My agony rose and rose with every moment of silence. But when it reached its height, and when, to save myself from bursting into tears, I threw myself on the ground, and began gnawing at the plants about me—then first came help: I had a certain experience, as the Puritans might have called it. I fear to build any definite conclusions upon it, from the dread of fanaticism and the danger of attributing a merely physical effect to a spiritual cause. But are matter and spirit so far asunder? It is my will moves my arm, whatever first moves my will. Besides, I do not understand how, unless another influence came into operation, the extreme of misery and depression should work round into such a change as I have to record.

But I do not know how to describe the change. The silence was crushing or rather sucking my life out of me—up into its own empty gulfs. The horror of the great stillness was growing deathly, when all at once I rose to my feet, with a sense of power and confidence I had never had before. It was as if something divine within me awoke to outface the desolation. I felt that it was time to act, and that I could act. There is no cure for terror like action: in a few moments I could have approached the verge of any precipice—at least without abject fear. The silence—no longer a horrible vacancy—appeared to tremble with unuttered thinkings. The manhood within me was alive and awake. I could not recognize a single landmark, or discover the least vestige of a path. I knew upon which hand the sun was when we started; and took my way with the sun on the other side. But a cloud had already come over him.

I had not gone far before I saw in front of me, on the other side of a little hillock, something like the pale blue grey fog that broods over a mountain lake. I ascended the hillock, and started back with a cry of dismay: I was on the very verge of an awful gulf. When I think of it, I marvel yet that I did not lose my self-possession altogether. I only turned and strode in the other direction—the faster for the fear. But I dared not run, for I was haunted by precipices. Over every height, every mound, one might be lying—a trap for my destruction. I no longer looked out in the hope of recognizing some feature of the country; I could only regard the ground before me, lest at any step I might come upon an abyss.

I had not walked far before the air began to grow dark. I glanced again at the sun. The clouds had gathered thick about him. Suddenly a mountain wind blew cold in my face. I never yet can read that sonnet of Shakspere's,

Full many a glorious morning I have seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with his disgrace,—

without recalling the gladness when I started from home and the misery that so soon followed. But my new spirits did not yet give way. I trudged on. The wind increased, and in it came by-and-by the trailing skirts of a cloud. In a few moments more I was wrapped in mist. It was as if the gulf from which I had just escaped had sent up its indwelling demon of fog to follow and overtake me. I dared hardly go on even with the greatest circumspection. As I grew colder, my courage declined. The mist wetted my face and sank through my clothes, and I began to feel very wretched, I sat down, not merely from dread of the precipices, but to reserve my walking powers when the mist should withdraw. I began to shiver, and was getting utterly hopeless and miserable when the fog lifted a little, and I saw what seemed a great rock near me. I crept towards it. Almost suddenly it dwindled, and I found but a stone, yet one large enough to afford me some shelter. I went to the leeward side of it, and nestled at its foot. The mist again sank, and the wind blew stronger, but I was in comparative comfort, partly because my imagination was wearied. I fell fast asleep.

I awoke stiff with cold. Rain was falling in torrents, and I was wet to the skin; but the mist was much thinner, and I could see a good way. For awhile I was very heartless, what with the stiffness, and the fear of having to spend the night on the mountains. I was hungry too, not with the appetite of desire but of need. The worst was that I had no idea in what direction I ought to go. Downwards lay precipices—upwards lay the surer loneliness. I knelt, and prayed the God who dwelt in the silence to help me; then strode away I knew not whither—up the hill in the faint hope of discovering some sign to direct me. As I climbed the hill rose. When I surmounted what had seemed the highest point, away beyond rose another. But the slopes were not over-steep, and I was able to get on pretty fast. The wind being behind me, I hoped for some shelter over the highest brow, but that, for anything I knew, might be miles away in the regions of ice and snow.



I had been walking I should think about an hour, when the mist broke away from around me, and the sun, in the midst of clouds of dull orange and gold, shone out upon the wet hill. It was like a promise of safety, and woke in me courage to climb the steep and crumbling slope which now lay before me. But the fear returned. People had died in the mountains of hunger, and I began to make up my mind to meet the worst. I had not learned that the approach of any fate is just the preparation for that fate. I troubled myself with the care of that which was not impending over me. I tried to contemplate the death-struggle with equanimity, but could not. Had I been wearier and fainter, it would have appeared less dreadful. Then, in the horror of the slow death of hunger, strange as it may appear, that which had been the special horror of my childish dreams returned upon me changed into a thought of comfort: I could, ere my strength failed me utterly, seek the verge of a precipice, lie down there, and when the suffering grew strong enough to give me courage, roll myself over the edge, and cut short the agony.

At length I gained the brow of the height, and at last the ground sank beyond. There was no precipice to terrify, only a somewhat steep descent into a valley large and wide. But what a vision arose on the opposite side of that valley!—an upright wilderness of rocks, slopes, precipices, snow, glaciers, avalanches! Weary and faint as I was, I was filled with a glorious awe, the terror of which was the opposite of fear, for it lifted instead of debasing the soul. Not a pine-tree softened the haggard waste; not a single stray sheep of the wind's flock drew one trail of its thin-drawn wool behind it; all was hard and bare. The glaciers lay like the skins of cruel beasts, with the green veins yet visible, nailed to the rocks to harden in the sun; and the little streams which ran down from their claws looked like the knife-blades they are, keen and hard and shining, sawing away at the bones of the old mountain. But although the mountain looked so silent, there came from it every now and then a thunderous sound. At first I could not think what it was, but gazing at its surface more steadily, upon the face of a slope I caught sight of what seemed a larger stream than any of the rest; but it soon ceased to flow, and after came the thunder of its fall: it was a stream, but a solid one—an avalanche. Away up in the air the huge snow-summit glittered in the light of the Afternoon sun. I was gazing on the Maiden in one of her most savage moods—or to speak prose—I was regarding one of the wildest aspects of the many-sided Jungfrau.

Half way down the hill, almost right under my feet, rose a slender column of smoke, I could not see whence. I hastened towards it, feeling as strong as when I started in the morning. I zig-zagged down the slope, for it was steep and slippery with grass, and arrived at length at a good-sized cottage, which faced the Jungfrau. It was built of great logs laid horizontally one above the other, all with notches half through near the end, by which notches, lying into each other, the sides of the house were held together at the corners. I soon saw it must be a sort of roadside inn. There was no one about the place, but passing through a dark vestibule, in which were stores of fodder and various utensils, I came to a room in which sat a mother and her daughter, the former spinning, the latter making lace on a pillow. In at the windows looked the great Jungfrau. The room was lined with planks; the floor was boarded; the ceiling, too, was of boards—pine-wood all around.

The women rose when I entered. I knew enough of German to make them understand my story, and had learned enough of their patois to understand them a little in return. They looked concerned, and the older woman passing her hands over my jacket, turned to her daughter and commenced a talk much too rapid and no doubt idiomatic for me to follow. It was in the end mingled with much laughter, evidently at some proposal of the mother. Then the daughter left the room, and the mother began to heap wood on the fire. In a few minutes the daughter returned, still laughing, with some garments, which the mother took from her. I was watching everything from a corner of the hearth, where I had seated myself wearily. The mother came up to me, and, without speaking, put something over my head, which I found to be a short petticoat such as the women wore; then told me I must take off my clothes, and have them dried at the fire. She laid other garments on a chair beside me.

'I don't know how to put them on,' I objected.

'Put on as many as you can,' she said laughing, 'and I will help you with the rest.'

I looked about. There was a great press in the room. I went behind it and pulled off my clothes; and having managed to put on some of the girl's garments, issued from my concealment. The kindly laughter was renewed, and mother and daughter busied themselves in arranging my apparel, evidently seeking to make the best of me as a girl, an attempt favoured by my pale face. When I seemed to myself completely arrayed, the girl said to her mother what I took to mean, 'Let us finish what we have begun;' and leaving the room, returned presently with the velvet collar embroidered with silver and the pendent chains which the women of most of the cantons wear, and put it on me, hooking the chains and leaving them festooned under my arms. The mother was spreading out my clothes before the fire to dry.

Neither was pretty, but both looked womanly and good. The daughter had the attraction of youth and bright eyes; the mother of goodwill and experience; but both were sallow, and the mother very wrinkled for what seemed her years.

'Now,' I said, summoning my German, 'you've almost finished your work. Make my short hair as like your long hair as you can, and then I shall be a Swiss girl.'

I was but a boy, and had no scruple concerning a bit of fun of which I might have been ashamed a few years later. The girl took a comb from her own hair and arranged mine. When she had finished, 'One girl may kiss another,' I said; and doubtless she understood me, for she returned my kiss with a fresh laugh. I sat down by the fire, and as its warmth crept into my limbs, I rejoiced over comforts which yesterday had been a matter of course.

Meantime they were busy getting me something to eat. Just as they were setting it on the table, however, a loud call outside took them both away. In a few moments two other guests entered, and then first I found myself ashamed of my costume. With them the mother re-entered, calling behind her, 'There's nobody at home; you must put the horses up yourself, Annel.' Then she moved the little table towards me, and proceeded to set out the meal.

