[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 705. SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.
The fire burns cheerily on the hearth, the great logs crackle and
flare up the wide chimney, up which it is my wont to say you could
drive a coach-and-four. I draw my chair nearer to it with a shiver.
'What a night!' I say.
'Is it still snowing?' asks my wife, who sits opposite to me, her
books and work on the table beside her.
'Fast. You can scarcely see a yard before you.'
'Heaven help any poor creature on the moor to-night!' says she.
'Who would venture out? It began snowing before dark, and all the
people about know the danger of being benighted on the moor in a
snow-storm.'
'Yes. But I have known people frozen to death hereabouts before
now.'
My wife is Scotch, and this pleasant house in the Highlands is
hers. We are trying a winter in it for the first time, and I find
it excessively cold and somewhat dull. Mentally I decide that in
future we will only grace it with our presence during the shooting
season. Presently I go to the window and look out; it has ceased
snowing, and through a rift in the clouds I see a star.
'It is beginning to clear,' I tell my wife, and also inform her
that it is past eleven. As she lights her candle at a side-table I
hear a whining and scratching at the front-door.
'There is Laddie loose again,' says she. 'Would you let him in,
dear?'
I did not like facing the cold wind, but could not refuse to let
in the poor animal. Strangely enough, when I opened the door and
called him, he wouldn't come. He runs up to the door and looks into
my face with dumb entreaty; then he runs back a few steps, looking
round to see if I am following; and finally, he takes my coat in
his mouth and tries to draw me out.
'Laddie won't come in,' I call out to my wife. 'On the contrary, he
seems to want me to go out and have a game of snow-ball with him.'
She throws a shawl round her and comes to the door. The collie was
hers before we were married, and she is almost as fond of him, I
tell her, as she is of Jack, our eldest boy.
'Laddie, Laddie!' she calls; 'come in, sir.' He comes obediently at
her call, but refuses to enter the house, and pursues the same dumb
pantomime he has already tried on me.
'I shall shut him out, Jessie,' I say. 'A night in the snow won't
hurt him;' and I prepare to close the door.
'You will do nothing of the kind!' she replies with an anxious
look; 'but you will rouse the servants at once, and follow him.
Some one is lost in the snow, and Laddie knows it.'
I laugh. 'Really, Jessie, you are absurd. Laddie is a sagacious
animal, no doubt, but I cannot believe he is as clever as that. How
can he possibly know whether any one is lost in the snow, or not?'
'Because he has found them, and come back to us for help. Look at
him now.'
I cannot but own that the dog seems restless and uneasy, and is
evidently endeavouring to coax us to follow him; he looks at us
with pathetic entreaty in his eloquent eyes. 'Why won't you believe
me?' he seems to ask.
'Come,' she continues; 'you know you could not rest while there was
a possibility of a fellow-creature wanting your assistance. And I
am certain Laddie is not deceiving us.'
What is a poor hen-pecked man to do? I grumble and resist and
yield; as I have often grumbled and resisted and yielded before,
and as I doubtless often shall again.
'Laddie once found a man in the snow before, but he was dead,'
Jessie says, as she hurries off to fill a flask with brandy, and
get ready some blankets for us to take with us. In the meantime
I rouse the servants. They are all English, with the exception
of Donald the gardener, and I can see that they are scoffingly
sceptical of Laddie's sagacity, and inwardly disgusted at having to
turn out of their warm beds and face the bitter winter's night.
'Dinna trouble yersels,' I hear old Donald say. 'The mistress is
right eneugh. Auld Laddie is cleverer than mony a Christian, and
will find something in the snaw this night.'
'Don't sit up, Jessie,' I say as we start; 'we may be out half the
night on this wild-goose chase.'
'Follow Laddie closely,' is the only answer she makes.
The dog springs forward with a joyous bark, constantly looking back
to see if we are following. As we pass through the avenue gates and
emerge on to the moor, the moon struggles for a moment through the
driving clouds, and lights up with a sickly gleam the snow-clad
country before us. 'It's like looking for a needle in a bundle of
hay, sir,' says John the coachman confidentially, 'to think as we
should find anybody on such a night as this! Why, in some places
the snow is more than a couple o' feet thick, and it goes again'
reason to think that a dumb animal would have the sense to come
home and fetch help.'
'Bide a wee, bide a wee,' says old Donald. 'I dinna ken what your
English dugs can do; but a collie, though it hasna been pleasing to
Providence to give the creatur the gift o' speech, can do mony mair
things than them that wad deride it.'
'I ain't a deridin' of 'em,' says John. 'I only say as how if they
be so very clever, _I've_ never seen it.'
'Ye wull, though, ye wull,' says old Donald, as he hurries forward
after Laddie, who has now settled down into a swinging trot, and
is taking his way straight across the loneliest part of the bleak
moor. The cold wind almost cuts us in two, and whirls the snow into
our faces, nearly blinding us. My finger-tips are becoming numbed,
icicles hang from my moustache and beard, and my feet and legs
are soaking wet, even through my shooting-boots and stout leather
leggings.
