MRS. CANFIELD’S SECRET.
“Draw nearer to me. Is any one there?”
Mrs. Canfield looked at the window, which was open, with closed blinds,
through which the light came faintly, in bars.
“They are all on the other side, as I left them,” said Waldon, moving
his chair softly.
Mrs. Canfield got up from the couch, tottered across the floor, and
looked into the next room, to see if Lydia was there. She came creeping
bock, white and shadowy like a ghost, having found the room empty. She
settled herself in the couch again, and Waldon could hear her breath
come hard and quick, as if she had been walking up-hill. After a little
she spoke, but her voice seemed that of a child, coming from a distance.
“Mr. Canfield—the Reverend Mr. Canfield—was my husband. Bertha bears his
name and owns his property; but she is not his child.”
“Not his child?”
“Hush, sir! Do not interrupt me. I have a hard task before me, and a sad
story to tell—a story known to only three persons on earth. You have a
right to hear it, but no other human being most. I tremble to give it to
you, for—ah, me!—secrets are weary loads to carry through life. Such
suffering! such suffering!
“I lived with my parents—quiet New England Quakers—on the farm their
parents had owned and left. They were good people, and had been, so far
back as any one could trace them; and good people suspect no evil. I
might tell you of my school-days—of the years I spent away from home—of
the beauty which so many gave me credit for; and all this would gain
time—spare me a little before I come to the one hard fact which it is
right that you should know. In these details I might, perhaps, work out
some excuse for myself, and take a little hold on your compassion; but I
win not dwell upon them.
“In the city, once—New York, I mean—I met a young Englishman who had
been travelling over the country, and settled down afterward as the
agent of his father, who was a rich manufacturer in England, and
imported goods here. This man was noble, generous, good. Yes, he was
good. I will hear no friend or enemy contradict that. He was incapable
of meditating wrong to any human being. He never meant to wrong me.
Never, never, never! With my last breath I will say that! He loved me
dearly, and I loved him so well—so well that even now I am impenitent,
and would not, if it were possible, tear his memory out of my life.
“I went home. My school-days were over, and after a time he came to the
old farm-house. Those dear old people were loth to give me up, for I was
an only child; but he was accepted by them as a son, and welcomed always
with cordial love when he came to the house. At last he became impatient
and I cruelly anxious. With the eloquence of great earnestness, he won
those good old people to give me up at last, and in the autumn after my
seventeenth birthday it was settled that we should be married. My
betrothed would have hastened the day, but there was firm opposition to
that, and he went from us, bitterly disappointed.
“‘Come with me into the open air,’ he said, on the night before he left
us. ‘These close rooms are oppressive. It seems as if a funeral were
mastering in the house!’
“My parents had left us to our leave-taking, and it was getting late;
but I threw a veil over my head, and went out, with his arm around me,
and his heart beating against mine for the last time on earth. Forgive
me! I shall find breath in a moment. It is only a nervous spasm.”
For some moments the silence in that room was only broken by short gasps
for breath, while that delicate woman writhed among her cushions, both
hands pressed against her bosom. Waldon stooped forward to aid her, but
she put him back. The iron band that seemed to gird her chest gave way
at last, and words came to her lips again:
“We wandered on across the meadows and down to the banks of a river that
skirted our farm. Up and down, up and down we walked that night, for it
seemed impossible for us to part. Oh, sir! parting was like death. It
was death.
“‘In two months,’ he said, ‘only two! Nothing shall part us again. Keep
up bravely till then—write me every day. Ask God to bless me—_to forgive
me_!’ he added, in a low, broken voice that made my heart ache.
“I could not answer him, my throat was so full of sobs; but I clung to
him, and wept upon his bosom, asking him to forgive _me_. So we walked
together till the morning dawned, and there, in the gray mist that fell
upon the river and the meadows which lay around us, all filmy with
cobwebs, and golden with lilies, we parted.
“He wrote to me by every mail—long, comforting letters, full of hope.
The time drew near. My wedding-clothes came home, and the guests were
invited. Then I counted the time by minutes, and each one, as it went,
left a sigh of thankfulness on my lips.
“It was October. The first week of that month would be my Heaven on
earth. We were a quiet family, but well off in the world, and a good
many people were invited to see us married. It had been a stormy week,
and the mountain streams were swollen. The earth was carpeted with ripe
leaves, wet and gorgeous. Within doors, a half dozen young girls were
busy about the house, merry as birds. My sweet mother would steal from
among them, now and then, to sit with me alone, every moment being
precious as a grain of gold, now that I was going so soon, she would
say; but I was very sad. It seemed to me that this cheerfulness was
unreal—that God would never permit me to taste the supreme happiness
which appeared to be drawing so close.
“The morning broke—my wedding morning.
“‘A glorious day!’ the girls cried out, knocking at my chamber door.
‘The woods, washed by the storm and flooded with sunshine, are gorgeous
beyond anything. Your mother has had splendid luck with her cake, and
not a flower has withered on the altar we built for you.’
“I arose and went to the window. The river had broadened, and swallowed
up half the meadow. I could hear the mountain torrents thundering over
the mill-dam, and see every timber in the old wooden bridge below
quaking; but these floods were common in our valley, and I thought
little of that.
