Chapter Twenty.
Records a Serious Event
Our ramblers had now reached a place where a great expanse of rock surface was exposed, and the temptation to dilate on the action of glaciers proved too strong for the Professor. He therefore led those who were willing to follow to a suitable spot and pointed out the striations, flutings, and polishings of the granite, which showed that in former ages the glacier had passed there, although at that time it was far below in the valley. The polishings, he said, were caused by the ice slowly grinding over the surface of the rock, and the flutings and groovings were caused, not by the ice itself, but by stones which were embedded in its under surface, and which cut the solid granite as if with chisels.
Meanwhile, Lewis and Emma, having taken the opportunity to search for plants, had wandered on a little in advance, and had come to another steep slope, which was, however, covered with snow at its upper part. Below, where it became steeper, there was no snow, only pure ice, which extended downwards to an immense distance, broken only here and there by a few rocks that cropped through its surface. It terminated in a rocky gorge, which was strewn thickly with débris from above.
“Let us cross this,” said Emma, with a look of glee, for she possessed an adventurous spirit.
“We’d better not,” answered Lewis. “The slope is very steep.”
“True, O cautious cousin,” retorted Emma, with a laugh, “but it is covered here with snow that is soft and probably knee-deep. Go on it, sir, and try.”
Thus commanded, Lewis obeyed, and found that the snow was indeed knee-deep, and that there was no possibility of their either slipping or falling, unless one were unusually careless, and even in that case the soft snow would have checked anything like an involuntary glissade.
“Let me go first,” said Lewis.
“Nay, I will go first,” returned Emma, “you will follow and pick me up if I should fall.”
So saying, she stepped lightly into the snow and advanced, while her companion stood looking at her with a half-amused, half-anxious smile.
She had not made six steps, and Lewis was on the point of following, when he observed that there was a crack across the snow just above where he stood, and the whole mass began to slide. For a moment he was transfixed with horror. The next he had sprung to his cousin’s side and seized her arm, shouting—
“Emma! Emma! come back. Quick! It moves.” But poor Emma could not obey. She would as soon have expected the mountain itself to give way as the huge mass of snow on which she stood. At first its motion was slow, and Lewis struggled wildly to extricate her, but in vain, for the snow avalanche gathered speed as it advanced, and in its motion not only sank them to their waists, but turned them helplessly round, thus placing Lewis farthest from the firm land. He shouted now with all the power of his lungs for help, while Emma screamed from terror.
Lawrence chanced to be nearest to them. He saw at a glance what had occurred, and dashed down the hill-side at headlong speed. A wave was driving in front of the couple, who were now embedded nearly to their armpits, while streams of snow were hissing all round them, and the mass was beginning to rush. One look sufficed to show Lawrence that rescue from the side was impossible, but, with that swift power of perception which is aroused in some natures by the urgent call to act, he observed that some yards lower down—near the place where the ice-slope began—there was a rock near to the side in the track of the avalanche, which it divided. Leaping down to this, he sprang into the sliding flood a little above it, and, with a powerful effort, caught the rock and drew himself upon it. Next moment Emma was borne past out of reach of his hand. Lawrence rushed deep into the snow and held out his alpenstock. Emma caught it. He felt himself turned irresistibly round, and a sick feeling of despair chilled his life-blood. At the same moment a powerful hand grasped his collar.
“Hold on, Monsieur,” cried Antoine, in a deep, yet encouraging voice, “I’ve got you safe.”
As he spoke, Emma shrieked, “I cannot hold on!”
No wonder! She had not only to resist the rushing snow, but to sustain the drag of Lewis, who, as we have said, had been carried beyond his cousin, and whose only chance now lay in his retaining hold of her arm. Ere the words had quite left her lips, Lewis was seen deliberately to let go his hold and throw up his arm—it seemed as if waving it.
Next moment Emma was dragged on the rock, where she and her companions stood gazing in horror as their companion was swept upon the ice-slope and carried down headlong. The snow was by this time whirled onward in a sort of mist or spray, in the midst of which Lewis was seen to strike a rock with his shoulder and swing violently round, while parts of his clothing were plainly rent from his body, but the painful sight did not last long. A few seconds more and he was hurled, apparently a lifeless form, among the débris and rocks far below.
Death, in such a case, might have been expected to be instantaneous, but the very element that caused the poor youth’s fall, helped to save him. During the struggle for life while clinging to Emma’s arm, the check, brief though it was, sufficed to allow most of the snow to pass down before him, so that he finally fell on a comparatively soft bed; but it was clear that he had been terribly injured, and, what made matters worse, he had fallen into a deep gorge surrounded by precipices, which seemed to some of the party to render it quite impossible to reach him.
“What is to be done?” exclaimed Lawrence, with intense anxiety. “He must be got at immediately. Delay of treatment in his case, even for a short time, may prove fatal.”
