CHAPTER XXXIV.

‘SENS LOVE HATH BROUGHT US TO THIS PITEOUS END.’

FROM THE REV. JULIAN TEMPLE TO MISS AYLMER.

‘Schaffhausen, September 11th, 187—.

‘MY DEAR FLORA,

‘You ask me for a detailed account of the melancholy accident on the Matterhorn, of which I had the misfortune to be an eye-witness, and the memory of which will haunt me for years to come—yes, even in that blessed time when I shall be quietly settled down in domestic life with my dear girl, and must needs have a thousand reasons for being completely happy.

‘I kept you so well posted in my movements, until the occurrence of this unhappy event made it painful to me to write about our Alpine experiences, that you no doubt remember how Trevor and I, after our successful attempt upon the Finsteraarhorn, made our way quietly down to Zermatt, by way of Thun and Vispach. Never shall I forget the calm delight of the last day’s walk between Vispach and Zermatt. The distance is only thirty miles, we were in high spirits and in excellent condition for the tramp, and we had a cart for our mountaineering gear, and our knapsacks, so were able to take things easily.

‘We started at six o’clock, breakfasted at St. Nicolas, and reached Zermatt early in the evening. Our road—a mule-path for the greater part of the way—led us through scenes of infinite variety, and opened to us views of surpassing grandeur and beauty. Amidst all the wildness of a mountainous landscape we were struck with the profusion of flowers which gave life and colour to the foreground, and the wild fruits which rivalled the flowers in their vivid beauty; beds of Alpine strawberries, thickets of raspberries and barberries, bordered the path, and every village we entered lay sheltered amidst patriarchal walnut or chestnut trees.

‘How can I describe to you the glory of the Matterhorn, as that mighty monolith reveals itself for the first time to the eve of the traveller?—an obelisk of dazzling whiteness cleaving the blue sky, blanking out earth and heaven with its gigantic form, the one mountain-peak which reigns supreme in a kingly solitude, not lifting his proud head from a group of brother peaks, not buttressed by inferior hills, but solitary as the Prince of Darkness, a being apart and alone. Mont Blanc overawes by massive grandeur, but I should choose the Matterhorn for the monarch of mountains.

‘The sun was setting as we crossed the Visp for the last time before entering Zermatt. Trevor and I had been in the gayest spirits throughout our journey. We had rested two hours at St. Nicolas, and had taken a leisurely luncheon at Randa. We were full of talk about the day after to-morrow, which date we had chosen for our attempt on the Matterhorn, thinking it wise to give ourselves a day’s rest, or at least partial rest, after our thirty miles’ walk, and to leave time for engaging guides and making all necessary preparations in a leisurely manner.

‘Trevor was a stranger to the district, but he had done much good work on Mont Blanc, and he had behaved so well on the Finsteraarhorn that I had no doubt of his mettle. I had familiarised myself with the Monte Rosa group three years before, and I knew the Zermatt guides and their ways and manners. We interviewed some of these gentry after our dinner, and I picked two of the sturdiest and trustiest, made my bargain with them, and told them to examine our ropes and other gear carefully by daylight next morning.

‘We had a pleasant evening, sauntering about the quiet little town in the light of a glorious full moon, smoking our cigars, talking of our future prospects, of the Church, and of you. Yes, dear love, Trevor is just one of those faithful souls with whom a man can talk about his sweetheart.

‘Next morning we breakfasted at daybreak and started luxuriously on a brace of mules for the Riffelberg, to reconnoitre our mountain. How grand and beautiful was the circle of snow-clad peaks which we beheld from that dark hillside: Monte Rosa on the south-east, on the south-west the Matterhorn, on the east, the Cima de Jassi, to the west the Dent Blanche, to the north-eastward the Dom, and westward the Weisshorn—gigantic crags and domes and solitary peaks, all bathed in sunshine, and as dazzling in their glorified whiteness as the sun himself! We spent some hours in quiet contemplation of that sublime and awful scene gazing at that circle of Titanic peaks, which had a sphinx-like and mysterious air as they looked back at us in their dumb unapproachable majesty.

‘“Is it not a kind of blasphemy to pollute them with our footsteps, to be always trying to get nearer and nearer to them, into Nature’s Holy of Holies?”’ I asked, carried away by the grandeur of the scene.

‘But Trevor’s manner of look at the question was practical rather than imaginative.