“‘Come,’ cried the girl, still knocking at my door, ‘or you will hardly
find time to see how we have arranged the flowers your lord and master
sent from the city last night.’
“I went out eagerly—the coming of those flowers had been kept a secret
from me; but he had sent them, ‘as stars come trooping skyward, just
before the moon is born,’ I whispered to my heart, in glad surprise, and
went down to the parlor.
“They had draped a marble console in white lace, looped and wreathed
with the snow-white flowers he had sent to me. My mother, clothed like a
dove, in soft, pale gray, stood before the altar with folded hands,
regarding it tenderly.
“‘So like my child!’ she murmured, and a sigh stirred the kerchief on
her bosom; ‘pure and white as she is.’
“I heard the loving words, and fled to my room. Disturbed by the rustle
of my dress, she followed, that dear, good mother!
“‘My child!’ she said, moving gently across the room, ‘why did thee run
away? Come back, and see how white and sweet are the flowers thy husband
sent.’
“The arms of my mother closed softly around me, my head fell upon her
shoulder. She thought that I grieved at parting with her, and soothed me
while tears trembled in her own voice.
“‘Hush! hush, child! it is not so far, and thee will come to us now and
then. He has promised it. Come, now, thee must be brave, and look happy,
or it will seem strange to him.’
“I kissed her, and begged to be left alone.
“Mother left me with a slow, faltering step, wiping her eyes furtively,
a motion I saw dimly through my tears.
“Some one opened the door, and an eager voice cried out:
“‘The minister is here, and _he_ is in sight, on the other side of the
river.’
“I gathered my veil around me, and ran to the window. A group of
horsemen was moving up the opposite road. The swollen river was between
us, but I could see him waving his hand, as he rode ahead of the rest.
“I looked toward the bridge; it seemed to move and reel. Was it safe? In
my terror I flung up the sash, and tearing off my veil, waved him back
from the danger. He did not understand it, but dashed on to the bridge.
Oh, my God! I cannot tell you the rest. I saw little more—the faintness
of death fell upon me. Through it I saw a man sitting on a maddened
horse, that obeyed neither bit nor spur; then a crash of thunder seemed
to smite me down, and I fell into utter darkness; but the beating of the
waves, and the hoarse shout of distant voices, reached me even in that
deathly swoon.
“I was not altogether insensible—God was not so merciful as that. All
night long I knew that some one was praying over me—that something
strange and heavy was brought in at the front door. The next morning,
when a gleam of gray broke through the shutters, I crept shuddering, as
it were, out of my grave. I went to the window. There I saw a great
yawning gap in the old bridge, and a turbid ocean of water whirling
through it. I looked down upon myself, and became aware that, instead of
a widow’s black garments, I had on the crushed whiteness of a
wedding-robe, the fragments of a torn veil matted to my hair with orange
blossoms.
“My mother came to the window, and led me down-stairs into the darkened
parlor. He lay with those ghostly white flowers gleaming at his head,
and there, kneeling by his death-couch, I told our secret to my mother.
“Do not move, do not leave me; I have more to tell,” said Mrs. Canfield,
almost sharply, as Waldon moved restlessly on his seat. “In my whole
life I shall never have power to speak of this again. The effort would
kill me. There is no pride equal to that of a pure lineage and of honest
action—no charity equal to that of real goodness. My parents were
broken-hearted, but merciful. They had loved me, before this, with a
little pride, perhaps, in the beauty that _he_ thought so perfect. Now,
almost divine compassion took the place of pride. Being good and
generous, after the example of our Saviour, they folded me closer to
their hearts, because I needed them so much, even as Christ loved Peter
after his cruel denial, and forgave me tenderly, as he forgave the
Apostles who slept while drops of agony gathered upon his brow.
“My parents were not the only Christians in that peaceful valley. The
clergyman who came to perform the ceremony which death turned to a
funeral was taken into their council. He was a rich man, who gave his
time to God, and shared his wealth liberally with God’s most forsaken
and helpless children; not young, but wise and learned—a minister of
God, who thought for himself. I cannot speak of this man without tears.
When he left that household of mourning, we went with him, my mother and
I. He lived, in a quiet way, in the city with a sister older than
himself, who kept his house. My mother left this house, a week after we
entered, weeping with gratitude. I remained longer, not there, but in
the neighborhood, seeing no one, and never going out; but I suffered—oh,
how I suffered! Widow’s garments never covered a more desolate heart,
and more bitter tears never fell upon coffin or cradle, than rained over
the little helpless creature they laid in my bosom, one sorrowful day,
and called my daughter.
“All the friend or confidant I had, in these days, was the minister, who
sought me out the more frequently because of my desolation—who began to
love me a little, I think, in spite of all that had brought it upon me.
“Sir, it came in time that this good, good man wanted to marry me, not
from pity alone, but because he loved the woman his mercy had
saved—loved the child that lay in her lap, reproaching her with its
dimples and its smiles.
“I married him. He gave me and my child his own honored name—the only
one she ever bore. When he died, all the wealth that his munificent
charities had left was divided between us. Only three persons living
ever knew that Bertha was not his child; but, on his death-bed, he bade
me reveal this secret, as I have, to the man my child might marry—for
that man would have a right to know it.
“I have kept my promise.”