"WHERE NATURE'S HEART BEATS STRONG AMID THE HILLS."
"RALPH, old fellow, this is fine indeed; this surpasses all in my
expectations."
"Does it? That is well. I was afraid that my enthusiasm for this part
of Switzerland might have led me to paint it to you in too glowing
colours, and you might find the reality disappointing."
"Disappointing! Man alive, who could be disappointed with such a scene
as this? Oh the delicious air! Is it not joy, Dotty, to be here? But
you are hot and tired. I forget that you are not so free to enjoy it as
I am."
"I enjoy it quite as much," I declared, as I threw myself panting
on the soft, thymy turf by the wayside, where Edmund's bearers had
deposited the "chaise à porteur" in which he was being carried up the
mountain.
For more than an hour we had been climbing from Lauterbrunnen—a new
experience to me, whose walking powers had hitherto been tested mainly
on the level. But though the unusual strain was trying, I was very
happy as I toiled along, learning from Ralph how to use my alpenstock
to the best advantage. What delight can equal the rapture that comes
with one's first vision of Swiss mountain scenery? Even the sad
circumstances, the anxiety for my brother's health, which attended our
coming to Switzerland, could not shadow my perfect gladness at this
hour.
After ascending for a while through the delightful shade of pine woods,
the path had led us on to a high, green plateau, overhanging the deep,
narrow valley of Lauterbrunnen. It was well that the sturdy Swiss
peasants, who carried Edmund as if he were no great burden, had here
decided to make a halt, for a lovelier spot in which to rest can hardly
be imagined.
To the left, on the other side of the deep gorge that marked the height
of our ascent, we could see to perfection what Ruskin says is "the
best image the world can give of Paradise, the slope of the meadows,
orchards, and cornfields on the sides of a great Alp, with its purple
rocks and eternal snows above."
The green slopes were dotted with brown châlets. Here and there, men
and women were at work cutting the grass, and I saw a woman and a boy
at work on a narrow, unguarded ledge overhanging a sheer precipice.
It made me giddy to watch them, and I wondered how they could work in
such a position; but doubtless familiarity had robbed them of all sense
of peril. Behind us in the distance were huge mountain masses, with
curiously sculptured summits rising sharp against the pale blue sky;
beyond the undulating plateau was a ridge crowned with pine trees.
But the chief glory of the scene lay before, for there stood forth
magnificent three giant peaks—the Jungfrau, with her bridal veil of
snow, the Eiger, and the Mönch. Who can describe the beauty of that
mountain chain? Not I, nor will I attempt it. Long we watched the
changes every minute wrought on those glorious summits, now shining
forth resplendent in sunlight, every buttress and ledge visible, and
anon enveloped in billowy clouds.
"Well," said Edmund, at last, drawing a deep breath of satisfaction,
"it is worth anything to see such a sight as this. If every hour of
my life up to the present moment had been pain and misery, I think I
should still rejoice that I had lived to enjoy the beauty of these
mountains."
"Yes," I said, "such a day as this might well make amends for a
thousand dark and sad days."
"My days are rather more numerous than that, Dottie, young as I
appear," said Edmund, with one of his comical looks; "but I don't think
I've had a thousand dark ones. I have little to complain of; my life
has been an easy one, as human lives go. Anyhow, I'm glad I have lived.
How can anyone pretend that it is a misfortune to be born, when we are
born into such a world?"
"The sun, the moon, the stars, the
seas, the hills, and the plains!
Are not these, O soul, the vision of
Him who reigns?"
repeated Ralph Dugdale, in a low voice.
"Thank you, old fellow," said Edmund; "that was what I was wanting,
though I could not myself have thought of anything so appropriate. That
glorious dome of snow had already spoken to me of 'the great white
throne,' and 'Him that sat thereon.' But here come the guides; do they
want to be moving on?"
