Chapter VII: A Mountain Hut by Night

THE Frauenbahn Hut, at last!

For eight hours and a half, including rests, they had been en route, with their guide and porter, making the steep ascent from Kandersteg, winding through pine-woods, pausing at the rough Oeschinen Hotel, skirting the deep-grey waters of the lake from which it took its name—then mounting again to the "Upper Alp," only to leave that also behind, as they yet more steeply zig-zagged onward over rough shale, with the glacier to their right and the Hut for their aim.

An experienced mountaineer would have covered in six hours the distance they had come; but, naturally, it took them a good deal longer, which meant arriving late.

Both were very tired and very happy, and in a state of mental exhilaration, which, despite fatigue, gave small promise of getting quickly to sleep amid such unwonted surroundings. Thus far, though the way had been steep, they had had a rugged path. On the morrow they would quit beaten tracks, and would do a "bit of the real thing," as Amy expressed it.

The guide, Peter Steimathen, had proved himself a pleasant companion all that day. Fortunately, since neither of the two was a practised German speaker, he had some command of English.

A rough little place was this Frauenbahn Hut, though better than most mountain refuges, for, in addition to the room on the ground-floor, it boasted a loft above, both being on occasions crammed with climbers. Nearly half the lower room consisted of a shelf, some three feet from the floor, covered with a bedding of straw; and on this the girls would spend their night, rolled up in rugs, provided for sleepers. High above their heads the guides would repose on another shelf, to reach which some agility was needed.

Beatrice and Amy counted themselves fortunate in finding the Hut empty. Apparently they would have the place to themselves. They looked round with interest at the wooden walls, the small window, and the stove at which the guide was preparing to boil water for their soup.

"But come—come outside," urged Amy. "Don't let us miss the sunset. It won't wait our pleasure. We can examine things inside by-and-by. Come!"

And they went, commandeering hut rugs for wraps, since it was "a nipping and an eager air" here, nine thousand feet above the sea-level.

"To think of it! Up in the very midst of the mountain amphitheatre!" murmured Amy.

When seated side by side on the bench, silence fell. They had chatted much in the early stage of their ascent; or rather, Amy had chatted and Bee had listened, which was a not unusual division of labour between them. Bee was a good listener. But more than once Amy had detected a wandering of attention, which was not common. At least, it had not been common till lately.

"Dreaming, Bee?" she had asked; and Bee blushed. Amy noted the blush, putting that down also as something new.

But Amy too for once became dumb, as they gazed from their Alpine Hut over the wide snowy expanse. It was hardly a scene to induce light chatter.

The track by which they had mounted from the Oeschinensee was already lost in darkness. But in front stood forth the roseate peaks of the Blümlisalp; notably the Weisse Frau, square-shouldered, and clothed in a mantle of ineffably delicate pink; and beyond her, almost bending over her like a devoted bridegroom, stood the yet loftier Blümlisalphorn, scarcely less pure, though broken by lines and ridges of rock which lay at too sharp an angle to retain snow. Nearer was the bare and rocky Blümlisalp-stock, cold and grim in the twilight, rising abruptly from the névé of the glacier.

Long lingered the mysterious radiance of the afterglow on the spurs and slopes of those great Gothic peaks, until the last filmy veil, sea-green in hue, faded before the onslaught of night. Then attendant stars began to twinkle in the vault over the Blümlisalphorn, forming a little crown above his head.

The two girls held their breath, clasping hands under the rugs.

"It's too lovely," murmured Amy. "What a splendid world ours is! Do you remember what Ruskin says—'Did you ever see one sunrise like another? Does not God vary His clouds for you every morning and every night?' Does He really—for us? Are you and I meant to enjoy this, Bee? And has nobody ever seen, and will nobody else ever see, just precisely what we are seeing now? Isn't it a perfectly extraordinary idea? Why, even a mile off—even half a mile off—it wouldn't be the same."

Bee did not answer at once. She could not so readily as Amy put her thoughts into words. After a pause she suggested—

"It makes one feel how small one's life is."

"Does it? No, no, Bee—just the other way. I always feel how terrifically full life is—absolutely brim-full! There's any amount, every day, of what one could do, and might do, and ought to do—and of what one doesn't do! Isn't that true?"

