THE AVALANCHE.
The Wolkenstein had shrouded its crest more closely than ever: heavy
clouds were encamped about its peak and floated around its cliffs; wild
glacial torrents were rushing down from its ice-fields, and blasts of
wind raged over it day and night. The Alpine Fay was extending her
sceptre over her domain; the savage queen of the mountains was revealed
in all her terrific might, in all her terrible majesty.
The autumnal tempests had often been disastrous: more than once they
had brought freshets and avalanches; many a village, many a lonely
mountain-range, had suffered; but such a catastrophe as this had not
occurred in the memory of man. Strangely enough, the hamlets were
comparatively spared; the storms and floods threatened the railway,
which, following the course of the stream, traversed the entire
Wolkenstein district, and with its myriad bridges and structures
offered many a point for attack.
The engineer-in-chief had, with his accustomed foresight and energy,
adopted precautionary measures from the first. The entire force of
labourers was called out to protect the railway; the engineers were at
their posts day and night. Elmhorst seemed to be everywhere at once. He
flew from one threatened spot to another, exhorting, commanding,
inspiring courage, and exposing himself recklessly to danger. His
example fired the rest: all that mortal energy could do was done; but
human strength is vain in a conflict with the unfettered elements.
For three days and nights the rain had been pouring in torrents; the
countless veins of water, wont to trickle harmlessly and in silver
clearness from the heights, rushed in cataracts down into the valley;
the brooks were swollen rivers, breaking through the forests, and
tearing away with them huge rocks and uprooted pines, all hurrying
towards the mountain-stream, whose waters steadily rose, and dashed
their foaming, tumbling waves against the railway-dikes. They could no
longer resist the savage onslaught, and at last they were flooded here
and torn down there,--the wet, soggy ground gave way everywhere and
carried with it woodwork and masonry. The bridges too could no longer
resist; one after another succumbed to the assault of the waves, the
force of which it was vain to try to stem. In consequence of the
pouring rain, both ground and rock gave way; one of the stations was
entirely destroyed, and the others were much injured. The raging wind
increased tenfold all danger and the difficulty for the labourers. Had
the engineer-in-chief not been at their head, the people must have
given up in despair, and have merely looked on at the destruction they
thought themselves powerless to prevent.
But Wolfgang Elmhorst fought the battle to the bitter end. Step by
step, as he had once conquered this domain, he now defended it. He
would not succumb, would not give over his work to ruin; but whilst he
was thus putting forth all the energies of his nature in saving it from
destruction there rang in his ears incessantly the last words of old
Baron von Thurgau: 'Have a care of our mountains, lest, when you are so
arrogantly interfering with them, they rush down upon you and shatter
all your bridges and structures like reeds. I should like to stand by
and see the accursed work a heap of ruins!'
The gloomy prophecy seemed near its fulfilment, after all these years.
Forests and rocks had been penetrated, streams turned aside, and the
spacious mountain-realm bound in the iron fetters that were to make it
subservient to human purposes. Men had boasted that they had subdued
and chained the Alpine Fay, and now just as their work was drawing to a
close she had arisen from her cloudy throne and angrily protested. She
was descending in storm and destruction, and before her breath all the
proud structures of man's devising were crumbling to ruin. No courage,
no energy, no desperate struggle, availed; the savage elemental Force
hurled to destruction in the space of a few days all that which it had
cost human ingenuity years of toil to effect, laughing to scorn those
who had dreamed of subduing it.
The Wolkenstein bridge, it is true, stood secure and firm when
everything else was being swept away. Even the white, seething foam
tossed aloft by the dashing river did not reach it, suspended as it was
at a dizzy height above the abyss. And all the blasts of heaven raged
in vain against the iron ribs of the huge structure. It rested upon its
rocky foundations, as if built to bid defiance to destruction for all
eternity.
The station which served as a temporary habitation for the
engineer-in-chief had since the beginning of the storm been the
head-quarters where all reports were received and whence all orders
were issued. This portion of the railway had been hitherto thought
secure, for at this place it crossed one of the narrow, deep valleys,
passed over the Wolkenstein bridge, and then on the lofty steep cliffs
turned again to the mountain-river, which just here made a large curve.
The freshet which was so destructive to the lower stretch of railway
could not reach this upper portion. But now glacial torrents had broken
loose from the Wolkenstein, and the masses of mud and fragments of rock
which they brought with them extended even to the bridge. The danger
here must have been imminent, for Elmhorst himself was on the spot
directing the labourers.