'Ah! I see you have got something to eat,' said one of the strangers, in a voice I fancied I had heard before.

'Will you please to share it?' returned the woman, moving the table again towards the middle of the room.

I thought with myself that, if I kept silent, no one could tell I was not a girl; and, the table being finally adjusted, I moved my seat towards it. Meantime the man was helping his companion to take off her outer garments, and put them before the fire. I saw the face of neither until they approached the table and sat down. Great was my surprise to discover that the man was the same I had met in the wood on my way to Moldwarp Hall, and that the girl was Clara—a good deal grown—in fact, looking almost a woman. From after facts, the meeting became less marvellous in my eyes than it then appeared.

I felt myself in an awkward position—indeed, I felt almost guilty, although any notion of having the advantage of them never entered my head. I was more than half inclined to run out and help Annel with the horses, but I was very hungry, and not at all willing to postpone my meal, simple as it was—bread and butter, eggs, cheese, milk, and a bottle of the stronger wine of the country, tasting like a coarse sherry. The two—father and daughter evidently—talked about their journey, and hoped they should reach the Grindelwald without more rain.

'By the way,' said the gentleman, 'it's somewhere not far from here young Cumbermede is at school. I know Mr Forest well enough—used to know him, at least. We may as well call upon him.'

'Cumbermede,' said Clara; 'who is he?'

'A nephew of Mrs Wilson's—no, not nephew—second or third cousin—or something of the sort, I believe.—Didn't somebody tell me you met him at the Hall one day?'

'Oh, that boy—Wilfrid. Yes; I told you myself. Don't you remember what a bit of fun we had the night of the ball? We were shut out on the leads, you know.'

'Yes, to be sure, you did tell me. What sort of a boy is he?'

'Oh! I don't know. Much like other boys. I did think he was a coward at first, but he showed some pluck at last. I shouldn't wonder if he turns out a good sort of fellow! We were in a fix!'

'You're a terrible madcap, Clara! If you don't settle down as you grow, you'll be getting yourself into worse scrapes.'

'Not with you to look after me, papa dear,' answered Clara, smiling. 'It was the fun of cheating old Goody Wilson, you know!'

Her father grinned with his whole mouthful of teeth, and looked at her with amusement—almost sympathetic roguery, which she evidently appreciated, for she laughed heartily.

Meantime I was feeling very uncomfortable. Something within told me I had no right to overhear remarks about myself; and, in my slow way, I was meditating how to get out of the scrape.

'What a nice-looking girl that is!' said Clara, without lifting her eyes from her plate—'I mean for a Swiss, you know. But I do like the dress. I wish you would buy me a collar and chains like those, papa.'

'Always wanting to get something out of your old dad, Clara! Just like the rest of you, always wanting something—eh?'

'No, papa; it's you gentlemen always want to keep everything for yourselves. We only want you to share.'

'Well, you shall have the collar, and I shall have the chains.—Will that do?'

'Yes, thank you, papa,' she returned, nodding her head. 'Meantime, hadn't you better give me your diamond pin? It would fasten this troublesome collar so nicely!'

'There, child!' he answered, proceeding to take it from his shirt. 'Anything else?'

'No, no, papa dear. I didn't want it. I expected you, like everybody else, to decline carrying out your professed principles.'

'What a nice girl she is,' I thought, 'after all!'

'My love,' said her father, 'you will know some day that I would do more for you even than give you my pet diamond. If you are a good girl, and do as I tell you, there will be grander things than diamond pins in store for you. But you may have this if you like.'

He looked fondly at her as he spoke.

'Oh no, papa!—not now at least. I should not know what to do with it. I should be sure to lose it.'

If my clothes had been dry, I would have slipped away, put them on, and appeared in my proper guise. As it was, I was getting more and more miserable—ashamed of revealing who I was, and ashamed of hearing what the speakers supposed I did not understand. I sat on irresolute. In a little while, however, either the wine having got into my head, or the food and warmth having restored my courage, I began to contemplate the bolder stroke of suddenly revealing myself by some unexpected remark. They went on talking about the country, and the road they had come.

'But we have hardly seen anything worth calling a precipice,' said Clara.

'You'll see hundreds of them if you look out of the window,' said her father.

'Oh! but I don't mean that,' she returned. 'It's nothing to look at them like that. I mean from the top of them—to look down, you know.'

'Like from the flying buttress at Moldwarp Hall, Clara?' I said.

The moment I began to speak, they began to stare. Clara's hand was arrested on its way towards the bread, and her father's wine-glass hung suspended between the table and his lips. I laughed.

'By Jove!' said Mr Coningham—and added nothing, for amazement, but looked uneasily at his daughter, as if asking whether they had not said something awkward about me.

'It's Wilfrid!' exclaimed Clara, in the tone of one talking in her sleep. Then she laid down her knife, and laughed aloud.

'What a guy you are!' she exclaimed. 'Who would have thought of finding you in a Swiss girl? Really it was too bad of you to sit there and let us go on as we did. I do believe we were talking about your precious self! At least papa was.'

Again her merry laugh rang out. She could not have taken a better way of relieving us.

'I'm very sorry,' I said; 'but I felt so awkward in this costume that I couldn't bring myself to speak before. I tried very hard.'

'Poor boy!' she returned, rather more mockingly than I liked, her violets swimming in the dews of laughter.

By this time Mr Coningham had apparently recovered his self-possession. I say apparently, for I doubt if he had ever lost it. He had only, I think, been running over their talk in his mind to see if he had said anything unpleasant, and now, re-assured, I think, he stretched his hand across the table.

'At all events, Mr Cumbermede,' he said, 'we owe you an apology. I am sure we can't have said anything we should mind you hearing; but—'

'Oh!' I interrupted, 'you have told me nothing I did not know already, except that Mrs Wilson was a relation, of which I was quite ignorant.'

'It is true enough, though.'

'What relation is she, then?'

'I think, when I gather my recollections of the matter—I think she was first cousin to your mother—perhaps it was only second cousin.'

'Why shouldn't she have told me so, then?'

'She must explain that herself. I cannot account for that. It is very extraordinary.'

'But how do you know so well about me, sir—if you don't mind saying?'

'Oh! I am an old friend of the family. I knew your father better than your uncle, though. Your uncle is not over-friendly, you see.'

'I am sorry for that.'

'No occasion at all. I suppose he doesn't like me. I fancy, being a Methodist—'

'My uncle is not a Methodist, I assure you. He goes to the parish church regularly.'

'Oh! it's all one. I only meant to say that, being a man of somewhat peculiar notions, I supposed he did not approve of my profession. Your good people are just as ready as others, however, to call in the lawyer when they fancy their rights invaded. Ha! ha! But no one has a right to complain of another because he doesn't choose to like him. Besides, it brings grist to the mill. If everybody liked everybody, what would become of the lawsuits? And that would unsuit us—wouldn't it, Clara?'

'You know, papa dear, what mamma would say?'

'But she ain't here, you know.'

'But I am, papa; and I don't like to hear you talk shop,' said Clara coaxingly.

'Very well; we won't then. But I was only explaining to Mr Cumbermede how I supposed it was that his uncle did not like me. There was no offence in that, I hope, Mr Cumbermede?'

'Certainly not,' I answered. 'I am the only offender. But I was innocent enough as far as intention goes. I came in drenched and cold, and the good people here amused themselves dressing me like a girl. It is quite time I were getting home now. Mr Forest will be in a way about me. So will Charley Osborne.'

'Oh yes,' said Mr Coningham, 'I remember hearing you were at school together somewhere in this quarter. But tell us all about it. Did you lose your way?'

I told them my story. Even Clara looked grave when I came to the incident of finding myself on the verge of the precipice.

'Thank God, my boy!' said Mr Coningham kindly. 'You have had a narrow escape. I lost myself once in the Cumberland hills, and hardly got off with my life. Here it is a chance you were ever seen again, alive or dead. I wonder you're not knocked up.'

I was, however, more so than I knew.

'How are you going to get home?' he asked.

'I don't know any way but walking,' I answered.

'Are you far from home?'

'I don't know. I dare say the people here will be able to tell me. But I think you said you were going down into the Grindelwald. I shall know where I am there. Perhaps you will let me walk with you. Horses can't go very fast along these roads.'

'You shall have my horse, my boy.'

'No. I couldn't think of that.'

'You must. I haven't been wandering all day like you. You can ride, I suppose?'

'Yes, pretty well.'

'Then you shall ride with Clara, and I'll walk with the guide. I shall go and see after the horses presently.'

It was indeed a delightful close to a dreadful day. We sat and chatted a while, and then Clara and I went out to look at the Jungfrau. She told me they had left her mother at Interlaken, and had been wandering about the Bernese Alps for nearly a week.

'I can't think what should have put it in papa's head,' she added; 'for he does not care much for scenery. I fancy he wants to make the most of poor me, and so takes me the grand tour. He wanted to come without mamma, but she said we were not to be trusted alone. She had to give in when we took to horseback, though.'

It was getting late, and Mr Coningham came out to find us.

'It is quite time we were going,' he said. 'In fact we are too late now. The horses are ready, and your clothes are dry, Mr Cumbermede. I have felt them all over.'

'How kind of you, sir!' I said.

