Adventure Magazine Cover, October 1911 — page 157: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A Proof By Peril “Say,” he began chattily, “this is de- lightful, isn’t it? I really think the view fromr here is superior to the one we would have had from the summit. You see, that little snow-storm has cleared the air for us.” There was another twinge on the line. The man was not aware of it. But the girl knew. Hargood struggled on valiantly. “Over the scarred hill far across there you can get a glimpse of the pines, do you noticer”’ he said. ‘‘Down, to the left. I do believe I can make out the flag on the hotel, a red dot against the green. And isn’t that thin, brown gash part of the Reisenweg —the Reisen ’? His even voice tripped. He could have cursed his stupidity. Of all things he had blundered into speaking of the Reisenweg, that hateful path where his hope had died. “Yes, Mr. Hargood,”’ came the answer softly. ‘“‘You were saying—the Reisen- weg?” ‘““Er—yes—the Reisenweg.’’ To save himself he could not get past that word gracefully. ‘Then observe to the right,” he hastened on, “‘there are the peaks of the Altenhorn, the——”’ ‘“But the Reisenweg,’’ said the voice above him. It was very gentle, strangely gentle. ““You were saying?” ‘““Why—nothing,” he stammered. “But look over there to the right a ‘‘Please don’t make me look to the right,”’ she said. ‘‘Tell me about the Reisenweg.”’ The tone was pleading. He stared out into the creamy clouds aghast. What a mess he had made of this attempt to be casual and conventional. ‘“The—ah—Reisenweg, Miss Ripley?”’ “Wont you help me?” “Help you!” he exclaimed. He did not understand. “But it is just; I should take it upon my- self, without help,’ she went on more firmly. ‘‘Likea woman [ still tried to shoul- der all upon you. Mr. Hargood, can you find the way to forgive—a wicked, stupid girl? Can you accept the remorse of one who has hurt you cruelly?” Hargood mentally writhed. It was the last tack he could have wished the conversa- tion to take. It came too close to the well- springs of emotion, and it was his plain duty to calm her, to keep up her nerve against a catastrophe so that she might save herself by prompt action. “Why, of course, Miss Ripley,” he 1103 blurted, ‘“‘there is no forgiving. I have simply forgotten—everything except this view. Now over there to the right——” ““No, no,” she interrupted, and his heart vibrated to the full, resonant tone, “I must make reparation—what I can. Let it be clear between us, Mr. Hargood——” She stopped with a sharp intake of breath. Once more came the thrill running along the rope. Hargood was unaware. But the girl, every faculty centered upon the tooth of rock that held the rope, felt and saw again. Wholesome, sane, clean-fibered as she was, trained to the courageous endurance of the sportsman, she needed all her control to keep her voice clear and steady. ‘Yesterday,’ she went on presently, ‘‘I did you the gravest injustice. I—it is hard for me to say this—I thought I had dis- covered a weakness in you. After the slide came in front of us you wished to go back. I made it then, in my foolish pride, a test. When you left me I was sure. But I could not be true, even to my blind, dull self, un- less I told you that what you have done, and said, this day, after all my cruelty, have made me proud that I should have known sucha man!” She ended in a rush of feeling. The ready crimson mounted to Hargood’s face. ‘‘I—I—you make me very happy, Julia,” he said, dropping into the old form without effort. ‘“‘This more than compen- sates. And now—that you have said what you have—do you think it would be the act of a cad for me to explain what took place yesterday on the Reisenweg? I beg you to believe I should never have spoken without your invitation.” ‘“‘I am not worthy,” she murmured. ‘It can’t matter.” ‘You are worthy of all,’’ he said simply. cae THE belt cut his chest, his shoulders } ached under the dead weight of his " body, but he gave noheed. This was a moment for which in the wildest fancies of delirium the night before he had not dared to hope. The clouds were gathering in about the Brughorn again, shadowing its cliffs, and the peak wind had sharp- ened. His words came to her through the gusts as he began, quietly and simply: + “There was once a man of stupendous talent and rotted heart, Bevis by name. This man had gifts which made him, at twenty-five, one of the most promising artists of the year at the Salon and instincts comicloooks CO