Chapter XX: Only a Girl!

THE first intimation of anything wrong, received by Maurice, came in the shape of a shower of stones; and a sharp exclamation from above warned him what to expect.

He saw Pressford slide past, vainly trying to check his own rapid descent. And before Maurice had time for more than a lightning-flash of realisation, came the shock—the grip of the rope about his chest and body, almost cutting him in two.

It seemed more than he could endure. All his strength was needed to withstand that first overwhelming pull, which tore fiercely at him like a wolf, bringing positive agony. He was unable to breathe save in broken gasps.

Half-unconsciously he shifted his position, to ease the intolerable strain. Then, as the pain lessened, he could breathe and think again; and he began to ask himself what had happened.

Was Pressford killed—or only stunned—by this fall of some sixty feet on relentless rock?

He shouted, and there was no answer. He tried to haul at the rope which bound him to Pressford; but the effort only endangered his hold. He dared not stir. For the time he could bear the strain of his friend's weight. But—how long would he be able?

He could not see the fallen man. He could only see the rope—twitching as it descended over the jammed boulder. He could only know by conjecture what had been the cause.

Would nothing break this death-like stillness?

He remembered Doris, whose presence had been momentarily driven from his mind by Pressford's fall. Why had she not called out? Then it occurred to him that she might have screamed, unheard, at the worst moment of the shock,—that even since then she might have called, without gaining his attention.

As he wondered, her voice, clear and steady, came up to him. "Mr. Maurice—something is wrong. Mr. Pressford has fallen. Can I help?"

"Can you see him?" Maurice's deeper tones asked.

"Yes." In the pure mountain air their voices travelled easily.

"Any support below?"

"I'm afraid not. It's all smooth rock." She scanned the part intently. "I can't be sure. There's a ledge a little to one side—not quite below him. May I come up? If I may, I can pull him on the ledge."

The offer took Maurice by surprise. He was amazed at her coolness, her presence of mind.

"No! No!" he called. He could not think of letting her run the risk, unroped. "Stay where you are." His tone was urgent.

"But indeed I must. Please let me." Her courage rose, as she recognised the need for action. "Let me come. Say yes. I'm sure I can do it."

"No, no. Wait. Pressford may revive."

Moments lagged slowly by, and still the heavy helpless body hung against the rock-wall, kept there by the taut rope. For Maurice to stir was out of the question. As now placed, he might support the weight for an hour, perhaps even for many hours. But to slacken his hold of the rope for one instant would mean certain death for the unconscious Pressford and for himself; probably also for Doris, should she be left alone on a steep mountain-side, under such terrible conditions.

If the weight dragging at him could be but for a few seconds removed, he might make the rope secure, and then descend to Pressford's help. But that was impossible.

Only a girl below; a mere inexperienced beginner in the art of climbing. She could do nothing. He had to stay where he was,—till Pressford should revive, or till some problematic rescue-party should appear on the scene.

"Do let me," she entreated. "I'm almost sure I could get him on the ledge. We can't leave him like this. I'll be very, very careful."

Through fifty or sixty feet of height each word dinned mercilessly into his ears. He was sorely exercised. How to consent, he did not know; yet what else to do, he did not know either. Had Doris been a man, that which she suggested would have been the only right plan. But to allow her to risk her life—and he knew it must mean no ordinary risk!—the whole being of the young surgeon cried out in protest. It would have been out of the question with any girl, he told himself. How much more with her!

He pictured the awfulness of what must follow a slip on her part. No rope would hold her up. She would fall to the snow-ledge whence she had started, and with such impetus that she would not stop there, but would roll and bound down the snow-slope and over the rocks below. And he, tied to his helpless friend, would be unable to stir a finger to save his love from a terrible death. Had he doubted the fact before, he knew in this hour that she was his love—the one woman in the world for him. And he would have to look on—to see it all! The horror of that thought went beyond endurance.