Then, with a change of tone—"Bee, do you ever look forward, and picture life in the future—think and dream of what may lie ahead!" Bee's imprisoned hand stirred, for did she not? Amy went on, unheeding the movement—"I do! I'm always and for ever dreaming of the time when you and I will live together; when we shall be just everything to each other. One knows that changes must come, as years pass on; and why shouldn't one think of the things that will lie beyond those changes? Do you remember my telling you last summer of this vision of mine?—Of the dear little home that is to be ours, and of how the days will fly, and of how I shall shelter and guard and pet my darling, and of how we shall want nothing and nobody except just our two selves! Think—how perfect it will be. You remember—don't you?"

Yes; Bee remembered, though, truth to tell, the said talk had made no very profound impression upon her mind. Amy had talked, and she had listened and had pleasantly assented, only to dismiss the subject later from her thoughts. Plainly, Amy had taken it much more seriously.

"When I'm vexed or worried, nothing comforts me like thinking about that sweet little future home of ours. Does it comfort you too?"

Bee hesitated, too truthful to say yes. "I don't know—" she murmured at length. "I haven't thought much about it."

"You haven't!"

"One can't look forward with any sort of certainty. Life is often so different—so unlike what one has fancied."

"That wasn't the way you took it last time."

"I'm older now."

"You're not twenty; and I'm over thirty."

"Yes, I know. But don't you think one learns to see things a little differently as time goes on?"

"Nothing could make me see that differently. I have always counted myself yours for life—and you mine. I have always felt sure that you did too."

"At all events—nothing can ever alter our friendship," remarked Bee cheerfully.

"It would be very much altered, if I believed that you didn't care for me as I care for you."

"I don't think it's a question of caring—but only—one never knows what life may be by-and-by."

Amy made an impatient movement. "Of course I see what all this means. I suppose you're thinking of marrying some day."

Another little pause, broken by Bee's soft tones.

"One can't shut one's eyes quite to possibilities," she said. "Either you or I might some day come across the right man. I dare say it isn't likely—but still—"

"So—that's it!" Amy drew a long breath. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Who is the lucky person?"

"You are talking nonsense now, Amy. All I say is that the thing might some day happen for either of us. And then—I'm afraid the little house—"

"Would be tenantless! No doubt! And if this supposititious individual did turn up—you'd care for him, of course, a great deal more than you care for—"

Bee laughed a little. "I shouldn't think you could compare the two sorts of feeling. I shall always care for you, no matter what else happens. But I don't see the use of planning so far ahead."

Amy was busily thinking. "Somebody or other is at the bottom of this," she cogitated. "Who can it be? Let me think—Bee has not been her usual self since—since—that visit to her aunts! I know! There were two house-parties while she was there, and she saw no end of people. And—yes, she did mention one name several times—a great pet of the old ladies! I remember! He was there nearly as long as Bee. What was his name?"

"So you can't compare the two feelings!" she remarked aloud. "Which means that you know both, my dear! Ah, now you've given yourself away, you transparent person! Come—you may as well 'fess! Who is the objectionable individual?"

"You are talking nonsense again!"

"I'm not so sure! Let me think—whom have you been seeing lately? Wasn't there a very delightful person at your aunts' house—yes, you certainly spoke of somebody two or three times, and said he was nice. Which from you is high praise. What is the man's name?"

Bee was thankful for the darkness. She wished now that she had not been so foolish as to differ from Amy. Why had she not fallen in with her friend's mood, and allowed her to expatiate as long as she liked on that "sweet little home," which in Bee's eyes looked so far from attractive? It would have been wiser not to risk awakening her suspicions.

"A great many nice people were in the house. Amy, look at that gleam of light on the snow—just dying away."

"I'm more interested in the lights and shades of human beings. I suppose he didn't actually propose."

Bee stood up, and her tone held a touch of gentle dignity.

"Amy, you are talking in a very foolish way—in a way you have no right to talk. I am tired of listening, and I shall go inside."

Amy was in a perverse mood, at the root of which lay jealousy; and this offended her. She, too, jumped up.

"Just as you like! I'll come too. But you can't throw dust in my eyes, my dear. You never can hide things from me, you know. Much better confess that your poor little heart has been taken captive. I have it now! I remember his name! And I shall always owe a grudge to Wratt-Wrothesley after this. Of course—it's that Mr. Ivor! Wretched man, to rob me of my Bee!"

She slightly raised her voice that Bee might hear. And as the latter disappeared within the hut door, making no reply, a soft sound floated down from the loft, just over Amy's head—the unmistakable sound of a subdued masculine snore.

"Gracious!" uttered Amy under her breath. "Somebody must be up there! What a mercy he's asleep!"

She found Bee inside, looking pale, and disposed to hold coldly aloof. Amy, already ashamed of herself, was constrained to whisper—

"Never mind! I was only talking nonsense! I won't again! It's all right!"