SEARCHING A HEART.
After a while Bertha came indoors and ran up to her mother’s room, a
little curious to know why Waldon had been summoned to it. Had her
mother at last relented? Was the time arranged when she would be
Waldon’s wife, and all her weak unrest swept away forever? Had her
mother discovered how foolish she was, and how unreasonably she suffered
at times? Not often of course; but when Waldon spoke to her friend in
that caressing way, and looked at her so, how could any one help feeling
it? Being engaged did not make a woman more than human.
Mrs. Canfield was lying on the lounge, with her face to the wall. She
shrank together when Bertha came in, and closed her eyes.
Bertha was not surprised by her pallor, nor by this effort to avoid
conversation. These things only confirmed the belief that Waldon’s face
had impressed on her. She had seen him come out from the interview with
bright eyes and a smile of satisfaction on his lips. What could have
brought these signs there but the consent he had so often pleaded for?
“Mother, what makes you look so strange? I have not seen you smile in a
week. It makes my heart ache. Have I done anything wrong?”
“No, my darling—you never do wrong.”
“Now, that’s just one of your own precious little fibs. Don’t I know
that it was awfully wrong to leave you alone, as I did the other
morning? And am I ever here only like a humming bird, flying in and out
among the flowers, staying nowhere long, because there is so much honey
dew about all of them? But, then, _he_ is here, and will be going away
soon. There is no use denying it; I cannot stay content even with you
when he is about.”
“Do you love him so well—more than your mother, Bertha?”
The pathetic mournfulness of that poor mother’s voice went to the girl’s
heart. She kissed her lips and forehead, in mute apology for loving any
one but her, then gathered up her courage and said:
“Better than you, mother? No, I cannot say that—not better, but
different. It is impossible that I should ever love any one better than
my own, own mother.”
“But you do love him?”
“Oh, yes! dearly, mamma; forgive me, indeed I do!”
“But if I were to ask you to give him up, Bertha?”
“Ah, mother dear, I could not do it!”
“Not if your mother’s happiness, forever and ever, depended on it?”
The poor woman could hardly make herself heard, her voice was so hoarse.
“Mother, how can you ask me?”
“But, to save my life—my life—could you give up this man, who was a
stranger to us only a few months ago—to save my life?”
“Then, mother, I would give Waldon up, and die in your place.”
“No, no, Bertha; you would not die. It might sadden you for a time—a
long, long time, perhaps; but death is not always merciful to the
unhappy. I have known people pray on their knees, hours and hours, in
darkness and tears, but death would not come to them for praying.”
“That is hard, for so I should pray, mother. What would life be without
him?”
“You would have your mother, Bertha.”
“And she would break her own heart in watching mine wither! Dear, sweet
mother! why are you questioning me so? Has Waldon done you any wrong? If
so, he shall make it up, or I’ll never speak to him again. There now; is
not this foolish talk? Never speak to him again! Why, that would kill
me! But what has he done?”
“Done—nothing.”
“Then why ask such cruel questions? Is it that you doubt my love for
him?”
“Not that, Bertha, but your strength to part with him. Could you find
enough for that, if he wished it?”
“If he wished it, mother! Oh, mother! has he wished it?”
“Bertha, Bertha, you frighten me! No—I say he has not wished it; but if
he should?”
“Mamma, you are cruel—awfully cruel. I would not have believed it of
you. I would not torture any one so. If Waldon were to break with me—but
I _cannot_ think of it. Sometimes it has come across my mind when—when
it ought not to, for that would be touching his honor. And I have felt
as if a snake were coiling about my heart. Mother, if this ever happens,
I shall perish, or become a revengeful, wicked woman, whom you would not
know for your child. If God would not let me die, then—then—oh, mother!
mother! in that case death would be a mercy!”
“But my Bertha used to be proud and strong.”
“That was before I knew him, mother.”
That poor woman was strangely persistent, probing her child’s heart
cruelly, as she had never done before in all her gentle life.
“But if he wished it, the old pride would come back?”
“Mother, you make me angry. What has pride to do with love? Nothing,
nothing; when a woman talks of that, she only gives selfishness another
name. I tell you I love this man, fondly, madly, with my whole being!
Now talk to me of parting with him, in this idle way, if you can find
the heart to do it!”
“I cannot! I cannot!” answered the wretched mother. “It would be easier
to die!”
She sank down upon the couch, that had witnessed so much anguish, after
saying this, and turned her face to the wall.
Any one who had seen Bertha Canfield, as she stood in the middle of that
room after being so questioned, might well have believed her when she
said that desertion would make her a revengeful woman. Her eyes fairly
burned, her cheeks turned white, and her mouth quivered with intense
passion. So keenly had those questions tortured her that her heart
writhed and her bosom panted with the pain of it. She did not heed the
dead silence that had fallen upon her mother, or know when Lydia entered
the room.
“Please to go out now, if you’ve come near enough to killing her, which
you and that cu—excuse me, but I won’t see her murdered yet, being a
girl with something besides stones in my bosom.”
Lydia was in solemn earnest. She now considered herself in duty bound to
listen, and had heard everything, and understood far more than Bertha
dreamed of.
Bertha pushed the girl aside, dashed into the next room, and flinging
herself on the bed, burst into a passion of sobs.
“Why did she question me? What good did she find in dragging up those
miserable doubts from the bottom of my heart? She might have known—she
might have known how I had tried to strangle them.”
“Miss B., your mother is cold as a stone, and you here.”
Bertha flung the hair back from her face, and followed Lydia to the
couch, where her mother was lying.
“Oh, mamma, forgive me! forgive me!”
Mrs. Canfield turned slowly, held out her arms, and the two clung
together, one weeping passionately and the other still as death.