‘“I shouldn’t like to go back without having done the Matterhorn,” he said, “though the terrible accident a few years ago makes one inclined to be cautious.”

‘We had a rough-and-ready luncheon on the Rothe Kumm, and took our time about the descent. It was nearly dark when we got back to Zermatt. The _table-d’hôte_ dinner was over, and we dined together at a small table in a corner of the coffee-room, a table near a window, that stood open to a verandah. As we took our seats we noticed that there was a gentleman sitting smoking a little way from the window. I sat facing him, and as we began dinner he asked politely whether his cigar annoyed us. This broke the ice, and he began to talk of our intended ascent, which he had heard of from the guides.

‘“I should very much like to join you,” he said. “We could take another guide if you think it advisable. I am used to Alpine climbing. I came here on purpose to ascend the Matterhorn, and I shall do it in any case; but it would be pleasant to have congenial company,” he added, with a light laugh.

‘“Pleasant for us as well as for you,” I replied, for there was something particularly winning in his manner; “but you must not consider me impertinent if I say that you hardly seem in strong enough health for mountain climbing. You look as if you had not long recovered from a severe illness.”

‘“Do I?” he asked, in the same light tone; “I was always a sallow individual. No, I have not been ill; and I am sinewy and wiry enough for pretty hard work in the climbing way, though I have no superfluous flesh. I don’t think you’ll find me an encumbrance to you; but if you have any doubt upon the subject you can ask your chief guide, Peter Hirsch, for my character, He and I have done same pretty rapid ascents together in past years.”

‘He handed me his card. “Mr. Goring, Goring Abbey, Warwickshire.”

‘There was nothing of the braggart about him, and I had no doubt as to his Alpine experience, but I could not dispossess myself of the idea that he was in weak health, and out of condition for a fatiguing ascent; for though the approach to the Matterhorn has been made much easier than it was in ’65, when it was ascended for the first time by Mr. Whymper and three other gentlemen, with most lamentable results, it is still a toughish piece of work.

‘I heard a good deal of Mr. Goring later from our landlord; he was well known in the district, and known as an experienced mountaineer. He was a man of large wealth, very generous, very good to the poor. He had been living in Switzerland for the past year, shifting from town to town along the banks of Lake Leman, but never leaving the shores of the lake, until a few weeks ago, when he set out on a walking expedition to Italy. He had stopped at Zermatt on his way southward; had idled away his days in a listless purposeless way; now doing a little climbing, now spending whole days lying about in the woods, with his books and his sketching materials. He kept himself as much aloof from the tourists as it was possible for him to do, occupying his own rooms, and never dining at the _table-d’hôte_; and the landlord was surprised that he should wish to join our party. His story was at once romantic and tragical. He had come to Montreux with the family of the young lady to whom he was engaged. This young lady was accidentally drowned in the lake last summer, and Mr. Goring had never left the scene of her untimely death till he came to Zermatt.

‘I asked the landlord if there was any fear of his mind being affected by this trouble, and he assured me that there was not the slightest ground for such an idea. Mr. Goring kept himself to himself; but he was as rational and as clever a man to talk to as any gentleman the landlord had ever known.

‘This settled the matter. To make assurance doubly sure I engaged a third guide, and a young man to help in carrying tents, ropes, etc., and we set out, a little party of seven, gaily enough, in the early morning. We meant to take things quietly, and to spend the first night in the tent, or in blanket-bags, if the weather were as mild as it promised to be. We carried provisions enough to last for three days, in case the ascent should take even longer than we anticipated. We took sketching materials, a tin box for any botanical or entomological specimens we might collect, and two or three well-worn volumes of poetry which had accompanied us in all our excursions, but had not been largely read. The great and varied book of Nature had generally proved all-sufficient.

‘We left Zermatt soon after five, the Lac Noir between eight and nine, and a little before noon we had chosen our spot for a camping-place, eleven thousand feet high, and the men set to work making a platform for the tent, while we took our ease on the mountain, basking in the sunshine, sketching, collecting a little, and talking a great deal. We found Mr. Goring a delightful companion. He was a man of considerable culture; had travelled much and read much. There was a dash of nineteenth-century cynicism in his talk, and it was but too easy to see that his view of this life and the world beyond it was of that sombre hue which so deeply overshadows modern thought. Still he was a most agreeable companion; and Trevor told me more than once, in a confidential aside, that our new acquaintance was a decided acquisition.

