THE END OF THE WOOING
Madge had often turned wistful eyes toward High Peak, and on the last
Saturday before their final return to the city she said to Graydon,
"Dare we attempt it? Perhaps if we gave the day to the climb, and took
it leisurely--"
"There's no 'perhaps' about it. We'll go if you wish. I should like
nothing better than to get lost with you."
"There is no danger of getting lost," she replied, hastily. "The hotel
must be visible from the whole line of its summit, and I am told that
there is a path to the top of the mountain."
"I will be ready in half an hour," he said.
It was a lovely day in early September. The air was soft, yet cool and
bracing enough to make climbing agreeable. Graydon had a lunch basket,
which he could sling over his shoulder, well filled, and ordered a
carriage. "There is no need of our tramping over the intervening miles
of dusty roads which must be passed before we begin our climb," he
said, "and the distance we ride will make a pleasant drive for Mary
and the children."
Madge and Graydon reached the summit without any great difficulty,
Mary having returned with the assurance that they would find their own
way back to the hotel.
As the hours passed, Graydon began to gather more hope than he had
dared to entertain since his shattered theory had so disheartened him.
In spite of his fancied knowledge about Madge, it was hard to believe
she was very unhappy that morning. There was an elasticity to her
step, a ring of genuine gladness in her tones and laugh, which did not
suggest that she was consciously carrying a heavy burden.
"She certainly is the bravest and most unselfish girl I ever
imagined," he thought, as they left the highest point after enjoying
the view. "With an art so inimitable as to be artless, she has tried
to give me enjoyment. Instead of regarding herself as one to be
entertained, she has been pouring forth words, fancies, snatches
of song like sparkling wine, and I am exhilarated instead of being
wearied."
When at last they found a spring at which to eat their lunch, he told
her so, concluding, "This mountain air does you good, Madge."
"So do you," she replied, with a piquant nod. "Don't be conceited when
I tell you that you are good company."
"No; but I can't help being happy."
"Oh, indeed! It doesn't seem to take much to make you happy."
"Not very much from you."
"Pass me a biscuit, Graydon; I want something more substantial than
fine speeches after our climb. Isn't all this truly Arcadian--this
mossy rug on which we have placed our lunch, the trees whispering
about us overhead, and the spring there bubbling over with something
concerning which it murmurs so contentedly?"
"I wonder what they think of us! I can imagine one thing."
"You are always imagining. The idea of your being a banker! Well,
there is a loud whisper from the trees. What was remarked?"
"That yonder little girl doesn't look so very unhappy."
"No, Graydon," she said, earnestly, "you make Saturdays and Sundays
very bright to me. No girl ever had a truer friend than you are
becoming."
"Have become, Madge."
"Graydon," she said, eagerly, as if hastening from dangerous ground,
"the hotel is there just opposite to us. Don't you think we could
scramble down the mountain here, and return by Kaaterskill Clove and
the Falls? It would be such fun, and save such a very long distance!"
"We'll try it," he said.
"Come," she resumed, brusquely, "you are spoiling me. You say yes to
everything. If you don't think it safe or best you must not humor me."
"We can soon learn whether it's safe and practicable, and there is no
danger of losing our way. We have only to return over the mountain in
order to strike the path somewhere at right angles."
"Let us hasten, then. I am in the mood to end our sojourn in the
Catskills by an hour or two of contact with nature absolutely
primitive. The scenes we shall pass through will be so pleasant to
think of by a winter fire."
"Winter fire? That's capital! You are not going back to Santa Barbara,
Madge?"
"I haven't promised that--I haven't promised anything."
"No; I have done all the promising."
"You did so of your own free will."
"And of my own free will shall keep my promises. No, don't let us
leave any remnants of our lunch. Should we get lost you will want
something more substantial than fine speeches."
"I shall indeed."
Graydon filled from the spring the bottle which had contained milk;
and then packing his little hamper he led the way downward, over
and through obstacles which often involved no little difficulty, and
sometimes almost danger.
"May I help you all I please?" he asked.
"Yes, when I can't help myself."
Then he began to rejoice over the ruggedness of the way, which made it
proper to take her hand so often, and at times even to lift her over a
fallen tree.
"What fun it is!" cried Madge.
"The best I ever had," he replied, promptly. But they had not realized
the difficulty of their attempt; for when little more than half-way
to the foot of the mountain they came to a ledge down which there
appeared no place for safe descent. As they were skirting this
precipice perilously near the edge, he holding Madge's hand, some
loose debris gave way beneath his feet.
