Chapter I: Part 1

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 705. SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.

The fire burns cheerily on the hearth, the great logs crackle and flare up the wide chimney, up which it is my wont to say you could drive a coach-and-four. I draw my chair nearer to it with a shiver. 'What a night!' I say.

'Is it still snowing?' asks my wife, who sits opposite to me, her books and work on the table beside her.

'Fast. You can scarcely see a yard before you.'

'Heaven help any poor creature on the moor to-night!' says she.

'Who would venture out? It began snowing before dark, and all the people about know the danger of being benighted on the moor in a snow-storm.'

'Yes. But I have known people frozen to death hereabouts before now.'

My wife is Scotch, and this pleasant house in the Highlands is hers. We are trying a winter in it for the first time, and I find it excessively cold and somewhat dull. Mentally I decide that in future we will only grace it with our presence during the shooting season. Presently I go to the window and look out; it has ceased snowing, and through a rift in the clouds I see a star.

'It is beginning to clear,' I tell my wife, and also inform her that it is past eleven. As she lights her candle at a side-table I hear a whining and scratching at the front-door.

'There is Laddie loose again,' says she. 'Would you let him in, dear?'

I did not like facing the cold wind, but could not refuse to let in the poor animal. Strangely enough, when I opened the door and called him, he wouldn't come. He runs up to the door and looks into my face with dumb entreaty; then he runs back a few steps, looking round to see if I am following; and finally, he takes my coat in his mouth and tries to draw me out.

'Laddie won't come in,' I call out to my wife. 'On the contrary, he seems to want me to go out and have a game of snow-ball with him.'

She throws a shawl round her and comes to the door. The collie was hers before we were married, and she is almost as fond of him, I tell her, as she is of Jack, our eldest boy.

'Laddie, Laddie!' she calls; 'come in, sir.' He comes obediently at her call, but refuses to enter the house, and pursues the same dumb pantomime he has already tried on me.

'I shall shut him out, Jessie,' I say. 'A night in the snow won't hurt him;' and I prepare to close the door.

'You will do nothing of the kind!' she replies with an anxious look; 'but you will rouse the servants at once, and follow him. Some one is lost in the snow, and Laddie knows it.'

I laugh. 'Really, Jessie, you are absurd. Laddie is a sagacious animal, no doubt, but I cannot believe he is as clever as that. How can he possibly know whether any one is lost in the snow, or not?'

'Because he has found them, and come back to us for help. Look at him now.'

I cannot but own that the dog seems restless and uneasy, and is evidently endeavouring to coax us to follow him; he looks at us with pathetic entreaty in his eloquent eyes. 'Why won't you believe me?' he seems to ask.

'Come,' she continues; 'you know you could not rest while there was a possibility of a fellow-creature wanting your assistance. And I am certain Laddie is not deceiving us.'

What is a poor hen-pecked man to do? I grumble and resist and yield; as I have often grumbled and resisted and yielded before, and as I doubtless often shall again.

'Laddie once found a man in the snow before, but he was dead,' Jessie says, as she hurries off to fill a flask with brandy, and get ready some blankets for us to take with us. In the meantime I rouse the servants. They are all English, with the exception of Donald the gardener, and I can see that they are scoffingly sceptical of Laddie's sagacity, and inwardly disgusted at having to turn out of their warm beds and face the bitter winter's night.

'Dinna trouble yersels,' I hear old Donald say. 'The mistress is right eneugh. Auld Laddie is cleverer than mony a Christian, and will find something in the snaw this night.'

'Don't sit up, Jessie,' I say as we start; 'we may be out half the night on this wild-goose chase.'

'Follow Laddie closely,' is the only answer she makes.

The dog springs forward with a joyous bark, constantly looking back to see if we are following. As we pass through the avenue gates and emerge on to the moor, the moon struggles for a moment through the driving clouds, and lights up with a sickly gleam the snow-clad country before us. 'It's like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, sir,' says John the coachman confidentially, 'to think as we should find anybody on such a night as this! Why, in some places the snow is more than a couple o' feet thick, and it goes again' reason to think that a dumb animal would have the sense to come home and fetch help.'

'Bide a wee, bide a wee,' says old Donald. 'I dinna ken what your English dugs can do; but a collie, though it hasna been pleasing to Providence to give the creatur the gift o' speech, can do mony mair things than them that wad deride it.'

'I ain't a deridin' of 'em,' says John. 'I only say as how if they be so very clever, _I've_ never seen it.'

'Ye wull, though, ye wull,' says old Donald, as he hurries forward after Laddie, who has now settled down into a swinging trot, and is taking his way straight across the loneliest part of the bleak moor. The cold wind almost cuts us in two, and whirls the snow into our faces, nearly blinding us. My finger-tips are becoming numbed, icicles hang from my moustache and beard, and my feet and legs are soaking wet, even through my shooting-boots and stout leather leggings.

