BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF “BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “MABEL’S
MISTAKE,” “THE OLD COUNTESS,” “RUBY GRAY’S STRATEGY,” “THE REIGNING
BELLS,” “LORD HOPE’S CHOICE,” “MARRIED IN HASTE,” “WIVES AND WIDOWS,”
“MARY DERWENT,” “THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS,” “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “THE OLD
HOMESTEAD,” “A NOBLE WOMAN,” “THE CURSE OF GOLD,” “THE GOLD BRICK,”
“DOUBLY FALSE,” “PALACES AND PRISONS,” “THE HEIRESS,” “SILENT
STRUGGLES,” “WIFE’S SECRET.”
_Genius completes itself when God has given
His own sweet heart flowers to the human soul.—
The gentle voice, the smile that speaks of Heaven,
Those human sympathies whose soft control
Blends gentleness with power, all these combined,
Make perfect grandeur in the human mind.
Bereft of goodness, gifts that seem divine
Are ashes cast upon a fireless shrine._
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS’ WORKS.
Each work is complete in one volume, 12mo.
_BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT._
_BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE; or, Bought With A Price._
_LORD HOPE’S CHOICE; or, More Secrets Than One._
_THE OLD COUNTESS. Sequel to Lord Hope’s Choice._
_THE HEIRESS; or, The Gipsy’s Legacy._
_A NOBLE WOMAN; or, A Gulf Between Them._
_PALACES AND PRISONS; or, The Prisoner of the Bastile._
_WIVES AND WIDOWS; or, The Broken Life._
_RUBY GRAY’S STRATEGY; or, Married By Mistake._
_FASHION AND FAMINE._
_THE CURSE OF GOLD; or, The Bound Girl and Wife’s Trials._
_MABEL’S MISTAKE; or, The Lost Jewels._
_SILENT STRUGGLES; or, Barbara Stafford._
_THE WIFE’S SECRET; or, Gillian._
_THE REJECTED WIFE; or, The Ruling Passion._
_THE OLD HOMESTEAD; or, The Pet From The Poor House._
_DOUBLY FALSE; or, Alike and Not Alike._
_THE REIGNING BELLE._
_MARRIED IN HASTE._
_THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS._
_MARY DERWENT._
_THE GOLD BRICK._
Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.
Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any one, or all
of the above books, will be sent to any one, to any place, postage
pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
TO
MY BROTHER,
THE HON. JOHN H. WINTERBOTHAM,
OF MICHIGAN CITY, INDIANA,
THE PLAYMATE OF MY CHILDHOOD, THE FAITHFUL FRIEND OF MY
RIPER YEARS,
AND NOW,
AS THE EVENING OF LIFE IS DRAWING UPON US BOTH,
FAR DEARER TO ME THAN EVER,
I MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THIS VOLUME.
ANN S. STEPHENS.
