Rivers of Ice, Robert Michael Ballantyne [fun to read .txt] 📗

all, into the midst of the feast, scattered very moraine of crockery and bottles all round. It was an appalling smash, and when the Captain seized Gillie by the back of his trousers with one hand and lifted him tenderly out of the midst of the _debris_, the limp way in which he hung suggested the idea that a broken bottle must have penetrated his vitals and finished him.

It was not so, however. Gillie's sagacity told him that he would probably be wounded if he were to move. He wisely, therefore, remained quite passive, and allowed himself to be lifted out of danger.

"Nobody hurt, I 'ope," he said, on being set on his legs; "it was a awk'ard plunge."

"Awk'ard? you blue spider," cried the Captain; "you deserve to be keel-hauled, or pitched into a crevasse. Look alive now, an' clear up the mess you've made."

Fortunately the feast was about concluded when this _contretemps_ occurred, so that no serious loss was sustained. Some of the gentlemen lighted their pipes and cigars, to solace themselves before commencing the return journey. The ladies went off to saunter and to botanise, and Slingsby attempted to sketch the scenery.

And here again, as on the previous excursion, Captain Wopper received a chill in regard to his matrimonial hopes. When the ladies rose, Lewis managed to engage Nita in an interesting conversation on what he styled the flora of central Europe, and led her away. Emma was thus left without her companion. Now, thought the Captain, there's your chance, Dr Lawrence, go in and win! But Lawrence did not avail himself of the chance. He suffered Emma to follow her friend, and remained behind talking with the Professor on the vexed subject of the cause of glacial motion.

"Most extraor'nary," thought the Captain, somewhat nettled, as well as disappointed. "What can the youngster mean? She's as sweet a gal as a fellow would wish to see, an' yet he don't pay no more attention to her than if she was an old bumboat 'ooman. Very odd. Can't make it out nohow!"

Captain Wopper was not the first, and will _certainly_ not be the last, to experience difficulty in accounting for the conduct of young men and maidens in this world of cross-currents and queer fancies.

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Note 1. Such is actually true at the present time of the Gorner glacier, which has for a long time been advancing, and, during the last sixty years or so, has overturned between forty and fifty chalets.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN.


SHOWS WHAT DANGERS MAY BE ENCOUNTERED IN THE PURSUIT OF ART AND SCIENCE.

Who has not experienced the almost unqualified pleasure of a walk, on a bright beautiful morning, before breakfast? How amply it repays one for the self-denying misery of getting up! We say misery advisedly, for it is an undoubted, though short-lived, agony, that of arousing one's inert, contented, and peaceful frame into a state of activity. There is a moment in the daily life of man--of some men, at least--when heroism of a very high stamp is displayed; that moment when, the appointed hour of morning having arrived, he thrusts one lethargic toe from under the warm bed-clothes into the relatively cold atmosphere of his chamber. If the toe is drawn back, the man is nobody. If it is thrust further out, and followed up by the unwilling body, the man is a hero! The agony, however, like that of tooth-drawing, is soon over, and the delightful commendations of an approving conscience are superadded to the pleasures of an early morning walk.

Such pleasures were enjoyed one morning by Emma Gray and Nita Horetzki and Lewis Stoutley, when, at an early hour, they issued from their hotel, and walked away briskly up the Vale of Chamouni.

"I say, Emma, isn't it a charming, delicious, and outrageously delightful day!" exclaimed Lewis.

Although the young man addressed himself to his cousin, who walked on his left, he glanced at Nita, who walked on his right, and thus, with a sense of justice peculiarly his own, divided his attentions equally between them.

"You are unusually enthusiastic, cousin," said Emma, with a laugh. "I thought you said last night that weather never affected you?"

"True, but there is more than weather here, there is scenery, and--and sunshine."

"Sunshine?" repeated Nita, lifting her large orbs to his face with a look of surprise, for although the sun may be said to have risen as regards the world at large, it had not yet surmounted the range of Mont Blanc, or risen to the inhabitants of Chamouni. "I not see it; where is the sunshine?"

"There!" exclaimed Lewis, mentally, as he gazed straight down into her wondering orbs, and then added aloud, as he swept his arm aloft with a mock-heroic air, "behold it gleaming on the mountain-ridges."

There is no doubt that the enthusiasm of Lewis as to the weather, scenery, and sunshine would have been much reduced, perhaps quenched altogether, if Nita had not been there, for the youth was steeped in that exquisite condition termed first love,--the very torments incident to which are moderated joys,--but it must not be supposed that he conducted himself with the maudlin sentimentality not unfrequently allied to that condition. Although a mischievous and, we are bound to admit, a reckless youth, he was masculine in his temperament, and capable of being deeply, though not easily, stirred into enthusiasm. It was quite in accordance with this nature that his jesting tone and manner suddenly vanished as his gaze became riveted on the ridge to which he had carelessly directed attention. Even Nita was for a moment forgotten in the sight that met his eyes, for the trees and bushes which crowned the ridge were to all appearance composed of solid fire!