The moon has gone in again, and the light from the lantern we carry is barely sufficient to shew us the inequalities in the height of the snow, by which we are guessing at our path. I begin to wish I had staid at home. '_L'homme propose, mais la femme dispose_,' I sigh to myself; and I begin to consider whether I may venture to give up the search (which I have undertaken purely to satisfy my wife, for I am like John, and won't believe in Laddie), when suddenly I hear a shout in front of me, and see Donald, who has all the time been keeping close to Laddie, drop on his knees and begin digging wildly in the snow with his hands. We all rush forward. Laddie has stopped at what appears to be the foot of a stunted tree, and after scratching and whining for a moment, sits down and watches, leaving the rest to us. What is it that appears when we have shovelled away the snow? A dark object. Is it a bundle of rags? Is it--or alas! was it a human being? We raise it carefully and tenderly, and wrap it in one of the warm blankets with which my wife's forethought has provided us. 'Bring the lantern,' I say huskily; and John holds it over the prostrate form of, not as we might have expected, some stalwart shepherd of the hills, but over that of a poor shrivelled, wrinkled, ragged old woman. I try to pour a little brandy down the poor old throat, but the teeth are so firmly clenched that I cannot.

'Best get her home as quickly as may be, sir; the mistress will know better what to do for her nor we do, if so be the poor creature is not past help,' says John, turning instinctively, as we all do in sickness or trouble, to woman's aid.

So we improvise a sort of hammock of the blankets, and gently and tenderly the men prepare to carry their poor helpless burden over the snow.

'I am afraid your mistress will be in bed,' I say, as we begin to retrace our steps.

'Never fear, sir,' says Donald with a triumphant glance at John; 'the mistress will be up and waitin' for us. She kens Laddie didna bring us out in the snaw for naething.'

'I'll never say nought about believing a dawg again,' says John, gracefully striking his colours. 'You were right and I was wrong, and that's all about it; but to think there should be such sense in a animal passes _me_!'

As we reach the avenue gate I despatch one of the men for the doctor, who fortunately lives within a stone's-throw of us, and hurry on myself to prepare my wife for what is coming. She runs out into the hall to meet me. 'Well?' she asks eagerly.

'We have found a poor old woman,' I say; 'but I do not know whether she is alive or dead.'

My wife throws her arms round me and gives me a great hug.

'You will find dry things and a jug of hot toddy in your dressing-room, dear,' she says; and this is all the revenge she takes on me for my scepticism. The poor old woman is carried up-stairs and placed in a warm bath under my wife's direction; and before the doctor arrives she has shewn some faint symptoms of life; so my wife sends me word. Dr Bruce shakes his head when he sees her. 'Poor old soul,' he says; 'how came she out on the moor on such a fearful night? I doubt she has received a shock, which at her age she will not easily get over.'

They manage, however, to force a few spoonfuls of hot brandy-and-water down her throat; and presently a faint colour flickers on her cheek, and the poor old eyelids begin to tremble. My wife raises her head and makes her swallow some cordial which Dr Bruce has brought with him, and then lays her back among the soft warm pillows. 'I think she will rally now,' says Dr Bruce, as her breathing becomes more audible and regular. 'Nourishment and warmth will do the rest; but she has received a shock from which, I fear, she will never recover;' and so saying, he takes his leave.

By-and-by I go up to the room and find my wife watching alone by the aged sufferer. She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. 'Poor old soul,' she says; 'I am afraid she will not rally from the cold and exposure.'

I go round to the other side of the bed and look down upon her. The aged face looks wan and pinched, and the scanty gray locks which lie on the pillow are still wet from the snow. She is a very little woman, as far as I can judge of her in her recumbent position, and I should think must have reached her allotted threescore years and ten. 'Who can she be?' I repeat wonderingly. 'She does not belong to any of the villages hereabouts, or we should know her face; and I cannot imagine what could bring a stranger to the moor on such a night.'

As I speak a change passes over her face; the eyes unclose, and she looks inquiringly about her. She tries to speak, but is evidently too weak. My wife raises her, and gives her a spoonful of nourishment, while she says soothingly: 'Don't try to speak. You are among friends; and when you are better you shall tell us all about yourself. Lie still now and try to sleep.'

The gray head drops back wearily on the pillow; and soon we have the satisfaction of hearing by the regular respiration that our patient is asleep.

'You must come to bed now, Jessie,' I say. 'I shall ring for Mary, and she can sit up for the remainder of the night.' But my wife, who is a tender-hearted soul and a born nurse, will not desert her post; so I leave her watching, and retire to my solitary chamber.

When we meet in the morning I find that the little old woman has spoken a few words, and seems stronger. 'Come in with me now,' says my wife, 'and let us try to find out who she is.' We find her propped into a reclining posture with pillows, and Mary beside her feeding her.

'How are you now?' asks Jessie, bending over her.

'Better, much better; thank you, good lady,' she says in a voice which trembles from age as well as weakness. 'And very grateful to you for your goodness.'

I hear at once by the accent that she is English. 'Are you strong enough to tell me how you got lost on the moor, and where you came from, and where you were going?' continues my wife.

'Ah! I was going to my lad, my poor lad, and now I doubt I shall never see him more,' says the poor soul, with a long sigh of weariness.

'Where is your lad, and how far have you come?'