ST. CLOUD HOTEL, NEW YORK,
_April 28, 1875_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— THE OLD WOODEN BRIDGE 25
II.— GRATITUDE 36
III.— AFTER THE STORM 42
IV.— THE COUNTRY TAVERN 52
V.— THE DANGEROUS CONFIDANT 58
VI.— BACK TO HER WORK 63
VII.— THE MAN OF DESTINY 69
VIII.— A BITTER CONTEST 80
IX.— BEYOND ENDURANCE 88
X.— LOATHING HER VICTORY 91
XI.— THE BIRD AND THE SERPENT 95
XII.— THE STAGE-COACH 101
XIII.— THE LETTER WRITTEN 106
XIV.— THE SUDDEN ENLIGHTENMENT 109
XV.— LYDIA AND BEN 114
XVI.— LOVE 119
XVII.— BURYING BEN 122
XVIII.— WALDON 134
XIX.— WHY DON’T HE COME? 137
XX.— PARTING ON THE WHARF 142
XXI.— THE FIRST LETTER 147
XXII.— AFTER-SUPPER CONVERSATION 151
XXIII.— FAINTING FITS 160
XXIV.— THE FRUIT FESTIVAL 167
XXV.— HUMBLE FRIENDS 172
XXVI.— IN THE CANOE 177
XXVII.— MEETING ON THE PRECIPICE 182
XXVIII.— VITAL QUESTIONS 188
XXIX.— STRICKEN DOWN 194
XXX.— GATHERING SCANDAL 200
XXXI.— BERTHA’S FIRST BALL 204
XXXII.— UNDER THE WILLOW 212
XXXIII.— THE PIOUS FRAUD 221
XXXIV.— HE TOLD HER THAT HE LOVED HER 229
XXXV.— AN OLD WOMAN’S PASSION 239
XXXVI.— THE REVELATION 246
XXXVII.— SOFTENING INFLUENCES 254
XXXVIII.— LOVE’S DEFEAT 259
XXXIX.— WAS SHE DEAD? 265
XL.— CHRISTIAN CHARITY 268
XLI.— CAST UPON THE WATERS 274
XLII.— THE OLD LOVE 278
XLIII.— MIDNIGHT IN MRS. FORBES’ LIBRARY 281
XLIV.— BURNED LETTERS 287
XLV.— BERTHA AND FLETCHER 295
XLVI.— A DOUBLE EXPLANATION 301
XLVII.— AMONG THE FLOWERS 308
XLVIII.— GOING AWAY 312
XLIX.— LYDIA’S FIRST LETTER 317
L.— THE TOLLING BELL 322
LI.— THE FIREFLY AND KATYDID 327
LII.— DOWN BY THE SPRING 332
LIII.— THE CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 339
LIV.— THE MOTHER’S STRUGGLE 346
LV.— DID HE LOVE HER? 350
LVI.— MRS. CANFIELD’S SECRET 354
LVII.— THE HEART OF STONE 361
LVIII.— SEARCHING A HEART 369
LIX.— THE HOUR OF PARTING 374
LX.— AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD 378
LXI.— A GLOOMY HOUSEHOLD 382
LXII.— DESPAIRING PRAYERS 386
LXIII.— THE MOTHER’S LAST SACRIFICE 391
LXIV.— ALL ALONE WITH DEATH 396
LXV.— THE NEW LOVE 404
LXVI.— THE FUNERAL, AND BERTHA’S LETTER 413
LXVII.— THE ANSWER AT LAST 417
LXVIII.— MRS. WILSON FORBES HAS A VISITOR 421
LXIX.— DIAMOND ISLAND 429
LXX.— BERTHA AND WALDON MEET AGAIN 434
LXXI.— THE LOST DREAM 441
LXXII.— A YOUNG GIRL’S CONFIDENCES 445
LXXIII.— THE STORMY DINNER 452
LXXIV.— ON THE LOG BRIDGE 461
LXXV.— JUST A LITTLE APOLOGY 467
LXXVI.— THE RESCUED LETTER 471
LXXVII.— THE WEDDING AT WILLOW BEND 475
LXXVIII.— BERTHA HEARS OF THE CHALLENGE 481
LXXIX.— OUT IN THE STORM 484
LXXX.— IN THE BRIDAL CHAMBER 489
LXXXI.— THE NIGHT BEFORE THE DUEL 495
LXXXII.— USELESS STRUGGLES 499
LXXXIII.— UPON THE DUELLING GROUND 504
LXXXIV.— WATER LILIES 509
LXXXV.— HIMSELF AGAIN 517
LXXXVI.— THAT LETTER AGAIN 521
LXXXVII.— ANOTHER BLOW 528
LXXXVIII.— THE TORN NEWSPAPER 534
LXXXIX.— THE EMPTY PISTOL-CASE 539
XC.— THE SERVANTS’ FESTIVAL 542
XCI.— THE LETTER 546
XCII.— THREE WEDDINGS 551
BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT.
CHAPTER I.
