BERTHA AND FLETCHER.
Bertha entered the parlor with hesitation, yet the man waiting so
anxiously there had saved her life, and, in the first flush of her
gratitude, might have been her plighted husband but for his own generous
forbearance. He had kept his word faithfully, and left her free to study
the heart that had been offered to him, and which he had put aside for a
time with heroic self-abnegation.
Now, she was afraid of this man; ashamed of herself—of her ingratitude
and inconsistency. In what way could she meet him, with the image of
another burned into her heart, and the kisses of another man almost warm
upon her lips?
She stood a whole minute, with her hand on the doorknob, longing to run
away and hide herself. She went in at last, looking pale and harassed,
feeling as if her heart would never beat freely again.
Fletcher was scarcely less agitated when he came forward to receive her.
The first glance of her face, he thought, would reveal his fate; but
when he saw it so pale and downcast, drooping with strange
embarrassment, the change puzzled him.
Had love made this proud, frank girl timid, and almost awkward? Surely,
something more than gratitude had been at work here!
This sweet, new-born hope brightened his face as he came forward and
took her hand, which lay, for one moment, like cold lead in his clasp,
chilling him to the heart, then dropped away.
“You are ill! Oh, tell me that you have been ill—very ill!” he said,
alarmed.
“No, not very ill,” she answered; “in fact, scarcely at all; but—but
your coming was so sudden, it brought back that awful scene upon me so
vividly, that—that I have lost all power to receive you as I ought.”
“I should not have taken you by surprise. It was thoughtless; but, after
all, this reception punishes me. Don’t you think so?”
He smiled a little painfully, and, seating himself by her on the sofa,
sought out her hand again. It was warmer now and trembled a little, as
if the life were coming back.
“Bertha!”
The girl lifted her heavy eyes to his face, like a dumb animal pleading
for mitigation of a threatened sentence; but dropped them again when she
saw the hope shining in his.
“Bertha, have you nothing to tell me—no sweet assurance to give, after
all these months of separation?”
This passionate cry of a heart searching for hers with such faithful
constancy struck the girl as a sharp reproach. She began almost to hate
herself as an ingrate.
“You cannot think—you must know that I am grateful.”
The young man started up impatiently.
“That word again! I want no gratitude—I will not have it!”
“But you must! Because—because I have nothing else to bestow.”
Bertha did not blush saying this. On the contrary, her lips turned
white, and her teeth were set as if each word she uttered gave her pain.
“I hoped to love you,” she continued, desperately. “I tried to love you;
but—but something happened, and it became impossible.”
“Something happened, Bertha! May I ask what?”
“I met another person, and, being only a woman, could not help what
followed.”
“Another person!”
“I have told no one as yet; but you have a right to ask. His name is
Russell Waldon. You have seen it, I am sure.”
Bertha looked up now, expecting to startle him into surprise by the
glory of that name; but the black cloud upon his face startled her.
“_That man!_ I hope not—I pray not!”
“Hope not—pray not! Mr. Fletcher, you surprise me!”
“Not as I have been surprised—not as I have been wounded. Oh, Bertha,
Bertha, this is terrible!”
“What is terrible, Mr. Fletcher?—that I should have met one of the
noblest, the most brilliant men on earth—one who can chain and thrill
millions with a dash of his pen—hold multitudes by the spell of his
voice—lead thousands by a thought, as great generals command armies! Is
it strange or terrible that powers like these should be felt by a poor
girl who has worshipped genius from her cradle up?”
The girl was animated enough now. No peach ripening in August sunshine
was ever so richly red as her cheeks. She had feared young Fletcher a
little while ago. Now, she was ready to defy him. What right had he to
insinuate aught against the man she loved? Did he mean to take such
liberties because he had saved her life? What were fifty such lives as
hers compared with Waldon’s genius?
“Let me make myself certain. You speak of a man who is known as an
author—sometimes as a politician; a man remarkable for keen wit, which
too often verges into satire?”
“Yes—yes. I do not know about the last, but it is probable.”
“I fear it is the same man.”
“‘Fear!’ Mr. Fletcher—‘fear!’”
“Yes, Bertha, I fear it; for to love him would be greater peril than you
and I were in when the bridge parted and left a yawning gulf for us to
pass. I ask no gratitude for anything done there; but in this other and
greater peril, which you will not see, and I cannot show you, let me at
least step in between you and a future that I tremble at.”
Bertha arose. In her anger she forgot all that this man had done for
her; that he came there by her own invitation, and had a right to
question her as he had done. Only a few months before, she had looked
upon him as the best friend she had on earth; but that seemed a long
time ago—years and years—for she had only begun to live since then. He
had no right to come so far out of the past, and rake up the ashes of a
selfish hope—no right, because of keen disappointment and bitter
jealousy, to malign, even by a look, the man she loved.
“I cannot hear these insinuations against a man so great that neither
you nor I are likely to understand him,” she said, with dignity;
“because that would be treason to—to my future husband.”
Fletcher, too, arose, greatly agitated.
“Then you are engaged to this man?”
“Yes. You are the first, except one, to whom I have confessed it, but we
are engaged. It is a secret as yet. Will you consider it as such?”
Fletcher smiled a little. With that dead, heavy pain at his heart, was
he likely to talk of its cause? The request was not worth answering.
“You are about to leave me, I hope not in anger?” said Bertha, smitten
with compassion by the anguish in that face. “It was not my fault, but
my fate.”
“No, I am not angry,” answered Fletcher, “but surprised and pained
beyond anything I ever expected to feel.”
“And it is my evil fortune to bring this pain upon you—you, the bravest
and—and—”
Here Bertha’s pride gave way, and, covering her face with both hands,
she burst into a passion of penitent tears.
“It was not my fault! it was not my fault!” she sobbed. “For the whole
world I would not have given you a moment’s pain!”
“I am sure of that,” answered Fletcher, gently. “Do not grieve about it.
I had no right to hope so fondly. But remember this, Bertha—nothing but
death can change my love for you—”
“Oh, do not say that!”
“Or my friendship for you.”
“You are too good! I do not deserve it,” sobbed the girl.
“I may be mistaken about this—this gentleman.”
Bertha looked up, and the tears in her eyes began to sparkle.
“You are! you are! Oh, believe me!”
“But if it should prove otherwise? You are singularly alone,
Bertha—without protection.”
“I know it! I know it!”
“Fatherless, brotherless—only that good old man at the farm-house.”
“Don’t! don’t! You are wrong to speak of me as desolate now. What
defence against the world is better than the love of a strong, brave
man?”
Fletcher winced at this, but answered her cruel words firmly, as became
an unselfish nature under suffering.
“If the time should come, Bertha, when this faith is broken—when you
need a friend—I shall be near—I shall be ready. Farewell!”
“Farewell! No, no! You have not seen my mother. She pines to thank you
for the life of her child.”
“Not now. I could not bear it. Oh, Bertha, Bertha, if we had gone down
together!”
The next moment Bertha was left alone, with these words ringing through
her brain. There was a force of anguish in this speech that wrung the
girl’s heart. Why was it that she was doomed to offer only ingratitude
for the love he offered and the great service he had rendered her? Not
even the miserable boon of “hope deferred” was left for her to give. He
had come after months of waiting to find her pledged to another.
No wonder the girl cast herself down and wept.