On one fine evening in the month of August, seven years ago, I was depositing my watering-pot in the tool-house, when I observed a gig drive up to the inn; it contained a young lady and a gentleman. According to my usual habit of conjecture, I settled in my own mind that they were husband and wife: bride and bridegroom they could not be, as they were in deep mourning. They seated themselves by an open window till it grew dark, and I saw no more of them that night. In my early watch the next morning, I passed them twice, and changed my opinion respecting them. They were evidently brother and sister: there was a strong resemblance between them, and a slight difference in years—the young man appearing to be about eighteen, his sister one or two and twenty. She was not handsome; but the expression of melancholy on her countenance, and an undefinable air of superiority about her, engaged my attention. The brother was handsome—very handsome. His features were fine, but their expression was finer still. He had taken off his hat, and I had a full view of him. What an intellect did that forehead bespeak! what soul was in those eyes! "Why," thought I, "does she look so melancholy, while leaning on the arm of such a brother?" But a glance at her dress let me into the cause of her sorrow. A father or a mother, or perhaps such another brother, has been taken from her. Whatever the cause of their common grief might be, it seemed only to knit them more closely together; for never did I see a brother and sister so attached. They were inseparable: and during the many days which they spent at the inn, the interest of their conversations never seemed to flag. They were always talking; and always, apparently, with animation and sympathy.
On the fourth day after their arrival, I was sitting at work, at a window which commands a view of the head of the loch, and of the mountains on the opposite side. It was then between four and five in the afternoon; the sun was bright, and the weather as fine as possible. The tide was out, and, as usual, many groups of children were busied in collecting shells and sea-weed. Among them were my two friends (for so I must call them.) They seemed in gayer spirits than I had yet seen them; they picked up a basket-full of shells; they set up a mark by which to watch the receding waters; they entered into conversation with a boatman, and strolled on till they came to the little bridge which spans a rivulet at the head of the loch. I saw them lean over the parapet, to watch the gurgling brook beneath. Then they turned, to survey the high mountains above them; and after awhile, they directed their steps to the base of one of them. I saw them gradually mount the green slope, turning every now and then to gaze at the scene below, until I could but indistinctly discern their figures, amidst the shadows which were beginning to spread over the valley and the lower parts of the mountain. I knew that the mountain which they were ascending was not often tried either by natives or by strangers, for it was boggy and pathless; though tempting to the eye by its verdure, and by a fine pile of rocks, which stood like a crown on the brow of the first grand ascent.
The richest glow of the evening sun was upon the mountain's brow; light crimson clouds were floating, as it seemed to me, just over the head of the youth, as he mounted higher and higher—springing from one point to another. I saw his slight form on the very ridge, though lessened almost to a point by the distance, yet conspicuous by its motion, and by the relief of the glowing sky behind. He disappeared. I looked for his sister: she was still sitting on her sunny seat, while all below was wrapped in a deep grey shadow. I laid down my glass, and resumed my work for awhile. I looked again; she was still there, and alone—but the sun-light was gone! I thought she looked forlorn; and I wished her brother would return to her. Again the sun burst forth on the mountain-top—it had only been obscured by a cloud. I saw the lady start from her seat, and turn round. An eagle had sprung from among the rocks: she was watching its flight—it ascended into the blue sky, and was lost to sight. She sauntered a few steps on one side of her seat, then on the other, and looked around her. "I wish her brother would return to her," thought I again. She shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked up: but vainly! The shadows had crept apace up the mountain side: her seat was no longer sunny, but she sat down again.
I had by this time become, I knew not why, rather nervous: my hand shook so, that I could not fix the glass. I laid it down, and went to take a turn in my garden. I came back presently to the window, and once more turned my glass in the direction of the mountain. The seat was vacant. "They are coming down together, I hope," thought I. "It is high time they should; it is becoming dark and chilly!" But I could not trace them. At length I saw something white fluttering in the breeze. It was so small that I should not have discerned it, if my very power of sight had not been sharpened by the anxiety I began to feel for these young people. By intently gazing—by straining my sight to the uttermost, I made out that the young lady was standing on a point of rock, lower down, and more conspicuous than that on which she had been seated. She had tied her handkerchief to her parasol, and was waving it, no doubt, as a signal to her brother. My heart turned sick, and I could see no more. I looked at my watch, and found that it was nearly three hours since they had begun their ascent. The next consideration was, what I ought to do. If I had been certain that the brother had lost his way, it was, no doubt, my duty to send persons from the inn, to find him. But how did I know that any peril existed, excepting in my own imagination? He might have ascended before, and be perfectly acquainted with the descent; he might be gone in search of some particular view, and have prepared his sister for the length of his absence, as she was too much fatigued to accompany him. In this case, any interference of mine would be impertinent. What should I do? I leaned out of my window, as if in the hope of seeing some object, which should help me to a decision. Such an object was just before me, in the person of an old fisherman, a next-door neighbour, and very honest friend of mine. "Come hither, John," said I; and I stated the case to him. He thought we need not fear any danger. The mountain was not very high; he knew of no dangerous places on it; and was of opinion that there would be light enough to guide their steps half an hour longer. He advised me to leave them alone, for that time at least. I determined to do so, and sat down to my tea-table, on which I had not yet bestowed a thought. I drew it close to the window, and looked as earnestly as ever; but it was now too dark to see anything but the indistinct outlines of the mountains, and the loch gleaming in the twilight. The half-hour passed, and I had not seen them return; they might have returned without my having seen them; but I could not bear uncertainty any longer. I sent my servant to the inn, to inquire if they had arrived, and whether they had ordered tea, or given any expectation as to the time of their retain.
She brought word, that though tea had been ready for an hour past, the lady and gentleman had not returned; and that the landlady would be glad to know whether I could give her any intelligence of them.
"Let me pass!" said I, hastily opening the gate.
"Your bonnet, ma'am! shall I fetch your bonnet?" said my maid.
At that moment some one rushed past me. It was the young lady—running, or attempting to run, but with faltering and unequal steps. I followed her. At the first of the flight of steps before the inn, she stumbled and fell. She was trembling and sobbing violently; whether from breathlessness or agony, I could not tell. I raised her, and assisted her to mount the steps. "My brother! my brother!" she exclaimed incessantly. I could get no words but these from her. No time was to be lost. I sat down beside her, and took both her hands; and speaking as calmly as I could, said, "Compose yourself, and tell us what we must do. Have you missed your brother, or has any accident befallen him before your eyes?"
"He is on the mountain there! He left me, and did not come back. He said he should not be gone twenty minutes."
"Now I know all," replied I. "I will take some people from the inn with lights, and we will find him. You must stay and compose yourself, and be patient; he has only missed his way."