The moon has gone in again, and the light from the lantern we carry
is barely sufficient to shew us the inequalities in the height of
the snow, by which we are guessing at our path. I begin to wish
I had staid at home. '_L'homme propose, mais la femme dispose_,'
I sigh to myself; and I begin to consider whether I may venture
to give up the search (which I have undertaken purely to satisfy
my wife, for I am like John, and won't believe in Laddie), when
suddenly I hear a shout in front of me, and see Donald, who has all
the time been keeping close to Laddie, drop on his knees and begin
digging wildly in the snow with his hands. We all rush forward.
Laddie has stopped at what appears to be the foot of a stunted
tree, and after scratching and whining for a moment, sits down
and watches, leaving the rest to us. What is it that appears when
we have shovelled away the snow? A dark object. Is it a bundle of
rags? Is it--or alas! was it a human being? We raise it carefully
and tenderly, and wrap it in one of the warm blankets with which
my wife's forethought has provided us. 'Bring the lantern,' I say
huskily; and John holds it over the prostrate form of, not as we
might have expected, some stalwart shepherd of the hills, but over
that of a poor shrivelled, wrinkled, ragged old woman. I try to
pour a little brandy down the poor old throat, but the teeth are so
firmly clenched that I cannot.
'Best get her home as quickly as may be, sir; the mistress will
know better what to do for her nor we do, if so be the poor
creature is not past help,' says John, turning instinctively, as we
all do in sickness or trouble, to woman's aid.
So we improvise a sort of hammock of the blankets, and gently and
tenderly the men prepare to carry their poor helpless burden over
the snow.
'I am afraid your mistress will be in bed,' I say, as we begin to
retrace our steps.
'Never fear, sir,' says Donald with a triumphant glance at John;
'the mistress will be up and waitin' for us. She kens Laddie didna
bring us out in the snaw for naething.'
'I'll never say nought about believing a dawg again,' says John,
gracefully striking his colours. 'You were right and I was wrong,
and that's all about it; but to think there should be such sense in
a animal passes _me_!'
As we reach the avenue gate I despatch one of the men for the
doctor, who fortunately lives within a stone's-throw of us, and
hurry on myself to prepare my wife for what is coming. She runs out
into the hall to meet me. 'Well?' she asks eagerly.
'We have found a poor old woman,' I say; 'but I do not know whether
she is alive or dead.'
My wife throws her arms round me and gives me a great hug.
'You will find dry things and a jug of hot toddy in your
dressing-room, dear,' she says; and this is all the revenge she
takes on me for my scepticism. The poor old woman is carried
up-stairs and placed in a warm bath under my wife's direction; and
before the doctor arrives she has shewn some faint symptoms of
life; so my wife sends me word. Dr Bruce shakes his head when he
sees her. 'Poor old soul,' he says; 'how came she out on the moor
on such a fearful night? I doubt she has received a shock, which at
her age she will not easily get over.'
They manage, however, to force a few spoonfuls of hot
brandy-and-water down her throat; and presently a faint colour
flickers on her cheek, and the poor old eyelids begin to tremble.
My wife raises her head and makes her swallow some cordial which Dr
Bruce has brought with him, and then lays her back among the soft
warm pillows. 'I think she will rally now,' says Dr Bruce, as her
breathing becomes more audible and regular. 'Nourishment and warmth
will do the rest; but she has received a shock from which, I fear,
she will never recover;' and so saying, he takes his leave.
By-and-by I go up to the room and find my wife watching alone by
the aged sufferer. She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.
'Poor old soul,' she says; 'I am afraid she will not rally from the
cold and exposure.'
I go round to the other side of the bed and look down upon her. The
aged face looks wan and pinched, and the scanty gray locks which
lie on the pillow are still wet from the snow. She is a very little
woman, as far as I can judge of her in her recumbent position, and
I should think must have reached her allotted threescore years and
ten. 'Who can she be?' I repeat wonderingly. 'She does not belong
to any of the villages hereabouts, or we should know her face; and
I cannot imagine what could bring a stranger to the moor on such a
night.'
As I speak a change passes over her face; the eyes unclose, and
she looks inquiringly about her. She tries to speak, but is
evidently too weak. My wife raises her, and gives her a spoonful of
nourishment, while she says soothingly: 'Don't try to speak. You
are among friends; and when you are better you shall tell us all
about yourself. Lie still now and try to sleep.'
The gray head drops back wearily on the pillow; and soon we have
the satisfaction of hearing by the regular respiration that our
patient is asleep.
'You must come to bed now, Jessie,' I say. 'I shall ring for Mary,
and she can sit up for the remainder of the night.' But my wife,
who is a tender-hearted soul and a born nurse, will not desert her
post; so I leave her watching, and retire to my solitary chamber.
When we meet in the morning I find that the little old woman has
spoken a few words, and seems stronger. 'Come in with me now,'
says my wife, 'and let us try to find out who she is.' We find her
propped into a reclining posture with pillows, and Mary beside her
feeding her.
'How are you now?' asks Jessie, bending over her.
'Better, much better; thank you, good lady,' she says in a voice
which trembles from age as well as weakness. 'And very grateful to
you for your goodness.'
I hear at once by the accent that she is English. 'Are you strong
enough to tell me how you got lost on the moor, and where you came
from, and where you were going?' continues my wife.
'Ah! I was going to my lad, my poor lad, and now I doubt I shall
never see him more,' says the poor soul, with a long sigh of
weariness.
'Where is your lad, and how far have you come?'