‘In all our conversation, which was perfectly unreserved on all sides, it was noticeable that Mr. Goring talked very little of himself or of his own affairs. He spoke vaguely of an idea of going on to Italy, and wintering at Naples, but rather as an intention he had entertained and abandoned, than as one which he meant to carry out.

‘I ventured to say that I should have thought that, for a man of his culture, Paris or Berlin would have been a pleasanter wintering-place; but he shrugged his shoulders and declared that he detested both these cities, and the society to be found in them. “French charlatanism or German pedantry,” he said, “God knows which is worse.”

‘There was a magnificent sunset. Never shall I forget the awful beauty of the sky and mountains as we watched the decline of that ineffable glory—watched in silence, subdued to gravity by the unspeakable grandeur of that mighty panorama, in the midst of which our own littleness was brought painfully home to our minds.

‘The night was singularly mild, and we preferred sleeping in our blanket-bags to the stuffy atmosphere of a tent.

‘We were up before daybreak next morning, and breakfasted merrily enough by the light of the stars, which were dropping out of the purple sky, like lamps burned out, as the colder light of day crept slowly along the edges of the eastward snow-peaks—such a livid ghastly light. I remember wondering at Mr. Goring’s good spirits, which seemed by no means to accord with the landlord’s account of him. Had there been anything forced or hysterical about his gaiety I should have taken alarm: but nothing could be easier or more natural than his manner; and I was pleased to think that, however deeply he might regret the poor girl whom he had lost by so sad a fate, he had his hours of forgetfulness and tranquillity.

‘We made the ascent slowly but easily, our guides seeing no risk from any quarter; and between one and two o’clock we stood on the top of that peak which of all others had most impressed me by its grand air of solitude and inaccessibility. Throughout the ascent Mr. Goring had shown himself a skilful and experienced mountaineer; and there was no thought further from my mind than the apprehension of hazard to him more than to anyone of us in the descent, or of recklessness on his part.

‘We stayed on the summit a little over an hour, and then prepared ourselves for the descent. There were some difficult bits to be passed in going down, and it was suggested by the most experienced of the guides that we should be all roped together with the stoutest of our Alpine-Club ropes. But this Mr. Goring negatived. “Where there is only one rope, a false step for one means death to all,” he said. “It was that which caused the calamity in Mr. Whymper’s descent; if the rope had not broken there would not have been a man left to tell the story of that fatal day.” At his urgent request we formed ourselves into three parties, each of the guides being roped to one of us. He chose the least experienced of the three men, and he, with this youngest of the guides, went first.

‘“You need not be afraid about me,” he said cheerily. “I am as sure-footed as the best guide in Zermatt.”

‘The two men who were with us assented heartily to this, and my own observation went far to assure me that Mr. Goring’s assertion was no idle boast.

‘Those were the last words I ever heard him speak. We were all intent upon the descent, the guides cutting footsteps now and then in the ice. There was neither inclination nor opportunity for much talk of any kind. Mr. Goring and his companion moved more quickly than we did; and I began to fear, as I saw the two dark figures ever so far below us amidst the dazzling whiteness, that there was a dash of recklessness in him after all.

‘This made me feel uneasy, and I found my attention wandering from my own position, which was not without peril, to those two in advance of us. Suddenly, to my surprise, I saw Goring change places with the guide, who until this moment had been foremost. I saw also in the same instant that the rope which had been hanging somewhat loosely between them a minute or so before—always a source of danger—was now tightly braced. It seemed to me that Goring stood still for a moment or two, looking down the sheer precipice that yawned on one side of him, as if admiring the awful grandeur of the abyss, then I saw a sharp sudden movement of his right arm; there was a cry from the guide, and in the next moment a dark figure slid with a fearful velocity along the smooth whiteness of the frozen snow, and then shot over the edge, and dropped from precipice to precipice to the Matterhorn glacier below, a distance of nearly four thousand feet. How the guide contrived to maintain his footing in that awful moment I know not. He never could have done it had the rope been slack before it broke—or was severed. In those last words lies the saddest part of the story. It is the guide’s opinion, and mine, that the rope was deliberately cut by Mr. Goring. He could scarcely have done this all at once by one movement of his knife; but the guide believes that he had contrived to cut it three parts through, unobserved by him, in the course of the descent. I asked how it came about that he and the guide changed places, and the young man told me that it was at Mr. Goring’s desire, a desire so calmly and naturally expressed that it had occasioned neither wonder nor alarm.

