The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories

by Grant Allen

  _ISALINE AND I._

  I.

  "Well, Mademoiselle Isaline," I said, strolling out into the garden,"and who is the young _cavalier_ with the black moustache?"

  "What, monsieur," answered Isaline; "you have seen him? You have beenwatching from your window? We did not know you had returned from theAiguille."

  "Oh, yes, I've been back for more than an hour," I replied; "the snowwas so deep on the Col that I gave it up at last, and made up my mindnot to try it without a guide."

  "I am so glad," Isaline said demurely. "I had such fears for monsieur.The Aiguille is dangerous, though it isn't very high, and I had beenvery distractedly anxious till monsieur returned."

  "Thanks, mademoiselle," I answered, with a little bow. "Your solicitudefor my safety flatters me immensely. But you haven't told me yet who isthe gentleman with the black moustache."

  Isaline smiled. "His name is M. Claude," she said; "M. Claude Tirard,you know; but we don't use surnames much among ourselves in the Pays deVaud. He is the schoolmaster of the commune."

  "M. Claude is a very happy man, then," I put in. "I envy his goodfortune."

  Isaline blushed a pretty blush. "On the contrary," she answered, "he hasjust been declaring himself the most miserable of all mankind. He sayshis life is not worth having."

  "They always say that under those peculiar circumstances," I said."Believe me, mademoiselle, there are a great many men who would be gladto exchange their own indifferently tolerable lot for M. Claude'sunendurable misery."

  Isaline said nothing, but she looked at me with a peculiar inquiringlook, as if she would very much like to know exactly what I meant by it,and how much I meant it.

  And what _did_ I mean by it? Not very much after all, I imagine; forwhen it comes to retrospect, which one of us is any good at analyzinghis own motives? The fact is, Isaline was a very pretty little girl, andI had nothing else to do, and I might just as well make myself agreeableto her as gain the reputation of being a bear of an Englishman. Besides,if there was the safeguard of M. Claude, a real indigenous suitor, inthe background, there wasn't much danger of my polite attentions beingmisunderstood.

  However, I haven't yet told you how I came to find myself on the farm atLes Pentes at all. This, then, is how it all came about. I was sick ofthe Temple; I had spent four or five briefless years in lounging aboutBrick Court and dropping in casually at important cases, just to let theworld see I was the proud possessor of a well-curled wig; but even a wig(which suits my complexion admirably) palls after five years, and I saidto myself that I would really cut London altogether, and live upon mymeans somewhere on the Continent. Very small means, to be sure, butstill enough to pull through upon in Switzerland or the Black Forest.So, just by way of experiment as to how I liked it, I packed up myfishing-rod and my portmanteau (the first the most important), took the7.18 express from the Gare de Lyon for Geneva, and found myself nextafternoon comfortably seated on the verandah of my favourite hotel atVevay. The lake is delightful, that we all know; but I wanted to getsomewhere where there was a little fishing; so I struck back at onceinto the mountain country round Chateau d'Oex and Les Avants, and camesoon upon the exact thing I wanted at Les Pentes.

  Picture to yourself a great amphitheatre of open alp or mountain pasturein the foreground, with peaks covered by vivid green pines in the middledistance, and a background of pretty aiguilles, naked at their base, butclad near the summit with frozen masses of sparkling ice. Put into themidst of the amphitheatre a clear green-and-white torrent, with a churchsurrounded by a few wooden farmhouses on its slope, and there you havethe commune of Les Pentes. But what was most delightful of all was this,that there was no hotel, no _pension_, not even a regular lodging-house.I was the first stranger to discover the capabilities of the village,and I was free to exploit them for my own private advantage. By a strokeof luck, it so happened that M. Clairon, the richest farmer of theplace, with a pretty old-fashioned Vaudois farmhouse, and a pretty,dainty little Vaudoise daughter, was actually willing to take me in fora mere song per week. I jumped at the chance; and the same day saw meduly installed in a pretty little room, under the eaves of the prettylittle farmhouse, and with the pretty little daughter politely attendingto all my wants.