THE OLD WOODEN BRIDGE.
“Is there no appeal, Miss Canfield—no hope in the future? Great Heavens!
do you understand that these words are taking away my life?”
The young girl, who had just refused the most ardent love that man ever
offered to woman, turned her horse half around, and looked with earnest
sympathy into that handsome face.
“Do you think that I am cruel enough to say what I have said for the
miserable pleasure of enticing you on to a renewal of the honor you have
done me—or that I have not felt as much pain as it is possible for me to
give? If human love were the growth of human will, Egbert Fletcher, you
would not have asked for mine twice.”
She spoke frankly, and with intense earnestness, for the white despair
in that face appealed to every noble feeling she possessed.
“I believe you; God knows, if you were less honorable, less perfect,
some of this bitter disappointment would be spared me. Forgive me if I
have been importunate; if I could not yield you up without a struggle.”
“Forgive _me_, rather,” answered the girl, with sweet humility, leaning
from her saddle, and reaching out her hand; “but if I have misled you in
anything, I shall never forgive myself.”
“It is my own wild hopes that have misled me,” answered Fletcher, taking
her hand, and pressing his lips upon it with tender reverence, that
brought tears into the proud eyes of Bertha Canfield; but she hastily
snatched her hand away, for, turning a corner of the hilly road through
which they were riding, came two young ladies, fairly mounted, and
sitting their horses gracefully; but their long cloth skirts were
spattered with mud, and the black feathers fell limp and uncurled from
their riding-hats.
Very young and pretty were these two girls, as they galloped down the
rough hill-side, one ahead of the other, laughing merrily, while the
moist air swept their cheeks till they glowed like wet roses.
One, a bright-faced, slender girl, whose braids of ruddy hair had been
shaken down in masses from under her hat, checked her horse and appeared
to wait, while she attempted with one hand to force the braids into
order again.
The other, a lovely blonde, with eyes that seemed to have stolen their
color from a robin’s nest with newly laid eggs in it, galloped on,
turning her head and shaking her whip in triumph at the school-mate she
had so recklessly outridden.
“Ah, ha, you cheated us by a short cut,” she said. “We rounded the hill
to head you off. So here we are ready for a new race.”
Bertha Canfield strove to shake off the distress that was too visible in
her countenance, but failed utterly, and broke down in an effort to
answer this speech, gayly as it was spoken.
“What, angry because we caught you trying to run away?” said the fair
rider, glancing from Bertha to her lover. “I have ridden at this
break-neck speed only to disturb a tender _tête-à-tête_, and wish I
hadn’t dashed in upon you; for Clara’s hair is all down and our habits
are so heavy with mud that they fairly drag one from the saddle. Now,
what is the matter, Bertha Canfield?”
“Nothing! nothing whatever!” said Bertha, “only—only—we were thinking
that there might be some danger.”
“Danger! Oh, nonsense. Still there may be,” said the girl, darting an
arch look from Bertha to her lover.
“We have been wondering what kept you so far behind,” said Fletcher,
quickly. “Have you seen the view from that sharp curve of the road? It
gives us command of the whole valley. I see Miss Canfield is determined
to wait for her friend. Let us ride forward.”
Bertha Canfield gave Fletcher one quick, grateful look, as he rode away
from her.
“Oh, this is superb!” exclaimed Mary Noel, with school-girl enthusiasm.
“Such depth, such richness of color! How gloriously this burst of
sunshine breaks over the wet leaves and blossom-laden branches, with
here and there a patch of vivid green in the hemlock hollows. Was ever
anything so beautiful! But, mercy on me, how the river has swollen! All
the banks are gone, and that picturesque old mill absolutely stands in
the water. Yes, yes, there is danger.”
