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Rivers of Ice. Robert Michael Ballantyne
Читать онлайн.Название Rivers of Ice
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Автор произведения Robert Michael Ballantyne
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Public Domain
“Is it possible,” said Emma, as she gazed at the rugged and riven mass of solid ice before her, “that a glacier really flows?”
“So learned men tell us, and so we must believe,” said Mrs Stoutley.
“Flows, ma’am?” exclaimed Susan, in surprise.
“Yes, so it is said,” replied Mrs Stoutley, with a smile.
“But we can see, ma’am, by lookin’ at it, that it don’t flow; can’t we, ma’am?” said Susan.
“True, Susan, it does not seem to move; nevertheless scientific men tell us that it does, and sometimes we are bound to believe against the evidence of our senses.”
Susan looked steadily at the glacier for some time; and then, although she modestly held her tongue, scientific men fell considerably in her esteem.
While the ladies were thus discussing the glacier and enlightening their maid, Lewis, Lawrence, and the Captain, taking advantage of the improved state of the weather, had gone out for a stroll, partly with a view, as Lewis said, to freshen up their appetites for dinner—although, to say truth, the appetites of all three were of such a nature as to require no freshening up. They walked smartly along the road which leads up the valley, pausing, ever and anon, to look back in admiration at the wonderful glimpses of scenery disclosed by the lifting mists. Gradually these cleared away altogether, and the mountain summits stood out well defined against the clear sky. And then, for the first time, came a feeling of disappointment.
“Why, Lawrence,” said Lewis, “didn’t they tell us that we could see the top of Mont Blanc from Chamouni?”
“They certainly did,” replied Lawrence, “but I can’t see it.”
“There are two or three splendid-looking peaks,” said Lewis, pointing up the valley, “but surely that’s not the direction of the top we look for.”
“No, my lad, it ain’t the right point o’ the compass by a long way,” said the Captain; “but yonder goes a strange sail a-head, let’s overhaul her.”
“Heave a-head then, Captain,” said Lewis, “and clap on stun’s’ls and sky-scrapers, for the strange sail is making for that cottage on the hill, and will get into port before we overhaul her if we don’t look sharp.”
The “strange sail” was a woman. She soon turned into the cottage referred to, but our travellers followed her up, arranging, as they drew near, that Lawrence, being the best French scholar of the three (the Captain knowing nothing whatever of the language), should address her.
She turned out to be a very comely young woman, the wife, as she explained, of one of the Chamouni guides, named Antoine Grennon. Her daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of six or so, was busy arranging a casket of flowers, and the grandmother of the family was engaged in that mysterious mallet-stone-scrubbing-brush-and-cold-water system, whereby the washerwomen of the Alps convert the linen of tourists into shreds and patches in the shortest possible space of time.
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