I turned to address the men, forgetting, as I had already forgotten
more than once in the course of our journeying that my mother tongue
was not understanded by the natives of this land.
"There is Dottie again anticipating the time when the sons of men shall
speak one universal language," remarked Edmund; "clearly, she is of
opinion that that language will be the English."
I laughed at my own absurdity. Ralph, who spoke German fluently, came
to my assistance. "They say we must be moving on if we would reach
our destination before the sun sets," he said. "Come, Edmund, I doubt
not that 'in this moment there is life and food for future years,' as
Wordsworth has it, but yet I think you will soon be glad of a less
ethereal repast."
"You are horridly prosaic," returned Edmund; "but I will confess that
this mountain air is beginning to awake in me the keen demands of
appetite, and also that I fancy it is getting a wee bit chilly."
I hastened to wrap a plaid about him. The bearers picked up the chair,
and marched on at a steady, quick pace. Ralph and I followed closely,
and the two men, with our baggage strapped to their backs, brought up
the rear.
As we proceeded thus, I was startled by hearing a noise as of thunder
coming from the mountain before us. One deep, loud, cannon-like report,
and then the sound seemed to roll from peak to peak, resounding in echo
after echo.
"An avalanche!" cried Ralph, pointing in the direction whence the sound
seemed to proceed.
"An avalanche!" I repeated, searching with my eyes the snowy mountain
mass before me. "Oh, where? Do show me! I would give anything to see an
avalanche."
"There, don't you see!" he cried, pointing with his alpenstock. "There
it comes, pouring over that rock."
But so large was the surface to be scanned, and I expected something
so much grander than appeared, that for some moments Ralph failed to
make me see it. At last, I perceived what seemed like a column of smoke
stealing down a precipitous slope, and then falling as a cataract from
rock to rock.
"Is that an avalanche?" I cried, much disappointed. "Why it is nothing
to see! And it is impossible that so slight a fall could make such a
fearful noise."
"Poor Dottie!" laughed Edmund. "She speaks as if the illusion of a
lifetime were gone."
"What you call a slight fall," said Ralph, "is in reality a huge mass
composed of many tons of snow; it is the great distance which makes it
appear so small. But don't be disappointed, Miss Carmichael, you will
have many opportunities of seeing avalanches whilst you are amongst the
mountains, and will no doubt get a nearer and grander view than you
have had to-day."
"Dottie will not be satisfied unless she is well-nigh smothered by
one," said Edmund. "I know she is longing to figure as a heroine in
some perilous exploit. I hope you are prepared, Ralph, to take her up
all the mountains in the neighbourhood."
"I shall be most happy," he replied. "We will begin with the
Schilthorn; I shall be able to point it out to you in a few minutes, I
think."
Whilst we talked thus, we were making rapid progress, for the way was
now easy. We were treading a broad, terrace-like road skirting the
Lauterbrunnen valley, into the depths of which we could peer. Across
the valley rose a chain of snow-crested mountains, visible from base to
summit. Superb amongst them could still be traced the Jungfrau and her
attendants.
Another mile of such walking, and we reached the mountain hamlet at
which we were to sojourn. It was a quaint little collection of châlets.
At the doors of many of them women were seated engaged in making a
coarse kind of lace, some of which they entreated us to buy. There were
châlets which had been converted into little shops chiefly stocked with
specimens of Swiss carving, very pretty and tempting. One of these
shops was the "bureau de poste."
Our arrival created quite a stir in the little place. Children came
running from all quarters and thronged after us, some offering us
little bunches of edelweiss, and others beseeching us to buy the first
ripe strawberries they had found in the woods. Thus attended, we
arrived at the hotel-pension Ralph had recommended, a large, wooden,
deep-gabled house, with carved balconies, after the pretty Swiss
fashion.
