Chapter XVIII: On the Mountain

"YES, we think you can do it." Maurice spoke aloud, scanning the girl with thoughtful eyes. "Pressford is sure. You are a born climber. But you must make up your mind to obey orders implicitly." He spoke in a tone of half apology, having found in her by this time an impulsive tendency to insist on her own way. Her face glowed.

"I'll be sure. Oh, I promise—anything you like. If only I may go! Is the Glückhorn a good height?"

"About twelve thousand feet. It's a peak of medium difficulty; not beyond a beginner of your calibre. Pressford has never been up it; but he has made full inquiries. There's only one really stiff bit; and we'll have you up that between us. Given a fine day, it will be all right."

Then he went into the question of preparations.

Under the combined skill of Maurice and Mrs. Pressford, Ramsay was by this time on the high road to convalescence. He had narrowly escaped a dangerous operation; but he had escaped it; and Maurice could at last venture on a long day's absence.

Mrs. Brutt offered no objections to the proposed ascent. She was completely captured by the young surgeon's attentions to herself; and she nursed the agreeable delusion that his kindness to Doris was solely on her account. She flattered herself that he found her as "delightful" as she found him.

Really, she repeatedly said, he had done so much for her!—it was quite amazing!—she began to feel like a different being. She almost believed that she might herself climb one of the mountains. Well, not the Glückhorn, exactly, but another, just a trifle easier. She could assure Mr. Maurice that she had been in the past a capital climber, quite light-footed—in fact, gazelle-like. And with Mr. Maurice's help—

Maurice listened with praiseworthy patience; but he did not encourage the notion of gazelle-like friskiness in perilous places. A timely reference to the beloved topic of her varying temperature turned the conversation into a safer channel.

During Ramsay's illness and Mrs. Brutt's little indisposition, Doris had seen a great deal of Maurice. In one way and another he was perpetually turning up. She went often to the châlet to cheer the young wife; and he was frequently there. Also at meals he was her vis-à-vis. She and he with Mr. Pressford had already taken several long scrambles, inclusive of rock-climbing, severe enough to test her powers; and results had convinced them both that she might safely undertake the "real ascent" for which she craved.

By this time Doris had left off analysing her own sensations; the state of her mind being too simple to need dissection. She thought no more of Hamilton; but she thought a great deal of Dick Maurice. When with him, she wanted nothing else. When not with him, she was looking forward to their next meeting. The present was enough; and she shut her eyes to possible complications. Each day brought its own delights.

Mr. Pressford's coming had made developments easy. He was a strong wiry man, about forty in age; brusque in manner, taciturn in speech, and a passionate devotee of Alpine climbing. Always ready to take the lead, he would march steadily ahead, oblivious of or indifferent to the fact that his two companions had a trick of dropping behind, just out of ear-shot. If the "going" were difficult, he would be at once on the alert; though between Maurice's care and the girl's own sure-footedness, his help was seldom needed. At other times he preferred solitude, and liked nothing better than to be let alone.

All of which meant that Maurice and Doris were thrown more and more together; and neither wished things to be otherwise.

The first real mountain expedition was now to come off; and Doris was ready for it, down to the possession of an ice-axe, chosen under Maurice's supervision. All the day before she went about in a state of suppressed rapture, with glowing eyes and a perpetual breaking out of smiles.

Since they had to rise soon after midnight, it was needful to go to bed directly after table d'hôte; and her head was on the pillow by eight. But sleep was another matter.

Every pulse was beating with joyous expectation; and blissful visions floated before her mind's eyes in an endless diorama. She never consciously "lost herself;" yet when the awakening rap at her door came, there was first a bewildered wonder what it could mean, and then a sense of being sharply recalled from a distance. She felt sure, doubtless wrongly, that she had that instant dropped off.

No matter how brief one's rest may be, getting up is as different from going to bed as sunrise is from sunset. The glamour had departed; and dressing in midnight gloom has a depressing effect, of which even Doris was conscious. She donned by candlelight her very short serge skirt, flannel blouse, Norfolk jacket, and strong nail-studded boots. Then proudly carrying her ice-axe, she went down to breakfast.

Both men were already there; wearing their rough tweed coats, with voluminous pockets inside and out, and their putties; while their heavily-nailed and well-greased boots waited to be drawn on the moment breakfast should be over. More than a hundred feet of rope lay coiled, ready for shouldering; and a couple of ice-axes leant against the wall. Maurice, who, as the less experienced climber, would play the part of porter, was in the act of tying up his ruck-sack, stored with provisions.

