Chapter IX: Friends in Peril

FOUR hours after the departure of the two men, the girls were up, starting for their smaller ascent of the little Rothstock. They had a delightful five-hours' scramble, at the end of which, they again reached the Hut.

No contretemps, no false step on the part of either, had marred the climb. Amy had, in the early hours, shown a slight tendency to moodiness; and Bee had been silent and grave. But as the charm of their expedition gripped them, the spirits of both girls improved. As yet Bee remained in complete ignorance of the presence of others in the loft through the night. She could not easily throw off her displeasure at Amy's conduct; but she did her best to hide it. After all Amy had not meant to be unkind. She had only been—silly! It was wiser on her part to treat the affair as nonsense. And as the day went on, the recollection sank out of mind.

They resolved to have an hour's rest, before tackling the easy descent to Kandersteg; and as Amy flung herself down outside the Hut, Bee went inside, returning with the Visitors' Book in her hands.

"We haven't taken a look at the list of climbers yet," she said.

Amy had hoped to avert this. The last thing she wished was for Bee to awake to the possibility of those imprudent words having been overheard by some chance tourist. Unknown to Bee, she had found out that, not one man only, but two men had slept in the loft; and all day she had been at pains to keep clear of the subject.

"Yes, of course. We must sign our own names as conquerors of the Rothstock," she said quickly. "I'll do that presently. You've got to rest now. Give me the book, and I'll read the list aloud."

"Thanks, but we can both look. I like to see." Bee turned to the latest page, and exclaimed in surprise—"Robert Royston!—Magda's brother—" and the last word remained only half-uttered, as her eyes fell upon the name following. A deep flush suffused her cheeks. Amy, glancing at the page and then, in dismay, at her face, knew in a moment that what she had half-jestingly surmised was true.

Bee's colour faded faster than it had arisen. She grew white to the lips as if on the verge of fainting.

"They were here—last night!" Her eyes met those of her companion. "Amy!—Did you know?"

"Of course I didn't know. How should I? We both felt sure there was nobody here except ourselves. I never dreamt of such a thing. But we talked so low—they couldn't have heard a word!"

"Oh, no—no! You called out—loudly!"

"Bee, I'm sure I didn't. It isn't my way. You are fancying. And the window would be shut—"

"They are English. It would be open."

"But they were sound asleep. Of course they were sound!" Amy was really grieved at Bee's pale distress. "Quite sound!"

"It is easy to say so! You do not know."

"But Peter told me they went to bed very early, on purpose to sleep. Yes, I asked him, because—just after you went in, I heard a snore. I didn't see any use in worrying you, but I did ask Peter, and he said there were two Herren in the loft, and they had gone off in the night. I wonder we didn't hear them go. But I heard the snore quite plainly."

"That might show that one was asleep. Not—both!"

"If they had chanced to overhear a few words, they would know it meant nothing—just fun! They would understand."

"If only, only you had not done it!" Bee despairingly murmured. "I feel as if I could never bear to see either of them again."

"Why, Bee, really you are making too much of a small matter. What does it signify? Just a jest between two girls! Any sensible man would know what it was worth. If I had had a notion that anybody was there, of course I wouldn't have teased you; but I had not. And till this moment I didn't know their names. But now we do know, we can be perfectly sure that if either of them was awake, he would never have listened. He would have done something to let us know he was there."

"Not if he were taken by surprise—if he woke just then and heard his own name! How could he speak? I dare say it isn't likely; but it might have happened! I do think that sort of joking is very very wrong and unkind."

"Well, I won't do it again; I promise I won't. And I wouldn't think any more about it if I were you. Things can't be helped now; and the only way is to take sensibly what's done and can't be undone. You may depend upon it Mr. Ivor heard nothing."

Bee felt that it was easy for one person to be philosophical about another's trouble. She bent over the book with a troubled face, and read aloud a short note scrawled after the two names—"Going to try the Blümlisalphorn, descending from the col to the alp above the Oeschinensee."

