It had stolen upon them like an enemy unawares.
A moment ago they were in a full blaze of noonday radiance, revelling in
its golden, undimmed splendour; now this had, as by the wave of a magic
wand, given place to a semi-gloom, chill and depressing in its misty
suddenness. A moment ago a panorama as of half a continent lay spread
around them, now an object the size of a human being was invisible at
twelve yards. Creeping up, swift, stealthy, and ghost-like, the cloud
curtain was wreathing its dank and shadowy folds round the pinnacle-like
cone of the Cape au Moine, and already imparting a rimy slipperiness to
the rocks and grass.
"We had better go down," Wentworth had said, unconcernedly. Heartily
now he wished they had done so half an hour earlier, for he, in common
with the rest of them, was sensible of a sudden rising of the wind,
which, taken with the fact that, so far from dispelling the cloud, it
only seemed to be rolling it up thicker, pointed to the possibility of a
gusty squall, the extent and suddenness of whose force it was impossible
to predict.
The very features of the mountain seemed to have changed. As they got
off the grassy cone on to the first _arete_, the summit, dimly visible
as they looked back, seemed to tower up at least four times its actual
height, and the vertical line of the great precipice which forms its
eastern face stood forth black and forbidding against the opaque
background of vapour. A pair of crows flapped forth from some rocky
recess and, uttering a raucous croak, soared away into the misty space.
The straight, narrow edge of their dizzy path disappeared in the cloud
not a dozen yards in front.
No one knew better than Wentworth the utterly disconcerting effect of
this sort of phenomenon upon even the most skilled mountaineer. Every
well-known feature or landmark assumes a puzzling unfamiliarity--in
fact, a complete metamorphosis of the whole scene appears to have taken
place. So, with a dubious glance to windward, he remarked--
"It might be our best plan not to attempt the _aretes_ at present. We
can get back on to the cone and wait until this blows over, in perfect
safety. What do you think, Miss Wyatt?"
"Oh, let's try it, if it can be done," she exclaimed, eagerly. "My
uncle will be so dreadfully frightened if we wait here. Only think of
it. He will certainly imagine we have come to grief. No, let's go on;
I am not in the least afraid."
Wentworth made no further objection, and they resumed their now perilous
way. For the wind had gained in strength and volume with alarming
rapidity, and, balanced there on that knife-like ridge, those three
adventurous ones were exposed to its full force and fury. More than
once they were obliged to take refuge on their hands and knees, and
indeed were finally reduced to crawling ignominiously thereon. The
shrill whistle of the blast tore past their ears, singing through the
weather-beaten herbage which straggled upon the side of the _arete_.
The mist swirled over the crest of the ridge in rimy puffs, and below,
whenever they snatched half a glance from their precarious progress, the
climbers could note a seething, whirling chaos of vapour filling up the
great hollow whose bottom lay at a dizzy depth beneath.
"Not much further to go, is there?" said Philip, anxiously, as they
stood resting beneath the rocks at the end of the second _arete_ from
the summit. It had devolved upon Wentworth as guide to help Alma down
the steeper and more dangerous places, even to the placing of her feet;
but this Philip had quite ceased to secretly resent. He himself was as
bewildered as a child in this unaccustomed cloud-land.
"Not so very much," answered Wentworth, ambiguously and in fact somewhat
absently, for often as he had been there before, the cloud had
disconcerted him more than he chose to admit, and he was thinking
whether it would not really be rank lunacy to resume their attempt. But
a slight shiver of cold on Alma's part decided him.
"Had enough rest, Miss Wyatt?" he said. "Come along, then. We must not
lose any time."
He stepped forth from their resting-place. The shrieking fury of the
wind had become almost a gale. This _arete_ was the worst of all, for
whereas the path on the others ran here and there along the face of the
slope, thus partially shielding them from the full force of the blast,
here they would have to crawl along the very crest itself.
"It seems to be blowing harder than ever!" said Wentworth, imprudently
standing upright upon the sharp ridge.