It was early in the season, so we had little difficulty in getting
rooms to suit us. I was delighted with mine, though it was very small,
for its windows opened on to a little balcony, commanding an exquisite
view of the Jungfrau range. As the balcony was also accessible from
Edmund's window, he would be able to share it with me. It was furnished
with a tiny table and chairs, and I thought we should spend many a
happy hour there with books or work, enjoying the lovely prospect, as,
indeed, we did.
The interior of this mountain hotel was very quaint and homely. Walls,
ceiling, furniture, everything was of pine wood. The bedrooms were
small wooden compartments, not unlike the cabins of a ship; but snowy
curtains and spotless coverlids gave them an attractive appearance.
The "salle à manger" and the "salon" were equally plain, no carpets
or luxuries of any kind, and no ornaments save some very droll prints
framed and hanging on the walls, and glass vases on the tables filled
with lovely mountain flowers. But what of that? We had the best
possible luxuries, as Edmund remarked—pure ozone and magnificent views
of snow-fields and glaciers.
How we all enjoyed the evening meal to which we presently sat down! It
did my heart good to see Edmund evincing a genuine appetite once more.
He was very tired, and soon after supper retired to rest. But Ralph
and I sat for more than an hour upon the balcony outside the "salon,"
watching the sunset glow fade from the mountains till they lay cold and
colourless, robed in the mysterious beauty of the night.
On the following day, Edmund was still suffering too much from the
effects of the journey to attempt any walking, but we had beauty enough
around us to enjoy, without going to seek it. Ralph surprised us by
producing from his luggage a hammock, which he slung in a charming nook
in the pine wood at the back of the house. Nothing could have suited
Edmund better. Here he lay for hours drinking in the exquisite mountain
air and enjoying the indescribable, changeful beauty of the snowy range
which rose before his view on the other side of the Lauterbrunnen gorge.
"No one but you would have thought of such a thing, Dugdale," he said,
referring to the hammock.
He might well say so. I have never known any man so thoughtful and kind
in little things as Ralph Dugdale showed himself at this time. There
was something almost womanly in the tenderness with which he waited on
my brother and anticipated his wants. I might have been jealous of his
devotion, but that he never suffered me for a moment to feel that I
was not needed. He made no suggestion without either a mute or spoken
appeal to me for my sanction, and many a confidential talk did we have
with regard to our loved patient.
Ralph fell into the way of saying "Shall we do this?" or "Would it be
well for us to do that?" as though we were one in our solicitude for
Edmund.
I thought nothing of it till Edmund, one day, laughingly remarked, in
response to some proposal of Ralph's prefaced with the words, "We have
been thinking—"
"We! It is always we now. You and Dorothy seem to have joined hands,
and made a solemn compact to deprive me of all freedom of action. It
used to be Dottie and I who were we, but you have won her from her
allegiance to me."
"What nonsense, Edmund!" I returned. "I am most submissive to you. We
always let you have your own way; we only counsel and advise."
"We again," observed Edmund, mischievously.
I glanced laughingly at Ralph, but he looked away as though he could
not meet my eyes, and to my surprise, I saw that he had flushed a
deep crimson. What could it mean? A sudden thought made me turn first
hot then cold. But no, it was impossible, it could not be that. Ralph
and I were drawn together by our common love to Edmund, that was all;
the idea of anything more was absurd. And whilst I thus reasoned with
myself, Ralph began talking lightly to Edmund again, and the unwelcome
idea passed from my mind.
It was pleasant to see the perfect friendship that existed between
these two. Edmund seemed to lie under no weight of obligation. He
accepted every kindness from Ralph as simply as it was given, knowing
that it was his friend's delight to serve him. He uttered no effusive
thanks; but his silent gratitude was the deeper and stronger that it
found no expression. And words were unneeded, for Ralph understood what
was his friend's heart towards him.
Once Edmund said to me, "Ralph has the joy of giving now; but if ever
you or I have it in our power to contribute to his happiness, how
gladly we shall do so!"
