MEETING ON THE PRECIPICE.
“I have accepted Mr. Waldon’s invitation to ride to the upper falls
to-morrow morning. It is understood that you will join us somewhere on
the way. This gives me an opportunity to gain the interview with Clara
that you have so much at heart. After hearing all the particulars I am
satisfied that in some accidental meeting, seeming or real, lies your
last hope of a reconciliation. Were it not from the fact that she seemed
to relent and call you back in that interview by the willows, I should
have little hope for you. As it is, you shall have one more chance to
plead your cause if I can give it to you. I have sent a note to Clara
asking her to join me on my way to the falls. So meet us there. It will
prove your own fault if she is not intercepted on the road and escorted
to our party. Neither Clara nor Mr. Waldon will know anything of this
little arrangement, which is to remain our secret.
“BERTHA.”
Young Lane understood this note well—for he had given Bertha his entire
confidence—and in great hopefulness prepared to act upon it. Waldon too
was in high spirits. His pursuit of Bertha Canfield had been so checked
by her mother’s presence or the old Quaker’s quiet vigilance that a
spirit of contest gave fire to his first impetuous admiration. Never had
this man thought himself so deeply in love—never had his suit seemed so
vigilantly guarded against. Bertha had accepted his invitation to a ride
so promptly that there was no room for after protest, and Waldon seized
upon the opportunity with a glow of triumph.
The silvery haze which makes September so chastely beautiful filled the
morning with a delightful calm as these two rode away from the old
homestead in company. They were both splendid riders, the horses well
matched and managed with that easy grace which one seldom finds out of
England. Waldon had a stern, masterly control over his spirited horse
which betrayed in itself the singular self-poise of a character full of
power both of thought and motion. Bertha’s action was marked with gentle
grace—a grave dignity. She sat her horse well and rode with serene
fearlessness, keeping firm control of the animal, but leaving herself
free to enjoy the hazy loveliness of the morning with all the relish of
youth and perfect health.
They rode rather slowly at first, and spoke only of the glorious day—the
trees so rich in foliage; glimpses of scenery breaking upon them from
the opposite shore, to which Waldon’s imagination gave all the glow of
poetry. Then the conversation drifted into more dangerous channels, and
insidiously approaching the one subject that filled the hearts of both;
for Clara Anderson had never listened to this man with deeper thrills of
joyous fear than stirred in Bertha Canfield’s heart that morning.
The position in itself was a happiness. There was something delightfully
strange in the mere fact that she was alone with him, though her eyes
fell if he looked that way, and she sometimes felt an impulse to turn
her horse and flee home. Waldon marked all these emotions, and was in no
haste to cheat his heart of its full enjoyment, which it found in the
faint suspense which to his nature was like the prolonged taste of some
rare wine in the mouth. Still his actions became more and more
lover-like. Their horses moved close together; sometimes his hand lay
caressingly on the neck of her steed; sometimes he held her hand too
fondly under a pretence of teaching her how to manage the curb or
snaffle, and when he could find no other excuse for these caressing
attentions, he leaned toward her, and many a thrilling word was poured
into her ear which brought a richer color to that lovely face than the
light autumn air could have given.
Still he did not speak clearly of his love. It may be that the memory of
another fair girl, sitting alone by an open window suffering from
wounded pride, toiling on through all the pangs of a starving heart,
rose up to choke back the treason of such speech. It is impossible to
say how this was, for many an aching conscience lies coiled under faces
smiling like his, and who can judge of feelings so carefully hidden,
even from the soul that folds them in?
But this is certain, so far as appearances went a happier pair never
galloped up the hard broken banks of the Housatonic, and a brighter sun
never kissed more blooming cheeks than those of Bertha Canfield.
On they went along the shore, sheltered by broken hills and
richly-wooded banks; now dashing through the sunshine, then moving more
slowly athwart the shadows.
The falls were beautiful rather than grand. Wild broken scenery lay
around them, gray rocks, noble old pines, and rough hemlocks so
ponderous and ancient that the tops were smitten and blasted with more
than a hundred winters that had filled them with their snows. On the
broken rocks below the falls, where the waters leaped and rioted, mosses
green as emerald had crept, and ferns started up among them bending
beneath a perpetual baptism of spray. It was just a place for enjoyment;
not sublime enough to take the breath away, but suggestive of grand
practical ideas, and presenting glimpses of beauty which were sure to
live pleasantly on the memory.
Once or twice Bertha had looked anxiously down the road during her ride,
but seeing nothing of the persons she expected to encounter every
minute, allowed them to pass from her mind. So for half an hour those
two wandered about the fall, or sat on some rock within the very baptism
of its spray, listening to words so like love that she only lifted those
soft eyes once, when Waldon held her gaze fascinated till her cheeks
were like carnations when the sun kisses them. Directly her eyelids
drooped and she began to tremble, but not more than the leaves that just
quivered around her.
