My brother's friend

We were on the balcony, Edmund and I, he reclining in a long, deep, easy chair. As moved back to my place at the little table, my eyes fell on my brother, and I perceived, with a thrill of pain, how very white and worn he was looking in the clear, bright light of the morning. How hollow were his cheeks, how sharpened his features; what a sad pathetic look there was in his sunken eyes! Was it my fancy, or had his face wasted rapidly during the past week? Alas! Alas! I feared it was no fancy; there were too many tokens that my brother's strength was declining.

It was now September, and for ten weeks we had enjoyed the beauty of this lovely retreat. In that time we had become well acquainted with the mountain forms on which we daily looked. Every buttress and pinnacle of the snowy range was familiar to us, and we loved them under all aspects, whether shining forth in the clear light of early morning, or dimly seen through a veil of mist, or rising from a sea of billowy clouds, or when their summits were gilded with the ineffable glory of the sunset afterglow. We had learnt to love the clouds, which wrought such weird, fantastic, wonderful effects, scarcely less than the mountains.

How lovely it was to watch in the morning, ere yet the sun had gained much power, the ghost-like mist stealing up the valley till it wrapped itself as a winding sheet about the sides of the mountains, and then to see, as the sun rose above the highest peak, how the mist shrank away, and dispersed in broken wreaths! Or to mark the devotion with which a fleecy cloudlet would woo some lordly peak, now nestling close to its side, and anon timidly retreating, floating higher, and brooding over the object of its love, fading, then gathering anew, constant to the last moment of its brief existence. Or, when night fell, to watch, as the moon slowly rose behind the mountain wall, some bird-like cloud hovering above, illumined by its rising beams, and growing ever more luminous, till the bright disc glided into sight, and the mystery was at an end.

Edmund enjoyed these visions, as few can enjoy them. They fired his imagination, and set his poetic fancy in play. He was so happy during the first few weeks of our stay that I could not but be happy too. We met with pleasant people in the pension, and often had a merry party about us as we wandered through the pine woods, or rested in shade of the trees. I do not know when I first perceived that my brother was not making the progress I had expected. A marked improvement seemed to set in after our arrival at the pension, but, unhappily, it was only a temporary improvement. Soon, my brother's strength once more declined.

There was not much change from day to day, but gradually Edmund's walks grew shorter and shorter; he ceased to speak of the longer excursions we should take when he was strong enough, and at last, grew too languid to climb the green slopes to the pine woods at the back of the house, and preferred to pass the day resting in his chair on the balcony if the day were warm, or lying, wrapped in rugs, on the couch in his room when the air was keen. And the wearying cough, which had never entirely ceased, became more and more troublesome. Heavy grew my heart beneath the weight of these bitter facts, but still I clung to hope. I could not, I would not, acknowledge that the hopes with which I had started on my journey to Switzerland were doomed to disappointment.

"Edmund," I said now, as I bent to draw his wraps more closely about him, "I think that if Ralph Dugdale does not soon appear, we had better leave this place. It is getting too cold for you to remain at such a height. The air this morning was a trifle too keen, even for me, and it has an edge to it still, although the sun is so warm."

"I do not think the cold hurts me as long as the air is so dry," he replied, "and we shall surely hear from Ralph in a day or two."

I went back to my place, and began to read to Edmund a new poem with which I was delighted. It has since become well-known, and a favourite with many readers.

"She was not as pretty as women I know,
 And yet all your best, made of sunshine and snow,
 Drop to shade, melt to nought, in the long-trodden ways,
 While she's still remembered on warm and cold days—
My Kate.
 
"Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
 You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face,
 And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
 You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth—
My Kate.
 
"Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,
 You looked at her silence, and fancied she spoke;
 When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,
 Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone—
My Kate."

When I had read these three verses, I paused, and turning, to my brother asked, "Does that remind you of anyone?"

"Yes," he answered, without a moment's hesitation.

"Of whom?"

"Tell me first of whom you are thinking," he returned.

"Oh, I was thinking of Grace West. This poem exactly describes her."

"Yes," said Edmund, quietly; "I, too, thought of Mrs. West."

"Dear me! How strange that we should think of the same person!"

"Not at all strange. We could but think of the same. Where would you find another woman like Mrs. West?"

I made no reply, not because I did not share my brother's high estimate of our friend; but I was wondering at the abrupt, constrained manner in which he spoke.

At that moment I heard someone tapping at my bedroom door. Stepping into my room, I hastened to open the door.

"Letters, mademoiselle."

It was the Swiss chambermaid, and she smiled as she gave me the letters, knowing how welcome they would be. There were two, and both were for me. As I carried them to the balcony, I was conscious only that one was from Mrs. Lyell.

"No letter from Ralph?" asked Edmund, turning to me with an anxious glance.

I shook my head. My mind was too preoccupied to think of offering him consolation. As I sat down and began to open Mrs. Lyell's letter, the other letter fell unheeded on my lap, the address upwards.

Mrs. Lyell's letter was very kind, as her letters always were. It showed no diminution of the affectionate interest she took in me, and yet there was that in the letter which stung me. Did Mrs. Lyell really think it would please me to know that Rose Carsdale—for thus Mrs. Lyell now spoke of her—was so kind and attentive, and that she and Leonard came in almost every day? Yes, I could not doubt my old friend's sincerity; but oh! how bitter to me was the thought that those three, Mrs. Lyell, Miss Carsdale, and Leonard, were always together! Too well I knew what a quiet, unobtrusive third person Mrs. Lyell could be; how she would sit absorbed in her book or thinking her gentle thoughts, and hear nothing that others said in her presence, except when it was especially addressed to her.

Dark and bitter grew my spirit as I read over and over again the words of the letter, making the most of every suggestion that could feed my jealousy. For I had not been able to forget Leonard Glynne. How could I, in a life that afforded so much leisure for dreaming, with no active duties save the simple services Edmund required at my hand? It was harder to forget him here than it had been at Ventnor, for he had talked to me much of his experiences when travelling in Switzerland, and every day some novel incident of our Swiss life, some fern or flower, would remind me of his words.

"Your letter seems to be very interesting." Edmund's voice thus roused me from my unhappy meditations.