'Nonsense! Why should any one want another to get his death of cold? If you are to keep alive, it's better to keep well as long as ever you can. Make haste, though, and change your clothes.'

I hurried away, followed by Clara's merry laugh at my clumsy gait. In a few moments I was ready. Mr Coningham had settled my bill for me. Mother and daughter gave me a kind farewell, and I exhausted my German in vain attempts to let them know how grateful I was for their goodness. There was not much time, however, to spend even on gratitude. The sun was nearly down, and I could see Clara mounted and waiting for me before the window. I found Mr Coningham rather impatient.

'Come along, Mr Cumbermede; we must be off,' he said. 'Get up there.'

'You have grown, though, after all,' said Clara. 'I thought it might be only the petticoats that made you look so tall.'

I got on the horse which the guide, a half-witted fellow from the next valley, was holding for me, and we set out. The guide walked beside my horse, and Mr Coningham beside Clara's. The road was level for a little way, but it soon turned up on the hill where I had been wandering, and went along the steep side of it.

'Will this do for a precipice, Clara?' said her father.

'Oh! dear no,' she answered; 'it's not worth the name. It actually slopes outward.'

'Before we got down to the next level stretch it began again to rain. A mist came on, and we could see but a little way before us. Through the mist came the sound of the bells of the cattle upon the hill. Our guide trudged carefully but boldly on. He seemed to know every step of the way. Clara was very cool, her father a little anxious, and very attentive to his daughter, who received his help with a never-failing merry gratitude, making light of all annoyances. At length we came down upon the better road, and travelled on with more comfort.

'Look, Clara!' I said, 'will that do?'

'What is it?' she asked, turning her head in the direction in which I pointed.

On our right, through the veil, half of rain, half of gauzy mist, which filled the air, arose a precipice indeed—the whole bulk it was of the Eiger mountain, which the mist brought so near that it seemed literally to overhang the road. Clara looked up for a moment, but betrayed no sign of awe.

'Yes, I think that will do,' she said.

'Though you are only at the foot of it?' I suggested.

'Yes, though I am only at the foot of it,' she repeated.

'What does it remind you of?' I asked.

'Nothing. I never saw anything it could remind me of,' she answered.

'Nor read anything?'

'Not that I remember.'

'It reminds me of Mount Sinai in the Pilgrim's Progress. You remember Christian was afraid because the side of it which was next the wayside did hang so much over that he thought it would fall on his head.'

'I never read the Pilgrim's Progress,' she returned, in a careless if not contemptuous tone.

'Didn't you? Oh, you would like it so much!'

'I don't think I should. I don't like religious books.' 'But that is such a good story!'

'Oh! it's all a trap—sugar on the outside of a pill! The sting's in the tail of it. They're all like that. I know them.'

This silenced me, and for a while we went on without speaking.

The rain ceased; the mist cleared a little; and I began to think I saw some landmarks I knew. A moment more, and I perfectly understood where we were.

'I'm all right now, sir,' I said to Mr Coningham. 'I can find my way from here.'

As I spoke I pulled up and proceeded to dismount.

'Sit still,' he said. 'We cannot do better than ride on to Mr Forest's. I don't know him much, but I have met him, and in a strange country all are friends, I dare say he will take us in for the night. Do you think he could house us?'

'I have no doubt of it. For that matter, the boys could crowd a little.'

'Is it far from here?'

'Not above two miles, I think.'

'Are you sure you know the way?'

'Quite sure.'

'Then you take the lead.'

I did so. He spoke to the guide, and Clara and I rode on in front.

'You and I seem destined to have adventures together, Clara,' I said.

'It seems so. But this is not so much of an adventure as that night on the leads,' she answered.

'You would not have thought so if you had been with me in the morning.'

'Were you very much frightened?'

'I was. And then to think of finding you!'

'It was funny, certainly.'

When we reached the house, there was great jubilation over me, but Mr Forest himself was very serious. He had not been back more than half an hour, and was just getting ready to set out again, accompanied by men from the village below. Most of the boys were quite knocked up, for they had been looking for me ever since they missed me. Charley was in a dreadful way. When he saw me he burst into tears, and declared he would never let me go out of his sight again. But if he had been with me, it would have been death to both of us: I could never have got him over the ground.

Mr and Mrs Forest received their visitors with the greatest cordiality, and invited them to spend a day or two with them, to which, after some deliberation, Mr Coningham agreed.



CHAPTER XVIII.

AGAIN THE ICE-CAVE.

The next morning he begged a holiday for me and Charley, of whose family he knew something, although he was not acquainted with them. I was a little disappointed at Charley's being included in the request, not in the least from jealousy, but because I had set my heart on taking Clara to the cave in the ice, which I knew Charley would not like. But I thought we could easily arrange to leave him somewhere near until we returned. I spoke to Mr Coningham about it, who entered into my small scheme with the greatest kindness. Charley confided to me afterwards that he did not take to him—he was too like an ape, he said. But the impression of his ugliness had with me quite worn off; and for his part, if I had been a favourite nephew, he could not have been more complaisant and hearty.

I felt very stiff when we set out, and altogether not quite myself; but the discomfort wore off as we went. Charley had Mr Coningham's horse, and I walked by the side of Clara's, eager after any occasion, if but a pretence, of being useful to her. She was quite familiar with me, but seemed shy of Charley. He looked much more of a man than I; for not only, as I have said, had he grown much during his illness, but there was an air of troubled thoughtfulness about him which made him look considerably older than he really was; while his delicate complexion and large blue eyes had a kind of mystery about them that must have been very attractive.

When we reached the village, I told Charley that we wanted to go on foot to the cave, and hoped he would not mind waiting our return. But he refused to be left, declaring he should not mind going in the least; that he was quite well now, and ashamed of his behaviour on the former occasion; that, in fact, it must have been his approaching illness that caused it. I could not insist, and we set out. The footpath led us through fields of corn, with a bright sun overhead, and a sweet wind blowing. It was a glorious day of golden corn, gentle wind, and blue sky—with great masses of white snow, whiter than any cloud, held up in it.

We descended the steep bank; we crossed the wooden bridge over the little river; we crunched under our feet the hail-like crystals lying rough on the surface of the glacier; we reached the cave, and entered its blue abyss. I went first into the delicious, yet dangerous-looking blue. The cave had several sharp angles in it. When I reached the furthest corner I turned to look behind me. I was alone. I walked back and peeped round the last corner. Between that and the one beyond it stood Clara and Charley—staring at each other with faces of ghastly horror.

Clara's look certainly could not have been the result of any excess of imagination. But many women respond easily to influences they could not have originated. My conjecture is that the same horror had again seized upon Charley when he saw Clara; that it made his face, already deathlike, tenfold more fearful; that Clara took fright at his fear, her imagination opening like a crystal to the polarized light of reflected feeling; and thus they stood in the paralysis of a dismay which ever multiplied itself in the opposed mirrors of their countenances.

I too was in terror—for Charley, and certainly wasted no time in speculation. I went forward instantly, and put an arm round each. They woke up, as it were, and tried to laugh. But the laugh was worse than the stare. I hurried them out of the place.

We came upon Mr Coningham round the next corner, amusing himself with the talk of the half-silly guide.

'Where are you going?' he asked.

'Out again,' I answered. 'The air is oppressive.'

'Nonsense!' he said merrily. 'The air is as pure as it is cold. Come, Clara; I want to explore the penetralia of this temple of Isis.'

I believe he intended a pun.

Clara turned with him; Charley and I went out into the sunshine.

'You should not have gone, Charley. You have caught a chill again,' I said.

'No, nothing of the sort,' he answered. 'Only it was too dreadful. That lovely face! To see it like that—and know that is what it is coming to!'

'You looked as horrid yourself,' I returned.

'I don't doubt it. We all did. But why?'

'Why, just because of the blueness,' I answered.

'Yes—the blueness, no doubt. That was all. But there it was, you know.'

Clara came out smiling. All her horror had vanished. I was looking into the hole as she turned the last corner. When she first appeared, her face was 'like one that hath been seven days drowned;' but as she advanced, the decay thinned, and the life grew, until at last she stepped from the mouth of the sepulchre in all the glow of her merry youth. It was a dumb show of the resurrection.

As we went back to the inn, Clara, who was walking in front with her father, turned her head and addressed me suddenly.

'You see it was all a sham, Wilfrid!' she said.

'What was a sham? I don't know what you mean,' I rejoined.

'Why that,' she returned, pointing with her hand. Then addressing her father, 'Isn't that the Eiger,' she asked—'the same we rode under yesterday?'

'To be sure it is,' he answered.

She turned again to me.

'You see it is all a sham! Last night it pretended to be on the very edge of the road and hanging over our heads at an awful height. Now it has gone a long way back, is not so very high, and certainly does not hang over. I ought not to have been satisfied with that precipice. It took me in.'

I did not reply at once. Clara's words appeared to me quite irreverent, and I recoiled from the very thought that there could be any sham in nature; but what to answer her I did not know. I almost began to dislike her; for it is often incapacity for defending the faith they love which turns men into persecutors.

Seeing me foiled, Charley advanced with the doubtful aid of a sophism to help me.

'Which is the sham, Miss Clara?' he asked.

