PARTING ON THE WHARF.
Two young girls stood together on the deck of a steamboat which was just
preparing to leave far New York. One was speaking eagerly, as she clung
to her taller and more stately companion.
“You will be faithful to me, Bertha! That which you and I have promised
to each other shall be a sacred pledge. Kiss me here upon my lips,
Bertha, and swear that it shall be so!”
Mary Noel was in earnest when she pleaded thus with her old school-mate;
tears bright and child-like filled her blue eyes; a tremulous smile
quivered over her mouth. Nothing could be more sincere; few things more
beautiful. The arms that held her closed a little more firmly; the lips
that answered this sweet appeal grew firm with inward force of emotion.
A pair of dark-gray eyes, full of tenderness, looked into that uplifted
face.
“I have promised, and have no fear of change! Nothing but treachery can
ever unknit your heart from mine—and that is impossible!”
The smaller and more impulsive girl broke into a laugh of petty scorn at
the possibility that anything but love and perfect truth could ever
exist between herself and the girl who had been her best friend at
school, and should be her fast friend forever.
“Kiss me!” she said; “again! again! for the bell is ringing.”
Bertha Canfield answered with lips that grew warm and red with a sudden
rush of feeling.
“Oh, I shall love you dearly forever and ever!” murmured the softer and
more yielding nature. “Farewell! farewell!”
The bell was ringing loudly then, and the strong cable which held the
steamboat at its wharf began to uncoil from the great, sodden posts, and
creep like a huge serpent in the water.
“Don’t forget to give my best love to Clara, and say that I will write
to her the moment I reach Virginia. I will not forget. Farewell!”
“Farewell! God bless you! Now I _must_ go!”
Still Mary Noel clung to her friend, weeping afresh, but Bertha took
those two small hands finally from her neck, kissed them, and hurried to
the sloping planks, which two men at each end began to remove, almost
before her feet had reached the wharf.
Mary Noel leaned over the bulwarks, her face all flushed with emotion,
and her eyes full of tears.
“Oh, Bertha!” she sobbed, with a gesture that her friend could
understand, though the words were lost in the noises around the
steamboat; “it seems like dying to part with you! Do not forget me, but
love me always as I shall love you!”
Bertha stood close to the edge of the wharf, and looked up wistfully at
her friend until the boat began to heave around in her berth, and left;
a great chasm of water between them, while a cloud of soft, curling
smoke floated over her like a dusky banner.
If she had seemed less ardent than her bright, impulsive friend, at the
moment of parting, no one looking at her, as she stood there, with great
tears in her eyes, would have doubted the depth of feeling that
possessed her. The boat had moved from her wharf, but she saw the crowd
upon her deck dimly. One small handkerchief, fluttering like the wings
of a white dove, seemed floating away from her like that lone bird which
never came back to the ark that had sent it forth.
Bertha gave no answering signal—for, unconsciously, her hands had
clasped themselves, and her face settled into the sad expression of a
mourner taking a last look at the flowers on a grave.
As she stood thus, a man came out of the crowd which still lingered on
the wharf, and stood gazing on her as if she had been a statue suddenly
presented to his view. The girl did not observe him, or she might have
shrunk from the admiration that brightened his countenance. She was
still watching the steamboat as it swept into the sound and disappeared,
leaving only a broad track of foam quivering behind it. When this melted
into the blue of the water, she turned to one of the rough posts on
which the cable had been wound, rested her clasped hands against it, and
bent her forehead upon them.
Then this man saw that her frame was quivering from head to foot, and
went up to her.
“Is it that you think the boat unsafe?” he questioned, without apology
or explanation to soften the abrupt question.
The girl started, looked at him proudly through her tears, and seemed
about to move away.
He saw it, and smiled.
“There are occasions when etiquette seems trivial,” he said. “I saw you
in distress, and forgot everything but that.”
Bertha swept the tears from her eyes, and looked this strange man in the
face. Surely a noble, grand face, with that look of glowing interest
upon it; the features, moreover, firm and well cut—the expression
heart-stirring.
“Thank you!” she said, gently. “I have just parted from a dear friend,
and forgot where I was.”
“And I, struck by so much genuine grief, forgot that we had never met
before. You see how true it is that ‘one touch of feeling makes the
whole world kin.’”
A glow of color came into Bertha’s cheek, and her fine eyes brightened.
Who was this man, so bold, and yet so respectful? Her eyes asked the
question.
“Forgive me! but we shall not always be strangers. The world will have
its tithe of etiquette,” he said, with a gleam of humor that made her
smile; “but the man must be weak who lets it block any honorable purpose
long. Some day I shall seek your pardon for this intrusion, armed with
all the proprieties. But you are looking for your carriage; it has drawn
off to the other end of the wharf. Shall I order it?”
Without waiting for a reply, the man hurried off, and was soon standing
by an open rockaway left near the wharf.
“Who is this carriage waiting for?” he inquired, thus adroitly gaining
information from the driver.
“I am waiting for Miss Canfield,” answered the man, sullenly; “but she
is a long time coming. She promised not to keep me waiting, but what
does such folks care for a feller’s time? You’d just oblige me by
telling her to hurry up.”
“Have you far to go?” inquired the gentleman, intent on forcing
information.
“As far as the Mill Bridge, and that’s a smart drive from New Haven.”
“Well, that is hard,” answered the gentleman, putting one hand into his
pocket. “Young ladies cannot be expected to think of such things. Mill
Bridge on the Naugatuck, is it not?”
The driver saw a bank note between the questioner’s fingers, and
answered him promptly.
“Drive this way,” said the gentleman; “the lady is waiting.”
The driver thrust what he considered his own personal perquisite deep
into his pocket, and started his horses, while the gentleman walked on
in advance, considering the information he had received cheap at the
price.
Bertha was anxious to be gone, for the crowd had left the wharf, and her
delay there seemed like a challenge for the attentions this strange man
had forced upon her. She could not refuse the hand he extended, but
scarcely touched it as she hurried into the carriage, and bent her head
in exchange for his more elaborate adieu.
“By Jove! she is an imperial creature! I wonder if any king in Europe
has a mate like that? Upon my soul, old fellow, I think you have found
her at last! Let me make a note of the place. A good neighborhood, and
my princess was well dressed, though her beauty would have carried off
anything with grace. My friend Waldon, you are in magnificent luck
to-day! Who would have thought of finding a creature like that on this
dirty wharf? But virtue has its rewards. You made a sacrifice to meet
young Lane, and lo! the recompense!”
Russell Waldon closed his memorandum book, and was about to leave the
wharf, but some new thought struck him. He went around a pile of boards,
just landed from a barge on the other side, which gave him shelter from
the sun, and selecting a blank leaf in his book, began to write—at first
rapidly, but after a while with long pauses and much deliberation.
As this man wrote, you would not have taken him for the same person, for
all the bright, almost glorious animation of his face was gone. His
features grew heavy; his forehead gathered in frowns, save now and then,
as a glowing idea sprung out of his efforts, and kindled his features to
greater brightness than ever.
After an hour or more he left his shelter, and walked away smiling.