LIGHT.

"Wentworth, old man, here's to your lucky escape," cried Gedge, with his

usual effusiveness, flourishing a brimming bumper of Beaune.

A roaring fire blazed in the wide chimney-place of the Chalet Soladier.

The air was raw and chill, for another rain-gust had swept suddenly up;

and seated around the cheerful glow our party was engaged in the

comfortable and highly congenial occupation of assimilating the luncheon

which had been brought along.

"That's a most appropriate toast, and one we ought all to join in," said

the old General, approvingly. "Here, Philip, give the _chalet_ man a

full bumper. He is entitled to join if any one is, and, Alma--explain

to him what it is all about."

This was done, and the toast drunk with a hearty cheer. The recipient

of the honour, however, was in no responsive mood. That he, of all

people, should have been fool enough to miss his footing; he an

experienced climber, and who, moreover, was in a way the leader of the

expedition! It was intolerable. And this aspect of the situation

tended far more towards the somewhat silent and subdued demeanour he had

worn ever since, than any recollection of the ghastly peril from which

he had been extricated, than even the thought of the grisly death from

which he had been saved almost by a miracle. Yes, he felt small, and

said so unreservedly.

But Alma came to the rescue in no ambiguous fashion.

"You are not fair to yourself, Mr Wentworth," she declared. "The thing

might have happened to anybody up there in that awful wind. Of course I

don't know anything about mountain climbing, but what strikes me is that

if, as you say, you considered yourself in a way responsible for us, the

fact that you incurred the danger, while we have all come down safe and

sound--incurred it, too, out of care for our safety--is not a thing to

feel small about, but very much the reverse."

"Hear, hear!" sung out Gedge, lustily, stamping with his feet in such

wise as to upset a whole heap of sandwiches and the residue of Fordham's

beverage. But Wentworth shook his head.

"It's very kind of you to put it that way, Miss Wyatt. Still the fact

remains that it oughtn't to have happened; and perhaps the best side of

the affair is that it happened to me after all, and not to one of

yourselves. By Jove! though," he added, with a laugh. "Friend Dufour

will score off me now for all time. We are always having arguments

about the Cape au Moine. I always say it is an over-rated climb, and

for the matter of that I say so still."

"That may easily be," struck in Philip. "I suppose any mountain is

dangerous with a gale of five hundred hurricane power blowing."

"Of course. But where I blame myself, Orlebar, is in not starting to

come down sooner. And I fancy that is the line Miss Wyatt's advocacy

will take when she finds herself laid up with a bad cold after getting

wet through up there."

"It will take nothing of the kind, Mr Wentworth," replied Alma, "for I

am not going to be laid up with any cold at all. The walk down here

almost dried my things, and this splendid fire has done the rest."

Luncheon over pipes were produced, indeed the suggestion to that effect

originated with the representatives of the softer sex there present, who

preferred the, at other times much-decried, narcotic to the somewhat

rancid odour emanating from sundry tubs used in cheese-making, which

stood in the corner of the room. The rain beat hard upon the roof

without, but nothing could have been more snug than the interior of the

_chalet_ in its semi-darkness, the firelight dancing upon the beams and

quaint appointments of this rough but picturesque habitation.

"Now, Gedge, you're by way of being a logician," said Wentworth, blowing

out a cloud of smoke. "Can you tell us why a man can't keep his head

just as well over a drop of a thousand feet as over one of six?"

"_Do_ you mean when the wind is blowing," answered Gedge, suspecting a

"catch."

"No. I mean when there's no apparent reason why he shouldn't."

"Because he gets confoundedly dizzy, I suppose."

"But why should he? He has the same foothold. Take that _arete_ up

there. If the drop on each side were only six feet, no fellow would

hesitate to run along it like a cat along a wall."

"Not even Scott," muttered Fordham, in a tone just audible to Alma, who

at the picture thus conjured up of the unfortunate chaplain straddling

the _arete_, and screaming to be taken off, could hardly restrain

herself from breaking forth into a peal of laughter.

"It's a clear case of the triumph of mind over matter, I take it,"

answered Gedge. "What do you say, Scott?"