She carried the book inside the Hut, and drew their guide's attention to this memorandum. Steimathen uttered a gruff word of disapproval. It was in his opinion a difficult and dangerous deviation from the ordinary route. The Herren would have been better advised, he said, had they kept to that route—with the snow in none too sound a state. Naturally, Peter was not particularly pleased with the enterprise of guideless parties, on mountains which he looked upon as his preserve.

All the way down, as far as the Oeschinen Hotel, Beatrice walked in thoughtful silence. She was pondering, partly, the dread that Ivor might have been awake, and so might have heard Amy's imprudent utterance; but also her mind was a good deal occupied with Steimathen's observations. More and more the possibility took hold of her that those two were in danger. The guide's suggestion might, it was true, have been to some extent dictated by jealousy; yet such a suggestion from a first-rate guide, who was also a good and dependable man, could not be lightly dismissed.

What if things were as Peter seemed to fear—if they had chosen a perilous route—if the snow was in an unsafe state—if something should happen to them on their way down? Nay, what if something were happening at this moment? The fear came between her mind and Amy's talk. For once she wished that her friend were capable of silence.

She made an opportunity to tackle Peter anew on the subject, asking fuller details about the nature of the proposed descent, and the reasons for his uneasiness. Peter's explanations were the reverse of comforting.

Very much more quickly than they had gone up, they regained the little hotel on the shore of the Oeschinensee. No sooner were they there, than Bee made straight for the telescope. She called Peter, got him to show her by which way the English gentlemen had planned to descend, and found that, from her present position, the entire route from the col—including a risky descent towards a very undesirable bergshrund, the nature of which he had already enlarged upon—could be swept by the glass.

Whether they had yet passed in safety that yawning chasm, Bee could not know, Peter could not tell her. If they had not, there was no reason why she should not actually watch their progress, could she but once "locate" them—or, as she expressed it, "get hold of them."

A good hour went by, during which she searched in vain. The guide wished to continue their descent to Kandersteg; and Amy was growing impatient; but neither of them could induce Bee to stir.

"I can't just yet," she pleaded. "There is no hurry. I have such a feeling that something is wrong. Do let me try a little longer. Yes—it may be all fancy—but I want to make sure."

Remonstrances fell on deaf ears. The usually compliant girl was resolute. She said little, but she clung to her post.

"What an imagination you have!" pettishly complained Amy, who by this time was both tired and cross. Yet still Bee gazed, searching the white slopes, regardless of her own or the other's fatigue.

"Just a little longer, Amy! I shall find them soon. I am sure I shall. If you cannot wait, please go on with Abraham; and I'll follow with Peter."

"Thanks. If I go, I'd rather have Peter. Of course I don't mean to leave you. But it is such nonsense!"

"Peter must wait, in case anything is wrong. He would have to go and help them."

"Why on earth should anything be wrong? It's more than likely that they have kept to the usual route, and are at the Hut by now. It's ridiculous your bothering about them like this."

"I can't help it, Amy. If anything happened to Magda's brother—"

"Oh, you needn't pretend, my dear! It's not—'Magda's brother'—" mimicking her tone—"that exercises your mind."

Beatrice lifted her face for one moment to look steadily at the other girl.

"I don't think that is quite like you," she said gravely, and she went back to the telescope.

Amy broke a lengthy silence, as if it had not existed. "No; it isn't like me. At least, I hope not. It isn't like my better self. I'm in the grip of the Green-eyed Monster to-day. Can't you see? It's hateful."

Bee's hand came softly on hers.

"Yes; I know. I've got to conquer. But all the same—oh, bother—I wish they'd turn up and have done with it. I'm tired."

"I'm so sorry," was all Bee said; and another ten minutes of patient scanning went by. Then her attitude changed, as—"There they are!" escaped her lips.

"Really!" with awakened interest.

"I see them! I see them plainly. Two little dots on the snow. I'm sure it is they." She called eagerly to Peter. "Oh, come!—come and look. I've found the Herren. What are they doing?"

She relinquished her post as he eagerly advanced. "My lady, she has good eyesight. She is right. The Herren are there. Nicht wahr?"

