IN AN AVALANCHE
THE Hut was not, as Amy and Beatrice had supposed, occupied only by
themselves, their guide and their porter. Unknown to them all, two
guideless climbers had arrived earlier—none other than the young
English clergyman and his friend. They had retired to rest in the loft,
purposing to ascend the Blümlisalphorn the next day. As they meant to
start in the very small hours of the morning, they were glad to get to
sleep without loss of time; and by thus retreating to the loft they
hoped to secure an absence of interruptions.
Steimathen had quickly discovered, by the remains of a fire in the
stove, that somebody had preceded them; but this fact he had not
happened to name to the girls.
One of the two men, out of sight in the loft, was Robert Royston, now
abroad for his short summer holiday. The other, strange to say, was
actually Lancelot Dennis Ivor himself—with whom Bee had been thrown
during her three weeks' visit to her aunts.
Bee had known, and had not forgotten, that he was an adept at
mountaineering. Nay, it was he who had advised her to do a little
scrambling in this very district, when she had mentioned her hope of a
visit to Switzerland in the summer. She did not dream of coming across
him, since he had said that Switzerland this year would be for him an
impossibility, on account of certain engagements. Plans had changed,
however; and here he was in company with his old college friend, Robert
Royston.
At table d'hôte the evening before, though Robert alluded to his
proposed ascent, he did not speak of the Hut; and she failed to deduce
the fact that he and his friend were likely to sleep there. Neither did
he utter his friend's name. Possibly, had Patricia not appeared just
when she did, drawing off everybody's attention, he might have done
either; in which case she and Amy would have been upon their guard. As
things were, they had not the smallest suspicion that any human being
was within earshot—the guide and his son being quite cut off by the
solid wall of the Hut.
Voices under the open loft-window aroused Ivor from a light sleep. Not
for some time fully. He lay in semi-consciousness—vaguely wishing that
he had not been disturbed, envying the calm slumber of Rob, hearing
partly as in a dream what was said, and regarding the same with the
uncritical detachment and indifference of a dreamer.
The soft tones of one speaker sounded familiar; and though he was too
far gone to attach a name, they transported him in imagination to
Wratt-Wrothesley; and he saw himself again wandering through the lovely
grounds with Bee.
A girlish argument of some sort seemed to be going on; and he took a
drowsy dislike to Amy, as he rolled over and tried to forget himself
once more.
Then the sounds grew clearer, more definite. That gentle-voiced girl
was being pestered—worried—and he felt a touch of indignation. It
dawned upon him that he was listening to something not meant for his
ears; and he was rousing himself to give a loud cough of warning, when—
"Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken
captive," checked him abruptly, with a feeling that the listening girl
must not know what he had heard. Then came the name of the place where
he had met Bee Major, and his own name following.
In a moment he was wide awake. In a moment also he had the blankets
over his ears, shutting out further sounds.
He recognised now well enough that soft voice. The only marvel was that
he had not instantly known it. He had seen much of Bee during three
weeks, had liked her much. If the impression made by him upon her was
deep, the impression made by her upon him was not slight. He admired
her; he enjoyed intercourse with her; he hoped some day before long to
meet her again; he had even recognised as a possibility that he might
by-and-bye find himself in love with her.
But he was not yet in love. He told himself so, almost angrily, as he
clutched the blanket round his head. And of all wretched contretemps,
what could be worse than this? That he and she should have come
together, high in the mountains, away from the crowds, neither knowing
of the other's presence, and that he should have overheard, without
intending it, words which—whether truly or falsely—no doubt implied
that he had somehow captured her heart! It was appalling!
Of course it might be all a mistake. Probably it was all a mistake. The
girl was joking, teasing her companion, trying to get a rise out of
her, as girls will; and Beatrice might never give the careless words
another thought, if—it all hung upon that!—if she did not discover that
he had been close at hand, and that he had or might have overheard. But
if she did find this out—his whole being rose in revolt for Bee's sake.
What would she not think? What would she not feel?
Small chance of sleep remained to him. He lay thinking the matter over,
worrying himself, and planning how to escape in the early morning,
before she should become aware of his presence.
An odd realisation crept over him, as he tossed and turned, that—if it
were true—and no doubt it was not true, it was mere nonsense!—but if it
were, then to be so loved would be a new and beautiful thing. Through
his twenty-five years of life he had never yet known what it was to be
first in a woman's heart. His mother had died in his infancy, and he
had no sisters. He was well off, successful, and popular. Match-making
mothers had courted him; and girls of a sort—the sort he would never
dream of marrying, for he held a high ideal of what a woman should
be—had flirted with him. But he knew Bee well enough to grasp that this
would be altogether different. If Bee Major loved, hers would be a love
worth having.
Of course it was all nonsense; a silly joke of that other unpleasant
girl. Only—if it were—
He knew himself to be companionable and agreeable, liked by people
in general, one who made and kept friends. But to be utterly and
absolutely first with another—to be the one and only man to one only
woman—that would put him on a new level, would give to life a fresh
colouring.
