MRS. WILSON FORBES HAS A VISITOR.
Mrs. Wilson Forbes was preparing to go South. Her brother Egbert had
written so feelingly of his loneliness, and with such general
depression, that her kind heart was seized with an affectionate desire
to brighten up his old home again with her presence. With the quick
intuition of a loving woman, she had guessed at the bitter
disappointment which Bertha’s engagement had been to her brother
Fletcher; but there existed no direct confidence between them, and the
young man knew nothing whatever of the entanglement which had made her
so long nothing more nor less than Russell Waldon’s slave. Now, being
both a free woman and a happy wife, she could afford to carry a little
of her own bright sunshine down to the old Southern homestead where
Fletcher lived alone, and was so unhappy.
“A lady, Mrs. Forbes, who wishes to see you.”
Mrs. Forbes was presiding over a huge Saratoga trunk, in which her maid
was buried head and shoulders, pressing down, folding up, and doing her
very best to make a Noah’s ark of it in the way of compactness and
variety.
“A lady, did you say, Julia? and I looking like this. Tell her I am not
at home—sick, dead. No, one may as well give the truth now and then. Say
that I am packing up for a journey, and wouldn’t see my own grandmother,
if she were going to make her will this very day. There, there—come
back. What kind of a lady is it? Where’s the card?”
“She did not give me any—only said, ‘Tell her a lady wants to see her
very much.’”
“Ah, some one in distress, poor thing—young or old?”
“Young, and a real lady—you could see that in spite of her black
veil—awful deep mourning, but genteel. In trouble, too, one made sure of
that by her voice.”
“That will do; I’ll go down. Help me off with this wrapper—that black
silk, leave it out. I will go down, Julia; but go on with the packing, I
shall not let any one keep me long.”
Directly Mrs. Forbes was rustling down-stairs, fastening the coral
buttons of her dress as she went. When she entered the reception room, a
lady came forward, darkening the room with her coal black garments as
she moved.
“Mrs. Forbes, I—”
Mrs. Forbes retreated a step; she was taken by surprise.
“Miss Canfield—Bertha!”
“You are surprised to see me—no wonder.”
“I am surprised and sorry to see you in mourning, Bertha,” said the
lady, with tender interest.
“My mother is dead!”
The words sounded abrupt, but the voice that uttered them shook with
emotion.
Mrs. Forbes, greatly shocked, was about to ask some question, when
Bertha interrupted her:
“I wronged you once—will you pardon me for it? When you would have
warned me, I refused to take it kindly. In my arrogant self-confidence,
I struck the hand that would have saved me.”
“I do not understand you, Bertha.”
“I thought that you had once loved Waldon yourself, and would not
forgive him that he turned to another.”
“And so I did, or rather thought I did,” answered the lady, gravely. “I
fear it lasted some time after I knew him to be unworthy any good
woman’s love; but I had no jealousy of you, Bertha—only profound pity,
for I knew the man.”
“You warned me; you doubted then if he would not change.”
“No, I simply dreaded that he might prove faithful, and drag you down
into his life; but I should have known better. What girl in the fever of
her first love ever took advice?”
All at once Bertha threw back her veil, and fell at Mrs. Forbes’ feet.
“I asked your forgiveness, but that is not enough. In all the wide
world, you are the only one to whom my heart turns in its misery. Read
that, then tell me how I am to act. Advise anything but patience and
silence, and I will do it.”
Mrs. Forbes took Waldon’s letter, threw her arms around Bertha’s neck,
and kissed her.
“Poor girl! poor child! was not that one trouble enough—must he strike
you when your heart was sore?”
Bertha answered nothing, but laid her head down on Mrs. Forbes’ lap, and
moaned a little as that lady read the letter.
“The ingrate! the villain!” she exclaimed, folding the letter with an
irate twist of her fingers. “Who is this other one?”
“My school-mate, my bosom friend,” answered Bertha, with a thrill of
bitter antagonism in her voice. “A girl that I would have died for; who
insisted upon taking an oath that we should be true friends forever.
This is how she keeps her oath.”
“Do not blame her; that man would lure an angel from Heaven, and tire of
the poor thing before it got through the first drift of clouds. Is this
Mary Noel rich?”
“Very rich.”
“That accounts for it. I remember now who her father was—a very wealthy
man indeed. I think Waldon may prove tolerably faithful to an estate
like that.”
“But he does not love her. Did you read that sentence where he almost
says it was her love for him? It is pity, avarice, anything but love.”
“That I believe.”
“Oh, he did love me!” cried the girl, with a thrill of pathetic regret.
“I know he did! I know he did! This girl has not separated us, but
something else which he will not tell me of. But he shall! he shall! Did
you not see that in the letter?”
“Yes, I saw an attempt at romantic mystification. There may be something
in it, but I think not.”
“I must know—I will know—there _is_ something! Poor mamma held several
private conversations with him before we left Virginia, and seemed to
wither after them. Mrs. Forbes, I think she did not like him and wanted
me to break it off. She was so persistent, so anxious to learn about my
feelings. Perhaps she discouraged him.”
“Possibly. Your mother was a sensitive woman, who must have felt the
unworthiness of this man.”
“Something has been done to separate us. Oh, tell me how I can ever find
out what it is! I have no father nor brother to demand the reason, but I
have a right to know it. Oh, Mrs. Forbes, help me! Help me, or I shall
die of this awful suspense! If I only knew what it was!”
“Poor girl, do you love him so yet?”
“How can I help it? He was to have been my husband. I never dreamed of
any future but that. To me there was no other man in existence. Oh, Mrs.
