Part 2 (1/2)
”Yes,” said Chayne. The story was borne out by the telegram. Leaving Courmayeur early, Lattery and his guide would have slept the night on the rocks at the foot of the Blaitiere, they would have climbed all the next day and at four o'clock had reached within two hundred feet of the ridge, within two hundred feet of safety. Somewhere within those last two hundred feet the fatal slip had been made; or perhaps a stone had fallen.
”For how long did you watch them?” asked Chayne.
”For a few minutes only. My party was anxious to get back to Chamonix.
But they seemed in no difficulty, monsieur. They were going well.”
Chayne shook his head at the hopeful words and handed his telegram to Michel Revailloud.
”The day before yesterday they were on the rocks of the Blaitiere,” he said. ”I think we had better go up to the Mer de Glace and look for them at the foot of the cliffs.”
”Monsieur, I have eight guides here and two will follow in the evening when they come home. We will send three of them, as a precaution, up the Mer de Glace. But I do not think they will find Monsieur Lattery there.”
”What do you mean?”
”I mean that I believe Monsieur Lattery has made the first pa.s.sage of the Col des Nantillons from the east,” he said, with a peculiar solemnity. ”I think we must look for them on the western side of the pa.s.s, in the creva.s.ses of the Glacier des Nantillons.”
”Surely not,” cried Chayne. True, the Glacier des Nantillons in places was steep. True, there were the seracs--those great slabs and pinnacles of ice set up on end and tottering, high above, where the glacier curved over a brow of rock and broke--one of them might have fallen. But Lattery and he had so often ascended and descended that glacier on the way to the Charmoz and the Grepon and the Plan. He could not believe his friend had come to harm that way.
Michel, however, clung to his opinion.
”The worst part of the climb was over,” he argued. ”The very worst pitch, monsieur, is at the very beginning when you leave the glacier, and then it is very bad again half way up when you descend into a gully; but Monsieur Lattery was very safe on rock, and having got so high, I think he would have climbed the last rocks with his guide.”
Michel spoke with so much certainty that even in the face of his telegram, in the face of the story which Jules had told, hope sprang up within Chayne's heart.
”Then he may be still up there on some ledge. He would surely not have slipped on the Glacier des Nantillons.”
That hope, however, was not shared by Michel Revailloud.
”There is very little snow this year,” he said. ”The glaciers are uncovered as I have never seen them in all my life. Everywhere it is ice, ice, ice. Monsieur Lattery had only one guide with him and he was not so sure on ice. I am afraid, monsieur, that he slipped out of his steps on the Glacier des Nantillons.”
”And dragged his guide with him?” exclaimed Chayne. His heart rather than his judgment protested against the argument. It seemed to him disloyal to believe it. A man should not slip from his steps on the Glacier des Nantillons. He turned toward the door.
”Very well,” he said. ”Send three guides up the Mer de Glace. We will go up to the Glacier des Nantillons.”
He went up to his room, fetched his ice-ax and a new club-rope with the twist of red in its strands, and came down again. The rumor of an accident had spread. A throng of tourists stood about the door and surrounded the group of guides, plying them with questions. One or two asked Chayne as he came out on what peak the accident had happened. He did not reply. He turned to Michel Revailloud and forgetful for the moment that he was in Chamonix, he uttered the word so familiar in the High Alps, so welcome in its sound.
”_Vorwarts_, Michel,” he said, and the word was the Open Sesame to a chamber which he would gladly have kept locked. There was work to do now; there would be time afterward to remember--too long a time. But in spite of himself his recollections rushed tumultuously upon him. Up to these last four years, on some day in each July his friend and he had been wont to foregather at some village in the Alps, Lattery coming from a Government Office in Whitehall, Chayne now from some garrison town in England, now from Malta or from Alexandria, and sometimes from a still farther dependency. Usually they had climbed together for six weeks, although there were red-letter years when the six weeks were extended to eight, six weeks during which they lived for the most part on the high level of the glaciers, sleeping in huts, or mountain inns, or beneath the stars, and coming down only for a few hours now and then into the valley towns. _Vorwarts_! The months of their comrades.h.i.+p seemed to him epitomized in the word. The joy and inspiration of many a hard climb came back, made bitter with regret for things very pleasant and now done with forever. Nights on some high ledge, sheltered with rocks and set in the pale glimmer of snow-fields, with a fire of brushwood lighting up the faces of well-loved comrades; half hours pa.s.sed in rock chimneys wedged overhead by a boulder, or in snow-gullies beneath a bulge of ice, when one man struggled above, out of sight, and the rest of the party crouched below with what security it might waiting for the cheery cry, ”_Es geht. Vorwarts_!”; the last scramble to the summit of a virgin peak; the swift glissade down the final snow-slopes in the dusk of the evening with the lights of the village twinkling below; his memories tramped by him fast and always in the heart of them his friend's face shone before his eyes. Chayne stood for a moment dazed and bewildered.
There rose up in his mind that first helpless question of distress, ”Why?” and while he stood, his face puzzled and greatly troubled, there fell upon his ears from close at hand a simple message of sympathy uttered in a whisper gentle but distinct:
”I am very sorry.”
Chayne looked up. It was the overdressed girl of the Annema.s.se buffet, the girl who had seemed to understand then, who seemed to understand now.
He raised his hat to her with a sense of grat.i.tude. Then he followed the guides and went up among the trees toward the Glacier des Nantillons.
CHAPTER III
THE FINDING OF JOHN LATTERY