No use dwelling on all that, he told himself impatiently. Bee Major had
probably laughed at the silly words; and he himself was not in love. He
was, however, very much concerned to prevent her from becoming aware
of his presence in the Hut; and when one o'clock arrived, he wakened
Robert, and impressed on him the need for abnormal caution, lest they
should disturb two lady-climbers, sleeping on the ground-floor.
With exaggerated care, he set the example, creeping down the ladder
like a mouse, and keeping as much as possible in shadow behind the
stove, lest they also should have planned an early start, and should
arouse themselves. Not likely, at one o'clock in the morning; but on
such occasions nothing is impossible.
Besides, Beatrice might be awake, despite her stillness; and though she
should catch no glimpse of his face, she might recognise his voice. So,
in sombre silence, and not without some nervous glances towards the
lower shelf, on which lay two dimly-outlined figures rolled in rugs, he
drank his coffee. Rob kept equal silence.
It was a relief to Ivor to find himself safe outside the Hut. Quietly
he and Rob started on their dark upward tramp, lighted only by stars,
and by the glimmering lantern which swayed to and fro in the leader's
hand. An hour later, as they were crossing the hard frozen neve, he
received a fresh shock. Some words passed about their return route, and
Rob remarked that he had entered a note as to their intentions in the
Visitor's Book at the Hut.
"You didn't write our names!" Ivor involuntarily exclaimed.
"Yes, of course—why not?"
Why not, indeed? Ivor could offer no reason. He said only—
"I meant to do it on our way back."
"Always better to leave word of one's plans in case of an accident."
This was true enough; and Ivor made no further protest. He recalled
that Rob had stayed behind for a minute or two, when he had made his
way out of the Hut in readiness to start. He was very much annoyed—not
with Rob for doing what was quite reasonable, but with the fact.
Beatrice Major would undoubtedly look at the book, and she could not
fail to see his name. She would at once surmise, not that he had
actually heard her friend's foolish words, but that he might have done
so. Too late now to do anything; but the day was more or less spoilt
for him.
Such thoughts had to be put on one side, as the difficulties of the
way increased. They were still there, lying as a weight at the back of
his mind, though he had resolutely to ignore them and to bend all his
energies to the task in hand. The ascent of the Blümlisalphorn is not
exactly playwork, even for experienced climbers.
For a good while there was easy going over the frozen snow, and only
for a few hundred yards was their route shadowed by the possibility—a
slight one at such an early hour—of a falling avalanche. Breakfast on a
pure white table-cloth followed; and after this began the exciting part
of their ascent.
At first they mounted snow in good condition, lying on a foundation
of rock, which here and there cropped through. Then it steepened and
hardened, and the cutting of steps became necessary, till they reached
the col or narrow neck, from which one looks down on the little
Oeschinen Lake and the Valley of Kandersteg.
Thence the usual route is followed by the arête, now ice, now rock,
not only narrow but steeply ascending. If the leader, as he cuts steps
up the knife-edge of ice, should slip and fall, the instant duty of
his companion on the rope is to fling himself over on the opposite
side, where his weight would counterbalance that of his friend, and so
prevent both from being dashed to pieces three thousand feet below. For
such prompt action, in such a position, no little nerve is requisite;
yet not to do it spells a double fatality. Both Ivor and Rob were men
of calm nerve and quick decision.
While traversing the arête, no thinking about Beatrice could be allowed
himself by Ivor; and he was hardly conscious of the scenery. Nothing
but close and exclusive regard to each successive planting of the feet
ensures safety, as, steadying himself with his ice-axe, a climber moves
slowly upward and onward, till the summit is gained.
They stood there at length, side by side, triumphant,—just in time
to revel in the magnificent sight of a cloudless panorama of peaks,
each with its own wealth of golden light and azure shade, its morning
glories and fleeting shadows, its crumpled and rifted glaciers, its
uncountable revelations of beauty. Silent and entranced, they drank
in the loveliness with supreme enjoyment; though perhaps neither
could quite banish from his mind a recollection of that nerve-testing
"knife-edge," which had soon to be descended.
Coming down such a mauvais pas is, as everybody knows, always far worse
than going up it. Doubtless, it was as well that the Blümlisalphorn
does not lend itself to a picnic or a lengthy rest upon the summit;
for muscles are apt to stiffen with delay. A few minutes were all that
could be safely spared.
As they gazed, neither of the two was thinking only and exclusively of
the view.
In Rob's mind, together with the mountain glory, lay the picture of a
girl's face, fair and smiling, which he could not banish. Patricia had
laid her spell upon him; and even while his attention was most taken up
with the perils of the way, that face remained. It sprang up now with a
fresh insistence.