'My lad is a soldier at Fort-George; and I have come all the way from Liverpool to see him, and give him his old mother's blessing before he goes to the Indies.' And then, brokenly, with long pauses of weariness and weakness, the little old woman tells us her pitiful story.

Her lad, she tells us, is her only remaining child. She had six, and this, the youngest, is the only one who did not die of want during the Lancashire cotton famine. He grew up a fine likely boy, the comfort and pride of his mother's heart, and the stay of her declining years. But a 'strike' threw him out of work, and unable to endure the privation and misery, in a fit of desperation he 'listed.' His regiment was quartered at Fort-George, and he wrote regularly to his mother, his letters getting more cheerful and hopeful every day; until suddenly he wrote to say that his regiment was ordered to India, and begging her to send him her blessing, as he had not enough money to carry him to Liverpool to see her. The aged mother, widowed and childless, save for this one remaining boy, felt that she _must_ look on his face once more before she died. She begged from a few ladies, whose kindness had kept her from the workhouse, sufficient money to carry her by train to Glasgow; and from thence she had made her way, now on foot, now begging a lift in a passing cart or wagon, to within a few miles of Fort-George, when she was caught in the snow-storm; and wandering from the road, would have perished in the snow--but for Laddie.

My wife is in tears, and Mary is sobbing audibly as the little old woman concludes her simple and touching story; and I walk to the window and look out for a moment, before I am able to ask her what her son's name is. As I tell her that we are but a few miles from Fort-George, and that I will send over for him, a smile of extreme content illumines the withered face. 'His name is John Salter,' she says: 'he is a tall handsome lad; they will know him by that.'

I hasten down-stairs and write a short note to Colonel Freeman, whom I know intimately, informing him of the circumstances, and begging that he will allow John Salter to come over at once; and I despatch my groom in the dogcart, that he may bring him back without loss of time. As I return to the house after seeing him start, I meet Dr Bruce leaving the house.

'Poor old soul,' he says; 'her troubles are nearly over; she is sinking fast. I almost doubt whether she will live till her son comes.'

'How she could have accomplished such a journey at her age, I cannot understand,' I observe.

'Nothing is impossible to a mother,' answers Dr Bruce; 'but it has killed her.'

I go in; but I find I cannot settle to my usual occupations. My thoughts are with the aged heroine who is dying up-stairs, and presently I yield to the fascination which draws me back to her presence.

As Dr Bruce says, she is sinking fast. She lies back on the pillows, her cheeks as ashy gray as her hair. She clasps my wife's hand in hers, but her eyes are wide open, and have an eager expectant look in them.

'At what time may we expect them?' whispers my wife to me.

'Not before four,' I answer in the same tone.

'He will be too late, I fear,' she says; 'she is getting rapidly weaker.'

But love is stronger than death, and she _will_ not go until her son comes. All through the winter's day, she lies dying, obediently taking what nourishment is given to her, but never speaking except to say: 'My lad, my lad! God is good; He will not let me die until he comes.'

And at last I hear the dogcart. I lay my finger on my lip and tell Mary to go and bring John Salter up very quietly. But my caution is needless; the mother has heard the sound, and with a last effort of her remaining strength, she raises herself and stretches out her arms. 'My lad, my lad!' she gasps, as with a great sob, he springs forward, and mother and son are clasped in each other's arms once more. For a moment they remain so. Then the little old woman sinks back on my wife's shoulder, and her spirit is looking down from Heaven on the lad she loved so dearly on earth.

* * * * *

She lies in our little churchyard under a spreading yew-tree, and on the stone which marks her resting-place are inscribed the words, 'Faithful unto Death.' Our Laddie has gained far-spread renown for his good works; and as I sit finishing this short record of a tale of which he is the hero, he lies at my feet, our ever watchful, faithful companion and friend.

THE BRITISH ANGLER ON THE CONTINENT.

It is a curious delusion, especially among writers of guide-books, that when an Englishman crosses the Channel and takes up his abode as a traveller in a strange country, he thereupon necessarily ceases to care for that truly English pastime, angling. The sportsman is expected to become a connoisseur of architecture, to delight in nothing but sweet or majestic landscapes, or to feel unwonted pleasure in a continual series of mountain walks. That some such delusion must exist is shewn by the persistent manner in which hundreds of persons who at home are ardent fishermen, and who would gladly take a holiday in Hampshire or seek some Scottish river, pass by the excellent streams and lakes which abound throughout the continent. The angler, with a martyr-like resignation, thinks only with a sigh of the trout feeding beneath the old gray willow-tree at home, but never attempts to try that skill in foreign waters which practice from boyhood has often rendered almost perfect. It is singular indeed how fishing is neglected on the continent by those who would find it a renewed pleasure; for in whatever land it may be pursued, no amusement is more refreshing to the brain-worker, with its variation of gentle or strong exercise, and its pleasant alternations of monotony and excitement.