"Let me see again. One moment, please. Just to make sure!"

Unwillingly the guide complied, for Bee could not control her impatience.

"I see them now—quite plainly. Is that the part you said was where the snow might be bad? How fast they are coming down! Is it safe? But they are not so very high up. It's all right, isn't it? Oh! Oh, what is happening? What is it?" She seized Peter, and thrust him vehemently into her seat. "Tell me—what does it mean?"

Peter drew a long audible breath. He was just in time to catch one clear glimpse of the rolling figure of Ivor, before it vanished.

"Something is—not right," he answered gravely. "Yes; there is a mishap. One of the Herren has fallen. It may be—not far—but he is gone down. Nein, nein, Mees—one moment," as she grasped his arm. "Permit me, Mees—it is better that I look. Mees will not understand. The second Herr does not move. He stays there. He does nothing."

"You will send help! You will go yourself! You will not leave him to die!" urged the girl. "Peter—what can be done? Oh, please make haste."

She wrung her hands together, waiting for his next words, which did not come at once. Peter's gaze was riveted.

"The fallen Herr is out of sight still. The Herr above stirs not. He stays in one spot."

"You will go—will you not?" implored Bee.

"It is so. Mees may rest assured. All shall be done that man can do. They shall not be left to perish." Three minutes longer he studied the far-off scene.

"Peter—tell me—which Herr is it that has fallen?" She put the question faintly; and in her heart she chided herself for hoping that it might be Magda's brother—poor Magda!—and not the other.

"Ach! How can I tell?"

"Is he—is he—dead?"

Peter stood up. "We must not waste the time, Mees, in talk. It is that we must act. You, ladies, will wait here—is it not so?—till a rescue-party shall return from going to the Herren?"

"Yes, yes—only don't delay!" pleaded Bee.

Two other guides had happily arrived within the last hour from an expedition with three ladies, who at once agreed to manage the rest of their descent under the leadership of their porter, since they were unable to wait. A hurried consultation then took place; and it was decided that the three guides should start immediately, taking ropes and restoratives, and going by the shortest possible route. Peter, from his intimate knowledge of the district, had divined that one of the "Herren" must have fallen into the bergshrund, though he would not say as much to Bee. He knew too well what it might mean.

For Beatrice there followed a period of suspense, such as she had never before gone through. The hours seemed endless. It was not her way to talk of what she felt. All she wanted was to be left alone, that she might carry on her watch, silently praying. Afterwards, when she looked back, she knew that her whole being had been concentrated into one continuous wordless petition.

Amy really was sorry, now that she knew true cause for fear to exist. But her anxiety was moderate and impersonal; while to Bee it seemed that all joy in life hung upon the result of the guides' expedition.

While daylight lasted, she sat at the telescope, searching and searching, till her eyes grew dim and dazzled with the strain. That one tiny dark figure was always there; moving from time to time, yet never straying far. Beatrice built much upon the fact. If the fallen man were dead, why should his friend stay? On the other hand, if the fallen man were alive, would not his friend go in quest of help? Hope was put to a severe test.

Amy, as she found her efforts to bestow comfort of small use, went indoors and fell asleep; but Bee could not rest. When darkness made the telescope of no avail, she walked up and down outside the hotel, scarcely conscious of the cold, turning gently from well-meant attempts on the part of the hotel people to cheer her up, and picturing to herself without cessation Ivor dying or dead, or at best waiting on the lone island of rock, in cold and hunger and discomfort, resolute not to quit his friend.

If only he might escape with life, she would be content to ask no more. He might never think of her; he might never care for her; they might never meet again; but still he would be alive. She did not know how to endure the thought of a world which would no longer contain him.

Mastered at length by Amy's entreaties, she too went into the hotel, and lay down under blankets, refusing to undress. When Amy again dropped soundly off, she arose and seated herself at the window, to gaze in the direction of the spot where, perhaps, Ivor still was; or looking up at the calm stars overhead, to wonder whether already his spirit might have taken flight to those sublime heights; and how soon—if indeed it were so—she might be permitted to follow. Would it be wrong to wish to go—not to have to wait very long?

