"You will get well, Vesta, you will come to the old home once again, mother expects you, and father." The words were gone. Sobs echoed through the cottage.
"Tell mother, not an hour but I have thought of her. Tell her that I am glad she loves Jesus; and father, ask him for my sake to read the little Bible that I sent him. I would so like to see them, Erwald; but it cannot be. For this, as well as for my husband and children, I would live; but I go to Jesus. Live so as to meet me there."
There was no excitement, only a weary look stole over the face.
Leaving Erwald, I walked back to the inn. Though far away from home, and surrounded by strange scenery and strange people, it was delightful to find the same faith here as in my own home, the same heaven inspired confidence in the Redeemer.
The next morning the sick woman was more comfortable. Erwald did not say it, but I knew that he wanted to stay with her.
"Go with us to Le Prieure," I said to him, "and then you shall return.
In the valley of Chamouni I feel sure we can procure a guide."
As we left Maglan, our road, or rather path, led up a deep and fertile valley, watered by the Arve, rich in woods of fir, and bounded by mountains of various forms and of tremendous altitudes; their rugged peaks sometimes lost in the clouds; at others, their heads towered in majesty above them. Bathed in the blue ether of the heavens they looked as if themselves ethereal, oftentimes exhibiting a play of colors, having the appearance of transparent matter, of the purest elements and richest hues, and when seen in the light of the setting sun they were only more glorious. At the upper end of the valley we came upon the cataract of the Chede. It is elegant in form. The scenery that surrounds it is sylvan and sequestered. The torrent that feeds it rushes down a succession of precipices, hurrying dashing along to meet the waters of the Arve.
The path now became extremely difficult, and we continued to ascend, till we reached the lake of Chede, whose water is famed as the purest in the Alps. From this point we saw Mont Blanc--saw the clouds roll off, and leave its rugged head white with the snows of ages--a beautiful contrast with the deep azure of the sky it seemed almost to touch. Looking, our eyes were dazzled by the vast and spotless object before us; pure and fleecy as were the light clouds that lingered round it, they were dark compared with its glittering brightness; while the obscurity in which the lower scenes were wrapt gave it the appearance of a crystal mountain in a sea of clouds. With Erwald standing at my side, it seemed but a step from earth to heaven, through those regions of the purest white, untrodden solitudes, meet only for the visits of celestial beings.
Thus far our way had been comparatively safe. Now, we had need of caution at each step; scrambling along ledges of lofty rocks, with deep ravines beneath; then crossing mountain torrents where a single misstep would have been fatal. Before night we passed the remains of an avalanche, an enormous mass of snow crushing as it fell everything in its path. We were now in the valley of Chamouni. At the sight of the first glacier I felt some little disappointment. It is not itself a mountain of ice, but lies in a deep sloping ravine between two mountains, filling it up, and differing in height according to the base. There are five of these glaciers in the valley. They usually lie in a direction north and south, and thus deeply imbedded in the clefts of the valley the sun rarely visits them.
From Savoy our numbers were greatly increased, and as the daylight vanished we quickened our pace. Le Prieure was before us. This was the place where I had promised to part with Erwald. There were plenty of guides; but none of them with the sweet calm look of the boy face before me.
"You will think of us sometimes," he said as I held his hand at parting, "and when you pray to our heavenly Father, ask Him to look upon us in mercy."
"I will ask Him, Erwald; and I shall always remember the journey from Geneva to Chamouni as the most varied and interesting of my life."
"The Bride Of The Aar."
It was the day after Christmas; a heavy fall of snow during the night, the tiny flakes full of graceful motion till long past noon, had made a gloomy day for the inmates of Myrtlebank. True, there was many a gay trill and clear silvery laugh ringing through the old rooms. Alick was spending his college vacation at home, and Frank and Carry were merry as school-girls are wont to be, when books are flung aside, and fun and frolic take the place of study and recitation.