  Do you know those old-fashioned Vaudois houses, with their biggable-ends, their deep-thatched roofs, their cobs of maize, and smokedhams, and other rural wealth, hanging out ostentatiously under theprotecting ledges? If you don't, you can't imagine what a delightfultime I had of it at Les Pentes. The farm was a large one for the Paysde Vaud, and M. Clairon actually kept two servants; but madame wouldhave been scandalized at the idea of letting "that Sara" or "thatLisette" wait upon the English voyager; and the consequence was thatMademoiselle Isaline herself always came to answer my little tinklinghand-bell. It was a trifle awkward, for Mademoiselle Isaline was toomuch of a young lady not to be treated with deferential politeness; andyet there is a certain difficulty in being deferentially polite to theperson who lays your table for dinner. However, I made the best of it,and I'm bound to say I managed to get along very comfortably.

  Isaline was one of those pretty, plump, laughing-eyed, dimple-cheeked,dark little girls that you hardly ever see anywhere outside the Pays deVaud. It was almost impossible to look at her without smiling; I'm sureit was quite impossible for her to look at any one else and not smile atthem. She wore the prettiest little Vaudois caps you ever saw in yourlife; and she looked so coquettish in them that you must have been veryhard-hearted indeed if you did not straightway fall head over ears inlove with her at first sight. Besides, she had been to school atLausanne, and spoke such pretty, delicate, musical French. Now, my goodmother thought badly of my French accent; and when I told her I meant tospend a summer month or two in western Switzerland, she said to me, "I_do_ hope, Charlie dear, you will miss no opportunity of conversing withthe people, and improving yourself in colloquial French a little." I amcertainly the most dutiful of sons, and I solemnly assure you thatwhenever I was not fishing or climbing I missed no opportunitywhatsoever of conversing with pretty little Isaline.

  "Mademoiselle Isaline," I said on this particular afternoon, "I shouldmuch like a cup of tea; can Sara bring me one out here in the garden?"

  "Perfectly, monsieur; I will bring you out the little table on to thegrass plot," said Isaline. "That will arrange things for you much morepleasantly."

  "Not for worlds," I said, running in to get it myself; but Isaline haddarted into the house before me, and brought it out with her own whitelittle hands on to the tiny lawn. Then she went in again, and soonreappeared with a Japanese tray--bought at Montreux specially in myhonour--and a set of the funniest little old China tea-things everbeheld in a London bric-a-brac cabinet.

  "Won't you sit and take a cup with me, mademoiselle?" I asked.

  "_Ma foi_, monsieur," answered Isaline, blushing again, "I have nevertasted any except as _pthisane_. But you other English drink it so,don't you? I will try it, for the rest: one learns always."

  I poured her out a cup, and creamed it with some of that deliciousVaudois cream (no cream in the world so good as what you get in the Paysde Vaud--you see I am an enthusiast for my adopted country--but that isanticipating matters), and handed it over to her for her approval. Shetasted it with a little _moue_. English-women don't make the _moue_, so,though I like sticking to my mother tongue, I confess my inability totranslate the word. "Brrrr," she said. "Do you English like that stuff!Well, one must accommodate one's self to it, I suppose;" and to do herjustice, she proceeded to accommodate herself to it with suchdistinguished success that she asked me soon for another cup, and drankit off without even a murmur.

  "And this M. Claude, then," I asked; "he is a friend of yours? Eh?"

  "Passably," she answered, colouring slightly. "You see, we have not muchsociety at Les Pontes. He comes from the Normal School at Geneva. He isinstructed, a man of education. We see few such here. What would youhave?" She said it apologetically, as though she thought she was boundto excu
se herself for having made M. Claude's acquaintance.

  "But you like him very much?"

  "Like him? Well, yes; I liked him always well enough. Bat he is toohaughty. He gives himself airs. To-day he is angry with me. He has noright to be angry with me."

