THE FIREFLY AND KATYDID.
A large stone mansion, covering much ground, built before the
Revolution, but modernized by French windows opening upon broad
verandas, balconies, with stone steps, leading down among the flower
beds, and oreals overlooking the broad bosom of a noble river, full of
historical associations, to which a velvet lawn sloped greenly, like a
carpet of fern-moss.
This was the house in which Mrs. Canfield found herself, a few weeks
after the doctor ordered her to try change of air for a malady which his
skill could never reach.
The day was fresh and balmy. Honeysuckles and twining roses clambered up
the posts of the verandas, and matted the balconies with blossoms, from
which a soft, sweet fragrance stole over her, enervating but delicious.
A group of young people had been playing croquet on the lawn, but
wearying of that, had sauntered down toward the river, where some boats
lay rocking on the shore.
Mrs. Canfield watched this group with wistful, longing eyes, for the
very life of her life was there, strolling down to the river in advance
of the rest, and looking back a little anxiously, now and then, toward a
pair that loitered on, apart from the company, seemingly engaged in
earnest conversation.
Mrs. Canfield, from her pretty white room over the front entrance, had
found all the pleasure she was capable of, in watching the movements of
her daughter, and seldom left the low couch or cushioned easy-chair,
drawn up before the broad window. More than once, during the last month,
she had seen Bertha walking thus alone, and, seemingly, dejected, while
those two were occupied with each other. This sight brought more color
to that wan face than all the balmy atmosphere had imparted to it. The
little woman had fire enough in her heart when any evil thing threatened
her child.
It was true Bertha had flung down her mallet and moved toward the water,
hoping that Waldon would follow her, but he had not seemed to observe
the movement—was busy knocking the balls about, and occupied himself in
this way until Mary Noel came from a distant part of the lawn with a
blue ball in her hand, which had been knocked to the centre of a rose
thicket, ever so far off.
Waldon took the ball from her hand, bending toward her, while Bertha was
looking back, with her head lifted as if in wrath, or amazement, at
finding herself left alone. This was the tableau Mrs. Canfield saw from
her chamber window.
Others of the party had gone, in a bright, fluttering group, to the
river, where they hovered upon the bank like a flock of tropical birds,
while the young man and Hyde were busy about a barge, whose white and
scarlet awning seemed to burn like fire against the cool blue of the
water.
Bertha saw nothing that was going on at the barge. Her eyes were turned
on the croquet ground, where her betrothed and her friend stood talking.
What were those two saying to each other?
This is what the man said:
“Let them go. If there is anything on earth I hate utterly, it is a
crowd of girls.”
“But they will put off,” said Mary Noel, blushing a little: “and there
is Bertha, waiting. What will _she_ think of us? Besides, we cannot stay
here alone. It would look so strange. Don’t you think so?”
“I haven’t the least idea of it,” answered Waldon, tossing the ball he
still held to a distance. “I think you must take me in that pretty shell
I have seen you rowing about, when you and Bertha are together.”
“What, in my little ‘Firefly?’ The idea!”
“An excellent idea, I think. It will hold two. I have seen you and Miss
Canfield in it many a time.”
“But she is a lady.”
“And I am a gentleman.”
“There! there! the barge is putting off.”
Waldon laughed.
“Now you must!” “By Jove!” he added, under his breath, “she is waiting.”
Yes, Bertha was waiting. She had not heard those clear young voices
calling to her from the barge, or seen the gay craft put off, when she
took no heed, leaving her behind.
“They will follow in the little boats,” said young Hyde, standing up and
waving his hat to Waldon.
That moment Bertha looked around. She was alone. All that crowd had seen
her waiting for a lover who, knowing it, could thus amuse himself.
Heavens! had she come to that?
Two little boats, light and graceful as the tiny caiques which skim the
Golden Horn where it cleaves the city of Constantinople in twain, lay
moored in a curve of the river, over which a cluster of great willows
dropped their branches till they rippled in the current. One was the
“Firefly,” which Mary Noel owned exclusively; the other she called the
“Katydid,” and that was free to any guest who chose to monopolize it.
Burning with indignant shame, Bertha darted under the willows, unmoored
the “Katydid,” and, with a wild push against the bank, shot it into the
stream. The girl felt strong as a giant and swift as a bird, escaping
those two. They should never think she was watching and waiting for
them. With fire in her heart, and burning sunshine in her eyes, she cut
down stream like an arrow, chasing the barge, and sending up a shower of
diamonds with each lift of her oars. She was laughing in wild glee, when
a puff of wind took the red plume from her hat, and carried it off like
a glitter of flame, and never once looked back, though a sound of oars
began to keep time with hers, and she knew that the “Firefly,” loaded
with all that was precious in her life, was following in her wake.
“So you ran away from me—left us all in the lurch!” Bertha cried out, as
her little craft swept down on a level with the barge. “All right! I
have played a like game with them!”
She gave one oar a little sweep backward, thus indicating the couple
that followed; then bent with a motion full of powerful grace, and, with
a sweeping curve, flew around the barge like a bird, sending back
snatches of ringing laughter as she went.
This brought her across the bow of the “Firefly.”
“Take care,” cried Mary Noel, “or I shall run you down!”
It was an innocent speech, uttered with mellow laughter; but a flash of
lightning from the superb eyes of her friend, as she cut across their
path, struck all the glee from her lips.
“What is the matter? Is Bertha angry?” she inquired, looking wistfully
at Waldon.
“I think she is jealous,” answered the man, smiling blandly. “It looks
like it.”
“Jealous! And of me—of you? How can she? How unjust!”
“Unjust! So far as I am concerned, I cannot say that,” answered Waldon,
bending toward his companion, and speaking in a low, penetrating voice,
which brought a flush of roses into her face.
“Give me the oars, Mr. Waldon. I want to catch up with her. She must not
be allowed such thoughts a single minute.”
“No, I cannot consent to a chase like that. I was dreaming so sweetly,
so wildly, only a moment ago.”
“Dreaming in the broad daylight! The idea!” answered the girl, dropping
her hand from the oar she had seized upon, and allowing it to ripple the
water on her side the boat.
By this time the barge, with the “Katydid” lingering near it, flying off
in advance, or rocking in its wake, made for a little island, set, like
a vast emerald, in the heart of the stream.