A perfect roar drowned his words. As though struck by some unseen power
he staggered, made a frantic attempt to regain a recumbent posture, then
clutching wildly at the ground he disappeared into space; while the
horrified spectators who had not yet left their shelter, blown flat
against the rock by the incredible force of the sudden gust, realised
that but for this providential rampart they too would have met with the
same fate.
For many minutes they gazed at each other in silence, too unnerved, too
horror-stricken to speak. And that they were so is little to be
wondered at. They had just seen their companion blown into the abyss
within a few paces of them. At that very moment they pictured him lying
far, far down where the boiling vapours swirled blackly through space--
lying in scattered, mangled fragments, poor relics of the strong,
cool-headed man who but a moment ago was guiding them with such skill
and judgment. And their own position was sufficiently alarming. Here
they were, up in the clouds, exposed to the force and fury of a mountain
storm whose duration it was impossible to pre-estimate.
"How awful?" gasped Alma, at length, during a lull in the bellowing of
the gale. "How truly awful! Is--is there no chance for him?"
Philip shook his head gloomily, and there was a shudder in his voice.
"Not a shadow of a chance, I'm afraid. You saw, as we came along, the
sort of drop there is on that side. But--try not to think of it."
"I cannot help thinking of it. Oh, it is too frightful!" and,
thoroughly unnerved, she burst into a wild storm of tears.
It was too much for Philip. Not there on that lonely mountain height,
enveloped in the black darkness of the cloud, witnessing her distress,
her only protector, could he any longer restrain the tenderness which
took possession of him with every glance from her eyes, every tone of
her voice.
"Alma--darling"--he broke forth--"think only of yourself now. Keep up
your spirits like your own brave self. Look. It may not last long, and
once the wind drops we shall have no difficulty in finding the way."
His words of consolation--no less than those of love which had been
drawn from him involuntarily as it were--seemed to fall on deaf ears.
The shock of the horrible fate which had overtaken poor Wentworth before
their very eyes was too overwhelming, and she continued to weep
unrestrainedly, almost hysterically. The black peaty turf of the narrow
space where they rested had grown wet and slippery, for it was beginning
to rain, and overhead the grey crags loomed athwart the flying misty
scud, breaking it up into long fantastic wreaths and streamers, where it
swirled past the cloven and jagged facets of the rock.
"What are you doing?--No; I will not have that!" said Alma presently,
resisting an attempt on his part to button around her shoulders his
coat, which he had taken off for the purpose.
"You must have it. I saw you shiver," he answered decisively, at the
same time holding the garment around her in such wise as to make the
very most of its warming powers.
"I will not. I am more warmly clad than you are. You will catch your
death of cold yourself."
"Now, it's of no use arguing--you must have it. I have a will of my own
sometimes, and I'll fling the coat over the cliff rather than wear it
myself. It is cold, as you say," he added, with a violent shiver, "but
I'm not made of sugar."
It was cold indeed. The wind blew chill and piercing, and the rain,
which was driving in upon them in a sleety penetrating shower, began to
render things more and more uncomfortable for poor Phil in his
shirtsleeves. And yet amid the cold and the wet, weatherbound up there
in that weird noonday night, with the horror of a comrade's fate still
upon him--fear, uncertainty, and danger around them, Philip Orlebar was,
strange to say, uncontrollably, blissfully happy. Stranger still, it
might be that the day would come when he should look back to that period
of doubt and horror spent in the semi-darkness of the mountain storm,
and the fury of its icy blasts around their shelterless heads, with the
same sad, aching hopelessness wherewith a lost soul might look upon the
paradise it has forfeited by its own act.
The time went by--he standing before her in order that she might benefit
by even that slight barrier from the force of the wind--talking ever, in
order to keep up her spirits, to keep her mind from dwelling upon the
horror they had both witnessed; but for which event, indeed, it is
probable that he would have spoken all that was on his mind there and
then. Even he, however, recognised that this was no time for anything
of the kind; and indeed, in the fearless protectiveness of his
demeanour, the tact and fixity of purpose wherewith he strove to take
her out of herself, no one would have recognised the thoughtless,
devil-may-care, and, truth to tell, somewhat selfish temperament of
Philip Orlebar. His whole nature seemed transformed. He seemed a dozen
years older. But the love tremor in his voice spoke the high pressure
of restraint he had put upon himself. Did Alma detect it? We cannot
say.