‘His body has not been found, though the people of Zermatt have been diligent in their search. He lies locked in his frozen tomb in some crevasse of the glacier.

‘A very beautiful marble cross has been erected to his memory in the little churchyard at Zermatt. I am told that it exactly resembles one that was placed last year in the churchyard at Montreux, in memory of the young lady who was drowned in the lake near that town.

‘It may interest you to know that Mr. Goring’s will bequeaths the whole of his enormous fortune to the elder sister of this unfortunate lady, the testator being assured that she will make a much more noble use of that fortune than he could ever have done.

‘Those are the words of the legacy.’

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

MISS BRADDON’S NEW NOVEL.

MOUNT ROYAL

Opinions of the Press.

‘“Mount Royal” is a very readable book, and the interest is sustained by the _dénouement_ being left in doubt to the very end of the penultimate chapter.’—_Times._

‘Miss Braddon’s numerous admirers can hardly fail to have been struck by the remarkable advance shown by her most recent novels, not only in point of style, but in the natural delineation of those phases of modern society which no living writer of fiction treats more agreeably or with more sustained power. The most striking instance of this may, perhaps, be found in “Vixen;” and if the present work is not superior to that charming tale—which would involve excellence of an unexceptionally high order—it will, at least, not suffer from comparison with its predecessor. The plot will be preferred by many, as dealing with the more tragic side of life, and with more serious issues; but, granting that such preference must be a matter of taste, all will admit the touch of a master-hand in development of the action and the carefully artistic treatment which renders each of the _dramatis personæ_, estimable or otherwise, a living sentient being, with human idiosyncrasies and distinct personality.... The scene, by the bye, in which this episode occurs is unquestionably one of the finest and most dramatic that even Miss Braddon has ever written, and is only to be surpassed in point of intensity by the two still finer interviews between Leonard and his wife, and the remorseful woman and her intended tool, the adventurer De Cazalet.... We may say, without hesitation, that Miss Braddon has never employed her great talents to better purpose than in “Mount Royal.” It is the worthy work of a thorough artist.’—_Morning Post._

‘Miss Braddon’s ever-active and ever-fascinating pen has just completed a new work of fiction, entitled “Mount Royal.” If it does not appeal as immediately and powerfully to the feelings as “Lady Audley’s Secret,” or “Lucius Davoren,” or some of the gifted authoress’s more recent novels, such as “Vixen,” it is replete with all the freshness and charm which she has taught the public to expect from her, which makes the book one that will attract by its power as well as charm by its style.’—_Daily Telegraph._

‘Miss Braddon has never, in our opinion, written a novel at once more clever and more true than this.’—_Morning Advertiser._

‘The interest is unmistakable, and the way in which this is sustained from first to last proves that its author’s command of the art of storytelling has in no wise diminished.’—_Observer._

‘“Mount Royal” is entitled to rank high among our modern works of fiction.’—_Society._

‘Miss Braddon has maintained in “Mount Royal” the standard of her later period.’—_Athenæum._

‘The story is clearly developed and vigorously written.’—_Pall Mall Gazette._

‘“Mount Royal” will not only be found a pleasant sea-side companion during the coming season, but a friend in need during many a solitary hour in the country. It is not only one of the best ever written by the author of “Lady Audley’s Secret,” but one of the most original likewise.’—_Court Journal._

‘To return for a last word to “Mount Royal,” the more we have of Miss Braddon, and the less of Miss Rhoda Dendron and Weeder, the better, in our opinion, for all novel-readers, old and young.’—_Punch._

‘As a novelist, she is almost without a rival in the art of plot-weaving; so delicate are her meshes, and so subtle her discrimination, that the inherent interest of her books carries us along with her. She is the high priest of a school which, since she inaugurated it, has had many more or less feeble imitators.... Painfully and terribly true to life, and rightly understood, “Mount Royal” is capable of making us appreciate truth and purity more heartily than ever.’—_Evening News._