In the prevailing confusion and hurry the arrival of the president and
his companions was hardly noticed; one or two of the engineers,
however, came towards them and confirmed the latest reports. In spite
of the storm, the work went on with feverish persistence, crowds of
labourers were busy near the bridge and also near the station, while
the rain poured down in torrents and the wind howled so fiercely that
it was often impossible to hear the shouted directions of the
engineers.
Nordheim alighted from his horse and approached Elmhorst, who left his
post and came to meet him. Both had believed that the interview in
which the tie between them had been dissolved would be a final one, but
they now saw and talked with each other daily, scarcely conscious, in
the magnitude of the disaster that had befallen the railway, of any
embarrassment in their relations. They knew best what there was to lose
here, and a community of interest still united them closely.
"You are here on the upper stretch?" the president asked, anxiously.
"And the lower----"
"Must be given up!" Wolfgang completed the sentence. "It was impossible
to secure it any longer. The dikes are broken through, the bridges
carried away. I have left only a few of the men to protect the
stations, and have concentrated all my available force here. We must
control these cataracts at all hazards."
Nordheim's uncertain glance sought first the bridge, and then the
station, where a number of men were busy: "What are they doing there?
You are having the house cleared out?"'
"I am having the books and papers, the plans and drawings, carried to a
place of security, for there is danger of an avalanche from the
Wolkenstein; we have had one or two warnings."
"That too!" the president muttered, in despair; then, turning suddenly,
as a thought struck him, "Good God! you do not think the bridge----?"
"No," said Wolfgang, drawing a deep breath. "The enclosed forest
protects the abyss, and the bridge with it; no avalanche can break that
down. I foresaw and provided for this danger when I planned it."
"It would be fearful," Nordheim groaned. "The injury even now is
incalculable. Should the bridge go all is lost!"
The frown on Elmhorst's brow deepened at this outburst of despair.
"Control yourself!" he said, in a low tone, but with emphasis. "We are
observed; every one is looking at us. We must set an example of courage
and hope, or the people will lose heart."
"Hope!" the president repeated, catching at the word as a drowning man
clutches a straw. "Have you really any hope?"
"No; but I shall fight to the last."
Nordheim looked the speaker in the face. His pale, stern features gave
no hint of the tempest raging within, and yet for him everything was at
stake. After the fading of his dreams of wealth and power, his work was
all that was left to him upon which to build a future if he lived, and
to be at least his enduring monument if he should fall by Waltenberg's
hand. It was now imperilled. And yet he stood erect and struggled on,
while the president was the image of impotent despair. What did he care
if others observed his hopelessness? What was it to him that an example
of courage was expected from a man in his position? He thought only of
the gigantic losses which the catastrophe would cause him,--losses
which might ruin him.
"I must return to my post," said Wolfgang. "If you stay, choose
carefully the spot where you stand. Stones and earth are continually
sliding down: we have had several accidents already."
He turned again towards the bridge, and then first noticed that
Nordheim had not come alone. For a moment he paused, and his glance
sought Erna. He divined what had brought her hither; he knew that she
feared for him, but he made no attempt to approach her, for at her side
was the man to whom she belonged, who, mute and inexorable as fate
itself, considered her absolutely his property. Waltenberg marked the
anxious glance of distress which followed Wolfgang as he returned to
his men and took up his stand on a threatened dam, and, as if by
accident, he put his hand upon the bridle of the other horse and held
it fast.
Suddenly behind the pair Gronau's tall figure appeared; muddy and
drenched, but entirely at his ease, he slowly approached. "Here we
are," he said, with a bow. "We come directly from Oberstein, but we
swam rather than walked."
"We?" asked Ernst. "Is Dr. Reinsfeld with you?"
"Yes; we succeeded at last in bringing the Obersteiners to their senses
and in convincing them that their home was not in danger this time. It
was a hard piece of work, and we were scarcely through with it when a
messenger arrived from the engineer-in-chief to ask the doctor to come
and see after some men who had been accidentally injured. The good
doctor, of course, ran his fastest, and I ran too, for I thought
another pair of stout arms might not come amiss, and it was well I did
so. I have established myself in the house there as hospital nurse, and
have just come for an instant to let you know I am here, for my hands
are quite full."
"There have been accidents, then. I hope nothing serious?" Erna asked,
eagerly.
Gronau shrugged his shoulders; "One of the men was carried away by a
cataract and fished out in a mangled condition; the doctor is afraid he
cannot pull him through; and another was struck on the head by a
fragment of falling rock; his case too is serious; the others are only
slightly injured."