  "Mademoiselle," I said, "have you ever read our Shakespeare?"

  "Oh, yes, in English I have read him. I can read English well enough,though I speak but a little."

  "And have you read the 'Tempest'?"

  "How? Ariel, Ferdinand, Miranda, Caliban? Oh, yes. It is beautiful."

  "Well, mademoiselle," I said, "do you remember how Miranda first sawFerdinand?"

  She smiled and blushed again--she was such a little blusher. "I knowwhat you would say," she said. "You English are blunt. You talk to youngladies so strangely."

  "Well, Mademoiselle Isaline, it seems to me that you at Les Pentes arelike Miranda on the island. You see nobody, and there is nobody here tosee you. You must not go and fall in love, like Miranda, with the veryfirst man you happen to meet with, because he comes from the NormalSchool at Geneva. There are plenty of men in the world, believe me,beside M. Claude."

  "Ah, but Miranda and Ferdinand both loved one another," said Isalinearchly; "and they were married, and both lived happily ever afterward."I saw at once she was trying to pique me.

  "How do you know that?" I asked. "It doesn't say so in the play. For allI know, Ferdinand lost the crown of Naples through a revolution, andwent and settled down at a country school in Savoy or somewhere, andtook to drinking, and became brutally unsociable, and made Miranda'slife a toil and a burden to her. At any rate, I'm sure of one thing; hewasn't worthy of her."

  What made me go on in this stupid way? I'm sure I don't know. Icertainly didn't mean to marry Isaline myself: ... at least, notdefinitely: and yet when you are sitting down at tea on a rustic gardenseat, with a pretty girl in a charming white crimped cap beside you, andyou get a chance of insinuating that other fellows don't think quite asmuch of her as you do, it isn't human nature to let slip the opportunityof insinuating it.

  "But you don't know M. Claude," said Isaline practically, "and so youcan't tell whether _he_ is worthy of _me_ or not."

  "I'm perfectly certain," I answered, "that he can't be, even though hewere a very paragon of virtue, learning, and manly beauty."

  "If monsieur talks in that way," said Isaline, "I shall have to go backat once to mamma."

  "Wait a moment," I said, "and I will talk however you wish me. You know,you agree to give me instruction in conversational French. Thatnaturally includes lessons in conversation with ladies of exceptionalpersonal attractions. I must practise for every possible circumstance oflife.... So you have read Shakespeare, then. And any other Englishbooks?"

  "Oh, many. Scott, and Dickens, and all, except Byron. My papa says ayoung lady must not read Byron. But I have read what he has said of ourlake, in a book of extracts. It is a great pleasure to me to look downamong the vines and chestnuts, there, and to think that our lake, whichgleams so blue and beautiful below, is the most famous in poetry of alllakes. You know, Jean Jacques says, 'Mon lac est le premier,' and so itis."

  "Then you have read Jean Jacques too?"

  "Oh, mon Dieu, no. My papa says a young lady must especially not readJean Jacques. But I know something about him--so much as is_convenable_. Hold here! do you see that clump of trees down there bythe lake, just above Clarens? That is Julie's grove--'le bosquet deJulie' we call it. There isn't a spot along the lake that is not thusfamous, that has not its memories and its associations. It is for thatthat I could not choose ever to leave the dear old Pays de Vaud."

  "You would not like to live in England, then?" I asked. (What a fool Iwas, to be sure.)

  "Oh, ma foi, no. That would make one too much shiver, with your chills,and your fogs, and your winters. I could not stand it. It is cold here,but at any rate it is sunny.... Well, at least, it would not bepleasant.... But, after all, that depends.... You have the sun, too,sometimes, don't you?"

  "Isaline!" cried madame from the window. "I want you to come and help mepick over the gooseberries!" And, to say the truth, I thought it quitetime she should go.

  II.