"Oh, I'm no authority," mumbled the latter hastily. "Don't appeal to

me. My head seems going round still."

"Scott is no authority on matters outside the smoking-room," said

Fordham, mercilessly--thereby nearly causing Alma to choke again, and

begetting inextinguishable resentment in the breast of the youngest Miss

Ottley, who had taken the parson under her own especial wing. "Within

those sacred precincts we all bow to him as supreme."

"I don't quite see where that comes in," rejoined Wentworth, in answer

to Gedge. "If anything it would be the other way about--triumph of

matter over mind: the matter being represented by several hundred feet

of perpendicularity, before, or rather above, which the `mind' takes a

back seat; or, in plainer English, gets in a funk."

"That very fact proves the mind to be paramount; proves its triumph,

paradoxical as it may sound," argued Gedge. "An idiot, for instance,

wouldn't care twopence whether the drop was six feet or six hundred. As

long as there was firm ground under him, he'd shuffle along it gaily.

Why? Because he is incapable of thought--deficient in mind."

"Upon that showing," said General Wyatt, with a twinkle in his

eye--"upon that showing, the Miss Ottleys and myself must be the most

sensible people of the lot; for, unlike your hypothetical idiot, Gedge,

we emphatically did care twopence whether the drop was six feet or six

hundred. In other words, we funked it egregiously and stayed behind.

Our minds, you see triumphed over matter in the most practical way of

all."

"I guess this argument's going to end in a clean draw," said Philip.

"Hallo! the sun's out again, and, by Jove, there isn't a cloud in the

sky," he added, flinging the door open and going outside. "The day is

young yet. How would it be to go over the Col de Falvay and work round

home again by way of the Alliaz? It's a lovely walk."

But this, after some discussion, was voted too large an undertaking. At

Alma's suggestion it was decided that the party should stroll over the

_col_ into the next valley and pick flowers.

"It is our last day here, uncle," she urged, in answer to the old

General's somewhat half-hearted objection that they would have had about

enough walking by the time they reached home. "It is our last day, so

we ought to make the most of it. And look how lovely it has turned

out!"

It had. No sign was left now of the dour mist curtain which had swept

the heavens but a short while before. Wandering in the golden sunshine,

among fragrant pine woods and pastures, knee-deep in narcissus, the

party soon split up as such parties will. Fordham and the General took

it very easily; strolling a little, sitting down a little, they chatted

and smoked many pipes, and were happy. Scott and his fair admirer

paired off in search of floral and botanical specimens, and were also

happy. The residue of the crowd assimilated themselves in like

harmonious fashion, or did not--as they chose. Two units of it at any

rate did, for crafty Phil seized an early opportunity of carrying off

Alma to a spot where he knew they would find lilies of the valley. As a

matter of fact they did not find any, but this was of no consequence to

him. What was of consequence was the blissful fact that he had got her

all to himself for the afternoon. And this was her last afternoon,

their last afternoon together. And in consideration of this, the

light-hearted, easy-going Phil became seized with an abnormal

melancholy.

"You are a rank deceiver," said Alma, some three hours later, as, in

obedience to a shout of recall, they turned to rejoin the rest of the

party now taking the homeward way, but as yet some distance off. "You

told me you knew we should find the lilies there--you _knew_, mind, not

you _thought_. Then when we found none at the first place, you knew we

should at another; and you dragged me from place to place, but yet I

haven't found one. And now I must be content with the bundle of

bell-gentians I gathered this morning. Poor things! how they have

faded," she added, undoing a corner of the handkerchief containing them.

"Ah! here is some water. I must freshen them up a bit."

"What a day this has been," said Philip, regretfully, as Alma stooped

down to freshen the gentians with water from the tiny runnel which,

dripping from the mossy undergrowth beneath the shadowy pines, sped at

their feet with a bell-like tinkle. There was a moist fragrance as of

crushed blossoms in the air, and the unearthly glow of a cloudless

evening was upon the sunlit slopes, and the grey solemn faces of the

cliffs across the valley.

"Yes, indeed," she answered, her wet, tapering hands plunged lightly

among the rich blue blossoms of the bell-gentians.