‘The great body of novel-readers who have for so many years found recreation and delight in the brilliant works of imagination which have come from the pen of Miss Braddon, will need no inducement to turn to a new story by this accomplished authoress.... As is always the case in Miss Braddon’s stories, the characters are powerfully drawn. They are not merely people of whom we read, but seem to enjoy an actual existence during the time that their movements are being followed with such rapt attention. The lives of these inhabitants of the old Cornish manor-house, known as Mount Royal, are not free from the cares and excitement which the world calls sensational, albeit the stronger element is made subordinate to gentler and more subtle influences. Judged relatively to other works, “Mount Royal” must be awarded a place midway between the early impulsiveness of “Lady Audley” and the charming fancy displayed in “Vixen,” the novel in which Miss Braddon’s maturer style reached its highest excellence.... Readers will find in “Mount Royal,” in its pathetic views of life and love, echoes of their own experience that are sure to command absorbing interest. Miss Braddon’s romantic spirit has been in no way quenched; but in this last novel its brighter rays are tempered by experience and the saddening influence of earth’s sorrows and troubles.’—_Daily Chronicle._

‘An interesting and clever story. The excitement and expectation are well sustained throughout; the incidents are original, and the characters are neatly drawn. Miss Braddon has written some delightful pictures of scenery in Cornwall.’—_Sunday Times._

‘That Miss Braddon’s hand has not lost its cunning is evidenced by the excellent work which she has given us in “Mount Royal.” The same skill in construction, the same charm of description as marked her earlier efforts, are all here in this present work, matured and mellowed, it may be, by experience, but not one whit dulled or destroyed by lapse of time. We welcome “Mount Royal.” Miss Braddon has given us a story which, while it adds to her fame as an authoress, increases our indebtedness to her: the healthy tone of “Mount Royal” is not one of its least charms.’—_Pictorial World._

‘For one “who has been long in city pent” the pictures of Cornish scenery, drawn by the free bold hand of the authoress, are delightful; no landscape-painter could produce a more vivid impression.... We anticipate that this powerful tragic story will enhance the high reputation of its authoress.’—_Echo._

‘The situations are worked out with so much skill, and the probability of details is so well managed, that the story can be followed with the keenest interest.’—_St. James’s Gazette._

‘There is much effective writing in the course of the novel, and we must add that the minor characters are individualised with all the accustomed power of the authoress.’—_News of the World._

‘Miss Braddon never disappoints her readers. Whoever takes up “Mount Royal” will be prepared for an interesting story, excellently well told, and that they will get. Her scenes never fall flat, nor does her weapon ever miss fire. The incidents of her stories are always marshalled with very great skill, so as to produce the best effect which is to be got from them. In fewer words, Miss Braddon is, as our readers know without our telling them, a story-teller of consummate ability. To be able to conceive a thrilling plot is one thing; to be able to work it out in a story is another. Miss Braddon has from the beginning shown that she possesses both these gifts. Her fertility in plot-making is nothing short of marvellous; and when we find that her conceptions are always worked out by the aid of characters of flesh and blood, who stand prominently forth from the canvas, and look at you with living eyes, we are lost in wonder at a fancy, a power, so inexhaustible. Scarcely ever is there a trace of any strain, any fatigue. We might say that she appears to be telling a story for the first time, did not the ease and skill displayed in the process betray to the close observer a vast amount of practice added to natural talents of a high order. Her descriptive power and her dramatic instinct are never weakened. She never fails to bring before the reader the objects of persons she is describing. Moreover, she can describe indirectly as well as directly.’—_Lloyd’s Weekly London Newspaper._

‘Many of the descriptions of the scenery of Cornwall are well worth reading; while London fashionable circles are hit off in a vein of satire occasionally, but with a considerable resemblance, we should imagine, to what really takes place. The scene where Christabel meets Psyche in her own dwelling is full of womanly tenderness, and suggests to the poor victim the existence of a world of compassion of which she had never dreamed. The marshalling and management also of the characters as a whole reveal, it must be admitted, the possession of high artistic powers, as well as a wide observation of men and things. Major Broe is drawn to the life. Mrs. Tregonell senior, with her mother’s fondness for the roving Leonard, is also as true to nature as can well be imagined.’—_Liverpool Mercury._

‘Miss Braddon, if not the most industrious of modern novelists, is certainly unrivalled in this respect among those whose works are in great demand at the circulating libraries. Let the reader once become really interested in the fortunes of the lovely, but unhappy, Mrs. Tregonell, and he will not willingly put down the book until the end of the third volume.’—_Manchester Examiner and Times._

‘We have followed the plot out with considerable interest, and no fault is to be found in the novel in the way of dulness.’—_John Bull._

‘The scene in which her new novel is chiefly laid is to the full as enchanting as it is painted by her skilful hand. That there is plenty to interest and something to excite in any book from the pen of Miss Braddon may be taken for granted. The ingenuity of the plot is worthy of the author.’—_London Figaro._

