DORIS threw open the little gate and ran in. "Is anything the matter?" she asked. "Can I be any help?"
The girl seized her hands, with an exclamation. "Are you English? Oh, tell me what to do. My husband is so ill. I don't know what to do."
Her face quivered like the face of a terrified child, and she gripped Doris as a drowning person clutches a rope. Doris knew herself instantly to be the more capable, the stronger, of the two.
"Has he been ill long? Tell me—" and she held the little cold hands firmly. "Don't be frightened. Just tell me."
"Only a day or two—poorly—just poorly—only that!—and I didn't think anything of it. He is so well always. And he tried to hide it. He wouldn't wake me all night. I never guessed what he was going through. And this morning he is in such pain—and he looks dreadful. I've never had to do with any illnesses. I've never nursed anybody. And I can't talk French—and I've no one to ask—only a girl from another part. She doesn't know."
"He must see a doctor."
"But there's no doctor in the village."
"Then you must send to Bex."
"Will you—will you help me? I don't know how to manage. It's all so strange—and he has done everything."
"I'll find out about doctors for you, and which is the quickest way. There's an Englishman at our hotel—if only I can catch him before he goes out! He is so kind, I am sure he would help. If not, Mademoiselle will advise me. But Mr. Maurice would be best."
"Maurice!" The name arrested her. "A friend of ours—a Mr. Maurice—was coming out to Switzerland soon."
"This is a Mr. R. R. Maurice—spelt M-a-u—"
"Dick Maurice!" She clasped her hands again. "Oh, if he is here—!"
"He was going for a long walk. I'll do my best to stop him."
"Will you? Oh, will you? How kind. If only it is our Dick Maurice! He is a young surgeon—just starting practice—so kind and clever. Please tell him it is Arthur and Amy Ramsay."
"I'll be sure—if only I can catch him. Anyhow, I'll let you know quickly. Keep up heart meanwhile—don't be frightened. People are often not so bad as they seem."
Five minutes brought her to the hotel; and she learnt that Maurice had just started.
No thought of Mrs. Brutt might stand in the way. She knew the direction he had meant to take; and her only chance of overtaking him lay in instant action. At her best speed she set off; and on quitting the village she caught sight of a masculine figure, slim and active, not to be mistaken, some distance ahead. Already he had left the road, and was mounting the steep hillside. One glance made clear that there was no one within reach whom she could send in chase. She could not risk letting him get out of sight, while she turned elsewhere to find a man.
All depended upon her; and she braced herself for the chase. He did not appear to be going at any great pace; but he was well in advance; and though she was both strong and vigorous, an upward rush soon brought her to a breathless condition. She had to pause, gasping, and to go more leisurely.
Despite her utmost efforts, the space between them gradually widened. Then he vanished behind some bushes; and when again he came within view, he had taken another turn up a yet more acute slope, still at the same long easy stride, which cleared the ground faster than it seemed to do.
Now he was on a steep zigzag, winding to and fro; and this brought new hope. A faint indication of a path led straight upward, ignoring the bends; a path of rough shale, broken and jagged. If she could mount thus, direct, she might intercept him as he, in more deliberate fashion, followed the bends. Spurred by the recollection of that distressed girl-face, she made the attempt.
No easy matter, as she soon found. The path, meant for use in coming down only, grew worse and worse, more stony, more difficult. The loose shale yielded beneath her tread; and for each step in advance, she felt as if she slid two steps downward. Yet advance she did, though with heart-breaking slowness.
If breath would but hold out! She was gaining upon Maurice; and she had healthy lungs; but this was severe work. Her heart was beating like a drum; and as she struggled on, she panted painfully. A call now might stop him; but no voice was left. She could only gasp.
Just when she had reached the stage, at which giving in had become inevitable, he stopped short, and turned. She waved her handkerchief violently. He waved his, and started at a run, descending by the steeper path. Rapid as were his movements, she was recovering herself before he arrived.
"You want me—!" with surprise, which changed into concern, as he saw her flushed and breathless state.
"I promised—to catch you—if I could!" She laughed at herself for having still to gasp between the words. "I'm—all right. It's only—" and she hurriedly explained what was wrong.
"Yes—they are my friends. I had no idea they were coming here. Thanks for calling me. You have had hard work."
"Oh, I didn't mind—only the stones were so horrid, sliding away under my feet. I thought I should never get up with you."
"You didn't attempt the short cut!"
"I fancied it would save time. Did it?"
"Doubtful. But you must be a good climber to do it at all."
She was delighted, but said: "Ought we not to be off?"
"Are you rested enough?"
"I'm all right. And that poor girl does so want you."
"Try this way."
He turned to a different path, shorter and steeper than that by which they had come. It meant a descent which Doris could not have tackled alone, with nailless shoes. He went first; and two or three times his hand caught hers; yet most of it she did unaided; and again he spoke in praise of her sure-footedness.
"Climbing always seems to come naturally to me," she said. "If only, only, some day I could go up a real mountain! I want that desperately— I can't tell you how much! And I don't see the very least chance of such a thing. Oh dear,—I wish with all my heart there were."
"Perhaps something might be arranged while you are here. We must see. I'll think about it."
Her deep-set eyes sent him a swift grateful glance, which stirred his blood. She was a pretty girl.
"Oh, it would be most frightfully nice!" was all she said.
"I'll see!" he repeated.
Then he spoke of these friends of his; the husband a college chum, "an awfully decent chap,"—the young wife, barely eighteen, and married three months earlier, whom he had known for years.
Doris would have liked to go with him to the châlet, and to see if she might be of use there. But she felt that the neglected Mrs. Brutt claimed first attention; and he promised to let her know if help were needed.
On reaching Mrs. Brutt's room, she was greeted with a gale which took her breath away, almost as the steep hillside had done. By this time she had learnt to know the agreeable widow as a confirmed grumbler; but till the present hour she had not seen her in a passion. It was not a pleasant sight.
Breakfast had not been carried up till a full hour after Doris's departure; and for that she had to bear full blame, though it was not her fault. Mrs. Brutt had been "quite ill" in consequence, and alone all the morning,—an additional grievance. Doris was a most selfish, thoughtless, unkind girl! So ungrateful!—considering all that she owed to the speaker. Mrs. Brutt would not have believed it of her. But one knew nothing of people till one travelled with them,—a statement which Doris could have endorsed.
She tried to explain, but in vain. The more she tried, the more Mrs. Brutt enlarged on her wrongs. Somehow, all this did not sting like home-worries; perhaps because Doris's mind was full of new interests. She kept her temper, and at length said—
"If you are ill why not see a doctor?"
