Wilfrid Cumbermede by George MacDonald

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked fondly at her as he spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'It is true enough, though.'

'What relation is she, then?'

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

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

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

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

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

'I am sorry for that.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was, however, more so than I knew.

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

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

'Are you far from home?'

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

'You shall have my horse, my boy.'

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

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

'Yes, pretty well.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Nor read anything?'

'Not that I remember.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As I spoke I pulled up and proceeded to dismount.

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

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

'Is it far from here?'

'Not above two miles, I think.'

'Are you sure you know the way?'

'Quite sure.'

'Then you take the lead.'

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

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

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

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

'Were you very much frightened?'

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

'It was funny, certainly.'

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII.

AGAIN THE ICE-CAVE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Where are you going?' he asked.

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

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

I believe he intended a pun.

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

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

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

'You looked as horrid yourself,' I returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'To be sure it is,' he answered.

She turned again to me.

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

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

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

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

'That Eiger mountain there.'

'Ah! so I thought.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hesitated a moment, then answered--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'No; certainly not.'

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

'No, it did _not_,' said Charley, almost fiercely. 'Nothing justifies
false play.'

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

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

'He is very rude,' she replied indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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