In summer the place would have been wide awake enough even at such an hour, for the summer would have found it alive with motorists about to cross the pass according to the regulations which forbid them to travel at the height of the day. But being the month of February, the town was as silent as the grave when the carriage drove in, and even the ostler could be discovered with difficulty. When twenty questions had recalled his understanding, he remembered that an Englishman had set out for Brigue yesterday, but had no idea who he was. His description, however, answered to that of Luton Delayne, and Benny quickly came to the conclusion that the baronet had persisted in his madness, and had returned to Switzerland upon an impulse no one else might pretend to understand.
And yet, was it so difficult to be understood? Luton Delayne knew the best and the worst that life had in store for him. Of all his fortune, good or ill, fortune of character and of possessions, there remained to him but the supreme1 desire to seek out the woman who had been his wife, and to throw himself upon her pity. Desperately2, and with almost a child's trust, he had come to believe that she would save him. The unanswered letter, the hours of loneliness by the lakeside, the alternations of hope and despair, so drove him at the last, that, flinging all reason to the winds, he determined3 to go to her and hear the worst. And he had set off immediately when the abbé sent him a warning message. What mattered it, if he could win a hearing from her? The good that was in him claimed audience now. He believed that she would judge him lightly if all were known; and, determined that it should be known, he drove to Iselle and the pass.
Perhaps Benny guessed something of this when he commanded horses for the journey to Brigue, and announced his determination to depart immediately. He understood men in many moods, and could almost sympathise with this broken man who thus flung down the gauntlet to the world and did not stop to consider that it might be picked up—not by a chivalrous4 enemy, but by the police. For himself, his task was plain, and events had not changed the trend of it. He would save Luton Delayne from a public exposure if he could, and would save him for the woman's sake. What happened afterwards must be as destiny decided5. It would be enough for him that he had done his duty to one who claimed his friendship, and for whom he would measure no sacrifice.
There was a considerable delay before the carriage could leave the hotel, and he was glad of the hot coffee which the maids prepared for him. Early as it was, the great road to the pass now became alive with peasants coming down into Italy or returning to the Valley of the Rhone. These seldom travel by the train, and for them the Hospice upon the summit of the pass is kept open during the winter months. Benny watched them as they tramped stolidly6 through the darkness, their eyes set upon a visionary city, and their faces pinched with the cold. When he spoke7 to one of them at the door of the inn yard, an old man whose sister was ill at Baveno, the veteran told him that there had been a dreadful storm on the heights last night, and that a bruit8 of accidents was abroad. He also spoke of the railway, and of the mishap9 above Brigue; but that, he said, had now been put right, and the trains were running as usual. When he left, with a five-franc piece for his gratuity10, he confessed that it was seldom an Englishman was met upon the pass nowadays—bad luck to all this craze for railway travelling which robbed so many of their dues.
Benny was pleased at the news about the trains, for it fitted in very well with the idea which had come to him at the shanty11, and had not been abandoned during the journey. He perceived that all now depended upon what the gendarme12 Philip had done—whether the lad had attempted to reach Italy by the pass, or had waited for the line to Milan to be reopened. In the former case, nothing could save Luton Delayne from arrest—or worse. In the latter, it might very well be that the baronet would reach Sierre, and, having met his wife, would be persuaded to take the express to Paris. Should that be done, his escape was almost assured, for the heat of the hue14 and cry had subsided15 by this time, and but for Philip Gaillarde might have been forgotten altogether. The gendarme, truly, was the key to the whole situation, and Benny was almost tempted13 to ring up the abbé at the Hospice and ask if he had news of him. This, however, would have been a concession16 to mere17 curiosity, and, set upon his purpose of overtaking the baronet if he could, he entered his carriage about four o'clock and departed immediately for Brigue.
Many know the Simplon Pass by name, but to few of this generation is it more than a name. Sometimes, in the history lesson, the boy learns that the great road was built at Napoleon's command immediately after the battle of Marengo, and that it took no fewer than six years to construct. By here and there in an old painting there are pictures of the Ponto Alto, or, more commonly, of the Gallery of Gondo, with its wondrous18 black-mouthed tunnel and arched bridge, and mighty19 ramparts uplifted, as it were, to the very heavens. But these things are but traditions to the flitting tourist, who climbs mountains in a railway carriage and would have his waterfalls illuminated20.
