In which Gillie is Sagacious, an Excursion is undertaken, Wondrous Sights are seen, and Avalanches of more kinds than one are encountered.

“Susan,” said Gillie, one morning, entering the private apartment of Mrs Stoutley’s maid with the confidence of a privileged friend, flinging himself languidly into a chair and stretching out his little legs with the air of a rather used-up, though by no means discontented, man, “Susan, this is a coorious world—wery coorious—the most coorious I may say that I ever come across.”

“I won’t speak a word to you, Gillie,” said Susan, firmly, “unless you throw that cigar out of the window.”

“Ah, Susan, you would not rob me of my mornin’ weed, would you?” remonstrated Gillie, puffing a long cloud of smoke from his lips as he took from between them the end of a cigar that had been thrown away by some one the night before.

“Yes, I would, child, you are too young to smoke.”

“Child!” repeated Gillie, in a tone of reproach, “too young! Why, Susan, there’s only two years between you an’ me—that ain’t much, you know, at our time of life.”

“Well, what then? I don’t smoke,” said Susan.

“True,” returned Gillie, with an approving nod, “and, to say truth, I’m pleased to find that you don’t. It’s a nasty habit in women.”

“It’s an equally nasty habit in boys. Now, do as I bid you directly.”

“When a man is told by the girl he loves to do anythink, he is bound to do it—even if it wor the sheddin’ of his blood. Susan, your word is law.”

He turned and tossed the cigar-end out of the window. Susan laughingly stooped, kissed the urchin’s forehead, and called him a good boy.

“Now,” said she, “what do you mean by sayin’ that this is a curious world? Do you refer to this part of it, or to the whole of it?”

“Well, for the matter of that,” replied Gillie, crossing his legs, and folding his hands over his knee, as he looked gravely up in Susan’s pretty face, “I means the whole of it, this part included, and the people in it likewise. Don’t suppose that I go for to exclude myself. We’re all coorious, every one on us.”

“What! me too?”

“You? w’y, you are the cooriousest of us all, Susan, seeing that you’re only a lady’s-maid when you’re pretty enough to have been a lady—a dutchess, in fact, or somethin’ o’ that sort.”

“You are an impudent little thing,” retorted Susan, with a laugh; “but tell me, what do you find so curious about the people up-stairs?”

“Why, for one thing, they seem all to have falled in love.”

“That’s not very curious is it?” said Susan, quietly; “it’s common enough, anyhow.”

“Ah, some kinds of it, yes,” returned Gillie, with the air of a philosopher, “but at Chamouni the disease appears to have become viroolent an’ pecoolier. There’s the Capp’n, he’s falled in love wi’ the Professor, an’ it seems to me that the attachment is mootooal. Then Mister Lewis has falled in love with Madmysell Nita Hooray-tskie (that’s a sneezer, ain’t it), an’ the mad artist, as Mister Lewis call him, has falled in love with her too, poor feller, an’ Miss Nita has falled in love with Miss Emma, an Miss Emma, besides reciprocatin’ that passion, has falled in love with the flowers and the scenery—gone in for it wholesale, so to speak—and Dr Lawrence, he seems to have falled in love with everybody all round; anyhow everybody has falled in love with him, for he’s continually goin’ about doin’ little good turns wherever he gits the chance, without seemin’ to intend it, or shovin’ hisself to the front. In fact I do think he don’t intend it, but only can’t help it; just the way he used to be to my old mother and the rest of us in Grubb’s Court. And I say, Susan,” here Gillie looked very mysterious, and dropped his voice to a whisper, “Miss Emma has falled in love with him.”

“Nonsense, child! how is it possible that you can tell that?” said Susan.

The boy nodded his head with a look of preternatural wisdom, and put his forefinger to the side of his nose.

“Ah,” said he, “yes, I can’t explain how it is that I knows it, but I do know it. Bless you, Susan, I can see through a four-inch plank in thick weather without the aid of a gimlet hole. You may believe it or not, but I know that Miss Emma has falled in love with Dr Lawrence, but whether Dr Lawrence has failed in love with Miss Emma is more than I can tell. That plank is at least a six-inch one, an’ too much for my wision. But have a care, Susan, don’t mention wot I’ve said to a single soul—livin’ or dead. Miss Emma is a modest young woman, she is, an’ would rather eat her fingers off, rings and all, than let her feelin’s be known. I see that ’cause she fights shy o’ Dr Lawrence, rather too shy of ’im, I fear, for secrecy. Why he doesn’t make up to her is a puzzle that I don’t understand, for she’d make a good wife, would Miss Emma, an’ Dr Lawrence may live to repent of it, if he don’t go in and win.”

Susan looked with mingled surprise and indignation at the precocious little creature who sat before her giving vent to his opinions as coolly as if he were a middle-aged man. After contemplating him for a few moments in silence, she expressed her belief that he was a conceited little imp, to venture to speak of his young mistress in that way.

“I wouldn’t do it to any one but yourself, Susan,” he said, in no wise abashed, “an’ I hope you appreciate my confidence.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense, child, but go on with what you were speaking about,” rejoined Susan, with a smile, to conceal which she bent down her head as she plied her needle briskly on one of Emma’s mountain-torn dresses.

“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 snob—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 passin’ 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 Lordship 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 Glassyer 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 cocked 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 passin’ 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 nobody. 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 buttons 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 Lordship 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.”

“And Mrs Stoutley?” asked Susan.

“No; it’s much too far and difficult for her.”

“Gillie, Gillie!” shouted a stentorian voice at this point in the conversation.

“Ay, ay, Cappen,” yelled Gillie, in reply. Rising and thrusting his hands into his pockets, he sauntered leisurely from the room, recommending the Captain, in an undertone, to save his wind for the mountainside.

Not long afterwards, the same parties that had accompanied the Professor to the Montanvert were toiling up the Mer de Glace, at a considerable distance above the scene of their former exploits, on their way to the Jardin.

The day was all that could be desired. There were a few clouds, but these were light and feathery; clear blue predominated all over the sky. Over the masses of the Jorasses and the peaks of the Géant, the Aiguille du Dru, the slopes of Mont Mallet, the pinnacles of Charmoz, and the rounded white summit of Mont Blanc—everywhere—the heavens were serene and beautiful.

The Jardin, towards which they ascended, lies like an island in the midst of the Glacier du Talèfre. It is a favourite expedition of travellers, being a verdant gem on a field of white—a true oasis in the desert of ice and snow—and within a five hours’ walk of Chamouni.

Their route lay partly on the moraines and partly over the surface of the glacier. On their previous visit to the Mer de Glace, those of the party to whom the sight was new imagined that they had seen all the wonders of the glacier world. They were soon undeceived. While at the Montanvert on their first excursion, they could turn their eyes from the sea of ice to the tree-clad slopes behind them, and at the Chapeau could gaze on a splendid stretch of the Vale of Chamouni to refresh their eyes when wearied with the rugged cataract of the Glacier des Bois; but as they advanced slowly up into the icy solitudes, all traces of the softer world were lost to view. Only ice and snow lay around them. Ice under foot, ice on the cliffs, ice in the mountain valleys, ice in the higher gorges, and snow on the summits,—except where these latter were so sharp and steep that snow could not find a lodgment. There was nothing in all the field of vision to remind them of the vegetable world from which they had passed as if by magic. As Lewis remarked, they seemed to have been suddenly transported to within the Arctic circle, and got lost among the ice-mountains of Spitzbergen or Nova Zembla.

“It is magnificent!” exclaimed Nita Horetzki with enthusiasm, as she paused on the summit of ............