Chapter LV: DID He Love Her?

Waldon was always suave and courteous with Bertha’s mother, who regarded him from the first with sensitive reserve, which he had mistaken for the awe which his genius imposed on an intellect only appreciative. But there was something in her look and manner now that astonished him. A fever of dread in her eyes, and a shrinking of the whole person, as if she feared some bodily harm.

“You sent for me, dear madam? But you look ill; I hope it is nothing serious.”

The lady did not notice this courteous address, but motioned with her hand that Waldon should seat himself. Then she arranged the blinds nervously, filling the chamber with shadows, and shrank into a corner of the high-backed couch, looking at him like a child that dreads some cruel punishment.

At last she spoke.

“I sent for you, Mr. Waldon, because you have urged me so often to give up my child, to fix a time when she might go from me to you.”

“Yes,” he said; “I have sometimes thought it a little strange that you should hesitate so long.”

“But I will hesitate no longer. It was wrong, selfish, cowardly, I admit that; but now I will tell you everything. Knowing how you love my daughter, how tender and great your heart is, I should not have been silent after you first claimed her of me, but my task was a hard one, and I never was strong.”

There was something pathetic and helpless in this plea that would have touched most men. Waldon seized upon it eagerly.

“Does it distress you so much to give Bertha up? If so—”

Mrs. Canfield silenced him with a nervous movement of her hand.

“Don’t mistake my meaning. Her happiness is tenfold dearer than anything I can ever hope for. I only care to insure that, and if dying would do it, rather than what I am going to say, I would gladly rest my head here and never breathe again.”

“There can be nothing that you should hesitate to say to me, dear lady. If I have importuned you with over-zeal for an early time, forgive the selfishness, as I will endeavor to conquer it.”

Mrs. Canfield started out of her faintness.

“You love my child yet?”

“That is a strange question to ask of me. Why should you doubt a love that seems to have driven you wild with its impatience?”

“What right have I to question it?” she said, anxiously; “but so much depends on that—so much!”

“What new protestations can I make?” said Waldon, with a touch of impatience.

“Protestations—I ask none, only certainty—only certainty!”

“Is Bertha doubtful? Has she troubled you with her own suspicions?”

“Bertha doubt you? That is impossible!”

“Then, for Heaven’s sake, tell me what all this is about?”

The lady shrank back from him, startled. He saw it and smiled, took her hand and kissed it, hoping that caresses would make her speak out.

“Ah! it is because I am her mother that you think so much of me!”

“Yes,” he answered, soothingly, “because you are her mother.”

“And you love her dearly?”

“Who can doubt it?”

“Better than all the world beside?”

“What strange questions you ask!”

“Better than your life? You should, for she saved that.”

“Who told you this—Bertha?”

“Bertha? No, she denies it; says that you were striving to help her; but the gentleman who saved you both told it at Hyde’s, and Miss Noel saw my Bertha plunge into the water when you went under.”

“It was a wild scene—all confusion and struggles. I doubt if any one knows the truth of it; but we were talking of Bertha.”

“Yes—of her wedding-day, and of your love for her. Tell me, is it rooted deep—is it capable of great sacrifices? Would you rather be a beggar than lose her?”

She spoke breathlessly, and her fingers wove themselves closer around his white hand.

“You ask such strange, wild questions,” he said, curbing his impatience. “I _have_ courage for great sacrifices. But tell me what this means? Is it that your child is poor?”

“Poor! No.”

“That she has ceased to love me?”

“Ceased to love you!”

A faint little laugh came with these words, protesting against their possibility.

“That you wish to break the engagement?”

“Break the engagement! No! no! no! It would break her heart and yours, loving her so much!”

“In Heaven’s name, then, what is this all about? I cannot conjecture, and not being gifted with more than divine patience, am getting anxious.”

“Yes, you must know; but she—my child—promise me that what I say shall never, never be told to her?”

“I will promise that, if the thing seems important enough for a secret. Well, well, do not turn so deathly white! I promise.”