  A week later, I met M. Claude again. He was a very nice young fellow,there was not a doubt of that. He was intelligent, well educated, manly,with all the honest, sturdy, independent Swiss nature clearly visible inhis frank, bright, open face. I have seldom met a man whom I likedbetter at first sight than M. Claude, and after he had gone away I feltmore than a little ashamed of myself to think I had been half trying tosteal away Isaline's heart from this good fellow, without really havingany deliberate design upon it myself. It began to strike me that I hadbeen doing a very dirty, shabby thing.

  "Charlie, my boy," I said to myself, as I sat fishing with bottom baitand dangling my legs over the edge of a pool, "you've been flirting withthis pretty little Swiss girl; and what's worse, you've been flirting ina very bad sort of way. She's got a lover of her own; and you've beentrying to make her feel dissatisfied with him, for no earthly reason.You've taken advantage of your position and your fancied London airs andgraces to run down by implication a good fellow who really loves her andwould probably make her an excellent husband. Don't let this occuragain, sir." And having thus virtuously resolved, of course I went awayand flirted with Isaline next morning as vigorously as ever.

  During the following fortnight, M. Claude came often, and I could notdisguise from myself the fact that M. Claude did not quite like me. Thiswas odd, for I liked him very much. I suppose he took me for a potentialrival: men are so jealous when they are in love. Besides, I observedthat Isaline tried not to be thrown too much with him alone; tried toinclude me in the party wherever she went with him. Also, I will freelyconfess that I felt myself every day more fond of Isaline's society, andI half fancied I caught myself trepidating a little inwardly now andthen when she happened to come up to me. Absurd to be so susceptible;but such is man.

  One lovely day about this time I set out once more to try my hand (orrather my feet) alone upon the Aiguille. Isaline put me up a nice littlelight lunch in my knapsack, and insisted upon seeing that my alpenstockwas firmly shod, and my pedestrian boots in due climbing order. In fact,she loudly lamented my perversity in attempting to make the ascentwithout a guide; and she must even needs walk with me as far as thelittle bridge over the torrent beside the snow line, to point me out theroad the guides generally took to the platform at the summit. Formyself, I was a practised mountaineer, and felt no fear for the result.As I left her for the ice, she stood a long time looking and waving methe right road with her little pocket-handkerchief; while as long as Icould hear her voice she kept on exhorting me to be very careful. "Ah,if monsieur would only have taken a guide! You don't know how dangerousthat little Aiguille really is."

  The sun was shining brightly on the snow; the view across the valley ofthe Rhone towards the snowy Alps beyond was exquisite; and the giants ofthe Bernese Oberland stood out in gloriously brilliant outline on theother side against the clear blue summer sky. I went on alone, enjoyingmyself hugely in my own quiet fashion, and watching Isaline as she madeher way slowly along the green path, looking round often and again, tillshe disappeared in the shadow of the pinewood that girt round the tinyvillage. On, farther still, up and up and up, over soft snow for themost part; with very little ice, till at last, after three hours' hardclimbing, I stood on the very summit of the pretty Aiguille. It was notvery high, but it commanded a magnificent view over either side--theAlps on one hand, the counterchain of the Oberland on the other, and theblue lake gleaming and glowing through all its length in its greenvalley between them. There I sat down on the pure snow in the glitteringsunlight, and ate the lunch that Isaline had provided for me, with muchgusto. Unfortunately, I also drank the pint of white wine from the headof the lake--Yvorne, we call it, and I grow it now in my own vineyard atPic de la Baume--but that is anticipating again: as good a light wine asyou will get anywhere in Europe in these d
epressing days of blight andphylloxera. Now, a pint of _vin du pays_ is not too much under ordinarycircumstances for a strong young man in vigorous health, doing a hardday's muscular work with legs, arms, and sinews: but mountain air isthin and exhilarating in itself, and it lends a point to a half-bottleof Yvorne which the wine's own body does not by any means usuallypossess. I don't mean to say so much light wine does one any positiveharm; but it makes one more careless and easy-going; gives one a falsesense of security, and entices one into paying less heed to one'sfootsteps or to suspicious-looking bits of doubtful ice.

