CHAPTER XIV.
QUIET DAYS AT THE PINES.
WHO can describe the long, peaceful days of early autumn in the country? To our boys and girls at uncle Will’s, the hours were full of delight, though there were no more hair-breadth escapes, and no fatiguing expeditions undertaken.
On the day after Tom’s adventure with the Indian, Mr. Percival visited the old ledge with his men, and placing a charge of blasting powder in the mouth of the cave, tumbled the overhanging rocks together in such a way that the passage was closed forever. The boy slowly regained his cheerfulness, and, rather shyly, took part in the pleasuring of the rest.
Only two days now remained before the party was to break up.
There was little time for story-telling, for the girls were busy, packing various collections of ferns, moss, and other memorials of their good times in field and forest; and their kind host was occupied from morning till night, in overseeing the fall work on the farm.
One evening, however, as they were sitting under one of the aged elms, near the house, the conversation turned upon mountains and mountain climbing.
“Did you and that boy—wasn’t his name Fred?—ever have any more adventures together?” asked Pet.
“Oh, yes, a good many, my dear. If you’re not too sleepy, I can tell you about a bit of a dangerous climb I once had myself, when we two were abroad together.”
The moonlight rested softly on the little circle, and on uncle Will’s face, as he talked. Pet put her hand in his, and begged him to go on. It was their last story for the summer.
“We were both pretty well tired out, one July evening when we reached Chamounix. Fred could bear mountain-climbing, and, what was worse, mule-back riding, much better than I, so that, while I was glad to find my way to my room, in the top of the queer old hotel, at an early hour in the evening, Fred remained in the parlor, busily studying up maps and guides for an excursion over the Mer de Glace to the ‘Garden,’ a small, fertile spot, surrounded by eternal ice, in the very heart of the mountains.
QUIET MOMENTS.
“Next morning, he was off at four o’clock, leaving me to spend the day quietly in the valley. I was disturbed but once more before rising; this time by a herd of goats, who scrambled along under my windows, with bells tingling merrily enough.
“In the course of the forenoon, I strolled away, book in hand, following the course of the Arve for a little while, and then striking off at right angles, up the banks of a small brook, which joins the larger stream just above the village.
“The air was soft and sweet with summer sunlight and the breath of the silent forests, reaching from my feet, higher and higher, until the front rank looked on those desolate, glittering fields of snow that crown Mount Blanc.
“Beside the brook the velvety turf was dotted with wild forget-me-nots and pansies, growing there as peacefully as if they were not in the very track of last year’s avalanche.
“At length I came to a spot where the brook had in ages past strewn its own path with fragments of huge rocks, which it had loosened and thrown down from some far-off height, where the foot of man never trod.
“One gigantic bowlder lay completely across the original bed of the stream, and rose like a wall beside the water, that turned out of its way, and ran off with a good-natured laugh.
“The sun here lay warm and bright, just counteracting the chill breeze that came from the glaciers through the narrow gorge. I gathered a few dry sticks, kindled a fire, merely for company, and nestled comfortably down into an easy corner to read the rocks, the brook, the sky, and, if there were time left, my book, which, if I remember rightly, was ‘Redgauntlet.’
“How long I sat there I cannot tell. It must have been two or three hours, for it was past noon when I looked at my watch, threw the smouldering firebrands into the brook, and rose to return to the hotel.
“As I did so, I noticed half a dozen footsteps in the steep, sandy bank that formed the side of the ravine at this point. It suddenly occurred to me that I had read in my guide-book, while I was sitting in my own room, six months before, of a certain waterfall, which, from the description, must surely be on this brook. Yes, I recollected the base of the zig-zag path, that we had seen as we rode along the valley, on our way from Tête Noire, late the preceding afternoon.
“I was feeling much refreshed and rested by my siesta, and, by a short cut up over this embankment, I could doubtless strike that path after a three minutes’ scramble, as some one had evidently done before me.
“So I would have a little adventure, and see one of the sights of Chamounix all by myself.
