WATER LILIES.
Truly Russell Waldon was a good shot. His bullet had gone so close to
that brave, true heart that the variation of the smallest portion of an
inch would have cleft it. After that it had been so near the spine that
death might have come in that direction. It was a long time before the
murderous bit of lead could be found, and the pain of its extraction was
terrible to bear. Even then the doctor hardly ventured to give a breath
of hope—the exhaustion was so complete; but, if no fever set in,
recovery was just possible.
Fever _did_ set in, and with it delirium, during which the sick man’s
voice grew sharp, and his cheeks hot with an ever-burning flame.
Those devoted women watched him day and night, relieving each other at
intervals, thus keeping up the strength so much needed by efficient
nurses. It was well known that Mrs. Forbes was with her brother; but the
old negroes kept Bertha’s secret well, and no one else even guessed that
she was in that sick-room, or of Clara Anderson’s presence there—not
even the doctor, who wondered a little at the almost superhuman
endurance for which he gave Mrs. Forbes credit.
In her sweet ministration, Bertha almost forgot the terrible wrong that
had driven her mother into the grave, only to fell upon herself with
double bitterness. The fearful excitement through which she had passed
seemed incapable of reaching her in the sanctuary of that sick-room. On
that little island she was so completely cut off from the whole world
that every thought and pulse of her life could be devoted to the man who
had suffered so much for her. She scarcely thought of Waldon; or, if she
did, it was with such sick loathing that her whole nature recoiled from
receiving him into her mind.
One piece of news did come to her through the doctor. Waldon and his
wife had left Willow Bend. Mr. Noel, who had been slowly recovering
since the marriage, had been persuaded to try a sea-voyage, and the
newly-wedded couple went with him to New York, from whence they would
visit Saratoga for a short time. Bertha heard this with a sense of
relief which she had not experienced since her mother’s death. It was a
respite—almost oblivion—the terrible idea that haunted her grew less
cruelly real.
In those hours of affliction these three young women became more than
friends. From one evil source they had all imbibed poison, and came
forth in new strength, and with grander purposes of life. They spoke
little of the man Waldon, and turned from his name with shuddering; but
even his sins had made a bond of union among them, which would never be
broken again.
When Bertha questioned Clara of her disappearance from the old house in
Connecticut, she told her story gently, and in few words. With fever in
her brain, she had entered Ben’s canoe, lured there by its gentler
motion, and the coolness of the water. No oars were in the little craft,
and in that, perhaps, lay her safety, for she might otherwise have
attempted to use them in her delirium. As it was she drifted on and on,
from river to river, until salt air from the sound swept over her, and
the waves rocked her little craft till water sometimes dashed over her.
She did not care for that. It cooled her fever and cleared her brain.
All at once her craft floated up against some vessel that lay anchored
near the mouth of the Housatonic. She was seen from the deck, and taken
in, not insensible but delirious.
The vessel was a pleasure yacht, that had been cruising along the New
England coast, with its owner and his wife on board. These people were
now going southward, and finding her unable to tell her name, or give
any account of herself, took her with them to their home in Richmond. On
the voyage she told her little history, so far as was needful to gain
their trust, and had since remained in the family as governess to the
children.
“A place you will never hold again,” said Mrs. Forbes. “Hereafter my
home is yours.”
Clara shook her head; but Alice Forbes was ardent in her friendships.
“You have forgiven me, Clara; but never on this earth shall I forgive
myself. It will be cruel to refuse me a chance of atonement. My father,
too—no man could regret his action more than he does. No man will be
more rejoiced to know that you are alive.”
Such conversations were frequent between these young persons during
those days of anxiety.
Mrs. Forbes was no longer passionate in her grief. The solemn dread,
which great danger to a beloved object is sure to bring, subdued her
into gentle patience. She was no longer disposed to blame Bertha for
anything, but clung to her with gentle commiseration, claiming and
giving entire sympathy.
Sometimes, in his delirium, Fletcher called Bertha by name, and talked
over that first terrible scene that they had enacted together on the old
wooden bridge in New England. Then he would reproach some one for
snatching her away from him after he had wrestled for her with such hard
strife.
At such times, Mrs. Forbes would lift her eyes to the girl with such
touching appeal that Bertha was forced to turn away her face. How could
she answer that look with anything but moans?
Up to this time, Fletcher had been so tortured with pain, or tossed with
delirium, that he was utterly unconscious of Bertha’s presence in his
room.
One day, when Fletcher had been quieter than usual, and had sunk into a
soft slumber, Lydia came to the door with her apron full of water
lilies, which she had just gathered while unfolding from their snowy
night sleep.
This strange girl had taken, of late, to wandering alone on the island,
without any apparent aim, or going off in the confiscated “Firefly,”
pillaging ponds and swamps of magnolias and water lilies, which she
brought away in boat-loads, and often scattered on the water, while
rowing home. A portion of her flowers she always brought to Bertha,
knowing her passionate love of them, and how she must pine for their
sweetness, shut up, as she was, in that dull room, tortured with
anxiety.