A combination of fishing and travelling has the important advantage of rendering the traveller quite independent of that bugbear of all tourists, bad weather. In after-days he can call to mind how he has often seen the regular routine traveller pacing the _salon_ of his hotel when the mists were rolling along the mountain-side and the passer-by in the valley was drenched with rain, whilst he was setting forth for a day among the grayling in some rushing Tyrolese stream, or pondering upon those charming and descriptive lines of Sir Henry Taylor's; and he will feel, we should hope, that not the least pleasurable days which the travelling angler meets with, have been those when the trout lay safely sunning themselves in the clear water:

The peaks are shelved and terraced round;
Earthward appear in mingled growth
The mulberry and maize; above
The trellised vine extends to both
The leafy shade they love;
Looks out the white-walled cottage here;
The lonely chapel rises near;
Far down the foot must roam to reach
The lovely lake and bending beach;
While chestnut green and olive gray
Chequer the steep and winding way.

The number of those who ever cast a thought to the obtaining of their favourite amusement when they have left Dover behind them, is singularly small, or who seek to vary the regular tourist's round by a day or two by the side of some little stream where the inhabitants look upon a fishing-rod as quite an unusual phenomenon. And yet many a man who, as he drives along a Tyrolese valley or passes a sombre lake shaded by pine-trees, must involuntarily recall pleasant days spent by some Highland stream. The river ripples by the roadside, the trout are 'on the feed;' but flies and fishing-rod are safe at home, and the alpenstock alone is at hand!

But if angling is a fascinating pastime to numbers of thoughtful minds among the familiar scenes of an English landscape, it becomes even more attractive, at anyrate for a time, when practised amid the scenery of a country new to the beholder. The angler finds many features in the landscape, charming perhaps in their minuteness, which the through-going traveller, who rushes quickly from place to place, can never enjoy. Nor are the opportunities of mixing with the various country-folks to be lightly prized; for the increasing number of large hotels, the numerous railways, and improved systems of travelling, not to speak of the numbers of actual travellers, render a leisurely acquaintance with the natives more and more difficult. And it must always be a pleasure to look back to the quaint, honest, and kindly folk with whom the traveller would never have come in contact had he left his rod and tackle at home.

We can remember a professional fisherman whose acquaintance we made one afternoon in a distant hamlet on an Alpine pass, from which the mighty mass of the Ortler Spitze could be seen glowing under the beams of the setting sun. The sporting instincts of this man were small, and like most foreigners, he looked upon fish solely as an article of food or merchandise. But how ready was he to explain every little detail that we inquired about; how genuinely pleased by the present of a few English flies; and how gratified to be asked for a brace of his own singular specimens of the fly-maker's art. Nor can the quaint stout landlord in the Black Forest be forgotten, who took such an ardent pleasure in telling of the manifold advantages of large hooks and a powerful line in order to haul the pike into the boat with as little of what an English angler would term 'play' as possible.

The fisherman intent on angling for angling's sake only, can obtain excellent sport with trout or grayling in the valleys of the Salzkammergut or in the Bavarian Highlands. Or among the orchards of Normandy when they are in their spring-tide bloom. No reasonable angler indeed can wish for better. But he who, besides being a lover of the gentle art, has a soul for scenery and a relish for the vicissitudes of travel, has advantages indeed. When tired of wielding his rod he turns to enjoy natural beauty under every mood--in its wildest or its most tranquil aspects. And he is ready, like De Quincey, to fraternise with and to observe every kind of man. He will, moreover, be one who, if works of art fall in his way, can find in reiterated views reiterated enjoyment. For if you find him in Normandy in quiet Evreux, fishing for the well-fed trout in the gently flowing, poplar-lined Iton, he will be paying frequent visits to the Gothic cathedral with a pleasure which increases every time he leaves the Hôtel du Cerf. When he is in the Black Forest, he knows that unless he puts himself _en rapport_ with the simple husbandmen and industrious clockmakers of the Schwarzwald he cannot thoroughly enjoy himself; and as he walks through the meadows after a day on the Schluch See, he will feel that his landlord is his friend. Indeed, this kindly feeling which grows up between the travelling fisherman and those whom he meets, is one of the pleasantest features of this mode of holiday-making.

One of the great drawbacks to modern travel is the fact that only a few common features in the mere outward lives of the people, are observed; and even of their habits but few can really be properly gleaned by the passing traveller. The self-inflicted melancholy and unfortunate reserve of most English travellers is also a strong barrier against familiar intercourse with foreigners. John Bull has not yet acquired the secret of enjoyable outing, and gets but a poor return for his money. Certainly modern travellers would do well to notice how Dorothy Wordsworth, for instance, and her brother the poet associated with those among whom they travelled; how Dr Johnson would converse as readily with a gillie as he would argue with a Presbyterian minister; how Christopher North made the most of--Streams.

To enjoy to the full a travelling and angling tour, some familiarity with or some power of conversing in foreign languages--French, German, or Italian, all three if possible--is important. Of course, if you are staying at a place like St Moritz in the Engadine, where you find there is trout-fishing, and where English is spoken at all the hotels, you have little need for any language except your native tongue; though even then you are debarred from all conversation with the peasants or the fishermen. But it will also be found that the best angling, the most picturesque scenes, and the most economical inns, are in by-ways away from the main travelling lines; and that the best fishing stations are frequently by the side of some little frequented river, or on the banks of some solitary lake.

