Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow: A Novel

by C. Despard

She remained by his side till the full light, breaking in upon the room, had aroused the sleepers.

Then another discussion took place. It was very strange. But the night before Maurice Grey would have thought it no sin to deprive his enemy of life. Another hand than his had smitten L'Estrange, and instead of deserting him, as he might have done, leaving him to find his death among the snows, Maurice Grey had risked his own life (for the numbness which had been creeping over him when his friends came up might soon have proved fatal) to watch over his. Perhaps the reason might be found in his helplessness. On the previous evening he had stood before Maurice as an accuser and a judge, arraigning him for the folly and short-sightedness which, according to his showing, had been far more instrumental than anything else in bringing about his suffering and Margaret's. And his biting words had found their echo in Maurice's own heart, being gifted with a double sting. In the man's attitude there had been a certain power, and this it was that had inflamed his opponent, till he had longed with a fierce, sudden passion of hatred to punish him to the uttermost.

For the second time Maurice Grey had been saved from himself, and now, as the man he had hated lay helpless at his feet—the brain that had conceived and the hand that had written that cruel letter torpid, the tongue which had given forth its biting irony silent—all his feelings changed. The helplessness of the strong man recommended him to his compassion; the remembrance of the service he had rendered him, the consciousness of his penitence for the wrong he had committed, softened Maurice toward him. He saw, for the first time, in L'Estrange's strange conduct the return to itself of a soul that had wandered from his own nobility. Bowing his head, the man who had been known as a bitter cynic confessed his wrong to humanity, his distrust of God. Maurice Grey was a changed man. He felt it in the lightness of heart with which he rose that morning; for, say what we will, it cannot but be that this hatred of their kind on which some men pride themselves is a bad and heart-degrading thing. It recoils upon itself. A man cannot despise his own nature and be happy. Maurice during these wretched years had been heaping up misery to himself. But it was over, once and for ever. In Margaret's faithful devotion and forgiving love, in his enemy's return to a better mind, in his child's simplicity, in Arthur's high-hearted chivalry, Maurice saw the other side of the picture he had so long been contemplating.

In the course of his life of wandering he had been pleasing himself by drawing out and marking the weaknesses of his fellows, and he had not found his task difficult; but now in his God-given nature, the nature he had despised, he began to see there was something underlying all these superficialities For humanity had shown itself to him in its beauty—the beauty which made God Himself pronounce it good on that creation-dawn when "the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy." Maurice Grey thanked God and took courage. The discussion between himself and Arthur (for the guide was a silent assistant) resulted in very little.

Something in the way of a litter would be necessary to take the sufferer over the hills, and at least four strong men who could relieve one another. They were only three, and it seemed perfectly impossible to construct a litter out of the materials at hand.

The best plan seemed to be for the guide to return to the hotel and bring back with him men and litter, also provisions of some kind, for Marie's black bread and sausages had been so seriously besieged by her numerous invaders that very little, even of this uninviting food, was to be found in the small kitchen upon which Arthur made a raid. There was fortunately enough coffee to supply them each with a strong cup, only it had to be taken with goat's milk that had been standing for some days in Marie's pans.

Arthur and Laura, the two most fastidious of the little party, made many a wry face over the poor fare. These two had become fast friends; indeed, the child was in a fair way to be spoilt. She reigned like a queen among these men, so strangely met together in the solitary's dwelling. The general devotion did not much impress her. Most of her thoughts were given to one, and he seemed to take very little notice of his darling. Once or twice the tears filled Laura's eyes as she noticed how he would refuse what nourishment he could take when she offered it, and then receive it from another hand. It gave the young heart, premature in its development, a bitter pang to feel that the affection of this friend might possibly cease. But of all this the child said nothing. Breakfast—if breakfast it might be called—was over, the guide was about to start for Grindelwald, Arthur was busying himself about domestic matters, trying by his rapid movements to quicken the perceptions of old Marie, who had been rendered even more stupid than usual by the strange events of the night; Maurice sat by the side of his stricken guest, with his little daughter on his knees, when over the snow outside there came the sound of voices.

Laura ran to the window. "Four men," she cried, "and a mule, and one of those chairs to carry people, and rugs, and a big bundle, and—Oh, I hope there's some white bread; but perhaps they're not going to stop here."

She appealed to Arthur, the person with whom she felt most on terms of equality: "Do go out and see if they'd give us just one little bit."