'That Eiger mountain there.'

'Ah! so I thought.'

'Then you are of my opinion, Mr Osborne?'

'You mean the mountain is shamming, don't you—looking far off when really it is near?'

'Not at all. When it looked last night as if it hung right over our heads, it was shamming. See it now—far away there!'

'But which, then, is the sham, and which is the true? It looked near yesterday, and now it looks far away. Which is which?'

'It must have been a sham yesterday; for although it looked near, it was very dull and dim, and you could only see the sharp outline of it.'

'Just so I argue on the other side. The mountain must be shamming now, for although it looks so far off, it yet shows a most contradictory clearness—not only of outline but of surface.'

'Aha!' thought I, 'Miss Clara has found her match. They both know he is talking nonsense, yet she can't answer him. What she was saying was nonsense too, but I can't answer it either—not yet.'

I felt proud of both of them, but of Charley especially, for I had had no idea he could be so quick.

'What ever put such an answer into your head, Charley?' I exclaimed.

'Oh! it's not quite original,' he returned. 'I believe it was suggested by two or three lines I read in a review just before we left home. They took hold of me rather.'

He repeated half of the now well-known little poem of Shelley, headed Passage of the Apennines. He had forgotten the name of the writer, and it was many years before I fell in with the lines myself.

'The Apennine in the light of day Is a mighty mountain dim and gray, Which between the earth and sky doth lay; But when night comes, a chaos dread On the dim starlight then is spread, And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm.'

In the middle of it I saw Clara begin to titter, but she did not interrupt him. When he had finished, she said with a grave face, too grave for seriousness:

'Will you repeat the third line—I think it was, Mr Osborne?'

He did so.

'What kind of eggs did the Apennine lay, Mr Osborne?' she asked, still perfectly serious.

Charley was abashed to find she could take advantage of probably a provincialism to turn into ridicule such fine verses. Before he could recover himself, she had planted another blow' or two.

'And where is its nest?' Between the earth and the sky is vague. But then to be sure it must want a good deal of room. And after all, a mountain is a strange fowl, and who knows where it might lay? Between earth and sky is quite definite enough? Besides, the bird-nesting boys might be dangerous if they knew where it was. It would be such a find for them!'

My champion was defeated. Without attempting a word in reply, he hung back and dropped behind. Mr Coningham must have heard the whole, but he offered no remark. I saw that Charley's sensitive nature was hurt, and my heart was sore for him.

'That's too bad of you, Clara,' I said.

'What's too bad of me, Wilfrid?' she returned.

I hesitated a moment, then answered—

'To make game of such verses. Any one with half a soul must see they were fine.'

'Very wrong of you, indeed, my dear,' said Mr Coningham from behind, in a voice that sounded as if he were smothering a laugh; but when I looked round, his face was grave.

'Then I suppose that half soul I haven't got,' returned Clara.

'Oh! I didn't mean that,' I said, lamely enough. 'But there's no logic in that kind of thing, you know.'

'You see, papa,' said Clara, 'what you are accountable for. Why didn't you make them teach me logic?'

Her father smiled a pleased smile. His daughter's naivete would in his eyes make up for any lack of logic.

'Mr Osborne,' continued Clara, turning back, 'I beg your pardon. I am a woman, and you men don't allow us to learn logic. But at the same time you must confess you were making a bad use of yours. You know it was all nonsense you were trying to pass off on me for wisdom.'

He was by her side the instant she spoke to him. A smile grew upon his face; I could see it growing, just as you see the sun growing behind a cloud. In a moment it broke out in radiance.

'I confess,' he said. 'I thought you were too hard on Wilfrid; and he hadn't anything at hand to say for himself.'

'And you were too hard upon me, weren't you? Two to one is not fair play—is it now?'

'No; certainly not.'

'And that justified a little false play on my part?'

'No, it did not,' said Charley, almost fiercely. 'Nothing justifies false play.'

'Not even yours, Mr Osborne?' replied Clara, with a stately coldness quite marvellous in one so young; and leaving him, she came again to my side. I peeped at Mr Coningham, curious to see how he regarded all this wrangling with his daughter. He appeared at once amused and satisfied. Clara's face was in a glow, clearly of anger at the discourteous manner in which Charley had spoken.

'You mustn't be angry with Charley, Clara,' I said.

'He is very rude,' she replied indignantly.

'What he said was rude, I allow, but Charley himself is anything but rude. I haven't looked at him, but I am certain he is miserable about it already.'

'So he ought to be. To speak like that to a lady, when her very friendliness put her off her guard! I never was treated so in all my life.'

She spoke so loud that she must have meant Charley to hear her. But when I looked back, I saw that he had fallen a long way behind, and was coming on very slowly, with dejected look and his eyes on the ground. Mr Coningham did not interfere by word or sign.

When we reached the inn he ordered some refreshment, and behaved to us both as if we were grown men. Just a touch of familiarity was the sole indication that we were not grown men. Boys are especially grateful for respect from their superiors, for it helps them to respect themselves; but Charley sat silent and gloomy. As he would not ride back, and Mr Coningham preferred walking too, I got into the saddle and rode by Clara's side.

As we approached the house, Charley crept up the other side of Clara's horse, and laid his hand on his mane. When he spoke Clara started, for she was looking the other way and had not observed his approach.

'Miss Clara,' he said, 'I am very sorry I was so rude. Will you forgive me?'

Instead of being hard to reconcile, as I had feared from her outburst of indignation, she leaned forward and laid her hand on his. He looked up in her face, his own suffused with a colour I had never seen in it before. His great blue eyes lightened with thankfulness, and began to fill with tears. How she looked, I could not see. She withdrew her hand, and Charley dropped behind again. In a little while he came up to my side, and began talking. He soon got quite merry, but Clara in her turn was silent.

I doubt if anything would be worth telling but for what comes after. History itself would be worthless but for what it cannot tell, namely, its own future. Upon this ground my reader must excuse the apparent triviality of the things I am now relating.

When we were alone in our room that night—for ever since Charley's illness we two had had a room to ourselves—Charley said,

'I behaved like a brute this morning, Wilfrid.'

'No, Charley; you were only a little rude from being over-eager. If she had been seriously advocating dishonesty, you would have been quite right to take it up so; and you thought she was.'

'Yes; but it was very silly of me. I dare say it was because I had been so dishonest myself just before. How dreadful it is that I am always taking my own side, even when I do what I am ashamed of in another! I suppose I think I have got my horse by the head, and the other has not.'

'I don't know. That may be it,' I answered. 'I'm afraid I can't think about it to-night, for I don't feel well. What if it should be your turn to nurse me now, Charley?'

He turned quite pale, his eyes opened wide, and he looked at me anxiously.

Before morning I was aching all over: I had rheumatic fever.



CHAPTER XIX.

CHARLEY NURSES ME.

I saw no more of Clara. Mr Coningham came to bid me good-bye, and spoke very kindly. Mr Forest would have got a nurse for me, but Charley begged so earnestly to be allowed to return the service I had done for him that he yielded.

I was in great pain for more than a week. Charley's attentions were unremitting. In fact he nursed me more like a woman than a boy; and made me think with some contrition how poor my ministrations had been. Even after the worst was over, if I but moved, he was at my bedside in a moment. Certainly no nurse could have surpassed him. I could bear no one to touch me but him: from any one else I dreaded torture; and my medicine was administered to the very moment by my own old watch, which had been brought to do its duty at least respectably.

One afternoon, finding me tolerably comfortable, he said, 'Shall I read something to you, Wilfrid?'

He never called me Willie, as most of my friends did.

'I should like it,' I answered.

'What shall I read?' he asked.

'Hadn't you something in your head,' I rejoined, 'when you proposed it?'

'Well, I had; but I don't know if you would like it.'

'What did you think of, then?'

'I thought of a chapter in the New Testament.'

'How could you think I should not like that?'

'Because I never saw you say your prayers.'

'That is quite true. But you don't think I never say my prayers, although you never see me do it?'

The fact was, my uncle, amongst his other peculiarities, did not approve of teaching children to say their prayers. But he did not therefore leave me without instruction in the matter of praying—either the idlest or the most availing of human actions. He would say, 'When you want anything, ask for it, Willie; and if it is worth your having, you will have it. But don't fancy you are doing God any service by praying to him. He likes you to pray to him because he loves you, and wants you to love him. And whatever you do, don't go saying a lot of words you don't mean. If you think you ought to pray, say your Lord's Prayer, and have done with it.' I had no theory myself on the matter; but when I was in misery on the wild mountains, I had indeed prayed to God; and had even gone so far as to hope, when I got what I prayed for, that he had heard my prayer.

Charley made no reply.

'It seems to me better that sort of thing shouldn't be seen, Charley,' I persisted.

'Perhaps, Wilfrid; but I was taught to say my prayers regularly.' 'I don't think much of that either,' I answered. 'But I've said a good many prayers since I've been here, Charley. I can't say I'm sure it's of any use, but I can't help trying after something—I don't know what—something I want, and don't know how to get.'

'But it's only the prayer of faith that's heard—do you believe, Wilfrid?'

'I don't know. I daren't say I don't. I wish I could say I do. But I dare say things will be considered.'