  Well, after lunch I took a good look at the view with my field-glass;and when I turned it towards Les Pentes I could make out our farmhousedistinctly, and even saw Isaline standing on the balcony looking towardsthe Aiguille. My heart jumped a little when I thought that she wasprobably looking for me. Then I wound my way down again, not byretracing my steps, but by trying a new path, which seemed to me a morepracticable one. It was not the one Isaline had pointed out, but itappeared to go more directly, and to avoid one or two of the very worstrough-and-tumble pieces.

  I was making my way back, merrily enough, when suddenly I happened tostep on a little bit of loose ice, which slid beneath my feet in a veryuncomfortable manner. Before I knew where I was, I felt myself slidingrapidly on, with the ice clinging to my heel; and while I was vainlytrying to dig my alpenstock into a firm snowbank, I became conscious fora moment of a sort of dim indefinite blank. It was followed by asensation of empty space; and then I knew I was falling over the edge ofsomething.

  Whrrr, whrrr, whrrr, went the air at my ear for a moment; and the nextthing I knew was a jar of pain, and a consciousness of being envelopedin something very soft. The jar took away all other feeling for a fewseconds; I only knew I was stunned and badly hurt. After a time, I beganto be capable of trying to realize the position; and when I opened myeyes and looked around me, I recognized that I was lying on my back, andthat there was a pervading sensation of whiteness everywhere about. Inpoint of fact, I was buried in snow. I tried to move, and to get on mylegs again, but two things very effectually prevented me. In the firstplace, I could not stir my legs without giving myself the most intensepain in my spine; and in the second place, when I did stir them Ibrought them into contact on the one hand with a solid wall of rock, andon the other hand with vacant space, or at least with very soft snowunsupported by a rocky bottom. Gradually, by feeling about with my arms,I began exactly to realize the gravity of the position. I had fallenover a precipice, and had lighted on a snow-covered ledge half-way down.My back was very badly hurt, and I dared not struggle up on to my legsfor fear of falling off the ledge again on the other side. Besides, Iwas half smothered in the snow, and even if anybody ever came to lookfor me (which they would not probably do till to-morrow) they would notbe able to see me, because of the deep-covering drifts. If I was notextricated that night, I should probably freeze to death before morning,especially after my pint of wine. "Confound that Yvorne!" I said tomyself savagely. "If ever I get out of this scrape I'll never touch adrop of the stuff again as long as I live." I regret to say that I havesince broken that solemn promise twice daily for the past three years.

  My one hope was that Isaline might possibly be surprised at my delay inreturning, and might send out one of the guides to find me.

  So there I lay a long time, unable even to get out of the snow, and withevery movement causing me a horrid pain in my injured back. Still, Ikept on moving my legs every now and then to make the pain shoot, and soprevent myself from feeling drowsy. The snow half suffocated me, and Icould only breathe with difficulty. At last, slowly, I began to loseconsciousness, and presently I suppose I fell asleep. To fall asleep inthe snow is the first stage of freezing to death.

  III.

  Noises above me, I think, on the edge of the precipice. Something comingdown, oh, how slowly. Something comes, and fumbles about a yard or soaway. Then I cry out feebly, and the something approaches. M. Claude'shearty voice calls out cheerily, "Enfin, le voila!" and I am saved.

  They let down ropes and pulled me up to the top of the little crag,clumsily, so as to cause me great pain: and then three men carried mehome to the farmhouse on a stretcher. M. Claude was one of the three,the others were labourers from the village.

  "How did you know I was lost, M. Claude?" I asked feebly, as theycarried me along on the level.

  He did not answer for a moment; then he said, rather gloomily, inGerman, "The Fraeulein was watching you with a telescope from LesPentes." He did not say Fraeulein Isaline, and I knew why at once: he didnot wish the other carriers to know what he was talking about.

  "And she told you?" I said, in German too.