I coloured as I awoke to the consciousness that he had been watching me intently for some minutes. There was a shadow on his brow as he spoke. He seemed vexed with me for caring so much about the letter.

"Yes, it is interesting," I answered; "it is from Mrs. Lyell, and she, of course, has a good deal to tell me that I care to hear."

"You cannot care much about your other correspondent," he said, in a tone that betrayed some irritation, "since you can read an old woman's letter two or three times before you take a glance at hers."

"Hers! Whose?" I asked, looking at the letter that lay in my lap. "Oh, it is from Grace West!" I added, as recognised the small, delicate writing, clear as copperplate. "Did you see that it was from her?"

"I-I fancied it looked like her writing," he said, rather falteringly.

"Why, she is at Interlaken!" I exclaimed, as I began to read the letter. "They are all there, Mr. and Mrs. Dugdale, and Ralph too. Ralph is coming on here to-morrow. There's good news for you."

But my brother did not look so pleased as I expected. He did not smile, nor even turn towards me; he sat with downcast eyes, his face very pale. Instinctively, I felt that he was putting some restraint on himself.

"Is Ralph coming alone?" he asked, very quietly.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Grace says nothing of anyone else coming. Did you think that she might accompany him?"

"Well, yes, I fancied that she might like to see this place."

I discerned that it cost my brother an effort to answer my question with an appearance of indifference.

"I wish she would come," I remarked; "but Grace and her parents are going on to Grindelwald. It is a favourite place of Mrs. Dugdale's. She says it would be nice if we could meet there. Would you like it, Edmund?"

The faint glow which instantly kindled in his cheeks gave me a truer answer than his careless, "Perhaps; we must think about it."

Then the truth flashed on me. There was little to demonstrate it; Edmund had guarded well his secret, yet at that moment I knew intuitively that Grace West was to him what Leonard Glynne was to me. Stay, let me speak the truth as I know it now—my brother loved Grace with a pure, strong, selfless love of which I was incapable.

I recognised the fact beyond all doubt. One memory after another revived to confirm it, till I wondered that I had been blind to it so long. Grace was some years older than my brother, but that was no hindrance to his loving her. He was the man to be attracted by a woman's spiritual rather than physical beauties. He had a high ideal of womanly excellence, and the woman he chose must be one whom he could reverence as well as admire. How could he help loving her? I say to myself now. "We needs must love the highest when we see it." And all who could really understand Grace, not everyone could, failed not to love and honour her.

But I was hardly conscious of loving Grace at that moment. The truth came home to me with a sharp and selfish pain. All my latent jealousy was roused. Amidst my trials and disappointments, I had ever consoled myself with the thought that my brother at least was all my own. He needed me if no other did; I was everything to him. What a blow shattered this belief when I discovered that another had the first place in his heart! Grace West stood between us.

I cared not whether Edmund noticed how abruptly I left him. It was not yet time to prepare for the midday meal, but I went away and shut myself in my own room till the bell sounded.

Edmund did not call me back.

"He will not miss me," I thought, "he will like to sit alone and think of Grace, and count on seeing her at Grindelwald."

After luncheon, Edmund lay down for a while, hoping to get a little sleep. Unhappy and restless, I wandered forth alone, carefully avoiding the company of any of the ladies who were lodging in the pension.

Instinctively I chose the easier, the downward way, and descended one of the steep little paths that ran down the mountain side into a little valley lying between the mountains to the right of our pension. It was a pleasant path I followed, and soon led me into the shade of pine trees. Steeper and steeper grew the way as I drew nearer to the torrent that roared through the valley, being fed by a glacier at its head. Gradually my walking was exchanged for climbing; but by the help of my alpenstock, I was able to press on, scrambling through bushes and over boulders till at last I gained the high bank above the stream.

Here I found myself in a wilderness of lovely things, old moss-grown trees about whose roots the fragile oak-fern and sturdier beech-fern were growing luxuriously; patches of ground on which the low whortleberry bush grew thickly, tempting me with a profusion of its purple black fruit; a few wild strawberries lingering here and there, finer and redder than any I had seen before; brambles throwing their amber and vermilion-coloured leaves across the path, and scattered everywhere flowers of the loveliest and most varied hues—large, silvery thistles, grand enough to deck a queen, purple gentians, turquoise-blue forget-me-nots that would put our English ones to shame, with blue and white campanulas, as fine as any a garden could show.

Wild, angry, rebellious thoughts had been working in my mind as I made my way down. It was very hard, I told myself, that I should be robbed of all that was most dear to me in life. One precious love after another had been taken from me. Howard Steinthorpe had supplanted me in my sister's affections, death had deprived me of my father, Rose Carsdale was filling my place with Mrs. Lyell, and charming Leonard Glynne into forgetfulness of any faint interest he might have felt in me, and now Edmund, whom I had believed to be my very own, in whose life I could yesterday have declared that I stood first, had given his best love to another! How wronged and wretched I felt! There seemed no longer any place for me in the world. No one loved me best; no one wanted me. My feelings were none the less bitter that I knew them to be utterly unreasonable.

There was within me a dim consciousness that when my mental emotion should subside, my better self would reproach me. For had not Edmund as much right to feel injured as I? What if he craved the first place in my heart, could I honestly say that it was his? How many hours of the past had been filled with thoughts of another! And how often even now did the image of that other cross my mind!

Only gradually, however, did these considerations bring me to a better frame of mind. I was still possessed by perverse, angry imaginations as I strolled amidst the greenness and beauty by the riverside, though nature's sweet influences were beginning to soften my mood.

Presently I came to a woodcutter's shed beneath the pines, and seated myself on one of the felled trunks that lay beside it. It was a lovely spot. A few feet below where I sat rushed the torrent, foaming and dashing over the stones with a roar which was delightful to my ears. On the opposite side of the deep gorge, through which the river cut its way, rose tall pine trees, tapering one above the other, till at a vast height their delicate pinnacles were pencilled against the sky. Here and there a bare, precipitous mountain side showed through their sombre foliage, with other tiny firs fringing its summit.