Then, refusing to admit any such possibilities, she imagined the guides drawing near to the scene of disaster, and tried to see, as in a vision, how they would rescue the fallen man. Though Peter had not told her exactly what it was that he conjectured, she had been quick to put two and two together, quick to read his thoughts. He had spoken of the bergshrund before the accident; and she knew at least something of what might be involved. Scene after scene passed before her mind's eyes till her brain whirled.

Dawn at last began; and with the earliest gleams of light she again planted herself at the post of observation; long before she could hope to make out anything. Time slowly, slowly dragged by; and patience at length met with its reward.

As day grew into being, she found herself actually witnessing the cautious descent of the couloir by the rescue-party. They hugged the rocks on one side, avoiding the course of the avalanche; and Bee watched, with a trembling hope which could find no utterance, till they reached the islet of rock where that patient watcher had spent his night; and the solitary dark figure was reinforced by other little dark figures. They seemed to pause and consult; then movements took place. What actually happened was that one of the guides attached himself to the full length of the rope, and was let down towards the shrund by the others, till he vanished over its edge. Then, when he reached Ivor, he fastened the rope round him, and they were drawn up together, the guide undermost.

Bee, from her distant post, could make out something of this. She followed the descent of the small dark body, saw it disappear, and with shortened breath waited through interminable minutes till something became visible, coming up slowly out of the depth. Something! But was it one man or two men?

She strained her eyes to see. Yes, certainly—two specks, close together, yet distinct, where only one had been; both apparently being dragged upwards toward where the rest of the party stood. The second might be Lancelot Ivor—or Robert Royston—or only a lifeless form, taken from its snow-prison. Who could tell?

"Anyhow, they've got him," Amy remarked, when Bee in short murmurs told what she saw.

"If we had not waited—if I had not found them—"

"Yes. You were right. I'm glad now that you persisted."

"Nobody might have known till—too late! Amy, you were very patient."

"I didn't feel patient, I assure you."

More hours crept by, and still Bee watched. Amy at last protested—

"You are worn out, Bee. If you would but lie down for an hour!"

"I can't just yet. Please don't ask it."

Nearer and nearer drew the party; more and more distinct in the field of the telescope.

Then Amy heard one short sigh of relief. "Yes," she said. "I can count them now. They are resting. The three guides, and both the others. Both—both!"

"Yes, dear."

"He's not killed. He's—alive!"

She slid off her seat into Amy's arms; and for a moment Amy thought she had fainted away; but she pulled herself together.

"How stupid! What made me do that?"

"You felt dizzy. Come indoors now and lie down. They are all right; and they can't get here for ever so long."

"Yes; I think I will. I'm a little—tired."

She walked quietly, stumbling once or twice, as if uncertain of her footing. Amy put her on the bed, and covered her up.

"You are to go to sleep. You shall hear everything by-and-by."

Amy stooped for a kiss; and Bee held her down. "Dear—you have been so kind. Thank you. Please don't let anybody know that I have—minded!"

"No, of course not!" Amy did not add, as she felt tempted to do, that anybody might have seen. She knew that it would be easy to explain Bee's over-anxiety, by the fact that one of the two men was the brother of her intimate friend.

"He's safe!" dropped slowly from Bee's lips. She drew one long sigh; her arms slackened and fell; and already she was dead asleep. A look of childlike peace overspread her face.

Amy stood looking down upon her. "Poor little dear! That's all you care for now! He—not even 'they.' And will he ever care for you? And if not—will you break your poor little heart? People don't break their hearts now-a-days—some say. But Bee is not like the ordinary run."

Bee smiled in her sleep.

"I shall hate him if he does; and I shall hate him if he doesn't! A nice state of things! O you Green-eyed Monster!—How I despise you! But you've had the better of me to-day; though I don't believe Bee has found it out. And you've got to be squashed, you know!" Amy shook her fist as at an enemy.