"Yes, indeed," I said; "but, Edmund, I think you do contribute as it is
to Ralph Dugdale's happiness. You are very dear to him."
Edmund cast at me a quick, curious glance. He seemed about to say
something, but checked himself and fell into a reverie, which must have
been pleasant, judging by the smile that played upon his face.
For a fortnight Ralph remained with us ere engagements called him back
to England. We had beautiful weather during that time, and made the
most of every sunny hour. But by common consent, Ralph and I postponed
the mountain expedition we had talked of, and took only walks in which
Edmund could accompany us, either on foot or carried in a "chaise à
porteur." He talked of trying to ride one of the strong mountain horses
that were to be hired, but for the present, we persuaded him to be
content with the humbler mode of conveyance, as being less fatiguing.
He was still very weak, though he showed signs of improvement which I
eagerly noticed.
Ralph left us on a Monday. The Sunday preceding it is a day I can never
forget. Edmund was well enough to go to the afternoon service in the
English church, a little wooden building standing on a slight eminence
beyond the village. The interior was simple almost to roughness; but as
we sat on the plain deal benches, we could see through the side-windows
the magnificent ranges of mountains that encircled us. The service was
such as suited our surroundings. We sang:—
"For the beauty of the earth
For the beauty of the skies,"
and
"Our God, we thank Thee, who hast
made
The earth so bright—"
And never, I think, were hymns sung more feelingly, for life seemed so
fair, and God's love so near and precious, amidst the glorious beauty
of that Alpine retreat. The sermon, too, simple but forcible, was such
as made one think.
The preacher was an English clergyman, sojourning amidst the mountains
for the benefit of his health. He was an old man with silvered hair and
a serene, sweet expression, accompanied by tokens of rare intellectual
power. His subject was the parable of the Pounds. I can little of what
he said, but the impression produced by his earnest pleading that we
should consider our life as a sum of money entrusted to us by God, not
to be squandered upon self, but to be used for His glory and the good
of others, a trust of which we must one day give an account before the
bar of Eternal Justice, has remained with me.
"That was the right sort of sermon," said Ralph Dugdale, as we passed
out of church into the bright sunlight, and took our way down the
winding mountain path. "If preachers would only believe it, they might
do infinitely more good by showing the solemnity of life and the
irreparable loss incurred by its misuse, than by continually harping
upon its uncertain duration and the certainty of death. Whether our
lives be long or short, as men count age, it is certain that they will
be but too brief for the work we have to do in them."
"True, indeed," said Edmund; "I can tell you that nothing makes one
more conscious of the shortness and preciousness of life than to be
brought face to face with the possibility that the end is drawing near.
You cannot think how short my life seems to me now as I look back upon
it. If I could have the time over again, I would use it to better
advantage, God helping me."
"Oh, Edmund, don't talk so," I cried, with a thrill of fear; "you speak
as if you were old and—there must be many years before you yet, plenty
of time to work in."
"There may be more years, Dottie," he said, in tones that pierced my
heart; "God only knows; I dare not count on much time."
"It is only the present that any of us can call our own," observed
Ralph; "we must work while it is called to-day, making the most of
every golden opportunity, since we know not how soon the night may
fall."
"Ay," said Edmund, "if one would not be found at the last like the
servant who laid up his pound in a napkin. Can there be sorer regret
than one would feel who had to look back at the end upon a life all
wasted, with its glorious opportunities passed beyond recall?"
I was miserable as Edmund spoke thus. I believed that he was daily
growing stronger, and it shocked and grieved me to hear him speak as
though his early death were more than a mere possibility, for till
lately he had seemed so hopeful of regaining strength. But it was not
this only which made me uneasy. Already a feeling of dissatisfaction
with self had been stirred within me. I could not be daily in the
company of Edmund and his friend without feeling how much higher and
nobler were their aims in life than my own. How foolish and trivial
were the impulses that moved me, how narrow and selfish my life! A
few persons I loved with a passionate, exacting intensity; but of the
love of humanity of which they often spoke, I knew nothing; I had no
conception of living to do the will of God and to bless others. I was
always making mistakes and suffering keen remorse; but experience did
not make me any wiser, and I supposed I should go blundering on to the
end.
