Chapter LII: Down by the Spring

A tent was erected on the highest swell of Diamond Island, and a little group of hampers lay half buried in the tall grass around a spring, where a squad of champagne bottles was sunk in the cool crystal.

Directly the tent, with its swaying fringes and festoons of glowing worsted balls, was filled with a throng of young people, full of fun, and keenly ready for enjoyment; but it was some minutes after they had settled that the island, with its soft greensward, its wreathing vines, and magnificent old forest trees, was the loveliest spot on earth, before the young hostess appeared, coming up from the “Firefly” with Russell Waldon by her side.

Up to this time Bertha Canfield had been rather quiet, everybody thought, though her cheeks were of a richer red, and her eyes brighter than usual; but now she flashed out like a meteor. Of all that festive crowd, her laugh rippled sweetest, and rose with the most jubilant ring. Her step grew wonderfully elastic, her air carelessly defiant. More than once she fairly danced alone on the grass that had been closely shaven for dainty feet like hers. Wherever a group paused to converse, her wit charmed and sparkled. She neither avoided nor sought Waldon, but accepted his attentions with careless grace, and flung pretty compliments at Mary Noel, as a naughty child pelts its enemies with flowers.

That bright revel was kept up on the island all the afternoon. The table in that breezy tent was loaded with fruit, daintily cooked birds, and such rare delicacies as might, in those prosperous days, be found most abundant and delicious in a Southern mansion. There, feasting in the tent, or laughing in the open air, couples wandered off dreamily, and, seated on the emerald turf, talked in low voices as they eat their fruit, and touched their wine-glasses with unuttered wishes.

The servants came trooping up from the spring, armed with champagne bottles, from which the corks flew like bullets, and the amber fluid gushed and foamed till all the goblets overflowed, and dropped melted topaz and pearls over the white hands that held them.

Then more couples dropped away into the wild-rose thickets, and under the tender-leaved grape-vines, exploring the island. In their empty places came the servants, seizing the half-drained goblets, and pouring all that was left of the wine down their thirsty throats—breaking bird and chicken bones between their white teeth, and bathing their lips in the juices of half-eaten fruits. All this was accompanied by laughter, mellow as over-ripe pears; compliments, bows, and elaborate gallantry toward three or four slender maid-servants present, which lifted both adorers and the adored into the seventh heaven of fashionable life, and scarcely abated in its elegant intensity, until every goblet was drained, and every champagne bottle had lost its neck.

Then this mellow hilarity began to subside a little, and those who were musical being reminded of their duty, clambered into the elms and willows, flushed and glorious, from which they sent out bursts of exhilarating melody, that called the young people together like a war-trumpet. The rose thickets, the magnolia trees, and the velvet banks, were instantly left to their own rich leafiness, while the soft grass near the tent was trodden down by a troop of light-footed dancers, among whom were the two persons whose hearts were so full of terrible unrest.

“Will you dance with me, Miss Noel?”

“What, before Bertha! I beg your pardon, I am engaged to Mr. Hyde. Ah! here he is—Mr. Hyde, I have not forgotten my engagement to dance with you.”

“Ah! I am too happy!” exclaimed Hyde, who was thus adroitly informed of an engagement that never existed—a fact which Waldon understood just as well as the parties, and resented accordingly.

“They are a splendid couple,” said a young Virginian who had joined the party, “Hyde will be a happy man if he is permitted to get the heiress. Don’t you think so?”

“Permitted by whom?” exclaimed Waldon, almost fiercely.

“She will be rich enough to please herself, so Hyde’s money counts for nothing in the contest. If you were opposed to him he might despair; but being almost a married man, you could afford to help him a little.”

“A married man! Ah! yes, there is Bertha—I must go and speak with her. But this girl—Bertha’s friend, I mean—is she so very wealthy?”

“The girl will have more than she can know what to do with; besides, she is lovely in herself,” was the answer.

“Lovely! Oh, yes, very—I have been talking with her.”

“About Hyde? I thought so. You must have seen how deeply he is in for it. That was kind.”

“About him?—oh, yes. Excuse me, Miss Canfield is alone—I must be on duty.”

With these brusque words, Waldon walked off, muttering:

“Confound his cool impudence!” Waldon was one of those men who would gladly monopolize both sides of a noble street at once, or keep that portion empty which their feet cannot tread.

“Bertha, will you dance with me?”

Bertha’s hand trembled as she laid it on his shoulder, and a thrill, half joy, half pain, ran through her when his arm lightly circled her waist.

“Bertha, do you love me yet?”

He whispered this secret question as her form swayed toward him.

