“That’s right, Fred! begin at once; give him a long march to-day.”
“Never fear, I’ll fill his mind with mountain air.”
“And you, fair captain, do you march with us?” inquired Westby.
“Not to-day; I’m on—what is it, Fred?”
“Garrison duty.”
“Yes, yes; and, besides, I’ve got dear papa to look after. Now, then, soldiers, shoulder arms!—alpenstocks, I mean!—march!”
And off they went. Lilian to her father’s bedside, to tell her parents that their friend of yesterday was her brother’s oldest friend, and her playmate ever so many years ago when she was quite a wee child.
So Westby was fated to have a real holiday after all—a holiday life with two people whose lives had been a perpetual holiday, amusement the end of their existence. Frederick Temple’s amusements were of the physical order mainly—fox-hunting in England, tiger-shooting, pig-sticking, and the like in India; and Lilian was true to her old love of active pursuits, but with mind beyond her blue eyes which had sought amusement in deeper matters; yet her intellect was hidden from ordinary sight, few of the many partners of a first season suspected it in her enthusiastic love of Whitenose, her horse, or the valse-à-deux-temps—herself a paragon of dancers.
The two friends walked upwards behind Interlachen, holding a gasping-breath conversation on old times; the mountain breeze smote their faces with pleasant coolness as they turned for a moment’s rest, or sight of the valley beneath.
Temple was such an inspiriting companion; care, the vampire, had never fastened on his spirits, and there they were full and overflowing as a boy’s. His conversation was a delightful novelty to Westby, presenting such easy happy views of life; events had fallen on Temple like feathers to be blown about at pleasure, not leaden weights to be sternly endured. Westby had come abroad to try for a while to forget the past, Temple recurred to it with intense pleasure—such stories he told; muscular power spent in great adventures, riding and shooting feats, big bags of Indian game, tigers and leopards, boars and antelopes, and all manner of birds; these things spoken of in such hearty enthusiastic words that the old nature of Westby, buried beneath many legal tomes antagonistic to the natural man, was aroused, and old boyish dreams of active, dare-devil life, soldier, sailor, emigrant, flitted through his brain, as he strode along breathless at Temple’s side, Temple in better walking trim than himself, listening with eager ears to this Indian talk.
“I have given the man a good breather,” said Temple to his sister. “How do you feel after it, Westby?”
“Why, I think”
“Think! that’s just what you are not to do, Karlo Magno!” exclaimed Lilian.
“I am better, then.”
“The walk, you see.”
“Yes, and your brother’s conversation.”
“Just what I feel; whenever I’m tired, I make Fred talk, he always enlivens me. I’m tired now.”
“How so, Lilian?”
“I’ve been amusing papa all day, that is, writing business letters for him—money, the everlasting subject. I hate it.”
“Honey’s pleasant! don’t blame the bees, my pet.”
“I’m not a drone, Fred! I hate to be idle, as much as you do.”
“Ah! but our activity don’t pay.”
“Never mind, I kill time, and you kill tigers.”
“Confound it! Russians would have been more profitable. I missed the Crimea, Westby.”
“You would go to India, Fred.”
“I’d always wanted to see India—I exchanged, Westby. A year or so after I got out, the Russian row begins. Everybody said we should be sent to the Crimea; I thought so, too; month after month we sweltered under the punkas, but the orders never came. I grew sick of the whole Indian business, hunting and all; so when the French shut up for want of money and made us make peace, I got a year’s leave and came home.”
“Poor boy! I dare say there will be a row in India some day.”
“Nonsense, Lilian! who with? Who is there to fight us, and our big native army? We shall be ordered home in another year, that’s one comfort.”
“It will be a comfort to me,” said Lilian. “I shall miss you so, Fred; there’s nobody to ride or walk with.”
“Well, I dare say the next London season will provide a companion. For instance, that tall, elegant, handsome”
“Nonsense, Fred! it’s a great shame—I did not care one atom—I declare it’s true, Mr. Westby!—I won’t be laughed at; why, Whitenose has got more intellect!”
“Ride with your father, then.”
“Stupid Fred! when you know papa’s pony, and the affinity it has for money matters.”
“For money matters!” exclaimed Westby.
“Yes, it’s very odd; there are several animals of the same kind, they always join company in Rotten Row, and listen to their riders’ talk of the city events of the day—this equestrian finance fidgets Whitenose dreadfully.”
“There, never mind stuffy London!” interrupted her brother, “I had enough of it last season. Let’s think what we ought to do while we are here.”
All three plunged into Murray and Keller. Lilian enthusiastically proposing the most tremendous mountain feats which were gradually laughed into possible performances. Day after day they went forth to see the grand sight of that mountain land. It did wonders for Westby, this happy companionship; the equity colour was thereby clean cast out of his eyes; there was no resisting the enthusiasm of Lilian, with her fresh new thoughts gathered off the riven granite masses, and their snowy summits, bossy white at noon-day against the deep blue sky, or sun-flushed at dawn and eventide, rolling their dead white ice-waves into the gloomy valleys beneath. And