"So unkind!—when you know there is no doctor to be had in this wretched place!" moaned Mrs. Brutt, by this time reduced to the abject stage. "But I might die, for all you would care."
Doris let this pass, and remarked that there was a doctor—an English one to boot—in that very hotel. The news proved reviving. Mrs. Brutt loved nothing better than to be medically discussed and liberally dosed; and her spirits at once improved.
So when Maurice came in, he found another patient awaiting him; not always a welcome event on a man's holiday. But since she belonged to Doris, he had not the smallest objection. To the latter he confided that he had left Ramsay very ill, and that he feared an operation might prove needful. He would spend the night at the châlet. No, he could not make his intended ascent next day.
"But how awfully disappointing for you!"
He smiled at that.
"Oh, it's all right," he said cheerfully.
"You'll go another day instead?"
"I hope so." He then explained that, in the nick of time, a brother-in-law of Ramsay's had telegraphed to say that he and his wife were coming immediately to join them. Nothing could be better. The wife was an experienced nurse; the husband was a first-rate climber, a member of the Alpine Club. "Their coming will make it quite easy, I hope, to manage our little expedition," he added. "Pressford is equal to any guide. We'll take you somewhere between us, sooner or later."
"Will you—really—?" in a tone of rapture.
"I'll do my very best to bring it about—I promise you."
After which he spent a full half-hour, listening to the catalogue of Mrs. Brutt's symptoms, which were of such abounding interest for herself, that she could not imagine their having less interest for other people. He could have prescribed for her in five minutes, with ease; but then he would have failed to win her confidence.
She recognised in him the "sinister" individual of Bex; but she promptly dropped that adjective, and substituted "delightful." He was really such a clever young fellow!—so observant!—so thoughtful!— so sympathetic! Such penetration! He had read her whole constitution at a glance-positively at one glance. Mrs. Brutt prided herself on the abnormal complexity of her make, transcending the complexities of less distinguished beings; and she felt that never before had it been so truly perused.
Perhaps this came near the mark. Maurice had penetrating eyes, and he read her in more ways than one. If he took particular pains to ingratiate himself with the widow, it was hardly for her own sake.
"YES, we think you can do it." Maurice spoke aloud, scanning the girl with thoughtful eyes. "Pressford is sure. You are a born climber. But you must make up your mind to obey orders implicitly." He spoke in a tone of half apology, having found in her by this time an impulsive tendency to insist on her own way. Her face glowed.
"I'll be sure. Oh, I promise—anything you like. If only I may go! Is the Glückhorn a good height?"
"About twelve thousand feet. It's a peak of medium difficulty; not beyond a beginner of your calibre. Pressford has never been up it; but he has made full inquiries. There's only one really stiff bit; and we'll have you up that between us. Given a fine day, it will be all right."
Then he went into the question of preparations.
Under the combined skill of Maurice and Mrs. Pressford, Ramsay was by this time on the high road to convalescence. He had narrowly escaped a dangerous operation; but he had escaped it; and Maurice could at last venture on a long day's absence.
Mrs. Brutt offered no objections to the proposed ascent. She was completely captured by the young surgeon's attentions to herself; and she nursed the agreeable delusion that his kindness to Doris was solely on her account. She flattered herself that he found her as "delightful" as she found him.
Really, she repeatedly said, he had done so much for her!—it was quite amazing!—she began to feel like a different being. She almost believed that she might herself climb one of the mountains. Well, not the Glückhorn, exactly, but another, just a trifle easier. She could assure Mr. Maurice that she had been in the past a capital climber, quite light-footed—in fact, gazelle-like. And with Mr. Maurice's help—
Maurice listened with praiseworthy patience; but he did not encourage the notion of gazelle-like friskiness in perilous places. A timely reference to the beloved topic of her varying temperature turned the conversation into a safer channel.
During Ramsay's illness and Mrs. Brutt's little indisposition, Doris had seen a great deal of Maurice. In one way and another he was perpetually turning up. She went often to the châlet to cheer the young wife; and he was frequently there. Also at meals he was her vis-à-vis. She and he with Mr. Pressford had already taken several long scrambles, inclusive of rock-climbing, severe enough to test her powers; and results had convinced them both that she might safely undertake the "real ascent" for which she craved.
By this time Doris had left off analysing her own sensations; the state of her mind being too simple to need dissection. She thought no more of Hamilton; but she thought a great deal of Dick Maurice. When with him, she wanted nothing else. When not with him, she was looking forward to their next meeting. The present was enough; and she shut her eyes to possible complications. Each day brought its own delights.
Mr. Pressford's coming had made developments easy. He was a strong wiry man, about forty in age; brusque in manner, taciturn in speech, and a passionate devotee of Alpine climbing. Always ready to take the lead, he would march steadily ahead, oblivious of or indifferent to the fact that his two companions had a trick of dropping behind, just out of ear-shot. If the "going" were difficult, he would be at once on the alert; though between Maurice's care and the girl's own sure-footedness, his help was seldom needed. At other times he preferred solitude, and liked nothing better than to be let alone.
All of which meant that Maurice and Doris were thrown more and more together; and neither wished things to be otherwise.
The first real mountain expedition was now to come off; and Doris was ready for it, down to the possession of an ice-axe, chosen under Maurice's supervision. All the day before she went about in a state of suppressed rapture, with glowing eyes and a perpetual breaking out of smiles.
Since they had to rise soon after midnight, it was needful to go to bed directly after table d'hôte; and her head was on the pillow by eight. But sleep was another matter.
Every pulse was beating with joyous expectation; and blissful visions floated before her mind's eyes in an endless diorama. She never consciously "lost herself;" yet when the awakening rap at her door came, there was first a bewildered wonder what it could mean, and then a sense of being sharply recalled from a distance. She felt sure, doubtless wrongly, that she had that instant dropped off.
No matter how brief one's rest may be, getting up is as different from going to bed as sunrise is from sunset. The glamour had departed; and dressing in midnight gloom has a depressing effect, of which even Doris was conscious. She donned by candlelight her very short serge skirt, flannel blouse, Norfolk jacket, and strong nail-studded boots. Then proudly carrying her ice-axe, she went down to breakfast.
Both men were already there; wearing their rough tweed coats, with voluminous pockets inside and out, and their putties; while their heavily-nailed and well-greased boots waited to be drawn on the moment breakfast should be over. More than a hundred feet of rope lay coiled, ready for shouldering; and a couple of ice-axes leant against the wall. Maurice, who, as the less experienced climber, would play the part of porter, was in the act of tying up his ruck-sack, stored with provisions.
Doris's spirits were fast rising; and she was surprised to find, not only the ever-taciturn Pressford, but also Maurice, in a silent mood. The latter surveyed her carefully, and knelt to examine the lacing of her boots. But he had no light chatter at command, and breakfast was eaten in sombre silence. She wondered—was this a part of the programme? Wisely, she fell in with their mental conditions.