'My lad is a soldier at Fort-George; and I have come all the way
from Liverpool to see him, and give him his old mother's blessing
before he goes to the Indies.' And then, brokenly, with long pauses
of weariness and weakness, the little old woman tells us her
pitiful story.
Her lad, she tells us, is her only remaining child. She had six,
and this, the youngest, is the only one who did not die of want
during the Lancashire cotton famine. He grew up a fine likely
boy, the comfort and pride of his mother's heart, and the stay of
her declining years. But a 'strike' threw him out of work, and
unable to endure the privation and misery, in a fit of desperation
he 'listed.' His regiment was quartered at Fort-George, and he
wrote regularly to his mother, his letters getting more cheerful
and hopeful every day; until suddenly he wrote to say that his
regiment was ordered to India, and begging her to send him her
blessing, as he had not enough money to carry him to Liverpool to
see her. The aged mother, widowed and childless, save for this one
remaining boy, felt that she _must_ look on his face once more
before she died. She begged from a few ladies, whose kindness had
kept her from the workhouse, sufficient money to carry her by train
to Glasgow; and from thence she had made her way, now on foot, now
begging a lift in a passing cart or wagon, to within a few miles of
Fort-George, when she was caught in the snow-storm; and wandering
from the road, would have perished in the snow--but for Laddie.
My wife is in tears, and Mary is sobbing audibly as the little old
woman concludes her simple and touching story; and I walk to the
window and look out for a moment, before I am able to ask her what
her son's name is. As I tell her that we are but a few miles from
Fort-George, and that I will send over for him, a smile of extreme
content illumines the withered face. 'His name is John Salter,' she
says: 'he is a tall handsome lad; they will know him by that.'
I hasten down-stairs and write a short note to Colonel Freeman,
whom I know intimately, informing him of the circumstances, and
begging that he will allow John Salter to come over at once; and
I despatch my groom in the dogcart, that he may bring him back
without loss of time. As I return to the house after seeing him
start, I meet Dr Bruce leaving the house.
'Poor old soul,' he says; 'her troubles are nearly over; she is
sinking fast. I almost doubt whether she will live till her son
comes.'
'How she could have accomplished such a journey at her age, I
cannot understand,' I observe.
'Nothing is impossible to a mother,' answers Dr Bruce; 'but it has
killed her.'
I go in; but I find I cannot settle to my usual occupations. My
thoughts are with the aged heroine who is dying up-stairs, and
presently I yield to the fascination which draws me back to her
presence.
As Dr Bruce says, she is sinking fast. She lies back on the
pillows, her cheeks as ashy gray as her hair. She clasps my wife's
hand in hers, but her eyes are wide open, and have an eager
expectant look in them.
'At what time may we expect them?' whispers my wife to me.
'Not before four,' I answer in the same tone.
'He will be too late, I fear,' she says; 'she is getting rapidly
weaker.'
But love is stronger than death, and she _will_ not go until her
son comes. All through the winter's day, she lies dying, obediently
taking what nourishment is given to her, but never speaking except
to say: 'My lad, my lad! God is good; He will not let me die until
he comes.'
And at last I hear the dogcart. I lay my finger on my lip and tell
Mary to go and bring John Salter up very quietly. But my caution is
needless; the mother has heard the sound, and with a last effort of
her remaining strength, she raises herself and stretches out her
arms. 'My lad, my lad!' she gasps, as with a great sob, he springs
forward, and mother and son are clasped in each other's arms once
more. For a moment they remain so. Then the little old woman sinks
back on my wife's shoulder, and her spirit is looking down from
Heaven on the lad she loved so dearly on earth.
* * * * *
She lies in our little churchyard under a spreading yew-tree, and
on the stone which marks her resting-place are inscribed the words,
'Faithful unto Death.' Our Laddie has gained far-spread renown for
his good works; and as I sit finishing this short record of a tale
of which he is the hero, he lies at my feet, our ever watchful,
faithful companion and friend.
THE BRITISH ANGLER ON THE CONTINENT.
It is a curious delusion, especially among writers of guide-books,
that when an Englishman crosses the Channel and takes up his abode
as a traveller in a strange country, he thereupon necessarily
ceases to care for that truly English pastime, angling. The
sportsman is expected to become a connoisseur of architecture, to
delight in nothing but sweet or majestic landscapes, or to feel
unwonted pleasure in a continual series of mountain walks. That
some such delusion must exist is shewn by the persistent manner
in which hundreds of persons who at home are ardent fishermen,
and who would gladly take a holiday in Hampshire or seek some
Scottish river, pass by the excellent streams and lakes which
abound throughout the continent. The angler, with a martyr-like
resignation, thinks only with a sigh of the trout feeding beneath
the old gray willow-tree at home, but never attempts to try that
skill in foreign waters which practice from boyhood has often
rendered almost perfect. It is singular indeed how fishing is
neglected on the continent by those who would find it a renewed
pleasure; for in whatever land it may be pursued, no amusement is
more refreshing to the brain-worker, with its variation of gentle
or strong exercise, and its pleasant alternations of monotony and
excitement.