Instead of instinctively clinging to Madge's hand, even in the act of
falling he threw it up and around a small tree, which she grasped, and
regained her footing, while he went down and disappeared.
At first she was so appalled that she could do no more than clutch the
tree convulsively and look with blank horror at the spot where she had
seen him last. Then came the thought, "His life may now depend upon
me."
The distance he had fallen would not be necessarily fatal, and below
the ledge there were low scrubby trees that might have broken the
impetus of his descent. She called in tones that might have evoked
an answer even from the lips of death; then, with a resolution in her
pallid face which nothing could daunt, she sought to reach her side.
At first Graydon was utterly unconscious. At last, like a dim light
entering a darkened room, thought and memory began to revive. He
remembered that he had been at Madge's side, and had fallen; he had
grasped at branches of trees as he passed through them, and then all
had become dark. He tried to speak, to call his companion, but found
be could not. He almost doubted whether he was alive in the flesh. If
he were he must have received some terrible injury that had caused a
strange paralysis.
His confused thoughts finally centred wholly on Madge. Had she fallen?
The thought of her, perhaps injured, possibly lying unconscious or
dead near him, and he helpless, caused a dull, vague dread, like a
cold tide, to overwhelm his very soul. He tried to move, to spring
up, but only his mind appeared free. Then he thought he recognized
her voice calling in the distance. Soon, with alternations of hope
and fear, he heard her steps and voice draw nearer. She had evidently
found a way down the ledge, and was coming along its base toward
him--coming swiftly, almost recklessly.
She was at his side. Her low, terror-stricken cry chilled his heart.
Was he dead? and was it his soul only, lingering in the body, that was
cognizant of all this?
Her hand was on his pulse, then inside his vest against his heart.
"Oh," she moaned, "can he be dying or dead? I can't find his pulse,
nor does his heart seem to beat. He is so pale, so deathly pale, even
to his lips."
He knew that she was lifting him into a different and easier position,
and wondered at the muscular power she exerted, even under excitement.
"Why, why," she exclaimed in horror, "he is cold, strangely cold! His
hands and brow are almost like ice, and wet with the dew of death."
She was not aware of the fact that extreme coldness and a clammy
perspiration would be among the results of such a severe shock.
"Graydon," she gasped, "Graydon!" Then after a moment: "O God, if he
should never know!"
She chafed his hands and wrists, opened the lunch basket, and found
that the bottle containing water was not broken, for he felt drops
dashed on his face, and his lips moistened; but the same stony
paralysis enchained him. Then she sent out her voice for help, and
there was agony, terror, and heart-break in her cry.
Realizing the futility of this on the lonely mountainside, she soon
ceased, and again sought, with almost desperate energy, to restore
him, crying and moaning meanwhile in a way that smote his heart. At
last she threw herself on his breast with the bitter cry:
"Oh, Graydon, Graydon, are you dying? Will you _never_ know? Oh, my
heart's true love, shall I never have a chance to tell you that it
was you I loved--you only! It was for you I went away alone to die, I
feared. For you I struggled back to life, and toiled and prayed that
I might be your fair ideal; and now you may never know. Graydon,
Graydon, I would give you the very blood out of my heart--O God, I
can't restore him!" she moaned, in a choking voice, and then he knew
from her dead weight upon his breast that she had fainted.
This mental anguish and the effort he put forth to respond to
these words caused great beads of sweat to start out upon his face.
Suddenly, as if a giant hand was lifted, the effects of the shock
resulting from his fall passed away. He opened his eyes, and there was
Madge, with her face buried upon his breast, in brief oblivion from
fears that threatened to crush at once hope and life.
To his great joy he found that he could move. Feebly, and with great
difficulty, he lifted her head and tried to regain his feet. He found
this impossible, and soon realized that his leg was broken. He now
saw that he must act wisely and carefully, or their plight would be
serious indeed; and yet his mind was in such a tumult of immeasurable
joy at his discovery that he would not in the least regret the
accident, if assured of her safety.
At last, in response to his efforts, she began to revive. The sense
of responsibility, the necessity for action on her part, had been
so great immediately before she had fainted under the stress of one
overwhelming fear, that her mind, even during unconsciousness, may
have put forth effort to regain its hold upon sense. She found herself
leaning against a prostrate tree, and Graydon sitting near, speaking
to her in soothing and encouraging tones.
In response to her bewildered, troubled look of inquiry, he said,
cheerfully, and in natural tones, "Don't worry, Madge, or be
frightened."
"What has happened, Graydon?"