The sun was shining brilliantly on the stream, but beneath the pines there was welcome shade, and a deliciously cool breeze blew from the mountain heights, odorous with the delightful perfume of the pines. The woodcutter's shed was deserted, and I enjoyed perfect solitude, broken only by those voices of nature, which, as Keble truly says,—

"Make deep silence in the heart,
 For thought to do her part."

In that stillness, I experienced a swift reaction of feeling. My proud sense of injury gave place to shame and contrition.

I was heartily ashamed of my outburst of temper; I despised myself for the mean, selfish feelings of which it was the outcome. As I thought of Edmund now, my heart throbbed with emotion of another kind. To think that self-love should have made me oblivious of all that this discovery I had made, meant for him. Poor Edmund, whose life was so uncertain! My own experience taught me that this love of his must cause him much silent suffering. It would have done so probably in any case, but his circumstances were such as would intensify the suffering.

Had he not been the invalid he was, had his position been such as would justify his seeking Grace's love, I could not believe that he would win it. From what I had seen of her, and from a few words she had once said to me, I felt convinced that Grace was one of those with whom to love once was to love for ever, and that she would not tolerate the idea of a second marriage. But what of that?

Alas! Alas! I could not hide from myself the truth. Too surely my heart told me that there could be no such union for Edmund. He was drifting, drifting away from all the loves of earth. And in the presence of that sore fact, what did it matter whether Grace or I were the dearest to him? With the thought came a shower of blinding tears, shutting out all the beauty that surrounded me.

The tears soon passed. Something prompted me to lift my head, and look around. Then I saw a glorious sight. From above the mass of dark pines, which lay behind, looked down on me a mighty, snow-crested peak, shining in purest radiance against a cloudless sky. It was the Jungfrau, of which I caught a side view, and peeping over her shoulder as it were, appeared the unsullied, resplendent dome of the Silberhorn.

Wonderful seemed the vision that broke so suddenly on my view. It had for me the force of a revelation—a revelation of the majesty and holiness of God, and my own utter vileness and meanness. What could I do but cry unto Him who made me and made also the magnificence I beheld?

   "Oh, Thou who art all purity, power, love," my heart cried, "have mercy on me, Thy unworthy creature; deliver me from my low, mean, selfish feelings, the feelings which I know to be hateful, even whilst I cherish them. Lift me out of myself. Raise me to a higher, purer, nobler life. Make of me something better than I am."

I waited, yearning for some response, some whisper from above that should promise deliverance. As I watched, the clouds slowly drifted again across the snowy mountain, and its glory vanished from my sight.

The wind rustled the pines, the torrent roared, the foaming water gleamed in the sunshine; all was as before. Yet was my prayer heard, for no such prayer is vain.

When I rose and took my way back to the pension by an easier path than the one I had descended, my heart was quiet, my selfish cravings had ceased.

As I approached the house, there came into sight on the path which ascended on the other side of it, a traveller, attended by a peasant carrying luggage. The gentleman's appearance seemed familiar, and at the second glance, I recognised Ralph Dugdale.

Apparently, he saw me at the same moment, and we hurried forward to greet each other.

"I am so glad you have come," I said, warmly, as we shook hands; "Edmund will be so pleased. We did not expect you till to-morrow."

"Why, how is that? Did not Grace tell you?"

"Yes, but she said to-morrow."

"I expect her to-morrow meant to-day," said Ralph, smiling.

"Oh, to be sure! How stupid of me to make such a mistake! And I misled Edmund too! But come in."

"First, tell me how your brother is," said Ralph, pausing on the threshold of the house. "Has he been getting on as you hoped?"

The question, put with evident anxiety, overwhelmed me. Tears rose to my eyes, my lips quivered; for a moment I could not speak.

Then I said, falteringly, "You will see for yourself."

He looked at me, his eyes full of grave, sad comprehension, and asked no more. We went indoors.

CHAPTER XVI.

A FAIR, GLAD DAY,
AND THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED IT.

IT was strange how summer came back to us with Ralph Dugdale's arrival. There were a few days of brilliant sunshine, the chilliness vanished from the air, and we were not conscious of the touch of frost which had begun to make itself felt at night and morning. And not less signal was the sudden revival of strength and spirits which Edmund manifested. Was it merely caused by the excitement incident to the coming of his friend and the pleasure with which he was looking forward to going to Grindelwald at the beginning of the next week, as Ralph had persuaded us to do?

My heart refused to believe that it was only a temporary improvement and hope began to fortify itself anew. I forgot the shocked, grieved expression I had caught for an instant on Ralph's face as he first saw Edmund after the lapse of several weeks. Edmund was once more sanguine of recovery, and he infected me with his own hopefulness.

"I think I have taken a turn for the better at last; there is more of life before me yet, thank God," he said, one day. "Do you know I woke this morning with the words ringing in my ears, 'I shall not die, but live and declare the works of the Lord.' I took it as a token that my days were to be prolonged. Ah, you cannot know how fair God's world looks to me now! One needs to be brought low to know the joys of life."

As he spoke thus, Edmund was lying amongst cushions and rugs on the soft turf of a little upland glade, into which the midday sun was pouring its warmest rays. It had been his own proposal that we should come and make a picnic luncheon there. Sturdy bearers had carried him to this spot through the lovely pinewood from which it opened. A small, impetuous stream, dashing with many a turn and twist through the gully it had formed for itself, separated us from this wood, but we could look across at the tall, stately pines and see, spreading amidst their bare, slender trunks, a perfect forest of ferns, their graceful, delicate fronds growing with a luxuriance and attaining to a height which to our English eyes appeared marvellous.

The stream went down into a green valley, dotted with wood châlets. Seen through a vista of pines, it looked one of the fairest and most peaceful spots on earth. Beyond the trees, shutting in the valley, rose a rugged, purplish-grey mountain wall, its curves and rents clearly defined against a sky of pale blue. Behind us, at the head of the glade, stool a similar mountain ridge, so the spot we had chosen for our picnic was well screened from chill breezes had the day been less warm and bright than it was. The atmosphere was singularly free from cloud or haze, and in the clear light everything, both near and distant, looked so lovely that it was no wonder my brother should rejoice in the hope of continuing in so beautiful a world.