'Wouldn't it be grand if it was true, Wilfrid?'

'What, Charley?'

'That God actually let his creatures see him—and—all that came of it, you know?'

'It would be grand indeed! But supposing it true, how could we be expected to believe it like them that saw him with their own eyes? I couldn't be required to believe just as if I could have no doubt about it. It wouldn't be fair. Only—perhaps we haven't got the clew by the right end.'

'Perhaps not. But sometimes I hate the whole thing. And then again I feel as if I must read all about it; not that I care for it exactly, but because a body must do something—because—I don't know how to say it—because of the misery, you know.'

'I don't know that I do know—quite. But now you have started the subject, I thought that was great nonsense Mr Forest was talking about the authority of the Church the other day.'

'Well, I thought so, too. I don't see what right they have to say so and so, if they didn't hear him speak. As to what he meant, they may be right or they may be wrong. If they have the gift of the Spirit, as they say—how am I to tell they have? All impostors claim it as well as the true men. If I had ever so little of the same gift myself, I suppose I could tell; but they say no one has till he believes—so they may be all humbugs for anything I can possibly tell; or they may be all true men, and yet I may fancy them all humbugs, and can't help it.'

I was quite as much astonished to hear Charley talk in this style as some readers will be doubtful whether a boy could have talked such good sense. I said nothing, and a silence followed.

'Would you like me to read to you, then?' he asked.

'Yes, I should; for, do you know, after all, I don't think there's anything like the New Testament.'

'Anything like it!' he repeated. 'I should think not! Only I wish I did know what it all meant. I wish I could talk to my father as I would to Jesus Christ if I saw him. But if I could talk to my father, he wouldn't understand me. He would speak to me as if I were the very scum of the universe for daring to have a doubt of what he told me.'

'But he doesn't mean himself,' I said.

'Well, who told him?'

'The Bible.'

'And who told the Bible?'

'God, of course.'

'But how am I to know that? I only know that they say so. Do you know, Wilfrid—I don't believe my father is quite sure himself, and that is what makes him in such a rage with anybody who doesn't think as he does. He's afraid it mayn't be true after all.'

I had never had a father to talk to, but I thought something must be wrong when a boy couldn't talk to his father. My uncle was a better father than that came to.

Another pause followed, during which Charley searched for a chapter to fit the mood. I will not say what chapter he found, for, after all, I doubt if we had any real notion of what it meant. I know, however, that there were words in it which found their way to my conscience; and, let men of science or philosophy say what they will, the rousing of a man's conscience is the greatest event in his existence. In such a matter, the consciousness of the man himself is the sole witness. A Chinese can expose many of the absurdities and inconsistencies of the English: it is their own Shakspere who must bear witness to their sins and faults, as well as their truths and characteristics.

After this we had many conversations about such things, one of which I shall attempt to report by-and-by. Of course, in any such attempt all that can be done is to put the effect into fresh conversational form. What I have just written must at least be more orderly than what passed between us; but the spirit is much the same, and mere fact is of consequence only as it affects truth.



CHAPTER XX.

A DREAM.

The best immediate result of my illness was that I learned to love Charley Osborne dearly. We renewed an affection resembling from afar that of Shakspere for his nameless friend; we anticipated that informing In Memoriam. Lest I be accused of infinite arrogance, let me remind my reader that the sun is reflected in a dewdrop as in the ocean.

One night I had a strange dream, which is perhaps worth telling for the involution of its consciousness.

I thought I was awake in my bed, and Charley asleep in his. I lay looking into the room. It began to waver and change. The night-light enlarged and receded; and the walls trembled and waved. The light had got behind them, and shone through them.

'Charley! Charley!' I cried; for I was frightened.

'I heard him move: but before he reached me, I was lying on a lawn, surrounded by trees, with the moon shining through them from behind. The next moment Charley was by my side.

'Isn't it prime?' he said. 'It's all over.'

'What do you mean, Charley?' I asked.

'I mean that we're both dead now. It's not so very bad—is it?'

'Nonsense, Charley!' I returned; 'I'm not dead. I'm as wide alive as ever I was. Look here.'

So saying, I sprung to my feet, and drew myself up before him.

'Where's your worst pain?' said Charley, with a curious expression in his tone.

'Here,' I answered. 'No; it's not; it's in my back. No, it isn't. It's nowhere. I haven't got any pain.'

Charley laughed a low laugh, which sounded as sweet as strange. It was to the laughter of the world 'as moonlight is to sunlight,' but not 'as water is to wine,' for what it had lost in sound it had gained in smile.

'Tell me now you're not dead!' he exclaimed triumphantly.

'But,' I insisted, 'don't you see I'm alive? You may be dead for anything I know—but I am not—I know that.'

'You're just as dead as I am,' he said. 'Look here.'

A little way off, in an open plot by itself, stood a little white rose tree, half mingled with the moonlight. Charley went up to it, stepped on the topmost twig, and stood: the bush did not even bend under him.

'Very well,' I answered. 'You are dead, I confess. But now, look you here.'

I went to a red rose-bush which stood at some distance, blanched in the moon, set my foot on the top of it, and made as if I would ascend, expecting to crush it, roses and all, to the ground. But behold! I was standing on my red rose opposite Charley on his white.

'I told you so,' he cried, across the moonlight, and his voice sounded as if it came from the moon far away.

'Oh Charley!' I cried, 'I'm so frightened!'

'What are you frightened at?'

'At you. You're dead, you know.'

'It is a good thing, Wilfrid,' he rejoined, in a tone of some reproach, 'that I am not frightened at you for the same reason; for what would happen then?'

'I don't know. I suppose you would go away and leave me alone in this ghostly light.'

'If I were frightened at you as you are at me, we should not be able to see each other at all. If you take courage the light will grow.'

'Don't leave me, Charley,' I cried, and flung myself from my tree towards his. I found myself floating, half reclined on the air. We met midway each in the other's arms.

'I don't know where I am, Charley.'

'That is my father's rectory.'

He pointed to the house, which I had not yet observed. It lay quite dark in the moonlight, for not a window shone from within.

'Don't leave me, Charley.'

'Leave you! I should think not, Wilfrid. I have been long enough without you already.'

'Have you been long dead, then, Charley?'

'Not very long. Yes, a long time. But, indeed, I don't know. We don't count time as we used to count it.—I want to go and see my father. It is long since I saw him, anyhow. Will you come?'

'If you think I might—if you wish it,' I said, for I had no great desire to see Mr Osborne. 'Perhaps he won't care to see me.'

'Perhaps not,' said Charley, with another low silvery laugh. 'Come along.'

We glided over the grass. A window stood a little open on the second floor. We floated up, entered, and stood by the bedside of Charley's father. He lay in a sound sleep.

'Father! father!' said Charley, whispering in his ear as he lay—'it's all right. You need not be troubled about me any more.'

Mr Osborne turned on his pillow.

'He's dreaming about us now,' said Charley. 'He sees us both standing by his bed.'

But the next moment Mr Osborne sat up, stretched out his arms towards us with the open palms outwards, as if pushing us away from him, and cried,

'Depart from me, all evil-doers. O Lord! do I not hate them that hate thee?'

He followed with other yet more awful words which I never could recall. I only remember the feeling of horror and amazement they left behind. I turned to Charley. He had disappeared, and I found myself lying in the bed beside Mr Osborne. I gave a great cry of dismay—when there was Charley again beside me, saying,

'What's the matter, Wilfrid? Wake up. My father's not here.'

I did wake, but until I had felt in the bed I could not satisfy myself that Mr Osborne was indeed not there.

'You've been talking in your sleep. I could hardly get you waked,' said Charley, who stood there in his shirt.

'Oh Charley!' I cried, 'I've had such a dream!'

'What was it, Wilfrid?'

'Oh! I can't talk about it yet,' I answered.

I never did tell him that dream; for even then I was often uneasy about him—he was so sensitive. The affections of my friend were as hoops of steel; his feelings a breath would ripple. Oh, my Charley! if ever we meet in that land so vaguely shadowed in my dream, will you not know that I loved you heartily well? Shall I not hasten' to lay bare my heart before you—the priest of its confessional? Oh, Charley! when the truth is known, the false will fly asunder as the Autumn leaves in the wind; but the true, whatever their faults, will only draw together the more tenderly that they have sinned against each other.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE FROZEN STREAM.

Before the Winter arrived, I was well, and Charley had recovered from the fatigue of watching me. One holiday, he and I set out alone to accomplish a scheme we had cherished from the first appearance of the frost. How it arose I hardly remember; I think it came of some remark Mr Forest had made concerning the difference between the streams of Switzerland and England—those in the former country being emptiest, those in the latter fullest in the Winter. It was—when the frost should have bound up the sources of the beck which ran almost by our door, and it was no longer a stream, but a rope of ice—to take that rope for our guide, and follow it as far as we could towards the secret recesses of its Summer birth.

Along the banks of the stream, we followed it up and up, meeting a varied loveliness which it would take the soul of a Wordsworth or a Ruskin to comprehend or express. To my poor faculty the splendour of the ice-crystals remains the one memorial thing. In those lonely water-courses the sun was gloriously busy, with none to praise him except Charley and me.