By half-past two they were off. Pressford, lantern in hand, took the lead, walking after his usual habit slightly in advance and apart, even when there was no need. Doris in her eagerness would have hurried ahead, not heeding one or two stumbles; but she was at once checked.
"You must husband your powers," Maurice said. "Steady, please. Pressford will set the pace."
She realised the wisdom of this later, when she found how she could keep on hour after hour at a swinging stride, with no tendency to flag.
For some distance they followed the main road; and then came an easy rise by pathway, till they gained an upland, and by-and-by entered a pine-forest, where reigned pitchy darkness. When after a considerable time they emerged, it was upon a stony alp. Darkness made their footing here far from easy, since they had left all vestige of a path behind; and starlight gleams seconded but feebly the glimmer of their lantern.
Not far from three hours after quitting the hotel, they reached the first belt of rocks. Here a pause was made for their first mountain breakfast,—that movable feast which goes on at intervals of two hours, until, on the way home, the climbers have "breakfast at afternoon tea."
It was, as it always has to be, a light meal; consisting this time of bread and potted meat. Maurice found a comfortable seat for Doris, supplied her wants, and placed himself near. A few remarks passed; and with a gesture of his hand towards the east he said: "See! Dawn is coming."
A bank of cloud lay low, and between it and the horizon, a pale grey glimmer had begun. As they gazed, a pink hue crept into the grey;—dim, indeterminate, a mere suggestion of what would follow. Yet in that tender gleam lived hope "sure and certain" of high noontide. They had to wait for it; but it would come!
Pressford stood up, a sign that they were to do the same. The rocky belt which had now to be surmounted meant a good two hours of work, difficult ax first in the morning twilight, though each minute made a difference with the growth of light. Doris had to pay careful attention to her steps; and Maurice, close behind, gave an occasional hint, when needed.
A halt again was ordered, that they might watch the coming sunrise.
It was Doris's first view of their widened horizon. She stood on a ledge; Maurice one step lower; Pressford a pace above. The cold was biting. A slight breeze, like liquid ice, crept past; and despite her exertions, she could scarcely feel her fingers.
Beyond the rock-belt, looking downward, they saw the long ascent of grass by which they had come; and lower still the dark pine-forest. Then intersecting valleys, dotted with hay-châlets; and here and there a tiny village, deep in shadow. But far above towered lofty peaks, bearing a hint of rose; and the soft colour grew bright; and the tide of light crept downward, revealing couloir after couloir, fold after fold, upon each mountain-side,—till, from beyond the peak which still hid the approaching monarch of day, streamed on either side slant rays of pure whiteness.
One moment the three were in shadow. Then, with a leap, sunshine burst forth, not white but golden; and the world around was transformed. Doris pulled off her woollen gloves, and held out chilled hands, bathing them in the flood of warmth, laughing with gladness.
"That was worth seeing," Maurice remarked, as their silent leader moved. "Are you getting on all right?"
"It's too lovely for anything," she said with energy. "I never enjoyed myself one-hundredth part as much in all my life."
Two hours of this rock-climbing brought them to the foot of a snow-slope, which formed the "shoulder" of the mountain. Far away upward from where they stood stretched a smooth sheet of sparkling purity.
"Now we shall be above the snow-line," joyously exclaimed Doris. "I've been longing for that, ever since I came to Switzerland."
"Which means—goggles."
"Must we? That beautiful snow! And the goggles will spoil it all so desperately. Must we, really? But of course, if I'm told—"
"I'm afraid it has to be."
Again they paused for a light meal. Pressford decided that roping was advisable, the slope higher up being steep, and Doris's experience small. When they set off, he as usual led; and Maurice, with his ruck-sack, came last. The snow was in good condition, and they made steady advance, though some scraping of steps with Pressford's ice-axe became needful before the end.
An hour of zig-zagging progress up this slope brought them to the final rocks.
THE belt which they had reached was both higher and more formidable than the one already surmounted; a stern and frowning rampart, giving access to the short arête by which they would gain the summit.
Seen from below, it looked like a bare wall of rock, seamed indeed with cracks and chimneys, but little less than perpendicular. Tiny patches of whiteness lay wherever it had been able to find a resting-place. For the greater part, however, the angle was too steep for snow to lie; and, as regarded the question of climbing, in mountain parlance "it would not go." A climber's only hope lay in the narrow snow-lined couloirs streaking it, one of which seemed to offer good promise for foothold and handhold.
It was a more awkward "pitch" than Pressford had expected. And, to make matters worse, the rocks were partially glazed with that terror of mountaineers, the dangerous verglas, a thin veneer of ice. Wherever this delicate coating shone, foothold was impossible.
From their position below a small bergshrund, choked with snow, the two men took an anxious survey of the rocks, which indeed wore a menacing aspect enough, especially for a tyro. Doris stood by in acute suspense; for she realised that one word now might dash all her hopes to the ground. And to give up—to turn back—having advanced so far, would be too dreadful! She read doubt in their faces; and imploring words leaped to her lips. Wisely, she held them back, though her face was eloquent.
Maurice glanced at his companion, and murmured something. Pressford put off immediate decision, by suggesting another meal. The narrow snow-plateau, from which that rocky wall uprose, made an ideal breakfast-table, spread with the purest of snowy cloths.
"I may go on!" Doris breathed, as Maurice came near.
"We'll see—presently." He threw down the rück-sack, emptied of its contents, and offered it to her for a seat. For himself he planted his ice-axe deep in the snow,—a narrow support, which called for careful balancing on his part.
Pressford had unroped and gone off a short distance to reconnoitre; and on his return he beckoned Maurice aside.
"She can do it," he said. "I see how it will 'go.'"
"But the verglas—"
"Only in patches. They can be avoided."
"Shall we start now?" called Doris eagerly.
"Finish the sandwiches first. We shall have no other chance for some time. I'll scramble up a bit, and have one more look. Then—en avant!"
Still free of the rope, he moved some paces away, munching chocolate, and scanning the rocks which frowned grimly above. Maurice came back to his seat by Doris.
They had the world to themselves. Pressford, always aloof and preoccupied, hardly counted.
From their very feet the snow-slope fell away. Behind rose the stern rock-rampart, calling to be climbed. But their eyes were turned to the wide sweep of mountain pastures far below, and downward thence to valleys shepherding cloudlets of morning mist.
Like birds they were perched aloft; away from common life; cut off from human habitations.