  "She sent me. I did not come of my own accord. I came under orders." Hespoke sternly, hissing out his gutturals in an angry voice.

  "M. Claude," I said, "I have done very wrong, and I ask yourforgiveness. You have saved my life, and I owe you a debt of gratitudefor it. I will leave Les Pentes and the Fraeulein to-morrow, or at leastas soon as I can safely be moved."

  He shook his head bitterly. "It is no use now," he answered, with asigh; "the Fraeulein does not wish for me. I have asked her, and she hasrefused me. And she has been watching you up and down the Aiguille thewhole day with a telescope. When she saw you had fallen, she rushed outlike one distracted, and came to tell me at the school in the village.It is no use, you have beaten me."

  "M. Claude," I said, "I will plead for you. I have done you wrong, and Iask your forgiveness."

  "I owe you no ill-will," he replied, in his honest, straightforward,Swiss manner. "It is not your fault if you too have fallen in love withher. How could any man help it? Living in the same house with her, too!Allons," he went on in French, resuming his alternative tongue (for hespoke both equally), "we must get on quick and send for the doctor fromGlion to see you."

  By the time we reached the farmhouse, I had satisfied myself that therewas nothing very serious the matter with me after all. The soft snow hadbroken the force of the concussion. I had strained my spine a good deal,and hurt the tendons of the thighs and back, but had not broken anybones, nor injured any vital organ. So when they laid me on theold-fashioned sofa in my little sitting-room, lighted a fire in the widehearth, and covered me over with a few rugs, I felt comparatively happyand comfortable under the circumstances. The doctor was sent for in hothaste; but on his arrival, he confirmed my own view of the case, anddeclared I only needed rest and quiet and a little arnica.

  I was rather distressed, however, when madame came up to see me an hourlater, and assured me that she and monsieur thought I ought to be moveddown as soon as possible into more comfortable apartments at Lausanne,where I could secure better attendance. I saw in a moment what thatmeant: they wanted to get me away from Isaline. "There are no morecomfortable quarters in all Switzerland, I am sure, madame," I said: butmadame was inflexible. There was an English doctor at Lausanne, and toLausanne accordingly I must go. Evidently, it had just begun to strikethose two good simple people that Isaline and I could just conceivablymanage to fall in love with one another.

  Might I ask for Mademoiselle Isaline to bring me up a cup of tea? Yes,Isaline would bring it in a minute. And when she came in, those usuallylaughing black eyes obviously red with crying, I felt my heart sinkwithin me when I thought of my promise to M. Claude; while I began to bevaguely conscious that I was really and truly very much in love withpretty little Isaline on my own account.

  She laid the tray on the small table by the sofa, and was going to leavethe room immediately. "Mademoiselle Isaline," I said, trying to raisemyself, and falling back again in pain, "won't you sit with me a littlewhile? I want to talk with you."

  "My mamma said I must come away at once," Isaline replied demurely. "Sheis without doubt busy and wants my aid." And she turned to go towardsthe door.

  "Oh, do come back, mademoiselle," I cried, raising myself again, andgiving myself, oh, such a wrench in the spine: "don't you see how muchit hurts me to sit up?"
>
  She turned back, indecisively, and sat down in the big chair just beyondthe table, handing me the cup, and helping me to cream and sugar. Iplunged at once _in medias res_.

  "You have been crying, mademoiselle," I said, "and I think I can guessthe reason. M. Claude has told me something about it. He has asked youfor your hand, and you have refused him. Is it not so?" This was alittle bit of hypocrisy on my part, I confess, for I knew what she hadbeen crying about perfectly: but I wished to be loyal to M. Claude.

  Isaline blushed and laughed. "I do not cry for M. Claude," she said. "Imay have other matters of my own to cry about. But M. Claude is veryfree with his confidences, if he tells such things to a stranger."

