A FRIGHTFUL ACCIDENT.
The child had played contentedly enough with her ferns and leaves until
a brilliant butterfly had appeared upon the scene and attracted her
attention, when she began to chase it, and, unmindful of her promise to
her brother, ran too near the edge of the precipice, lost her balance,
and fell with a terrified shriek into space.
Philip Wentworth rushed forward, an inarticulate cry of horror bursting
from his lips, threw himself upon his knees, grasped a young tree that
was growing there, and leaned over the chasm to see—he dare not think
what.
“Oh, God!” he groaned, as he stared into the abyss below.
“Mr. Wentworth!—oh!—is she—killed?” gasped Gertrude Athol, as she sprang
to his side, her face as white as the flannel of her outing dress.
“I don’t know—I do not dare to hope that she is not,” the young man
returned, but still gazing as one mesmerized upon the scene beneath him.
Gertrude stooped over, steadying herself by leaning upon his shoulder,
and she caught her breath sharply as she took in the situation.
Down, down, at least a hundred feet, she caught sight of a mass of white
lying like a ball of cotton in the midst of the heavy foliage of a tree.
Many years previous a tiny maple seed had found lodgment among the
rocks and earth of the mountain, which arose hundreds of feet, like a
perpendicular wall, and this had sprouted, taken root, and grown until
now quite a vigorous tree projected out at right angles from this wall,
and as the plateau above shelved outward at the top, the child had fallen
straight into the middle of the interlaced branches and heavy foliage,
and thus she had been almost miraculously saved from being dashed upon
the rocks in the ravine below.
But there was not a movement, not a sound, to tell those breathless
watchers above whether the little one was still living; she certainly was
not conscious, or she surely would have made the fact known.
“Oh! what can we do?—this is terrible!” cried Gertrude, with white lips
and shivering as from a chill. “But”—in an eager tone—“the child is safe,
I fancy! she could not have been badly hurt just dropping into the tree;
she is only breathless and faint from the fearful fall through space. Oh!
Mr. Wentworth, I am sure if some one will only go to her rescue before
she revives she can be saved.”
“Saved!” gasped Philip, with a shudder of horror; “why, she is as dead to
us and the world at this moment as if she had already been dashed upon
those rocks so far beneath her; for no one would risk his life down that
precipice to attempt her rescue.”
“Some one must! Some one shall!” cried the panting girl. “Oh! if we had
a rope and some one would lower me, I would go. Run—run to the hotel;
tell them to bring ropes—I know she can be saved—go! go!” she concluded
imperatively, while she tried to drag him to his feet.
But he appeared to be paralyzed—rooted to the spot.
“Run!” he repeated, regarding her with a dazed expression. “I could not
run to the hotel if my own life depended upon it. Oh, Minnie! my poor
darling!” he concluded, a sob of despair bursting from him.
Without another word, but like a flash, Gertrude turned, shot past him,
and sped over the ground toward the hotel. Fast and faster she flew,
never once pausing, until, spent and breathless, she sank upon the steps
leading to the veranda.
Clifford, from the office window, had seen her coming, and, realizing
that something was wrong, sprang forth to meet her.
“Miss Athol!—tell me—has anything happened? What can I do for you?” he
exclaimed, as he reached her side.
“Oh, Mr. Cliff!”—she had heard him called Cliff, and knew him by no other
name—“Minnie Temple has fallen over the cliff at the glen. A tree has
broken her fall; she is caught in the branches; I have come for men and
ropes to save her.”
Clifford’s face had grown rigid, and his heart sank heavily in his bosom
as he listened. He had been growing to love the bright, pretty child, and
he felt personally bereft at the thought of losing her. But he paused to
ask no questions, although he feared the case was hopeless. He turned
abruptly on his heel, and darted into the house.
“John!” he called to an assistant, who had just come up from the
basement, “go to the stable, and get the longest and strongest ropes you
can find; go quick! Then find Sam, come here, and wait for me.”