A combination of fishing and travelling has the important advantage
of rendering the traveller quite independent of that bugbear of all
tourists, bad weather. In after-days he can call to mind how he
has often seen the regular routine traveller pacing the _salon_ of
his hotel when the mists were rolling along the mountain-side and
the passer-by in the valley was drenched with rain, whilst he was
setting forth for a day among the grayling in some rushing Tyrolese
stream, or pondering upon those charming and descriptive lines of
Sir Henry Taylor's; and he will feel, we should hope, that not the
least pleasurable days which the travelling angler meets with, have
been those when the trout lay safely sunning themselves in the
clear water:
The peaks are shelved and terraced round;
Earthward appear in mingled growth
The mulberry and maize; above
The trellised vine extends to both
The leafy shade they love;
Looks out the white-walled cottage here;
The lonely chapel rises near;
Far down the foot must roam to reach
The lovely lake and bending beach;
While chestnut green and olive gray
Chequer the steep and winding way.
The number of those who ever cast a thought to the obtaining of
their favourite amusement when they have left Dover behind them,
is singularly small, or who seek to vary the regular tourist's
round by a day or two by the side of some little stream where the
inhabitants look upon a fishing-rod as quite an unusual phenomenon.
And yet many a man who, as he drives along a Tyrolese valley or
passes a sombre lake shaded by pine-trees, must involuntarily
recall pleasant days spent by some Highland stream. The river
ripples by the roadside, the trout are 'on the feed;' but flies and
fishing-rod are safe at home, and the alpenstock alone is at hand!
But if angling is a fascinating pastime to numbers of thoughtful
minds among the familiar scenes of an English landscape, it becomes
even more attractive, at anyrate for a time, when practised amid
the scenery of a country new to the beholder. The angler finds many
features in the landscape, charming perhaps in their minuteness,
which the through-going traveller, who rushes quickly from place to
place, can never enjoy. Nor are the opportunities of mixing with
the various country-folks to be lightly prized; for the increasing
number of large hotels, the numerous railways, and improved systems
of travelling, not to speak of the numbers of actual travellers,
render a leisurely acquaintance with the natives more and more
difficult. And it must always be a pleasure to look back to the
quaint, honest, and kindly folk with whom the traveller would never
have come in contact had he left his rod and tackle at home.
We can remember a professional fisherman whose acquaintance we made
one afternoon in a distant hamlet on an Alpine pass, from which the
mighty mass of the Ortler Spitze could be seen glowing under the
beams of the setting sun. The sporting instincts of this man were
small, and like most foreigners, he looked upon fish solely as an
article of food or merchandise. But how ready was he to explain
every little detail that we inquired about; how genuinely pleased
by the present of a few English flies; and how gratified to be
asked for a brace of his own singular specimens of the fly-maker's
art. Nor can the quaint stout landlord in the Black Forest be
forgotten, who took such an ardent pleasure in telling of the
manifold advantages of large hooks and a powerful line in order
to haul the pike into the boat with as little of what an English
angler would term 'play' as possible.
The fisherman intent on angling for angling's sake only, can
obtain excellent sport with trout or grayling in the valleys of
the Salzkammergut or in the Bavarian Highlands. Or among the
orchards of Normandy when they are in their spring-tide bloom. No
reasonable angler indeed can wish for better. But he who, besides
being a lover of the gentle art, has a soul for scenery and a
relish for the vicissitudes of travel, has advantages indeed. When
tired of wielding his rod he turns to enjoy natural beauty under
every mood--in its wildest or its most tranquil aspects. And he is
ready, like De Quincey, to fraternise with and to observe every
kind of man. He will, moreover, be one who, if works of art fall
in his way, can find in reiterated views reiterated enjoyment.
For if you find him in Normandy in quiet Evreux, fishing for the
well-fed trout in the gently flowing, poplar-lined Iton, he will
be paying frequent visits to the Gothic cathedral with a pleasure
which increases every time he leaves the Hôtel du Cerf. When he
is in the Black Forest, he knows that unless he puts himself _en
rapport_ with the simple husbandmen and industrious clockmakers of
the Schwarzwald he cannot thoroughly enjoy himself; and as he walks
through the meadows after a day on the Schluch See, he will feel
that his landlord is his friend. Indeed, this kindly feeling which
grows up between the travelling fisherman and those whom he meets,
is one of the pleasantest features of this mode of holiday-making.
One of the great drawbacks to modern travel is the fact that only
a few common features in the mere outward lives of the people, are
observed; and even of their habits but few can really be properly
gleaned by the passing traveller. The self-inflicted melancholy and
unfortunate reserve of most English travellers is also a strong
barrier against familiar intercourse with foreigners. John Bull
has not yet acquired the secret of enjoyable outing, and gets but
a poor return for his money. Certainly modern travellers would
do well to notice how Dorothy Wordsworth, for instance, and her
brother the poet associated with those among whom they travelled;
how Dr Johnson would converse as readily with a gillie as he would
argue with a Presbyterian minister; how Christopher North made the
most of--Streams.
To enjoy to the full a travelling and angling tour, some
familiarity with or some power of conversing in foreign
languages--French, German, or Italian, all three if possible--is
important. Of course, if you are staying at a place like St Moritz
in the Engadine, where you find there is trout-fishing, and where
English is spoken at all the hotels, you have little need for
any language except your native tongue; though even then you are
debarred from all conversation with the peasants or the fishermen.
