BERTHA AND WALDON MEET AGAIN.
“I must see him! I will—I will!”
Bertha was walking up and down her chamber, sweeping the India matting
with her loose robe, and stamping her foot now and then with feverish
impatience.
“Some fiend in human shape has maligned me to him! I will know the
truth! Lydia!”
“I am here, Miss B., and have been all the time,” said Lydia, coming out
from behind the muslin curtains of a window sunk deep into the wall,
through which she had been anxiously watching the young lady. “Can I do
anything?”
“Lydia, is there any way by which we can leave the island?”
“Yes, miss. Old Sam can set us ashore in his tub of a boat.”
“But I want something more than that.”
“To go up stream? I understand.”
“Is there no boat—no horse?”
“I’ll inquire of Sam, if you must go.”
Lydia went out of the room, and found Sam in the garden patch, where
Celia had sent the old man for a mess of new potatoes. She found the old
servant sitting on the broken turf which grew around the roots of a
great oak on the edge of the potato patch, fast asleep, with his hoe
lying close by, where he had dropped it.
“Sam! Sam! I say, old Sam!”
The old man started, snatched up his hoe, and looked around, much
relieved when he saw Lydia.
“It’s only you, sure ’nuff,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “Thought de
ole ’oman was ’bout. He! he! he!”
“Sam, is it possible to get a boat that will hold water—something that
a—that I could pull up stream? One gets so tired of doing nothing.”
“Duz dey!” said Sam, combing out his wool with the fingers of one hand.
“He! he! he! Die ole darkey never gets done tired doin’ dat. He! he!”
“I should think not,” answered the girl, laughing. “But about the
boat—can such a thing be got?”
Again Sam’s fingers sought the wool on his temples. He seemed greatly
puzzled and irresolute.
“Miss Lyddy, am yer to be trusted wid a mighty big secret?”
“Am I? Oh, yes.”
“Miss Lyddy, jist tote yerself down to der bridge. I’se gwoin’ to show
yer suthin’.”
Lydia followed the old man, wondering what form his secret would take
when they reached the log bridge.
Sam let himself down the bank at one end, and, parting the trumpet vines
with both arms, told her to look over.
Lydia leaned over the logs, looked through the opening Sam had made in
the vines, and saw a little boat, whose outlines seemed familiar, moored
close under the timbers.
“As true as I live, it’s the ‘Firefly!’” she exclaimed, delighted. “How
came it here, Sam?”
“Comfisticated prop’ty,” answered Sam, rubbing his hands in high glee,
“come down yer ob its own self. I only jist ’ticed it inter de run, agin
some pussen come down ’quiren ’bout it.”
“It was lost after the picnic, months ago, Sam—the night my young
mistress was nearly drowned. I think the boat belongs to Miss Noel.”
“Don’t know noffin’ ’bout dat. I’se comfisticated it, and dat’s ’nuff
for dis darkey. Now, what am it you wants, Miss Lyddy?”
“This, Sam: Miss B. and I mean to have a good, long pull up stream with
this boat, after sunset. Get it out, and, if the cushions are saved, put
them in.”
“Cushens!” said Sam, ruefully; “dem are done gone. Dey drifted ’long wid
de boat, wet as sop, so de ole ’oman took de stuffen for pillars. But de
young missus kin have dem.”
“Never mind the cushions; we can do very well without them. But get the
little craft in order for a good long trip.”
After giving these directions, Lydia went up to the house and reported
progress.
Bertha stopped her restless pacing up and down the room long enough to
listen, then commenced walking again, pausing now and then to take out
her watch and wonder if it had not stopped.
At last the soft glow of coming sunset fell upon the island, and through
its golden mist the two girls went down to the log bridge, where the
“Firefly” lay rocking, light and graceful as a Turkish caique in the
water.
Sam unmoored the pretty craft, and Bertha sprang in, directing Lydia to
seat herself in the stern.
“Where is it you are going, Miss B.?” inquired the girl, as they put
forth into the broad river.
“Lydia, I am going to Willow Bend. A person is there that I must speak
with. It may be difficult, but you must help me.”
Bertha spoke with energy. The exercise of rowing gave her unusual force;
perhaps the hope of seeing that man stirred the blood in her veins. At
any rate, the “Firefly” shot up stream like a bird. At nine o’clock it
lay under the weeping willows, which drooped over it like the long,
swaying fringes of some royal tent.
“He usually walks here about this time,” thought the girl, as she sprang
on shore, leaving Lydia in the boat.
The house was before her, lighted brilliantly from the parlors and
dining-room which were exposed through the open windows, through which
she saw a man and a woman pass to the veranda, where they paced slowly
up and down, conversing together.
Bertha watched them with pressed lips and dilating eyes. The man’s tread
reached her where she stood, concealed by the willows, which in places
swept the bank with their branches. Never, since she first saw Waldon,
had that footstep failed to make her blood stir and her heart leap. She
heard it now with a pang that shook her from head to foot; for with it
came a sweet gush of laughter, and the undertones of a voice that had
spoken to her tenderly only a short time ago.
Those two left the veranda, and strolled down upon the lawn. The man’s
head was bent toward his companion, and her hands were clasped fondly
over his arm, while her cheek almost touched his shoulder. They came
straight down toward the spot where Bertha was standing. She drew back,
placing the trunk of the willow between herself and them.
They sauntered to the very edge of the drooping foliage, talking
eagerly. She was speaking.