Doris's spirits were fast rising; and she was surprised to find, not only the ever-taciturn Pressford, but also Maurice, in a silent mood. The latter surveyed her carefully, and knelt to examine the lacing of her boots. But he had no light chatter at command, and breakfast was eaten in sombre silence. She wondered—was this a part of the programme? Wisely, she fell in with their mental conditions.

By half-past two they were off. Pressford, lantern in hand, took the lead, walking after his usual habit slightly in advance and apart, even when there was no need. Doris in her eagerness would have hurried ahead, not heeding one or two stumbles; but she was at once checked.

"You must husband your powers," Maurice said. "Steady, please. Pressford will set the pace."

She realised the wisdom of this later, when she found how she could keep on hour after hour at a swinging stride, with no tendency to flag.

For some distance they followed the main road; and then came an easy rise by pathway, till they gained an upland, and by-and-by entered a pine-forest, where reigned pitchy darkness. When after a considerable time they emerged, it was upon a stony alp. Darkness made their footing here far from easy, since they had left all vestige of a path behind; and starlight gleams seconded but feebly the glimmer of their lantern.

Not far from three hours after quitting the hotel, they reached the first belt of rocks. Here a pause was made for their first mountain breakfast,—that movable feast which goes on at intervals of two hours, until, on the way home, the climbers have "breakfast at afternoon tea."

It was, as it always has to be, a light meal; consisting this time of bread and potted meat. Maurice found a comfortable seat for Doris, supplied her wants, and placed himself near. A few remarks passed; and with a gesture of his hand towards the east he said: "See! Dawn is coming."

A bank of cloud lay low, and between it and the horizon, a pale grey glimmer had begun. As they gazed, a pink hue crept into the grey;—dim, indeterminate, a mere suggestion of what would follow. Yet in that tender gleam lived hope "sure and certain" of high noontide. They had to wait for it; but it would come!

Pressford stood up, a sign that they were to do the same. The rocky belt which had now to be surmounted meant a good two hours of work, difficult ax first in the morning twilight, though each minute made a difference with the growth of light. Doris had to pay careful attention to her steps; and Maurice, close behind, gave an occasional hint, when needed.

A halt again was ordered, that they might watch the coming sunrise.

It was Doris's first view of their widened horizon. She stood on a ledge; Maurice one step lower; Pressford a pace above. The cold was biting. A slight breeze, like liquid ice, crept past; and despite her exertions, she could scarcely feel her fingers.

Beyond the rock-belt, looking downward, they saw the long ascent of grass by which they had come; and lower still the dark pine-forest. Then intersecting valleys, dotted with hay-châlets; and here and there a tiny village, deep in shadow. But far above towered lofty peaks, bearing a hint of rose; and the soft colour grew bright; and the tide of light crept downward, revealing couloir after couloir, fold after fold, upon each mountain-side,—till, from beyond the peak which still hid the approaching monarch of day, streamed on either side slant rays of pure whiteness.

One moment the three were in shadow. Then, with a leap, sunshine burst forth, not white but golden; and the world around was transformed. Doris pulled off her woollen gloves, and held out chilled hands, bathing them in the flood of warmth, laughing with gladness.

"That was worth seeing," Maurice remarked, as their silent leader moved. "Are you getting on all right?"

"It's too lovely for anything," she said with energy. "I never enjoyed myself one-hundredth part as much in all my life."

Two hours of this rock-climbing brought them to the foot of a snow-slope, which formed the "shoulder" of the mountain. Far away upward from where they stood stretched a smooth sheet of sparkling purity.

"Now we shall be above the snow-line," joyously exclaimed Doris. "I've been longing for that, ever since I came to Switzerland."

"Which means—goggles."

"Must we? That beautiful snow! And the goggles will spoil it all so desperately. Must we, really? But of course, if I'm told—"

"I'm afraid it has to be."

Again they paused for a light meal. Pressford decided that roping was advisable, the slope higher up being steep, and Doris's experience small. When they set off, he as usual led; and Maurice, with his ruck-sack, came last. The snow was in good condition, and they made steady advance, though some scraping of steps with Pressford's ice-axe became needful before the end.

An hour of zig-zagging progress up this slope brought them to the final rocks.