  "Listen to me, Mademoiselle Isaline," I said. "Your father and motherhave asked me to leave here to-morrow and go down to Lausanne. I shallprobably never see you again. But before I go, I want to plead with youfor M. Claude. He has saved my life, and I owe him much gratitude. Heloves you; he is a brave man, a good man, a true and earnest man; whywill you not marry him? I feel sure he is a noble fellow, and he willmake you a tender husband. Will you not think better of your decision? Icannot bear to leave Les Pentes till I know that you have made himhappy."

  "Truly?"

  "Truly."

  "And you go away to-morrow?"

  "Yes, to-morrow."

  "Oh, monsieur!"

  There isn't much in those two words; but they may be pronounced with agood deal of difference in the intonation; and Isaline's intonation didnot leave one in much doubt as to how she used them. Her eyes filledagain with tears, and she half started up to go. Ingrate and wretch thatI was, forgetful of my promise to M. Claude, my eyes filledresponsively, and I jumped to catch her and keep her from going, ofcourse at the expense of another dreadful wrench to my poor back."Isaline," I cried, unconsciously dropping the mademoiselle, and lettingher see my brimming eyelids far too obviously, "Isaline, do wait awhile,I implore you, I beseech you! I have something to say to you."

  She seated herself once more in the big chair. "Well, mon pauvremonsieur," she cried, "what is it?"

  "Isaline," I began, trying it over again; "why won't you marry M.Claude?"

  "Oh, that again. Well," answered Isaline boldly, "because I do not lovehim, and I love somebody else. You should not ask a young lady aboutthese matters. In Switzerland, we do not think it _comme il faut_."

  "But," I went on, "why do you not love M. Claude? He has every goodquality, and----"

  "Every good quality, and--he bores me," answered Isaline. "Monsieur,"she went on archly, "you were asking me the other day what books I hadread in English. Well, I have read Longfellow. Do you remember MilesStandish?"

  I saw what she was driving at, and laughed in spite of myself. "Yes," Isaid, "I know what you mean. When John Alden is pleading with Priscillaon behalf of Miles Standish, Priscilla cuts him short by saying----"

  Isaline finished the quotation herself in her own pretty clippedEnglish, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"

  I laughed. She laughed. We both looked at one another; and the nextthing I remember was that I had drawn down Isaline's plump little faceclose to mine, and was kissing it vigorously, in spite of an acutedarting pain at each kiss all along my spine and into my marrow-bones.Poor M. Claude was utterly forgotten.

  In twenty minutes I had explained my whole position to Isaline: and intwenty minutes more, I had monsieur and madame up to explain it all tothem in their turn. Monsieur listened carefully while I told him that Iwas an English advocate in no practice to speak of; that I had a fewhundreds a year of my own, partly dependent upon my mother; that I hadthoughts of settling down permanently in Switzerland; and that Isalinewas willing, with her parents' consent, to share my modest competence.Monsieur replied with true Swiss caution that he would inquire into mystatements, and that if they proved to be as represented, and if Iobtained in turn my mother's consent, he would be happy to hand me overIsaline. "Toutefois," he added quietly, "it will be perhaps better torescind your journey to Lausanne. The Glion doctor is, after all, asufficiently skilful one." So I waited on in peace at Les Pontes.

  Madame had insisted upon telegraphing the news of my accident to mymother, lest it should reach her first in the papers ("Je suis meremoi-meme, monsieur," she said, in justification of her conduct). Andnext morning we got a telegram in reply from my mother, who evidentlyimagined she must hurry over at once if she wished to see her son alive,or at least must nurse him through a long and dangerous illness.Considering the injuries were a matter of about three days' sofa, in allprobability, this haste was a little overdone. However, she would arriveby the very first _rapide_ from Paris; and on the whole I was not sorry,for I was half afraid she might set her face against my marrying "aforeigner," but I felt quite sure any one who once saw Isaline couldnever resist her.