To right and left the gaze rested on snow-clad heights, rocky buttresses, sharp needles; all the fantastic wildness of bristling and icy arêtes; of rocky mountain-sides, seamed with gullies; of snowy mountain-sides, broken by outcrops of bare rock; of hanging glaciers, glittering in sunshine. Peak lay beyond peak; snow-field stretched beyond snow-field. To Doris this wonderful tableau brought a sense of joy; not gay delight, but solemn uplifting rapture.
"It's beyond words," she said. "It is—sublime. But that doesn't explain. Words don't seem strong enough."
"There are things that can only be felt, not said."
"I think I meant that. It is the width—the greatness—the immensity! All earth and sky and heaven. Nothing small or puny. Don't you feel as if you didn't want ever to go back to the paltriness of everyday life?"
"Is everyday life paltry?"
"Compared with—" Her glance swept the scene.
"Even compared with this. It all depends on what one lives for?"
"You mean—doing things for other people. But they are such tiny things. This is so grand—so vast! It seems to lift up one's whole being."
"If you were here always, the force of first impressions would fade. And that question would still push its way to the front."
"The question—what one lives for—do you mean?"
"Yes. Whether for Duty—or only for Self."
A slight pause followed. "If only one's duties weren't so often just the very things one most dislikes!"
A look in her companion's face somehow recalled her father. He asked simply—
"Don't you think that the less one minds about one's own likings, the better? And after all,—obedience against the grain is always grander than doing what one wishes. That may land one on a mountain-top."
"Yes—I see. I suppose—" and she smiled—"when you gave up your climb that day, for the sake of Mr. Ramsay, you really got to a higher peak than if you had gone up the Grand Muveran."
He laughed.
"Very kind of you to say so. But that was a simple necessity. Nothing else could have been possible."
"And since then you've never been able to go, because you have been so busy, teaching me to climb." That some self-denial might be involved in this had not earlier occurred to her. She looked at him gratefully. "But anyhow—you have the work in life that you like. You are not one of those people who seem put down in just the wrong place. You wouldn't wish to change!"
"It is the work I have to do. It was not my choice."
"But how—Was it settled for you?"
"Practically. My business now is to make the best of it. We can always learn to like what we have to do."
"Can we?" The corners of her mouth curled rebelliously. "But I like to choose for myself. I like to be free."
"Most of us do. But there's a higher standing than just personal freedom."
"And the higher—?" she questioned.
"Carrying out the will of another, against one's own will—because it is one's duty."
"Carrying out—anybody's will!"
"I meant, primarily—the Divine Will."
She considered this soberly.
"But—if one can do the things that one likes better than the things one doesn't like—wouldn't that be best?"
"Not from the point of view of character-making. When a man does his best badly in the line that he does not love, it is actually better, actually worth more, than if he were successful to any amount in the line that he would love. Of course we're right to do the work we prefer, when it's given us to do. But the other may have grander results. Men are not always called to what they would choose for themselves."
She pondered this again, then said with a smile—
"Curious that we should have got into such a grave talk, up here!"
"One often does," he replied; and it was true, as many have found in their position. The splendour of a scene, such as that on which they gazed, does not lend itself to moods of frivolity. Pastures dotted with human homes may consort with gaiety; but the wild solitudes of mountain heights are not gay. They seem rather to be intensely earnest; uplifted above light talk and merriment; brooding solemnly over earth's smallness; apart from lesser interests; leading the minds of those who gain their presence to deeper and higher topics.
Pressford, having gone farther than he intended, now came crunching over the hard snow. It was all right, he said,—and "a rare sporting bit." His quiet eyes held an unwonted gleam in them, as of a mountain warrior, eager for the fray, thirsting for a fight with Nature's obstacles.
But for Maurice all was not so clear. With regard to Pressford and himself, the climb might be practicable enough. Could it be looked upon as right for the girl? That was the real question, and he did not attempt to hide his anxiety.
"Indeed, indeed, I'm not afraid," urged Doris. "I'm not one least little atom afraid. It is all so much easier than I expected. And I'm splendidly fresh still. And to go back now—oh, it would be too desperately disappointing. Please, please, don't make me!"
"She can do it," once more asserted Pressford's imperturbable voice.
"I don't half like her to try."
"Well,—we'll put matters to the test. She shall wait here, while you and I do part of the way. If we find that it 'goes,' you shall come down for her on the rope; and I'll haul her up. That does away with risks. The awkward part is certainly not more than a hundred feet or so. Once over that, we shall be all right."
This plan, after some further discussion, was adopted. Pressford and Maurice began the ascent; the former leading. Only thirty feet of rope separated the two men. They followed the rule, invariable in rock climbing,—one moving, while the other stood firm, hitching the rope over any convenient rock-projection, and thus making himself as secure as possible, to ensure safety in the event of a slip on the part of his companion.
Pressford's task as leader was by far the more severe; and his climbing was a work of art, worth seeing. He had chosen a couloir or gully, never more than a dozen feet in width, rugged, broken, partly lined with snow, partly glazed with ice. It swerved a little to the left, so that one climber would seldom be just over the head of the other.
Doris below, near Maurice, watched steadfastly, fascinated by Pressford's advance, as he crept upward, making no hasty movement, testing each foothold before he trusted to it, taking advantage of every handhold. At times he appeared to cling bodily to the steep rock, writhing and working himself cleverly over one obstacle after another.
Having thus mounted nearly thirty feet, he came to a halt, fixed himself in a good position, and then called on Maurice to follow.
"You'll be sure to let me come! It looks so deliciously easy!" begged Doris.
"Not so easy as you think!"
"But you'll have the rope."
"Yes. My work is child's play, compared with his."
"And mine will be child's play too," she said gaily.
He gave a little parting nod, and went up in steady fashion, till he reached Pressford. Then, in his turn, he settled himself firmly, and Pressford started anew.
The second advance of thirty feet proved stiffer than the first. Pressford managed it, however, with no real difficulty; and Maurice followed, his task as before greatly simplified by the "moral support" of the rope.
Next came Pressford's third effort, the toughest of all. This done, there would be nothing beyond to fear.
Slowly, quietly, with never a hurried movement, he worked his way up the gully, inch by inch ascending, till he had gained a level of nearly one hundred feet above their starting-point, where Doris stood, statue-like, on the snow.
"Is it easy going now?" shouted Maurice.
"Pretty fair," assented the leader. "I haven't had really to extend myself yet. But I think I'll have another ten feet of rope, if you can manage it, before you go down and rope Miss Winton."
"Are you over the worst bit?"
"Nearly. Ten feet more rope will do it. Quite easy after that."
"One moment—" called Maurice. "Can you stand firm? Another ten feet will put me in a splendid position."
A pause; and then—"Yes. All right."