"I'll tell you what I know, and you must supply the rest. We were
proceeding along that ledge above us, and trying to find a safe place
to climb down."
A slow deep color began to take the place of her pallor, showing that
her own memory was supplying all that had occurred.
"You know I fell, Madge. Thank God, I did not carry you down with me!"
"Any other man would," she said, almost brusquely. "You threw my hand
back around a tree."
"Did I?" exclaimed Graydon, very innocently and gladly. "Well,
everything became very confused after that. I must have been
unconscious. I do remember grasping at the branches as I passed
through these low trees above us--"
"You must have caught one of them, Graydon," she said, eagerly,
turning toward him again, "for a large limb had broken off and was
lying upon you."
"Was it so? Perhaps I owe it a good turn, for it may have so broken
my fall as to have saved my life. Well, in some way, you, true, brave
little girl, you must have reached me, and, finding that you could not
restore me, and imagining I was dead or dying, you fainted yourself
from the nervous shock of it all. When I recovered the use of my
senses I found evidence that you had been trying to revive me. Now,
Madge, we must both be brave and sensible. We must regain the full
possession of our wits as soon as possible. Can you be very brave and
sensible (to use your favorite word) if I tell you something?"
"Yes, Graydon," she said. "I can do anything, now that I know you are
going to live."
"I am very much alive, and shall be thoroughly conscious of the fact
for some time to come. You must keep perfectly cool and rational, for
what has happened is a very serious affair under the circumstances."
Her scarlet face was turned from him again. "Madge," he concluded, in
quiet tones, "I've broken my leg."
"Is that all?" she said, with a look of intense relief.
"Isn't that enough? I'm helpless."
"I'm not," and she sprang to her feet "Why, Graydon, it might have
been a hundred-fold worse. I thought it was immeasurably worse," she
said, suppressing a sob. "You might have been killed. See how far
you fell! I feared you might have received some terrible internal
injury--"
"I have; but that's a chronic affair, as you know," he interrupted,
laughing.
[Illustration: "SO YOU IMAGINE I SHALL SOON BE MAKING LOVE TO ANOTHER
GIRL."]
His mirth and allusion did more to restore her than all else, for he
appeared the same friend that she thought she had lost.
"Now that it is so evident that you will survive all your injuries,"
she resumed, with an answering laugh, "I am myself again. You direct
me what to do."
"I shall, indeed, have to depend on you almost wholly; and the fact
that another must look to you in such a strait will do more to
keep you up than all cordials and stimulants. I can do very little
myself--"
"Forgive me, Graydon. You know I am not indifferent. Are you in much
pain?" and her voice was very gentle.
"Not yet. You must act contrary to your instincts for once, and exert
all your ingenuity to attract attention. First, we must have a fire;
meanwhile I shall light a cigar, which will help me to think and
banish the impression that we are lost babes in the woods. The smoke,
you see, will draw eyes to this spot--the smoke of the fire, I mean."
"I'm following you correctly."
"You must have followed me very bravely, heroic little woman that you
are! You are indeed unlike other girls, who would never have reached
me except by tumbling after--"
"Come, no more reminiscences till you are safe at the hotel, and your
leg mended."
"Very well. I direct, but you command. As soon as we have a column
of smoke ascending from this point you must try to find an open space
near here, and wave something white as a signal of distress."
He had scarcely concluded before she was at work. The prostrate tree
against which he had managed to place her at such pain to his broken
limb served as a back-log, and soon a column of smoke was ascending.
At times she would turn a shy, half-doubting, half-questioning glance
at him, but he would smile so naturally and speak so frankly that the
suspicion that he had heard her words almost passed from her mind.
"Madge," he said, "in finding an outlook toward the hotel or valley,
don't go far away, if possible. It makes me awfully nervous to think
of you climbing alone."
She found a projecting rock beneath them within calling distance, and
on an extemporized pole she fastened the napkins. At his suggestion
she waved them only downward and upward, at the same time sending out
her powerful voice from time to time in a cry for help.
He, left alone, sometimes groaned from an unusually severe twinge of
pain, and again laughed softly to himself over the situation. He knew
that the question of their being sought and found was only one of
time, and he would have been willing to have had all his bones broken
should this have been needful to secure the knowledge which now
thrilled his very soul with gladness. The past grew perfectly clear,
and the pearl of a woman who had given herself to him so long ago
gained a more priceless value with every moment's thought, "Ah,
sweet Madge! I'm the blessed idiot you loved and toiled for at Santa
Barbara! I shouldn't have believed that such a thing could happen in
this humdrum world."