“I know it, Monsieur,” said Antoine, who had been quietly but quickly uncoiling his rope. “One of the porters and I will descend by the precipices. They are too steep for any but well-accustomed hands and feet. You, Monsieur, understand pretty well the use of the axe and rope. Cut your way down the ice-slope with Jacques. He is a steady man, and may be trusted. Run, Rollo (to the third porter), and fetch aid from Gaspard’s châlet. It is the nearest. I need not say make haste.”
These orders were delivered in a low, rapid voice. The men proceeded at once to obey them. At the same time Antoine and his comrade swung themselves down the cliffs, and were instantly lost to view. The young porter, whom he had named Rollo, was already going down the mountain at a smart run, and Jacques was on the ice-slope wielding his axe with ceaseless energy and effect, while Lawrence held the rope to which he was attached, and descended the rude and giddy staircase behind him.
It was a terrible time for those who were left above in a state of inaction and deep anxiety, but there was no help for it. They had to content themselves with watching the rescue, and praying for success.
It was not long before the guide and porter reached the spot where poor Lewis lay. He was not insensible, but a deadly pallor overspread his scarred face, and the position in which he lay betokened utter helplessness. He could scarcely speak, but whispered that he fancied he was not so much hurt as might have been expected, and expressed wonder at their having been so long in reaching him.
The guide spoke to him with the tenderness of a woman. He knew well how severely the poor youth was injured, and handled him very delicately while making such preliminary arrangements as were in his power. A few drops of brandy and water were administered, the poor limbs were arranged in a position of greater comfort, and the torn rags of clothing wrapped round him.
Soon they were joined by Lawrence, who merely whispered a few kind words, and proceeded at once to examine him. His chief anxiety was as to the amount of skin that had been destroyed. The examination revealed a terrible and bloody spectacle; over which we will draw a veil; yet there was reason to believe that the amount of skin torn off and abraded was not sufficient to cause death. Lawrence was comforted also by finding that no bones appeared to have been broken.
Nothing could be done in the way of attempting a removal until the return of Rollo with a litter. Fortunately this was not long of being brought, for the young porter was active and willing, and Gaspard had promptly accompanied him with men and materials for the rescue.
But it was a sad, slow, and painful process, to bear the poor youth’s frame from that savage gorge, and convey him on a litter, carried by four men, over glaciers and down rugged mountain sides, even although done by tender hearts and strong hands. Everything that ingenuity could contrive was done to relieve the sufferer, and when at last, after weary hours, they reached the high-road of the valley, a carriage was found waiting. A messenger had been sent in advance to fetch it, and Mrs Stoutley was in it.
There was something quite touching in the quiet, firm air of self-restraint with which she met the procession, and afterwards tended her poor boy; it was so unlike her old character!
The sun was setting in a field of golden glory when they carried Lewis into the hotel at Chamouni, and laid him on his bed—a mere wreck of his former self.
Chapter Twenty One.
Down in the Moraine at last
As the reader may suppose, the terrible accident to Lewis Stoutley put an end to further merry-making among our friends at Chamouni. Mrs Stoutley would have left for England at once if that had been possible, but Lewis could not be moved for several weeks. At first indeed, fears were entertained for his life, but his constitution being good, and not having been damaged by dissipation, he rallied sooner than might have been expected, although it was evident from the beginning that complete restoration could not be looked for until many months, perhaps years, had passed away.
We need scarcely say, that the rapid improvement of his health was largely due to the tender watchful care of his mother.
Since visiting Switzerland, that excellent lady’s spirit had undergone a considerable change. Without going minutely into particulars, we may say that the startling events which had occurred had been made the means of opening her spiritual eyes. It had occurred to her—she scarce knew how or why—that her Creator had a claim on her for more consideration than she had been in the habit, heretofore, of testifying by a few formalities on Sundays; that there must be some higher end and aim in life than the mere obtaining and maintaining of health, and the pursuit of pleasure; and that as there was a Saviour, whom she professed on Sundays to follow, there must be something real from which she had to be saved, as well as something real that had to be done. Sin, she knew, of course, was the evil from which everybody had to be saved; but, being a good-natured and easy-going woman, she really did not feel much troubled by sin. Little weaknesses she had, no doubt, but not half so many as other people she knew of. As to anything seriously worthy the name of sin, she did not believe she had any at all. It had never, until now, occurred to her that the treating of her best Friend, during a lifetime, with cool and systematic indifference, or with mere protestations, on Sundays, of adoration, was probably as great a sin as she could commit.
Her thoughts on these points she did not at first mention to any one, but she received great help and enlightenment, as well as comfort, from the quiet sensible talk of Dr Lawrence, as he sat day after day, and hour after hour, at the bedside of his friend, endeavouring to cheer his spirits as well as to relieve his physical pain—for Lawrence was well fitted to do both.