Forbes, he does not really love Mary Noel! The cause of all this trouble
lies deeper, I am sure it does! Help me to fathom it!”
“Trust me, Bertha, I will,” said the kind lady, with tears in her eyes.
“For your sake I will endure the presence of this man; but I can
scarcely think it doing a kindness.”
Bertha seized the white hand that caressed her, and pressed it to her
lips again and again.
“I was busy packing when you came in. My brother Egbert lives near Mr.
Noel’s plantation, you know,” said Mrs. Forbes.
“Yes—yes—I know. How could I forget to tell you? He saved my life and
that of Mr. Waldon, but would not wait to be thanked. How ungrateful I
am!”
“How blind!” said Mrs. Forbes. “But the time will come. There,
there—don’t look so unbelieving. I was speaking of my journey. In an
hour or two I shall be on my way to the James River. Edward Lane will
join me there after he graduates. These two brothers may help us fathom
this mystery, but since the strange death of Clara Anderson, Edward has
not been so intimate with Waldon.”
“Clara Andersen! Oh, Mrs. Forbes, she was my friend—a noble, grand girl
whom few people understood. If ever a poor girl was hunted into her
grave, it was Clara. Your brother knew her worth and would have saved
her, but it was not to be.”
Mrs. Forbes was walking the room, absolutely wringing her hands in the
anguish of her repentance. At last she turned and came close to Bertha.
“You are right, Miss Canfield. It was an awful persecution, and I did my
share of it. Poor girl, I thought her ambitious, a bold intriguing girl.
Do not defend her, I know it all now. She never did encourage Edward. He
made me his confidant at last. If he had done it earlier, much misery
might have been spared, but he trusted no one but that arch-traitor
Waldon, who ended in betraying him and making a merit of his treason
with me.”
“Betraying him! Oh, Mrs. Forbes, what could Mr. Waldon have to do with
Clara’s death?”
“What had he to do with your life and mine?”
“But he did not know Clara. She never mentioned him to me in her life.”
“Still she knew him well.”
“No, no, it is impossible. I remember giving her one of his books after
she left school, and she said that to know him would be the greatest
happiness of her life, but that she never expected to have so great a
pleasure.”
“All this may be true, but it is equally true that he undertook to plead
my brother’s cause with Clara Anderson; and went to her house for that
avowed purpose. I reached my father’s home that day bitterly prejudiced
against the girl. She had been represented to me as a needy adventuress
in pursuit of my brother from greed of his wealth.”
“Poor Clara—poor, dear Clara! There never was a prouder or less
mercenary person,” said Bertha.
“I can believe that now, but then she was described to me as the very
reverse of all this. I met Waldon riding away from her house, and
entreated him to watch over Edward. Without telling me that Edward
already had his pledge of friendship, he promised all that I asked, but
I never dreamed of suggesting the course he took.”
“What course?”
“That of coldly winning the girl’s love for himself.”
“Oh, Mrs. Forbes, this is terrible!”
“But it was his design, and I believe he carried it out, all the while
pretending to plead my brother’s cause. Almost every day for weeks—I
think it ran into months—his horse was seen at her gate, himself seated
close by the window at which the poor girl worked. He brought her
bouquets; he read to her hours together; but you know the man, as I know
him. She believed in him, no doubt loved him. Once assured of a woman’s
love, the demon always comes uppermost in this man.
“All at once he ceased to visit that house. His presence there had
deeply injured the girl, but what did he care for that? She drooped
visibly. Once and only once was she seen away from home after his horse
ceased to be every day at her gate. That was when she rode through the
village on her way to the Housatonic Falls.”
“The Housatonic Falls! Oh, Mrs. Forbes, are you sure that she knew Mr.
Waldon before then?”
“I am certain that he had spent half his time with her for weeks, and
suddenly gave up coming just before that ride. I know also that she saw
Waldon with another lady, who had been thrown from her horse, in his
arms.”
Bertha clasped her hands.
“Oh, Heavens! and I wrote that letter,” she thought. “The letter that
perhaps killed her.”
“Edward came to a knowledge of his friend’s treason late and by slow
degrees. At first he would not believe it.”
“How could he?” cried Bertha. “I cannot believe it. I do not.”
“Still, after what I have told you, do you wish to see this man again?”
Bertha fell into thought a moment, then lifting her head, answered,
“Yes.”
“Surely you would not go to Willow Bend now?”
Bertha shuddered.
“What? there? Mrs. Forbes, you scarcely know me yet. You have dared to
tell the truth when it was very bitter, and have forgiven me for
resenting it. I will trust you entirely. I cannot live here. A yearning
wish to see that man again consumes me like a fever! I must go where
something is to be learned! I must breathe near him, or not at all! This
is killing me!”
“You shall go. I will arrange it.”
“Secretly; I must not be known.”
“You shall go secretly and safely. I was the slave of this man, once!”
exclaimed Mrs. Forbes, in bitter self-abasement; “and suffered almost as
much.”
“It is something besides love. Some terrible wrong has been done. I feel
it in every sense of my being. There has been a great sacrifice, either
in Waldon when he gave me up, or by some person I am yet to learn about.
I must know two things: Does he love her, and did he break off our
engagement entirely from waning affection? or is it the work of some
slanderer? To believe him so entirely a villain, is worse than death.
Help me! help me get at the truth!”
“Trust me, I will!”
“And this other matter?” said Bertha, bending her great, yearning eyes
on the woman she had doubted.
“That, too, shall be accomplished. Now, good-by! The train never waits.”