Yet more—he saw himself, somehow rescued, going to the hotel, to make known what had happened; wandering over the heights, in search for her crushed and mangled body. He saw what her friends would think, when he and Pressford returned; and only the young girl in their charge was missing!

Impossible!

"No! No! You must not," he repeated. "I can't allow it. Could you find your way down the mountain, and send help?"

She surveyed the long steep slope, which they had mounted, and shook her head.

"No!" she called, a thrill of fresh resolution in her voice. "It would mean hours and hours. And I might miss my way. You could not hold him all that time."

"Yes, I could."

"No. You must let me climb. That is the only thing to be done."

He set his teeth and groaned, before replying—"I will not have it. I can't allow it, Doris." The name slipped out unconsciously, and it sent a glow through her.

"But he has to be saved. He must be saved. And there's no other way," she cried in terse phrases. "You must let me try." Then, as he still refused,—"But if it is my duty! You will not keep me from doing my duty!"

He had at length to give in. Pressford showed no signs of returning sense; and Doris's insistence swept aside his opposition. He began to realise that, if he refused consent, she would come without his consent. He doubted, too, whether to attempt the long descent of the mountain alone would mean for her less peril. She would have to go unroped, feeling anxious, distressed, hurried. The tax to nerve and strength would last through hours; and he would not be at hand to lend encouragement. For awhile still he held out; but at last, with a deadly sinking of heart, he was impelled to yield.

"But you must be very careful—very slow—" he urged. "Make sure of each hold before you leave the last. And if you find it too much, turn back at once."

"Yes, yes," she cried. "I'll be so careful. I promise."

For three seconds she stood motionless, praying one short vehement prayer for help,—entreating that she might be kept calm and steady and sure of foot; that she might be able to carry out what she had to do.

She did not under-estimate the nature of the task before her. That it was both difficult and dangerous, a task which under ordinary conditions she would not have dreamt of doing, she knew well; and she realised also that the lives of these two men depended, in all probability, upon her exertions. Maurice would never abandon his friend. If no casual passer-by came to their rescue,—a most unlikely event,—and if Pressford did not regain consciousness, then, but for her, both were doomed.

Without further delay, and with every muscle braced to firmness, she set out upon her perilous emprise.

Although, as said earlier by Maurice, she was a born climber, her experience had been limited, and this was a severe test. The steepness of the gully, the paucity of good holds, the general slipperiness, the patches of verglas to be avoided—all demanded skill and nerve. And she knew, hardly less distinctly than Maurice himself, what a slip must mean.

Step by step she advanced, placing each foot with caution, testing each hold before she trusted to it! Maurice from above, spoke an occasional quiet word, when he could see what she was doing. When he could not, he lived through sickening agonies. A vision floated before his eyes of a false step on her part, and then of that fearful bounding fall down and down the mountain-side. But at the back of that vision, behind the anguish of suspense, though it seemed to him that no word of actual prayer was possible, his whole being was concentrated into one passionate appeal for her safety. "O God!— O God!"—was all he could utter. It meant—everything.

About half-way up she found herself on a narrow ledge, from which further progress looked all but hopeless. For a moment her heart failed. Could she go on? Should she turn back? She thought again of the two men; of Maurice, unable to stir; of Pressford, hanging senseless. She was their one hope. The thing had to be done.

Again a cry for help was flung upwards from her heart; and she set herself resolutely to work, to surmount the difficulty—to climb a bare rock-surface, which commonly she would have counted insurmountable, unless she were roped.

Careful study showed the only track which she could hope to follow with success; and she set to work. Her whole mind had to be bent on what she was doing; and every nerve was tense, as she crept from crack to crack, clinging, gripping, holding on for very life. Not for her own life only! Was she not given this to do —for others? That recollection brought renewed confidence.

A single glimpse she had of the plunging depth below; a moment's awful realisation of what a fall would be. With the glimpse and the realisation came a shock and tremor. Then she calmed herself, holding hard, and looking upward. "It has to be done! It must be done!" she whispered; and the brief weakness passed.

Four more brave efforts; and the spot which had threatened disaster lay behind.