He was not by any means what is styled a sermoniser. He made no apparent effort to turn conversation into religious channels. Indeed we believe that when men talk with the unrestrained freedom of true friendship, conversation needs no directing. It will naturally flow along all channels, and into all the zigzags and crevices of human thought—religion included. Lewis was in great pain and serious danger. Lawrence was a man full of the Holy Spirit and love to Jesus. Out of the fullness of his heart his mouth spoke when his friend appeared to desire such converse; but he never bored him with any subject—for it is possible to be a profane, as well as a religious, bore!
As soon as Lewis could turn his mind to anything, after his being brought back to the hotel, he asked earnestly after Nita Horetzki.
“She has left,” said Mrs Stoutley.
“Left! D’you mean gone from Chamouni, mother?” exclaimed Lewis, with a start and a look of anxiety which he did not care to conceal.
“Yes, they went yesterday. Nita had recovered sufficiently to travel, and the medical man who has been attending her urged her removal without delay. She and her father seemed both very sorry to leave us, and left kind messages for you. The Count wanted much to see you, but we would not allow it.”
“Kind messages for me,” repeated Lewis, in a tone of bitterness, “what sort of messages?”
“Well, really, I cannot exactly remember,” returned Mrs Stoutley, with a slight smile, “the kind of messages that amiable people might be expected to leave in the circumstances, you know—regret that they should have to leave us in such a sad condition, and sincere hope that you might soon recover, etcetera. Yes, by the way, Nita also, just at parting, expressed a hope—an earnest hope—that we might meet again. Poor dear thing, she is an extremely affectionate girl, and quite broke down when saying good-bye.”
“D’you know where they have gone to, mother?”
“No. They mean to move about from place to place, I believe.”
“Nita said nothing about writing to you, did she?”
“Did they leave any address—a poste restante—anywhere, or any clew whatever as to their whereabouts?”
“None whatever.”
So then, during the weary days of suffering that he knew full well lay before him, poor Lewis had no consolatory thought in regard to Nita save in her expressed “earnest hope” that they might meet again. It was not much, but it was better than nothing. Being an ingenious as well as daring architect, Lewis built amazing structures on that slight foundation—structures which charmed his mental eyes to look upon, and which, we verily believe, tended to facilitate his recovery—so potent is the power of true love!
“Captain Wopper,” said Mrs Stoutley one morning, towards the end of their stay in Switzerland, Lewis having been pronounced sufficiently restored to travel homeward by easy stages, “I have sent for you to ask you to do me a favour—to give me your advice—your—”
Here, to the Captain’s amazement, not to say consternation, Mrs Stoutley’s voice trembled, and she burst into tears. If she had suddenly caught him by the nose, pulled his rugged face down and kissed it, he could not have been more taken aback.
“My dear madam,” he stammered, sitting down inadvertently on Mrs Stoutley’s bonnet—for it was to the good lady’s private dressing-room that he had been summoned by Gillie White—“hold on! don’t now, please! What ever have I done to—”
“You’ve done nothing, my dear Captain,” said Mrs Stoutley, endeavouring to check her tears. “There, I’m very foolish, but I can’t help it. Indeed I can’t.”
In proof of the truth of this assertion she broke down again, and the Captain, moving uneasily on his chair, ground the bonnet almost to powder—it was a straw one.
“You have been a kind friend, Captain Wopper,” said Mrs Stoutley, drying her eyes, “a very kind friend.”
“I’m glad you think so, ma’am; I’ve meant to be—anyhow.”
“You have, you have,” cried Mrs Stoutley, earnestly, as she looked through her tears into the seaman’s rugged countenance, “and that is my reason for venturing to ask you now to trouble yourself with—with—”
There was an alarming symptom here of a recurrence of “squally weather,” which caused the Captain to give the bonnet an “extra turn,” but she recovered herself and went on—
“With my affairs. I would not have thought of troubling you, but with poor Lewie so ill, and Dr Lawrence being so young, and probably inexperienced in the ways of life, and Emma so innocent and helpless, and—in short I’m—hee!—that is to say—ho dear! I am so silly, but I can’t—indeed I can’t—hoo–o–o!”
It blew a regular gale now, and a very rain of straw débris fell through the cane-bottomed chair on which the Captain sat, as he vainly essayed to sooth his friend by earnest, pathetic, and even tender adjurations to “clap a stopper upon that,” to “hold hard,” to “belay”, to “shut down the dead-lights of her peepers,” and such-like expressive phrases.
At length, amid many sobs, the poor lady revealed the overwhelming fact that she was a beggar; that she had actually come down to her last franc; that her man of business had flatly declined to advance her another sovereign, informing her that the Gorong mine had declared “no dividend;” that the wreck of her shattered fortune had been swallowed up by the expenses of their ill-advised trip to Switzerland, and that she had not even funds enough to pay their travelling expenses home; in short that she was a miserable boulder, at the lowest level of the terminal moraine!