"If Dr. Reinsfeld needs help I am ready to do all I can," the young
girl declared, turning her horse as if to go to the house Grouau had
pointed out.
"Thanks, Fraeulein von Thurgau, we can get along very well by
ourselves," Veit replied, while Waltenberg looked at his betrothed in
surprise.
"What, Erna, you? There are others to do that work. Gronau is helping
the doctor. Why so superfluously heroic?"
"Because I cannot endure to stand idly and unsympathetically by while
every one else is toiling to the very death!"
There was a stern reproof in her words, but Ernst did not seem to
understand it: "No, you certainly are not unsympathetic, you are
actually trembling with emotion," he observed. "But, in fact, the men
are using their utmost exertions in spite of the danger that
continually threatens them."
"Because the engineer-in-chief is always foremost in peril," Veit
continued the sentence. "If he were not everywhere, showing them an
example of scorn of all danger, they would waver and hesitate; but such
a leader inspires even the timid. There he stands in the very centre of
that dam which the water may carry away at any moment, and issues his
orders as if he could control the entire mountain-realm. For three days
now he has been battling with this accursed Alpine fiend, who seems
positively mad with fury, and I verily believe he will get the upper
hand of her. But I must go back to the doctor. Good-bye."
He went, and the president, who just then returned to his companions,
saw him as he vanished within-doors. He shuddered involuntarily; the
appearance of this man was one more evil omen,--it reminded him that a
danger menaced him which had nothing to do with the present peril,
already terrible enough.
His short conversation with Wolfgang had deprived Nordheim of the last
gleam of hope. If the upper stretch of railway were destroyed, what
would remain of all the buildings, the erection of which had absorbed
millions, and which he could not possibly restore? He had from the
beginning owned the chief part of the railway stock, and of late, in
view of the enormous profit he hoped to gain upon his retirement, he
had greatly increased the number of his shares, so that the tremendous
loss would be his almost alone. He knew that his property, invested in
many other speculations, could not stand such a blow, and if Gronau
should make good his threat and accuse him publicly, all was lost. The
millionaire secure in his position might perhaps have defied him, the
half-ruined speculator would be overwhelmed; Nordheim knew the world in
which he had lived so long.
Neither his energy nor his presence of mind stood him in stead now. The
man who had for so long been the spoiled darling of Fortune, for whom
everything had turned to gain, could not understand how she could
suddenly prove thus false to him. He had always been a bold, clever man
of business, but he had no force of character; in misfortune he was
pitiably cast down. In dull, dumb despair he stood gazing at the men,
at whose head the engineer-in-chief had again placed himself.
Wolfgang seemed to be everywhere; one moment he was standing on the
most imperilled part of the dam, anon he breasted the tempest in the
centre of the bridge, and then he hurried to the station-house to issue
his orders thence. He was dripping from head to foot,--the water was
trickling from his hair, from his clothes; he did not seem to feel it,
or to be in need of either rest or refreshment, and yet nothing but the
most fearful tension of mind and body sustained him in the conflict
which had now been going on for three times four-and-twenty hours.
These were hours when Wolfgang Elmhorst might have forced even his
bitterest enemies to respect and admire him.
And his mortal enemy was thus forced, but none the less did his hatred
and jealousy burn fiercely. Waltenberg was familiar with danger,--he
had often invoked it and dallied with it recklessly,--but there was
something far beyond dalliance in the unconquerable energy with which
Elmhorst thus devoted himself to duty. He knew that his was a forlorn
hope; half of his work was already destroyed, he could not save the
rest, and yet he worked on, seeming determined to die rather than
yield.
And as he thus struggled, Ernst Waltenberg on horseback looked on at
'the very interesting spectacle,' but was conscious of the part he had
condemned himself to play. He had invited Erna to ride with him to the
scene of disaster; the same calculating cruelty which had tormented her
by silence had dictated the proposal. He knew she would accede to it,
since it would give her an opportunity to see Wolfgang again, and she
should see him in the midst of the danger to which he so recklessly
exposed himself, she should tremble in mortal distress, and yet never
betray by a change of feature the anguish of her soul. Elmhorst was
right: this man's love was mere selfishness. What was it to him that
the woman he loved was tortured and in agony, if but his savage thirst
for revenge were allayed? Erna should suffer as he suffered; he would
be as pitiless to her as fate had been to himself.
