FROM CHAMOUNI TO GENEVA
One morning in September, a month after all this, three persons, a ladyand two gentlemen, stood on the upper step of the Couronne hotel, wavingfarewell with their handkerchiefs to a carriage which had just startedfrom the door and was gayly taking the road to St. Gervais-les-Bains, onthe way to Geneva.
A cool purple light stretched along the valley and reached up themountain side to where the eternal snows begin. The crown of Mont Blanc,muffled in its scarf of cloud, was invisible. The old monarch was inthat disdainful mood which sometimes lasts him for months together. Fromthose perilous heights came down a breath that chilled the air andtempered the sunshine falling upon Chamouni, now silent and deserted,for the season was well-nigh over. With the birds, their brothers, thesummer tourists had flown southward at the rustling of the firstautumnal leaf. Here and there a guide leaned idly against a post infront of one of the empty hotels. There was no other indication of lifein the main street save the little group we have mentioned watching thedeparting carriage.
This carriage, a maroon body set upon red and black wheels, was drawn byfour white horses and driven by the marquis. The doctor had prescribedwhite horses, and he took great credit to himself that morning as hestood on the hotel steps beside Mr. and Mrs. Denham, who followed theretreating vehicle rather thoughtfully with their eyes until it turned acorner of the narrow street and was lost to them.
As the horses slackened their speed at an ascending piece of groundoutside the town, Lynde took Ruth's hand. The color of health hadreasserted itself in her cheeks, but her eyes had not lost a certaindepth of lustre which they had learned during her illness. The happylight in them illumined her face as she turned towards him.
"I don't believe a word of it!" cried Lynde. "It is just a dream, acheating page out of a fairy-book. These horses are simply four whitemice transformed. An hour ago, perhaps, this carriage was a pumpkinlying on the hearth of the hotel kitchen. The coachman is a good fairyin thin disguise of overcoat and false mustache. I am doubtful of evenyou. The whole thing is a delusion. It won't last, it can't last!Presently the wicked gnome that must needs dwell in a stalactite cavernsomewhere hereabouts will start up and break the enchantment."
"It will never be broken so long as you love me," said Ruth softly. Shesmiled at Lynde's fancy, though his words had by no means badlyexpressed her own sense of doubt in respect to the reality of it all.
Here the driver leaned forward, skilfully touching the ear of the off-leader with the tip of his lash, and the carriage rolled away in theblue September weather. And here our story ends--at the very point, ifwe understand it, where life began for those two.
THE END.
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