But it will also be found that the best angling, the most
picturesque scenes, and the most economical inns, are in by-ways
away from the main travelling lines; and that the best fishing
stations are frequently by the side of some little frequented
river, or on the banks of some solitary lake.
The choice of a companion is one of the most difficult matters,
when you are projecting a fishing tour. Many an ardent angler
is not satisfied unless he is _continually_ throwing his fly or
trolling his minnow; but as we have already hinted, the genuine
travelling angler must have a mind capable of enjoying other things
besides fishing. He must also be prepared for disappointments; for
it is a different thing to go wandering along the course of say
the Salzach or the Inn, to stationing yourself at places such as
Glendalough, or Loch Tay, or Loch Leven, where you have only to
pay your money and catch or try to catch your fish. Again of two
friends, if one possesses the instincts and aspirations of the
mountaineer only, and the other those of the fisherman only, it is
unlikely that the tour will be a success.
No two persons suit each other better for a foreign piscatorial
tour than an artist and an angler; for both find materials for
their skill. Where David Cox could find materials for his pencil
such as we see in the grand picture of the 'Salmon Trap,' the
follower of Izaak Walton will assuredly not be without hope in
the exercise of his delicate craft. Nor are ladies, if with
proper tastes, unsuitable companions for the angling traveller.
Even if they do not actually possess in common some taste such as
painting, yet still sketching and fishing, or fishing and walking,
or simply fishing and quiet travelling, can well be combined,
provided each possesses a fair share of that cardinal virtue of
all travellers--forbearance. Thus, with a moderate capability of
walking, we see nothing to prevent a brother and a sister, or a
husband and a wife, from pleasantly enjoying a tour that shall
include angling.
None of the usual guide-books give any information upon the subject
of continental fishing; and therefore it must be found out in the
first instance whether some village or valley is a likely centre
for the angler; and often it proves that some half-way posting
inn is the very best station for his purpose. But if some amount
of walking is undertaken, and the angler be of an inquiring
disposition, there is no fear of overlooking any stream or lake by
the wayside.
There is yet another pleasing attraction for the traveller
who angles as he goes. This may be termed the natural history
attraction; for not only are fresh varieties of fish made familiar
to the angler to whom the trout, or grayling, or pike of his
home serve as the personification of all fresh-water fish, but
even new varieties of these fish are observed under entirely new
conditions; and no fisherman of any intelligence who happens to
spend a few days among the lakes of the Eastern Alps, will fail to
make the acquaintance of that excellent fish, the coregonus. In
speaking of this fish, Mr Francis Francis, a well-known writer on
angling subjects, tells us that 'where varieties caused by water
and locality are as plentiful as the lakes, where the distinctive
differences between the fish themselves are but small, and where
names are legion, the confusion is so great, that nothing but the
utmost patience and perseverance, combined with large opportunities
and the staunchest assistance, can ever hope to settle such
moot-points as these questions of the identity of some fish with
others. The coregoni are therefore as yet very much unexplored and
debatable ground with naturalists.' We may add that intelligent
and trustworthy observations by anglers are at all times of value,
and that in addition to its many other charms, a fishing tour
may fairly be said to be a directly instructive and intellectual
pleasure, each successive fact that is stored up in the memory
opening out yet another to the searching mind, and serving to
prevent a captivating amusement from degenerating into a mere
pot-hunting pursuit.
In the more mountainous districts, it is remarkable how many
curious and characteristic legends may be found connected with
different lakes. In the Tyrol especially, which is the beau-idéal
of the angling traveller's holiday-ground, innumerable legends are
to be found connected with every dark mountain lake or tarn. There
is, for instance, a lake well known to many Swiss travellers who
leave the usual route of tourists up or down the Lake of Lucerne,
and rest for a while in the village of Seelisberg, situated above
the spot where the confederates are supposed to have taken the
oath which was the foundation of the Swiss Republic. Above this
again, sheltered by the dark precipices of the Niederbauen, is the
Seelisberger See, of which there is a legend that in it dwells a
monster known as the Elbst. This beast can, Proteus-like, change
its form, and the unconfiding swimmer resting, as he supposes, on
the floating trunk of a fallen pine, is engulfed for ever in the
waters of the lake. Thus, if one is not inattentive to the stories
of the mountaineer, the angler may store his mind with much of the
picturesque and characteristic folk-lore of the Alps.
Not a little of the charm of a fishing-tour arises, or ought to
arise, from its leisurely character. But, as we have already
hinted, the feverish anxiety to hurry from place to place which
seems to characterise the fashion of travelling nowadays, precludes
the traveller from enjoying any one place thoroughly. 'If,' he
says to himself, 'I could shoot or fish it might be different.'
Therefore it is that we would point to what we might almost term a
new continental amusement, whereby the traveller may combine the
recreation of good old Izaak Walton with the harder toil of the
mountaineer, or the more sober pleasures of the botanist and the
artist, to the increase of the enjoyment to be derived from each
one of these pastimes.
It would be out of place here to enter into details concerning the
equipment of the travelling fisherman. All we would now point out
is that those flies which are useful in a Scotch or Welsh stream or
on an Irish lake, are, as a rule, equally serviceable in a Swiss
river or a Tyrolese lake. And the only important fact to bear in
mind is, that the supply of flies should be tolerably large, though
not necessarily very varied in kind, for the art of fly-making is
not well known on the continent.