"And it is your last!"

"Unfortunately it is. But--who would have thought, to look around now--

who would have believed the awful time we went through up there only

this morning! When Mr Wentworth was drawn up again safe and unhurt, I

could not help crying for joy. Poor fellow! What must he have gone

through all that time, with nothing but a rhododendron bush between him

and a frightful death!"

"I reverse the usual order and begin to think I'd rather it was me than

him," said Philip, gruffly. "May I ask whether, in that case, you would

have manifested the same delight?"

There was a flash of mischievous mirth in Alma's great grey eyes as she

looked up at him.

"You foolish boy! I sha'n't answer that question. But, if you had been

down there, how could you have taken such splendid care of me?"

"Oh, I did take care of you then?" he said quickly. "You did, indeed."

"Let me take care of you for life then, Alma." Just those few words,

curt even to lameness. But there was a very volume of pent-up feeling

in their tone as he stood there, his face a trifle paler, his fine frame

outlined against the black background of the pines, his eyes dilated and

fixed upon hers, as though to read there his answer.

She started. Her face flushed, then grew pale again. Released by the

tremor of her hand, another corner of the handkerchief fell, and the

bell-gentians poured down into her lap and on the ground. She did not

answer immediately, and a troubled look came over her face. Yet the

question could not have been such a surprising one. Reading every

changing expression of the lovely face eagerly, hungrily, Philip

continued, and there was a quaver of forestalled despair in his voice.

"Not to be--is it?" with a ghastly attempt at a laugh. "I'm a

presumptuous idiot, and had better go my way rejoicing--especially

rejoicing. Isn't that it?"

But a radiantly killing smile was the answer now, scattering his

despondency as the sun-ray had dispelled the dark storm-cloud which had

overshadowed them up there on the _arete_.

"You are in a great hurry to answer your own question," she said.

"Doesn't it strike you that I am the right person to do that--Phil?"

The very tone was a caress. The half-timid, half-mischievous way in

which his Christian name--abbreviated too--escaped her was maddening,

entrancing. Hardly knowing what he said in his incoherent transport of

delight, he cast himself upon the bank beside her, regardless of

bristling pine needles and the outpost prowlers of a large nest of red

ants hard by. But Alma was not yet prepared to allow herself to be

taken by storm in any such impetuous fashion.

"Now wait a minute, you supremely foolish creature," holding up a hand

warningly as he flung himself at her side--and her face flushed again;

but there was a sunny light in her eyes, and a very sweet smile playing

around her lips. "What I was going to say is this. You can't decide

any important question out of hand. It requires talking over--and--

thinking over."

"You darling! you tantalising enchantress!" he cried passionately. "Let

us talk over it then, as much as you like. As for thinking over it--

why, we've done enough of that already."

"_You_ have, you mean," she corrected, archly. "Never mind. But--now

listen, Phil. You think you are very, very fond of my unworthy self.

Wait--don't interrupt," as the expression "you think" brought to his

lips an indignant protest. "Yet you hardly know me."

"I know you to be perfection," he broke in hotly.

"That's foolish," she rejoined, but with a by no means displeased smile.

"But, I say it again, you hardly know me. We meet here and see each

other at our best, where everything is conducive to enjoyment and

absolute freedom from worry, and then you tell me I am perfection--"

"So you are," he interrupted emphatically.

"Well, we meet under the most favourable circumstances, wherein we show

at our best. But that isn't life. It is a mere idyll. Life is a far

more serious thing than that."

"Why, that's just how that fellow Fordham talks," exclaimed Philip,

aghast.

"Mr Fordham is an extremely sensible man then," she rejoined, with a

queer smile. "No. What I want you to consider is, how do you know I

could make you happy, only meeting as we do, up here and in this way?

We must not fall into the fatal error of mistaking a mere summer idyllic

existence for a sample of stern, hard life."

"Oh, darling! you cannot really care for me if you can reason so coldly,

so deliberately!" he exclaimed, in piteous consternation. "I am afraid

you don't know me yet, if you think me so shallow as all that."