To all this Captain Wopper listened in perfect silence, with a blank expression on his face that revealed nothing of the state of feeling within.
“Oh! Captain Wopper,” exclaimed the poor lady anxiously, “surely—surely you won’t forsake me! I know that I have no claim on you beyond friendship, but you have always given us to understand that you were well off, and I merely wish to borrow a small sum. Just enough, and no more. Perhaps I may not be able to repay you just immediately, but I hope soon; and even if it came to the worst, there is the furniture in Euston Square, and the carriage and horses.”
Poor Mrs Stoutley! She was not aware that her man of business had already had these resources appraised, and that they no more belonged to her at that moment than if they had been part of the personal estate of the celebrated man in the moon.
Still the Captain gazed at her in stolid silence.
“Even my personal wardrobe,” proceeded Mrs Stoutley, beginning again to weep, “I will gladly dis—”
“Avast! Madam,” cried the Captain, suddenly, thrusting his right hand into his breeches-pocket, and endeavouring to drag something therefrom with a series of wrenches that would have been terribly trying to the bonnet, had its ruin not been already complete, “don’t talk to me of repayment. Ain’t I your—your—husband’s brother’s buzzum friend—Willum’s old chum an’ messmate? See here.”
He jerked the chair (without rising) close to a table which stood at his elbow, and placed thereon a large canvas bag, much soiled, and tied round the neck with a piece of rope-yarn, which smelt of tar even at a distance. This was the Captain’s purse. He carried it always in his right trouser-pocket, and it contained his gold. As for such trifling metal as silver, he carried that loose, mixed with coppers, bits of tobacco, broken pipes, and a clasp-knife, in the other pocket. He was very fond of his purse. In California he had been wont to carry nuggets in it, that simple species of exchange being the chief currency of the country at the time he was there. Some of the Californian débris had stuck to it when he had filled it, at a place of exchange in London, with Napoleons. Emptying its glittering contents upon the table, he spread it out.
“There, madam,” he said, with a hearty smile, “you’re welcome to all I’ve got about me just at this moment, and you shall have more when that’s done. Don’t say ‘not so much,’ cause it ain’t much, fifty pound, more or less, barrin’ the nuggets, which I’ll keep, as I dessay they would only worry you, and there’s plenty more shot in the locker where that come from; an’ don’t talk about payin’ back or thankin’ me. You’ve no occasion to thank me. It’s only a loan, an’ I’ll hold Willum, your brother-in-law, responsible. You wouldn’t decline to take it from Willum, would you?”
“Indeed no; William Stout has always been so kind to us—kinder than I have deserved.”
“Well, then, I’ll write to Willum. I’ll say to him, ‘Willum, my boy, here’s your brother’s widdy bin caught in a squall, had her sails blown to ribbons, bin throw’d on her beam-ends, and every stick torn out of her. You’ve got more cash, Willum, than you knows what to do with, so, hand over, send me a power of attorney (is that the thing?) or an affydavy—whatever lawyer’s dockiments is required—an’ I’ll stand by and do the needful.’ An’ Willum ’ll write back, with that power an’ brevity for which he is celebrated,—‘Wopper, my lad, all right; fire away. Anything short o’ ten thousand, more or less. Do yer w’ust. Yours to command,
“‘Willum.’”
There was no resisting such arguments. Mrs Stoutley smiled through her tears as she accepted the money. Captain Wopper rose, crammed the empty canvas bag into his pocket, and hastily retired, with portions of the bonnet attached to him.
“Susan,” said Mrs Stoutley, on the maid answering her summons, “we shall start for London tomorrow, or the day after, so, pray, set about packing up without delay.”
“Very well, ma’am,” replied Susan, whose eyes were riveted with an expression of surprised curiosity on the cane-bottomed chair.
“It is my bonnet Susan,” said the lady, looking in the same direction with a sad smile. “Captain Wopper sat down on it by mistake. You had better remove it.”
To remove it was a feat which even Susan, with all her ready wit and neatness of hand, could not have accomplished without the aid of brush and shovel. She, therefore, carried it off chair and all, to the regions below, where she and Gillie went into convulsions over it.
“Oh! Susan,” exclaimed the blue spider, “wot would I not have given to have seed him a-doin’ of it! Only think! The ribbons, flowers, and straw in one uniwarsal mush! Wot a grindin’ there must ave bin! I heer’d the Purfesser the other day talkin’ of wot he calls glacier-haction—how they flutes the rocks an’ grinds in a most musical way over the boulders with crushin’ wiolence; but wot’s glacier haction to that?”
Susan admitted that it was nothing; and they both returned at intervals in the packing, during the remainder of that day, to have another look at the bonnet-débris, and enjoy a fresh explosion over it.