Maurice mounted the few feet without trouble, and wedged himself in where the gully had narrowed sufficiently to imprison a fallen boulder. Each foot had solid support; and his shoulders rested in a hollow between the boulder and the side of the gully. He could hardly have been better placed. When he had made himself secure, Pressford observed—
"It's a bit of a stretch to a perfect hold. Are you quite firm?"
"Yes. But don't risk anything. There's Miss Winton to think of."
"Oh, I can do it!" came in reply. "The rock's good enough."
Then a grim silence, long to the listener, broken only by the occasional patter of a stone loosened by Pressford, which came bounding down the gully.
Pressford was now out of sight of his fellow-climber, but in full view of Doris, who had followed the movements of each in turn, with mingled suspense and delight, counting the moments till she should be allowed to make her own essay.
Suspense, lest they should decide that the ascent was too hard for a beginner. That was all. She had no thought of fear; and nothing lay farther from her imagination than that either of her companions should come to grief. Two experienced climbers—one of them a practised mountaineer who had scaled without a guide some of the most hazardous peaks in Switzerland!—roped together, in a gully which she herself hoped to go up. The idea would have seemed preposterous.
But even a first-class mountaineer is never absolutely ensured against a slip,—still less against the perils of rotten rock.
She saw Pressford creep, worming himself along like a snake, over a slab of slanting rock, on which from where she stood no foothold could be detected. His right hand rose stealthily, inch by inch, till it appeared to be at its furthest stretch.
For two or three seconds the climber rested thus,—silent, immobile, as a black shadow on the rock. Suddenly there was a spasmodic effort. His hand clutched at a hold six inches beyond reach; and in this act the only firm foothold was perforce abandoned. His fingers closed convulsively on the rocky projection; and in another moment he would have drawn himself up to a safe position.
He gripped a shade more firmly. And—like the snapping of a rotten branch, overweighted with winter snow—the rock came away in his clutch.
One second he lay prone against the wall, clinging with every muscle of his sinewy frame; the only clear thought in his brain a wild regret that he had trusted to an untested hold.
Then he came sliding downward, faster and faster; making vain clutches at the rock to stay his fall,—till, from thirty feet above Maurice, he was brought up sharply thirty feet below, by the rope.
And there, to the dismay of Doris, he hung; heavy, motionless, as if without life.
THE first intimation of anything wrong, received by Maurice, came in the shape of a shower of stones; and a sharp exclamation from above warned him what to expect.
He saw Pressford slide past, vainly trying to check his own rapid descent. And before Maurice had time for more than a lightning-flash of realisation, came the shock—the grip of the rope about his chest and body, almost cutting him in two.
It seemed more than he could endure. All his strength was needed to withstand that first overwhelming pull, which tore fiercely at him like a wolf, bringing positive agony. He was unable to breathe save in broken gasps.
Half-unconsciously he shifted his position, to ease the intolerable strain. Then, as the pain lessened, he could breathe and think again; and he began to ask himself what had happened.
Was Pressford killed—or only stunned—by this fall of some sixty feet on relentless rock?
He shouted, and there was no answer. He tried to haul at the rope which bound him to Pressford; but the effort only endangered his hold. He dared not stir. For the time he could bear the strain of his friend's weight. But—how long would he be able?
He could not see the fallen man. He could only see the rope—twitching as it descended over the jammed boulder. He could only know by conjecture what had been the cause.
Would nothing break this death-like stillness?
He remembered Doris, whose presence had been momentarily driven from his mind by Pressford's fall. Why had she not called out? Then it occurred to him that she might have screamed, unheard, at the worst moment of the shock,—that even since then she might have called, without gaining his attention.
As he wondered, her voice, clear and steady, came up to him. "Mr. Maurice—something is wrong. Mr. Pressford has fallen. Can I help?"
"Can you see him?" Maurice's deeper tones asked.
"Yes." In the pure mountain air their voices travelled easily.
"Any support below?"
"I'm afraid not. It's all smooth rock." She scanned the part intently. "I can't be sure. There's a ledge a little to one side—not quite below him. May I come up? If I may, I can pull him on the ledge."
The offer took Maurice by surprise. He was amazed at her coolness, her presence of mind.
"No! No!" he called. He could not think of letting her run the risk, unroped. "Stay where you are." His tone was urgent.
"But indeed I must. Please let me." Her courage rose, as she recognised the need for action. "Let me come. Say yes. I'm sure I can do it."
"No, no. Wait. Pressford may revive."
Moments lagged slowly by, and still the heavy helpless body hung against the rock-wall, kept there by the taut rope. For Maurice to stir was out of the question. As now placed, he might support the weight for an hour, perhaps even for many hours. But to slacken his hold of the rope for one instant would mean certain death for the unconscious Pressford and for himself; probably also for Doris, should she be left alone on a steep mountain-side, under such terrible conditions.
If the weight dragging at him could be but for a few seconds removed, he might make the rope secure, and then descend to Pressford's help. But that was impossible.
Only a girl below; a mere inexperienced beginner in the art of climbing. She could do nothing. He had to stay where he was,—till Pressford should revive, or till some problematic rescue-party should appear on the scene.
"Do let me," she entreated. "I'm almost sure I could get him on the ledge. We can't leave him like this. I'll be very, very careful."
Through fifty or sixty feet of height each word dinned mercilessly into his ears. He was sorely exercised. How to consent, he did not know; yet what else to do, he did not know either. Had Doris been a man, that which she suggested would have been the only right plan. But to allow her to risk her life—and he knew it must mean no ordinary risk!—the whole being of the young surgeon cried out in protest. It would have been out of the question with any girl, he told himself. How much more with her!
He pictured the awfulness of what must follow a slip on her part. No rope would hold her up. She would fall to the snow-ledge whence she had started, and with such impetus that she would not stop there, but would roll and bound down the snow-slope and over the rocks below. And he, tied to his helpless friend, would be unable to stir a finger to save his love from a terrible death. Had he doubted the fact before, he knew in this hour that she was his love—the one woman in the world for him. And he would have to look on—to see it all! The horror of that thought went beyond endurance.
Yet more—he saw himself, somehow rescued, going to the hotel, to make known what had happened; wandering over the heights, in search for her crushed and mangled body. He saw what her friends would think, when he and Pressford returned; and only the young girl in their charge was missing!
Impossible!
"No! No! You must not," he repeated. "I can't allow it. Could you find your way down the mountain, and send help?"
She surveyed the long steep slope, which they had mounted, and shook her head.
"No!" she called, a thrill of fresh resolution in her voice. "It would mean hours and hours. And I might miss my way. You could not hold him all that time."
"Yes, I could."
"No. You must let me climb. That is the only thing to be done."