To point out localities for the fisherman would necessitate a
geographical ramble over Europe; moreover, as it is the object of
this paper to shew that fishing can be combined with most of the
ordinary amusements of the general traveller, no special district
need be sought for. It is sufficient here to mention the rivers of
Normandy and Brittany, of the Vosges and the Ardennes for spring
fishing; and the waters of Würtemberg, Bavaria, and Austria for
sport later in the year. In the mountain district, for example,
popularly called the Tyrol, the rivers are full of grayling, so
that the autumn, far from being a blank time for the angler,
will, even after the trout are becoming somewhat out of season,
afford him excellent sport. And in the Tyrol especially are the
inhabitants simple and hospitable in the extreme; the scenery
of their country is characterised by extremes of wildness and
softness, such, for instance, as the bleak grandeur of the distant
end of the Königs See, and the softer beauties of the valley of the
Alm. Though the ramifications of travel are everywhere spreading,
it is never likely that in the lifetime of the present generation
at least, the travelling angler, whose ways lie out of the beaten
track, will be disturbed by any except a few kindred spirits.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER XXX.--MRS TRAFFORD'S HAPPINESS.
Although the precise date for our wedding-day was not as yet
decided upon, it was tacitly understood that the orthodox
preparations were being carried on for it so far as depended
upon milliners and dressmakers. I did not think it necessary to
explain to Mrs Tipper and Lilian that the little I had to spend
for the purpose was already spent. And indeed I considered that I
had a quite sufficient wardrobe for a portionless bride, without
trespassing upon their generosity, which I knew would be brought
into play by the slightest hint of a want on my part.
We made the most of the departing summer days; Lilian and I
sufficiently occupied to satisfy our consciences and add a piquancy
to idleness. After our morning rambles, visits to the cottages, and
an early dinner, we betook ourselves to the woods, where Philip
read to us whilst Lilian and I worked. And sometimes we went
farther afield, devoting the day to exploring the adjacent country,
picnicing in the most lovely spots, and filling our sketch-books.
In the evenings there was music and the frequent visits of Robert,
with delightful conversation, in which we all aired our pet
theories without any jar in the concord--a quartet in which each
played a different part to make a harmonious whole.
Nevertheless our summer sky was not entirely free from clouds.
Mr Wyatt--whose attentions to Lilian had latterly been most
marked--could not be made to understand that there was no hope
for him; whilst Lilian could not be made to believe that her aunt
and I were correct in our surmise respecting the cause of his
so frequently finding his way in the direction of the cottage.
But there came a day when he found courage to challenge fortune
and make his hopes known to her. He had joined us in one of
our rambles, and I suppose she felt a little hesitation about
separating Philip and me, as well as the natural dread which
a delicately minded girl feels of appearing to suppose that
love-making must necessarily follow being alone with a gentleman
for a few minutes, and so gave Mr Wyatt the opportunity he had been
seeking.
We lost sight of them for a short time, and I gave Philip a hint of
what I suspected to be the cause of Mr Wyatt detaining Lilian.
'Love her!' he ejaculated, stopping short and staring at me in the
greatest astonishment. 'But she does not return it--impossible! She
is surely not going to throw herself away like that!'
'I do not think there would be any throwing away in the case,
Philip. Mr Wyatt is a good man, and a gentleman. The real
difficulty is that Lilian does not care for him in any other way
than as a friend, and she never will.' At which Philip hastened to
make the _amende_.
'I ought not to have spoken in that way, Mary. Of course he is a
good fellow--for any one else's husband.'
I could not help smilingly agreeing to that. It was ever so much
more agreeable to think of Mr Wyatt as the husband of any other
than Lilian. When she presently returned alone, looking very grave
and regretful, walking silently home with us, we knew that Mr Wyatt
had been answered. Fortunately his was a nature not difficult to
be consoled; and it so happened that he had a pretty cousin eager
to console him. In a very short time, Lilian had the relief and
pleasure of knowing that she had done him no permanent harm.
One piece of good fortune came to us, which I had been almost
afraid to hope for. The house so beautifully situated, which I had
so long coveted for our future home, and which was aptly named
Hill Side, was to be sold. We found that the interior arrangements
were all that could be desired. In an unpretending way it was the
perfection of a house--one we both would choose before all others.
Though not numerous, the rooms were mostly large for the size of
the house; whilst, as Lilian laughingly said, my pet aversion
to square rooms had been duly considered by the builder. A long
drawing-room opening to a veranda'd terrace, and commanding one
of the finest views in Kent, with dining-room facing in the same
direction, and a delightful little morning-room, and library and
study at the side; the latter possessing a special little view
of its own down what was artistically made to appear a steep
declivity, its sides clothed with bushes and hanging plants, and
boasting a pretty running brook. You had only to make-believe a
little to fancy yourself living in some wild mountainous region,
when looking from the oriel window of this charming little room.