"I do know you, Phil, and I don't think you shallow at all--know you

better than you think--better, perhaps, than you know yourself," she

answered, placing her hand upon his, which promptly closed over it in

emblematical would-be possession of its owner. "I am a bit of a

character-student, and I have studied you--among others."

"Oh! only among others?"

She laughed.

"Is that so very derogatory? Well, for your consolation, perhaps my

study has so far been satisfactory; indeed, we should hardly be talking

together now as we are had it been otherwise. Now--what more do you

want me to say?"

"What more! Why, of course I want you to say you will give me

yourself--your own sweet, dear self, Alma, you lovely, teasing,

tantalising bundle of witchery. Now, say you will."

"Not now--not here. In a little more than a month I shall be at home

again," she answered, with a dash of sadness in her voice, as though the

prospect of "home, sweet home" were anything but an alluring one. "Come

and see me then--if you still care to. Who knows? You may have got

over this--this--fancy--by that time."

"Alma! You hurt me." His voice betrayed the ring of real pain as he

gazed at her with a world of reproach in his eyes.

"Do I? I don't want to. But by then you will know your own mind

better. Wait--let me have my say. By that time you will not have seen

me for a month or more, as we are leaving this to-morrow. You may have

more than half forgotten me by then. `Out of sight,' you know. I am

not going to take advantage of your warm, impulsive temperament now, and

I should like to feel sure of you, Phil--once and for all--if we are to

be anything to each other. So I would rather it remained that way."

"You are hurting me, dearest, with this distrust. At any rate let me

tell--er, ask--er, speak to your uncle to-night--"

"No. On that point I am firm," she answered, rising. "When I am at

home again I will give you a final answer--if you still want it, that

is. Till then--things are as they were."

"Hard lines!" he answered, with a sigh. "Still, one must be thankful

for small mercies, I suppose. But--you will write to me when we are

apart, will you not, love?"

"I don't know. I ought not. Perhaps once or twice, though."

For a moment they stood facing each other in silence, then his arms were

round her.

"Alma, my dearest life!" he whispered passionately. "You are very cold

and calculating, you know. You have not said one really sweet or loving

thing to me through all this reasoning. Now--kiss me!"

She looked into his eyes with a momentary hesitation, and again the

sweet fair face was tinged with a suffusing flush. Then she raised her

lips to his.

"There," she said. "There--that is the first. Will it be the last, I

wonder? Oh, Phil, I would like to love you--and you are a very lovable

subject, you know. There! Now you must be as happy as the day is long

until--until--you know when," she added, restraining with an effort the

thrill of tenderness in her voice.

"And I will be, darling," he cried. "The memory of this sweet moment

will soon carry me over one short month. And you will write to me?"

"Not often--once or twice, perhaps, as I said before. And now we must

pick up my gentians, and move on, or the others will be wondering what

has become of us. Look; they are waiting for us now, on the _col_," she

added, as their path emerged from the cover of the friendly pines.

But by the time they gained that eminence--and we may be sure they did

not hurry themselves--the rest of the party had gone on, and they were

still alone together. Alone together in paradise--the air redolent with

myriad narcissus blossoms, soft, sweet-scented as with the breath of

Eden--alone together in the falling eve, each vernal slope, each rounded

spur starting forth in vivid clearness; each soaring peak on fire in the

westering rays; and afar to the southward, seen from the elevation of

the path, the great domed summit of Mont Blanc, bathed in a roseate

flush responsive to the last kisses of the dying sun. Homeward, alone

together, amid the fragrant dews exhaling from rich and luscious

pastures, the music of cow-bells floating upon the hush of evening; then

a full golden moon sailing on high, above the black and shaggy pines

hoary with bearded festoons of mossy lichens, throwing a pale network

upon the sombre woodland path, accentuating the heavy gloom of forest

depths, ever and anon melodious with the hooting of owls in ghostly

cadence, resonant with the shrill cry of the pine marten and the faint

mysterious rustling as of unearthly whispers. Homeward alone together.

Ah, Heaven! Will they ever again know such moments as these?

Never, we trow. The sweet, subtle, enchanted spell is upon them in all

its entrancing, its delirious fulness.