Part 16 (1/2)

”Well, where was I?” continued Gillie, ”ah, yes. Then, Lord what's-'is-name, _he's_ falled in love with the mountain-tops, an' is for ever tryin' to get at 'em, in which he would succeed, for he's a plucky young feller, if it worn't for that sn.o.b--who's got charge of 'im--Mister Lumbard--whose pecooliarity lies in preferrin' every wrong road to the right one. As I heard Mr Lewis say the other day, w'en I chanced to be pa.s.sin' the keyhole of the sallymanjay, `he'd raither go up to the roof of a 'ouse by the waterspout than the staircase,' just for the sake of boastin' of it.”

”And is Mr Lumbard in love with any one?” asked Susan.

”Of course he is,” answered Gillie, ”he's in love with hisself. He's always talkin' of hisself, an' praisin' hisself, an' boastin' of hisself an' what he's done and agoin' to do. He's plucky enough, no doubt, and if there wor a lightnin'-conductor runnin' to top of Mount Blang, I do b'lieve he'd try to--to--lead his Lords.h.i.+p up _that_; but he's too fond of talkin' an' swaggerin' about with his big axe, an' wearin' a coil of rope on his shoulder when he ain't goin' nowhere. Bah! I don't like him. What do you think, Susan, I met him on the road the other evenin'

w'en takin' a stroll by myself down near the Gla.s.syer day Bossong, an' I says to him, quite in a friendly way, `bong joor,' says I, which is French, you know, an' what the natives here says when they're in good humour an' want to say `good-day,' `all serene,' `how are you off for soap?' an' suchlike purlitenesses. Well, would you believe it, he went past without takin' no notice of me whatsumdever.”

”How _very_ impolite,” said Susan, ”and what did you do?”

”Do,” cried Gillie, drawing himself up, ”why, I c.o.c.ked my nose in the air and walked on without disdainin' to say another word--treated 'im with suvrin contempt. But enough of _him_--an' more than enough. Well, to continue, then there's Missis Stoutley, she's falled in love too.”

”Indeed?”

”Yes, with wittles. The Count Hur--what's-'is-name, who's always doin'

the purlite when he's not mopin', says it's the mountain hair as is agreein' with her, but I think its the hair-soup. Anyhow she's more friendly with her wittles here than she ever was in England. After comin' in from that excursion where them two stout fellers carried her up the mountains, an' all but capsized her and themselves, incloodin'

the chair, down a precipice, while pa.s.sin' a string o' mules on a track no broader than the brim of Mister Slingsby's wide-awake, she took to her wittles with a sort of lovin' awidity that an't describable. The way she shovelled in the soup, an' stowed away the mutton chops, an'

pitched into the pease and taters, to say nothing of cauliflower and cutlets, was a caution to the billions. It made my mouth water to look at her, an' my eyes too--only that may have had somethin' to do with the keyhole, for them 'otels of Chamouni are oncommon draughty. Yes,”

continued Gillie, slowly, as if he were musing, ”she's failed in love with wittles, an' it's by no means a misplaced affection. It would be well for the Count if he could fall in the same direction. Did you ever look steadily at the Count, Susan?”

”I can't say I ever did; at least not more so than at other people.

Why?”

”Because, if you ever do look at him steadily, you'll see care a-sittin'

wery heavy on his long yeller face. There's somethin' the matter with that Count, either in 'is head or 'is stummick, I ain't sure which; but, whichever it is, it has descended to his darter, for that gal's face is too anxious by half for such a young and pretty one. I have quite a sympathy, a sort o' feller-feelin', for that Count. He seems to me the wictim of a secret sorrow.”

Susan looked at her small admirer with surprise, and then burst into a hearty laugh.

”You're a queer boy, Gillie.”

To an unsophisticated country girl like Susan Quick, the London street-boy must indeed have seemed a remarkable being. He was not indeed an absolute ”Arab,” being the son of an honest hardworking mother, but being also the son of a drunken, ill-doing father, he had, in the course of an extensive experience of bringing his paternal parent home from gin-palaces and low theatres, imbibed a good deal of the superficial part of the ”waif” character, and, but for the powerful and benign influence of his mother, might have long ago entered the ranks of our criminal population. As it was, he had acquired a knowledge of ”the world” of London--its thoughts, feelings, and manners--which rendered him in Susan's eyes a perfect miracle of intelligence; and she listened to his drolleries and precocious wisdom with open-mouthed admiration.

Of course the urchin was quite aware of this, and plumed himself not a little on his powers of attraction.

”Yes,” continued Gillie, without remarking on Susan's observation that he was a ”queer boy,” for he esteemed that a compliment ”the Count is the only man among 'em who hasn't falled in love with nothink or n.o.body.

But tell me, Susan, is _your_ fair buzzum free from the--the tender-- you know what?”

”Oh! yes,” laughed the maid, ”quite free.”

”Ah!” said Gillie, with a sigh of satisfaction, ”then there's hope for _me_.”

”Of course there is plenty of hope,” said Susan, laughing still more heartily as she looked at the thing in blue and b.u.t.tons which thus addressed her.

”But now, tell me, where are they talking of going to-day?”

”To the Jardang,” replied Gillie. ”It was putt off to please the young ladies t'other day, and now it's putt on to please the Professor. It seems to me that the Professor has got well to wind'ard of 'em all--as the Cappen would say; he can twirl the whole bilin' of 'em round his little finger with his outlandish talk, which I believe is more than half nonsense. Hows'ever, he's goin' to take 'em all to the Jardang, to lunch there, an' make some more obserwations and measurements of the ice. Why he takes so much trouble about sitch a trifle, beats _my_ understandin'. If the ice is six feet, or six hundred feet thick, what then? If it moves, or if it don't move, wot's the odds, so long as yer 'appy? If it _won't_ move, w'y don't they send for a company of London bobbies and make 'em tell it to `move on,' it couldn't refuse, you know, for nothin' can resist that. Hows'ever, they are all goin' to foller the lead of the Professor again to-day--them that was with 'em last time--not the Count though, for I heard him say (much to the distress apperiently of his darter) that he was goin' on business to Marteeny, over the Tait Nwar, though what that is _I_ don't know--a mountain, I suppose. They're all keen for goin' _over_ things in this country, an'

some of 'em goes _under_ altogether in the doin' of it. If I ain't mistaken, that pleasant fate awaits Lord what's-'is-name an' Mr Lumbard, for I heard the Cappen sayin', just afore I come to see you, that he was goin' to take his Lords.h.i.+p to the main truck of Mount Blang by way of the signal halliards, in preference to the regular road.”

”Are the young ladies going?” asked Susan.

”Of course they are, from w'ich it follers that Mr Lewis an' the mad artist are goin' too.”