Where the banks were difficult we went down into the frozen bed, and there had story above story of piled-up loveliness, with opal and diamond cellars below. Spikes and stars crystalline radiated and refracted and reflected marvellously. But we did not reach the primary source of the stream by miles; we were stopped by a precipitous rock, down the face of which one half of the stream fell, while the other crept out of its foot, from a little cavernous opening about four feet high. Charley was a few yards ahead of me, and ran stooping into the cavern. I followed. But when I had gone as far as I dared for the darkness and the down-sloping roof, and saw nothing of him, I grew dismayed, and called him. There was no answer. With a thrill of horror my dream returned upon me. I got on my hands and knees and crept forward. A short way further the floor sank—only a little, I believe, but from the darkness I took the descent for an abyss into which Charley had fallen. I gave a shriek of despair, and scrambled out of the cave howling. In a moment he was by my side. He had only crept behind a projection for a trick. His remorse was extreme. He begged my pardon in the most agonized manner.

'Never mind, Charley,' I said; 'you didn't mean it.'

'Yes, I did mean it,' he returned. 'The temptation came, and I yielded; only I did not know how dreadful it would be to you.'

'Of course not. You wouldn't have done it if you had.'

'How am I to know that, Wilfrid? I might have done it. Isn't it frightful that a body may go on and on till a thing is done, and then wish he hadn't done it? I am a despicable creature. Do you know, Wilfrid, I once shot a little bird—for no good, but just to shoot at something. It wasn't that I didn't think of it—don't say that. I did think of it. I knew it was wrong. When I had levelled my gun, I thought of it quite plainly, and yet drew the trigger. It dropped, a heap of ruffled feathers. I shall never get that little bird out of my head. And the worst of it is that to all eternity I can never make any atonement'

'But God will forgive you, Charley.'

'What do I care for that,' he rejoined, almost fiercely, 'when the little bird cannot forgive me?—I would go on my knees to the little bird, if I could, to beg its pardon and tell it-what a brute I was, and it might shoot me if it would, and I should say "Thank you."'

He laughed almost hysterically, and the tears ran down his face.

I have said little about my uncle's teaching, lest I should bore my readers. But there it came in, and therefore here it must come in. My uncle had, by no positive instruction, but by occasional observations, not one of which I can recall, generated in me a strong hope that the life of the lower animals was terminated at their death no more than our own. The man who believes that thought is the result of brain, and not the growth of an unknown seed whose soil is the brain, may well sneer at this, for he is to himself but a peck of dust that has to be eaten by the devouring jaws of Time; but I cannot see how the man who believes in soul at all, can say that the spirit of a man lives, and that the spirit of his horse dies. I do not profess to believe anything for certain sure myself, but I do think that he who, if from merely philosophical considerations, believes the one, ought to believe the other as well. Much more must the theosophist believe it. But I had never felt the need of the doctrine until I beheld the misery of Charley over the memory of the dead sparrow. Surely that sparrow fell not to the ground without the Father's knowledge.

'Charley! how do you know,' I said, 'that you can never beg the bird's pardon? If God made the bird, do you fancy with your gun you could destroy the making of his hand? If he said, "Let there be," do you suppose you could say, "There shall not be"?' (Mr Forest had read that chapter of first things at morning prayers.) 'I fancy myself that for God to put a bird all in the power of a silly thoughtless boy—'

'Not thoughtless! not thoughtless! There is the misery!' said Charley.

But I went on—

'—would be worse than for you to shoot it.'

A great glow of something I dare not attempt to define grew upon Charley's face. It was like what I saw on it when Clara laid her hand on his. But presently it died out again, and he sighed—

'If there were a God—that is, if I were sure there was a God, Wilfrid!'

I could not answer. How could I? I had never seen God, as the old story says Moses did on the clouded mountain. All I could return was,

'Suppose there should be a God, Charley!—Mightn't there be a God!'

'I don't know,' he returned. 'How should I know whether there might be a God?'

'But may there not be a might be?' I rejoined.

'There may be. How should I say the other thing?' said Charley.

I do not mean this was exactly what he or I said. Unable to recall the words themselves, I put the sense of the thing in as clear a shape as I can.

We were seated upon a stone in the bed of the stream, off which the sun had melted the ice. The bank rose above us, but not far. I thought I heard a footstep. I jumped up, but saw no one. I ran a good way up the stream to a place where I could climb the bank; but then saw no one. The footstep, real or imagined, broke our conversation at that point, and we did not resume it. All that followed was—

'If I were the sparrow, Charley, I would not only forgive you, but haunt you for ever out of gratitude that you were sorry you had killed me.'

'Then you do forgive me for frightening you?' he said eagerly.

Very likely Charley and I resembled each other too much to be the best possible companions for each other. There was, however, this difference between us—that he had been bored with religion and I had not. In other words, food had been forced upon him, which had only been laid before me.

We rose and went home. A few minutes after our entrance, Mr Forest came in—looking strange, I thought. The conviction crossed my mind that it was his footstep we had heard over our heads as we sat in the channel of the frozen stream. I have reason to think that he followed us for a chance of listening. Something had set him on the watch—most likely the fact that we were so much together, and did not care for the society of the rest of our schoolfellows. From that time, certainly, he regarded Charley and myself with a suspicious gloom. We felt it, but beyond talking to each other about it, and conjecturing its cause, we could do nothing. It made Charley very unhappy at times, deepening the shadow which brooded over his mind; for his moral skin was as sensitive to changes in the moral atmosphere as the most sensitive of plants to those in the physical. But unhealthy conditions in the smallest communities cannot last long without generating vapours which result in some kind of outburst.

The other boys, naturally enough, were displeased with us for holding so much together. They attributed it to some fancy of superiority, whereas there was nothing in it beyond the simplest preference for each other's society. We were alike enough to understand each other, and unlike enough to interest and aid each other. Besides, we did not care much for the sports in which boys usually explode their superfluous energy. I preferred a walk and a talk with Charley to anything else.

I may here mention that these talks had nearly cured me of castle-building. To spin yarns for Charley's delectation would have been absurd. He cared for nothing but the truth. And yet he could never assure himself that anything was true. The more likely a thing looked to be true, the more anxious was he that it should be unassailable; and his fertile mind would in as many moments throw a score of objections at it, looking after each with eager eyes as if pleading for a refutation. It was the very love of what was good that generated in him doubt and anxiety.

When our schoolfellows perceived that Mr Forest also was dissatisfied with us, their displeasure grew to indignation; and we did not endure its manifestations without a feeling of reflex defiance.



CHAPTER XXII.

AN EXPLOSION.

One Spring morning we had got up early and sauntered out together. I remember perfectly what our talk was about. Charley had started the question: 'How could it be just to harden Pharaoh's heart and then punish him for what came of it?' I who had been brought up without any superstitious reverence for the Bible, suggested that the narrator of the story might be accountable for the contradiction, and simply that it was not true that God hardened Pharaoh's heart. Strange to say, Charley was rather shocked at this. He had as yet received the dogma of the infallibility of the Bible without thinking enough about it to question it. Nor did it now occur to him what a small affair it was to find a book fallible, compared with finding the God of whom the book spoke fallible upon its testimony—for such was surely the dilemma. Men have been able to exist without a Bible: if there be a God it must be in and through Him that all men live; only if he be not true, then in Him, and not in the first Adam, all men die.

We were talking away about this, no doubt after a sufficiently crude manner, as we approached the house, unaware that we had lingered too long. The boys were coming out from breakfast for a game before school.

Amongst them was one of the name of Home, who considered himself superior, from his connection with the Scotch Homes. He was a big, strong, pale-faced, handsome boy, with the least bit of a sneer always hovering upon his upper lip. Charley was half a head shorter than he, and I was half a head shorter than Charley. As we passed him, he said aloud, addressing the boy next him—

'There they go—a pair of sneaks!'

Charley turned upon him at once, his face in a glow.

'Home,' he said, 'no gentleman would say so.'

'And why not?' said Home, turning and striding up to Charley in a magnificent manner.

'Because there is no ground for the assertion,' said Charley.

'Then you mean to say I am a liar?'

'I mean to say,' returned Charley, with more promptitude than I could have expected of him, 'that if you are a gentleman, you will be sorry for it.'

'There is my apology, then!' said Home, and struck Charley a blow on the head which laid him on the ground. I believe he repented it the moment he had done it.

I caught one glimpse of the blood pouring over the transparent blue-veined skin, and rushed at Home in a transport of fury.

I never was brave one step beyond being able to do what must be done and bear what must be borne; and now it was not courage that inspired me, but a righteous wrath.

I did my best, got a good many hard blows, and planted not one in return, for I had never fought in my life. I do believe Home spared me, conscious of wrong. Meantime some of them had lifted Charley and carried him into the house.

Before I was thoroughly mauled, which must have been the final result, for I would not give in, the master appeared, and in a voice such as I had never heard from him before, ordered us all into the school-room.

'Fighting like bullies!' he said. 'I thought my pupils were gentlemen at least!'

Perhaps dimly aware that he had himself given some occasion to this outbreak, and imagining in his heart a show of justice, he seized Home by the collar, and gave him a terrible cut with the riding-whip which he had caught up in his anger. Home cried out, and the same moment Charley appeared, pale as death.