  That afternoon, when school was over, M. Claude dropped in to see how Iwas getting on. I felt more like a thief at that moment than I ever feltin my whole life before or since. I knew I must tell him the simpletruth; but I didn't know how to face it. However, as soon as I began, hesaved me the trouble by saying, "You need not mind explaining.Mademoiselle Isaline has told me all. Yon did your best for me, I feelsure; but she loves you, and she does not love me. We cannot help thesethings; they come and go without our being able to govern them. I amsorry, more than sorry; but I thank you for your kind offices.Mademoiselle Isaline tells me you said all you could on my behalf, andnothing on your own. Accept my congratulations on having secured thelove of the sweetest girl in all Switzerland." And he shook my hand withan honest heartiness that cost me several more twinges both in the spineand the half-guilty conscience. Yet, after all, it was not my fault.

  "Monsieur Claude," I said, "you are an honest fellow, and a noblefellow, and I trust you will still let me be your friend."

  "Naturally," answered M. Claude, in his frank way. "I have only done myduty. You have been the lucky one, but I must not bear you a grudge forthat; though it has cost my heart a hard struggle;" and, as he spoke,the tears came for a moment in his honest blue eyes, though he tried tobrush them away unseen.

  "Monsieur Claude," I said, "you are too generous to me. I can neverforgive myself for this."

  Before many days my mother came to hand duly; and though her socialprejudices were just a trifle shocked, at first, by the farmhouse, withits hams and maize, which I had found so picturesque, I judged rightlythat Isaline would soon make an easy conquest of her. My mother readilyadmitted that my accent had improved audibly to the naked ear; thatIsaline's manners were simply perfect; that she was a dear, pretty,captivating little thing; and that on the whole she saw no objections,save one possible one, to my marriage. "Of course, Charlie," she said,"the Clairons are Protestants; because, otherwise, I could never thinkof giving my consent."

  This was a poser in its way; for though I knew the village lay just onthe borderland, and some of the people were Catholics while others wereReformed, I had not the remotest notion to which of the two churchesIsaline belonged. "Upon my soul, mother dear," I said, "it has neverstruck me to inquire into Isaline's private abstract opinion on thesubject of the Pope's infallibility or the Geneva Confession. You see,after all, it could hardly be regarded as an important or authoritativeone. However, I'll go at once and find out."

  Happily, as it turned out, the Clairons were Reformed, and so mymother's one objection fell to the ground immediately. M. Clairon'sinquiries were also satisfactory; and the final result was that Isalineand I were to be quietly married before the end of the summer. The goodfather had a nice little vineyard estate at Pic de la Baume, which heproposed I should undertake to cultivate; and my mother waited to seeus installed in one of the prettiest little toy chalets to be seenanywhere at the Villeneuve end of the lovely lake. A happier or sweeterbride than Isaline I defy the whole world, now or ever, to produce.

  From the day of our wedding, almost, Isaline made it the business of herlife to discover a fitting wife for good M. Claude; and in the end shesucceeded
in discovering, I will freely admit (since Isaline is notjealous), the second prettiest and second nicest girl in the whole Paysde Vaud. And what is more, she succeeded also in getting M. Claude tofall head over ears in love with her at first sight; to propose to herat the end of a week; and to be accepted with effusion by Annetteherself, and with coldness by her papa, who thought the question ofmeans a trifle unsatisfactory. But Isaline and I arranged that Claudeshould come into partnership in our vineyard business on easy terms, andgive up schoolmastering for ever; and the consequence is that he and hiswife have now got the companion chalet to ours, and between our twolocal connections, in Switzerland and England, we are doing one of thebest trades in the new export wine traffic of any firm along the lake.Of course we have given up growing Yvorne, except for our own use,confining ourselves entirely to a high-priced vintage-wine, with verycareful culture, for our English business: and I take this opportunityof recommending our famous phylloxera-proof white Pic de la Baume,London Agents ----. But Isaline says that looks too much like anadvertisement, so I leave off. Still, I can't help saying that a dearerlittle wife than Isaline, or a better partner than Claude, never yetfell to any man's lot. They certainly are an excellent people, theseVaudois, and I think you would say so too if only you knew them as wellas I do.