Chapter XXIII: Fainting Fits

“Were you frightened about me, mother? I could not help being a little late; the ride was splendid, but so long.”

Bertha was untying her riding-hat and taking off her gauntlets as she spoke, while the shadowy woman hovered around her with the loving solicitude of a heart always apprehensive, always tender in its solicitude.

“No, I was not really frightened: that would be too strong a word, Bertha; but somehow I am always apprehensive when you cross the ford.”

“Yes, yes, I know, dear mother, but it is so wrong of you; why the water was not up to Jason’s knees; he enjoyed it amazingly. So did I; but one does come home tired, and a little heart-sick too, after a visit to Clara. She is so sad, so depressed; I declare her eyes have grown twice their natural size since she was here, and have such a strange, dreary expression. I am afraid the poor girl is working herself to death, mamma.”

“I am sorry to hear that; we must have her over here again. I dare say it was the shock of that awful time that has disturbed her. I cannot think of it without shuddering.”

“Ah, you are sure to do that when one mentions a great storm; I always tremble when one comes up for your sake.”

“For my sake! Really, I think you never have a fear for yourself.”

“For myself,” answered the lady, with a sweet, sad smile. “Why, Bertha, you are all of myself that is worth caring for.”

Bertha wound both arms lovingly around her mother’s neck.

“I came very near not being yours only a few weeks ago, didn’t I, mother? Wasn’t that a wonderful escape?”

Mrs. Canfield cast both arms around the young creature, and held her close.

“I’m glad you were not in sight when the old bridge went down, mother. It would have frightened you to death. Oh, the crash was awful! I seem to feel the planks parting now, and that poor, brave horse going down, down into the depths of the flood!”

“Thank God, my child was saved!”

“Oh, yes, I also thank Him. But it seems to me like a dream now—one of those dreams that are constantly sweeping us into danger, and, just as we are about to fall into awful depths, land us in some other place. But you look pale, mother—you tremble!”

“Yes, it is natural when I think of your danger. I was wrong, fearfully wrong to let you go.”

“But how could you foresee the danger, mamma? We started early in the morning, when the water was rising; but had no idea of a flood. Mr. Fletcher would not have let us go an inch, if he had dreamed of it; for we all knew that every one at home would be frightened to death if the river swelled above its banks. There never was a flood so overwhelming and sudden as that in the valley before; you have no idea how the rain poured down while we were on the mountains.”

“Yes, one.”

How hoarse that gentle voice had become! How cold the hand was which still touched Bertha’s neck!

“Yes, one. I remember they told me about that. The bridge gave way then, and a gentleman was drowned. Some person grandfather knew, was it not?”

Bertha received no answer; but she felt the hand on her shoulder turning colder.

“Clara Anderson told me about it as we rode down the mountains, and said it happened the year she was born, and she was near twenty. That is just my age. Did you know the gentleman, mother?”

Still no answer; but the hand upon her shoulder grew cold as ice.

Bertha turned as the little hand dropped, and saw that her mother had fallen down among the cushions of her couch, where she lay white as marble, with her eyes closed.

“Mother! mother! what is the matter?” she cried out, in quick alarm. “What have I said? What can I do? Grandmamma! grandmamma!”

The old lady, so frantically summoned, came up-stairs in haste. Without pausing to ask a question she stooped down and lifted that white face into a current of fresh air that swept in through a window that Bertha hastened to open.

“Here is water, ammonia, cologne. Oh, grandmamma, is she dying?” cried the poor girl in an agony of terror.

“No, no, my dear; thee need not tremble so; she is coming to, now. Does thee feel better, my child?”

There was a faint stir of the eyelids, a quiver of the lips, as if the fainting woman would have been glad to answer, but had no power. The two watched her for a while in silence.

“Mamma! mamma! are you better?” cried Bertha, giving way to the tender impatience of her youth, and kneeling down, she rested the pale head upon her bosom. “What was it that came over you, mother?”

“Nothing much. You were telling me of danger. You are my only child, Bertha, and the thought that I might have lost you—”

Mrs. Canfield said this faintly, looking into her daughter’s face with pathetic tenderness, and smoothing her white hand with her own trembling fingers.

