softly opening the door upon the gallery, he crept out and passed the chill hour or two before the dawn broke over the distant and snowy peaks, in sorrowful reflection. He resolved, as soon as he saw signs of movement amongst his neighbours, he would visit Justine, and hear her kind words of consolation in this sorrow—little anticipating what awaited him, in the cold looks of his former friends and companions.
Sleep must have surprised him, or his senses at least have been stupified for a brief hour, since when he again raised his head from his hands, the sun was sending slanting gleams down the valley, and all the village was astir. He descended to the fountain in the small garden, and in the cool water there he endeavoured to wash away the traces of outward emotion, which no man, much less a sturdy mountaineer, likes to be seen on his sun-burnt face. He wandered from home between the low stone walls which bounded the narrow path of the village, but on addressing a few words to the first neighbour he met, he was only answered by a shrug of the shoulder or some strangely inappropriate remark, when he spoke of the sad event of the previous day. He could not comprehend their strange conduct, but he quickened his steps to Justine, whose tenderness and sympathy were sure not to disappoint him.
He entered the small outhouse attached to her father’s châlet, where he knew he should find her, either starting to, or returning from her goats, who browsed on the hill side; and this morning she was there, not actively bustling about amongst her white wooden pails, but sitting weeping, and apparently heedless of the steps which now sounded on the earthen floor. Henri soon claimed her attention, and by degrees extorted from her the confession, that her father was indignant at a rumour which had reached him; and at length, with many tears and tender assurances of her own confidence in his integrity, she made him understand the cruel suspicions which had circulated in the village. Even conscious innocence could not save the poor fellow from the pain of being supposed guilty of so great a crime: it needed all Justine’s fond words of encouragement to be patient for a while, to soothe and cheer him; and at length he felt that the heaviest trial in store for him was to communicate what he had heard to his mother. With difficulty he made Madame Rochat understand of what he was accused; and her indignation at the calumny knew no bounds. They could only gain consolation in their belief that M. Meuron’s family would certainly desire to recover the body, and they both desired that every step should be taken for that end.
It was on the 6th of September, that two friends of the deceased made their appearance at the priest’s house. The clear and circumstantial account given by the curé, proved how inevitable the sad event had been, and their only desire now was, to find the inanimate body of their beloved friend. They begged to be guided to the glacier, and Henri immediately requested to be their escort, to which they consented. They conversed with him by the way, and heard every detail of the catastrophe: but on approaching the fatal spot, they all acknowledged the obstacles which existed to realising their last hope. They had brought no appliances for the recovery of the body, and they occupied themselves in sounding the depth of the abyss, which was found to be from 125 to 130 feet, and in devising what means should be adopted for descending it. Poor Henri retraced his steps to the village, following the rest of the party. It required some struggle to conquer his impatience, and to wait quietly for the development of events;—he longed to be called into exertion, and thus to lessen the pressure upon his over-taxed mind. He had in the agony of his wounded feelings resolved that he would not see Justine again until his good name was restored to him. Her father had suspected him, and he would not make another visit to his châlet until he could again be received with a cordial greeting beneath that roof. Confined to his own small house, a voluntary prisoner as it were, he tried to occupy his hands, if not his thoughts, with wood-carving, in which he was so skilful. His tools and box-wood rarely saw the daylight in those long days when mountain expeditions and visits to the cows in their lofty pastures, were his usual occupation, for they were reserved to beguile the tedium of winter evenings, and the sale of them to those persons who disposed of them in the large towns brought a considerable addition to the family store.
But now he sat and carved and chiselled, and spoiled in one day more than he could restore the next. He pined to be up and doing; and there is no harder lesson to a man of his character than to be patient in inactivity.
It seemed to Henri a month; but it was on the morning of the 11th of September that Madame Rochat entered the house with an expression on her face which told of some news of interest. As she returned from spreading her flax upon the small greensward she possessed at a short distance from the châlet, she had heard that two more of M. Meuron’s friends had arrived at early dawn, and that every arrangement was making for an expedition the following morning. Henri sprung from his stool, and declared his resolution to form one of the party. It could not be refused to him. He set out immediately, ran hastily to the Presbytère, and, presenting himself to the curé, entreated to make one of the fifteen men who were to be employed in the laborious work before them. The good old man acknowledged the justice of the request, and it was agreed that Henri, the goatherd, and Berguez, the master of the small inn, were to take part—the three gentlemen and M. le Curé were necessarily of the party.
The weather in the early morning did not seem quite propitious to their wishes, for vapoury clouds were hanging low and heavily; but in the hope that the sun might ere long have its influence and disperse them, they set forward on the route, now become familiar to several of their number. As they passed the small forest of firs, they selected two which were straight and strong, and cut them down for future use. These were carried by four men, two to each, until they arrived at the place where the path became dangerous from the projecting rock before mentioned, and here, as only one person could attempt the passage, the goatherd of Serenberg stepped forward, offered