“Certainly there was nothing rash in this resolve, or formidable in the undertaking; though a certain feebleness resulting from a recent ill turn at Geneva should have warned me against tasking my strength too severely.
“At any rate, at it I went, laughing at the easiness of the ascent as I followed the broad footsteps of my predecessor. My calculation was that I should come out on the path at a point about seventy-five to one hundred feet above my starting-place.
“Before I had proceeded far, however, the convenient tracks abruptly ceased. Beyond, and on each side, there was nothing but the gravelly bank, with here and there a big rock ready to drop at the lightest touch.
“Plainly enough, the first climber had become discouraged at this point, and had picked his way to the bottom again. As I looked back I was startled to observe the elevation which I had reached, and I involuntarily crouched closer to the earth, with a sensation as of tipping over backwards.
“The movement, slight as it was, dislodged a clump of stones and sand, which went rolling and plunging down at a great rate to the brook, the sound of whose waters was now hardly audible. No wonder the man had given it up! Should I go on, or literally back down, as he had done?
“My pluck was stirred, and although I heartily wished Fred was on hand with his sympathetic courage, I resolved to complete what I had begun.
“It was tough work. Hands and knees now—and carefully placed every time, at that. Once I nearly lost my balance by the unexpected yielding of a large stone, which gave way under my foot. How fearfully long it was before I heard it smite on the bowlders below! I knew if I slipped, or missed one step, the impetus of a yard would send me after the stone. As I looked over my shoulder, it seemed like clinging to the slope of a cathedral roof, where a puff of wind might be fatal.
“There was no question now as to the course I must take. It was ‘Excelsior’ in sober earnest—only I didn’t have the inspiration of a maiden, with a tear in her bright blue eye, looking on.
“Steeper and steeper! I was panting heavily in the rarified atmosphere, and trembling from exhaustion. It was so terribly lonely. Nothing but the dark forms of the trees, the waste of ice and snow, and now and then a bird, winging its way silently over the gulf, until my brain whirled as I watched its slow flight.
“By to-morrow they would miss me, and organize a search, with Fred at their head. They would find my footprints beside the brook, where I had leaped carelessly across after pansies; then they would come upon the blackened traces of the little fire, and the loosened gravel of the steep bank; they would look upward with a shudder, and search the harder. Pretty soon one of them would lean over a crevice among the bowlders, shrink back with a cry of horror, and beckon to the others. All this if I failed by one step!
“Still I worked on laboriously, often pausing for giddiness or a want of breath, and digging with my finger-nails little hollows in the hard bank for my feet.
“Once or twice a long, tough root of grass saved me; and soon, to my joy, straggling bushes, strong enough to support a few pounds of weight, thrust their tops through the sand-bed.
“Then came scrubby trees, cedar and fir, oftentimes growing straight out from a vertical face of rock, and quivering from root to tip as I drew myself cautiously up.
“I shall never forget the agony of the moment when one of them came out entirely, and let me fall backward. Fortunately its comrades were near enough to save me, though it was with rough hands.
“To shorten the story, I climbed at last out upon a small, level spot, which proved to be the longed-for path.
“Following it painfully up for a few rods, I reached a little hut, where I found a kind old Frenchwoman, who refreshed me with food and drink, helped me to make my tattered clothes presentable, and held up her hands after the demonstrative fashion of her nation, when she heard of my climb.
“‘Had any one ever ascended to the cataract upon that side?’” I asked.
“‘Jamais, monsieur; jamais, jamais!’” (Never, monsieur; never, never.)
“And could she tell me the height from the valley?”
“Mille pieds.”
“A thousand feet! Well, I had had mountain-climbing enough for one day, and after a visit to the Cascade, which was close by, I hobbled down the easy path and back to the hotel, to read ‘Redgauntlet,’ until bedtime.
“When Fred got back, and heard the story, his eyes were round enough, as he declared he would not leave me behind again, to play invalid, until we came in sight of the wharf in East Boston. And he kept his promise.”