“But I am here, safe and well,” said Bertha, kissing her mother till the warmth came back to her face.

“Yes, thank God!”

The mother’s face brightened.

“We will never speak of that awful old bridge again,” said Bertha.

The mother only answered by a cold shudder.

“Grandfather told me not to talk with you about it; but how could I help talking when you questioned me? Besides, I had to tell about Mr. Fletcher, for he saved my life, and that was a thing you had to learn in order to understand the rest.”

“Yes, yes—everything you have done is right. But tell me, darling, do you—can you—love this young man? You had a letter from him?”

“Me! Oh, mother, why did you ask that question just as I was so happy? Love him! I tried to; I thought, perhaps, it was love; but now—”

Bertha paused suddenly, and a flood of scarlet swept over her face, neck and arms.

She looked around fearing that her grandmother was there; but that gentle old lady had glided softly down-stairs when the invalid found herself able to converse. Like most sensitive persons this feeble woman, having once entered on a painful subject, pursued it closely, fearing that the courage to open it again might be wanting in the future.

“Now,” said that gentle mother, regarding the vehement protest of that blush with anxiety, “now you have discovered that it is only gratitude that you feel. I am glad of that. He has saved my child, and I would give him everything I have but herself. It will be a sad day, Bertha, when you and I have to part.”

“We never will part!” answered Bertha, straining her arms tighter about that slender form. “There, now, you are getting comfortable again. We won’t talk of serious things any more. Just tell me again that you love nothing so well as me. It is so pleasant to hear it from you.”

“Foolish girl!” said the mother, smiling faintly, but with a sparkle of animation kindling in her eyes.

“Who makes me so foolish? Not my dear little mother! Oh, no!”

Bertha was rearranging her hair in the glass as she spoke. All at once her own face struck her as being of a different type to the delicate and soft features of her mother. She had never thought of this before; but now the lovely image in that glass was an object of peculiar interest. She turned her head.

“Mother, dear, who is it I look like—my father?”

A wild light broadened in Mrs. Canfield’s eyes, and she almost shrieked out:

“What? What did you ask?”

“Only if I looked like my father. It seems to me as if I must!”

Mrs. Canfield sat a moment with both hands drooping to her lap. Then she said, more quietly than she had yet spoken:

“Yes, Bertha, you look like your father.”

“I thought so, little mother. It was not from you that I got my height, or this hair. Oh, I hear some one calling!” Here she fell upon her knees, and kissed her mother over and over again. “You are so good to let me go! I have left everything ready. The books and flowers are all on the table. There is your footstool, and an extra cushion for your back. Grandmamma will come in if you only touch the bell. Now are you quite comfortable?—that’s a dear! You always say yes. Let me slant the shade a little against the sunlight. Now I will go down and see who wants me.”

When Bertha went out of that room it seemed cruelly darkened. There a gentle little woman lay back against her cushions, with a look of trouble on her sweet, worn face, that had not been permitted to appear while her daughter was present. Slowly and sadly the tears came into her eyes, and trembled down her cheeks. Once or twice she clasped two slender hands over her face, and they dropped away helpless and wet.

She arose from her couch, looked around as if dreading observation, then bolted the door, that no one might intrude upon her, and opened a little brass-bound travelling-desk, which always stood locked in a corner of her room. From this she took the miniature of a young and remarkably handsome man, dressed in the fashion of twenty years ago, and, sitting down upon the couch, gazed upon it with infinite tenderness.

More than once she lifted her hand impatiently, and wiped away the tears that blinded her vision. Then she fell to kissing the painted shadow with passionate sobs, murmuring:

“Yes, darling, she _is_ like you! I have just told her so. She smiled that dear old smile.”

Tears blinded the poor woman now, and, clasping the miniature between both her palms, she dropped them in her lap, holding her treasure close.

After a while she opened the desk and the drawer where was the miniature of another man, older and gray-haired. This she put aside to make room for her treasure, locked the desk, and crept off to her couch again, after drawing both curtains over the windows that no sunshine might look in upon her grief.