Wilfrid Cumbermede

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.