"What are you thinking of, Dottie?" asked Edmund, turning upon me a
gentle, inquiring glance.
"I hardly know," I began, in some confusion, "but it seems to me rather
hard that life should be so short; we have hardly time to learn how to
live ere our life over—at least, I am sure it will be so with me at the
rate I am going on."
They laughed a little at my desperate view of my own case.
"We do blunder sadly," Ralph said, "but it always comforts me to
remember, as Mrs. Browning says, that 'God's greatness flows around our
incompleteness, round our restlessness His rest.' And there is rest and
strength and victory for us through the One Perfect Life."
No more was said of so grave a nature. Edmund sat down to rest on a
bench by the wayside. I wandered to the edge of the path and began
gathering some of the dainty blue harebells which grew there, and had
a home-like attraction for me, since such flowers flourished in the
neighbourhood of Burford. Ralph joined me, and proposed to take me a
few yards down the mountain slope to a point of view commanding an
exceptionally lovely prospect. I acceded willingly, and we followed a
sharp and narrow zig-zag, not more than a foot in width, which led us
round the head of a deep gorge. Suddenly, at a sharp angle, where the
path broke off and the green slope shelved steeply down, Ralph checked
me.
"Now look," he said, and turning in the direction he indicated, I saw
what appeared to my unaccustomed eyes like a vision of fairyland.
Below, one mountain shoulder meeting another, lay slope after slope
of emerald green, here fringed by pine trees, and there dotted with
châlets, or with cattle peacefully browsing. Whilst far, far beneath
appeared the rocky defile of Lauterbrunnen, forked by another, greener
valley, through which a mountain torrent took its way.
To the right, its mouth opening not two feet from where we stood, was
the deep, gloomy gorge resounding with the roar of a cataract. Ralph
led me so near that I could look down into its awful depths, from which
rose the dark pinnacles of pines. It looked to me bottomless, and I
shrank back shuddering and involuntarily clung to Ralph. He grasped my
hand tightly with a reassuring smile; then leaning forward, he threw
a stone straight down into the abyss. We listened and heard it strike
point after point far below us ere its motion ceased.
"What an awful place!" I said, thankful to turn away, for to me there
is a horrible fascination in such weird grandeur, and my admiration of
its beauty is ever mingled with dread. "I am glad to have seen it, but
I hardly dare come here alone."
"I would rather you did not," he said, still holding my hand as we
retraced our steps. "In truth, it was partly that you might not be
tempted to come here alone when I am gone that I brought you here
to-day. A slip on this narrow, unguarded path would be perilous indeed."
"Thank you for your care of me," I replied. "Then you really mean to
leave us to-morrow?"
"I must," he said, reluctantly.
"I am very sorry," I said, frankly; "we shall miss you dreadfully."
"I must return now," he said, slowly; "but I am thinking that perhaps,
in the autumn, if you were still here, I might join you again for a
little time. My people talk of coming to Switzerland in September."
"Oh, that would be delightful!" I exclaimed; "do come if you possibly
can."
"I will," he said, earnestly, "since you wish it."
Something in his manner as he said this startled me and made me
feel that I was speaking heedlessly. His voice, his look, his whole
demeanour at that moment strangely reminded me of Leonard Glynne—as he
had been in those days which I was trying to forget, but had not yet
forgotten. I grew hot and tremulous as I observed this resemblance. I
wanted to say something to correct any false impression my previous
words might have made. I wished to explain that for Edmund's sake, I
should be glad if his friend could join us. But this was not easy, and
whilst I hesitated for words, we gained the top of the zig-zag, and at
its junction with the main path found Edmund awaiting us.