ing, however, while we were at breakfast, the storm ceased, the sun shone out, and setting off for the last time, we were delighted with the romantic valley, called the Val d' Orbe, and with the source of the Orbe, which bursts forth from a precipice of rock, at once a considerable river --like the Sorgue at Vaucluse. But the features of the scene are on a smaller scale, and inferior in beauty and interest to that spot, for ever consecrated by the genius of Petrarch. We reached Lausanne to day, to dinner. Great was the joy of Colonel and Mrs. Cleveland to see us; and great was the disappointment of Lady Hunlocke not to see Mr. Breadalbane, whom she had fully expected to find here. Still greater was her astonishment not to find any letter from him, and she was certain he must be lying dangerously ill at Grindelwald, and could scarcely be prevented sending an express to inquire after him, till a letter from the good Pastor of that ilk' arrived, and assured her-to her great disappointment-(she would much rather have heard of his being desperately ill-that he had set off some time ago, from Grindelwald parsonage, in excellent spirits, for Scotland. For my own part, I do privately think it possible he may be still waiting for us at Berne; but I carefully keep my suspicions to myself. I, too, am much, nay, bitterly disappointednot that Lady Hunlocke has no letter from Mr. Breadalbane, but that she has none from Mr. Lindsay. I am quite sure he never can have received her letters, otherwise he would, he must, have answered them. But I must not think-if possible, at least I must not allow my thoughts to dwell upon this painful subject. I have not time even to ascertain whether or not the letters are still lying for him at Geneva--for we set off, by the Simplon, for Italy, tomorrow; as Mrs. Cleveland is anxious to finish her long pilgrimage over the Alps and Appennines, before the time of her confinement approaches. Lady Hunlocke goes into Italy also, but takes the route of Verona, Munich, and the Tyrol.Dear Georgianna, adieu! CHAPTER XXX. THE INN STAIRCASE. Where art thou, dear one? Can the tomb O thou wilt come no more! SHAKSPEARE. LEAVING the travellers for the present to pursue their journey up the Valais, and over the Simplon into Italy, we must turn our attention to the motions and proceedings of certain young gentlemen-without whom the lives of young ladies, both in the scenes of romance, and in the romance of life-would lose much of their in terest. To begin with Mr. Breadalbane. Having, as Miss St. Clair suspected, conceived the bright idea of surprising Lady Hunlocke and herself, by waylaying them at Berne, he had taken up his abode at Le Faucon, in that city-(a city in which he did not know a human being)--and spent his days, for the most part, in the entertaining and profitable occupation of leaning over the balustrades of the staircase, staring at every body that came in, and execrating every face, however fair, because it was not the face he sought. One day, while employed in kicking his heels in this manner, he heard a hoarse voice below, in his native accent, enquiring Gif they kenned whether ma' Leddy Hunlocke was na' arrived?' Breadalbane was at the bottom of the stairs in a moment. 'What of Lady Hunlocke, Sir! -What do you know of Lady Hunlocke?' he said, surveying with astonishment the extraordinary figure of the Rev. Saunders M'cMuckle man. 'I was speering for her me sel,' said the Scotchman. 'Was you wanting her Leddyship and all-Sir?' 'What do you know of her? Where did you see her? Where did you leave her? Was there a young lady' 'What's ye're wull, Sir?' demanded-the bewildered Scot. Breadalbane was soon out of all patience. At length, by dint of questioning, storming, and exclaiming, he gathered from the Scotchman a confused account of the assassin's intended as sault upon the ladies in their passage over the Grimsel; but so incomprehensibly was it told, that he understood they were actually nearly murdered outright. His alarm was dreadful; for it happened that a vague report had reached his ears, which had floated down to Berne, no one knew how; of two English ladies travelling alone, being attacked on the Grimsel and grievously maltreated,— their clothes being all taken from them, and their ears cut off. Their lives indeed were said to be saved, by one of the ladies seizing the robber's fire-arms and throwing them into the river; a truly marvellous exploit, considering that they were assaulted by no less than three stout ruffians! Such was the present version of the story at Berne. Doubtless in due time, the three assassins--like Falstaff's buckram men-would be multiplied to a dozen; --and in addition to the loss of ears,-noses, and multifarious other mutilations, would be gratuitously added.* Till now, Mr. Breadalbane had given no ear to this absurd tale of these two barbarously treated English ladies; nor did it even strike him that it could relate to the two whose arrival occupied his whole thoughts; not considering Carline as English knowing that they were not alone, but attended by Philips; and, besides, supposing *A similar tale, with these identical exagerations, was actually circulated at the time respecting the two ladies who were really the bject of this intended attack upon the Grimsel. VOL. II. 14* the whole story to be of much earlier date. But great were now his alarm and despair. They were only surpassed by his rage, when he at last found, from the long-winded narration of the Rev. Saunders M'cMuckleman, that no evil whatever had befallen them. Scarcely was his wrath at this blunder appeased, before he was thrown into a fresh panic, by a doleful history of their being lost upon the Furca, in a tremendous storm, after which they had never been heard of, and their horses and guides had never returned,—and at this point, having thrown Breadalbane into a state little short of distraction, he went off into a long string of unheeded lamentations, "anent' their refusing his escort. 'Ideot!' exclaimed Breadalbane, obligingly-' and what good would that have done? How could you have stayed the storm? Instead of bewailing yourself like a fool, why did'nt you raise the country, and send out all the peasantry to rescue them? Why was not the mountain searched in every direction? Why did you rest yourself, or let a soul rest, till they were found and saved?' 'But ye winna hear me oot!' cried the slow Scotchman, who in vain attempted to wedge in a word-while Breadalbane overpowered him with a torrent of reproachful questions, without ever waiting for an answer. At last, finding there was no chance of any cessation, the Scotchman roared out, in a Stentorian voice, which drowned Breadalbane's, Weel, weel, I say, they're leeving, mon!' Fool!' exclaimed Breadalbane. Then why did'nt you say so?' |