from the mist and sunshine behind it—while a gleam of stronger light tipped the curtain’s under-edge in one direction. Still higher it rose! Susan exclaimed that the mountain was rising into heaven; and Emma and Mrs Stoutley, whose reading had evidently failed to impress them with a just conception of mountain-scenery, stood with clasped hands in silent expectancy and admiration. The gleam of stronger light above referred to, widened, and Susan almost shrieked with ecstasy when the curtain seemed to rend, and the gleam resolved itself into the great Glacier des Bossons, which, rolling over the mountain-brow like a very world of ice, thrust its mighty tongue down into the valley.
From that moment Susan’s disbelief in her lady’s knowledge changed into faith, and deepened into profound veneration.
It was, however, only a slight glimpse that had been thus afforded of the ice-world by which they were surrounded. The great ice-fountain of those regions, commencing at the summit of Mont Blanc, flings its ample waves over mountain and vale in all directions, forming a throne on which perpetual winter reigns, and this glacier des Bossons, which filled the breasts of our travellers with such feelings of awe, was but one of the numerous rivers which flow from the fountain down the gorges and higher valleys of the Alps, until they reach those regions where summer heat asserts itself, and checks their further progress in the form of ice by melting them.
“Is it possible,” said Emma, as she gazed at the rugged and riven mass of solid ice before her, “that a glacier really flows?”
“So learned men tell us, and so we must believe,” said Mrs Stoutley.
“Flows, ma’am?” exclaimed Susan, in surprise.
“Yes, so it is said,” replied Mrs Stoutley, with a smile.
“But we can see, ma’am, by lookin’ at it, that it don’t flow; can’t we, ma’am?” said Susan.
“True, Susan, it does not seem to move; nevertheless scientific men tell us that it does, and sometimes we are bound to believe against the evidence of our senses.”
Susan looked steadily at the glacier for some time; and then, although she modestly held her tongue, scientific men fell considerably in her esteem.
While the ladies were thus discussing the glacier and enlightening their maid, Lewis, Lawrence, and the Captain, taking advantage of the improved state of the weather, had gone out for a stroll, partly with a view, as Lewis said, to freshen up their appetites for dinner—although, to say truth, the appetites of all three were of such a nature as to require no freshening up. They walked smartly along the road which leads up the valley, pausing, ever and anon, to look back in admiration at the wonderful glimpses of scenery disclosed by the lifting mists. Gradually these cleared away altogether, and the mountain summits stood out well defined against the clear sky. And then, for the first time, came a feeling of disappointment.
“Why, Lawrence,” said Lewis, “didn’t they tell us that we could see the top of Mont Blanc from Chamouni?”
“They certainly did,” replied Lawrence, “but I can’t see it.”
“There are two or three splendid-looking peaks,” said Lewis, pointing up the valley, “but surely that’s not the direction of the top we look for.”
“No, my lad, it ain’t the right point o’ the compass by a long way,” said the Captain; “but yonder goes a strange sail a-head, let’s overhaul her.”
“Heave a-head then, Captain,” said Lewis, “and clap on stun’s’ls and sky-scrapers, for the strange sail is making for that cottage on the hill, and will get into port before we overhaul her if we don’t look sharp.”
The “strange sail” was a woman. She soon turned into the cottage referred to, but our travellers followed her up, arranging, as they drew near, that Lawrence, being the best French scholar of the three (the Captain knowing nothing whatever of the language), should address her.
She turned out to be a very comely young woman, the wife, as she explained, of one of the Chamouni guides, named Antoine Grennon. Her daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of six or so, was busy arranging a casket of flowers, and the grandmother of the family was engaged in that mysterious mallet-stone-scrubbing-brush-and-cold-water system, whereby the washerwomen of the Alps convert the linen of tourists into shreds and patches in the shortest possible space of time.
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