Then followed for young Lennan a strange time, when he never knew from minute to minute whether he was happy--always trying to be with her, restless if he could not be, sore if she talked with and smiled at others; yet, when he was with her, restless too, unsatisfied, suffering from his own timidity.
One wet morning, when she was playing the hotel piano, and he listening, thinking to have her to himself, there came a young German violinist--pale, and with a brown, thin-waisted coat, longish hair, and little whiskers--rather a beast, in fact.Soon, of course, this young beast was asking her to accompany him--as if anyone wanted to hear him play his disgusting violin! Every word and smile that she gave him hurt so, seeing how much more interesting than himself this foreigner was! And his heart grew heavier and heavier, and he thought: If she likes him I ought not to mind--only, I DO mind! How can I help minding? It was hateful to see her smiling, and the young beast bending down to her.And they were talking German, so that he could not tell what they were saying, which made it more unbearable.He had not known there could be such torture.
And then he began to want to hurt her, too.But that was mean--besides, how could he hurt her? She did not care for him.He was nothing to her--only a boy.If she really thought him only a boy, who felt so old--it would be horrible.It flashed across him that she might be playing that young violinist against him! No, she never would do that! But the young beast looked just the sort that might take advantage of her smiles.If only he WOULD do something that was not respectful, how splendid it would be to ask him to come for a walk in the woods, and, having told him why, give him a thrashing.Afterwards, he would not tell her, he would not try to gain credit by it.He would keep away till she wanted him back.
But suddenly the thought of what he would feel if she really meant to take this young man as her friend in place of him became so actual, so poignant, so horribly painful, that he got up abruptly and went towards the door.Would she not say a word to him before he got out of the room, would she not try and keep him? If she did not, surely it would be all over; it would mean that anybody was more to her than he.That little journey to the door, indeed, seemed like a march to execution.Would she not call after him?
He looked back.She was smiling.But HE could not smile; she had hurt him too much! Turning his head away, he went out, and dashed into the rain bareheaded.The feeling of it on his face gave him a sort of dismal satisfaction.Soon he would be wet through.
Perhaps he would get ill.Out here, far away from his people, she would have to offer to nurse him; and perhaps--perhaps in his illness he would seem to her again more interesting than that young beast, and then-- Ah! if only he could be ill!
He mounted rapidly through the dripping leaves towards the foot of the low mountain that rose behind the hotel.A trail went up there to the top, and he struck into it, going at a great pace.His sense of injury began dying away; he no longer wanted to be ill.
The rain had stopped, the sun came out; he went on, up and up.He would get to the top quicker than anyone ever had! It was something he could do better than that young beast.The pine-trees gave way to stunted larches, and these to pine scrub and bare scree, up which he scrambled, clutching at the tough bushes, terribly out of breath, his heart pumping, the sweat streaming into his eyes.He had no feeling now but wonder whether he would get to the top before he dropped, exhausted.He thought he would die of the beating of his heart; but it was better to die than to stop and be beaten by a few yards.He stumbled up at last on to the little plateau at the top.For full ten minutes he lay there on his face without moving, then rolled over.His heart had given up that terrific thumping; he breathed luxuriously, stretched out his arms along the steaming grass--felt happy.It was wonderful up here, with the sun burning hot in a sky clear-blue already.How tiny everything looked below--hotel, trees, village, chalets--little toy things! He had never before felt the sheer joy of being high up.
The rain-clouds, torn and driven in huge white shapes along the mountains to the South, were like an army of giants with chariots and white horses hurrying away.He thought suddenly: "Suppose Ihad died when my heart pumped so! Would it have mattered the least bit? Everything would be going on just the same, the sun shining, the blue up there the same; and those toy things down in the valley." That jealousy of his an hour ago, why--it was nothing--he himself nothing! What did it matter if she were nice to that fellow in the brown coat? What did anything matter when the whole thing was so big--and he such a tiny scrap of it?
On the edge of the plateau, to mark the highest point, someone had erected a rude cross, which jutted out stark against the blue sky.
