Chapter LXXXIV: Water Lilies

Truly Russell Waldon was a good shot. His bullet had gone so close to that brave, true heart that the variation of the smallest portion of an inch would have cleft it. After that it had been so near the spine that death might have come in that direction. It was a long time before the murderous bit of lead could be found, and the pain of its extraction was terrible to bear. Even then the doctor hardly ventured to give a breath of hope—the exhaustion was so complete; but, if no fever set in, recovery was just possible.

Fever _did_ set in, and with it delirium, during which the sick man’s voice grew sharp, and his cheeks hot with an ever-burning flame.

Those devoted women watched him day and night, relieving each other at intervals, thus keeping up the strength so much needed by efficient nurses. It was well known that Mrs. Forbes was with her brother; but the old negroes kept Bertha’s secret well, and no one else even guessed that she was in that sick-room, or of Clara Anderson’s presence there—not even the doctor, who wondered a little at the almost superhuman endurance for which he gave Mrs. Forbes credit.

In her sweet ministration, Bertha almost forgot the terrible wrong that had driven her mother into the grave, only to fell upon herself with double bitterness. The fearful excitement through which she had passed seemed incapable of reaching her in the sanctuary of that sick-room. On that little island she was so completely cut off from the whole world that every thought and pulse of her life could be devoted to the man who had suffered so much for her. She scarcely thought of Waldon; or, if she did, it was with such sick loathing that her whole nature recoiled from receiving him into her mind.

One piece of news did come to her through the doctor. Waldon and his wife had left Willow Bend. Mr. Noel, who had been slowly recovering since the marriage, had been persuaded to try a sea-voyage, and the newly-wedded couple went with him to New York, from whence they would visit Saratoga for a short time. Bertha heard this with a sense of relief which she had not experienced since her mother’s death. It was a respite—almost oblivion—the terrible idea that haunted her grew less cruelly real.

In those hours of affliction these three young women became more than friends. From one evil source they had all imbibed poison, and came forth in new strength, and with grander purposes of life. They spoke little of the man Waldon, and turned from his name with shuddering; but even his sins had made a bond of union among them, which would never be broken again.

When Bertha questioned Clara of her disappearance from the old house in Connecticut, she told her story gently, and in few words. With fever in her brain, she had entered Ben’s canoe, lured there by its gentler motion, and the coolness of the water. No oars were in the little craft, and in that, perhaps, lay her safety, for she might otherwise have attempted to use them in her delirium. As it was she drifted on and on, from river to river, until salt air from the sound swept over her, and the waves rocked her little craft till water sometimes dashed over her. She did not care for that. It cooled her fever and cleared her brain.

All at once her craft floated up against some vessel that lay anchored near the mouth of the Housatonic. She was seen from the deck, and taken in, not insensible but delirious.

The vessel was a pleasure yacht, that had been cruising along the New England coast, with its owner and his wife on board. These people were now going southward, and finding her unable to tell her name, or give any account of herself, took her with them to their home in Richmond. On the voyage she told her little history, so far as was needful to gain their trust, and had since remained in the family as governess to the children.

“A place you will never hold again,” said Mrs. Forbes. “Hereafter my home is yours.”

Clara shook her head; but Alice Forbes was ardent in her friendships.

“You have forgiven me, Clara; but never on this earth shall I forgive myself. It will be cruel to refuse me a chance of atonement. My father, too—no man could regret his action more than he does. No man will be more rejoiced to know that you are alive.”

Such conversations were frequent between these young persons during those days of anxiety.

Mrs. Forbes was no longer passionate in her grief. The solemn dread, which great danger to a beloved object is sure to bring, subdued her into gentle patience. She was no longer disposed to blame Bertha for anything, but clung to her with gentle commiseration, claiming and giving entire sympathy.

Sometimes, in his delirium, Fletcher called Bertha by name, and talked over that first terrible scene that they had enacted together on the old wooden bridge in New England. Then he would reproach some one for snatching her away from him after he had wrestled for her with such hard strife.

At such times, Mrs. Forbes would lift her eyes to the girl with such touching appeal that Bertha was forced to turn away her face. How could she answer that look with anything but moans?

Up to this time, Fletcher had been so tortured with pain, or tossed with delirium, that he was utterly unconscious of Bertha’s presence in his room.

One day, when Fletcher had been quieter than usual, and had sunk into a soft slumber, Lydia came to the door with her apron full of water lilies, which she had just gathered while unfolding from their snowy night sleep.

This strange girl had taken, of late, to wandering alone on the island, without any apparent aim, or going off in the confiscated “Firefly,” pillaging ponds and swamps of magnolias and water lilies, which she brought away in boat-loads, and often scattered on the water, while rowing home. A portion of her flowers she always brought to Bertha, knowing her passionate love of them, and how she must pine for their sweetness, shut up, as she was, in that dull room, tortured with anxiety.