A faint halloo came through the opaque folds of the mist--then another
much nearer. At the same time they realised that the force of the wind
had materially abated; moreover it seemed to be getting much lighter.
"That's Fordham," said Philip, with a start. Then he answered the
shout.
"Is Miss Wyatt all right?" sung out Fordham.
"Safe as a church," roared Philip, and the welcome news was passed on to
those waiting further back.
A ray of sunlight shot through the gloom, and lo, as if by magic, the
opaque inky wall thus breached began to fall asunder, yielding before
each successive piercing ray, and the patch of blue sky thus opened
spread wider and wider till the whole of the _arete_ lay revealed, wet
and glistening in the sunshine, and beyond the gleaming crags the
cloudcap around the apex of the cone grew smaller and beautifully less
until it was whirled away altogether.
"Where's Wentworth?" was Fordham's first query on joining them. Philip
looked very blank.
"Come this way, Fordham," he said, leading the other to the spot, not
many paces distant, where the unfortunate man had disappeared. "Look at
that. What sort of a chance would a fellow have who went over there?"
Fordham looked at the speaker with a start of dismay, then at the line
where the abrupt slope of the ridge broke into sheer precipice half a
dozen yards below.
"I'm afraid he wouldn't have the ghost of a shadow of a chance," he
muttered. "But--how was it?"
"Blown over," answered Philip.
"The devil!"
Both men stood gazing down in gloomy silence. The strength of the wind
was still a trifle too powerful to be pleasant up there on the _arete_;
but below, sheltered from its force, the whole vast depth of the valley
was filled with a sea of snowy vapour, slowly heaving itself up into
round billowy humps.
"By Jove! Did you hear that?" suddenly exclaimed Philip, with a start
that nearly sent him to share the fate of the luckless Wentworth.
"Yes, I did," was the hardly less eager reply. "But--it isn't possible.
Wait--now--listen again!"
A faint and far-away shout from below now rose distinctly to their ears.
Both listened with an intensity of eagerness that was painful.
"Only some native, herding cattle down there!" said Philip,
despondently.
"Shut up, man, and listen again. Cattle-herds in this canton don't as a
rule talk good English," interrupted Fordham. "Ah! I thought so," he
added, as this time the voice was distinctly audible--articulating,
though somewhat feebly--"Any one up there?"
"Yes. Where are you?"
"About forty feet down. Get a rope quick. I can't hold on for ever."
"Now, Phil," said Fordham, quickly, "you're younger than I am, and
you've got longer legs. So just cut away down to the Chalet Soladier,
that one we passed coming up, and levy upon them for all the ropes on
the premises. Wait--be careful though," he added, as the other was
already starting. "Don't hurry too much until you're clear of the
_aretes_, or you may miss your own footing. After that, as hard as you
like."
Away went Philip; Alma, her nerves in a state of the wildest excitement,
dividing her attention between following with her eyes his dangerous
course along the knife-like ridges, and listening to the dialogue
between Fordham and Wentworth. The latter's fall, it transpired, had
fortunately been arrested by a growth of rhododendron bushes, anchored
in the very face of the cliff. He had no footing to speak of, he said,
and dared not even trust all his weight upon so precarious a hold as the
roots of a bush or two, especially where there could be but the most
insignificant depth of soil. He was distributing his weight as much as
possible, upon such slight slope as this bushy projection afforded;
indeed, so constrained was his position that he could not even give free
play to his voice, hence the faint and far-away sound of his first hail.
He hoped the rope would not be long coming, he added, for the bushes
might give way at any moment; moreover he himself was becoming somewhat
played out.
Alma felt every drop of blood curdle within her as she listened to this
voice out of the abyss, and pictured to herself its owner hanging there
by a few twigs, with hardly a foothold, however slight, between himself
and hundreds of feet of grisly death. Even Fordham felt sick at heart
as he realised the frightful suspense of the situation.