Nor would it seem that the attention of even a fraction of that great
world could be obtained. The shadows of evening began to gather, and
Madge, at Graydon's call, returned, wearied and somewhat discouraged.
"Cheer up," he said. "It is only a question of time. We shall soon be
missed, and our signals will be more effective when it is dark. See,
we shall not starve. I have been getting supper for you. Keeping the
remnants of our lunch wasn't a bad idea, was it?"
"Keeping up your courage and mine is a better one. Graydon, I fear you
are suffering very much."
"Oh, Madge, armies of men have broken their legs! That's nothing but a
little disagreeable prose, while this adventure with you is something
to talk and laugh over all our lives. I've cut my boot off and
bandaged my leg as well as I could, and am now hungry. That's a good
sign. I shall be positively hilarious if you make as good supper as
this meagre spread permits. Take a little water, for your throat must
be parched. You will have to drink it from the bottle, Pat's fashion,
for my rubber cup is broken."
"Indeed, a little water is all I want at present, and I must gather
wood for the fire before it is darker."
"Very well," he said, laughing; "supper shall wait for you."
The vicinity appeared as if never before visited, and there was an
abundance of dead and decaying wood lying about. When she had secured
a large quantity of this she came and sat down by the fire, and said,
"I will take a little supper now, and then it will be so dark that we
can signal in some other way."
"Madge," said Graydon, earnestly, "it has cut me to the heart to lie
helplessly here and see you doing work so unsuitable."
"Nothing could be more suitable under the circumstances. You do think
we shall be found soon? Oh, I'm so worried about you!"
"More, then, than I am about myself. I shall have to play invalid for
some time. Won't you be my nurse occasionally?"
"Yes, Graydon, all I can."
"Why, then, don't worry about me at all. The prospect makes me fairly
happy. Come, now, eat the whole of that sandwich."
She complied, looking thoughtfully into the fire meanwhile. By the
light of the flickering blaze he saw the trouble and worry pass from
her brow and the expression of her face grow as quiet and contented as
that of a child's. At last she said, "Well, this does seem cosey and
companionable, in spite of everything. There, forgive me, Graydon; I
forgot for the moment that you were in pain."
"Was I? I forgot it, too. Sitting there in the firelight, you
suggested the sweetest picture I ever hope to see."
"You can't be _in extremis_ when you begin to compliment."
"Don't you wish to know what the picture was?"
"Oh, yes, if it will help you pass the time!"
"I saw you sitting by a hearth, and I thought, 'If that hearth were
mine it would be the loveliest picture the world had known.' Now you
see what an egotist I am. You look so enchanting in that firelight
that I cannot resist--I would try so hard to be worthy of you, Madge.
Make your own terms again, as I said once to you before."
"My own terms?" she repeated, turning a sudden and searching glance
upon him. "Then tell me, did you hear what I said this afternoon when
I first found you?"
He hesitated a moment, and then said, firmly: "Yes, every word; but,
Madge, you must not punish me for what I could not help. It would not
be right."
"Could you hear me and yet--"
"I could hear you and yet could not move a muscle until you fainted,
and then my intense mental excitement and solicitude must have broken
the paralysis caused by the shock of my fall. Oh, Madge, look at me!
Only a false pride can come between us now. My love is not worthy to
be compared with yours, but it is genuine, and it will--it _will_ last
as long as I do. I shall bless this accident and all the pain I must
suffer if they bring you to me."
She sprang to his side, and putting her arm around his neck said,
"Graydon, on the evening after your return I told you I couldn't be
your sister. You know why now, and you uttered these words, 'I shall
have to take you as you are if I ever find out.' I meant to win you
if I could, but only by being such a girl as I thought you would love.
Now you know the mystery of the little ghost, and you can bring to me
that 'idiot' who didn't return my love, as often as you choose."
"Thank Heaven for what I escaped! Thank God for what I have won!" he
exclaimed.
"Won? Nonsense! _You_ have been won, not I. Oh, Graydon, wouldn't you
have been amazed and horrified if you had been told, years ago, that
the little ghost would go deliberately to work to woo a man and take
him from another girl? Think how dreadful it sounds! but you shall now
know the worst."
"It's music that will fill my life with gladness. How exquisitely fine
your nature is, that you could do this with such absolute maidenly
reserve! Suppose I had become Stella Wildmere's bondman?"
"I should have gone back to Santa Barbara, and kept my secret."
"Horrible!"
"I said you knew all, but I am mistaken. Now, don't be shocked back
into your kind of unconsciousness again. I did another horrid thing.
