Chapter LI: The Firefly and Katydid

A large stone mansion, covering much ground, built before the Revolution, but modernized by French windows opening upon broad verandas, balconies, with stone steps, leading down among the flower beds, and oreals overlooking the broad bosom of a noble river, full of historical associations, to which a velvet lawn sloped greenly, like a carpet of fern-moss.

This was the house in which Mrs. Canfield found herself, a few weeks after the doctor ordered her to try change of air for a malady which his skill could never reach.

The day was fresh and balmy. Honeysuckles and twining roses clambered up the posts of the verandas, and matted the balconies with blossoms, from which a soft, sweet fragrance stole over her, enervating but delicious.

A group of young people had been playing croquet on the lawn, but wearying of that, had sauntered down toward the river, where some boats lay rocking on the shore.

Mrs. Canfield watched this group with wistful, longing eyes, for the very life of her life was there, strolling down to the river in advance of the rest, and looking back a little anxiously, now and then, toward a pair that loitered on, apart from the company, seemingly engaged in earnest conversation.

Mrs. Canfield, from her pretty white room over the front entrance, had found all the pleasure she was capable of, in watching the movements of her daughter, and seldom left the low couch or cushioned easy-chair, drawn up before the broad window. More than once, during the last month, she had seen Bertha walking thus alone, and, seemingly, dejected, while those two were occupied with each other. This sight brought more color to that wan face than all the balmy atmosphere had imparted to it. The little woman had fire enough in her heart when any evil thing threatened her child.

It was true Bertha had flung down her mallet and moved toward the water, hoping that Waldon would follow her, but he had not seemed to observe the movement—was busy knocking the balls about, and occupied himself in this way until Mary Noel came from a distant part of the lawn with a blue ball in her hand, which had been knocked to the centre of a rose thicket, ever so far off.

Waldon took the ball from her hand, bending toward her, while Bertha was looking back, with her head lifted as if in wrath, or amazement, at finding herself left alone. This was the tableau Mrs. Canfield saw from her chamber window.

Others of the party had gone, in a bright, fluttering group, to the river, where they hovered upon the bank like a flock of tropical birds, while the young man and Hyde were busy about a barge, whose white and scarlet awning seemed to burn like fire against the cool blue of the water.

Bertha saw nothing that was going on at the barge. Her eyes were turned on the croquet ground, where her betrothed and her friend stood talking. What were those two saying to each other?

This is what the man said:

“Let them go. If there is anything on earth I hate utterly, it is a crowd of girls.”

“But they will put off,” said Mary Noel, blushing a little: “and there is Bertha, waiting. What will _she_ think of us? Besides, we cannot stay here alone. It would look so strange. Don’t you think so?”

“I haven’t the least idea of it,” answered Waldon, tossing the ball he still held to a distance. “I think you must take me in that pretty shell I have seen you rowing about, when you and Bertha are together.”

“What, in my little ‘Firefly?’ The idea!”

“An excellent idea, I think. It will hold two. I have seen you and Miss Canfield in it many a time.”

“But she is a lady.”

“And I am a gentleman.”

“There! there! the barge is putting off.”

Waldon laughed.

“Now you must!” “By Jove!” he added, under his breath, “she is waiting.”

Yes, Bertha was waiting. She had not heard those clear young voices calling to her from the barge, or seen the gay craft put off, when she took no heed, leaving her behind.

“They will follow in the little boats,” said young Hyde, standing up and waving his hat to Waldon.

That moment Bertha looked around. She was alone. All that crowd had seen her waiting for a lover who, knowing it, could thus amuse himself. Heavens! had she come to that?

Two little boats, light and graceful as the tiny caiques which skim the Golden Horn where it cleaves the city of Constantinople in twain, lay moored in a curve of the river, over which a cluster of great willows dropped their branches till they rippled in the current. One was the “Firefly,” which Mary Noel owned exclusively; the other she called the “Katydid,” and that was free to any guest who chose to monopolize it.

Burning with indignant shame, Bertha darted under the willows, unmoored the “Katydid,” and, with a wild push against the bank, shot it into the stream. The girl felt strong as a giant and swift as a bird, escaping those two. They should never think she was watching and waiting for them. With fire in her heart, and burning sunshine in her eyes, she cut down stream like an arrow, chasing the barge, and sending up a shower of diamonds with each lift of her oars. She was laughing in wild glee, when a puff of wind took the red plume from her hat, and carried it off like a glitter of flame, and never once looked back, though a sound of oars began to keep time with hers, and she knew that the “Firefly,” loaded with all that was precious in her life, was following in her wake.

“So you ran away from me—left us all in the lurch!” Bertha cried out, as her little craft swept down on a level with the barge. “All right! I have played a like game with them!”

She gave one oar a little sweep backward, thus indicating the couple that followed; then bent with a motion full of powerful grace, and, with a sweeping curve, flew around the barge like a bird, sending back snatches of ringing laughter as she went.

This brought her across the bow of the “Firefly.”

“Take care,” cried Mary Noel, “or I shall run you down!”

It was an innocent speech, uttered with mellow laughter; but a flash of lightning from the superb eyes of her friend, as she cut across their path, struck all the glee from her lips.

“What is the matter? Is Bertha angry?” she inquired, looking wistfully at Waldon.

“I think she is jealous,” answered the man, smiling blandly. “It looks like it.”

“Jealous! And of me—of you? How can she? How unjust!”

“Unjust! So far as I am concerned, I cannot say that,” answered Waldon, bending toward his companion, and speaking in a low, penetrating voice, which brought a flush of roses into her face.

“Give me the oars, Mr. Waldon. I want to catch up with her. She must not be allowed such thoughts a single minute.”

“No, I cannot consent to a chase like that. I was dreaming so sweetly, so wildly, only a moment ago.”

“Dreaming in the broad daylight! The idea!” answered the girl, dropping her hand from the oar she had seized upon, and allowing it to ripple the water on her side the boat.

By this time the barge, with the “Katydid” lingering near it, flying off in advance, or rocking in its wake, made for a little island, set, like a vast emerald, in the heart of the stream.