The man knew the case was imperative from his looks and tones, and
hurried away to do his bidding, while Clifford sprang up two flights of
stairs two steps at a time to a side room, which was remote from any
of the fire-escapes on the building, and where a knotted rope had been
placed to be used in the event of an emergency.
He snatched this from the strong hook to which it was attached, tore a
sheet from the bed, and then darted back down-stairs, where he found the
men, John and Sam, awaiting him.
“Come,” he said briefly, and then hurried on down the road after Miss
Athol, who, having done her errand and caught her breath again, was
flying back along the way over which she had just come.
As soon as they reached “The Glen,” where they found Philip still
crouching where Gertrude had left him, his face buried in his hands,
Clifford went straight to the edge of the plateau, and peered down into
the ravine.
Instantly his eyes brightened, and a look of determination leaped into
them as they rested upon that little motionless form half-buried in the
dense foliage of the tree.
Stepping back he threw off his light linen coat and vest, after which he
knotted the fire-escape rope firmly around the trunk of a young oak, and
threw the remainder of it over the cliff, and was glad to see that it was
plenty long enough for his purpose.
Then he attached one end of a larger rope which John had brought to the
same tree, and secured the other around his own body.
“Oh, Mr. Cliff! you are going down for her!” eagerly exclaimed Gertrude,
who had been breathlessly watching his movements, and her eyes met his
with a look of dawning hope in their brown depths.
“Certainly; some one must go,” he said briefly.
Involuntarily the girl’s glance wandered to Philip Wentworth, a slight
frown contracting her brow. He still sat upon the ground, his face
covered, and the very picture of despair. Clearly, he was wholly unfitted
to be of any special use in this fearful emergency.
Clifford’s next move was to firmly knot the diagonal corners of the sheet
he had brought and slip it over his left shoulder and under his right arm.
“What is that for?” questioned Miss Athol.
“To put the child into. Do you not see? It makes a kind of pouch, and,
swung over my back, will leave my hands free to use in climbing.”
“Oh, yes,” she breathed; “how thoughtful of you, and she will be safer so
than she could possibly have been in almost any other way.”
“Yes,” he said simply, and smiled a look of encouragement into her white
face.
“Now, John, Sam, and Wentworth, too, we shall need your help,” he
continued, turning sharply upon Philip to arouse him to action. “I am
going down that fire-escape. John, I want you to keep hold of this other
rope that is tied to me, and pay it out as I go—but not too fast, just
enough to feel my movements, and be sure you do not lose your head or
your grip, for in case the other rope should slip or I should need to
rest a moment a little tightening up upon it will be a great help to me,
and possibly avert a serious accident. When I start to come back pull
it up evenly and steadily—don’t let it slip, for I shall need to depend
a good deal upon its support. When I get back here to the edge of the
plateau you will—every one of you—need all your wits about you to help
me on to terra firma once more. Now, obey orders, and, God helping me, I
will do the rest.”
He stepped calmly forward to where the rope hung over, laid hold upon
the trunk of the tree to help himself off, then, seizing the knotted
fire-escape, slipped slowly down into space.
At this moment Philip Wentworth sprang to his feet and went forward,
his face still white as marble, but evidently doing his utmost to brace
himself up to assist in the rescue of his idolized little sister.
Miss Athol, however, feeling that she could not trust herself to watch
that perilous descent, went back to the boulder and sat down, covered her
face with her trembling hands, and prayed for the hero who was risking so
much to save a human life.
Other people, having learned that an accident of some kind had occurred,
had begun to gather about the place, though scarce a word was spoken, and
“The Glen” was almost as silent as if no one had been there.
Hand over hand, calmly and steadily, Clifford descended the rope,
clinging to it with his feet—from which he had removed his shoes—as well
as with his hands, never once looking down, but always up, with never a
shade of fear in his brave brown eyes.
