Chapter XLV: Bertha and Fletcher

Bertha entered the parlor with hesitation, yet the man waiting so anxiously there had saved her life, and, in the first flush of her gratitude, might have been her plighted husband but for his own generous forbearance. He had kept his word faithfully, and left her free to study the heart that had been offered to him, and which he had put aside for a time with heroic self-abnegation.

Now, she was afraid of this man; ashamed of herself—of her ingratitude and inconsistency. In what way could she meet him, with the image of another burned into her heart, and the kisses of another man almost warm upon her lips?

She stood a whole minute, with her hand on the doorknob, longing to run away and hide herself. She went in at last, looking pale and harassed, feeling as if her heart would never beat freely again.

Fletcher was scarcely less agitated when he came forward to receive her. The first glance of her face, he thought, would reveal his fate; but when he saw it so pale and downcast, drooping with strange embarrassment, the change puzzled him.

Had love made this proud, frank girl timid, and almost awkward? Surely, something more than gratitude had been at work here!

This sweet, new-born hope brightened his face as he came forward and took her hand, which lay, for one moment, like cold lead in his clasp, chilling him to the heart, then dropped away.

“You are ill! Oh, tell me that you have been ill—very ill!” he said, alarmed.

“No, not very ill,” she answered; “in fact, scarcely at all; but—but your coming was so sudden, it brought back that awful scene upon me so vividly, that—that I have lost all power to receive you as I ought.”

“I should not have taken you by surprise. It was thoughtless; but, after all, this reception punishes me. Don’t you think so?”

He smiled a little painfully, and, seating himself by her on the sofa, sought out her hand again. It was warmer now and trembled a little, as if the life were coming back.

“Bertha!”

The girl lifted her heavy eyes to his face, like a dumb animal pleading for mitigation of a threatened sentence; but dropped them again when she saw the hope shining in his.

“Bertha, have you nothing to tell me—no sweet assurance to give, after all these months of separation?”

This passionate cry of a heart searching for hers with such faithful constancy struck the girl as a sharp reproach. She began almost to hate herself as an ingrate.

“You cannot think—you must know that I am grateful.”

The young man started up impatiently.

“That word again! I want no gratitude—I will not have it!”

“But you must! Because—because I have nothing else to bestow.”

Bertha did not blush saying this. On the contrary, her lips turned white, and her teeth were set as if each word she uttered gave her pain.

“I hoped to love you,” she continued, desperately. “I tried to love you; but—but something happened, and it became impossible.”

“Something happened, Bertha! May I ask what?”

“I met another person, and, being only a woman, could not help what followed.”

“Another person!”

“I have told no one as yet; but you have a right to ask. His name is Russell Waldon. You have seen it, I am sure.”

Bertha looked up now, expecting to startle him into surprise by the glory of that name; but the black cloud upon his face startled her.

“_That man!_ I hope not—I pray not!”

“Hope not—pray not! Mr. Fletcher, you surprise me!”

“Not as I have been surprised—not as I have been wounded. Oh, Bertha, Bertha, this is terrible!”

“What is terrible, Mr. Fletcher?—that I should have met one of the noblest, the most brilliant men on earth—one who can chain and thrill millions with a dash of his pen—hold multitudes by the spell of his voice—lead thousands by a thought, as great generals command armies! Is it strange or terrible that powers like these should be felt by a poor girl who has worshipped genius from her cradle up?”

The girl was animated enough now. No peach ripening in August sunshine was ever so richly red as her cheeks. She had feared young Fletcher a little while ago. Now, she was ready to defy him. What right had he to insinuate aught against the man she loved? Did he mean to take such liberties because he had saved her life? What were fifty such lives as hers compared with Waldon’s genius?

“Let me make myself certain. You speak of a man who is known as an author—sometimes as a politician; a man remarkable for keen wit, which too often verges into satire?”

“Yes—yes. I do not know about the last, but it is probable.”

“I fear it is the same man.”

“‘Fear!’ Mr. Fletcher—‘fear!’”

“Yes, Bertha, I fear it; for to love him would be greater peril than you and I were in when the bridge parted and left a yawning gulf for us to pass. I ask no gratitude for anything done there; but in this other and greater peril, which you will not see, and I cannot show you, let me at least step in between you and a future that I tremble at.”

Bertha arose. In her anger she forgot all that this man had done for her; that he came there by her own invitation, and had a right to question her as he had done. Only a few months before, she had looked upon him as the best friend she had on earth; but that seemed a long time ago—years and years—for she had only begun to live since then. He had no right to come so far out of the past, and rake up the ashes of a selfish hope—no right, because of keen disappointment and bitter jealousy, to malign, even by a look, the man she loved.

“I cannot hear these insinuations against a man so great that neither you nor I are likely to understand him,” she said, with dignity; “because that would be treason to—to my future husband.”

Fletcher, too, arose, greatly agitated.

“Then you are engaged to this man?”

“Yes. You are the first, except one, to whom I have confessed it, but we are engaged. It is a secret as yet. Will you consider it as such?”

Fletcher smiled a little. With that dead, heavy pain at his heart, was he likely to talk of its cause? The request was not worth answering.

“You are about to leave me, I hope not in anger?” said Bertha, smitten with compassion by the anguish in that face. “It was not my fault, but my fate.”

“No, I am not angry,” answered Fletcher, “but surprised and pained beyond anything I ever expected to feel.”

“And it is my evil fortune to bring this pain upon you—you, the bravest and—and—”

Here Bertha’s pride gave way, and, covering her face with both hands, she burst into a passion of penitent tears.

“It was not my fault! it was not my fault!” she sobbed. “For the whole world I would not have given you a moment’s pain!”

“I am sure of that,” answered Fletcher, gently. “Do not grieve about it. I had no right to hope so fondly. But remember this, Bertha—nothing but death can change my love for you—”

“Oh, do not say that!”

“Or my friendship for you.”

“You are too good! I do not deserve it,” sobbed the girl.

“I may be mistaken about this—this gentleman.”

Bertha looked up, and the tears in her eyes began to sparkle.

“You are! you are! Oh, believe me!”

“But if it should prove otherwise? You are singularly alone, Bertha—without protection.”

“I know it! I know it!”

“Fatherless, brotherless—only that good old man at the farm-house.”

“Don’t! don’t! You are wrong to speak of me as desolate now. What defence against the world is better than the love of a strong, brave man?”

Fletcher winced at this, but answered her cruel words firmly, as became an unselfish nature under suffering.

“If the time should come, Bertha, when this faith is broken—when you need a friend—I shall be near—I shall be ready. Farewell!”

“Farewell! No, no! You have not seen my mother. She pines to thank you for the life of her child.”

“Not now. I could not bear it. Oh, Bertha, Bertha, if we had gone down together!”

The next moment Bertha was left alone, with these words ringing through her brain. There was a force of anguish in this speech that wrung the girl’s heart. Why was it that she was doomed to offer only ingratitude for the love he offered and the great service he had rendered her? Not even the miserable boon of “hope deferred” was left for her to give. He had come after months of waiting to find her pledged to another.

No wonder the girl cast herself down and wept.