He set his teeth and groaned, before replying—"I will not have it. I can't allow it, Doris." The name slipped out unconsciously, and it sent a glow through her.
"But he has to be saved. He must be saved. And there's no other way," she cried in terse phrases. "You must let me try." Then, as he still refused,—"But if it is my duty! You will not keep me from doing my duty!"
He had at length to give in. Pressford showed no signs of returning sense; and Doris's insistence swept aside his opposition. He began to realise that, if he refused consent, she would come without his consent. He doubted, too, whether to attempt the long descent of the mountain alone would mean for her less peril. She would have to go unroped, feeling anxious, distressed, hurried. The tax to nerve and strength would last through hours; and he would not be at hand to lend encouragement. For awhile still he held out; but at last, with a deadly sinking of heart, he was impelled to yield.
"But you must be very careful—very slow—" he urged. "Make sure of each hold before you leave the last. And if you find it too much, turn back at once."
"Yes, yes," she cried. "I'll be so careful. I promise."
For three seconds she stood motionless, praying one short vehement prayer for help,—entreating that she might be kept calm and steady and sure of foot; that she might be able to carry out what she had to do.
She did not under-estimate the nature of the task before her. That it was both difficult and dangerous, a task which under ordinary conditions she would not have dreamt of doing, she knew well; and she realised also that the lives of these two men depended, in all probability, upon her exertions. Maurice would never abandon his friend. If no casual passer-by came to their rescue,—a most unlikely event,—and if Pressford did not regain consciousness, then, but for her, both were doomed.
Without further delay, and with every muscle braced to firmness, she set out upon her perilous emprise.
Although, as said earlier by Maurice, she was a born climber, her experience had been limited, and this was a severe test. The steepness of the gully, the paucity of good holds, the general slipperiness, the patches of verglas to be avoided—all demanded skill and nerve. And she knew, hardly less distinctly than Maurice himself, what a slip must mean.
Step by step she advanced, placing each foot with caution, testing each hold before she trusted to it! Maurice from above, spoke an occasional quiet word, when he could see what she was doing. When he could not, he lived through sickening agonies. A vision floated before his eyes of a false step on her part, and then of that fearful bounding fall down and down the mountain-side. But at the back of that vision, behind the anguish of suspense, though it seemed to him that no word of actual prayer was possible, his whole being was concentrated into one passionate appeal for her safety. "O God!— O God!"—was all he could utter. It meant—everything.
About half-way up she found herself on a narrow ledge, from which further progress looked all but hopeless. For a moment her heart failed. Could she go on? Should she turn back? She thought again of the two men; of Maurice, unable to stir; of Pressford, hanging senseless. She was their one hope. The thing had to be done.
Again a cry for help was flung upwards from her heart; and she set herself resolutely to work, to surmount the difficulty—to climb a bare rock-surface, which commonly she would have counted insurmountable, unless she were roped.
Careful study showed the only track which she could hope to follow with success; and she set to work. Her whole mind had to be bent on what she was doing; and every nerve was tense, as she crept from crack to crack, clinging, gripping, holding on for very life. Not for her own life only! Was she not given this to do —for others? That recollection brought renewed confidence.
A single glimpse she had of the plunging depth below; a moment's awful realisation of what a fall would be. With the glimpse and the realisation came a shock and tremor. Then she calmed herself, holding hard, and looking upward. "It has to be done! It must be done!" she whispered; and the brief weakness passed.
Four more brave efforts; and the spot which had threatened disaster lay behind.
IT took Doris twice as long to mount as it had taken Pressford; and each moment of the time was to her—but tenfold more to Maurice —an age in itself. She was in a state of acute nervous strain. One object only lay before her mind,—the next step, the next handhold. Other thoughts died out, or were entirely subordinate. Her powers of climbing, under the present exigency, were increased to a remarkable degree. Maurice marvelled, as he watched and feared.
At last she was nearly on a level with Pressford!
She could see now that he hung against a face of smooth rock, beyond the couloir which she was mounting; and that between him and death lay nothing but the upholding rope. But, as she had half made out from below, a ledge of rock, just wide enough for safety, gave access from the gully to a spot nearly below him. Once upon that ledge, she would be able to secure Pressford, and so to free Maurice. Her spirit bounded at the thought.
More work had to be done first. To quit the couloir and reach the ledge meant two or three dizzy steps. But' courage rose high, and fear was gone. All recollection of self was swallowed up in the joy of success. Perhaps her chief danger at this point lay in the direction of overconfidence; and Maurice's warning voice—"Steady, don't hurry!"— came at the right moment.
Three critical steps were managed without a shudder. She gained the ledge, passed to its farther end, measured Pressford's distance with a glance, and called—"It's all right! I'm here!"
That crossing from the gully had taken her beyond the range of Maurice's vision; and the pause before her glad cry reached him meant another short-long agony of suspense. Then he knew; and the relief was unspeakable. For one moment his brain swam; and—"Thank God!"—was all he could utter.
"I'm on the ledge all right," she cried again.
Maurice spoke clearly. "Can you reach him? I can only loosen a foot of rope, without letting go."
"Yes—yes that will do. I'll get him—if you'll just lower him the least little bit. Yes—so—a little more."
Inch by inch, as Maurice allowed the rope to slip through his stiff and aching fingers, Pressford descended. Doris, steadying herself, grasped him by the boots, pulled him towards the ledge, and called for further slackening. Soon he lay at full length, and she knelt to support his head.
"It's all right!"—once more in ringing tones. "He is here—safe—on the ledge with me."
"Can you unrope him, and fix the rope securely?"
"I'll try."
She freed the rope from Pressford, and then, with a good deal of difficulty, succeeded in fastening it strongly round a crag.
"I think it will do now. I've pulled hard, and it holds," she said.
"Stay where you are. I'm coming."
She could hear but could not see Maurice's movements. The waiting, the inaction, tried her much, after the past strain and exertion. Pressford did not stir, but once or twice she heard him mutter an incoherent word. She could see that he had had a heavy blow on the head, where his hair was matted with blood.
Keeping a hand on his shoulder, lest he should try to get up, she counted the slow moments. "If Maurice should slip," became a haunting fear. True, he had the rope; and that, if it held, would keep him from falling far. But what if she had not made the rope quite secure? What if the crag should snap under a sudden jerk? What if he, in his turn, should be stunned?
These and other possibilities ran riot in her mind. If anything happened to him, what could she do, alone on this ledge of rock with the helpless Pressford? She had come up, alone. She was certain that she could never go down alone.
Beyond and above such fears, it flashed across her what a difference would be wrought in her life, if Maurice were killed! Till this hour she had hardly recognised the place which he had won in her heart.
