I have asked her, and she has
refused me. And she has been watching you up and down the Aiguille the
whole day with a telescope. When she saw you had fallen, she rushed out
like one distracted, and came to tell me at the school in the village. It is no use, you have beaten me." "M. Claude," I said, "I will plead for you. I have done you wrong, and I
ask your forgiveness." "I owe you no ill-will," he replied, in his honest, straightforward,
Swiss manner. "It is not your fault if you too have fallen in love with
her. How could any man help it? Living in the same house with her, too! Allons," he went on in French, resuming his alternative tongue (for he
spoke both equally), "we must get on quick and send for the doctor from
Glion to see you." By the time we reached the farmhouse, I had satisfied myself that there
was nothing very serious the matter with me after all. The soft snow had
broken the force of the concussion. I had strained my spine a good deal,
and hurt the tendons of the thighs and back, but had not broken any
bones, nor injured any vital organ. So when they laid me on the
old-fashioned sofa in my little sitting-room, lighted a fire in the wide
hearth, and covered me over with a few rugs, I felt comparatively happy
and comfortable under the circumstances. The doctor was sent for in hot
haste; but on his arrival, he confirmed my own view of the case, and
declared I only needed rest and quiet and a little arnica. I was rather distressed, however, when madame came up to see me an hour
later, and assured me that she and monsieur thought I ought to be moved
down as soon as possible into more comfortable apartments at Lausanne,
where I could secure better attendance. I saw in a moment what that
meant: they wanted to get me away from Isaline. "There are no more
comfortable quarters in all Switzerland, I am sure, madame," I said: but
madame was inflexible. There was an English doctor at Lausanne, and to
Lausanne accordingly I must go. Evidently, it had just begun to strike
those two good simple people that Isaline and I could just conceivably
manage to fall in love with one another. Might I ask for Mademoiselle Isaline to bring me up a cup of tea? Yes,
Isaline would bring it in a minute. And when she came in, those usually
laughing black eyes obviously red with crying, I felt my heart sink
within me when I thought of my promise to M. Claude; while I began to be
vaguely conscious that I was really and truly very much in love with
pretty little Isaline on my own account. She laid the tray on the small table by the sofa, and was going to leave
the room immediately. "Mademoiselle Isaline," I said, trying to raise
myself, and falling back again in pain, "won't you sit with me a little
while? I want to talk with you." "My mamma said I must come away at once," Isaline replied demurely. "She
is without doubt busy and wants my aid." And she turned to go towards
the door. "Oh, do come back, mademoiselle," I cried, raising myself again, and
giving myself, oh, such a wrench in the spine: "don't you see how much
it hurts me to sit up?" She turned back, indecisively, and sat down in the big chair just beyond
the table, handing me the cup, and helping me to cream and sugar. I
plunged at once _in medias res_. "You have been crying, mademoiselle," I said, "and I think I can guess
the reason. M. Claude has told me something about it. He has asked you
for your hand, and you have refused him. Is it not so?" This was a
little bit of hypocrisy on my part, I confess, for I knew what she had
been crying about perfectly: but I wished to be loyal to M. Claude. Isaline blushed and laughed. "I do not cry for M. Claude," she said. "I
may have other matters of my own to cry about. But M. Claude is very
free with his confidences, if he tells such things to a stranger." "Listen to me, Mademoiselle Isaline," I said. "Your father and mother
have asked me to leave here to-morrow and go down to Lausanne. I shall
probably never see you again. But before I go, I want to plead with you
for M. Claude. He has saved my life, and I owe him much gratitude. He
loves you; he is a brave man, a good man, a true and earnest man; why
will you not marry him? I feel sure he is a noble fellow, and he will
make you a tender husband. Will you not think better of your decision? I
cannot bear to leave Les Pentes till I know that you have made him
happy." "Truly?" "Truly." "And you go away to-morrow?" "Yes, to-morrow." "Oh, monsieur!" There isn't much in those two words; but they may be pronounced with a
good deal of difference in the intonation; and Isaline's intonation did
not leave one in much doubt as to how she used them. Her eyes filled
again with tears, and she half started up to go. Ingrate and wretch that
I was, forgetful of my promise to M. Claude, my eyes filled
responsively, and I jumped to catch her and keep her from going, of
course at the expense of another dreadful wrench to my poor back. "Isaline," I cried, unconsciously dropping the mademoiselle, and letting
her see my brimming eyelids far too obviously, "Isaline, do wait awhile,
I implore you, I beseech you! I have something to say to you." She seated herself once more in the big chair. "Well, mon pauvre
monsieur," she cried, "what is it?" "Isaline," I began, trying it over again; "why won't you marry M. Claude?" "Oh, that again. Well," answered Isaline boldly, "because I do not love
him, and I love somebody else. You should not ask a young lady about
these matters. In Switzerland, we do not think it _comme il faut_." "But," I went on, "why do you not love M. Claude? He has every good
quality, and----"

"Every good quality, and--he bores me," answered Isaline. "Monsieur,"
she went on archly, "you were asking me the other day what books I had
read in English. Well, I have read Longfellow. Do you remember Miles
Standish?" I saw what she was driving at, and laughed in spite of myself. "Yes," I
said, "I know what you mean. When John Alden is pleading with Priscilla
on behalf of Miles Standish, Priscilla cuts him short by saying----"

Isaline finished the quotation herself in her own pretty clipped
English, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" I laughed. She laughed. We both looked at one another; and the next
thing I remember was that I had drawn down Isaline's plump little face
close to mine, and was kissing it vigorously, in spite of an acute
darting pain at each kiss all along my spine and into my marrow-bones. Poor M. Claude was utterly forgotten. In twenty minutes I had explained my whole position to Isaline: and in
twenty minutes more, I had monsieur and madame up to explain it all to
them in their turn. Monsieur listened carefully while I told him that I
was an English advocate in no practice to speak of; that I had a few
hundreds a year of my own, partly dependent upon my mother; that I had
thoughts of settling down permanently in Switzerland; and that Isaline
was willing, with her parents' consent, to share my modest competence.