Chapter XXI: A Superb Rescue

IT took Doris twice as long to mount as it had taken Pressford; and each moment of the time was to her—but tenfold more to Maurice —an age in itself. She was in a state of acute nervous strain. One object only lay before her mind,—the next step, the next handhold. Other thoughts died out, or were entirely subordinate. Her powers of climbing, under the present exigency, were increased to a remarkable degree. Maurice marvelled, as he watched and feared.

At last she was nearly on a level with Pressford!

She could see now that he hung against a face of smooth rock, beyond the couloir which she was mounting; and that between him and death lay nothing but the upholding rope. But, as she had half made out from below, a ledge of rock, just wide enough for safety, gave access from the gully to a spot nearly below him. Once upon that ledge, she would be able to secure Pressford, and so to free Maurice. Her spirit bounded at the thought.

More work had to be done first. To quit the couloir and reach the ledge meant two or three dizzy steps. But' courage rose high, and fear was gone. All recollection of self was swallowed up in the joy of success. Perhaps her chief danger at this point lay in the direction of overconfidence; and Maurice's warning voice—"Steady, don't hurry!"— came at the right moment.

Three critical steps were managed without a shudder. She gained the ledge, passed to its farther end, measured Pressford's distance with a glance, and called—"It's all right! I'm here!"

That crossing from the gully had taken her beyond the range of Maurice's vision; and the pause before her glad cry reached him meant another short-long agony of suspense. Then he knew; and the relief was unspeakable. For one moment his brain swam; and—"Thank God!"—was all he could utter.

"I'm on the ledge all right," she cried again.

Maurice spoke clearly. "Can you reach him? I can only loosen a foot of rope, without letting go."

"Yes—yes that will do. I'll get him—if you'll just lower him the least little bit. Yes—so—a little more."

Inch by inch, as Maurice allowed the rope to slip through his stiff and aching fingers, Pressford descended. Doris, steadying herself, grasped him by the boots, pulled him towards the ledge, and called for further slackening. Soon he lay at full length, and she knelt to support his head.

"It's all right!"—once more in ringing tones. "He is here—safe—on the ledge with me."

"Can you unrope him, and fix the rope securely?"

"I'll try."

She freed the rope from Pressford, and then, with a good deal of difficulty, succeeded in fastening it strongly round a crag.

"I think it will do now. I've pulled hard, and it holds," she said.

"Stay where you are. I'm coming."

She could hear but could not see Maurice's movements. The waiting, the inaction, tried her much, after the past strain and exertion. Pressford did not stir, but once or twice she heard him mutter an incoherent word. She could see that he had had a heavy blow on the head, where his hair was matted with blood.

Keeping a hand on his shoulder, lest he should try to get up, she counted the slow moments. "If Maurice should slip," became a haunting fear. True, he had the rope; and that, if it held, would keep him from falling far. But what if she had not made the rope quite secure? What if the crag should snap under a sudden jerk? What if he, in his turn, should be stunned?

These and other possibilities ran riot in her mind. If anything happened to him, what could she do, alone on this ledge of rock with the helpless Pressford? She had come up, alone. She was certain that she could never go down alone.

Beyond and above such fears, it flashed across her what a difference would be wrought in her life, if Maurice were killed! Till this hour she had hardly recognised the place which he had won in her heart.

He was coming—coming. She could hear the sounds of his gradual approach. She said no word, called no question. He needed all his faculties, undisturbed, for the descent. The actual difficulties of the gully were indeed much less for him than for her; but he had passed through a nerve-trying experience, which might well have lessened his powers of endurance. And though the rope was there to break his fall, in case of a slip, it gave him no actual help in his descent.

Suddenly he was within sight. She held her breath. Those critical steps, dividing the couloir from the ledge, had to be taken, but to a practised mountaineer they meant nothing.

One moment more—and he stepped upon the ledge.

Doris's forebodings vanished like smoke. In an instant she felt as safe as if at the mountain's base. His hand grasped hers with a long and meaning grip which spoke volumes; and their eyes met. Words were not needed; perhaps, at least for Maurice, were not possible. Each felt only that the other was safe; that a great danger was over; that a terrible calamity had been averted. That prolonged grasp spoke of a thankfulness which could not be voiced,—of a mutual joy beyond speech,—of a drawing closer together of their two lives.

Then, still in silence, Maurice knelt beside Pressford, examined the blow on his head, and passed a careful hand over different parts of his body.

"Is he much hurt?" Doris ventured to ask.

"I hope not. I can't be sure yet as to other injuries; but no bones seem to be broken. He is badly stunned, poor fellow!" After a slight pause,—"I must rope you next, and send you down."

"And Mr. Pressford?"

"Afterwards. You first."