Benny knew nothing of the pass, but insensibly the wonders of it grew upon him as the day dawned and the fertile valleys of Italy began to give place to the grandeur21 and desolation of the heights. What mind had conceived these things—what hand had planned them? An engineer by every instinct of his being, he tried to understand the spirit in which this great work was conceived and the labour which had accomplished22 it. And from that he passed to the sheer fascination23 of it all; of these frail24 bridges spanning the very jaws25 of hell; of the galleries wrought26 in the face of the iron rock; of the vast aqueducts bringing black torrents27, and the mighty roofs which defied the thundering avalanche29. By one man's genius this had come to be; the gates had been opened, the goal attained30. And with that man he crossed the pass in spirit, and lifted his eyes to the stars, and dwelt in the infinite.
Upward and still upward—to what end, to what humour of destiny? Must all this grandeur of the road melt ultimately to a vulgar truth of life; must it give place to a man's shame and a woman's tears? He tried to think that it could not be, and yet the inevitableness of it all seemed written upon every rock which towered above him. He believed no longer that Philip Gaillarde had gone down into Italy. The lad, he thought, would be advised by others, and all that had been done at the villa31 would be well known to the authorities. Possibly, and this was to be reckoned with, Philip had himself gone up to the Hospice and would there meet the baronet face to face. And if he did so it might well be that a new page in this sordid32 tragedy would be written that very day. Benny would not dwell upon this, but he encouraged Bajazet with new promises, while that good fellow urged on his horses with wild cries and a great cracking of his whip, which echoed in the hills like a pistol shot.
They were at the Gallery of Gondo by this time, and its black mouth shaped bell-like at the break of day. The open valley here closed in until it became but a tremendous ca?on; the towering heights were uplifted as the spires33 of a Gargantuan34 cathedral; the road itself seemed to disappear into the very bowels35 of the rock. Upon the right hand, what would have been a roaring torrent28 in the spring was but a runnel cut in the cliff's face; upon their left hand was the abyss whose black depths no eye could fathom36. Here no living thing stirred—there was no sound but that of the water dripping; the very bridge should have been built for fabled37 demons38 of the Simplon and not for human travellers.
They passed on by the seventh refuge, and set out across the dreary39 tableland, beyond which lay the village of Simplon itself. They had out-distanced other travellers, and were alone upon this waste, which breaks into the hills as an oasis40 whose icy mirage41 mocks the wayfarer42. Here, for the first time, they perceived the effects of last night's storm: the profound drifts; the scarred rocks—even relics43 of the pilgrims who had dared the journey. A little farther on, and they entered the village, and heard the warning that the road to the Hospice was unsafe. No sleighs would be allowed to pass: there had been accidents upon the road, and the snow was not yet cleared. Some hours must intervene before permission could be given, they said, but Benny heard them with scorn, for he was determined to make the Hospice, and to hear the abbé's news, cost him what it might. When he had talked a little way with one of the soldiers at the inn, it appeared that nothing would be said to those who cared to set out on foot, and this he did immediately, instructing Bajazet to follow him directly the road was open that they might continue the journey to Brigue.
To Brigue—was that his destination? Lily, he remembered, should be at Sierre; it was even possible that her husband had joined her there, and that they would leave for England by the express to-night. He himself would follow after, but not for many weeks. The triumphs which awaited him in England had ceased to interest him. He had lost, as it were, in an hour the ambitions which had sustained him through the years, and the inspiration by which they had been gratified. It would be well enough to think of his future when all this were over, and he knew the best or the worst of it. The brain refusing to contemplate44 any other issue, it brought him back to the starting-point: would he be in time to save Delayne, or was the gendarme, Philip, already avenged45?
