“Then, Kindchen?”
“Then it means that I may have a little thin layer of jam on my bread and butter. It won’t mean money—at least, I don’t think it will. A first book never does. But it will mean a future. It will mean that I will have something solid to stand on. It will be a real beginning—a breathing spell—time in which to accomplish something really worth while—independence—freedom from this tread-mill—”
“Stop!” cried Von Gerhard, sharply. Then, as I stared in surprise—“I do ask your pardon. I was again rude, nicht wahr? But in me there is a queer vein of German superstition that disapproves of air castles. Sich einbilden, we call it.”
The lights of the bay pavilion twinkled just ahead. The green car poked its nose up the path between rows of empty machines. At last it drew up, panting, before a vacant space between an imposing, scarlet touring car and a smart, cream-colored runabout. We left it there and walked up the light-flooded path.
Inside the great, barn-like structure that did duty as pavilion glasses clinked, chairs scraped on the wooden floor; a burst of music followed a sharp fusillade of applause. Through the open doorway could be seen a company of Tyrolese singers in picturesque costumes of scarlet and green and black. The scene was very noisy, and very bright, and very German.
“Not in there, eh?” said Von Gerhard, as though divining my wish. “It is too brightly lighted, and too noisy. We will find a table out here under the trees, where the music is softened by the distance, and our eyes are not offended by the ugliness of the singers. But inexcusably ugly they are, these Tyrolese women.”
We found a table within the glow of the pavilion’s lights, but still so near the lake that we could hear the water lapping the shore. A cadaverous, sandy-haired waiter brought things to eat, and we made brave efforts to appear hungry and hearty, but my high spirits were ebbing fast, and Von Gerhard was frankly distraught. One of the women singers appeared suddenly in the doorway of the pavilion, then stole down the steps, and disappeared in the shadow of the trees beyond our table. The voices of the singers ceased abruptly. There was a moment’s hushed silence. Then, from the shadow of the trees came a woman’s voice, clear, strong, flexible, flooding the night with the bird-like trill of the mountain yodel. The sound rose and fell, and swelled and soared. A silence. Then, in a great burst of melody the chorus of voices within the pavilion answered the call. Again a silence. Again the wonder of the woman’s voice flooded the stillness, ending in a note higher, clearer, sweeter than any that had gone before. Then the little Tyrolese, her moment of glory ended, sped into the light of the noisy pavilion again.
When I turned to Von Gerhard my eyes were wet. “I shall have that to remember, when you are gone.”
Von Gerhard beckoned the hovering waiter. “Take these things away. And you need not return.” He placed something in the man’s palm—something that caused a sudden whisking away of empty dishes, and many obsequious bows.
Von Gerhard’s face was turned away from me, toward the beauty of the lake and sky. Now, as the last flirt of the waiter’s apron vanished around the corner he turned his head slowly, and I saw that in his eyes which made me catch my breath with apprehension.