The choice of a companion is one of the most difficult matters, when you are projecting a fishing tour. Many an ardent angler is not satisfied unless he is _continually_ throwing his fly or trolling his minnow; but as we have already hinted, the genuine travelling angler must have a mind capable of enjoying other things besides fishing. He must also be prepared for disappointments; for it is a different thing to go wandering along the course of say the Salzach or the Inn, to stationing yourself at places such as Glendalough, or Loch Tay, or Loch Leven, where you have only to pay your money and catch or try to catch your fish. Again of two friends, if one possesses the instincts and aspirations of the mountaineer only, and the other those of the fisherman only, it is unlikely that the tour will be a success.

No two persons suit each other better for a foreign piscatorial tour than an artist and an angler; for both find materials for their skill. Where David Cox could find materials for his pencil such as we see in the grand picture of the 'Salmon Trap,' the follower of Izaak Walton will assuredly not be without hope in the exercise of his delicate craft. Nor are ladies, if with proper tastes, unsuitable companions for the angling traveller. Even if they do not actually possess in common some taste such as painting, yet still sketching and fishing, or fishing and walking, or simply fishing and quiet travelling, can well be combined, provided each possesses a fair share of that cardinal virtue of all travellers--forbearance. Thus, with a moderate capability of walking, we see nothing to prevent a brother and a sister, or a husband and a wife, from pleasantly enjoying a tour that shall include angling.

None of the usual guide-books give any information upon the subject of continental fishing; and therefore it must be found out in the first instance whether some village or valley is a likely centre for the angler; and often it proves that some half-way posting inn is the very best station for his purpose. But if some amount of walking is undertaken, and the angler be of an inquiring disposition, there is no fear of overlooking any stream or lake by the wayside.

There is yet another pleasing attraction for the traveller who angles as he goes. This may be termed the natural history attraction; for not only are fresh varieties of fish made familiar to the angler to whom the trout, or grayling, or pike of his home serve as the personification of all fresh-water fish, but even new varieties of these fish are observed under entirely new conditions; and no fisherman of any intelligence who happens to spend a few days among the lakes of the Eastern Alps, will fail to make the acquaintance of that excellent fish, the coregonus. In speaking of this fish, Mr Francis Francis, a well-known writer on angling subjects, tells us that 'where varieties caused by water and locality are as plentiful as the lakes, where the distinctive differences between the fish themselves are but small, and where names are legion, the confusion is so great, that nothing but the utmost patience and perseverance, combined with large opportunities and the staunchest assistance, can ever hope to settle such moot-points as these questions of the identity of some fish with others. The coregoni are therefore as yet very much unexplored and debatable ground with naturalists.' We may add that intelligent and trustworthy observations by anglers are at all times of value, and that in addition to its many other charms, a fishing tour may fairly be said to be a directly instructive and intellectual pleasure, each successive fact that is stored up in the memory opening out yet another to the searching mind, and serving to prevent a captivating amusement from degenerating into a mere pot-hunting pursuit.

In the more mountainous districts, it is remarkable how many curious and characteristic legends may be found connected with different lakes. In the Tyrol especially, which is the beau-idéal of the angling traveller's holiday-ground, innumerable legends are to be found connected with every dark mountain lake or tarn. There is, for instance, a lake well known to many Swiss travellers who leave the usual route of tourists up or down the Lake of Lucerne, and rest for a while in the village of Seelisberg, situated above the spot where the confederates are supposed to have taken the oath which was the foundation of the Swiss Republic. Above this again, sheltered by the dark precipices of the Niederbauen, is the Seelisberger See, of which there is a legend that in it dwells a monster known as the Elbst. This beast can, Proteus-like, change its form, and the unconfiding swimmer resting, as he supposes, on the floating trunk of a fallen pine, is engulfed for ever in the waters of the lake. Thus, if one is not inattentive to the stories of the mountaineer, the angler may store his mind with much of the picturesque and characteristic folk-lore of the Alps.

Not a little of the charm of a fishing-tour arises, or ought to arise, from its leisurely character. But, as we have already hinted, the feverish anxiety to hurry from place to place which seems to characterise the fashion of travelling nowadays, precludes the traveller from enjoying any one place thoroughly. 'If,' he says to himself, 'I could shoot or fish it might be different.' Therefore it is that we would point to what we might almost term a new continental amusement, whereby the traveller may combine the recreation of good old Izaak Walton with the harder toil of the mountaineer, or the more sober pleasures of the botanist and the artist, to the increase of the enjoyment to be derived from each one of these pastimes.

It would be out of place here to enter into details concerning the equipment of the travelling fisherman. All we would now point out is that those flies which are useful in a Scotch or Welsh stream or on an Irish lake, are, as a rule, equally serviceable in a Swiss river or a Tyrolese lake. And the only important fact to bear in mind is, that the supply of flies should be tolerably large, though not necessarily very varied in kind, for the art of fly-making is not well known on the continent.

