“Why on earth did you ask that question?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just wondered.”
She shook her head firmly. “Like you, I sometimes try to catch scenery with a sketchbook, just to help recall some of the various beautiful lighting effects I’ve seen but...” She laughed nervously and said, “The sketches are so crude that they couldn’t possibly convey meaning to anyone except me. I never let anyone see them... anyone.”
Merton Ostrander regarded her with smiling eyes. “I take it,” he said, “that definitely includes me.”
“Everyone means everyone,” Linda said.
“Fair enough,” Merton Ostrander told her, and started piloting the way up the trail.
Chapter 2
Ostrander kept up a running fire of comment about the people, their customs, the countryside and personalities. Trenton observed that Linda Carroll’s eyes sharpened with interest.
Ostrander, moreover, had natural talent as an actor, and as he described the various characters in the little village, occasionally mimicking a walk or a facial expression, he was able to portray the people about whom he talked in such a way that the individuals seemed actually to be before them.
The air was clear, crisp and cool. Linda seemed in no hurry and it was late afternoon when they returned to the inn. Marie, who waited on the dinner table, glided in and out of the room, a beautiful girl but apparently completely dazed by the sudden loss of her mother.
M. Charteux, on the other hand, seemed to accept the situation philosophically. Yet there was about the little hostelry an atmosphere of brooding grief which made itself manifest in an underlying silence. Whenever conversation lagged, the clock made its ticking instantly and triumphantly audible.
René Charteux reported that the car was now quite ready for the road and went to bed early. Marie followed after a few minutes, giving them all a courteous good night, but reserving for Merton Ostrander a worshipful glance as she quietly left the room.
The next morning Ostrander held them entertained until after breakfast, when Marie went to town to do some minor shopping and then to visit at the house of a friend. It was then that Ostrander casually, and with the calm assurance which should properly have been the prerogative only of an old friend, suggested that he’d like to ‘shove along” with them if they had the room.
Linda hesitated, then, after a swift glance at Rob, said, “I guess we could squeeze you in, but we’re leaving almost at once.”
“That suits me perfectly,” Ostrander said.
“But you’re... well, you said you were almost one of the family here. Won’t you want to wait and say good-by?”
Ostrander brushed the suggestion aside. “They know I have to leave some time. Frankly this atmosphere of gloom gets me down. As far as that’s concerned, it’s better to do it suddenly, get it over with and make a clean break. I loathe farewells.”
Rob Trenton, remembering that look which Marie Charteux had given Ostrander the night before, was surprised that Merton was so willing to leave the place before Marie returned. Linda Carroll, however, either noticed nothing out of the ordinary in Ostrander’s haste, or sympathized with him.
“Of course,” she confided to Rob, “I can understand his feelings. I hate farewells myself. And there’s a pall hanging over this place which you can cut with a knife. Even one night is enough for me. I’m sorry for them, but... after all...”
Rob merely nodded.
In fact Rob tried to delay their departure so that Marie would at least have a chance to return and say good-by to the man, who, according to his own admission, had become ‘one of the family”.
However, Ostrander appeared with his belongings all packed and with such suspicious alacrity that Rob Trenton felt certain the process had started the night before.
M. Charteux made no comment when he was advised that Ostrander was leaving. He seemed incapable of any emotion whatever, but lethargically went about the detail of computing the various bills. Ostrander paid his account, deposited his luggage on the roof and in the tonneau, until it seemed that the little car was overflowing with baggage, and hurriedly shook hands with his host, rattling out a farewell in French, patting the man’s shoulder. Then, as tears appeared in René Charteux’s eyes, Ostrander gave him a final clap on the back and climbed into the back seat of the little car.
He was apologetic. “Didn’t realize that I had so much stuff,” he explained, with that disarming smile of his, “but if you can get me across the border with it, I’ll express it to Marseilles and take the train.”
“You’re sailing from Marseilles?” Linda asked.
“Yes.”
“What ship?”
“Well, now,” he said good-naturedly, “that will depend largely on what cancellations show up. I’m getting back to the States on the first available ship.”
He made quite a ceremony of adjusting himself, doubling his long legs so that his knees seemed to be up under his chin, but quite obviously making no complaint. Rob Trenton assumed his customary position in the front seat, and the little car purred on up the grade with such smooth power that it seemed eager to get away from the inn and its atmosphere of tragedy.
From the back seat, Ostrander kept up a flow of conversation, pointing out little idiosyncrasies of the people, points of interest, bits of architecture which would otherwise have escaped them. Beyond question he was a very observing individual, with a penchant for pointing out and commenting on the quaint customs of a country.
By the time they stopped for lunch, Ostrander’s legs were badly cramped. He made a ludicrous show of being frozen into the position he had been forced to assume on the back seat, and so clever was his performance that even Rob was forced to laugh. However, the device had the desired effect and Linda insisted that he should alternate with Rob and sit in the front seat during the afternoon drive.
So Rob Trenton found himself once more in the back seat, packed in with Merton Ostrander’s collection of baggage, an attentive but enthusiastic audience, listening to Ostrander’s comments.
Having pointed out the manner in which the farmers built an inclined driveway up to the attic of the house, using it for storing hay, and thereby giving an insulation to the roof and the rooms below, Ostrander went on to comment about the distinctive Swiss cowbells.
Rob was forced to admit that Ostrander really scored a point with this subject. Even Rob was interested.
From time to time Linda stopped the car at Ostrander’s suggestion and they listened to the musical cadences drifting up from some hillside pasture, knee deep with lush green grass.
There was nothing harsh about these cowbells. They were designed to furnish a primitive rural harmony. From the deep, booming bell of the bull to the wistful little tinkle of the calf, the grazing cattle made a symphony of sound which seemed to blend with the natural beauty of the country.
Ostrander pointed out that not only did the matched cadences of the cowbells furnish a harmony which was pleasing to the ear, but it enabled the owner to identify each grazing animal by the particular pitch of the bell. Should one of the animals be missing, the owner could detect not only that fact, but by the missing note in the musical scale could immediately determine the identity of the truant.