Chapter XCI: The Letter

“MY OWN, OWN MISS BERTHA:

“I am going to leave you now, forever and ever.

“Miss Bertha, your mother died to make you happy. She was a good, good
woman—one that I owed everything to—more than everything.

“You remember, Miss Bertha, when I came into your kitchen, so hungry,
and shivering with cold. _She_ came down, and saw me sitting there,
with a bundle in my lap, trembling, for fear she would make me go
before I had warmed myself.

“It makes me cry, Miss Bertha, when I think how happy we all were up
to the time that—well, I won’t use hard words now; things are getting
too serious for that—but we lived so nice till that time when we all
went to Connecticut and saw _him_. You were not the first one. He came
to old Mrs. Anderson’s, and curled up like a snake in her parlor,
while Miss Clara listened. Oh, my, it was awful to see all that, and
do nothing but look on. But I didn’t know how bad he was till after we
all went down to New York.

“Oh, Miss Bertha! Mr. Waldon left nothing but misery behind him
wherever he went. Oh, your poor, poor mother, how she drooped—how she
withered after he came! For your sake I tried to like him; but it was
of no use—I couldn’t.

“Every time he came, she grew weaker and weaker. He poisoned the air
she breathed; he poisoned me. I never knew what hate was till I saw
him.

“I heard him tell her that he never would marry the child of a woman
like her, who would be a disgrace to his house. I heard her plead with
him, beg of him, not to break your heart because of her. Oh, it is
enough to make one wicked, as I am, to have such things on the brain!
All that time I knew he had an eye on Miss Mary Noel. Hadn’t I heard?
Didn’t I watch them? I knew that all his cruel talk was only a mean
excuse.

“You know how she died. I never, never would have told you, but he
threw her letter on the waves and waters, and God sent it to you,
after many days. Then you grew wretched as I was, and the same thought
came into your brain that had been eating into mine. That man was not
fit to live. Murderers forfeit their own lives, and every man they
meet has a right to slay them. Is that scripture? I think so, but
can’t remember the words exact. You remember that night when your
heart gave out and your knees bent under you? I was watching all the
time. You never should have done it. I was ready to save you from the
misery of it, but gave him another chance.

“That poor gentleman who loves you with a grand, beautiful love was
his next victim. Two murders, and no punishment; but out of his sins
sprung a beautiful joy; for you began to love Mr. Fletcher. I saw it,
and felt like a lark; though my heart was still aching for Miss Clara,
who had come up from the dead. Ben Vose told me in his letter that she
was dead, which letter you will find in my bosom, and will please bury
with me just as it is—with my tears wetting it worse than the water
can, they being human.

“Yes, Miss Bertha, I saw you growing happy, and it made me glad. Miss
Clara had come out of her grave, and that made me happier yet. But
this bad man—I won’t call names, hard words are not in me—somehow he
would not let us rest in peace. You were happy enough. Mr. Lane came
and found Miss Clara. No matter about that. If I do not do what I have
on my mind he would have been shot too; that man loves to kill people
who are too grand-hearted to shoot back.

“In the paper with this you will find a torn newspaper, which was sent
to Mr. Fletcher.

“It came the very day that Mrs. Forbes and Mr. Lane reached the
island. They kept it private. I knew they would, but I saved the
pieces, and read them; then I knew what would happen. I read it in Mr.
Lane’s face. Mr. Fletcher wanted to fight that man, good and strong
that time, but he was not well enough yet to hold a pistol. Mr. Lane
meant to have it all over before his brother knew of it. In the drawer
of the library table you will find a challenge all written out. I hid
the paper away from you and Miss Clara, afraid that she might be
tempted, as you were that night of the thunder storm. I hid the
pistols from Fletcher, knowing what he would do with them. One you
will find under the pillow of your bed in the old house on the island;
the other I shall use, for this bad man’s blood shall be on no head
but mine. If I let him live to aim once more at Fletcher’s brave,
honest heart, the murder will be mine, and you will never have another
happy day on earth.

“This is why your own Lydia has done this thing, for I know it will be
done. There is no other way. Mr. Lane is in dead earnest. If he is
killed, or kills that man, Miss Clara will never smile again. If he
gives up, Mr. Fletcher will challenge him, and be killed, or that
wicked serpent’s blood will make his hand red, and your soul ache,
forever and ever.

“I promised _her_ to watch you, wait upon you, save you from
temptation, and make you happy. There is but one way left for me, and
I mean to take it. That man shall die, but neither you nor the man who
loves you shall raise a hand against him.

“The one precious thing that I have in the world—your mother’s
letter—I fold up with this. My poor heart feels cold since I have
taken it away; but it will be, oh, how much colder, before long!

“For days and days I have been down in the woods, firing at a mark
with one of the pistols I stole from Mr. Fletcher’s case. Five times I
have put a bullet through a bit of paper the size of a dollar, and I
know where the heart lies in a man’s bosom. The doctor explained that
to me.

“To-morrow they are all coming to the island. The next day, Mr.
Fletcher means to send that letter. He shall never have a chance.”

“LYDIA.”

While Russell Waldon’s body was slowly passing up the river, with that bridal party following it in mournful silence, the band playing a death-march, and a train of servants singing a slow, plaintive melody, inexpressibly mournful, old Sam took his way to the Fletcher mansion, and delivered Lydia’s package into Bertha Canfield’s hand.

The next morning dawned upon two houses wrapped in profound mourning. In one, Mary Noel knelt by the cold form of her bridegroom, lost in wild, bitter grief. In the other, Bertha Canfield and Clara Anderson bent, praying for a soul that had drifted into eternity, that they might be saved from threatened misery. A soul that should be judged here with great leniency, as it will be at a higher tribunal, according to its knowledge, its loyal steadfastness, and the spirit of martyrdom that gave painful sublimity to crime.