To point out localities for the fisherman would necessitate a geographical ramble over Europe; moreover, as it is the object of this paper to shew that fishing can be combined with most of the ordinary amusements of the general traveller, no special district need be sought for. It is sufficient here to mention the rivers of Normandy and Brittany, of the Vosges and the Ardennes for spring fishing; and the waters of Würtemberg, Bavaria, and Austria for sport later in the year. In the mountain district, for example, popularly called the Tyrol, the rivers are full of grayling, so that the autumn, far from being a blank time for the angler, will, even after the trout are becoming somewhat out of season, afford him excellent sport. And in the Tyrol especially are the inhabitants simple and hospitable in the extreme; the scenery of their country is characterised by extremes of wildness and softness, such, for instance, as the bleak grandeur of the distant end of the Königs See, and the softer beauties of the valley of the Alm. Though the ramifications of travel are everywhere spreading, it is never likely that in the lifetime of the present generation at least, the travelling angler, whose ways lie out of the beaten track, will be disturbed by any except a few kindred spirits.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXX.--MRS TRAFFORD'S HAPPINESS.

Although the precise date for our wedding-day was not as yet decided upon, it was tacitly understood that the orthodox preparations were being carried on for it so far as depended upon milliners and dressmakers. I did not think it necessary to explain to Mrs Tipper and Lilian that the little I had to spend for the purpose was already spent. And indeed I considered that I had a quite sufficient wardrobe for a portionless bride, without trespassing upon their generosity, which I knew would be brought into play by the slightest hint of a want on my part.

We made the most of the departing summer days; Lilian and I sufficiently occupied to satisfy our consciences and add a piquancy to idleness. After our morning rambles, visits to the cottages, and an early dinner, we betook ourselves to the woods, where Philip read to us whilst Lilian and I worked. And sometimes we went farther afield, devoting the day to exploring the adjacent country, picnicing in the most lovely spots, and filling our sketch-books. In the evenings there was music and the frequent visits of Robert, with delightful conversation, in which we all aired our pet theories without any jar in the concord--a quartet in which each played a different part to make a harmonious whole.

Nevertheless our summer sky was not entirely free from clouds. Mr Wyatt--whose attentions to Lilian had latterly been most marked--could not be made to understand that there was no hope for him; whilst Lilian could not be made to believe that her aunt and I were correct in our surmise respecting the cause of his so frequently finding his way in the direction of the cottage. But there came a day when he found courage to challenge fortune and make his hopes known to her. He had joined us in one of our rambles, and I suppose she felt a little hesitation about separating Philip and me, as well as the natural dread which a delicately minded girl feels of appearing to suppose that love-making must necessarily follow being alone with a gentleman for a few minutes, and so gave Mr Wyatt the opportunity he had been seeking.

We lost sight of them for a short time, and I gave Philip a hint of what I suspected to be the cause of Mr Wyatt detaining Lilian.

'Love her!' he ejaculated, stopping short and staring at me in the greatest astonishment. 'But she does not return it--impossible! She is surely not going to throw herself away like that!'

'I do not think there would be any throwing away in the case, Philip. Mr Wyatt is a good man, and a gentleman. The real difficulty is that Lilian does not care for him in any other way than as a friend, and she never will.' At which Philip hastened to make the _amende_.

'I ought not to have spoken in that way, Mary. Of course he is a good fellow--for any one else's husband.'

I could not help smilingly agreeing to that. It was ever so much more agreeable to think of Mr Wyatt as the husband of any other than Lilian. When she presently returned alone, looking very grave and regretful, walking silently home with us, we knew that Mr Wyatt had been answered. Fortunately his was a nature not difficult to be consoled; and it so happened that he had a pretty cousin eager to console him. In a very short time, Lilian had the relief and pleasure of knowing that she had done him no permanent harm.

One piece of good fortune came to us, which I had been almost afraid to hope for. The house so beautifully situated, which I had so long coveted for our future home, and which was aptly named Hill Side, was to be sold. We found that the interior arrangements were all that could be desired. In an unpretending way it was the perfection of a house--one we both would choose before all others. Though not numerous, the rooms were mostly large for the size of the house; whilst, as Lilian laughingly said, my pet aversion to square rooms had been duly considered by the builder. A long drawing-room opening to a veranda'd terrace, and commanding one of the finest views in Kent, with dining-room facing in the same direction, and a delightful little morning-room, and library and study at the side; the latter possessing a special little view of its own down what was artistically made to appear a steep declivity, its sides clothed with bushes and hanging plants, and boasting a pretty running brook. You had only to make-believe a little to fancy yourself living in some wild mountainous region, when looking from the oriel window of this charming little room.

Philip was quite as enthusiastic and inclined to ignore disadvantages, as were Lilian and I. Climbing the hill! Who minded climbing to reach such a nest as that! Stables for the modest little turn-out we should keep could be had in the village at the foot of the hill; and as to the distance from the railway station, shops, &c., we grandly pooh-poohed all that as unimportant to two people who cared for fashion and change as little as we two meant to do. Food was to be got; and that was enough, depending for our supply of books, &c. as we should from London. The best of it was that these little drawbacks told in our favour in the purchase; being considered by most people as great disadvantages, which lowered the value of the property. Consequently Philip was able to gratify our taste at much less cost than he at first anticipated.

