"Look here, Amy," said Guy, pointing to a name in the traveller"s book at Altdorf.

"Captain Morville!" she exclaimed, "July 14th. That was only the day before yesterday."

"I wonder whether we shall overtake him! Do you know what was this gentleman"s route?" inquired Guy, in French that was daily becoming more producible.

The gentleman having come on foot, with nothing but his knapsack, had not made much sensation. There was a vague idea that he had gone on to the St. Gothard; but the guide who was likely to know, was not forthcoming, and all Guy"s inquiries only resulted in, "I dare say we shall hear of him elsewhere."

To tell the truth, Amabel was not much disappointed, and she could see, though he said nothing, that Guy was not very sorry. These two months had been so very happy, there had been such full enjoyment, such freedom from care and vexation, or aught that could for a moment ruffle the stream of delight. Scenery, cathedrals music, paintings, historical a.s.sociation, had in turn given unceasing interest and pleasure; and, above all, Amabel had been growing more and more into the depths of her husband"s mind, and entering into the grave, n.o.ble thoughts inspired by the scenes they were visiting. It had been a sort of ideal happiness, so exquisite, that she could hardly believe it real. A taste of society, which they had at Munich, though very pleasant, had only made them more glad to be alone together again; any companion would have been an interruption, and Philip, so intimate, yet with his carping, persecuting spirit towards Guy, was one of the last persons she could wish to meet; but knowing that this was by no means a disposition Guy wished to encourage, she held her peace.

For the present, no more was said about Philip; and they proceeded to Interlachen, where they spent a day or two, while Arnaud was with his relations; and they visited the two beautiful lakes of Thun and Brientz.

On first coming among mountains, Amabel had been greatly afraid of the precipices, and had been very much alarmed at the way in which Guy clambered about, with a sureness of foot and steadiness of head acquired long ago on the crags of Redclyffe, and on which the guides were always complimenting him; but from seeing him always come down safe, and from having been enticed by him to several heights, which had at first seemed to her most dizzy and dangerous, she had gradually laid aside her fears, and even become slightly, very slightly, adventurous herself.

One beautiful evening, they were wandering on the side of the Beatenberg, in the little narrow paths traced by the tread of the goats and their herdsmen. Amabel sat down to try to sketch the outline of the white-capped Jung Frau and her attendant mountains, wishing she could draw as well as Laura, but intending her outline to aid in describing the scene to those whose eyes she longed to have with her. While she was drawing, Guy began to climb higher, and was soon out of sight, though she still heard him whistling. The mountains were not easy to draw, or rather she grew discontented with her black lines and white paper, compared with the dazzling snow against the blue sky, tinged by the roseate tints of the setting sun, and the dark fissures on the rocky sides, still blacker from the contrast.

She put up her sketching materials, and began to gather some of the delightful treasury of mountain flowers. A gentle slope of gra.s.s was close to her, and on it grew, at some little distance from her, a tuft of deep purple, the beautiful Alpine saxifrage, which she well knew by description. She went to gather it, but the turf was slippery, and when once descending, she could not stop herself; and what was the horror of finding herself half slipping, half running down a slope, which became steeper every moment, till it was suddenly broken off into a sheer precipice! She screamed, and grasped with both hands at some low bushes, that grew under a rock at the side of the treacherous turf. She caught a branch, and found herself supported, by clinging to it with her hands, while she rested on the slope, now so nearly perpendicular, that to lose her hold would send her instantly down the precipice. Her whole weight seemed to depend on that slender bough, and those little hands that clenched it convulsively,--her feet felt in vain for some hold. "Guy!

Guy!" she shrieked again. Oh, where was he? His whistle ceased,--he heard her,--he called,

"Here!"

"Oh, help me!" she answered. But with that moment"s joy came the horror, he could not help her--he would only fall himself. "Take care! don"t come on the gra.s.s!" she cried. She must let go the branch in a short, time then a slip, the precipice,--and what would become of him? Those moments were hours.

"I am coming--hold fast!" She heard his voice above her, very near.

To find him so close made the agony of dread and of prayer even more intense. To be lost, with her husband scarcely a step from her! Yet how could he stand on the slippery turf, and so as to be steady enough to raise her up?

"Now, then!" he said, speaking from the rock under which the brushwood grew, "I cannot reach you unless you raise up your hand to me--your left hand--straight up. Let go. Now!"

It was a fearful moment. Amabel could not see him, and felt as if relinquishing her grasp of the tree was certain destruction. The instinct of self-preservation had been making her cling desperately with that left hand, especially as it held by the thicker part of the bough.

But the habit of implicit confidence and obedience was stronger still; she did not hesitate, and tightening her hold with the other hand, she unclasped the left and stretched it upwards.