He made all ready, bracing himself securely as near to the couloir as he could stand, while within reach if Pressford should move. Then, as Doris began her descent, he let out the rope with extreme caution. Going down was, of course, in itself more risky than going up, but the rope gave confidence and meant safety. Twice she slipped, and Maurice held firmly, till she regained her balance.

Arriving at the snow-plateau, she freed herself, and stood watching, while Maurice hauled the rope in, fastened it round Pressford, and slowly lowered the latter to her side. This done, he followed, fixing part of the rope to aid him over the worst rocks.

"Mr. Pressford seems rousing up a little," Doris announced. "He said something quite sensible just now."

The "something sensible" must have been hazy in nature, judging from the mutter which greeted Maurice. But after a few sips of cold tea, when Maurice had tied up the wound on his friend's head with a silk handkerchief, Pressford really showed signs of reviving.

"What has happened?" he was able to ask.

"You've had an awkward fall, old man. Did you lose your hold?"

"No—" after a pause for recollection. "No—I believe—the rock gave."

"Hard luck! But you'll do now, I hope."

Pressford seemed to lose himself again; and some time elapsed before his next remark. "Miss Winton—sorry—disappointed. Can't bag our peak to-day."

"No. That's unfortunate."

"How did you get me down? I suppose—the rope held."

"Yes; but I was a fixture. It was all I could do to support your weight. I might have stayed there till Doomsday—but for Miss Winton. She climbed up to our help."

"Climbed—where?"

"To that ledge." Maurice indicated its position, and Pressford, startled into full consciousness, raised himself on one elbow, staring hard at the rocky rampart, then turning amazed eyes on Doris. "You were hanging above that—to one side—on the smooth slabby bit."

"You don't mean to say—!"

"Better lie still a little longer." Maurice put him back with a gentle hand.

"You don't mean to say she climbed up there—alone!—unroped!"

"Alone and unroped. She did it superbly. Not a slip from start to finish."

"My goodness!" uttered Pressford, still staring.

Doris broke into a little laugh of pleasure.

"But I was dreadfully frightened once—at the worst part—and not at all brave," she confessed. "The rock was so steep; and there seemed almost nothing to get hold of. I thought I should have to give up."

"If you felt afraid, it was much braver to go on than if you did not," Pressford said. He seemed more himself, though pale and shaken; and his gaze went to and fro between Doris and the mountain-wall. "Well—" he muttered. "I shouldn't have imagined any girl could do it—with no more training!" He turned to Maurice. "How you could let her—passes me!"

"But it had to be done. There was no other way," Doris eagerly explained. "It would have been much worse to go alone all down the mountain. And Mr. Maurice couldn't have held you up, all those hours."

"I should have come to—in time."

"I rather doubt it—in the position in which you were hanging," Maurice said dryly. "And if you had, it would have been an awkward spot for you to tackle in your present state. You were not over the ledge. And just below you—"

He did not finish the sentence. Pressford took another look, and muttered—"Hm!"

"So we owe our lives, both of us, to Miss Winton's courage."

Maurice attempted no self-defence. He simply could not explain what the giving of that permission had meant to himself. He could not trust himself to speak of it.

"I say—time is going, and we have to get down the mountain. I believe I can walk now."

"Wait half-an-hour more. We will start then. Miss Winton and I want another breakfast first."

"Yes, indeed. I'm just starving," declared the girl.

During the half-hour they munched bread and chocolate, talking and laughing, as if none of the three had, only a little while before, been on the very verge of that gulf which divides this life from the next. Not that they had not been deeply impressed; not that they were not profoundly thankful; but something of reaction was upon them. Doris was in a state of natural exultation at having achieved a task of no small difficulty and danger, thereby saving two lives; and Maurice's hopes with regard to her had risen high. He could not but feel how much nearer together they had drawn this eventful day.

A start had to be made. They were roped again; Doris now, in the descent, going first; and Maurice, occupying the post of most danger, behind. Pressford, as the least capable of the three, had to be in the middle.

So soon as he was on his feet, it became evident that he was suffering greatly from pain and dizziness; but he pulled himself together, and managed better than might have been expected. While any real difficulty of footing existed, he kept this up; down the steep snow-slope, and on the lower belt of rocks, which had meant for them two hours of stiff ascent. Then he collapsed, and had to lie on the ground for nearly an hour, semi-conscious.

In the long stretch which followed of pine-wood and easy pasturage, he failed again and again; and one rest had to follow another. So hours passed; and it was dusk when they neared the village. Yet the time had not seemed tedious to Doris; still less, to Maurice. These repeated rests gave them opportunities for long quiet tête-à-tête talks on many subjects; and neither of the two had any wish to reach the end of the walk, for their own sakes, though both were solicitous for Pressford.

By the time that the lights of the village hove in sight, and their troubles were ended, it seemed to Doris that she had known Maurice all her life. It seemed yet more to Maurice that life without Doris had never been.