He was coming—coming. She could hear the sounds of his gradual approach. She said no word, called no question. He needed all his faculties, undisturbed, for the descent. The actual difficulties of the gully were indeed much less for him than for her; but he had passed through a nerve-trying experience, which might well have lessened his powers of endurance. And though the rope was there to break his fall, in case of a slip, it gave him no actual help in his descent.
Suddenly he was within sight. She held her breath. Those critical steps, dividing the couloir from the ledge, had to be taken, but to a practised mountaineer they meant nothing.
One moment more—and he stepped upon the ledge.
Doris's forebodings vanished like smoke. In an instant she felt as safe as if at the mountain's base. His hand grasped hers with a long and meaning grip which spoke volumes; and their eyes met. Words were not needed; perhaps, at least for Maurice, were not possible. Each felt only that the other was safe; that a great danger was over; that a terrible calamity had been averted. That prolonged grasp spoke of a thankfulness which could not be voiced,—of a mutual joy beyond speech,—of a drawing closer together of their two lives.
Then, still in silence, Maurice knelt beside Pressford, examined the blow on his head, and passed a careful hand over different parts of his body.
"Is he much hurt?" Doris ventured to ask.
"I hope not. I can't be sure yet as to other injuries; but no bones seem to be broken. He is badly stunned, poor fellow!" After a slight pause,—"I must rope you next, and send you down."
"And Mr. Pressford?"
"Afterwards. You first."
He made all ready, bracing himself securely as near to the couloir as he could stand, while within reach if Pressford should move. Then, as Doris began her descent, he let out the rope with extreme caution. Going down was, of course, in itself more risky than going up, but the rope gave confidence and meant safety. Twice she slipped, and Maurice held firmly, till she regained her balance.
Arriving at the snow-plateau, she freed herself, and stood watching, while Maurice hauled the rope in, fastened it round Pressford, and slowly lowered the latter to her side. This done, he followed, fixing part of the rope to aid him over the worst rocks.
"Mr. Pressford seems rousing up a little," Doris announced. "He said something quite sensible just now."
The "something sensible" must have been hazy in nature, judging from the mutter which greeted Maurice. But after a few sips of cold tea, when Maurice had tied up the wound on his friend's head with a silk handkerchief, Pressford really showed signs of reviving.
"What has happened?" he was able to ask.
"You've had an awkward fall, old man. Did you lose your hold?"
"No—" after a pause for recollection. "No—I believe—the rock gave."
"Hard luck! But you'll do now, I hope."
Pressford seemed to lose himself again; and some time elapsed before his next remark. "Miss Winton—sorry—disappointed. Can't bag our peak to-day."
"No. That's unfortunate."
"How did you get me down? I suppose—the rope held."
"Yes; but I was a fixture. It was all I could do to support your weight. I might have stayed there till Doomsday—but for Miss Winton. She climbed up to our help."
"Climbed—where?"
"To that ledge." Maurice indicated its position, and Pressford, startled into full consciousness, raised himself on one elbow, staring hard at the rocky rampart, then turning amazed eyes on Doris. "You were hanging above that—to one side—on the smooth slabby bit."
"You don't mean to say—!"
"Better lie still a little longer." Maurice put him back with a gentle hand.
"You don't mean to say she climbed up there—alone!—unroped!"
"Alone and unroped. She did it superbly. Not a slip from start to finish."
"My goodness!" uttered Pressford, still staring.
Doris broke into a little laugh of pleasure.
"But I was dreadfully frightened once—at the worst part—and not at all brave," she confessed. "The rock was so steep; and there seemed almost nothing to get hold of. I thought I should have to give up."
"If you felt afraid, it was much braver to go on than if you did not," Pressford said. He seemed more himself, though pale and shaken; and his gaze went to and fro between Doris and the mountain-wall. "Well—" he muttered. "I shouldn't have imagined any girl could do it—with no more training!" He turned to Maurice. "How you could let her—passes me!"
"But it had to be done. There was no other way," Doris eagerly explained. "It would have been much worse to go alone all down the mountain. And Mr. Maurice couldn't have held you up, all those hours."
"I should have come to—in time."
"I rather doubt it—in the position in which you were hanging," Maurice said dryly. "And if you had, it would have been an awkward spot for you to tackle in your present state. You were not over the ledge. And just below you—"
He did not finish the sentence. Pressford took another look, and muttered—"Hm!"
"So we owe our lives, both of us, to Miss Winton's courage."
Maurice attempted no self-defence. He simply could not explain what the giving of that permission had meant to himself. He could not trust himself to speak of it.
"I say—time is going, and we have to get down the mountain. I believe I can walk now."
"Wait half-an-hour more. We will start then. Miss Winton and I want another breakfast first."
"Yes, indeed. I'm just starving," declared the girl.
During the half-hour they munched bread and chocolate, talking and laughing, as if none of the three had, only a little while before, been on the very verge of that gulf which divides this life from the next. Not that they had not been deeply impressed; not that they were not profoundly thankful; but something of reaction was upon them. Doris was in a state of natural exultation at having achieved a task of no small difficulty and danger, thereby saving two lives; and Maurice's hopes with regard to her had risen high. He could not but feel how much nearer together they had drawn this eventful day.
A start had to be made. They were roped again; Doris now, in the descent, going first; and Maurice, occupying the post of most danger, behind. Pressford, as the least capable of the three, had to be in the middle.
So soon as he was on his feet, it became evident that he was suffering greatly from pain and dizziness; but he pulled himself together, and managed better than might have been expected. While any real difficulty of footing existed, he kept this up; down the steep snow-slope, and on the lower belt of rocks, which had meant for them two hours of stiff ascent. Then he collapsed, and had to lie on the ground for nearly an hour, semi-conscious.
In the long stretch which followed of pine-wood and easy pasturage, he failed again and again; and one rest had to follow another. So hours passed; and it was dusk when they neared the village. Yet the time had not seemed tedious to Doris; still less, to Maurice. These repeated rests gave them opportunities for long quiet tête-à-tête talks on many subjects; and neither of the two had any wish to reach the end of the walk, for their own sakes, though both were solicitous for Pressford.
By the time that the lights of the village hove in sight, and their troubles were ended, it seemed to Doris that she had known Maurice all her life. It seemed yet more to Maurice that life without Doris had never been.
PRESSFORD was for several days hors de combat; and Ramsay could hardly yet be called convalescent; so the two wives had enough to do. Mrs. Brutt, deeply interested in the invalids, confident of her own infallibility, and always anxious to be "in" whatever might be going, begged permission to lend her help. She was so accustomed to sick folks; she would know exactly how to manage.
"Not for worlds! Keep her off, at any cost!" growled the dismayed Pressford.