The young man took a swift survey of the scene at his feet. A rich
valley, scattered with farm-houses; the broad, deep Naugatuck sweeping
into it through a gorge in the hills, an old stone mill, where the
stream fell most rapidly over a high dam, and below that an old wooden
bridge, with its arches buried in the water. On all sides the hills were
rich with abundant summer foliage. It was no wonder the girl cried out,
when the view first broke upon her. At all times it was beautiful; but
now the swollen river, rolling through it in a great amber-hued torrent,
made it majestic.
“Beautiful, but dangerous! We should have returned,” said the young man.
“The river swells every moment—see how it creeps toward the mill.”
Fletcher wheeled his horse, and rode back to the party, which was coming
leisurely forward, enjoying the freshness of the air.
“We must make haste,” he said, “the flood is rising. It has already
reached five feet, at least, on the ford.”
Bertha Canfield was the first to tighten her bridle.
“We have done wrong to stay so late. My poor mother will be frightened.
The very name of a flood makes her turn pale. This will drive her
frantic if we do not get home at once.”
“But she must know that the storm kept us,” said Mary Noel. “The morning
promised to be so pleasant; but I never saw such rain in my life. Of
course, the dear lady knows that we could not start in a tempest like
that.”
“She knows how fearfully such rains swell the river. It is as much as
our lives are worth to attempt the ford after dark. Come, let us set off
at full speed, or it will be too late when we reach the bridge.”
Bertha settled down firmly in her saddle as she spoke, and adding,
excitedly, “Come on! come on! ride for your lives!” dashed recklessly
down the road.
The mountain road was rough, and the hills steep. Still Bertha would
have led the way, but for Fletcher, who kept pace with her, while the
others followed in almost dangerous haste; for the descent of those
hills was at all times a perilous matter, and few women could ride like
Bertha Canfield. But on the whole party went, in a wild gallop, down the
hills and into the valley, which, just that moment, was all aglow with
sunbeams, that shot fiery lances through a break in the gray clouds that
hung above it in turbulent draperies, and grew terrible in that struggle
of light and darkness.
Bertha Canfield was a brave-hearted girl, but when she saw that vast
body of water heaving and rolling through the valley, her eyes widened
with fear, and a deathly paleness came upon her. For one instant she
drew up her horse, and seemed about to fly back to the hills.
Her companions, who had never seen a flood before, and knew nothing of
its power, set up a laugh. The danger that frightened her only excited
them.
“Come on!” she cried, stung by their triumphant laughter. “If we _must_
pass. The peril will not be less for waiting. On to the old bridge! the
ford is swallowed up!”
Away the whole party dashed up the valley, scattering a storm of
mud-flakes from their horses’ hoofs, which were washed every few minutes
by pools of water, swept over the highway from the river as it spread
wider and deeper over the road and across the meadows.
The mill, with a broad dam above it, and the old bridge some few rods
below, was in full sight now; but a great flood of water had lifted
itself almost to a level with the dam, and was pouring through the lower
windows of the mill, whose foundations of heavy stone were already
buried in a wild whirlpool formed by some broken timbers.
Bertha checked her horse.
“Great Heavens!” she cried, “the old bridge seems to move! All its
arches are buried—it looks like a railroad spanning the water. I dare
not attempt it!”
The whole party paused. Bertha’s unusual terror had a momentary effect
upon the rest. She turned her eyes from the bridge to an ancient
low-roofed farm-house on the opposite side of the valley. Usually a
broad meadow divided it from the river, but now the water came within a
few rods of the door. At a window of this house she saw a lady,
fluttering like a pigeon in its cote when a storm threatens.
“It is grandmother—she can see the danger dearly from that window,” said
Bertha. “There, she flings up her hands—it is to warn us! Thank Heaven,
my mother does not see us yet.”
“No, no,” cried Mary Noel; “she beckons us. Why, Bertha—Bertha Canfield,
how can you be such a coward? The idea!”
Bertha turned to Fletcher, consulting him with her eyes.
“The bridge has withstood all floods for thirty years, they tell me, and
there is no other way of crossing.”