Philip was quite as enthusiastic and inclined to ignore
disadvantages, as were Lilian and I. Climbing the hill! Who minded
climbing to reach such a nest as that! Stables for the modest
little turn-out we should keep could be had in the village at the
foot of the hill; and as to the distance from the railway station,
shops, &c., we grandly pooh-poohed all that as unimportant to two
people who cared for fashion and change as little as we two meant
to do. Food was to be got; and that was enough, depending for our
supply of books, &c. as we should from London. The best of it was
that these little drawbacks told in our favour in the purchase;
being considered by most people as great disadvantages, which
lowered the value of the property. Consequently Philip was able to
gratify our taste at much less cost than he at first anticipated.
He at once set about the necessary negotiations for completing
the purchase, planning all kinds of improvements and alterations,
Lilian and I being in constant request in the consultations.
Meantime, Mr and Mrs Trafford had returned from their
wedding-tour, and we were telling each other that we meant to pay
the expected visit of congratulation. But we contented ourselves
as long as possible with _meaning_ to pay it, being in no haste
to make our appearance at Fairview again. There could never be
anything stronger than politeness between either Hill Side or the
cottage, and Fairview; and we did not wish to pretend that there
could. But either the bride became impatient to assure us of her
happiness, or she was curious to find out for herself whether
the rumour, which had reached her respecting the intentions of
the gentleman who visited so regularly at the cottage, was true;
for she waived ceremony at last, and came to visit us--she and
'Caroline.'
Philip and Lilian and I were in consultation about the furniture
for Hill Side, which we wanted to be artistic and at the same time
befitting a cheerful country home. The only room we were inclined
to be really extravagant about was the library; and that, I was
chiefly answerable for. Philip gravely opined that I must mean to
spend a great deal of my time there, and I as gravely allowed that
I did. Lilian and I were to be the only ladies admitted there.
I reminded him that he did not yet know Mrs Trafford and Mrs
Chichester, and that therefore he had better not make his rules too
stringent.
We were in the midst of an animated discussion upon the respective
merits of light and dark oak, when Philip drew our attention to
what he termed an extraordinary collection of finery coming down
the lane.
It was Mrs Trafford, her long train sweeping the dust into clouds
behind her, accompanied by Mrs Chichester. It would be vain to
attempt a description of her appearance, laden as she was with
every conceivable folly which French and English _modistes_ could
invent. Perhaps Philip's comment--'Too much of everything, from the
lady herself to her feathers and furbelows'--best expressed the
impression her appearance gave. I saw his eyes turn for refreshment
upon Lilian's simple holland dress and the delicate colouring and
outline of her face. She always looked her best in contrast with
Marian; the soft rose of her cheeks, the deep tender blue eyes, and
the pale gold hair, in eloquent protest against the other's vivid
black and white and red.
Mrs Trafford (how glad I was to be able to discontinue calling her
Miss Farrar) had no misgivings. Misgivings! Was not everything she
had on in the latest extreme of fashion? She evidently considered
that it was for us to have misgivings; though she generously tried
to make matters pleasant and set us at our ease by giving us a
description of Paris and details of fashionable life there. We
had no idea what Paris life was like; no one could without having
been there; it was too absolutely delightful, quite too awfully
charming. She positively could not exist without going every
year to the enchanting place; and so forth, and so forth; all in
superlatives.
She made a great point too of telling us how very much 'Dear
Arthur' had enjoyed the life there. 'He really was quite too
enraptured, and said he had never known what enjoyment was till he
had seen Paris.'
Mrs Chichester put in a word to the effect that her brother had
frequently visited Paris; and the life there was not new to him.
But Marian reminded her that he had not before visited it with
_her_, which made all the difference.
With lowered eyes, Mrs Chichester softly remarked that it
doubtlessly did make a difference.
Of course it did--all the difference! 'And'--turning pleasantly to
Lilian once again--'I have brought over a French maid with me: one
really cannot expect to look _commy fo_ without, don't you know, in
these days.'
I tranquilly supposed that they could not; never again would
Marian receive a home-thrust from me; though there could not be
friendship, there would be no more war between us. I did not even
allude to the Pratts.
'You must all come to Fairview to dinner; aunty and all, _ong
fam-y_ you know; you really must.' And turning to Philip, she
graciously expressed a hope that Mr Dallas also would do her the
honour.
Mr Dallas gravely replied that he was entirely in our hands and
ready to do our bidding. At which she laughingly advised me not to
take _all_ that for gospel. 'You can't expect it _always_ to go
on like that, you know, Miss Haddon; though I am sure _I_ have no
reason to complain. No one could be more thought of than I am. You
would say that if you could have seen how patiently Arthur waited
for me at the shops--hours and hours, I assure you. The very worst
he did was to give a little sigh sometimes, and no one could be
offended at that, knowing how some of the husbands go on.--Waiting
about in the shops really is a test of a husband's good-nature, Mr
Dallas.'
Philip meekly supposed that it really was.
'Is it true that Mr Dallas has become the purchaser of the little
place--Hill Side isn't it called?--which you can see from some part
of the Fairview grounds, Miss Haddon?'
'Yes,' I replied; Philip had bought it.
'It looks a charming little place. But is it large enough?'
I said that Mr Dallas thought it large enough for his means; at
which she was amiably anxious to point out the disadvantages of
having a large place and the advantages of having a small one.