"What are you dreaming about, uncle Paul?" and Carry perched herself on the arm of her uncle's chair, and patted his cheek with her little dimpled hand.
"I have been thinking, child"--and there was a choking sensation in uncle Paul's throat, and a strange mist in his clear gray eyes.
Carry's sympathies were awakened.
"Thinking about something long time ago, uncle Paul?" and the rosy cheek was laid close to the thin, pallid one.
"Tell us, uncle Paul; you know you promised us;" and Carry slid her arms about her uncle's neck, and felt his great heart beat against her own.
"It was a long time ago," began uncle Paul. "I had just finished my studies, and not being strong, the physician advised a year's travel on the continent. My father was a merchant, and had friends in the different European cities, and there was little danger that I should lack for attention; and with a supply of letters, and one in particular to a friend of my father's, a pastor among the mountains of Switzerland, I started. I pass over the leave-taking; finding myself alone on the sea; the nights of calm when leaning over the ship's side, looking down into the dark depths, murmuring snatches of home songs, bringing up vividly before me faces of those I loved; and as the ocean swells came rocking under us, down we went into the valleys and up over the hills of water. I felt as safe, rocked in the great cradle of the deep, as when at home. His eye was upon me; His arm encircled me.
"But pleasant as the voyage and full of memories, I see that you are impatient to pass over to the mountains of Switzerland. Words are weak to describe the magnificence of the Juras: looking upon the rolling heights shrouded with pine-trees, and down thousands of feet at the very roadside, upon cottage roofs and emerald valleys, where the deer herds were feeding quietly. All this I had seen, and then we came to a little town called Bex; and here, from too much expenditure of enthusiasm perhaps, I was confined for weeks with a raging fever.
"One day, when the fever left me weak and feeble as a child, who should enter but the good pastor Ortler. He had heard of my illness, and leaving home, he had travelled over the hills to nurse me in my weakness; and when I grew strong enough to bear it, he treated me to short drives along Lake Leman, whence we could see the meadows that skirt Geneva, the rough, shaggy mountains of Savoy, and far behind them, so far that we could not distinguish between cap and cloud, Mont Blanc and the needles of Chamouni.
"The good pastor Ortler, with his fine voice and clear, earnest eyes, was in possession at all times of a charm of manner that had for me an irresistible fascination. But when he talked of God, his greatness as seen in his works, the magnificent and matchless glory by which we were surrounded: above all, when he spoke of His tenderness and love, I realized as I had never done before the beauty of holiness, and the happiness, in this life even, of a soul firmly anchored in the faith of Christ.
"Once, I remember, he steadied my feet to a rocky point overlooking the little town of Ferney, and the deserted chateau of Voltaire. And then followed a conversation, in which the tenderness of the good pastor's heart was manifest as he spoke of the fine mind wrecked on the sands of unbelief. 'And to think of this man's influence,' he said, with sorrow in his tones, and regrets over a lost life and a lost soul.
"Upon the shores of the lake stood the old home of De Stael; and nearly opposite, its white walls reflected upon the bosom of the water the house where Byron lived and wrote. In the distance we could see the gleaming roofs of Geneva, the dark cathedral, and the tall hotels.
As the weeks wore on I grew stronger. Winter was coming, and the good pastor must go home. He would not hear of leaving me, and together we went down into Savoy, and over the 'mer de glace,' and trod on the edge of frowning glaciers.
"We were sufficiently near the monastery of the great St. Bernard to take it in our path; toiling along where the ice cracked in the narrow footway, and the moon glittered on the waste of snow and glinted across the dark windows. Pastor Ortler was at home with the monks, and hardly had we thawed ourselves before the ample fireplace, when a supper was prepared, and over their well-spread tables the monks told stories of travellers lost among the granite heights, with clefts and ledges filled with ice.
"Among the rest, friar Le-Bon gave a description of the 'Ice Maiden,'
or _'Bride of the Aar,'_ said to be seen often when the great glacier of Aar sends out icy breezes, and the echoes ring from rock to rock, as it were the audible voice of God.