He at once set about the necessary negotiations for completing the purchase, planning all kinds of improvements and alterations, Lilian and I being in constant request in the consultations.

Meantime, Mr and Mrs Trafford had returned from their wedding-tour, and we were telling each other that we meant to pay the expected visit of congratulation. But we contented ourselves as long as possible with _meaning_ to pay it, being in no haste to make our appearance at Fairview again. There could never be anything stronger than politeness between either Hill Side or the cottage, and Fairview; and we did not wish to pretend that there could. But either the bride became impatient to assure us of her happiness, or she was curious to find out for herself whether the rumour, which had reached her respecting the intentions of the gentleman who visited so regularly at the cottage, was true; for she waived ceremony at last, and came to visit us--she and 'Caroline.'

Philip and Lilian and I were in consultation about the furniture for Hill Side, which we wanted to be artistic and at the same time befitting a cheerful country home. The only room we were inclined to be really extravagant about was the library; and that, I was chiefly answerable for. Philip gravely opined that I must mean to spend a great deal of my time there, and I as gravely allowed that I did. Lilian and I were to be the only ladies admitted there. I reminded him that he did not yet know Mrs Trafford and Mrs Chichester, and that therefore he had better not make his rules too stringent.

We were in the midst of an animated discussion upon the respective merits of light and dark oak, when Philip drew our attention to what he termed an extraordinary collection of finery coming down the lane.

It was Mrs Trafford, her long train sweeping the dust into clouds behind her, accompanied by Mrs Chichester. It would be vain to attempt a description of her appearance, laden as she was with every conceivable folly which French and English _modistes_ could invent. Perhaps Philip's comment--'Too much of everything, from the lady herself to her feathers and furbelows'--best expressed the impression her appearance gave. I saw his eyes turn for refreshment upon Lilian's simple holland dress and the delicate colouring and outline of her face. She always looked her best in contrast with Marian; the soft rose of her cheeks, the deep tender blue eyes, and the pale gold hair, in eloquent protest against the other's vivid black and white and red.

Mrs Trafford (how glad I was to be able to discontinue calling her Miss Farrar) had no misgivings. Misgivings! Was not everything she had on in the latest extreme of fashion? She evidently considered that it was for us to have misgivings; though she generously tried to make matters pleasant and set us at our ease by giving us a description of Paris and details of fashionable life there. We had no idea what Paris life was like; no one could without having been there; it was too absolutely delightful, quite too awfully charming. She positively could not exist without going every year to the enchanting place; and so forth, and so forth; all in superlatives.

She made a great point too of telling us how very much 'Dear Arthur' had enjoyed the life there. 'He really was quite too enraptured, and said he had never known what enjoyment was till he had seen Paris.'

Mrs Chichester put in a word to the effect that her brother had frequently visited Paris; and the life there was not new to him. But Marian reminded her that he had not before visited it with _her_, which made all the difference.

With lowered eyes, Mrs Chichester softly remarked that it doubtlessly did make a difference.

Of course it did--all the difference! 'And'--turning pleasantly to Lilian once again--'I have brought over a French maid with me: one really cannot expect to look _commy fo_ without, don't you know, in these days.'

I tranquilly supposed that they could not; never again would Marian receive a home-thrust from me; though there could not be friendship, there would be no more war between us. I did not even allude to the Pratts.

'You must all come to Fairview to dinner; aunty and all, _ong fam-y_ you know; you really must.' And turning to Philip, she graciously expressed a hope that Mr Dallas also would do her the honour.

Mr Dallas gravely replied that he was entirely in our hands and ready to do our bidding. At which she laughingly advised me not to take _all_ that for gospel. 'You can't expect it _always_ to go on like that, you know, Miss Haddon; though I am sure _I_ have no reason to complain. No one could be more thought of than I am. You would say that if you could have seen how patiently Arthur waited for me at the shops--hours and hours, I assure you. The very worst he did was to give a little sigh sometimes, and no one could be offended at that, knowing how some of the husbands go on.--Waiting about in the shops really is a test of a husband's good-nature, Mr Dallas.'

Philip meekly supposed that it really was.

'Is it true that Mr Dallas has become the purchaser of the little place--Hill Side isn't it called?--which you can see from some part of the Fairview grounds, Miss Haddon?'

'Yes,' I replied; Philip had bought it.

'It looks a charming little place. But is it large enough?'

I said that Mr Dallas thought it large enough for his means; at which she was amiably anxious to point out the disadvantages of having a large place and the advantages of having a small one.

'A small house is so--cosy--you know, and so--warm in the winter, and all that. I sometimes almost wish I lived in a small way myself; I really do. No one would believe the expense it is to keep up a large place like Fairview; they really wouldn't. And then the trouble of having a large staff of servants! You have no _idea_ what men-servants are in a house--so extravagant and expensive and lazy; it's quite _too_ dreadful, my dear!'

'Really, aunt'--turning to the dear little lady placidly eyeing her--'you are the best off after all, if you could only believe it.'

'I do believe it, Mrs Trafford.'

