Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/317

 310 Magno to save her? Surely this went to prove a strong animus in the affair. Thus, after duly weighing the whole matter, Charles Westby came to the conclusion that Lilian Temple had really loved him. And then it came to pass that pride grew mightily flattered with the idea, and toyed with it all the way till the diligence stopped at Berne.

A grand sunset ended the day. Ah, me! many were the diners at the Faucon, and they hurried up from the scarcely finished table-d’hôte—stout diners and all—martyrs to the picturesque, scorners of indigestion, and so out on the church terrace, to see the mantle wrought in a glorious hue, which the departing sun had cast upon the mountain-tops. But Charles Westby only cared to seek out the rosy Jungfrau, and use it as a landmark to Interlachen and the human interest that it held.

Charles Westby was getting stupid!

Stars burnt with double fire, over the banquette, that night long in the ride to Basle; and the sun, beginning to stir beneath the horizon, felt its way with long pink rays thrust upwards into the darkness, and then slowly climbed the heavens on glowing red cloud-steps. It was neither Law nor Equity which closed these sights from Charles Westby’s eyes.

“Est-il possible?” he exclaimed, thrusting his face into the little glass of a little room in the great hotel at Basle. Dust of a day and night journey was on his face, he was absurdly like a miller. Then head and face were plunged into the little basin, the little towel was half rubbed away with energy, and he brushed his hair double-handed till his strong arms began to glow.

“Est-il possible?” and the looking-glass showed dashes of grey among the dark hair, and his face, homely English at best, was hacked about with work and thought, and parchment-coloured, notwithstanding all the clear Swiss air.

“Est-il possible?” this outward man against the best men she has seen in London!

Then duty began to look mean in contrast with blue eyes and golden hair. Alas! for the foolish pass to which wise and solid men are brought. Old ambition grew pale before this new fascination. Why not space and time for enjoyment of the heart? Why constant labour with the chance of scanty laurels for thin grey hair? Cui bono, these after riches? Can we play Romeo with crowsfeet, and wrinkles, and a wig? So in that upper chamber Charles Westby ground his teeth at destiny, and, gazing fixedly on the swift green Rhine below, fell into strange new musings touching the affairs of life.

Fiddlesticks! destiny puts us into the groove, and for all our bluster we must stick there. Habit and association soon brought back Charles Westby’s alacrity for his accustomed work, and Lilian’s image was blurred by professional thoughts that held his mind; besides, he was of the energetic order, looking forward not back, and thus he came to a sort of grim settlement of the matter. Long before he would be rich enough to marry, Lilian Temple would have married, and had a family grown up perhaps; he might never chance to meet her again, but that little Swiss tour would remain the romantic idea of his life. All men, densely practical men even, who in the end marry their cooks, have had some sort of romance in the course of their lives of which the world never dreams, and oftentimes have held some token of the fact to their dying day. Well, back in London, Charles Westby, in process of disgorging his travelling coat pocket, found the handkerchief Lilian had dropped during the accident. It was torn, and parts lost, but the initials L. T. were preserved. He carefully folded it up in a piece of brief paper, endorsed with the year and date of the event, and tying the packet with red tape, placed it in his desk, beneath a mass of law papers.

“Well, Newton, and what are you to get for your money?” inquired Charles Westby.

“Ten per cent!”

“Too much! you’ll get nothing.”

Newton (George Newton, Esquire, of Burford House) was an old friend of Westby, and the young squire of his late father’s parish. Their friendship dated from Westby’s bird’s-nesting period, and it had held on, notwithstanding the divergence in their modes of life, and notwithstanding the soft bits of Newton’s character, which regularly provoked Westby’s chaff. Newton always made a point of seeking out Westby in his occasional visits to London, and of being attentive in game presents and the like to Westby’s mother in the country.

“You are always against anything but three per cents, Westby.”

“I tell you what, Newton. Nature gifted you with all the organs necessary to a country gentleman, but she never intended you to dabble in joint-stock bank shares.”

“Bosh!”

“We can’t be good at everything. Be content with what nature’s done; she’s made you a good rider across country, a decent shot, a sufficient lawyer to convict a poacher;—by the bye, were you lucky with the pheasants this season?”

“First rate! Come and have a touch at them.”

“I only wish I could, old fellow.”

“But I say, Westby, it’s as safe as the bank, that ten per cent.”

“If that’s your fixed opinion, Mr. George Newton, permit me to remark that I am happily too busy for fruitless conversation”

“I’m off then! Mind you, seven for dinner at the club.”

“Say half-past; they are bothering me so to get this business finished. Good bye!” And Westby doubled himself to his work again.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Newton, lingering in the room. “Where did you get that engraving from?”

“What engraving?” replied Westby, greatly bored. “I thought you’d gone!”

“This engraving of a girl—the Honourable Mary Blackburn.”

“Wretched man! to bother me about stupid prints. I bought a lot of them cheap years ago.”

“I wonder if I can get one in the Burlington Arcade?”