Chapter LIX: THE HOUR Of PARTING

They were sitting together on the shore of the river.

A great willow threw its fountain of leaves over them and the grass around its roots was blue with violets, which breathed a delicious perfume as Bertha plucked them one by one, forming a cluster for Waldon’s buttonhole.

“You will not be long in following us?” she said, in a low, half-timid voice, breathing a kiss on the violets before she fastened them in his coat. “It will seem so strange, so lonely, not to have you with us every day. Mother, I know, will miss you, though she leaves her room so seldom.”

“But she will have you entirely to herself; and that, I think, she will like better than anything,” answered Waldon, gazing out upon the water in a vague, thoughtful way, which she had noticed frequently in him of late. “I doubt if my coming will make her happy.”

“But it will make me happy,” said the girl, leaning forward, and kissing the violets she had just placed over his bosom. “So you will not linger here, and—and make me impatient of the dear old farm? It is not so grand and park-like as this place—which is princely—only a nice New England farm, where grandfather sometimes works himself, as you know very well, but when you come it will be paradise to me. So Mr. Hyde must not keep you long.”

“He will not keep me long. Within a few weeks I shall follow you, and then everything will be settled. Your mother understands that.”

“Ah! I thought you had settled something with her. She has seemed so miserably sad of late. Poor mamma! It breaks her heart to let me go, even for the few weeks we shall be travelling about. After that we shall be all together, with a beautiful life before us. Promise me, Waldon, that you will always be good and sweet to mamma—for if ever an angel lived she is one. But I need not ask that. You cannot help loving her any more than you can avoid the breath of my violets. What are you looking at so earnestly, Waldon?”

“Nothing but the landscape. What a glorious bend the river makes just here! How grandly those oaks loom over the bank, and float—a grove of shadows—in the water! Noel calls that a bit of woodland. Why, there are three hundred acres on the point alone. But it is only in proportion with the rest, I suppose.”

Bertha laughed a little.

“Oh, it is not the only timber in Willow Bend; but the estate stretches so far out of sight that the pines and beeches are five miles from here. Some day Mary Noel will have it all. What an heiress she will be!”

“But that is nothing to us,” answered Waldon, a little sharply.

“Nothing in the world, only as Mary is interested. Still, do you know, Russell, I am afraid she will come in for this sooner than any of us expect. Mr. Noel is not a healthy man. The doctors do not give him a long life.”

“What do they think is the matter with him?” said Waldon.

“Heart disease, I believe,” answered Bertha, under her breath. “He told mother of it in New York. But you must not hint this to Mary. He was very anxious that she should not know. There he comes now!”

Sure enough, Mr. Noel came sauntering down the lawn, and Waldon regarded him with keen interest, remarking the dull whiteness of his face, and a certain languor in his walk, which had never struck him so forcibly before.

“Do you know I have been thinking that your friend Hyde is a little fascinated with Mary?” said Bertha, who was busy plucking more violets, which she tossed to the water at her feet, and did not observe the searching look of her companion; “and she likes him very much indeed. No wonder—he is so handsome and talented. Besides, he is your friend, and that is—a great recommendation.”

A flash shot into Waldon’s eyes. He thrust his hand down among the violets, and tearing up grass and all, tossed them into the stream ferociously, as if they had been stones thrown at an enemy.

“How can you!” said Bertha, with plaintive reproach. “I am sure such rough handling hurts the poor flowers. Besides, you are so cross and silent to-day. What have I and the pretty violets done, that your face clouds so?”

“Clouds, does it? Is there not reason enough, when you are going to leave me so soon?”

“Ah, that! Well, then, let us make the most of our time. Here is the “Katydid,” with all those willow branches sweeping over it. Shall I row you down stream? The oak branches look inviting.”

“Not this morning; the sun is too warm. You will get a headache. Besides, there is your friend on the croquet ground.”

“So she is, and Mr. Hyde with her. Of course, we must give up the “Katydid” now. But this afternoon? To-morrow is our last day, Waldon. It takes my breath to think of it!”

“Yes, our last day,” answered Waldon, with mournful gravity, that brought tears into the fond eyes of his betrothed. “Even I feel such partings.”

“Go forward; I will come in a minute,” said Bertha, feeling the tears swell beyond her control. “Just now, I would not like them to see what a baby I am!”

Waldon obeyed her, and she went to the water’s edge, and flinging herself down among the violets, sobbed like a rebellious child.

“Why will she make me go? Why will she, when I want to stay so much? It is cruel, cruel, cruel! And they all so happy!”

“Come, Bertha, come, or we cannot make up the game,” Mary Noel called out from the croquet ground.

Bertha sprang to her feet, looked at herself in the water, which was still as a mirror under the willows, smoothed back her hair a little, bathed her eyes, and waiting a while for the soft wind to cool her face, went up to that portion of the lawn where her friends were waiting.

“Come, hurry up!” cried Mary, who was impatient for her game. “You and Mr. Hyde against Mr. Waldon and the most reckless partner he ever had. Don’t look sullen, Bertha. Married and engaged people must not play together. They are sure to forget everything but themselves. Here is your mallet, and there is your partner.”

Bertha took the mallet, with a rebellious look.

“Now, Mr. Waldon and I against you and Mr. Hyde. This will be a desperate game. The red ball for me. Now for it!”

The next moment, a red ball came rolling down from the post, and took the first two wickets with lazy ease, and the game commenced in earnest.

All this time Mrs. Canfield sat, like a ghost, in the window, unconsciously watching her daughter’s defeat.