Chapter XXVII: 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.