“But the water is already even with the planking. See how the drift wood
chokes up the timbers!” cried Bertha, panic-stricken.
“Still, it seems firm; and we have no other way.”
“Firm!” said Mary Noel; “I should think it was! There is timber enough
in it to build a city wharf. Why, there must have been fifty floods in
the valley, worse than this, since the old bridge was built, and it
hasn’t given way yet.”
“Oh, yes, it has,” said Clara Anderson, whose home was near the mouth of
the Housatonic. “Half of it broke away, in an awful flood, just twenty
years ago. It all happened the vary year I was born.”
“Half of it broke away!” exclaimed the others.
“Yes; it was an awful time. The old mill there was flooded to the second
story; sacks of wheat and barrels of flour went whirling down the
stream, and a man was killed.”
“A man killed! How?”
“He would not take warning. The neighbors told him that it was unsafe;
but some one was waiting for him on the other side, and, spite of
everything, he dashed on to the old bridge just as a great drift of logs
and a pile of boards from a saw-mill that had been swept away up the
gorge plunged over the dam and struck it. There had been an awful strain
on the timbers before. They gave way now, and while the people stood
shouting for him to turn back, the flood was upon both man and horse,
and swept them under, struggling to the last.
“It was terrible, the neighbors said, to stand there helpless, and see
that poor horse whirling and whirling about in those fierce eddies, with
the rider still upon his back, sometimes completely under water,
sometimes tossed up by the current, till his deadly white face could be
seen like that of a corpse.
“They had an awful contest for life—both man and beast—but a whirlpool
dragged them under at last. Then a cry of dismay went up from the people
on the shore, who were casting out ropes and planks, with a desperate
hope of saving them. But the poor man was gone. They found him, the next
day, ten miles down the valley, and he was buried from your
grandfather’s house, Bertha. Grandmother has told me about it a hundred
times.”
While Clara Anderson was telling her story, the whole group had drawn
their horses together, and were listening with breathless interest.
Bertha said nothing; but she thought that twenty years ago was the very
year that she was born; for she was just the age of Clara Anderson.
“I seem to have seen all that,” she said, at last; “but I am certain no
one ever told me of it before.”
“That is strange,” replied Clara Anderson; “because the man was going to
your grandfather’s. A wonderfully handsome man he was, the people
said—an Englishman, travelling in this country, or something like that.”
“Well, Clara Anderson, you have half frightened us all into cowards, and
here we are huddled together like chickens scared by a hawk!” said Mary
Noel, courageous in her ignorance of the real danger. “Are we to pass
that old bridge, or not? That is the question. I, for one, am not to be
turned back because a man was drowned half a hundred years ago. Of
course, the bridge was made stronger after that. Come on—come on! Who’s
afraid, ‘let him turn and fly!’”
As Mary Noel uttered this reckless speech, she put her horse to his
speed, calling on the rest to follow, and dashed on toward the bridge,
sending back a laugh, that was half a shout, as she went.
Clara Anderson, seized by the same reckless spirit, rushed after her,
and, in very desperation, Bertha followed, but more slowly; for
Fletcher, struck by the ghostly whiteness of her face, was persuading
her to turn back.
“No! no!” she said; “I will not prove myself the coward they think me!
Besides, the people at home are suffering tortures.”
“Come, then. We shall be over in three minutes. Hear how their horses’
hoofs thunder across the planks.”
Fletcher put spurs to his horse, and Bertha kept up with him, trembling
all over, but fired with desperate courage, such as makes cowards brave
when forced into the heat of a battle.
When these two reached one end of the bridge, their companions had
passed over, and, waving their whips in triumph, drew up to wait for the
party to unite again.
Bertha was ready for anything now. She struck her horse a sharp blow,
and even led her companion on to the bridge.
Scarcely had those hoofs struck the planks, when a great dusky object
appeared above the dam, like some huge toiling monster heaved up from
the slime of the flood.