The morning we speak of, she had been out early, and ferried old Sam
over to the main shore in her boat. It was not often that the old man
got a chance to say that his soul was his own, if he ever desired to
claim that particular property, when his better half was within hearing;
but now, with a broad space of deep water between him and the female
darkey, he became eloquent.
“Dus yer know, Miss Lider, I’se drefful anxious ’bout dat gemman in dar?
He’s boun’ for kingum cum, or dis darkey am awful mistook ’bout it.”
“Oh, I hope not! Indeed, Sam, I think he’s a little better. Last night
he scarcely talked at all.”
“’Pears like, he’s worn out—jes a goin’ off—when dat am de case—”
“No; we must hope for something better than that. Good nursing is
everything, and no one ever had better care than Mr. Fletcher.”
“Bress de Lord, old Sam hopes so! far he am a gemman, ebbery inch on
’em; and de odder feller is noffin but old Marse Noel’s son, by de holy
law ob matrimonus. If Marse Fletcher had done gone and shot fair, it ed
a been all day wid dat white Yorker.”
“Why, didn’t he shoot fair, Sam?”
“Dus you call em fair to hist your pistol in de air an’ bang it off ober
your own head? case that’s jes what Marse Fletcher done.”
“Did Mr. Fletcher do that?”
“Sartin sure! Dis darkey was peekin’ out from under-side de bridge, an’
see him a-doin’ it. But dat York feller, he aimed sure; no ’stake bout
dat.”
“Did the men who were by know of this, Sam?”
“Dat am more ’en dis darkey kin say for sartin, but dey hab eyes.”
“So he spared the man who shot him down like a dog—spared him when there
was a chance of punishing him, as the law ought to, if laws are laws!”
muttered Lydia, falling into thought; “Will he always get clear so?”
“He! he! he! Well, Miss Lider, dat white Yorker cotched it good when he
got back to de Bend. De young missus went right off inter ’sterics, an’
allowed dat she’d go tell ole marse; but, somehow, dey made up, an’ went
off ter York wid ole Marse Noel, afore he knew ’bout dat duel.”
“When will they come back again, Sam?”
“Well, honey, white folks are mighty unsartin, but ’fore long—case Marse
Noel guv out, afore he done gone, dat ebbery ’dentical darkey on dat
plantation should hab a barb’cue on de island, in confirmation ob de
weddin’, which none on ’em ebber got a sight on. Den, Miss Lider, yer
goin’ to see jes what ole ’Ginny kin do. Roast pig, wild turkey,
fiddlin’, dancin’—an’ oh, such a day! dis nigger can’t tell you nuffin’
’bout it!”
By this time Sam was over the river, and Lydia set him on shore, and
came back, after a short row among the lilies, bearing an apron full to
the house.
Bertha took them gladly, not having had a full breath of the morning
air, which had given its sweetness to the lilies, for more than a week.
“Miss Bertha, step out here a minute,” whispered Lydia, showing her
wealth of flowers, but drawing back into the passage.
Bertha closed the door softly, and stepped into the passage. Lydia had
only seen her in the darkened room for days, and looked at her earnestly
now. How large her eyes had grown! but the wild, hard look had
disappeared. Indeed, there was a languid softness in the faint violet
shadows beneath them, which Lydia had not seen there since the death of
her mistress. The girl drew a deep breath, and her face brightened.
“I have brought some of these fresh from the pond,” she said; “and then,
Miss Bertha, I want to tell you something. Do you know why the young
gentleman in there got his death?”
“I suppose so,” answered Bertha, shuddering.
“No, you don’t; nor did I till just now. He fired in the air. That—oh! I
haven’t words for him—aimed straight at his poor heart, and I believe
hit it. Isn’t that murder in the second degree?”
“Are you certain of this, Lydia?”
“Am I certain that these lilies are lilies? Sam saw them both fire. One
lifted his pistol overhead and shot upward; the other took aim. Look in
there for what _he_ did.”
Bertha smiled—the first natural smile Lydia had seen on her face since
that awful night at the New England farm-house.
“I am glad you told me this, Lydia,” she said, reaching out her arms for
the lilies, “for I think God will spare a man so noble and good as this
one is. Kiss me, Lydia! for you and I are friends now—close friends. Her
death made us so. If I have not said this often and often before, it is
because the subject was so painful that I shrank from it. My own girl—my
good, good Lydia, there is not in the wide world a person that I trust
so thoroughly, or to whom I feel such tender gratitude.”
“Oh, Miss Bertha, stop there. Don’t—don’t. It sets me to thinking of
her—of that night when I was all alone with her. It swells up my heart
so. Please don’t say another word.”
Lydia gave up her flowers, and threw both arms around the neck of her
young mistress, as it drooped toward her.
“Oh, Miss Bertha, I should love to die for you!”
With these words, Lydia darted down-stairs, leaving her flowers with
Bertha, who entered the sick-room, holding them to her bosom, and stood,
minute after minute, gazing on the pale, still features of the wounded
man. Many a change came over her face, many a sweet and painful thought
swept through her brain. At last she stooped over the pillow and kissed
him as he slept.
Then his eyes opened.