THE RESCUED LETTER.
Bertha had borne up bravely, and defended Waldon to her friend, even
when her own heart was giving way from its unswerving faith in the man
she loved. No excuse could be found, even in her trusting nature, for
the base and cruel words this man had spoken; the very thought of them
made her faint, and drove her heart, shuddering, away from him. Still
she struggled, and strove to disbelieve. It was hard to be separated
from him forever; but, oh, how infinitely worse to see this god-like
idol fall at her feet, an abject thing, too mean for spurning. No, no;
slander and malignity were following him also.
Bertha was lying upon a low chintz couch in her chamber, with the blinds
half closed, and casting greenish shadows on the white-washed walls. She
had been thinking of these things, till she ached all over head and
heart, when the door opened and old Celia looked into the room.
“Am yer to sleep, young missis? Case if yer isn’t, I’se got suthin’ here
mighty pretty. ’Spect yer kin make it out for ole Celia. See thar!”
Bertha arose languidly from the pillow which Lydia had placed under her
head, and took the paper Celia held toward her. It was a sheet of large
note paper, covered closely with writing, which Celia seemed to hold in
no esteem; but she pointed with her finger to a tinted and golden
monogram at the top, upon which Bertha gazed with parted lips, and eyes
widening in startled surprise, for the paper belonged to herself, the
monogram was hers, the writing was her mother’s.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded, sharply.
“Ole man done fished it up out ob de river, ebber so long ’go,” said
Celia, a little startled.
Bertha did not answer—she sat upright, with the letter grasped by the
edge in both hands, reading it. Steadily, slowly her eyes passed from
line to line, freezing her into stone.
It was the letter that Mrs. Canfield had written to Waldon the day
before her death. In it she had told him of her solemn purpose to
immolate herself, that the barrier of her disgrace should no longer
separate him from her daughter. Oh, with what touching eloquence she
pleaded with him to protect that child from all knowledge of her sin,
and of the manner of her own death. She appealed to his generosity, his
manhood, and besought him to give double care and double devotion to a
young creature who had been made an orphan for his sake. Never was
pathos more touching, or prayer more earnest, than this poor lady put
forth just before she laid herself down to die.
Bertha read every word of this mournful revelation. No tears blinded her
eyes; they grew brighter and brighter, with a terrible depth of meaning
in the blackness which intensified as she read. A shock of feeling
passed over her, now and then, as lightning might strike a statue; but
most of the time she sat dumb and still, reading the letter over and
over again. At last she folded it carefully and laid it in her bosom,
which was cold as marble; every drop of blood in her veins had flown to
her heart, and was burning there like living fire.
Celia had left the room, terrified by the dead whiteness of that young
face, afraid even to ask for a return of the pretty monogram which old
Sam had fished up from the river.
Bertha was entirely alone. She looked around wildly; the white walls
seemed to glide and heave around her; the windows were in motion; the
floor on which she stood sunk and rose like the billows of a rough sea.
She fell upon her knees and clung to the couch with both arms, like a
wrecked creature tossed in a storm.
All at once her voice broke out in a fearful cry:
“Oh, mother! mother! mother! You are dead, and _he_ killed you!”
She fell with her face upon the couch, and lay for hours, giving out
low, dry moans, which were neither prayers nor curses, but a hard agony,
impossible of expression.
Lydia came in and went out again, afraid to speak. She knew nothing of
what had passed, only that a tiny picture had been given to young
missus, who had gone right off inter tantrums ’bout it.
An hour passed, and there was no sound from Bertha’s room. Lydia went up
again, and found her lying on the couch, with her eyes wide open and
looking up at the ceiling.
“Are you better?” said the girl, tenderly; for she had learned great
gentleness within the last few months. “Celia thought you were sick, and
got frightened.”
“I am not sick, but strong, Lydia. Feel of my nerves: they are tough,
like harp strings, and my flesh is iron!”
“It is cold and quivering. Let me bring you some wine,” said Lydia.
She ran down-stairs, and came back with a bottle in one hand and a glass
in the other.
“Drink, Miss Bertha! You’ve got an awful chill!”
Bertha drank the wine; a shudder passed over her; the blood was
beginning to flow back from her heart.
“It seemed almost as if I were dead too,” she whispered, with a piteous
smile.
“Don’t, don’t, Miss Bertha, you frighten me!”
“Why, there is nothing to be afraid of now. When the worst is known, one
is lifted above fear. Do I look strangely, Lydia, that you search my
face so? Can one moment transfigure a person?”
“Dear Miss Bertha, you talk so strange, I don’t like it. You make me
tremble!”
“It seemed to me, a little while ago, that the whole earth trembled; but
I am quieter now, Lydia.”
The poor girl held out her arms, and Lydia crept timidly to her side.
Then Bertha’s head fell on that faithful shoulder, and she whispered
hoarsely:
“Oh, if I could but shed one tear, I think it would save me!”
“Miss Bertha, what is it?”
“Lydia, I know all that you do! Oh, my mother! my mother!”