As soon as he started to walk she followed him, pushing through heavy brushwood and crawling along the ground where she could not be seen;—and now,—with dishevelled hair, and staring, terrified eyes she leaned over the edge of the precipice, baffled and desperate. Tearless sobs convulsed her throat,—
"Oh, God of mercy!" she moaned in suffocated accents—"How can I follow him down there! Oh, help me, Mary mother! Help me! I must—I must be with him!"
She gathered up her hair in a close coil and wound her skirts tightly about her, looking everywhere for a footing. She saw a deep cranny which had been hollowed out by some torrent of water—it cut sharply through the rock like a path,—she could risk that perhaps, she thought,—and yet her brain reeled—she felt sick and giddy—would it not be wiser to stay where she was and wait for the return of the reckless creature who had ventured all alone into one of the deepest canons of the whole country? While she hesitated she caught a sudden glimpse of him, stepping with apparent ease over huge heaps of stones and fallen pieces of rock at the bottom of the declivity,—she watched his movements in breathless suspense. On he went towards a vast aperture, shaped arch-wise like the entrance to a cavern—he paused a moment—then entered it. This was enough for Manella—her wild love and wilder terror gave her an almost supernatural strength and daring,—and all heedless now of results she sprang boldly towards the deep cutting in the rock, swinging herself from jagged point to point till—reaching the bottom of the declivity at last, bruised and bleeding, but undaunted,—she stopped, checked by a rushing stream which tumbled over great boulders and dashed its cold spray in her face. Looking about her she saw to her dismay that the vaulted cavern wherein Seaton had disappeared was on the other side of this stream—she stood almost opposite to it—but how to get across? Gazing despairingly in every direction she suddenly perceived the fallen trunk of a tree lying half in and half out of the brawling torrent—it was green with slippery moss and offered but a dangerous foothold,—nevertheless she resolved to attempt it.
"I said I would die for him!" she thought—"and I will!"
Getting astride the tree, it swayed under her,—but she found she could push one of the larger boughs forward to lengthen the extemporary bridge,—and so, as it were, riding the waters, which surged noisily around her, she managed by dint of super-human effort to reach the projection of pebbly shore where the entrance to the cavern yawned open before her, black and desolate. The sun in its full morning glory blazed slanting down upon the darkness of the canon, and as she stood shivering, wet through and utterly exhausted, wondering what next she should do, she caught sight of a form moving within the cave like a moving shadow, and ascending a steep natural stairway of columnar rocks piled one on top of the other. Affrighted as she was by the tomb-like aspect of the deep vault, she had not ventured so far that she should now shrink from further dangers or fail in her quest;—the cherished object of her constant watchful care was within that subterranean blackness,—for what purpose?—she did not dare to think! But there was an instinctive sense of dread foreknowledge upon her,—a warning of impending evil,—and had she not sworn to him—"If God struck you down to hell I would be there!" The entrance to the cavern looked like the mouth of hell itself, as she had seen it depicted in one of her Catholic early lesson books. There were serpents and dragons in the picture ready to devour the impenitent sinner,—there might be serpents and dragons in this cave, for all she knew! But what matter? If the man she loved were actually in hell she "would be there"—as she had said!—and would surely find it Heaven! And so,—seeing the mere outline of his form moving ghost-like in the gloom, it was to her a guiding presence,—a light amid darkness,—and when,—after a minute or two—her straining eyes perceived him climbing steadily up the steep and perilous rocks, seeming about to disappear altogether,—she mastered the tremor of her nerves and crept cautiously step by step into the sombre vault, blindly feeling her way through the damp, thick murkiness, reckless of all danger, and only bent on following him.
CHAPTER XXII
Of all the vagaries and humours of humanity when considered in crowds, there is nothing which appears more senseless and objectless than the way in which it congregates outside the door of a church at a fashionable or "society" wedding. The massed people pushing and shoving each other about have nothing whatever to do with either bride or bridegroom, the ceremony inside the sacred edifice has in most cases ceased to be a "sacrament"—and has become a mere show of dressed-up manikins and womenkins, many of the latter being mere OBJECT D'ART,—stands for the display of millinery. And yet—the crowds fight and jostle,—women scramble and scream,—all to catch a glimpse of the woman who is to be given to the man, and the man who has agreed to accept the woman. The wealthier the pair the wilder the frenzy to gaze upon them. Savages performing a crazy war-dance are decorous of behaviour in contrast with these "civilised" folk who tramp on each other's feet and are ready to squeeze each other into pulp for the chance of staring at two persons whom the majority of them have never seen before and are not likely to see again. The wedding of Miss Lydia Herbert with her "ancient mariner," a seventy-year-old millionaire reputed to be as wealthy as Rockefeller,—was one of these "sensations"—chiefly on account of the fact that every unmarried woman young and old, and every widow, had been hunting him in vain for fully five years. Miss Herbert had been voted "no chance," because she made no secret of her extravagant tastes in dress and jewels,—yet despite society croakers she had won the game. This in itself was interesting,—as the millionaire she had secured was known to be particularly close-fisted and parsimonious. Nevertheless he had shown remarkable signs of relaxing these tendencies; for he had literally showered jewels on his chosen bride, leaving no door open for any complaint in that quarter. Her diamonds were the talk of New York, and on the day of her wedding her gowns literally flashed like a firework with numerous dazzling points of light. "The Voice that breathed o'er Eden" had little to do with the magnificence of her attire, or with the brilliancy of the rose-wreathed bridesmaids, young girls of specially selected beauty and elegance who were all more or less disappointed in failing to win the millionaire themselves. For these youthful persons in their 'teens had social ambitions hidden in hearts harder than steel—"a good time" of self-indulgence and luxury was all they sought for in life—in fact, they had no conception of any higher ideal. The millionaire himself, though old, maintained a fairly middle-aged appearance—he was a thin, wiry, well-preserved man, his wizened and furrowed countenance chiefly showing the marks of Time's ploughshare. It would have been difficult to say why, out of all the feminine butterflies hovering around him, he had chosen Lydia Herbert,—but he was a shrewd judge of character in his way, and he had decided that as she was not in her first youth it would be more worth her while to conduct herself decorously as wife and housekeeper, and generally look after his health and comfort, than it would be for a less responsible woman. Then, she had "manner,"—her appearance was attractive and she wore her clothes well and stylishly. All this was enough for a man who wanted some one to attend to his house and entertain his friends, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself as he repeated after the clergyman the words, "With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow," knowing that "with his body" he had never worshipped anything, and that the "endowment" of his worldly goods was strictly limited to certain settlements. He felt himself to be superior to his old bachelor friend Sam Gwent, who supported him as "best man" at the ceremony, and who, as he stood, stiffly upright in immaculate "afternoon visiting attire" among the restlessly swaying, semi-whispering throng, was all the time thinking of the dusky night-gloom in the garden of the "Plaza" far away in California and a beautiful face set against the dark background of myrtle bushes exhaling rich perfume.
"What a startling contrast she would be to these dolls of fashion!" he thought—"What a sensation she would make! There's not a woman here who can compare with her! If I were only a bit younger I'd try my luck!—anyway I'm younger than to-day's bridegroom!—but she—Manella—would never look at any other man than Seaton, who doesn't care a rap for her or any other woman!" Here his thoughts took another turn.
"No," he repeated inwardly—"He doesn't care a rap for her or any other woman—except—perhaps—Morgana! And even if it were Morgana, it would be for himself and himself alone! While she—ah!—it would be a clever brain indeed that could worry out what SHE cares for! Nothing in this world, so far as I can see!"