Then Waldon smiled and resolved to go no further just then. With him
love-making was almost a science, and he was not a man to brush the
bloom from his grapes in a rude haste for eating.
But the happiest hours of life, even for lovers, are always brief, so
after a while these young people were constrained to mount their horses
again.
They crossed a bridge and came down the opposite bank of the river,
determined to enjoy to the full its varied scenery. For several miles
the road was walled in between the base of a rocky hill and the waters;
sometimes it curved around some projecting rock and made a sweep up the
hill, dropping down to the stream again when the obstruction was
cleared.
Waldon and Bertha drew up at one of these short curves to make room for
a laden wagon that came heavily up the road with a reckless driver on
the board seat in front. As the man passed he gave a vigorous crack of
the heavy whip in his hand.
Waldon’s horse gave a frightful leap, and, spite of his strong arm,
rushed up the eminence like a thunderbolt. The animal that Bertha rode
sprang after him, and both passed over the brow of the hill on a sharp
run.
On the right was a broken hill wooded thickly from brow to base. On the
left, between the road and the river, a precipice from forty to fifty
feet high, washed at its foot by the deep water. Just at the highest and
narrowest curve of the road a blasted tree shot its naked limbs partly
across it. Bertha’s horse was going at full speed; a sharp point of this
branch grazed him and broke off with a crash; the animal grew wild,
reared, and came down with a force that sent his rider clear over his
head.
Bertha fell on the verge of the precipice, stunned. Waldon sprang from
his horse at the danger of his life and came to the place where she lay,
white and still as death. Down upon the earth he sank, and lifting her
in his arms, laid her head upon his bosom. All semblance of life had
left her. Her hand fell limp and pale over his shoulder. Her lips were
blue and cold.
Terrified for once out of all self-control, he called upon her in an
agony of real feeling to speak, to open her eyes, only to move, that he
might know that she was not dead.
She did not speak or move.
Then his head drooped; his lips sought an answer of life from hers.
Between these despairing kisses he passionately called her name.
In this paroxysm of distress he was unaware that a lady on horseback
turned a point of the road and came suddenly upon them. She curbed her
horse with a slow pull at the bridle, and drew up. She was singularly
pale, and evidently struck with wonder at what she saw. Her habit of
dark green was well worn, but its folds fell around her like a queenly
garment. She curbed her horse back with such slow violence that he
scarcely made a noise in the road, and sat upon him like a marble thing
regarding those two.
Her appearance was enough to attract attention; but the haughty curbing
of her horse and the passionate glance that she cast upon that panting
girl was most remarkable of all. Her cheeks could not well be paler; but
as she gazed and took in the whole group, her lips grew absolutely
colorless, and a thrill of wild astonishment, if nothing more, shook her
from head to foot.
A cry—a groan—some indescribable sound smote Waldon, and he lifted his
head.
Then his eyes met those of Clara Anderson sitting there motionless upon
her horse.
For one moment he was paler than the woman he had wronged. His arms
loosened around the young creature who was coming to life on his bosom;
but instantly he folded her close again, hurling a smile of bitter
defiance to the figure on horseback.
She smiled also; but oh! what a proud, icy smile it was! Slowly wheeling
her horse, she turned back on the way from whence she had come. At the
foot of the hill her horse broke into a fleet run, and the traitor she
left behind saw her borne along the river’s bank at a fearful speed till
she disappeared entirely from sight.
Notwithstanding the hardihood which made Waldon brave among women, he
was paralyzed by the sudden apparition of that girl. Though Bertha was
still in his arms, unconscious of any strange presence, he kept his face
turned on the retreating horsewoman, and its features had changed to
marble. Bertha felt his clasp loosen, and struggled faintly from his
arms. He let her go without a protest, and stood listening till the
sound of those retreating hoofs died away. Then he besought her to rest
with him again, but in so strange a voice that she burst into a passion
of nervous tears.
No, she would be lifted to her saddle at once. Jason had come back
penitent, and she could ride very well.
He scarcely seemed to understand, but lifted her to the saddle, and with
the bridle of his own horse slipped over one arm, led him down the hill.
They were in the neighborhood of the Stone Tavern now, and rode slowly
toward it. When they reached this house a horse with a side-saddle on it
stood panting in the shade. Waldon recognized the animal at a glance,
and turned his face away. Bertha had suffered so much from the shock of
her fall that she could scarcely walk into the house. The landlady took
her directly to a chamber, and having composed her on the bed and
darkened the room, sat watching her till she fell into a quiet slumber.