“Love you?” she answered, almost with a sob, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Well enough to give me up if I were to ask it?” he whispered again, tightening his arm about her waist, and drawing her close to his side, while he wounded her with cruel words.

The poor girl lost her breath, and, in this first agony, he whirled her into the dance, smiling down upon the whiteness of her face.

After a while they stopped to rest, and he saw, by the scarcely perceptible flutter of her bosom, that she was faint rather than out of breath.

“Come with me. They will all wonder what it means.”

Waldon’s arm was still around her waist, and half-supporting her, he left the dancers, making the best of his way to the spring, where he seated her on a fragment of rock, and went down to get some water in a silver cup which some one had thrown upon the grass.

As he stooped with the cup in his hand, it struck a bottle which the servants had overlooked.

“Ah! this is better still,” he cried, knocking the neck off on a stone, and pouring a deluge of the frothy wine into the cup and over his hand, from which it rained down upon the grass. “Drink this; I cannot bear to see you look so white.”

She took the cup and drained it eagerly, while he stood by ready to fill it again. But the fluid seemed to choke her after the first swallow or two, and she held the cup toward him with a faint attempt to smile.

Waldon took the cup in his hand, and throwing himself on the grass by her side, held her with one arm and lifted it to her lips.

“Drink more—more! You are faint and cold.”

She tried to obey him, but drew her trembling lips away.

“What did you mean?” she said, in a sharp whisper, and he felt her shrink against his arm as if she feared another blow.

“Mean?—when? Oh, I remember. Nothing on earth, only to try you a little. I wanted to make myself sure that you were not a jealous little goosey, who could not permit a man to look in another woman’s eyes without going into spasms.”

“But I did not! I—I—”

“Acted like a proud, brave girl as you are, Bertha. Come, ‘smile again, my bonny lassie,’ and let us make up.”

She took the wine now, and drank it. The constriction had gone from her throat; her bosom heaved, throwing off a weary load in one long sigh. Back to her cheeks came the rich red blood, and beneath her drooping eyelids, soft, sweet tears rushed, to be broken and crushed with a sudden effort, which left them glittering like dew on her lashes.

“Now you are my own proud Bertha again!” cried Waldon, glad to escape a scene. “Let me ‘fill the cup to one made up of loveliness alone.’”

Half singing, half reciting these words, he poured out all that was not already drunk or spilled of the wine, and tossed the broken bottle into the spring again.

“Now kiss the cup, and then kiss me!”

Bertha leaned forward, and bathed her lips in the foam of the wine.

Instantly the sparkling draught was lifted to Waldon’s mouth, and almost as quickly the cup was thrown aside.

“Now,” he exclaimed, “kiss me, and swear that you will never be jealous again!”

She gave her mouth to his kisses, and clasped her trembling hand over his neck.

“There, now, wipe those tears away, or let me; then run down to the spring and bathe this tell-tale face in cold water, or your friend Mary will think we have been quarrelling.”

“She has no right to think—no right—”

“Hush! hush! She is coming. Go down to the spring, and I will meet her.”

Bertha took the silver cup from the grass, and went down to the spring very quietly, determined that Mary Noel should not see tears upon her face, or dream that she had any feeling of discontent.

“Bertha! Bertha!”

The girl did not turn, but bent over the spring, which gave back her image like a mirror, that she dashed into quivering silver by a plunge of her two hands.

“Bertha, we are going now. Everybody is tired, and it is getting late. I shall row up in the ‘Firefly’ alone. You must take Mr. Waldon. He _will_ keep the oars, and I like pulling them myself.”

Bertha was offended at what seemed to her forced magnanimity in her friend. Of course, no one living would be expected to give up Waldon’s company, except as a great sacrifice, and that she would not permit. Her heart sank a little under the effort, but she would neither take Waldon into her little boat, nor suffer the arrangement of the morning to be disturbed. For this once Mary Noel might take possession of her betrothed; but after that he would be wholly hers. That very morning, her mother had promised that the wedding-day should be named. Waldon had urged it eloquently, again and again, but the poor lady shrank away from the subject with nervous terror. Since she had been a guest at Mr. Noel’s, Waldon had become more patient in his importunities. Mrs. Canfield remembered this, and resolving, like a martyr, to face the most painful duty of her life, had promised Bertha that she would ask for no more delay.

All this made Bertha strong. She took her hands, dripping with water, and passed them over her eyes, thus making their redness general.

“No, indeed, I will not have it so! The ‘Katydid’ for me. You must take the ‘Firefly’ and Mr. Waldon. He will be constantly tormenting me about my management of the boat. I mean to have a long independent pull up stream, so will have no gentleman to criticise.”