A DOUBLE EXPLANATION.
It was over—painful as the interview had been, it was over. The one
apprehension which had marred Bertha’s perfect happiness was swept away
in the little half hour that left Fletcher a wretched man. But the pain
which this explanation left behind it was deep; for Bertha was
sympathetic and generous; she hated to inflict suffering, if impatient
in bearing it. Besides, she owed to this man the very life that Waldon
found so precious. How had she rewarded him? By blasting the hopes she
had herself rekindled—by almost reviling him, because he could not fall
down and worship the idol for whom she had ruthlessly pushed him aside.
Bertha was generous enough to accuse herself bitterly after Fletcher
left her. For half an hour she lay sobbing on the sofa; then her tears
subsided; her thoughts wandered away to that other man, whose love had
become the glory of her life, and remembering how Fletcher had dealt
with his name, she began to exonerate herself, and doubt the motives of
the faithful lover who had gone away, as it were, with a fiery arrow in
his heart.
The girl had been expecting Waldon that day, as Lydia knew well enough,
when that trailing dress of dark blue silk, with its garniture of soft,
frosty lace, was put on so early; but in the excitement of that meeting,
she had forgotten all about it, and wept her grief out in the twilight
of that little parlor uninterrupted.
After that, as I have said, she fell to dreaming of the man she loved.
This brought a rich, warm color back to her cheeks, and slumbrous
softness to her eyes, exquisitely sweet and child-like—a phase that
often came over her, and was altogether at variance with the usual proud
brilliancy of her character.
A step on the pavement—a ring at the door. Up the young girl sprang,
catching the glad breath that brightened her parted lips, and placing a
hand to either cheek, ran to the mirror, feeling terribly disarrayed and
unfit to be seen.
It was not exactly a presentable figure that reflected itself in that
broad mirror. The crimped hair was tangled in flossy brightness about
her face; the long curl, tumbling in waves down her shoulder, was
lengthened out of its crisp curves, and roughed like the plumage of an
angry bird. The lace on her bosom and loose open sleeves was matted here
and there, like cobwebs that a careless hand has touched. A pair of
languid eyes looked on all this and kindled up a little. Two white hands
shook out the wrinkled folds of her dress, and were trying to wind the
curl over their trembling fingers, when Waldon came in and found the
girl standing there, making a lovely picture of herself in the glass.
All at once her face became crimson, her long eyelashes drooped, and she
stood before him like a guilty child caught stealing fruit.
The sensuous nature of the man was aroused by this living picture. With
a bright glow of admiration on his face, he crossed the room, stole his
arm softly about her waist, and bade her look up and assure him that the
heavy languor about those eyes had not come from weeping.
Bertha lifted her eyes, saw his face smiling on her, and instantly her
own lighted up. Thus they stood, looking at each other in the glass,
when the door opened, and Mrs. Canfield, with some colored worsted in
her hand, paused upon the threshold. Seeing that man’s arm encircling
her daughter, she stood paralyzed, with the gorgeous worsted dropping
from her pale hands, and thus the two saw her standing behind and apart
from them in the mirror.
“My mother! Oh, mother!” cried Bertha, breaking away and running to the
door. “She will fall! She is dying! Oh, mother! dear, dear mother! it is
because he loves me—because we love each other! In a little, very little
time, he would have told you of it, and asked you to let me marry him.
Mother, mother, look up! Open your eyes and say that I am not killing
you!”
But Mrs. Canfield did not speak; her face was deathly white, and she lay
heavily in her daughter’s arms.
“Oh, Waldon! help me hold her! She is falling! she is falling!”
True enough, before Waldon could offer help, Mrs. Canfield had sunk to
the floor, and Bertha, going down with her, sat with that pale face in
her lap.
Waldon offered but cold help. He was a man of resources, and could do a
great many brilliant things, but in an emergency like this high genius
does not avail much—in fact, if Bertha had been in a condition to regard
her lover, she would have seen the shadow of a frown on his forehead. He
was the last man on earth to forgive an interruption like that; besides,
it involved a declaration which he was not prepared to make just then.
So it was a stormy face that bent over the mother and daughter as they
were grouped in a heap at his feet. Certainly the picture was a contrast
to the one which had burned itself in the glass a minute before. Lydia
did not make it at all less striking when she came running through the
door with a toilet bottle in one hand, a carafe of water in the other,
and half a dozen crooked pins in her mouth; for Bertha’s cry had found
her mending an old dress, and at such times she was sure to thrust all
the needful pins between her lips, as if they had been red pincushions.
“Lift her up higher, Miss Bertha. What! trembling so you can’t? Why
don’t you take hold here, Mr. What’s-your-name?—a standing there like a
monement! But most men ain’t worth their salt, and you’re a man. Hold
that bottle while I pour a drink down her throat. What’s come over her,
Miss Bertha? anything particular?”
“Don’t talk, Lydia, but bring her to. How still she is! Can this be
death?”
