THE HOUR Of PARTING.
They were sitting together on the shore of the river.
A great willow threw its fountain of leaves over them and the grass
around its roots was blue with violets, which breathed a delicious
perfume as Bertha plucked them one by one, forming a cluster for
Waldon’s buttonhole.
“You will not be long in following us?” she said, in a low, half-timid
voice, breathing a kiss on the violets before she fastened them in his
coat. “It will seem so strange, so lonely, not to have you with us every
day. Mother, I know, will miss you, though she leaves her room so
seldom.”
“But she will have you entirely to herself; and that, I think, she will
like better than anything,” answered Waldon, gazing out upon the water
in a vague, thoughtful way, which she had noticed frequently in him of
late. “I doubt if my coming will make her happy.”
“But it will make me happy,” said the girl, leaning forward, and kissing
the violets she had just placed over his bosom. “So you will not linger
here, and—and make me impatient of the dear old farm? It is not so grand
and park-like as this place—which is princely—only a nice New England
farm, where grandfather sometimes works himself, as you know very well,
but when you come it will be paradise to me. So Mr. Hyde must not keep
you long.”
“He will not keep me long. Within a few weeks I shall follow you, and
then everything will be settled. Your mother understands that.”
“Ah! I thought you had settled something with her. She has seemed so
miserably sad of late. Poor mamma! It breaks her heart to let me go,
even for the few weeks we shall be travelling about. After that we shall
be all together, with a beautiful life before us. Promise me, Waldon,
that you will always be good and sweet to mamma—for if ever an angel
lived she is one. But I need not ask that. You cannot help loving her
any more than you can avoid the breath of my violets. What are you
looking at so earnestly, Waldon?”
“Nothing but the landscape. What a glorious bend the river makes just
here! How grandly those oaks loom over the bank, and float—a grove of
shadows—in the water! Noel calls that a bit of woodland. Why, there are
three hundred acres on the point alone. But it is only in proportion
with the rest, I suppose.”
Bertha laughed a little.
“Oh, it is not the only timber in Willow Bend; but the estate stretches
so far out of sight that the pines and beeches are five miles from here.
Some day Mary Noel will have it all. What an heiress she will be!”
“But that is nothing to us,” answered Waldon, a little sharply.
“Nothing in the world, only as Mary is interested. Still, do you know,
Russell, I am afraid she will come in for this sooner than any of us
expect. Mr. Noel is not a healthy man. The doctors do not give him a
long life.”
“What do they think is the matter with him?” said Waldon.
“Heart disease, I believe,” answered Bertha, under her breath. “He told
mother of it in New York. But you must not hint this to Mary. He was
very anxious that she should not know. There he comes now!”
Sure enough, Mr. Noel came sauntering down the lawn, and Waldon regarded
him with keen interest, remarking the dull whiteness of his face, and a
certain languor in his walk, which had never struck him so forcibly
before.
“Do you know I have been thinking that your friend Hyde is a little
fascinated with Mary?” said Bertha, who was busy plucking more violets,
which she tossed to the water at her feet, and did not observe the
searching look of her companion; “and she likes him very much indeed. No
wonder—he is so handsome and talented. Besides, he is your friend, and
that is—a great recommendation.”
A flash shot into Waldon’s eyes. He thrust his hand down among the
violets, and tearing up grass and all, tossed them into the stream
ferociously, as if they had been stones thrown at an enemy.
“How can you!” said Bertha, with plaintive reproach. “I am sure such
rough handling hurts the poor flowers. Besides, you are so cross and
silent to-day. What have I and the pretty violets done, that your face
clouds so?”
“Clouds, does it? Is there not reason enough, when you are going to
leave me so soon?”
“Ah, that! Well, then, let us make the most of our time. Here is the
“Katydid,” with all those willow branches sweeping over it. Shall I row
you down stream? The oak branches look inviting.”
“Not this morning; the sun is too warm. You will get a headache.
Besides, there is your friend on the croquet ground.”
“So she is, and Mr. Hyde with her. Of course, we must give up the
“Katydid” now. But this afternoon? To-morrow is our last day, Waldon. It
takes my breath to think of it!”
“Yes, our last day,” answered Waldon, with mournful gravity, that
brought tears into the fond eyes of his betrothed. “Even I feel such
partings.”
“Go forward; I will come in a minute,” said Bertha, feeling the tears
swell beyond her control. “Just now, I would not like them to see what a
baby I am!”
Waldon obeyed her, and she went to the water’s edge, and flinging
herself down among the violets, sobbed like a rebellious child.
“Why will she make me go? Why will she, when I want to stay so much? It
is cruel, cruel, cruel! And they all so happy!”
“Come, Bertha, come, or we cannot make up the game,” Mary Noel called
out from the croquet ground.
Bertha sprang to her feet, looked at herself in the water, which was
still as a mirror under the willows, smoothed back her hair a little,
bathed her eyes, and waiting a while for the soft wind to cool her face,
went up to that portion of the lawn where her friends were waiting.
“Come, hurry up!” cried Mary, who was impatient for her game. “You and
Mr. Hyde against Mr. Waldon and the most reckless partner he ever had.
Don’t look sullen, Bertha. Married and engaged people must not play
together. They are sure to forget everything but themselves. Here is
your mallet, and there is your partner.”
Bertha took the mallet, with a rebellious look.
“Now, Mr. Waldon and I against you and Mr. Hyde. This will be a
desperate game. The red ball for me. Now for it!”
The next moment, a red ball came rolling down from the post, and took
the first two wickets with lazy ease, and the game commenced in earnest.
All this time Mrs. Canfield sat, like a ghost, in the window,
unconsciously watching her daughter’s defeat.