Chapter XLVII: Among the Flowers

The conservatory in which those two lovely women stood was a perfect arch of rolling glass, lifted so high that the golden-haired acacias, and fruit-laden orange trees, grew almost to their full stature under it. Underneath was a forest of Japan lilies, with their snow-white feathery leaves; seeded ferns, and yet more stately plants, in gorgeous bloom; japonicas, in white blossom; fuchsias, laden with purple and crimson bells; twining jessamines and passion flowers—crowded all that was delicious and sweet in the tropics around their feet and over their heads.

Mrs. Forbes had drawn Bertha out from the gay throng of dancers, whose tread could be faintly heard among those blossoming plants, rolling like a dull bass through the joyous music of a waltz. They had been standing a few minutes under the ground-glass lamps that swung like mammoth pearls among the plants, talking of the ball, of the flowers, of everything but the thoughts that were preying upon them both.

These young women had been together a great deal within the last two months, and had learned to love each other well; but they now seemed almost afraid, and looked down shyly, talking of things that did not interest them, because one did not wish to ask, and the other shrank from explaining what had brought them there.

At last Mrs. Forbes spoke, and her words brought a strange smile to Bertha’s lips.

“Do not be angry with me, Bertha, if I say something that seems intrusive; but I have been so anxious about you of late.”

“Of me—and why?”

“Because you seem to me in danger.”

“Danger, Mrs. Forbes! I am aware of none.”

“You are so much with Mr. Waldon, and he is not a safe man. Oh, Heavens, it is too late!”

Mrs. Forbes might well start back and fling out her arms, for the hot fire smouldering in Bertha Canfield’s eyes broke through the drooping lashes that had almost touched her cheek as she listened, and a smile of withering scorn shot across her red lips.

“Forgive me, Bertha, it may be too late to save you from a peril that makes me tremble; but though you are angry, I shall not regret having spoken. It was a painful duty—you will never know how painful.”

“Why undertake it, then? Mrs. Forbes, I have asked neither protection nor counsel from any one.”

“Because I love you, Bertha, and feel for your unprotected condition—because silence in me would be criminal.”

“There exist more criminal things than silence,” said Bertha, scornfully.

“True, perils that an innocent girl never dreams of until they overwhelm her. Do be warned, Bertha, before this bad, bad man, wins a heart of which he is utterly unworthy.”

“This advice, madam, whatever your motive may be in giving it, comes too late.”

“Oh, Heaven forbid!”

“I am engaged to Mr. Waldon—you malign my future husband in what you are saying.”

“Is this true, Bertha?”

The evident distress with which the question was asked aroused Bertha to something like sympathy for the woman who had failed to interest the noble being who was so truly hers.

“Yes, it is true; he loves me; and oh, how could I help loving him!”

“Then God help you! I have no more to say.”

“It would have been better if you had not said so much. As it is, I will endeavor to think the motive friendly, and forget it. Indeed, I am too happy for anything but kind thoughts, even for you, Mrs. Forbes, who have almost frightened me.”

While Bertha was speaking, a crimson curtain that shut out the conservatory from a boudoir leading to the picture gallery was drawn back, and a gentleman stooped under it, looking in among the flowers.

“Alice, Alice, are you here? The carriage is waiting, and we promised Mr. Forbes to get home early.”

“A few minutes more—only that, brother. I am engaged just this moment.”

The crimson curtain dropped suddenly, and the man went away.

“Who was that?” demanded Bertha.

“That—my brother—I thought you knew him a little.”

“If it is Mr. Fletcher, I do know him; but until now I had no idea that he was your brother.”

“His name is Egbert Fletcher, and he is my half-brother—my mother was married twice; but we have seen but little of each other, he being of the South, and I living North, most of the year, ever since I was married.”

“I begin to comprehend,” said Bertha, indignantly. “You were my friend, and supposed to influence me.”

“What is this? I do not understand you, Bertha Canfield.”

“Perhaps not—it will suffice that I understand everything; but I had a higher opinion of your brother.”

“My brother! what has he done to offend you? Only a single week in New York, during which he has hardly left my house. You must not speak unkindly of my brother, Miss Canfield. I cannot bear that, even from you.”

“Unkindly—unkindly of Mr. Fletcher! No, let him deal with me ever so darkly, I cannot do that. Do you know that he saved my life—stood with me over an awful whirlpool of waters—a gulf before us, death all around us—people shrieking, and flinging up their hands on the shore; but he saved me! he saved me!—and you are his sister. But why should you both try to make the life he gave so little worth having as it would be if I believed you. Never speak to me against Waldon again and we may always be friends, if it is only for your brother’s sake.”