'A small house is so--cosy--you know, and so--warm in the winter,
and all that. I sometimes almost wish I lived in a small way
myself; I really do. No one would believe the expense it is to keep
up a large place like Fairview; they really wouldn't. And then the
trouble of having a large staff of servants! You have no _idea_
what men-servants are in a house--so extravagant and expensive and
lazy; it's quite _too_ dreadful, my dear!'
'Really, aunt'--turning to the dear little lady placidly eyeing
her--'you are the best off after all, if you could only believe it.'
'I do believe it, Mrs Trafford.'
But that was more than Marian could understand. 'It's very good of
you to say so, I am sure, aunt; but perhaps, after all, it does
seem like old times to you.'
Mrs Chichester flushed up now and then, a little out of humour,
I fancied, at seeing herself thus travestied. But she said very
little; indeed during the whole visit she seemed to be absorbed in
one idea, so lost in astonishment at my good fortune as to be quite
unlike her usual self. She was even impolitic enough to give some
expression to her astonishment in a little aside to Lilian, who
was quite indignant at the implied ill compliment to me.
'You _must_ say you will come and dine with us,' repeated
Marian, when she at length rose to take her departure. 'You
positively must! Arthur will never forgive me if I don't make you
promise.--What day have we disengaged next week, Caroline?'
Caroline could not or would not recollect what day they had
disengaged; a little angry probably at a smile which I could not
suppress; and was chidden by her sister-in-law accordingly.
'But you ought to make a point of remembering such things, you
know; and I must beg that you will do so in future,' said Mrs
Trafford, with a tone and look which seemed to shew that Mrs
Chichester's office was no sinecure. I think she was heartily glad
when the visit was over.
'You must come up and see the things I bought in Paris,' whispered
Mrs Trafford good-naturedly in a little aside to me. 'It will give
you an idea of what is worn. Ask for Céleste, if I do not happen to
be in the way, and I will tell her she is to shew you beforehand;
for she knows how particular I am. She will put you up to all sorts
of things if you make friends with her. You can't conceive how much
those French maids know about improving the figure and complexion
and all that; though of course _I_ do not need anything of the
kind.'
I murmured something about being obliged; not to seem ungrateful
for what was evidently meant to be a kindness.
'Oh, you are quite welcome.' Then lowering her voice again: 'He
_is_ a dear! How long have you been engaged?'
'Nearly ten years.'
'Ten years!'
'Mr Dallas has been abroad some years, and has only just returned,'
I said, seeing no necessity for making a mystery about it.
'And kept true to you all that time! He _must_ be good! So handsome
too--so _very_ handsome. All the heroes in the books are big, and
have broad shoulders _now_;' sentimentally. 'His beard just the
right colour too! How you must dote upon him, and how jealous you
must be! Between ourselves, I could hardly bear Arthur to be out of
my sight before we were married. It's different now, of course; if
he does not behave well, I can stop his allowance, you know. That
would be only fair.'
This seemed to confirm the rumour which had reached us to the
effect that when it came to be a question of settlements, Marian
had proved to be sufficiently a woman of business to keep the power
in her own hands, notwithstanding the angry remonstrances of her
lover and his sister. Perhaps also it was true, as it was said to
be, that he would have drawn back at the last moment, but for shame.
I made some indefinite reply about putting off the time for being
jealous as long as possible.
'Well, I can only say that it is a good thing I did not see him
before I saw Arthur, or else you might have had cause enough to
be jealous! But you needn't be afraid now. I am not one of _that_
sort!'
And with that parting assurance, Mrs Trafford went her way,
talking loudly over her shoulder as she walked down the lane, to
'Caroline,' who followed in her wake, about the inconvenience of
not being able to get into 'my carriage' at the gate.
We did not laugh over the bride's grandeur as we might have done
had she been any one else; the remembrance of all that she had
deprived Lilian of was too fresh upon us for that. And Lilian
herself was in Marian's society reminded more vividly of the wrong
which had been done to her mother.
'You were quite right, Mary,' said Philip to me when we were
alone--alluding to the bridegroom. 'The poor wretch is punished
enough! It's an _awful_ punishment! By-the-bye, what was she
whispering to you about all that time?'
'Offering me a view of the latest Paris fashions; and admiring you,
ungrateful man that you are!' I smilingly replied. 'She thinks I
must be terribly jealous.'
'Jealous;' reddening. 'What did she mean?'
'I suppose she thinks she would be jealous in my place,' I said, a
little surprised at his manner.
'In--your place. I do not understand,' he returned, as it seemed to
me now, even angrily.
I laid my hand upon his arm. 'Of course I only repeated it because
of its absurdity, Philip. Between you and me, it would be "Away at
once with either love or jealousy."'
He took my hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and then turned
away without a word. Well, I did not object to such silent
leave-takings; they were eloquent enough for me. But I must not
jest again in that way, I told myself, as I slowly returned to the
cottage again. Philip evidently did not like it. Oddly enough, the
first thing Lilian said, when I met her at the gate, where she was
waiting for me, was upon the same topic. She had, it appeared,
heard the one ominous word in Marian's whispered talk to me.
'What was Mrs Trafford saying to you about jealousy, Mary?' she
asked, in a low tone and with averted eyes, trifling as she spoke
with my watch-chain.
Did she fancy that Marian was still inclined to be jealous of her?
I wondered.
'Only some nonsense about my being jealous of Philip, dearie,' I
lightly replied.