"Dear Edmund," I said, pressing closer to him and taking his long, thin hand in mine, "I am so glad, so thankful that you feel better. Yes, dear, I really do believe that you are on the way to get well at last. Grindelwald will do great things for you. Mr. Dugdale has been telling me how fine the air is and how many doctors send their patients there."

Ralph was within a stone's throw of us. He was keeping watch over a fire of chips and fir cones which he had kindled in the shelter of a rock, and on which he was trying to boil a kettle of water that Edmund might have the cup of tea he had expressed a desire for.

Perhaps it was because he was absorbed in his undertaking that he took no notice of Edmund's or my words. Yet his silence made me uneasy; and later on, when I had brewed the tea and we were taking our luncheon in rough and ready style, I caught him gazing at Edmund with a sad, wistful glance, which told me he did not share the hopes we had expressed. That look, which I am sure he did not mean me to see, cast a cloud upon my enjoyment. I was vexed with him for the doubt it suggested. In my impatience I wanted to argue it away.

By-and-by, when I was wandering along the rugged, turfy slopes by the little stream, and making my dessert of the whortleberries that grew upon them, Ralph joined me, bringing a little sprig of the Alpine rose which he had discovered in some nook—a rare prize, for the blossoming time of this mountain shrub was long past.

"The last Alpine rose of summer," he said, with a smile as he gave it to me.

He little guessed how his words annoyed me. Vividly they brought to mind the autumn day when I had refused the rose Leonard offered me with words like these. I felt constrained to accept the little sprig, but as I placed it in my belt, I would far rather have flung it from me as Leonard did that rose.

"Is it not delightful to see Edmund so much better?" I said. "I feel sure that he will recover now."

Ralph did not at once reply. Instead, he cast upon me a troubled, anxious glance.

"Surely you must agree with me," I added; "there can be no doubt that he is very much better."

"Certainly he is somewhat stronger," he said, slowly, "and it is clear that he feels better; but—but—dear Miss Carmichael, you must not be too confident. I would not willingly take from you any hope that gives you comfort, but—I have seen others suffer as Edmund suffers, and I know what fluctuations there are in that disease."

Too well I knew the truth of his words. Was I not fighting with fear, even whilst I hoped? But just then it was almost more than I could bear to hear the truth.

"Oh, don't," I said, imploringly, "don't take away my hope! You say you would not rob me of my comfort, and then you sweep it all away. Think what my life would be if Edmund were taken from me: I should have no one to live for, no one to love me. I should only long to die too."

"You must not say so," he said, looking greatly distressed. "I understand how you feel, but your life has many noble possibilities, and it can never lack love. I could tell you—"

He checked himself suddenly. There was a look in his eyes that frightened me.

After a moment, he said more quickly, but still with deep emotion in his tones, "Forgive me if my words seemed unkind. Surely you must know that not for the world would I give you the least pain if I could help it."

I murmured something, I scarce knew what, and turned hastily to rejoin my brother. The new fear which had penetrated me kept me close to Edmund's side, and made me shun quiet talk with Ralph during the remainder of the day.

Memory would fain dwell on the sunlit hours we passed in that lovely mountain nook. So bright, so happy they seem in contrast to the terror, disappointment, and anguish which too swiftly followed. The day stands out now before my mind like a spot of heaven's purest blue, encircled by darkest storm-clouds. I am loth to tell of what ensued; but I must.

Much as my brother had enjoyed our picnic, it had wearied him, and soon after our return to the pension, he was glad to retire to rest.

I sat all the evening by his bedside, and when I bade him good-night, he said in tones full of meaning, "What a pleasant day it has been! We are much happier, you and I, Dottie, for Ralph's coming."

"Yes," I responded with some uneasiness; "he is very good and kind. I am glad for your sake that he is here."

"And for your own sake too, I should think," he returned, hastily; "you and he get on so well together. Perhaps I ought not to speak of it, but—but—I cannot help seeing how highly he thinks of you, and—how much you are to him."

"Indeed, indeed, you make a great mistake," I exclaimed, feeling a hot flush mount to my forehead as I spoke; "it is impossible that he can think highly of me—and—if he did—"

"Well!" said my brother, smiling as I paused.

But I was silent.

"It is not impossible," said Edmund, earnestly, "I can say that I know—" But there, he checked himself.

After a minute, he said with a change of manner, "It is foolish of me perhaps to speak of this; but if what I have hinted should come to pass, surely, surely, Dorothy, nothing would lead you to reject all that Ralph could offer you. You must appreciate him better than that. Where would you find his equal?"

"Nowhere," I answered humbly; "I know well how good and noble he is. But his very goodness makes it impossible that—that—what you imagine could ever be. You know what I am, Edmund."

"Nonsense," he said, quickly, "I know what you mean. You have your faults, of course, but you would grow up to him. His strong, moulding influence would make of you a noble woman."

I shivered with nervous excitement as he spoke.

"I wish you would not speak so," I said imploringly; "you do not know how it distresses me."

"Oh, I daresay I am blundering sadly in speaking of this at all; but, Dorothy, in my circumstances I may be pardoned for not standing on ceremony with you. I have thought of it so often during hours of sleeplessness. It has made me happy to fancy that you and Ralph and Grace might belong to each other, if I were taken from you. Your happiness is dear to me, Dottie, although I may sometimes have seemed indifferent to it."

"That you never have," I sobbed, unable to maintain self-control amid the tumult of conflicting emotions that wrought in my heart; "you have always been the best, the most tender of brothers. But, oh! I wish you had not taken this idea into your mind."

"Do you?" he said, smiling half incredulously. "I think you hardly know what you are saying now, sister, mine. Forgive me for worrying you. I will not speak of this again, only promise me that you will not lightly throw away such a prospect of happiness as seems to me to be before you."

"Yes, I can promise you that," I said.

Then I kissed him and went to my own room.

I do not suppose that Edmund had the least idea how his words would trouble me. Doubtless, he imputed my agitation to some girlish, hysterical emotion, which would pass as quickly as it rose. How could he understand me when I could hardly understand myself?

He had suggested no new thought to me. In justice to myself, I must say that the foolish vanity which leads some girls to look upon every man of their acquaintance as a possible lover, had never been mine.