'Oh, sir!' he said, laying his hand on the master's arm appealingly, 'I was to blame too.'

'I don't doubt it,' returned Mr Forest. 'I shall settle with you presently. Get away!'

'Now, sir,' he continued, turning to me—and held the whip suspended, as if waiting a word from me to goad him on. He looked something else than a gentleman himself just then. It was a sudden outbreak of the beast in him. 'Will you tell me why you punish me, sir, if you please? What have I done?' I said.

His answer was such a stinging blow that for a moment I was bewildered, and everything reeled about me. But I did not cry out—I know that, for I asked two of the fellows after.

'You prate about justice!' he said. 'I will let you know what justice means—to you at least.'

And down came a second cut as bad as the first. My blood was up.

'If this is justice, then there is no God,' I said.

He stood aghast. I went on.

'If there be a God—'

'If there be a God!' he shrieked, and sprang towards me.

I did not move a step.

'I hope there is,' I said, as he seized me again; 'for you are unjust.'

I remember only a fierce succession of blows. With Voltaire and the French revolution present to his mind in all their horror, he had been nourishing in his house a toad of the same spawn! He had been remiss, but would now compel those whom his neglect had injured to pay off his arrears! A most orthodox conclusion! but it did me little harm: it did not make me think that God was unjust, for my uncle, not Mr Forest, was my type of Christian. The harm it did was of another sort—and to Charley, not to me.

Of course, while under the hands of the executioner, I could not observe what was going on around me. When I began to awake from the absorption of my pain and indignation, I found myself in my room. I had been ordered thither, and had mechanically obeyed. I was on my bed, staring at the door, at which I had become aware of a gentle tapping.

'Come in,' I said; and Charley—who, although it was his room as much as mine, never entered when he thought I was there without knocking at the door—appeared, with the face of a dead man. Sore as I was, I jumped up.

'The brute has not been thrashing you, Charley!' I cried, in a wrath that gave me the strength of a giant. With that terrible bruise above his temple from Home's fist, none but a devil could have dared to lay hands upon him!

'No, Wilfrid,' he answered; 'no such honour for me! I am disgraced for ever!'

He hid his wan face in his thin hands.

'What do you mean, Charley?' I said. 'You cannot have told a lie!'

'No, Wilfrid. But it doesn't matter now. I don't care for myself any more.'

'Then, Charley, what have you done?'

'You are always so kind, Wilfrid!' he returned, with a hopelessness which seemed almost coldness.

'Charley,' I said, 'if you don't tell me what has happened—'

'Happened!' he cried. 'Hasn't that man been lashing at you like a dog, and I didn't rush at him, and if I couldn't fight, being a milksop, then bite and kick and scratch, and take my share of it? O God!' he cried, in agony, 'if I had but a chance again! But nobody ever has more than one chance in this world. He may damn me now when he likes: I don't care!'

'Charley! Charley!' I cried; 'you're as bad as Mr Forest. Are you to say such things about God, when you know nothing of him? He may be as good a God, after all, as even we should like him to be.'

'But Mr Forest is a clergyman.'

'And God was the God of Abraham before ever there was a clergyman to take his name in vain,' I cried; for I was half mad with the man who had thus wounded my Charley. 'I am content with you, Charley. You are my best and only friend. That is all nonsense about attacking Forest. What could you have done, you know? Don't talk such rubbish.'

'I might have taken my share with you,' said Charley, and again buried his face in his hands.

'Come, Charley,' I said, and at the moment a fresh wave of manhood swept through my soul; 'you and I will take our share together a hundred times yet. I have done my part now; yours will come next.'

'But to think of not sharing your disgrace, Wilfrid!'

'Disgrace!' I said, drawing myself up, 'where was that?'

'You've been beaten,' he said.

'Every stripe was a badge of honour,' I said, 'for I neither deserved it nor cried out against it. I feel no disgrace.'

'Well, I've missed the honour,' said Charley; 'but that's nothing, so you have it. But not to share your disgrace would have been mean. And it's all one; for I thought it was disgrace, and I did not share it. I am a coward for ever, Wilfrid.'

'Nonsense! He never gave you a chance. I never thought of striking back: how should you?'

'I will be your slave, Wilfrid! You are so good, and I am so unworthy.'

He put his arms round me, laid his head on my shoulder, and sobbed. I did what more I could to comfort him, and gradually he grew calm. At length he whispered in my ear—

'After all, Wilfrid, I do believe I was horror-struck, and it wasn't cowardice pure and simple.'

'I haven't a doubt of it,' I said. 'I love you more than ever.'

'Oh, Wilfrid! I should have gone mad by this time but for you. Will you be my friend whatever happens?—Even if I should be a coward after all?'

'Indeed I will, Charley.—What do you think Forest will do next?'

We resolved not to go down until we were sent for; and then to be perfectly quiet, not speaking to any one unless we were spoken to; and at dinner we carried out our resolution.

When bed-time came, we went as usual to make our bow to Mr Forest.

'Cumbermede,' he said sternly, 'you sleep in No. 5 until further orders.'

'Very well, sir,' I said, and went, but lingered long enough to hear the fate of Charley.

'Home,' said Mr Forest, 'you go to No. 3.'

That was our room.

'Home,' I said, having lingered on the stairs until he appeared, 'you don't bear me a grudge, do you?'

'It was my fault,' said Home. 'I had no right to pitch into you. Only you're such a cool beggar! But, by Jove! I didn't think Forest would have been so unfair. If you forgive me, I'll forgive you.'

'If I hadn't stood up to you, I couldn't,' I returned. 'I knew I hadn't a chance. Besides, I hadn't any breakfast.'

'I was a brute,' said Home.

'Oh, I don't mind for myself; but there's Osborne! I wonder you could hit him.'

'He shouldn't have jawed me,' said Home.

'But you did first.'

We had reached the door of the room which had been Home's and was now to be mine, and went in together.

'Didn't you now?' I insisted.

'Well, I did; I confess I did. And it was very plucky of him.'

'Tell him that, Home,' I said. 'For God's sake tell him that. It will comfort him. You must be kind to him, Home. We're not so bad as Forest takes us for.'

'I will,' said Home.

And he kept his word.

We were never allowed to share the same room again, and school was not what it had been to either of us.

Within a few weeks Charley's father, to our common dismay, suddenly appeared, and the next morning took him away. What he said to Charley I do not know. He did not take the least notice of me, and I believe would have prevented Charley from saying good-bye to me. But just as they were going Charley left his father's side, and came up to me with a flush on his face and a flash in his eye that made him look more manly and handsome than I had ever seen him, and shook hands with me, saying—

'It's all right—isn't it, Wilfrid?'

'It is all right, Charley, come what will,' I answered.

'Good-bye then, Wilfrid.'

'Good-bye, Charley.'

And so we parted.

I do not care to say one word more about the school. I continued there for another year and a half. Partly in misery, partly in growing eagerness after knowledge, I gave myself to my studies with more diligence. Mr Forest began to be pleased with me, and I have no doubt plumed himself on the vigorous measures by which he had nipped the bud of my infidelity. For my part I drew no nearer to him, for I could not respect or trust him after his injustice. I did my work for its own sake, uninfluenced by any desire to please him. There was, in fact, no true relation between us any more.

I communicated nothing of what had happened to my uncle, because Mr Forest's custom was to read every letter before it left the house. But I longed for the day when I could tell the whole story to the great, simple-hearted man.



CHAPTER XXIII.

ONLY A LINK.

Before my return to England, I found that familiarity with the sights and sounds of a more magnificent nature had removed my past life to a great distance. What had interested my childhood had strangely dwindled, yet gathered a new interest from its far-off and forsaken look. So much did my past wear to me now the look of something read in a story, that I am haunted with a doubt whether I may not have communicated too much of this appearance to my description of it, although I have kept as true as my recollections would enable me. The outlines must be correct: if the colouring be unreal, it is because of the haze which hangs about the memories of the time.

The revisiting of old scenes is like walking into a mausoleum. Everything is a monument of something dead and gone. For we die daily. Happy those who daily come to life as well!

I returned with a clear conscience, for not only had I as yet escaped corruption, but for the greater part of the time at least I had worked well. If Mr Forest's letter which I carried to my uncle contained any hint intended to my disadvantage, it certainly fell dead on his mind; for he treated me with a consideration and respect which at once charmed and humbled me.

One day as we were walking together over the fields, I told him the whole story of the loss of the weapon at Moldwarp Hall. Up to the time of my leaving for Switzerland I had shrunk from any reference to the subject, so painful was it to me, and so convinced was I that his sympathy would be confined to a compassionate smile and a few words of condolence.

But glancing at his face now and then as I told the tale, I discovered more of interest in the play of his features than. I had expected; and when he learned that it was absolutely gone from me, his face flushed with what seemed anger. For some moments after I had finished he was silent. At length he said,

'It is a strange story, Wilfrid, my boy. There must be some explanation of it, however.'

He then questioned me about Mr Close, for suspicion pointed in his direction. I was in great hopes he would follow my narrative with what he knew of the sword, but he was still silent, and I could not question him, for I had long suspected that its history had to do with the secret which he wanted me to keep from myself.