Those above him, watching with breathless interest, grew dizzy and almost
faint, as they looked, to see him swaying backward and forward, and
from side to side, like some erratic pendulum ’twixt earth and sky, for
the rope, being loose at the lower end, he could not control it, and it
seemed as if he would never be able to stand the strain until he reached
his journey’s end.
John McQueen, a strong and sturdy Scotchman, stood a resolute and
faithful sentinel at his post, and paid out the rope in his hands just
fast enough to make it a help and a support—and Clifford told him
afterward that he never could have accomplished his task but for the
trust he reposed in his brawny arms and cool head—until, at last, the
brave fellow touched the trunk of the maple, and so far, all was well.
Here he paused to rest for a moment or two, for the strain had been
great, and his hands burned and stung from their contact with the rough
rope.
His next act was to secure the loose end to the tree, making it as
taut as possible, and thus prevent the swaying, which had so annoyed
and hampered him in making his descent. His upward climb would be the
“tug-o’-war,” and he realized that he must neglect no measure that would
be of the slightest advantage to him.
Then he began his perilous climb outward upon the trunk of the maple
toward that snowy mass lying among its dark-green foliage.
A single slip or false movement would have sent him whirling through
space to the bottom of the ravine. Very cautiously he edged his way,
almost inch by inch, taking great care not to shake or disturb the
branches where the child lay, lest she be dislodged before he could reach
her.
At last!
His hand grasped the garments, and the long-drawn breath that heaved the
chest of every watcher above told how intense was the excitement, how
terrible had been the suspense of the last few moments.
Gently, cautiously, Clifford drew the still, little form toward him until
he could encircle it with his strong arm, and then he slowly retraced his
way along that slender stem.
It was a perilous task, but the ropes were reached at last, and again he
paused to rest, while he bent a tender, anxious face over the inanimate
burden now clasped close to his breast, and placed a hand over the little
heart.
He detected slight pulsations there, and gave a reassuring nod to those
who were keeping such anxious vigil above.
At last he placed the child within the pouch which he had made of the
sheet, swung it gently around upon his back, and secured the loose
corners about his waist to prevent his burden from swaying away from his
body, and then he was ready for the ascent.
Full one hundred feet he must climb that perpendicular strand with that
precious little form upon his back.
Would he be able to accomplish the task? He did not presume to answer the
question as it flashed through his brain; he put the thought quickly away
from him almost before it had taken form.
But his brave heart never faltered in his purpose as he resolutely
grasped the rope and lifted himself from the supporting maple.
But who shall describe the agony of suspense that tortured the hearts
of those who were lying, face downward, upon the edge of the cliff, and
watching the struggle for life.
Philip Wentworth could not endure it, and knowing that there was now
plenty of help upon the ground, he retreated, faint and sick, from his
position by the oak to the boulder where Gertrude was sitting, and waited
in speechless anguish for the end.
Faithful John McQueen, who had been a worshiper at young Faxon’s shrine
from the first day of his appearance at the hotel, never once took his
eyes or his thoughts from the rope in his hands, or for a moment forgot
the important part he was playing in the tragic scene.
Up, up, Clifford came, nearer and nearer toward the goal, and with every
foot of advancement the sustaining rope was shortened just so much, with
a firm and steady pull that was a source of continual encouragement and
support to the valiant hero.
At length his right hand, now almost purple from his exertions, grasped
the last knot just below the edge of the cliff.
This was the most critical moment of all, for the plateau shelved
outward, and it hardly seemed possible that the young man and his burden
could be drawn safely up over the brink.
But willing hands and strong arms reached down and grasped him, while
John held his rope with an iron grip, and in another moment he was lifted
out of space and onto solid ground once more.
His face was almost as purple as his hands, the veins upon his forehead
stood out in knots, his breath came in shrill, quivering pants between
his livid lips, and the moment he was relieved of his burden he sank
exhausted, well-nigh unconscious, upon the rug which Gertrude had dragged
forward to receive him.