Joy unspeakable to feel his fingers close over her wrist, like iron, even while the bush to which she had trusted was detaching itself, almost uprooted by her weight! If she had waited a second she would have been lost, but her confidence had been her safety. A moment or two more, and with closed eyes she was leaning against him; his arm was round her, and he guided her steps, till, breathless, she found herself on the broad well-trodden path, out of sight of the precipice.

"Thank heaven!" he said, in a very low voice, as he stood still. "Thank G.o.d! my Amy, I have you still."

She looked up and saw how pale he was, though his voice had been so steady throughout. She leant on his breast, and rested her head on his shoulder again in silence, for her heart was too full of awe and thankfulness for words, even had she not been without breath or power to speak, and needing his support in her giddiness and trembling.

More than a minute pa.s.sed thus. Then, beginning to recover, she looked up to him again, and said, "Oh, it was dreadful! I did not think you could have saved me."

"I thought so too for a moment!" said Guy, in a stifled voice. "You are better now? You are not hurt? are you sure?"

"Quite sure! I did not fall, you know, only slipped. No, I have nothing the matter with me, thank you."

She tried to stand alone, but the trembling returned. He made her sit down, and she rested against him, while he still made her a.s.sure him that she was unhurt. "Yes, quite unhurt--quite well; only this wrist is a little strained, and no wonder. Oh, I am sure it was Providence that made those bushes grow just there!"

"How did it happen?"

"It was my fault. I went after a flower; my foot slipped on the turf, and I could not stop myself. I thought I should have run right down the precipice."

She shut her eyes and shuddered again. "It was frightful!" he said, holding her fast. "It was a great mercy, indeed. Thank heaven, it is over! You are not giddy now."

"Oh, no; not at all!"

"And your wrist?"

"Oh, that"s nothing. I only told you to show you what was the worst,"

said Amy, smiling with recovered playfulness, the most re-a.s.suring of all.

"What flower was it?"

"A piece of purple saxifrage. I thought there was no danger, for it did not seem steep at first."

"No, it was not your fault. You had better not move just yet; sit still a little while."

"O Guy, where are you going?"

"Only for your sketching tools and my stick. I shall not be gone an instant. Sit still and recover."

In a few seconds he came back with her basket, and in it a few of the flowers.

"Oh, I am sorry," she said, coming to meet him; "I wish I had told you I did not care for them. Why did you?"

"I did not put myself in any peril about them. I had my trusty staff, you know."

"I am glad I did not guess what you were doing. I thought it so impossible, that I did not think of begging you not. I shall keep them always. It is a good thing for us to be put in mind how frail all our joy is."

"All?" asked Guy, scarcely as if replying to her, while, though his arm pressed hers, his eye was on the blue sky, as he answered himself, "Your joy no man taketh from you."

Amabel was much impressed, as she thought what it would have been for him if his little wife bad been s.n.a.t.c.hed from him so suddenly and frightfully. His return--his meeting her mother--his desolate home and solitary life. She could almost have wept for him. Yet, at the moment of relief from the fear of such misery, he could thus speak. He could look onward to the joy beyond, even while his cheek was still blanched with the horror and anguish of the apprehension; and how great they had been was shown by the broken words he uttered in his sleep, for several nights afterwards, while by day he was always watching and cautioning her. a.s.suredly his dependence on the joy that could not be lost did not make her doubt his tenderness; it only made her feel how far behind him she was, for would it have been the same with her, had the danger been his?

In a couple of days they arrived at the beautiful Lugano, and, as usual, their first walk was to the post-office, but disappointment awaited them. There had been some letters addressed to the name of Morville, but the Signor Inglese had left orders that such should be forwarded to Como. Amabel, in her best Italian, strove hard to explain the difference between the captain and Sir Guy, the Cavaliere Guido, as she translated him, who stood by looking much amused by the perplexities of his lady"s construing; while the post-master, though very polite and sorry for the Signora"s disappointment, stuck to the address being Morville, poste restante.

"There is one good thing," said the cavaliere, as they walked away, "we can find the captain now. I"ll write and ask him--shall I say to meet us at Varenna or at Bellagio?"

"Whichever suits him best, I should think. It can"t make much difference to us."

"Your voice has a disconsolate cadence," said Guy, looking at her with a smile.

"I did not mean it," she answered; "I have not a word to say against it.

It is quite right, and I am sure I don"t wish to do otherwise."

"Only it is the first drawback in our real day-dream."

"Just so, and that is all," said Amy; "I am glad you feel the same, not that I want you to change your mind."

"Don"t you remember our resolution against mere pleasure-hunting? That adventure at Interlachen seemed to be meant to bring us up short just as we were getting into that line."

"You think we were?"

"I was, at least; for I know it was a satisfaction not to find a letter, to say Redclyffe was ready for us."