But he underestimated the fearless nature of his betrothed when he
thought that she would merely tremble at this danger. Her eyes were
indeed riveted on Wolfgang in breathless anxiety, but they flashed with
passionate admiration, with proud satisfaction, on beholding how he
bore himself in the conflict, how he gazed into the terrible
countenance of the Alpine Fay and strove with her to the death. In this
mortal struggle he was for her all hero, her whole soul went out to
meet him. Every shadow which had formerly obscured his image in her
heart was dispersed in this light; he stood before her, as he had
confronted Nordheim, free from all shackles in the triumph of his own
true nature.
Ernst was thus obliged to feel the shaft which he had shot so cruelly
rebound upon himself. He had meant to show Erna the danger of the man
whom she loved; he had shown her only his heroism. To be sure, he stood
guard over her, determined to prevent a meeting, but he could not
prevent the mute language of their eyes, the glances that sought and
found each other in spite of distance and separation, of tempest and
destruction, and in this language they told each other everything.
Wolfgang felt that at this moment the barriers which his wooing of
Alice had erected between himself and his love were levelled, and in
the midst of the hopelessness of his efforts there gleamed upon him a
ray of light, like the gleam of sunset indeed, but all-inspiring.
It seemed in fact as if the success of the work of salvation depended
upon the presence of this man. The most dangerous of the torrents which
rushed wildly against the railway-dike had been successfully turned
aside, Elmhorst having diverted its course to a deep cut in the rocks,
whence it fell harmlessly into the Wolkenstein abyss, carrying with it
the masses of earth and stones which had been so destructive. The most
imminent danger was averted, and for the moment the tempest seemed to
subside. The rain ceased, the wind became less violent, and it began to
look brighter about the Wolkenstein.
There was a few minutes' pause in the work. The president and
Waltenberg, who also had alighted, walked along the bridge, where some
of the workmen were gathered, to observe the diverted torrent foaming
in the abyss. Everything looked more hopeful.
The engineer-in-chief, however, stood on one side apart from the rest.
He did not hear the cheerful exclamations of the men, but, leaning
forward, seemed to listen intently to a sound muttering on high through
the air, like the distant roll of thunder; his eyes were fixed upon the
crest of the Wolkenstein, and suddenly his face took on a death-like
pallor.
"Away from the bridge!" he shouted to the rest. "Save yourselves! Run
for your lives!"
His last words were drowned in a dull rumble that grew to a crash as of
thunder, but his cry of warning had been heard. The people scattered
hastily; they felt the approach of something terrible,--there was no
time to understand what it was; they deserted the bridge as quickly as
possible.
Nordheim and Waltenberg were carried away by the rush, and the former
reached firm land, but Ernst stumbled and fell while yet on the bridge.
Past him and over him the others ran wildly; in the selfishness of
mortal terror every one thought only of his own safety, while
Waltenberg, stunned by his fall, lay on the ground quite unable to rise
for the space of a minute, when seconds were precious.
Suddenly he felt a strong arm grasp him and lift him from the ground,
then bear him onward, to release him only when the stout trunk of a
tree was reached, around which he could clasp his own arms to hold
himself upright.
Then came the wind, howling and roaring like a hurricane,--a blast to
which all that had gone before during the last three days had been but
as the sighing of a breeze,--and everything in its path was prostrated
or carried away. This was the herald of the Alpine Sprite, preparing a
way for her; and now she herself descended from her cloud-veiled
throne. A roar as of a thousand peals of thunder filled the air,
echoing from every height, from every abyss, as if the entire
mountain-realm were crashing to fragments; the rocks seemed to tremble,
the earth to rock, as this terrible something, white and phantom-like,
thundered past. It lasted for a minute, and then there was silence,--a
silence as of death.
The avalanche had torn its way from the peak of the mountain directly
into the abyss, and destruction marked its course. The extensive,
protecting, enclosed forest at the foot of the cliffs had vanished, and
where it had stood there was a desolate, dreary waste. The course of
the stream was blockaded; the chasm was half filled with jagged masses
of ice, from among which projected trunks of trees and huge fragments
of stone, and where the bridge had thrown its bold arch from rock to
rock now yawned sheer emptiness. Two of the huge shafts were still
standing, the rest were partly or entirely torn down, and about them
hung some of the iron ribs, bent and snapped like reeds; all the rest
lay below in the abyss. She had avenged herself, the savage Alpine Fay.
Crushed and splintered at her feet lay the proud creation of man.