He pressed on over a barren road which has been likened to a waterless lake in the hollow of the mountains. The snow lay heavy and the walking was difficult. By here and there he passed wayfarers46 coming down from the Hospice, but telling ever the same story of hardship and distress47. When, at length, he espied48 the monastery49 buildings, it was at a moment when an avalanche crashed down on the road before him, and its thunders echoed in the heights with the booming of a thousand cannon50. Such appalling51 sounds affrighted him beyond all reason, for he knew little of Switzerland in the winter, save what Andana had taught him. Grimly and with satisfaction, he remembered how little all this terror of the hills had meant to him last night, and how little it would mean to the men of to-morrow. Give him his ship, and he would be but a speck52 above these imprisoning53 peaks—as free as an eagle, and as kingly. To go as he must go—battling with the snow and often almost conquered by it, was a humiliation54 his genius derided55. But it was in keeping with the truth of the quest; and presently, when a second avalanche thundered down, and the snow sprayed above a gallery as foam56 upon a seashore, he shuddered57 at its reality and wondered if his courage were equal to the ordeal58.
He was but a quarter of a mile from the gate of the Hospice by this time, and he perceived that those who had gone before him here deserted59 the pass itself and went downward a little way toward the abyss. So many feet had trodden out a path that prudence60 bade him take it. Striking out boldly, he found himself presently in a magic sea whose billows rose above his head but never engulfed61 him. At this time the monastery disappeared from his view entirely62; the landmarks63 by which he might have guided himself to its doors vanished to give place to this monstrous64 and unbroken curtain of the snow. He had the sense of being lost beyond hope, of being a man adrift upon an ocean whose waters were white with an icy foam. All idea of direction was blotted65 out immediately in this blinding waste. He found the path and lost it ten times in as many minutes, and then fell to bitter self-reproach because he had deserted the high road. Vain lament—that desertion was his salvation66!
A great dog came battling through the snow, and, anon, a monk67 with a cassock tucked up to his waist, and skis upon his feet. He was quite a youth, and he laughed and nodded to the stranger as one who would say: "All is well; we knew you were coming to us." At his direction Benny turned up the hillside again, and there he found the rope by which travellers pull themselves up to the gates of the Hospice. They were now but fifty yards from its door, and he could hear a bell calling the priests to terce. The monk, in his turn, pointed68 to the high road, and to the mountains of snow which rested upon its galleries.
"You were wise to come as you did," he said. "Many lose their lives up there; three have done so this week, Monsieur."
No answer was made, and they entered the monastery. The bell still tolled69, and the brethren were crossing the court toward the chapel70. The Englishman, however, was conducted immediately to the guest hall, where a great fire blazed and a table was spread. The monk had already told him that the Abbé Villari was at the Hospice, and the desire to see him brooked71 no control. Benny had almost forgotten where he was; the events of the night and the journey of the day were as nothing when the abbé at last entered the room and greeted him with hand uplifted and a hushed word upon his lips.
"Yes, yes, I had expected you," he said, nodding his head slowly while he spoke. "It was natural that you should not have heard. We found him lying just above the seventh shelter. He was quite dead; he had been dead for some hours."
Benny drew a step nearer, as though afraid of the sound of his voice.
"You found him—are you speaking of Luton Delayne?"
The abbé looked bewildered.
"Of whom, then? They would have kept him at Iselle, but he would not hear reason. He tried to cross on foot at the height of the storm. I had an idea that it might be so. Yes, yes, the Almighty72 God made this known to me, and so I came."
And then he said, turning away:
"She will be here this afternoon—I have spoken to her myself; she is now upon her way from Sierre."
There was no response. Benny stood at the window and looked down the valley as though fearing to see her carriage already upon the high road.
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1
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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7
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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8
bruit
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| v.散布；n.（听诊时所听到的）杂音；吵闹 | |
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9
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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10
gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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14
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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16
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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18
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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19
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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21
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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23
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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27
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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28
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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29
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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30
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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34
gargantuan
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| adj.巨大的，庞大的 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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38
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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39
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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40
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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41
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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42
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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43
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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44
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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45
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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47
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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48
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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50
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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51
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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52
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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53
imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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54
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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55
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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57
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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58
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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59
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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60
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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61
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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63
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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64
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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65
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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66
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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67
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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68
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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69
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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70
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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71
brooked
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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72
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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