobe as made here is not complete, and whatever you can send us will be highly acceptable.  It is lucky that Northmoor is a born nurse, for the women’s fear of breaking the child is really justifiable, as they never handled anything not made up into a mummy; moreover, they wish to let all the world up into Mary’s room to behold the curiosity, I met the priest upon his way and turned him back!  So we have pretty well all the nursing on our hands, and happily it is of the most satisfactory kind, with the one drawback that we have to call in the services of a ‘valia’; but on the other hand we have all been so much interested in a poor little widow, Hedwig Grantzen, whose husband was lost last spring in a snow-storm, that it is pleasant to have some employment for her.  Such a creature as came over on chance and speculation—a great coarse handsome girl, in exaggerated costume, all new, with lacy ribbons down her back; but I rode over to Botzen, and interviewed her parish priest about her, and that was enough to settle her.  Every one is asleep except myself, and Mary’s face is one smile as she sleeps.

‘This is going to be posted by the last of the tourists, luckily a clergyman, whom we begged to baptize the boy, as there is a possibility that snows may close us in before we can get away.

‘So he is named Michael Kenton, partly after my own dear brother as well as the old founder, partly in honour of the day and of Sir Edward Kenton, who, they say, has been their very kind friend.  It really is a feast to see people so wonderingly happy and thankful.  The little creature has all the zest of novelty to them, and they coo and marvel over it in perfect felicity.  When you will be introduced to the hero, I cannot guess, for though he has been an earlier arrival than his mother’s inexperience expected, I much doubt her being able to get out of this place while the way to Botzen is passable according to the prognostics of the sages.  What splendid studies of ice peaks I shall have!  Your affectionate cousin,

‘L. Bury.’

A telegram had preceded the letter.  One soon followed by Mrs. Bury’s promised note had filled Constance’s honest little heart with rapture, another had set all the bells in Northmoor Church ringing and Best rejoicing that ‘that there Harbut’s nose was put out of joint,’ a feeling wherein Lady Adela could not but participate, though, of course, she showed no sign of it to Constance.  A sharply-worded letter to the girl soon came from her mother, demanding what she had known beforehand.  Mrs. Morton had plainly been quite unprepared for what was a severe blow to her, and it was quite possible to understand how, in his shyness, Lord Northmoor had put off writing of the hope and expectation from day to day till all had been fulfilled sooner than had been expected.

It was the first thing that brought home to Constance that the event was scarcely as delightful to her family as to herself.  She wrote what she knew and heard no more, for none of her home family were apt to favour her with much correspondence.  Miss Morton, however, had written to her sister-in-law.

‘Poor Herbert!  I am sorry for him, though you won’t be.  He takes it very well, he really is a very good sort at bottom, and it really is the very best thing for him, as I have been trying to persuade him.’

Bulletins came with tolerable frequency from Ratzes, with all good accounts of mother and child, and a particular description of little Michael’s beauties; but it was only too soon announced that snow was falling, and this was soon followed by another letter saying that consultation with the best authorities within reach had decided that unless the weather were extraordinarily mild, the journey, after November set in, was not to be ventured by Lady Northmoor or so young a child.  There would be perils for any one, even the postmen and the guides, and if it were mild in one valley it might only render it more dangerous over the next Alp.  Still Mrs. Bury, a practised and enterprising mountaineer, might have attempted it; but though Mary was rapidly recovering and the language was no longer utterly impracticable, the good lady could not bear to desert her charges, or to think what might happen to them, if left alone, in case of illness or accident, so she devoted herself to them and to her studies of ice and snow, and wrote word to her family that they were to think of her as hibernating till Easter, if not Whitsuntide.