Yet, before to-day the fear had struck me that Ralph Dugdale was beginning to care for me otherwise than as a friend, and this morning an indefinable something in his looks and tones as he talked to me had confirmed this fear. The discovery could not have been more unwelcome, and now I was filled with dismay to think that Edmund had perceived the truth, and had set his heart upon a consummation from which I shrank in dread.

After I reached my room, I sat long at the window, gazing at the mountains as they appeared pale and shadowy in the dim light of night, and pondering the situation in which I found myself. Nay, pondering is not the word to use. I could hardly be said to be thinking; my mind was almost passive, whilst my imagination cast on it as on a camera, all kinds of pictures, in which my past, present and future mingled in strangest combinations.

But the excitement of mind which produces such effects is as exhausting as hard thinking, and I did not seek in prayer the calmness that comes from submitting ourselves to the Lord and asking His guidance in hours of perplexity. My head ached, and I felt faint and weary when at last, almost on the stroke of twelve, I lay down to rest. I did not expect to sleep, but sleep after a time came to me, though it was no deep, dreamless slumber.

In my sleep, I was transported from Switzerland, and found myself amidst gay company in a brightly-lighted English drawing-room. Perhaps I was at The Towers, but I had no distinct consciousness of my whereabouts. Mabel was present, resplendent in yellow satin, accompanied by her husband, and she was chiding me for appearing in my old, well-worn travelling gown, with my feet encased in bedroom slippers of scarlet wool. It was not respectful to Mrs. Glynne, she said, and I puzzled myself to think who Mrs. Glynne could be. Everyone but me was gaily attired, and I felt much ashamed of myself, and tried to slink into a corner. But Grace West came to me, dressed all in white, with roses scattered about her, "in honour of the bride," she said, and insisted on drawing me into the middle of the room. I kept asking what bride? But could get no answer till Rose Carsdale stood in the midst of us with a funny little fur cap on her head, and I knew that she was the bride. I looked, expecting to see Leonard Glynne by her side; but, to my mingled relief and wonder, I perceived that her hand lay on the arm of an odd, wizened, little man, whom I recognised as the dancing master who had instructed Miss Carefull's pupils. How bright the room was! Everywhere on the walls gleamed tall wax candles. As I watched them, they began to sway forward and to fall. There was a sudden blaze, followed by wild cries of fire, fire! as everyone began to rush about in terror.

Then the whole phantasmagoria vanished; yet still the cries went on. I became aware of a curious, crackling sound, and at the same time conscious of a terrible sense of heat and suffocation. In unutterable horror, I awoke to the fact that the fire of which I had dreamed was an awful reality, and it behoved me to heed the shouts of warning and cries of terror that resounded both without and within the hotel. Half-stupefied, I sprang from my bed. Instinctively I threw on my dressing-gown and thrust my feet into the very bedroom slippers which had been such an annoyance to me in my dream. The floor was hot to my foot as I touched it, and the awful glare beneath the window warned that I had not a moment to lose.

What of Edmund! Was he alive to his danger? I rushed to the door, on way to call Edmund; but when I opened it, such a suffocating cloud of smoke rolled towards me that I staggered back, closing it in desperation.

I had seen the flames leaping up the staircase and spreading along the corridor. It was impossible to get to Edmund that way. Now, had I thought, there was a door in my room which opened into that of Edmund's; but it was behind my bed, and as I had never opened it, I did not think to do so now. Instead, I flew to the window and sprang on to the balcony, calling my brother loudly as I did so.

A crowd of persons had gathered outside the house, and they saw me and shouted at my appearance. But I heeded them not; I was intent on getting to Edmund. The heat on the balcony was intense, for already flames were licking round the balustrades.

I gained Edmund's window. It was but slightly closed, and I managed to push it open from outside. I climbed into the room. It was full of smoke, and I could distinguish nothing. Pressing my dressing-gown over my mouth and nostrils, I struggled through and reached the side of the bed. I could not see, but I felt that it was empty. I remember passing my hands up and down the mattress; but I remember no more of what happened. The stifling atmosphere overpowered me, and I fell.

====================

CHAPTER XVII.

MY BROTHER LEAVES ME.

HOW long I remained unconscious I know not. When I awoke, the grey light of early morning was about me, and I was lying on a rude couch beneath the low rafters of one of the châlets which surrounded the hotel. Bending over me was a lady whose appearance puzzled me. It was familiar, but I could not at once identify it, Presently I recognised her as the wife of the English clergyman who was staying in the pension. With that recognition the terrible event of the night flashed upon my mind.

"Where am I?" I cried, striving to rise, only to find that my exhausted frame refused to respond to my will. "Oh, tell me about the fire and Edmund—where is Edmund?"

"Your brother is safe, and close at hand. You must not trouble about him. He is uninjured and only suffering from the effects of the shock, and the sudden exposure to the night air."

Only suffering from these! Alas, I knew well that their consequences to my poor brother could not be slight. But what a relief it was that my worst dread was not realised.

"Thank God, he is saved," I murmured.

"YOU WOULD HAVE THOUGHT HE WAS A FIREMAN
TO SEE HE VENTURED AMIDST THE FLAMES."

"Ah, indeed! We have all great cause to thank God. It was an awful fire. Those wooden houses burn so rapidly that the fire had taken complete hold of some of the lower rooms and the staircase ere it was discovered. And now the place is an utter wreck."

"Was everyone saved?" I asked.

"Yes, everyone, and, with the exception of one or two, they have escaped unhurt. It was a most merciful deliverance."

"It is all a confusion to me." I said. "I remember nothing save that I made my way to my brother's room and could not find him. How was I saved?"

"By Mr. Dugdale. He found you insensible by the bedside. He struggled through fearful smoke and flames to reach you. It was feared that you both would perish. Oh, do not cry. We had better not speak of the fire. You cannot bear it now."

"It does me good to cry." I sobbed, "only tell me one thing. Did Mr. Dugdale escape unhurt?"

"Not unhurt. His hands and arms are badly burnt, and he sprained his wrist in swinging himself down from a balcony. But, oh! He showed himself such a brave, heroic man. You would have thought he was a fireman to see how he ventured amidst the flames."