The morning we speak of, she had been out early, and ferried old Sam over to the main shore in her boat. It was not often that the old man got a chance to say that his soul was his own, if he ever desired to claim that particular property, when his better half was within hearing; but now, with a broad space of deep water between him and the female darkey, he became eloquent.

“Dus yer know, Miss Lider, I’se drefful anxious ’bout dat gemman in dar? He’s boun’ for kingum cum, or dis darkey am awful mistook ’bout it.”

“Oh, I hope not! Indeed, Sam, I think he’s a little better. Last night he scarcely talked at all.”

“’Pears like, he’s worn out—jes a goin’ off—when dat am de case—”

“No; we must hope for something better than that. Good nursing is everything, and no one ever had better care than Mr. Fletcher.”

“Bress de Lord, old Sam hopes so! far he am a gemman, ebbery inch on ’em; and de odder feller is noffin but old Marse Noel’s son, by de holy law ob matrimonus. If Marse Fletcher had done gone and shot fair, it ed a been all day wid dat white Yorker.”

“Why, didn’t he shoot fair, Sam?”

“Dus you call em fair to hist your pistol in de air an’ bang it off ober your own head? case that’s jes what Marse Fletcher done.”

“Did Mr. Fletcher do that?”

“Sartin sure! Dis darkey was peekin’ out from under-side de bridge, an’ see him a-doin’ it. But dat York feller, he aimed sure; no ’stake bout dat.”

“Did the men who were by know of this, Sam?”

“Dat am more ’en dis darkey kin say for sartin, but dey hab eyes.”

“So he spared the man who shot him down like a dog—spared him when there was a chance of punishing him, as the law ought to, if laws are laws!” muttered Lydia, falling into thought; “Will he always get clear so?”

“He! he! he! Well, Miss Lider, dat white Yorker cotched it good when he got back to de Bend. De young missus went right off inter ’sterics, an’ allowed dat she’d go tell ole marse; but, somehow, dey made up, an’ went off ter York wid ole Marse Noel, afore he knew ’bout dat duel.”

“When will they come back again, Sam?”

“Well, honey, white folks are mighty unsartin, but ’fore long—case Marse Noel guv out, afore he done gone, dat ebbery ’dentical darkey on dat plantation should hab a barb’cue on de island, in confirmation ob de weddin’, which none on ’em ebber got a sight on. Den, Miss Lider, yer goin’ to see jes what ole ’Ginny kin do. Roast pig, wild turkey, fiddlin’, dancin’—an’ oh, such a day! dis nigger can’t tell you nuffin’ ’bout it!”

By this time Sam was over the river, and Lydia set him on shore, and came back, after a short row among the lilies, bearing an apron full to the house.

Bertha took them gladly, not having had a full breath of the morning air, which had given its sweetness to the lilies, for more than a week.

“Miss Bertha, step out here a minute,” whispered Lydia, showing her wealth of flowers, but drawing back into the passage.

Bertha closed the door softly, and stepped into the passage. Lydia had only seen her in the darkened room for days, and looked at her earnestly now. How large her eyes had grown! but the wild, hard look had disappeared. Indeed, there was a languid softness in the faint violet shadows beneath them, which Lydia had not seen there since the death of her mistress. The girl drew a deep breath, and her face brightened.

“I have brought some of these fresh from the pond,” she said; “and then, Miss Bertha, I want to tell you something. Do you know why the young gentleman in there got his death?”

“I suppose so,” answered Bertha, shuddering.

“No, you don’t; nor did I till just now. He fired in the air. That—oh! I haven’t words for him—aimed straight at his poor heart, and I believe hit it. Isn’t that murder in the second degree?”

“Are you certain of this, Lydia?”

“Am I certain that these lilies are lilies? Sam saw them both fire. One lifted his pistol overhead and shot upward; the other took aim. Look in there for what _he_ did.”

Bertha smiled—the first natural smile Lydia had seen on her face since that awful night at the New England farm-house.

“I am glad you told me this, Lydia,” she said, reaching out her arms for the lilies, “for I think God will spare a man so noble and good as this one is. Kiss me, Lydia! for you and I are friends now—close friends. Her death made us so. If I have not said this often and often before, it is because the subject was so painful that I shrank from it. My own girl—my good, good Lydia, there is not in the wide world a person that I trust so thoroughly, or to whom I feel such tender gratitude.”

“Oh, Miss Bertha, stop there. Don’t—don’t. It sets me to thinking of her—of that night when I was all alone with her. It swells up my heart so. Please don’t say another word.”

Lydia gave up her flowers, and threw both arms around the neck of her young mistress, as it drooped toward her.

“Oh, Miss Bertha, I should love to die for you!”

With these words, Lydia darted down-stairs, leaving her flowers with Bertha, who entered the sick-room, holding them to her bosom, and stood, minute after minute, gazing on the pale, still features of the wounded man. Many a change came over her face, many a sweet and painful thought swept through her brain. At last she stooped over the pillow and kissed him as he slept.

Then his eyes opened.