"'Years ago,' he said, 'a young Englishman and his wife were travelling for scientific purposes; measuring heights, and sounding depths. They were always accompanied by guides; but now, charmed by the untold splendor, and urged by deep emotion, they climbed higher and higher, regardless of danger. Twice had the guide called out to them that the very beauty of the day, the sun obscured but not darkened, the softened air, were all favorable to a snowslide or avalanche.
"'Full of life and vivacity, the young wife went on from one point to another, higher and higher; her lithe figure brought out against the sky, as occasionally she plunged her iron-pointed staff deep into the snow, and turned to admire the vast panorama at her feet. Her husband was making the ascent at a slower pace, looking up to admire the boldness of the little woman, and then playfully scolding her as she stood poised in mid-air so far above him. Aware of her danger, and fearing to startle her, the guide had ascended, and now stood with the husband on a little ledge quite underneath the cliff on which stood the fearless bride.
"'A moment--there was a low, murmuring sound, as when the autumn leaves are swept by the evening breeze. The guide heard it, and his cheek paled. At the same time a voice was heard above.
"'"What is that, Walter, it seems as though the mountain was moving?"
"'"For heaven's sake, jump! we will catch you," shouted the guide.
"'"Quick, Gertrude!" A gleam of white shot over them, and a piercing shriek mingled with one long resounding crash, and the glittering crystal was plunged into the valley below, leaving nothing but bare jagged rocks and stunted shrubs, where all was smooth and white but a moment before. Months after, the bones of the fair English girl were buried here,' continued friar Le-Bon.
"'And her husband?' I asked.
"'They brought him here, and it was terrible to see his agony. When he grew stronger, we sent a novice with him to England; it would not do to trust him by himself.'
"'You do not mean to say that his reason was gone?' I asked.
"'He was never rational after that morning,' replied the friar; 'muttering and moaning, and repeating the name of Gertrude constantly.
Carl left him with his friends, and we have never heard if he recovered.'
"'And the lady?' asked pastor Ortler.
"'On calm, still days, and just before an avalanche,' said the kind friar, 'her image is always seen standing upon the loftiest height, beckoning with her white taper fingers to some one below.'
"Entertained with so much hospitality, we were loath to leave the friendly hospice, only for the pastor's anxiety to reach home. Down into the sweet valley of the Megringen, and northward by Grindenwald and Thun, and up the steep heights over which falls the white foam of Reichenbach; and farther on towards the crystal Rosenlani, and the tall, still Engel Horner, we came to a little village cradled in security beneath the towering hills; the church-spire glancing in the sunlight, and the simple cottagers jubilant in welcoming home their beloved pastor.
"At the door of the pastor's home we were met by a sweet-browed woman with a lovely infant in her arms, crowing and laughing as the father kissed it over and over again; while a boy of ten and a girl of six summers, ran with open arms to greet him.
"'You stayed so long, papa.'
"'And we missed you so much,' after the first greeting.
"'This young friend was very ill; you would not have had me leave him?'
"'Oh, no, papa, but'--when the little Griselda stopped suddenly, and threw a half-defiant glance at my face, and Thorwald stood measuring me with his great black eyes.
"Hardly recovered from my illness, I stayed with the good pastor Ortler through Christmas week, and a month afterwards. Never did I pass pleasanter days. The wife Rosalind was as kind as a sister, and her children grew soon to like me as an old friend. Very simple was their manner of life, while the air they breathed was fragrant with the love they bore to Him who made and redeemed them, and who had in his good providence, set them in a pleasant place.
"Christmas to them was not a week of jubilee alone. Busy hands decorated the little church, and visits were made to the poor and sick, and presents were given without the hope of reward. Sitting by the parlor fire at night, the pastor told of the parishioners he had seen, their wants and needs; while Rosalind knit stockings, and fashioned garments.