"Did you ever see anything like that before Emma?" he asked, eagerly.

"Never; I have seen sunrises and sunsets in many parts of our own land, but nothing at all like that; what _can_ be the cause of it?"

There was good reason for the wonder thus called forth, for the light was not on the trees but _behind_ them. The sun had not quite risen, but was very near the summit of the ridge, so that these trees and bushes were pictured, as it were, against the brightest part of the glowing sky. In such circumstances we are taught by ordinary experience that objects will be unusually dark, but these trees were incomparably brighter than the glowing sky itself. It was not that their mere edges were tipped with fire, but their entire substance, even to the central core of the pine-stems, was to all appearance made of pure light, as if each tree and shrub had been made of steel raised to a condition of intense white heat. No shining of the sun through or upon trees can convey the slightest idea of the sight. It was something absolutely new to our travellers, and roused their astonishment as well as wonder to the highest pitch.

"Oh!" exclaimed Nita, clasping her hands with a force peculiar to her demonstrative nature, "how wonderful! How I do wish the Professor was here to tell us how and what it be."

That evening the Professor, who had observed the phenomenon more than once, told them all he knew about it. There were differences of opinion, he said, as to the cause, for men of physical science, not less than doctors, were prone to differ. For himself, he had only noted the facts and knew not the cause. The luminous trees appeared only at that part of the ridge where the sun was _just going_ to rise--elsewhere the trees were projected as dark objects, in the usual way, against the bright sky. Not only were the trees thus apparently self-luminous, but when birds chanced to be flying amongst them, they had the appearance of sparks of molten silver flitting to and fro. See Note 1.

"But you have not yet told me, ladies," said Lewis, as they resumed their walk, "what has induced you to indulge in so early a ramble to-day?"

"Can you not imagine," said Nita, "that it is the love of Nature?"

"Undoubtedly I can; but as this is the first time since we came that you have chosen to display a love for Nature before breakfast, I may be forgiven for supposing there is another and no doubt secondary cause."

"You are right," said Emma; "were you not present last night when we discussed our plans for to-day?"

"No, he was in the verandah," interposed Nita, with an arch smile, "indulging that savage and unintellectual taste you call smoking."

"Ah, Mademoiselle, be not too severe. It may not, indeed, be styled an intellectual pursuit, but neither, surely, can it be called savage, seeing that it softens and ameliorates the rugged spirit of man."

"It is savage," returned Nita, "because you do not encourage ladies to join you in it."

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle," cried Lewis, pulling out his cigar-case, "nothing would gratify me more than your acceptance of--"

"Insult me not, Monsieur," said Nita, with a toss of her pretty little head, "but reply to your cousin's question."

"Ah, to be sure, well--let me see, what was it? Was I present when the plans for the day were arranged? Yes I was, but I missed the first part of the conversation, having been, as Mademoiselle Horetzki truly observes, occupied with that--a--"

"Savage habit," interposed Nita.

"Savage habit," said Lewis, "the savage element of which I am willing to do away with at a moment's notice when desired. I merely heard that the professor had fixed to go on the glacier for the purpose of measuring it, as though it were a badly clad giant, and he a scientific tailor who had undertaken to make a top-coat for it. I also heard that you two had decided on a walk before breakfast, and, not caring to do tailoring on the ice, I begged leave to join you--therefore I am here."

"Ah, you prefer woman's society and safety to manly exercise and danger!" said Nita.

Although Lewis was, as we have said, by no means an effeminate youth, he was at that age when the male creature shrinks from the slightest imputation of a lack of manliness. He coloured, therefore, as he laughingly replied that in his humble opinion his present walk involved the manly exercise of moral courage in withstanding shafts of sarcasm, which were far more dangerous in his eyes than hidden crevasses or flying boulders.

"But you both forget," interposed Emma, "that I have not yet explained the object of our morning walk."

"True, cousin, let us have it."

"Well," continued Emma, "when you were engages in your `savage' indulgence, a difficulty stood in the way of the Professor's plans, inasmuch as our guide Antoine had asked and obtained leave to absent himself a couple of days for the purpose of taking his wife and child over the country to pay a short visit to a relative in some valley, the name of which I forget. Antoine had said that he would be quite willing to give up his leave of absence if a messenger were sent to inform his wife of his change of plan, and to ask a certain Baptist Le Croix, who lives close beside her, to be her guide. As we two did not mean