Excuses were politely framed; but Mrs. Brutt, like many who are abnormally sure of themselves, proved impervious to hints. If she might not share in the actual nursing, she was bent on at least supplementing the efforts of her "dear young doctor."
So she brought to the door, now a bottle of medicine for one patient, then a prescription for the other; now a plate of fruit, then a bunch of grapes; now a recipe for soup, then a pictorial newspaper. It was all most kindly meant; but her incessant comings and goings between hotel and châlet began to get upon people's nerves.
Since the accident, she had taken fright about mountain-ascents, and had put her foot down flat, refusing consent for another attempt. No, she really couldn't! It was out of the question. If Doris were killed, what did they suppose would be thought of her? This seemed to be a question of greater importance in her eyes, than the actual tragedy. Go up the Glückhorn again! Certainly not! Doris must first get leave from her parents. Mrs. Brutt washed her hands of any such responsibility.
It was a severe disappointment; for Doris had set her heart on a second and successful climb. She doubted if leave would be given, after the manner of letter which Mrs. Brutt was sure to write. And days were passing! Maurice's time of absence was nearly up, though it had been slightly extended.
Thus far, in writing home, she had said very little about him,—vaguely dreading to have her present happiness cut short. She would have found it difficult to express by post her own half-defined feelings; and— whether consciously or half-unconsciously—she had not mentioned his name, but had alluded to him as the "English doctor in our hotel."
This was distinctly not ingenuous. From the first she ought to have written more fully. And in her heart Doris knew it!
Until the day of the Glückhorn ascent, she had not definitely allowed even to herself that the growing intimacy meant more than friendship. And, though now her eyes were being opened, still—Maurice had not spoken.
After divers protestations from Mrs. Brutt, and the quashing of various schemes, Maurice begged to take Doris to the summit of the Petit Chamossaire. He was bent on having her once more to himself. Something had to be said before they parted; something that he had no wish to say—that he would thankfully have deferred saying. But conscience spoke loudly, and would not be denied.
So he made his request, and explained that no risks would be run. A magnificent view could be gained at small cost. The summit stood some 7600 feet above the sea-level; yet to get there meant a mere walk, with no real climbing; a walk which any lady might venture to take. Any robust lady, he hastened to add, as he perceived dawning recollections of past gazelle-like agility. He did not wish Mrs. Brutt to forth a third in the expedition; and he knew that she dreaded nothing more than to be counted "robust."
After some fuss, leave was granted. Mrs. Brutt had her doubts whether Mrs. Winton would approve of the plan—just Doris and Mr. Maurice going together! She might have been perfectly sure that Doris's mother would very much disapprove. But since her dear young doctor thought it right, she could not refuse. And really girls nowadays did that sort of thing. Nobody thought anything of it.
She had not the resolution to oppose him; and she honestly believed that his "kindness" to Doris was wholly for her sake. He was really so agreeable, she said to one of her English-speaking German cronies; so charmingly "domesticated." This was another of her misused adjectives, which might give the impression of a man of the "tame-cat" order. Dick Maurice was not that. But it satisfied her; and she was delighted with his attentions to herself.
So the expedition was arranged.
No need this time for axes and goggles. And they started between six and seven, instead of between two and three.
Much of their way was a rough sledge-path through pine-woods, where footing might take care of itself; and they talked without a break. Well as they felt that they had known one another before, mutual knowledge that day advanced by strides. No third person was present to act as a drag.
Somehow, Doris had told him much more about herself than he had told her about himself, up to this date.
He could talk with enthusiasm of his profession, his work, his friends, his aims and objects, the books he had read, the places he had seen, the mountains he had climbed. And that was all right enough. But from the first he had said little about his home. She knew that his work lay in Edinburgh. She did not know whether his home was there; and, though aware that his mother lived, she knew nothing more about his family. Sometimes she had caught herself wondering over this persistent silence.
Through the long early morning walk, he still said nothing; but she had a curious sense that he wanted to say something. There were occasional slight breaks and pauses, when his attention seemed adrift, his mind preoccupied.
They had a second breakfast at Bretaye, in the small open restaurant, with a fine distant view of Mont Blanc. Then they mounted the only steep place which had to be climbed; a mere nothing, after recent experiences.
On the summit, a lofty headland, they found themselves at the centre of a splendid panorama.
By the way they had come, the descent though sharp was grassy and gradual. On the other side, close to where they had found seats, a narrow belt of sloping grass ended in a deep precipice, facing the Rhone Valley. It was a day of glorious sunshine, tempered by a light breeze; and a few cloudlets, like wisps of cotton-wool, lay in far off hollows. The heaven was one unbroken expanse of rich blue.
Maurice pointed out to her in a subdued voice some chief features in the landscape; beginning with the Lake of Geneva, a misty blur, bounded by dim Jura outlines; and travelling thence to the left, by way of the rugged Gramont and the pale blue Dent du Midi. Between the latter and the Dent du Morcles was a radiant vision of the monarch of Swiss mountains, pure and spotlessly white; also of the massed turrets and glaciers of the Valaisian Range.
Viewed beside these snow-clad giants the Dent du Midi, imposing enough when observed from a lower level, was dwarfed, much as some worthy village magnate is dwarfed in the presence of Royalty.
Farther to the left lay the grand rocky range, which Doris had been daily studying; and the individuals of that range also fell into their true places. Seen from this lofty standpoint, indeed, many heights which had claimed to be great grew small; while others, hitherto modestly in the background, rose to their real greatness.
Yet more to the left, as the eye travelled round, and beyond rocky ranges, was a vision of the Oberland giants; especially of the Jungfrau and her two mighty neighbours. Of all the vast mountain array that day, the stately Jungfrau alone, a coy maiden of substantial proportions, hid her fair face behind a veil of cloud.
Farther still came more and more masses of tangled rocks and pine-clad summits; following which, the circuit was completed; and at length the dim Geneva lake once more claimed attention.
But no words can give the scene as a whole; no brain could grasp all its infinite complexity of finish.
Solid mountains and spreading valleys; hollowed ravines and rifted sides; towering summits and wall-like precipices; steep white glaciers, with tiny transverse lines suggestive of crevasses, and pure broad snowfields; lifted horns and jagged ridges; great pine-forests and fair green pastures; scattered villages and distant towns—all these went to the making of the picture. And over everything, far and near, a delicate intangible veil of pale blue mist, hiding nothing, dimming nothing, only adding to the perfect beauty by a slight softening of outline, while permitting every detail to be seen.
And, in the midst of it all, two human beings, a man and a girl; two hearts drawing hourly nearer together.
And the heart of a man is greater than the mightiest of mountains, as spirit is greater than matter.