those same mountain-tops, and rough flanks, and all that eternal snow, were things for climbing and scrambling in the estimation of Frederick Temple, with great obstacles to be overcome by heart and limb.
Such scenes to see! only a few hours from hard-worked London, by a path of pleasant country, French or German land, to this holiday ground. Tired heads wanting a change of thought, all-engrossing, deep-seated thought, emulations, ambitions, against which a level country, however pleasant, would be powerless; but those granite giants are irresistible, they will fill your head with their immensity—your atom self and that vast mountain, two miles or more distant; no intervening objects to break the intense power of size, and yet it seems you might almost fling a stone from your standing point on that Wengern Alp to the Jungfrau opposite; ay, and climb that rough mountain surface, deftly picking your way by those clearly defined granite fragments, broken into possible steps, down which snow-flakes are falling from the upper snow. Thunder in the clear summer sky! the snow-flakes are avalanches which would snap down forests in their force, and the possible steps are precipices which no man has scaled or will scale to the end of time. The path trodden on those waves of ice, which for ever roll on and on, by years, not moments, with short slides to sure death in those insidious crevasses with their green mysterious light fading into dark depths—those steep, precipitous rocks, bleak and cheerless against the blue sky, girdling the valley with their cold shade hours after sunrise, yet at a further point of view their summits unexpectedly crowned with upland pasture, vividly green in the sunlight, dotted in that upper distance with toy-sized châlets, and goat-herds, and mice-sized goats—such scenes as these are to be treasured in the memory, and brought home, and used in lieu of the painted or papered monotony of dull chamber walls, as a diversion for tired heads raised for a moment from weary print or scribbled brief, bringing up refreshing recollections of physical activity and vigour in contrast with present mental effort.
Westby lost his headache in the clear mountain air, and he felt again with delight the sensation of weariness from hard exercise, not rankling thought, followed with troubled slumber, but fine deep sleep, and clear head, and elastic step on the morrow.
So finding his health improve, his thoughts set homewards; but letters came from home praying him to prolong his tour—“it had already done him so much good, why not remain till his health was quite restored?” The Temples, brother and sister, said the same thing, and they were so resolute, too, they fought his reasons for returning from point to point, and thus it was that he was led to speak frankly of his affairs, and of his eight years’ struggle after leaving college, speaking as a man would speak to his brother and sister. Frederick Temple listened with many expressions of wonder at what he had accomplished, and Lilian listened silently, but very attentively; and if the conversation changed, she would bring it back with a skilful turn, and often in their walks she would with great delicacy render it the subject of their talk.
“Nothing to think about, Lilian, except thoughts that lightly come and go? You are thinking deeply about this man’s life; it does interest you, that hard fight of his with the world, that love of his for the two at home, a love not loudly spoken, very indirectly indicated indeed, but plainly visible to your quick insight. Well, heroism in any form is a pleasant tale, and though young, you have been already somewhat tired with the smooth amenities of existence, and it is pleasantly exciting to glance from the rose leaves to the granite work of life. So you have great pleasure in gazing on his face which is grave with care, and bears thought-marks on the forehead—greater interest in that face, than in the hundred handsome, careless faces which have flitted round your path.”
Nothing to think about, Lilian? You grow very silent, the lively dash of your conversation is dulled—your brother remarks it; he fancies you are overwearied by the walking excursions; your sprightliness readily returns in his company, but it is with Westby you are silent; you listen eagerly to what he says, and you ponder it deeply, but you don’t reply at great length, for talking to him grows an effort. You are astonished at this change in yourself. Why your high spirits have always headed every occasion, and your self-possession stood ever ready with an answer at your lips. What does it mean?—not love?—nonsense, not love!—he is far too good, too clever that he should ever think of you. Then what does it mean! You could always converse with that young baronet who rode so often last season with you and your brother in Rotten Row, and danced with you so much at London balls: his conversation seemed constrained and stupid, while you could say, without effort, the things that came first to mind. He was handsome, and danced well, and had clear thousands a year; and girls you knew—girls quite as pretty as yourself—looked on with envious eyes at his attentions, and people whispered that all this would end in an offer. You, amazed with easy conquest, would not believe it; you protested it was nonsense, that sober marriage would never come from such idle, foolish talk; you had said nothing more to him than to twenty others. Thus you talked on, and danced, and rode, till one day, the red sun-set evening of a Richmond party, when you had been diverting yourself with good-natured raillery at an engaged couple, the laugh had scarcely died on your lips, when his voice deepened, and the young man offered you his hand; you were astounded the words thrilled through you, but a ‘No’ fell quickly from your lips: in a moment you were yourself again, and could speak easily enough—but you can’t speak to Charles Westby now.
It is love, Lilian! though you fight against the thought, calling it folly, and heaping reasons against it. He has frankly told you and your brother all his affairs; is he in a pecuniary position to marry? See, with that full ambition which beats at his heart, which makes him almost grudge every passing enjoyment, is it likely that he will as yet seek a partner with whom to enjoy life?