I asked no more questions, but lay still for some time, quietly weeping. It was no surprise to me to learn that I owed my life to Ralph Dugdale. I had felt sure, before I heard it, that he and no other had rescued me and Edmund.

Some time later, I learned how our escape had been effected. I had observed, without reflecting on the reason, that all the bedrooms in the pension had, in addition to the doors opening on to the corridor, doors communicating with each other. By this means, had the doors been open, one could have passed through the rooms from one end of the long, narrow house to the other. My room, as has been said, adjoined Edmund's on one side, and Ralph's room was on the other side of my brother's, but separated by two apartments from that of his friend.

As soon as he was roused by the alarm of fire, Ralph forced his way through these rooms, intent on saving me and Edmund. He found Edmund in his weakness already overpowered by the suffocating fumes, for the fire had broken out immediately below our rooms, and was there raging its fiercest. He said that he thumped vigorously on the partition dividing my room from Edmund's and believed that he heard me respond, ere he seized Edmund, and half-carrying, half-dragging him, bore him through the rooms to a little balcony at the end of the corridor, beneath which, and only a few feet lower, lay a sloping grassy bank, so that it was easy to clamber down. Leaving Edmund, who was roused by the rush of cold air, to the care of the persons who were gathered about the balcony helping women and children to escape by means of it from the burning house, Ralph hurried back in search of me.

By the time he had reached my room and had forced open the door, it was full of smoke, and flames were rising from the floor. It was hardly safe to enter; but screening his face and chest as best he could, he did venture in, only, however, to search for me in vain.

The people outside, who had seen me enter my brother's room, shouted to him to seek me there, but amidst the confused din of human voices and the crackling and roaring of the fire, he could not distinguish their words. As he staggered back aghast, the thought struck him that I might have tried to get to my brother. He groped his way through the smoke to my brother's bedside, and there came upon me lying insensible. To bear me, unconscious as I was, through that choking atmosphere to the freer air beyond, was no slight undertaking, but the strong, undaunted will accomplished it. Certain it was that no one else could have done for me what he did. Had he not found me, there would have been no awaking for me in this world.

With a rush of gratitude that was full of pain, I realised that I owed my life to Ralph Dugdale's heroism. Sweet, sweet did life seem to me as lying with my face towards the low windows of the châlet, I watched the sun rise above the mountains and gild their stainless summits with his golden rays. I was experiencing the feeling my brother had expressed only on the previous day. Never does life look so fair to us as when we emerge from some dark valley of the shadow of death to enter upon a fresh, sunlit space of time.

I felt very weak and shaken from the effects of my adventure, and it was long ere I lost the breathless, choking sensation caused by the fumes I had inhaled. But a German doctor, who had been staying in the pension, came and prescribed for me, and, ere evening fell, I was well enough to rise and go to my brother, who was in the inner room of the châlet.

With the thought of getting up, I found myself confronted with a serious though somewhat absurd difficulty. I had absolutely nothing to put on save my dressing-gown and slippers. All my clothing, and, indeed, everything that Edmund and I had with us, had perished in the flames, for as the hotel could boast no hose nor any apparatus for extinguishing a fire, it had been found impossible to check the flames, and they had simply raged till they could no longer find fuel.

A grand and memorable sight was that fire for those whose circumstances permitted them to enjoy its wild magnificence. Such have since described to me the wonderful effect of its savage lurid glow, seen against a background of snow mountains.

Happily, many persons whose rooms were remote from the spot where the fire broke out had been able to rescue their luggage, and several ladies came to my aid when they heard of my destitute condition, and out of their abundance provided for my needs, so that I was soon able to appear decorously clothed, though in a somewhat odd assortment of garments.

I could make light of my misfortunes; our losses were trifles, indeed, when compared with our great deliverance; but far more deplorable was Edmund's condition. I found him suffering from utter prostration of strength; his voice sunk to a whisper, his appearance ghastly in its pallor. Yet he could smile on me and whisper how very, very thankful he was; he did not mind his own sufferings since I appeared so little the worse for my alarm and danger.

"And Ralph, too, dear, old fellow," he whispered; "they tell me he showed himself a true hero, and I can well believe it."

"Why, yes, he saved my life—but for him—" A shudder ended my broken words.

"He saved both our lives," said my brother. "Ah, Dottie, what a debt is that! But yours is the greater gain, and you only can repay him. My chance of doing anything for him is past."

A thrill of fear passed through me as I perceived my brother's meaning.

"Do not say so," I pleaded; "you will rally again. This is only the effect of the shock."

But he shook his head.

Not till the next day did I see Ralph Dugdale. In truth, I shrank from seeing him. How could I express my gratitude to the man who had saved my life? The weight of that gratitude oppressed me.

Perhaps it was well that I came upon him suddenly. I had gone forth to take a look at the ruins of the hotel, when, as wandering round the blackened heap, I turned to the side where hung a remnant of the balcony by which our escape had been made, I saw before me Ralph Dugdale. He was very pale, his hands and arms were bandaged, his right hand rested in a sling, he wore a loose coat which had certainly not been made for him. All this I noted at a glance; the next moment he saw me, and a glad smile lit up his face. Very bright was his look, yet there was something unusually tender and emotional in his glance as our eyes met.

"You are better? You begin to feel yourself again?" he questioned me eagerly, ere I could say a word.

"I am all right, thank you," I answered quickly; "but oh, Mr. Dugdale, I am so sorry to see how you have suffered! I—I—Oh, I do not know how to say what I ought—what, indeed, I truly feel."

"Pray do not try to say it. Surely we can understand each other without words."

"But I must tell you that I can never forget how you risked your life for my sake."

"Nonsense, don't exaggerate the risk! For whatever I did, have I not more than my reward in seeing you safe and sound? Do you think I would not gladly lay down my life to save yours?"

How could I reply to this vehement speech, coming warm from the heart in one of those rare moments when emotion will utter itself, in spite of every consideration that might enforce silence?

Happily Ralph did not leave me much time to feel embarrassment. With a change of manner, he asked me quietly what I thought of Edmund. There could be but a sad answer to this question. Ralph's face grew grave and sad as we paced to and fro, talking of my brother. He tried to comfort me; but he could hold out but faint hope.