‘A most attractive and interesting novel. The genius of Miss Braddon evolves a number of most ingenious plots, and the reader’s interest is kept engaged through the development of them with absorbing power. Miss Braddon deals with persons and places that are familiar to us, and her descriptions of the scenery of the north coast, of Tintagel, Boscastle, and all the neighboring shores, are photographed with great clearness in beautiful language and with perfect knowledge. Miss Braddon’s works are always interesting, and these volumes will add to her well-established reputation. There are many phases of life described in them which we know exist; but there are few who have the power of placing either the people or their surroundings so completely before us. She hits off admirably the follies and fashions of the hour as they prevail in fashionable life. So great was the demand for Miss Braddon’s new novel, “Mount Royal,” the other day, that the circulating libraries subscribed for the whole of the first edition, and the publisher had to go to press immediately with a new impression.’—_Plymouth Western Daily Mercury._

‘In “Mount Royal” Miss Braddon appears to us not only to have surpassed her own previous performances, numerous and successful as they have been, but even to have distanced all her competitors in that class of literature. We know of no recent novel which we would place before “Mount Royal” in its power of exciting the emotions.’—_Sheffield Post._

‘“Mount Royal” is an addition to the Braddon library that will be heartily welcomed by all who can appreciate a sound, healthy, and thoroughly interesting novel.’—_Belfast News Letter._

‘Taking the novel altogether, “Mount Royal” will compare favourably with any that have preceded it from the same pen. In point of character delineation and skilfulness of construction, its merits are very considerable.’—_Bradford Observer._

‘“Mount Royal” is well written, as all Miss Braddon’s books are. It is bright, and catches with great accuracy the precise tone of the people whose lives are being sketched. A good novel.’—_Scotsman._

‘“Mount Royal” is powerful and artistic—a finished bit of workmanship.’—_Edinburgh Daily Review._

‘We may fairly say of it that it contains many sparkling passages and many happy thoughts. It shows that the writer has an extensive acquaintance with the best English authors, and it shows that she is an adept in word-painting.’—_Sheffield Daily Telegraph._

‘Miss Braddon’s last production is as engrossing, as dramatic, and as fresh as if it were only her second or third. There is not a dull page in the three volumes.’—_Brighton Fashionable Visitors’ List._

‘“Mount Royal” is an exceptionally favorable specimen. The story is told with singular neatness, and grace almost equally unusual in works of this kind. The novel is, without doubt, a good and a bright one, with plenty of incidents and plenty of character.’—_Manchester Courier._

‘The story, as a whole, is extremely interesting. It is emphatically a novel of the present day, and we predict for it an extensive demand.’—_York Herald._

Transcriber’s Notes

pg 49 Changed: Miss Dibb made the acqaintance of a strange man to: Miss Dibb made the acquaintance of a strange man

pg 92 Changed: there is a South Pole, too, isn’t here, dear to: there is a South Pole, too, isn’t there, dear

pg 109 Changed: She folded the soft wollen wrap to: She folded the soft woollen wrap

pg 110 Changed: she was still digging and and scraping to: she was still digging and scraping

pg 112 Changed: the Maltese terrior Fluff in her lap to: the Maltese terrier Fluff in her lap

pg 138 Changed: There was not even a shrubberry to: There was not even a shrubbery

pg 188 Changed: see that this luxurions home-education to: see that this luxurious home-education

pg 220 Changed: and faithful, pious, self-sacricing to: and faithful, pious, self-sacrificing

pg 235 Changed: the perfact outline of the throat to: the perfect outline of the throat

pg 235 Changed: hand that lay inhert upon Fluff to: hand that lay inert upon Fluff

pg 243 Changed: deferred boyond luncheon time to: deferred beyond luncheon time

pg 255 Changed: toboggining at the Falls of Montmorenci to: tobogganing at the Falls of Montmorenci

pg 261 Changed: Daphne had never been beyond Fontainbleau to: Daphne had never been beyond Fontainebleau

pg 270 Changed: surprised if Miss Dapne Lawford to: surprised if Miss Daphne Lawford

pg 282 Changed: furniture, delf, and china to: furniture, delft, and china

pg 302 Changed: It was not a grandoise or thrilling ceremonial to: It was not a grandiose or thrilling ceremonial

pg 321 Changed: That is remakably clever to: That is remarkably clever

pg 372 Changed: to whom she dicoursed freely upon to: to whom she discoursed freely upon