I listened and learned about the plot by which Arnault meant to
bring Miss Wildmere to a decision against you;" and she told him the
circumstances, and what had passed between herself and Henry.
His arm tightened around her almost convulsively. "Madge," he cried,
"you have not only brought me happiness--you have saved me from a
bitter, lifelong self-reproach far worse than poverty. How can I ever
show sufficient devotion in return for all this?"
"By being sensible, and telling me how to make signals, now that it is
as dark as it will be this moonlight night."
"Let me lean on you, as I ever shall figuratively hereafter. We will
go down to the outlook you found, build another fire, and wave burning
brands."
This was done. Henry Muir, who had grown very solicitous, saw their
signals, and promptly organized a rescuing party. A wood-road led well
up toward their position, and with the aid of some employés of the
house he at last rescued them. Graydon was weak and exhausted from
pain by the time he reached the hotel, yet felt that his happiness had
been purchased at very slight cost. The next day he was taken to his
city home, and Madge filled the days of his convalescence with such
varied entertainment that he threatened to break his leg again. She
had so trained her voice that she read or sang with almost tireless
ease. To furnish home music, to shine in the light of her own hearth,
had been the dream of her ambition; and to the man she had won she
made that hearth the centre of the gentle force which controlled and
blessed his life.
But little further remains to be said concerning the other characters
of this story. The severe lesson received by Stella Wildmere had a
permanent effect upon her character. It did not result in a very
high type of womanhood, for the limitations of her nature scarcely
permitted this; but it brought about decided changes for the better.
She was endowed with fair abilities and a certain hard, practical
sense, which enabled her to see the folly of her former scheme of
life. Blind, inconsiderate selfishness, which asked only, "What do I
wish the present moment?" had brought humiliation and disaster, and,
as her father had suggested, she possessed too much mind to repeat
that blunder. She recognized that she could not ignore natural
laws and duties and go very far in safety. Therefore, instead of
querulousness and repining, or showing useless resentment toward
her father for misfortunes which she had done nothing to avert, she
stepped bravely and helpfully to his side, and amid all the chaos of
the financial storm that was wrecking him he was happier than he had
been for years. Her beloved jewelry, and everything that could be
legally saved from their dismantled home, was disposed of to the best
advantage. Then very modest apartments were taken in a suburb, and
both she and her father began again. He obtained a clerkship at a
small salary, and she aided her mother in making every dollar go as
far as possible.
Arnault had thought, under the impulse of his pride, that he could
renounce her forever, but found himself mistaken. She would not depart
from such heart as he possessed, nor could he break the spell of
her fascination. His interest grew so absorbing that he kept himself
informed about the changes she was passing through, and her manner
of meeting them. As a result, his practical soul was filled with
admiration, and he felt that she of all others would be the wife for
a man embarked on the uncertain tides of Wall Street. At last he wrote
to her and renewed his offer. The reply was characteristic.
"Your offer comes too late. If, instead of being one of the principal
actors in that humiliating little drama of my life, you had stood by
me patiently and faithfully, I would have given you at once my deepest
gratitude and, eventually, my love. I did not deserve such constancy,
but I would have rewarded it to the extent of my ability. You thought
I was mercenary. I was, and have been punished; but you forget that
you made my mercenary spirit your ally, and kept me from becoming
engaged to the man whom you well knew that I preferred. My regard
for him is not so deep, however, but that I shall survive and face
my altered fortunes bravely. If you had been kind to me during those
bitter days--if you had kept my father from failure, instead of
deserting him after he had done his best for you--he did do his best
for you--I should have valued _you_ more than your wealth, and proved
it by my life. I have since learned that I am not afraid of poverty,
and that I must find truer friends."
Arnault, like so many others, turned from what "might have been" to
his pursuit of gold, but it had lost its brightness forever.
An old admirer of Stella's, a plain, sturdy business man, to whom she
had scarcely given a thought in her palmy days, eventually renewed his
attentions, and won as much love as the girl probably could have given
to any one. By his aid she restored her father's broken fortunes and
established them on a modest but secure basis, and she proved to her
husband a sensible wife, always recognizing that in promoting his best
interests and happiness she secured her own.
Dr. Sommers is still the genial physician and the Izaak Walton of
the Catskills. Mr. and Mrs. Wendall are "plodding toward home" with a
resignation that is almost cheerful.
Henry Muir continues devoted to business, and his wife is devoted
to him. He rarely permits a suitable opportunity to pass without
remarking that the two sisters are the "most sensible women in the
world."