“Then everybody will say that she jilted you, and I took up with Bertha
Canfield’s leavings,” Mary was saying, when her words became clear.
“Besides, if papa ever hears about your being engaged to her, he will
want to know why you broke it off, for he is awfully particular about
honor, and all that.”
“It is not likely that he will ever hear about it. Bertha was far too
delicate to speak of the engagement while it existed, and the most
reticent pride that I ever knew in woman will keep her from complaint
now.”
“But other people knew it. Miss Bertha’s exquisite delicacy did not
prevent that. Mr. Hyde told me of it before they had been here a week;
besides, it was known everywhere in New York,” said Mary, almost
spitefully.
“But these people are my own friends, and knew of my entanglement almost
as soon as I was sure of it myself. They will learn that it is broken
the first opportunity after everything is settled, and know how to be
silent. As for New York, your father is not likely to go there before
his knowledge will be of little importance.”
“But I—I wish to know, and wish the world to know. It shall not be said
that Bertha Canfield refused what I accepted,” said the heiress,
petulantly.
“The dew is heavy—you will take cold,” was Waldon’s answer. “You had
better go back to the house.”
Waldon spoke almost curtly. He was getting angry.
“But you will go with me. Surely you do not intend to return to Mr.
Hyde’s at this late hour?”
“No. I will see you safe indoors, then take a stroll along the bank.”
The couple turned and walked slowly toward the house, while Bertha
watched them from the boat to which she had leaped the moment their
conversation turned upon herself; but before she could escape, that one
sentence had struck her like a blow.
Drifting in the shadow of the bank, Bertha saw Waldon turn from the
veranda, after Mary went in, and stroll down to the river again. The
moon was shining brightly now, and through the swaying willow branches
came swift ripples of silver from the water, which trembled all over
with light. She allowed her little craft to float downward with the
current till the willows swept over it. Then she sprang on the bank,
and, before Waldon was aware of her presence, stood by his side on the
very spot where they had parted only a few weeks before, pledged man and
wife.
“Bertha! Great Heavens! Bertha Canfield, how came you here?”
Her presence sent a shock through that strong frame. The man’s knees
shook under him; but through it all came a wild thrill of pleasure. With
all his faithlessness, the man had loved her, and she was superbly
beautiful, standing there in the moonlight, as it sifted through the
willow branches upon her head and her dusky garments.
“You did not expect me—did not wish to see me—but I came, knowing that.
Only a few minutes ago I stood behind this tree while you talked with
the girl that was once my friend. I heard part of what you said, not
willingly; I could not get to the boat sooner than I did. She only asked
the question that I came to ask. That which you declined to tell her I
must know!”
“Why have you come, Bertha? This can be nothing but a most painful
interview.”
“What is there left for me on earth but pain?” cried the girl, with a
pathetic cry of despair. “But I will understand—I must understand! I
have no father, no brother, to come and say, with a power of redress:
‘This woman has been wronged, her heart trampled on, and her pride
broken, and we will have full and sufficient reason, or such atonement
as men force from men.’ I am only a young girl—fatherless, almost
friendless, buried in sorrow for the death of a mother who loved me
supremely, hunted down by some vague evil which no one can explain but
yourself. This you _must_ explain, or kill me! I cannot live—I cannot
live with this fever of doubt burning up my strength! Waldon! Waldon! if
you ever loved me, give up the secret that has separated us! I will know
it!”
Waldon stood motionless, gazing upon Bertha. Her beauty and the wild
grandeur of this appeal awoke all that was worshipful and good in him.
Coming directly after the shallow petulance of that other girl for whom
he had sacrificed her, the contrast was overpowering. For that moment
the selfish fiend fled out of his nature, and left him purely a man of
genius, so lifted above his own meaner self that a keen intellect gave
him one glimpse of its own actions as they would have appeared to others
knowing them as he did. But for these momentary feelings he might have
told Bertha the truth, concealing only what he knew of her mother’s
death; but now the solemn promise he had made that mother came back to
his memory with a shock. He could neither force himself to betray her
trust nor own that he was her murderer. As he looked upon the girl,
doubly bereaved by his own selfishness, this man hated himself with
bitter hatred, as if he had been some other person.
“You will tell me this, that I may depart at once,” said Bertha, whose
voice shook with the tremor that disturbed her whole frame. “I did not
come to plead with you, or in anything change that which you have done.
But I must know why you have done it. If any man or woman has maligned
me, the right of self-justification is mine, and I demand it! If it
is—as one who loved you less than I did might be tempted to
think—because another had greater attractions and more abundant wealth,
you could at least grant me the privilege of contempt.”
“No! no, Bertha! I could not endure contempt or hatred from you; and
that would come if I broke the solemn pledge that binds me to secrecy.
Ask me anything but this, even to dishonor myself by breaking up this
new engagement, and I will do it, rather than betray a sacred trust! Ask
that, Bertha, for now that you are before me, in all the grandeur of
your soul and this wonderful loveliness, I can see how my heart has
debased itself. Ask that, Bertha, and I shall be madman enough to ruin
myself and follow you. Ask me! ask me!”
The fiend was coming back into the man’s soul again. Enraged with
himself, and lured by her presence, he flung his arms around the
startled young creature, and kissed her madly on her eyes, her hair, and
her quivering lips, until she broke away from him, and leaping into her
boat, fled down the river.