"If ever I marry—" he found himself saying, as his eyes roved from
height to height, from glacier to glacier—"If ever I marry, she shall
be my wife!" He was not conscious of haste in this decision—if a dream
may be called a decision; and he did not even remember his words to
Magda about not being a marrying man. He had not then "seen the girl."
To-day he had seen her.
Ivor also, while his glance wandered hither and thither, was haunted
by a presence. His chivalry had been troubled on behalf of Bee; and
the thought of what she must go through, when she became aware of his
nearness the evening before, pressed upon his mind. So soon as active
exertion ceased, the burden made itself felt; and he began again to
picture her state of mind.
If he did not really care for Bee, more than he was yet aware, it
might seem singular that he should be so much disturbed. This view of
the question did occur, and he had no answer ready—yet still he was
disquieted. When, however, the moment arrived for starting; when the
"knife-edge" had once more to be tackled—then he put her out of his
thoughts; and then, too, Rob had for the time to forget Patricia. All
their attention, all their nerve, were required.
Chip, chip, went the leader's axe, as he improved the steps made on
their ascent; and when one was clean-cut, the nail-studded boot slid
forward, and found good hold. Again the axe was at work; and the other
boot crept to its place. So each in turn advanced; and never did the
two climbers move together; and never was the rope that bound them
in a bond of comradeship allowed to sag. Its tautness was their only
insurance against the disaster which must otherwise have followed upon
a slip. But, happily, no slip occurred.
They had come to a determination, on the preceding day, that if all
went well they would return by another route from the col overlooking
Kandersteg—a route rarely attempted, since the condition of an open
couloir, a wide gully full of snow, which would have to be descended,
was seldom tempting. In addition, there was always a possibility of
the bergshrund below the couloir—a huge crevasse at the foot of the
snow-slope—entirely stopping their further progress, and forcing them
to re-ascend to the col, after half the descent had been done. But they
hoped to find either a bridge of winter snow across the bergshrund,
or else a place where they could turn it. And they were young and
enthusiastic, and willing to run a certain amount of risk.
So they decided to venture on the attempt. And this was the scheme
which Rob, the moment before they started, had scribbled in the
Visitors' Book at the Hut, together with their two names.
The variation from the more ordinary route at first promised well; and
the soft snow of the open couloir or gully allowed them, as they came
down it, to kick for themselves deep and safe steps.
But gradually, almost imperceptibly, the character of the snow changed.
It became powdery in substance; and each downward step started a
miniature avalanche—so small as to discount precaution.
They were now hardly two hundred yards from the yawning bergshrund at
the bottom of the slope; and to turn back without having examined it
would be really too exasperating. Thus it was that the warning given by
that shifting snow was allowed to pass almost unheeded. Rob, who was
now the leader, did his best to pack it firmly, before trusting his
weight to each foothold; and so far all seemed safe.
Ivor indeed felt so secure, as he plunged his foot into one deep step
after another made by his friend, that he a little relaxed his watchful
caution, and allowed his attention to wander, indulging in speculations
whether he and Rob would find the two girls still at the Hut. But for
that unfortunate remark overheard the evening before, he would have
wished that it might be so. He would have liked nothing better than to
see Bee Major again. He might never reach the point of actually falling
in love with her; yet she was undoubtedly a very sweet and taking girl.
Such thoughts were travelling through his mind when something occurred,
against which not all the acumen of the most experienced guides could
have insured, had they ventured to trust themselves upon so treacherous
a slope.
The sheet of snow which the two were descending began to stir! At first
slightly—then more decisively.
Ivor, well behind Rob, the rope between them being nearly taut, was
the first to awake to the awful fact that a wave had formed in front
of him. Only too well he knew what that meant; and he instantaneously
dug his ice-axe deep into the snow. This had small effect; for, as the
snow-sheet slid downward, Rob was carried with it. For one second the
rope tightened round Ivor; but, as the silent onrush of the avalanche
fought for the mastery, he too felt himself gently yet irresistibly
drawn into the white stream. Their eyes met, saying what their lips did
not utter—"We are lost!"
Down and down, sliding, struggling, borne along by the moving mass,
went both men; but Ivor was more in the actual stream than Rob, who
happened to be swept to one side. It was a small avalanche, neither
deep nor wide; and while Ivor remained near the centre, Rob was on the
border. Though perforce moving with it, he was subject to less impetus;
and as the white wave curled round a rib of rock outstanding from the
snow, the rope caught firmly. On swirled the shallow snow, and he
remained behind.
All might have been well with them both, had the rope held. But when
Ivor's weight came on it with a heavy jerk, it severed on the sharp
rock, as though cut by a knife.
Ivor was swept rapidly downwards; and without a sound, he disappeared
over the edge, into the bergshrund. From that deep snow-prison, even
if the hapless climber had not been at once killed by the fall, or
smothered in the cataract of snow, Rob—barely escaping the same fate,
and with only a short end of broken rope—was powerless to rescue him.