Bertha lifted her face to Waldon, craving some comfort from him; but the
gloom in his eyes discouraged her. Did he think her mother dying?
“No! no! nothing of the sort!” said Lydia, darting a sharp glance at the
man. “What’s the use of frightening a soul to death with bloungeing
looks, Mr. What’s-your-name! Flowers is flowers, and I don’t say
anything agin ’em; but potatoes are most needed in the long run, which
means that help is better than poetry. There, she’s winking her
eyelashes, and coming to just like a baby waking up. Another drink of
water, marm. I put a little on your face, but not enough to spoil your
cap. How do you feel now?”
Mrs. Canfield took Lydia’s hand, and attempted to draw herself to a
sitting posture.
“Mother, are you better?”
Bertha’s voice seemed to startle her mother. She lifted a hand to her
head—then arose slowly, and walked to the sofa, leaning on Lydia rather
than her daughter’s.
“You may go now,” she said, gently, to the girl.
Lydia gathered up her bottles, thrust the pins into her mouth again, and
left the room. When she was gone, the lady turned her still pale face
upon Waldon.
“You had something to say to me, I think, sir.”
“Oh, mother, do not speak so coldly,” whispered Bertha.
“Something that I ought to hear,” continued the gentle lady.
“It can be said in a few words, my dear madam,” answered Waldon. “I love
your daughter dearly, and have asked her to marry me.”
There was a shade of annoyance in the man’s face—a tone of bitterness in
his voice—as if he had been entrapped into this confession against his
wishes.
“And my daughter?” rejoined the lady. “What did she say to you?”
“Oh, mother, I said that I loved him dearly!” whispered the girl,
trembling all over.
“And this is so? God help us all! Sir, do you come here to break up my
home? Cannot you understand that she is all the world to me—that you ask
me for my life when you claim her?”
“I know that she must be the light and life of any home!” said Waldon.
“But you will not separate us! Tell her that, Waldon. I could not live
without my mother, even with you.”
Then Bertha _did_ become aware of the dark frown which completely
transfigured her lover.
“Are you offended with me, Waldon?”
Instantly the man’s face changed. He was a good actor, and having taken
his part, resolved to carry it out well.
“Offended, Bertha! I am never offended with you!”
“And it is impossible you can be angry with mother.”
“Quite impossible. My dear madam, in giving your daughter to me you lose
nothing, but, I trust, obtain the care and protection of a son.”
The gentle lady drew a deep breath, and placed her little hand in the
soft white palm held out to her.
“Forgive me—there will be much to say between us before it comes to
that.”
“Fortunately, there need be little question of my fitness to become your
daughter’s husband. My name is not so obscure that you will not easily
learn all my faults.”
Mrs. Canfield bent her head. She was evidently thinking of something far
away from his eligibility. At last she arose, and turned in her old
sweet way to Waldon.
“This has come upon me suddenly. It is natural, I suppose; but we have
lived so quietly, and Bertha is young yet. When we meet again, I shall
be more able to converse with you.”
“Meantime you will not interfere?” said Waldon, eagerly.
“I could not interfere against the happiness of my child,” answered the
lady, with pathetic quietness. “Now, if you please, I will go up-stairs.
No, Bertha, I can walk alone.”
With a slow, noiseless step Mrs. Canfield left the room; but the moment
she was outside the door, those small hands clasped and wrung
themselves, and in creeping up-stairs she sat down twice, moaning
faintly, as if each motion gave her a pang.
“Now,” exclaimed Waldon, the moment he was alone with Bertha—“now we
indeed belong to each other, and our engagement must be no secret. The
whole world may know it for aught I care. We can defy all
mischief-makers.”
“Mischief-makers, indeed! I trust we have nothing to fear from them,”
said Bertha.
“I do not know. It is impossible to say what the jealousy and craft of a
disappointed woman can accomplish.”
“A disappointed woman, Waldon! I have no idea what you mean.”
“Of course not. How can a creature so innocent and honorable dream of
the craft and malice which make some of her sex so dangerous? I speak
harshly, but even you cannot always escape.”
“What can you mean?”
“Sit down, dearest. I ought not to have mentioned this; but it has
annoyed me, and hereafter we must keep nothing back, even though a
revelation may touch one’s delicacy a little. You have known Mrs. Forbes
intimately, Bertha?”
“Yes; she has been very kind to me.”
“Not near so kind as she would gladly have been to the man who loves
you!”
“How—what—Mrs. Forbes?”
“She was not always Mrs. Forbes, Bertha, and never would have been if I
had consented to give her the name that is pledged to you. There was a
time when this lady almost persecuted me with her love. Even now,
married woman as she is, the news of our engagement will drive her wild.
She half suspects it already.”
“But why? You never loved her! Oh, say that you never loved her!”
“No, heaven is my judge, I never did! In that lies my offence. So long
as I remain single she will rest content; but when she knows the truth,
she may hate you and ignore or persecute me, gentle and proud as people
think her; so be on your guard, my beloved.”