The people on the other side saw this horrible danger first, and flung
up their arms in useless warning.
It came tumbling and reeling forward—a huge forest tree—heaving toward
them root foremost, raining coal black mud from a hundred scraggy arms,
and dragging behind it great gnarled boughs and masses of foliage, that
swayed and writhed in the turbid water like serpents trailing after a
monster more hideous than themselves.
One instant the two sat paralyzed, gazing upon the hideous thing which
menaced them with such awful and sudden peril; then the young man gave a
quick glance right and left, and seized Bertha’s bridle.
“We must turn back. Keep your seat firmly!”
“I will,” she answered, for positive danger had brought back all her
courage. “Go on; I will follow.”
Fletcher’s horse obeyed the spur, and wheeled around; but that huge
forest oak, with all its entanglement of roots and branches, reeled over
the dam, that moment, with a mighty plunge, that sent all the mass of
its knotted roots deep down into the boiling waters, and was held, for
one awful moment, perfectly upright, its branches snagged and broken—the
bark torn in great patches from its trunk—a thing of terror, planted
deep in a whirlpool.
Again and again Fletcher plunged his spurs into the maddened horse, and
urged him on with desperate vehemence. But the poor animal stood lost in
fierce amazement—grinding the bit between his teeth, and quaking in all
his limbs, for he saw the great tree looming down upon them.
“Save yourself! For Heaven’s sake, save yourself! I cannot manage him!”
“No!” cried the brave girl, still reining in her horse. “I could not
love you, Fletcher, but I can die with you!”
“Then, for my sake—for God’s sake—turn back!”
“With you—not else!”
Fletcher was about to leap from his horse and force her to retreat; but,
that instant, the bridge shook and swayed in all its massive timbers.
The mighty forest oak was hurled against it with terrible force, and the
shock set Fletcher’s horse to plunging. But for the planken sides of the
bridge, he would have backed into the flood.
The pressure upon the bridge became more and more appalling; over the
dam rushed the roof and logs of some mountain cabin, and these were
hurled forward with a violence to which those old timbers, strained to
the utmost, must give way.
Fletcher saw the increasing peril, and gained almost superhuman power
over his horse.
“On! on!” he shouted, lashing Bertha’s horse with his whip.
The beasts leaped forward neck and neck. Two-thirds of the bridge was
spanned. Another minute, and they would have been safe; but now the
broken cabin took the timbers at their weakest part. A fearful crash
followed.
“On! on! Oh, my God, give us one minute!”
Fletcher seized Bertha’s bridle. The frightened horses obeyed, and
leaped forward, snorting with terror.
“On! on! on! God of Heaven!”
The bridge had given away; both horses recoiled from the leap which
would have brought them among the timbers sinking in the chasm before
them.
Each moment the gulf was widening. There was no chance of retreat, for
behind them the planks were swept away, leaving nothing but skeleton
timbers writhing in the torrent.
Fletcher, still holding Bertha’s bridle, dug both spurs into his own
beast, and lashed the other with his whip. Maddened and frantic, both
horses leaped together. One cleared the awful abyss.
The whole end of the bridge dipped and sunk downward. When those
impetuous hoofs struck the planks, they were under water. Bertha’s horse
slipped down them. He made a desperate struggle, gained a new foothold,
lost it, and, with an awful cry, that seemed more than human, rolled
back into the flood.
A shrill cry broke from the men and women gathered at each end of the
ruined bridge.
For one instant Fletcher and his horse disappeared; but, relieved of a
double weight, the timbers rose a little, and hove him into view. Then a
wild shout cut through the roar of the flood; out, as it seemed, from
the very whirl of the waters a burdened horse staggered fiercely up the
sinking decline, and they saw that it bore a man and a woman.
In a second of time, while her horse was slipping downward, Fletcher had
seized Bertha by her arm, and dragged her across his own beast, which
struggled fearfully for a moment, then, with a fierce leap, hurled them
both through the scattered crowd.