One thing we decided. It was impossible that Edmund should remain in his present rough and comfortless quarters. Even at the risk of further exhausting him, we must remove him to some more habitable region, where he could have the comforts his condition rendered indispensable. Ralph advised our proceeding, as we had intended, to Grindelwald, and I felt that the advice was good. Already a general exodus from the vicinity had begun. Most of those who had escaped unscathed from the fire had departed on the previous day; others were now preparing to start down the mountain.

Ralph proposed to get one of these travellers to engage us a carriage at Lauterbrunnen for the next day. He had already written to his sister, informing her of what had happened, and that we might arrive at Grindelwald at any hour. He felt sure that she would make the best arrangements she could for our reception; and I, knowing Grace as I did, could have no doubt of that.

What a comfort it was to me to have Ralph Dugdale to help me in the management of Edmund's removal! Though his hands were useless, his thoughtfulness, kindness, tact, and the ease with which he made people do exactly what he wished them to do, rendered him an invaluable ally.

We went down the mountain on the following day, treading the same path that we had ascended with glad zest at the beginning of the season. It was a bright day, and the scenery was no less lovely than it had been then; but now it wore the beauty of autumn, and in my heart it was autumn too, not an autumn of ripe fruitage, but an autumn of falling leaves, fading flowers, dead hopes.

Edmund's bearers carried him very carefully and steadily, yet he was sorely exhausted when we reached Lauterbrunnen. We were fain to stay the night there, and did not start to drive up the valley to Grindelwald till about noon the next day. Weary though he was, Edmund enjoyed that drive. Every turn of the road which ascends by the side of the impetuous, foaming torrent revealed new beauties. The foliage clothing the mountain slopes was gay with the most brilliant hues of autumn, cascades of no mean force came dashing down beside the road, fairy rills crossed it on their way to the river.

We passed over quaint, covered wooden bridges, the river now on this side of the carriage and now on that. Presently snow-crested summits rose before our view; the Wetterhorn stood forth in grand magnificence, then its companion Peaks were discerned, till, as we made the last gradual ascent, the whole of the lovely vale of Grindelwald lay before us.

We drove at once to the hotel at which the Dugdales were staying. Grace had been watching for us, and was at the door to receive us. Very loving was her greeting to me, almost too tenderly sympathetic I felt that it was, for it showed me too plainly what she sorrowfully believed.

A large and very comfortable room had been secured for Edmund. He was pleased to see that his window looked up the vale and commanded a fine view of the Wetterhorn and the higher glacier.

"I am glad the beauty is so near," he said, "for I cannot go in search of it."

So, with gentle satisfaction, he took possession of his room, never to leave it in life.

Yet I was not without visitings of hope. There was a return of strength, but the Swiss doctor whom we had called in did not encourage him to make any exertion, and Edmund himself evinced no desire to go beyond his room, but was content to rest on his couch by the window, and gaze on the beautiful world outside.

I could not help remarking that he never now spoke of his recovery. The hopefulness which he had manifested in the earlier stages of his illness was gone. But whatever were his anticipations, they were met with serene, calm resignation.

"Dorothy," he said to me one day, "do you think Mabel would come if we asked her?"

"Come!—Come here do you mean?" I faltered. "Oh, Edmund, dear, why do you ask? Do you wish her to come?"

"I think you must know, Dottie, why I ask," he said, giving me a tender, pitiful glance, as though he would fain have spared me the pain he knew his words must give. "Yes, I should be very glad to see Mabel again if she would come; but not—not if it would cause her much trouble."

I wrote to Mabel at once. I had written to her every day since we came to Grindelwald. Her letters had expressed much concern at what I had told her about Edmund; but she did not suggest coming to him. Would she come now, I wondered, as I sent off the letter.

She did not come. Little Percy appeared to be sickening with some childish ailment, and she could not leave him. A mother's first duty was to her child, she wrote. It grieved her to refuse to come to dear Edmund, but she could not believe that he was so ill as I imagined. She knew that my affection was apt to make me over-anxious. She still hoped to see him again in England, and she thought we should do well to start on our homeward journey as soon as possible. Had I thought of Torquay as a desirable place to winter in?

The letter angered me. I was indignant with Mabel for attaching so little importance to my words. I would not believe that there was much the matter with her little boy. To myself I accused her of heartless indifference to Edmund. My feelings towards her did not soften as I saw the shadow fall on Edmund's face when I told him that she could not come.

"Then I shall not see her," he said.

"She hopes to see you again in England," I replied.

"That will not be, I think," he replied, quite calmly.

And I was silent, for my heart told me that he spoke truly.

"How could Mabel?" I was saying to myself.

Edmund must have divined my thoughts, for, after a moment, he said to me, very earnestly, "Do not blame her, Dorothy; she does not know. And, Dorothy, do not, I pray you, let this make any further breach between you. Remember that, when I am gone, you and Mabel will be the only ones remaining of the home-circle at Burford in the dear old days—the dear, happy, old days."

I was silent, for I could not speak. Of late Edmund had often spoken of our old life at Burford. He loved to recall our childish days with their quaint incidents and the various scrapes into which he had led me.

"You and she have memories in common which no other can share," he went on to say. "I can remember how proud and fond you were of 'my sister Mabel,' when you were a little thing."

"I am proud and fond of her still," I said, half crying; "I should love her as much as ever if—But she has changed; she does not care for me as she did."

"Don't say you should love her," Edmund reproved me gently; "true love does not change with the changes of others. Do you remember Mrs. Browning's poem on the words, 'Loved Once'?

"'Love strikes one hour—Love! Those
   "never" loved
  Who dream that they loved "once."'"

"I am afraid mine is not the best sort of love," I sighed; "anyhow, love and sorrow seem to be intertwined for me. Those whom I love most are taken from me."

"I suppose love and sorrow must always in a measure combine," said Edmund, musingly. "The King of Love was crowned with a crown of thorns. But, Dottie, you must not speak as if my going would leave you desolate. You have Ralph, you know."

A hot flush mounted to my forehead. Edmund waited for me to speak, watching me keenly.