The very day of my arrival I went up to my grandmother's room, which I found just as she had left it. There stood her easy-chair, there her bed, there the old bureau. The room looked far less mysterious now that she was not there; but it looked painfully deserted. One thing alone was still as it were enveloped in its ancient atmosphere—the bureau. I tried to open it—with some trembling, I confess; but only the drawers below were unlocked, and in them I found nothing but garments of old-fashioned stuffs, which I dared not touch.

But the day of childish romance was over, and life itself was too strong and fresh to allow me to brood on the past for more than an occasional half-hour. My thoughts were full of Oxford, whither my uncle had resolved I should go; and I worked hard in preparation.

'I have not much money to spare, my boy,' he said; 'but I have insured my life for a sum sufficient to provide for your aunt, if she should survive me; and after her death it will come to you. Of course the old house and the park, which have been in the family for more years than I can tell, will be yours at my death. A good part of the farm was once ours too, but not for these many years. I could not recommend you to keep on the farm; but I confess I should be sorry if you were to part with our own little place, although I do not doubt you might get a good sum for it from Sir Giles, to whose park it would be a desirable addition. I believe at one time, the refusal to part with our poor little vineyard of Naboth was cause of great offence, even of open feud between the great family at the Hall and the yeomen who were your ancestors; but poor men may be as unwilling as rich to break one strand of the cord that binds them to the past. But of course when you come into the property, you will do as you see fit with your own.'

'You don't think, uncle, I would sell this house, or the field it stands in, for all the Moldwarp estate? I too have my share of pride in the family, although as yet I know nothing of its history.'

'Surely, Wilfrid, the feeling for one's own people who have gone before is not necessarily pride!'

'It doesn't much matter what you call it, uncle.'

'Yes, it does, my boy. Either you call it by the right name or by the wrong name. If your feeling is pride, then I am not objecting to the name, but the thing. If your feeling is not pride, why call a good thing by a bad name? But to return to our subject: my hope is that, if I give you a good education, you will make your own way. You might, you know, let the park, as we call it, for a term of years.'

'I shouldn't mind letting the park,' I answered, 'for a little while; but nothing should ever make me let the dear old house. What should I do if I wanted it to die in?'

The old man smiled, evidently not ill-pleased.

'What do you say to the bar?' he asked.

'I would rather not,' I answered.

'Would you prefer the Church?' he asked, eyeing me a little doubtfully.

'No, certainly, uncle,' I answered. 'I should want to be surer of a good many things before I dared teach them to other people.'

'I am glad of that, my boy. The fear did cross my mind for a moment that you might be inclined to take to the Church as a profession, which seems to me the worst kind of infidelity. A thousand times rather would I have you doubtful about what is to me the highest truth, than regarding it with the indifference of those who see in it only the prospect of a social position and livelihood. Have you any plan of your own?'

'I have heard,' I answered, circuitously, 'that many barristers have to support themselves by literary work, for years before their own profession begin to show them favour. I should prefer going in for the writing at once.'

'It must be a hard struggle either way,' he replied; 'but I should not leave you without something to fall back upon. Tell me what makes you think you could be an author?'

'I am afraid it is presumptuous,' I answered, 'but as often as I think of what I am to do, that is the first thing that occurs to me. I suppose,' I added, laughing, 'that the favour with which my school-fellows at Mr Elder's used to receive my stories is to blame for it. I used to tell them by the hour together.'

'Well,' said my uncle, 'that proves, at least, that, if you had anything to say, you might be able to say it; but I am afraid it proves nothing more.'

'Nothing more, I admit. I only mentioned it to account for the notion.'

'I quite understand you, my boy. Meantime, the best thing in any case will be Oxford. I will do what I can to make it an easier life for you than I found it.'

Having heard nothing of Charley Osborne since he left Mr Forest's, I went one day, very soon after my return, to call on Mr Elder, partly in the hope of learning something about him. I found Mrs Elder unchanged, but could not help fancying a difference in Mr Elder's behaviour, which, after finding I could draw nothing from him concerning Charley, I attributed to Mr Osborne's evil report, and returned foiled and vexed. I told my uncle, with some circumstance, the whole story: explaining how, although unable to combat the doubts which occasioned Charley's unhappiness, I had yet always hung to the side of believing.

'You did right to do no more, my boy,' said my uncle; 'and it is clear you have been misunderstood—and ill-used besides. But every wrong will be set right some day.'

My aunt showed me now far more consideration—I do not say—than she had felt before. A curious kind of respect mingled with her kindness, which seemed a slighter form of the observance with which she constantly regarded my uncle.

My study was pretty hard and continuous. I had no tutor to direct me or take any of the responsibility off me.

I walked to the Hall one morning to see Mrs Wilson. She was kind, but more stiff even than before. From her I learned two things of interest. The first, which beyond measure delighted me, was, that Charley was at Oxford—had been there for a year. The second was that Clara was at school in London. Mrs Wilson shut her mouth very primly after answering my question concerning her; and I went no further in that direction. I took no trouble to ask her concerning the relationship of which Mr Coningham had spoken. I knew already from my uncle that it was a fact, but Mrs Wilson did not behave in such a manner as to render me inclined to broach the subject. If she wished it to remain a secret from me, she should be allowed to imagine it such.



CHAPTER XXIV.

CHARLEY AT OXFORD.

I have no time in this selection and combination of the parts of my story which are more especially my history, to dwell upon that portion of it which refers to my own life at Oxford. I was so much of a student of books while there, and had so little to do with any of the men except Charley, that, save as it bore upon my intellect, Oxford had little special share in what life has made of me, and may in the press of other matter be left out. Had I time, however, to set forth what I know of my own development more particularly, I could not pass over the influence of external Oxford, the architecture and general surroundings of which I recognized as affecting me more than anything I had yet met, with the exception of the Swiss mountains, pine-woods, and rivers. It is, however, imperative to set forth the peculiar character of my relation to and intercourse with Charley, in order that what follows may be properly understood.

For no other reason than that my uncle had been there before me, I went to Corpus Christi, while Charley was at Exeter. It was some days before we met, for I had twice failed in my attempts to find him. At length, one afternoon, as I entered the quadrangle to make a third essay, there he was coming towards the gate with a companion.

When he caught sight of me, he advanced with a quick yet hesitating step—a step with a question in it: he was not quite sure of me. He was now approaching six feet in height, and of a graceful though not exactly dignified carriage. His complexion remained as pale and his eyes as blue as before. The pallor flushed and the blue sparkled as he made a few final and long strides towards me. The grasp of the hand he gave me was powerful, but broken into sudden almost quivering relaxations and compressions. I could not help fancying also that he was using some little effort to keep his eyes steady upon mine. Altogether, I was not quite satisfied with our first meeting, and had a strong impression that, if our friendship was to be resumed, it was about to begin a new course, not building itself exactly on the old foundations, but starting afresh. He looked almost on the way to become a man of the world. Perhaps, however, the companionship he was in had something to do with this, for he was so nervously responsive, that he would unconsciously take on, for the moment, any appearance characterizing those about him.

His companion was a little taller and stouter-built than he; with a bearing and gait of conscious importance, not so marked as to be at once offensive. The upper part of his face was fine, the nose remarkably so, while the lower part was decidedly coarse, the chin too large, and the mouth having little form, except in the first movement of utterance, when an unpleasant curl took possession of the upper lip, which I afterwards interpreted as a doubt disguising itself in a sneer. There was also in his manner a degree of self-assertion which favoured the same conclusion. His hands were very large, a pair of merely blanched plebeian fists, with thumbs much turned back—and altogether ungainly. He wore very tight gloves, and never shook hands when he could help it. His feet were scarcely so bad in form: still by no pretence could they be held to indicate breeding. His manner, where he wished to conciliate, was pleasing; but to me it was overbearing and unpleasant. He Was the only son of Sir Giles Brotherton of Moldwarp Hall. Charley and he did not belong to the same college, but, unlike as they were, they had somehow taken to each other. I presume it was the decision of his manner that attracted the wavering nature of Charley, who, with generally active impulses, was yet always in doubt when a moment requiring action arrived.

Charley, having spoken to me, turned and introduced me to his friend. Geoffrey Brotherton merely nodded.

'We were at school together in Switzerland,' said Charley.

'Yes,' said Geoffrey, in a half-interrogatory, half-assenting tone.

'Till I found your card in my box, I never heard of your coming,' said Charley.

'It was not my fault,' I answered. 'I did what I could to find out something about you, but all in vain.'

'Paternal precaution, I believe,' he said, with something that approached a grimace.

Now, although I had little special reason to love Mr Osborne, and knew him to be a tyrant, I knew also that my old Charley could not have thus coolly uttered a disrespectful word of him, and I had therefore a painful though at the same time an undefined conviction that some degree of moral degeneracy must have taken place before he could express himself as now. To many, such a remark will appear absurd, but I am confident that disrespect for the preceding generation, and especially for those in it nearest to ourselves, is a sure sign of relaxing dignity, and, in any extended manifestation, an equally sure symptom of national and political decadence. My reader knows, however, that there was much to be said in excuse of Charley.