Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/292

 . 7, 1861.] and women—rowed down the silver water, timing the oars’ stroke with rough lake-song.

They got safely to Interlachen. The sufferer was conveyed to the Hotel des Alpes. Herr Jacob, the manager, was very kind and assiduous in his attentions; the doctor presently reported, to the infinite relief of the ladies, that the leg was not broken, but the bruise was very severe, and in addition the ankle was severely sprained by the fall from the horse after the kick. The case would require some weeks’ rest.

morning after the accident, Westby was seated at breakfast in the salle-à-manger of the Hotel des Alpes; he had determined, if his services were not likely to be of further use to the ladies, to start for Berne in the course of the day.

“Why, bless me, that’s Westby!” exclaimed a voice near him.

Westby looked up; he did not for the moment remember the face, the light tawny beard and moustache.

“Fred Temple, isn’t it?” he exclaimed the next instant.

“Yes, old boy!” was the reply, coupled with a hearty grasp of the hand.

They were delighted to meet again, schoolfellows and college friends—a full eight years since they had met last. They ought to have written, it is true; each blamed himself for not doing so, but neither was a letter-writing man.

“I know you cut college after I left, and went into the army,” said Westby, “what have you been doing since?”

“Oh, shifting about here and there—England and Ireland and India. And you?”

“I’ve stuck to London and law.”

“Dry work, eh?”

“At first, but I like it now.”

’Gad! the fellow who would hardly touch a book at school or college. What a change!”

“I am changed,” replied Westby; “two minutes’ sight of you tells me that. I can see your manhood is the sequence of your boyhood—light heart and dash; that was my boyhood, too. I’ve done a mass of head-work since then, nothing but that, and become leaden-spirited. Yours is the old face, fresh and beaming, a little burnt, perhaps—India, I suppose. I know my face is getting like parchment.”

“Pooh! a trifle pale—interesting, the women would say.”

“Pale! that’s the incipient stage; the parchment yellow’s sure to follow.”

“Westby, old boy! I’m so glad we’ve met. The whole lot of us are here—Fairy, too, you recollect, my sister, who was staying at my uncle’s when you were on a visit there.”

“What, my fairy sweetheart, little Lilian?”

“Little! It must be ten years ago, recollect. You would not know her now. I only joined our party this morning, and there’s the governor tied by the leg—deuced unlucky, poor man!—coming over the Brünig yesterday”

“Could that have been Lilian?” exclaimed Westby.

“What! were you the fellow who got them out of the scrape? ’Gad! the women can’t say enough about you.”

“I’ve found you at last, Fred,” said a voice behind him.

“Here’s Lilian!” exclaimed Temple, turning round. “Little Lilian! Don’t you know him, Lilian?”

“Yesterday”

“Years before yesterday!” interrupted her brother. “Uncle Everard’s!”

“What, Karlo Magno!” she exclaimed, with surprise.

“Yes, yes; Karlo Magno,” replied Westby laughing.

“I ought to say Mr. Charles Westby,” replied Lilian, blushing.

“No, no!” said Temple; “call him Karlo Magno—your old name for him when they were teaching you German history.”

Westby inquired for Mr. Temple, who he found had passed a very fair night, the doctor speaking most favourably of his condition.

“How oddly things do come about,” said Temple. “Do you recollect that old plan of yours, Lilian—travelling on the Continent with Karlo Magno and myself—no governess or lessons?”

“That was a child’s fancy, Fred.”

“It’s come true, nevertheless.”

“I think of returning to-day,” said Westby.

“Nonsense, man! What for?”

“Oh! they said I had been over-working—perhaps I have—that I looked ill—that I’d better travel for awhile; but it don’t do any good.”

“Give it time! your head is chockful of stuffy thoughts, I’ll bet. Half-an-hour’s thinking gives me a headache.”

“I’m sure you never tried the effect of that length of thought, Fred,” said Lilian, laughing.

“Then I act all the quicker, you rogue. Come now, Westby, we’ll engage to clear the cobwebs out of your head in no time. Won’t we, Lilian?”

“That we will! Recollect, Mr. Westby, the old plan was to have nothing to think about—pleasure all day.”

“Nothing to think about!” exclaimed Westby. “Query, would a mental vacuum be pleasure?”

“I mean, not to think about troublesome, bothering things,” replied Lilian.

Westby consented to remain at Interlachen for a few days. In truth, he had not the heart to say no. That old visit of his at Mr. Everard’s, in companionship with Temple and his sister, had been one of the happiest bits of his life: a country-house life, with all the means of active amusement and sport in which he delighted; the fun of half-spoilt Lilian’s evasion of the school-room, and participation in the pursuits of her brother and himself; daring rider of a spirited, mealy-nosed pony; skilful coxswain of their boat on the pleasant stream; not one atom a romp; wholly a fairy—lightest strength and delicate grace in every action; and her childish talk passing strange with the quaintest conceptions of life.

“Well, Mr. Westby, we have made you enlist in the health service,” said Lilian, with a smile.

“Ha, ha! a recruit!” exclaimed Temple, laughing. “Come, sir, and go through your drill”