Why did I not tell him the truth? Surely when the last parting was so near, I might have broken through womanly reserve and confided to him my heart's secret. It seemed to me afterwards that it would have been easy to tell him then, yet something withheld me. Edmund was far from guessing the truth. Men do not learn such things by intuition as women do. He had not the least glimmer of a notion that I could care for anyone save Ralph Dugdale.

"You will not tell me," he said, presently, and his tone had a plaintive sound that went to my heart, "though it would be such a comfort to me to know that it would be as I hope."

Then words rushed to my lips—rash, impulsive words, as mine too often were. What did it matter what my future was, I thought.

"Dear Edmund," I said, tremulously, "I will try, I will try to do as you wish."

And even then he did not understand. Such a glad smile welcomed my words, and he clasped my hand as if in gratitude.

It was strange that just then there should come a tap at the door, followed by the appearance of Ralph Dugdale.

"Come, old friend," said Edmund, motioning Ralph to a seat on the other side of his couch.

Ralph sat down beside him, and Edmund took his hand also, and brought our hands together across the couch.

As he held them in his wasted ones, he said, "My two best friends," the glad light still shining in his eyes.

I doubt not that Ralph perceived the significance of Edmund's action, but if he looked for signs of such comprehension from me, he received none. As quickly as I could, I drew my hand away.

There came days of chill rain and storm. Edmund's strength declined rapidly. Mr. and Mrs. Dugdale started for a warmer latitude, but Grace and her brother remained with us. I knew that they would not leave me. I was thankful for Grace's presence, and glad, too, for Edmund's sake, that Ralph was there. The mean jealousy I had once experienced did not revive, I am thankful to say. It was plain that to Grace Edmund was a friend, but no more. And his manner to her never showed that she was better loved than I.

He liked to talk to her, for her Christian faith was bright and clear, and she helped him to look forward, without doubting, to the higher, fuller life that awaited him—the rest that he believed meant service, not inactivity, in which the powers, denied full development here, should be perfected, and the work for God, broken off below, find a grander completion. I do not think there could ever have been much hope in Edmund's love, and now, as the flame of the bodily life waxed dim, earthly desires had no power to ruffle the heavenly calm that fell upon his spirit.

The storms and rains subsided. There came a day of calm, autumnal beauty, of bright sunshine, though the air was crisp with the touch of frost. Few English visitors had dared to risk the chances of the late autumn, and we had the hotel almost to ourselves. I can never forget the deep quietude that seemed to reign all about us that day. Within the house and without there was hardly a sound to be heard. Nature seemed to be resting after her fierce conflicts.

Towards evening, we were all in Edmund's room. He seemed rather better that day, and once more was able to leave his bed and rest, supported by pillows, on the couch near the window. We sat so that all could see the beautiful scene from the window. The mountains on each side the vale had appeared that morning in a fresh covering of snow. Dazzlingly white shone the summit and higher slopes of the Wetterhorn; the glacier had lost its dingy hue; the russet and gold and sombre greens of the foliage at the foot of the mountain looked the richer in contrast to the snowy mass above.

We watched till slowly the colours faded, the shadows lengthened across the vale, and the hollows darkened beneath the overhanging rocks. As we gazed, almost imperceptibly the faintest tone of colour warmed the whiteness of the Wetterhorn. Presently a golden beam fell athwart the snowy slope. It broadened and deepened in its intensity till the whole vast snow-field shone as with golden fire.

"The afterglow," someone murmured, and then for a few moments none of us spoke as we watched the glowing vision fade as swiftly as it had come. It was not the first time I had seen the wonder of the afterglow, but this, I thought, was the finest manifestation of its loveliness that had been granted me. I rejoiced that Edmund saw it. And he rejoiced. His voice it was that broke the stillness.

"I am glad I have seen this before I go," he said. Then in low, fervent tones, he added, with a reverent upward glance, "I thank God for the beauty of His world."

"And it is but the shadow of the divine beauty," said Grace, in tones that vibrated with emotion; "you will pass out of the shadow into the perfect light. 'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty.'"

Edmund smiled, such a happy, radiant smile. "His people reflect that beauty here," he said, looking at her. "As we strive after goodness, He gives us of His beauty. May the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us."

"Amen," said Ralph Dugdale.

With that our little party broke up. I sat alone with my brother for some hours. He was inclined to talk, and he talked brightly, going back again to our childish days, and dwelling on them with pleasure.

About ten o'clock Ralph and Grace came in. It had been arranged that Ralph should watch beside him tonight, as I had sat up during the previous one.

But now I felt reluctant to leave my brother, and would fain have stayed had Edmund been willing, but he was not.

"No, you must go to bed, Dottie," he said; "you look worn out. What good could you do by staying? I shall sleep soundly, I know. Come, kiss me and say good-night."

As I bent over him, he drew me close and kissed me many times. Did he know that the parting was so near?

"Grace too," he said, his eyes raised pleadingly to hers.

And Grace also gave him a sister's kiss.

I did not go to bed, though Ralph soon brought me the news that Edmund was sleeping peacefully.

After a while I lay down, dressed as I was, on the outside of the bed, and I must have slept, for it seemed as if but a short time had passed when Ralph summoned me, but already the day was dawning.

"You had better come," was all he said.

And without a minute's delay, I followed him.

Edmund no longer slept. He was sitting up in bed, propped by pillows; his hands were moving restlessly over the coverlid, and he was speaking rapidly. His voice had an unusual sound, but his eyes were clear and bright.

"Why does not Dottie come?" I heard him say.

"I am here, Edmund, here," I said, laying my hand on his.

But he heeded neither touch nor word. I saw with pain that he was looking beyond me, unconscious of my presence.

"There is my father," he said, mere quietly, his gaze fixed apparently on the window; "he is coming from the tan-yard across the garden. And there is Dottie at last—Dottie and Grace, standing beneath the trees; the trees are all white with blossom. Yes, Salome, I hear you. Dottie!"

My old pet name came with a faltering sound. Did he know me at the last? I hoped so. His head sank a little on one side, his lips moved; I fancied I caught the words, "The King in His beauty."

A few moments of awful stillness, broken only by short, panting breaths, and then Ralph's hand gently trying to draw me away told me that I was brotherless.

——————