"Keep up your nerve, Wentworth," he shouted. "Phil has nearly reached
the _chalet_ now. They can be here in half an hour."
"He is there now," said Alma, who was watching every step of his
progress through his own glasses which he had left up there. "And the
man is all ready for him--and--yes--he is meeting him with ropes. Now
they are starting. Thank Heaven for that!"
Fortunate indeed was it for Wentworth that the _chalet_ was inhabited at
that time of year, and that its occupier happened to be there that day.
The latter, who had watched the ascent, and had seen some of the party
on the cone just before the cloud had hidden everything, was a trifle
uneasy himself. But the sight of a tall athletic young Englishman
tearing down the slope in his shirtsleeves confirmed his fears. He put
two and two together, and, being a quick-witted fellow, had started to
meet Philip with all the ropes his establishment could muster.
All this was shouted down to Wentworth for the encouragement of the
latter. And the excitement of those on the _arete_, no less than that
of the party left behind on the high _col_, became more and more intense
as they watched the distance diminish between them and the bearers of
the needful ropes, upon which depended a fellow-creature's life.
Minutes seemed hours. But what must they have seemed to the man who
hung there over that dizzy height--his strength ebbing fast--counting
the very seconds to the time his rescue should begin!
By the time Philip and the cowherd had joined him, together with Gedge,
who had come to render what help he could, Fordham's plan was laid.
They could not all stand on the narrow _arete_ in such wise as to obtain
anything like the requisite purchase on the rope. But on the other side
of the ridge a precipitous fall of rock, some ten or twelve feet, ended
in an abrupt grass slope. Here two of them could stand, holding the end
of the rope, while two more on the apex of the ridge could direct the
ascent of the rescued man as well as assist in hauling.
"Now, Phil," he said, "if you've quite got back your wind"--for the two
men were somewhat out of breath with their rapid climb--"get away down
there with Gedge, and hold on like grim death. No, Miss Wyatt, not
you," in response to an appeal on Alma's part to be allowed to help.
"Four of us will be enough. We can manage easily."
There were two good lengths of rope, each about forty feet--for the
peasants in mountain localities frequently adopt the precaution of tying
themselves together when mowing the grass on some of the more dangerous
and precipitous slopes. These were securely knotted together and manned
as aforesaid.
"I don't like knots," muttered Fordham, as he let down the end, having
first tied his flask to the same with a bit of twine the stopper being
loosened so as to render the contents accessible without an effort--"I
don't like knots, but there's no help for it. Now, Wentworth," he
shouted, "is that right?"
"Little more to the left--about a yard and a half. There--so. All
right. I've got it. Pay out a little more line."
"Take a pull at the flask, and then sing out when you're quite ready,"
bawled Fordham.
There was silence for a few minutes, then:
"Ready. Haul away," cried Wentworth.
And they did haul away--those on the _arete_ flat on their faces,
carefully watching the ascent of the rope lest it should be worn through
by any friction. In a very short time Wentworth appeared in sight where
the line of the slope broke into the precipice; a moment more and he was
beside them in safety.
Then what a stentorian cheer split the echoes of those craggy heights,
conveying to the rest of the party, waiting in anxious, breathless
suspense below, that the rescue had been safely effected. Wentworth
himself seemed rather dazed, and said but little; nor did it add to his
composure when he found Alma Wyatt wringing both his hands, and
ejaculating, "Oh, I am so glad--I am so glad!" preparatory to breaking
forth into a perfect paroxysm of unnerved crying.
"You've had a narrow squeak, old chap!" said Philip.
"Hurt at all?" asked the more practical Fordham.
"No. Don't seem like it. Scratched a bit--nothing more."
His face was badly scratched and covered with blood. One sleeve of his
coat was nearly torn from the shoulder, and he had lost his watch.
"_Vous vous y-etes joliment tire--Nom de nom_!" said the cowherd
oracularly. "_Remplacer une montre c'est plus simple que de remplacer
ses membres broyes--allez_!"