But that was more than Marian could understand. 'It's very good of you to say so, I am sure, aunt; but perhaps, after all, it does seem like old times to you.'

Mrs Chichester flushed up now and then, a little out of humour, I fancied, at seeing herself thus travestied. But she said very little; indeed during the whole visit she seemed to be absorbed in one idea, so lost in astonishment at my good fortune as to be quite unlike her usual self. She was even impolitic enough to give some expression to her astonishment in a little aside to Lilian, who was quite indignant at the implied ill compliment to me.

'You _must_ say you will come and dine with us,' repeated Marian, when she at length rose to take her departure. 'You positively must! Arthur will never forgive me if I don't make you promise.--What day have we disengaged next week, Caroline?'

Caroline could not or would not recollect what day they had disengaged; a little angry probably at a smile which I could not suppress; and was chidden by her sister-in-law accordingly.

'But you ought to make a point of remembering such things, you know; and I must beg that you will do so in future,' said Mrs Trafford, with a tone and look which seemed to shew that Mrs Chichester's office was no sinecure. I think she was heartily glad when the visit was over.

'You must come up and see the things I bought in Paris,' whispered Mrs Trafford good-naturedly in a little aside to me. 'It will give you an idea of what is worn. Ask for Céleste, if I do not happen to be in the way, and I will tell her she is to shew you beforehand; for she knows how particular I am. She will put you up to all sorts of things if you make friends with her. You can't conceive how much those French maids know about improving the figure and complexion and all that; though of course _I_ do not need anything of the kind.'

I murmured something about being obliged; not to seem ungrateful for what was evidently meant to be a kindness.

'Oh, you are quite welcome.' Then lowering her voice again: 'He _is_ a dear! How long have you been engaged?'

'Nearly ten years.'

'Ten years!'

'Mr Dallas has been abroad some years, and has only just returned,' I said, seeing no necessity for making a mystery about it.

'And kept true to you all that time! He _must_ be good! So handsome too--so _very_ handsome. All the heroes in the books are big, and have broad shoulders _now_;' sentimentally. 'His beard just the right colour too! How you must dote upon him, and how jealous you must be! Between ourselves, I could hardly bear Arthur to be out of my sight before we were married. It's different now, of course; if he does not behave well, I can stop his allowance, you know. That would be only fair.'

This seemed to confirm the rumour which had reached us to the effect that when it came to be a question of settlements, Marian had proved to be sufficiently a woman of business to keep the power in her own hands, notwithstanding the angry remonstrances of her lover and his sister. Perhaps also it was true, as it was said to be, that he would have drawn back at the last moment, but for shame.

I made some indefinite reply about putting off the time for being jealous as long as possible.

'Well, I can only say that it is a good thing I did not see him before I saw Arthur, or else you might have had cause enough to be jealous! But you needn't be afraid now. I am not one of _that_ sort!'

And with that parting assurance, Mrs Trafford went her way, talking loudly over her shoulder as she walked down the lane, to 'Caroline,' who followed in her wake, about the inconvenience of not being able to get into 'my carriage' at the gate.

We did not laugh over the bride's grandeur as we might have done had she been any one else; the remembrance of all that she had deprived Lilian of was too fresh upon us for that. And Lilian herself was in Marian's society reminded more vividly of the wrong which had been done to her mother.

'You were quite right, Mary,' said Philip to me when we were alone--alluding to the bridegroom. 'The poor wretch is punished enough! It's an _awful_ punishment! By-the-bye, what was she whispering to you about all that time?'

'Offering me a view of the latest Paris fashions; and admiring you, ungrateful man that you are!' I smilingly replied. 'She thinks I must be terribly jealous.'

'Jealous;' reddening. 'What did she mean?'

'I suppose she thinks she would be jealous in my place,' I said, a little surprised at his manner.

'In--your place. I do not understand,' he returned, as it seemed to me now, even angrily.

I laid my hand upon his arm. 'Of course I only repeated it because of its absurdity, Philip. Between you and me, it would be "Away at once with either love or jealousy."'

He took my hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and then turned away without a word. Well, I did not object to such silent leave-takings; they were eloquent enough for me. But I must not jest again in that way, I told myself, as I slowly returned to the cottage again. Philip evidently did not like it. Oddly enough, the first thing Lilian said, when I met her at the gate, where she was waiting for me, was upon the same topic. She had, it appeared, heard the one ominous word in Marian's whispered talk to me.

'What was Mrs Trafford saying to you about jealousy, Mary?' she asked, in a low tone and with averted eyes, trifling as she spoke with my watch-chain.

Did she fancy that Marian was still inclined to be jealous of her? I wondered.

'Only some nonsense about my being jealous of Philip, dearie,' I lightly replied.

'Jealous!--jealous of--Philip? What did she mean?' she ejaculated, using the words he had used with the same manner and even more anger.

'She seems to consider it is only natural that I should be jealous of him, since she tells me that his beard is the fashionable colour for heroes this season; but she was good enough to assure me that I need not be afraid of her now; although things might have been different if she had seen him some time ago. So I feel quite safe.'

'O Mary, are you sure, are you sure?'--with a little hysterical laugh.