Wilfrid Cumbermede

‘Oh! I don’t know. Much like other boys. I did think he was a coward at first, but he showed some pluck at last. I shouldn’t wonder if he turns out a good sort of fellow! We were in a fix!’

‘You’re a terrible madcap, Clara! If you don’t settle down as you grow, you’ll be getting yourself into worse scrapes.’

‘Not with you to look after me, papa dear,’ answered Clara, smiling. ‘It was the fun of cheating old Goody Wilson, you know!’

Her father grinned with his whole mouthful of teeth, and looked at her with amusement—almost sympathetic roguery, which she evidently appreciated, for she laughed heartily.

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.