CHAPTER L.
THE GOSPEL OF LOVE.
Julia pointed out the bird's nest under the roof, and to a faded garland of flowers, hung upon the rough bark of the old hemlock, against which Barton had reclined, and another upon the rock just over where she had rested. In some way these brought to Bart's mind the flowers on Henry's grave; and in a moment he felt that her hand had placed them there; the precious little hand that lay so willingly in his own. Raising it to his lips, he said: "Julia, this same blessed hand has strewn my poor dear brother's grave with flowers."
"Are you glad, Arthur?"
"Oh, so glad, and grateful! And the same hand wrote me the generous warning against that wretched Greer?"
"Yes, Arthur. Father came home from that first trial distressed about you, and I wrote it. I thought you would not know the hand."
"I did not—though when your letter came to me in Jefferson, the address reminded me of it. But I did not think you wrote it. And when rumors were abroad of my connection with these men, after I went to Albany, who was it who sent somebody to Ravenna, to get a contradiction from Greer, himself?"
"No one sent anybody: some one went," in the lowest little voice.
"Oh, Julia! did you go, yourself?"
"Yes."
"With the love of such a woman, what may not a man do?" cried Bart, with enthusiasm. "Julia, I suspect more—that I owe all and everything to you."
"You saved my life, Arthur, and will you not take little things from me?"
"I owe you for all the love and happiness of all my future, Julia, and for the stimulus that has made me work these three years. You love me; and love takes from love, and gives all it can and has, and is content."
"Bless you, Arthur!" and affecting to notice the passage of the sun towards the meridian—she turned to him a little anxiously—"What time is it, Arthur?"—as if she cared! He told her, and she extended her hand and took the watch, and toyed with it a moment; "it is a pretty watch, open it, please," which he did. Looking at it intently, with heightened color, she pointed with the rosy tip of a finger, to an almost hidden inscription, which Bart had never seen before, and which he saw were letters spelling "Julia." He started up amazed, and for the moment trembled.
"Oh, Julia! all that I have and am, the food I have eaten, the clothes
I wear, all came from you! Old Windsor is a fraud—an instrument—and
I have carried your blessed name these long months, not knowing it."
"Arthur, 'you love me, and love takes from love. It gives all it has and can, and is content.' It is a blessed gospel, Arthur. Think how much I owe you—gladly owe you;—the obligation was not a burthen; but you would not even let me express my gratitude. Think of your dreadful letter. When you knelt and prayed for me, I would have put my lips to yours, had you been near me. I let you see my very heart in every line I wrote you, and you turned from me so coldly, and proudly, and blindly, and I could see you were so unhappy. Oh, I would not have been worthy to be carried a step in your arms, if I had not done the last thing in my power. I went and saw Mr. Wade, and father promised me the money, and Mr. Wade arranged it all for me; and dear, blessed Mr. Windsor is not a fraud; he loves you himself, and loved your brother."
"Forgive me, forgive me, Julia," said Bart, who had sunk on the leaves at her feet, and was resting his head against her bosom, with one arm of hers about his neck; "and this watch?"
"That I purchased and had engraved, and perhaps—what would you have done had you seen my name?"
"Come straight to you at once."
"And you are content?"
"Perfectly; you love me, and I accept the gospel of love," and he looked up with his clear, open brow and honest, transparent eyes, and gazing down into them and into the depths of his soul, seeming to see great happiness, dimmed a little with regret, she bent her head and put her lips to his, and tears fell from her eyes once again upon his face.
"Arthur," again lifting her head, "how glad I am that this is all told you now, when you are tenderest to me, and I have no secret to carry and fear, nothing to do now but to make you happy, and be so happy. Sometime, soon, you will tell me all your precious heart history, keeping nothing from me."
"Everything, everything, Julia! and something I may say now—I don't want to leave this sweet, sacred place, without a word about my letter. It was written in utter hopelessness of your love. The occurrences of that strange night had replaced me within the reach of my own esteem."
"How had you ever lost that, Arthur?"
"By my own folly. I loved you when I came back—before I went away—always. It was a dream, a sweet, delicious dream—that inspired poetry, and kindled ambition, but was purely unselfish. I had not a thought or a hope of a return. This passion came to possess me, to occupy my mind, and absorb my whole being. I knew it could not in the nature of things be returned."
"Arthur!"
"And I rushed into your presence, and declared it, and received what I expected and needed—though it paralyzed me, but my pride came to my rescue, and what strength I had; I went away humiliated, and aroused myself and found places on which I could stand, and strength to work. So far as you were concerned, Julia, I only hoped that in the far future, if you ever recalled my mad words—"
"That did not fall in the dust under my feet, and were not forgotten, sir," interrupted Julia.
"Thank you, dearest—but if they should come to you, you would feel that they had not insulted you. I avoided you, of course, and had to avoid your mother. I would not see you, but you were ever about me, and became an inspiring power. I burned all the sketches I had made of you, but one, and that I mislaid."
"I found it. I am glad you lost it, you naughty child."
"Did you? Well, I went through the winter and spring, and the awful calamity of Henry's death, and the next fall and winter, and you wore away, and although I might not see you, your absence made Newbury a desert. And I felt it, when you came back. And when I got ready to go I could not. I set the time, sent off my trunk, and lingered. I even went one night past your father's house, only to see where you were, and yet I lingered; I found flowers on my brother's grave, and thought that some maiden loved him."
"When she loved you."
"That Wednesday night I would go, but couldn't."
"Tell me all that happened to you that night; it is a mystery to us all; you did not even tell your mother."
"It is not much. I had abandoned my intention of going that night, and was restless and uneasy, when George rushed in and told me you were lost. He had learned all that was known, and told it very clearly. I knew of the chopping, and where the path led up to it, and I thought you would tarn back to the old road, and might enter the woods, on the other side. Everything seemed wonderfully clear to me. My great love kindled and aroused every faculty, and strung every nerve. I was ready in a moment. George brought me two immense hickory torches, that together would burn out a winter night; and with one of our sugar camp tapers. I lighted one, as I went. I must have reached the point where you left the old road, in ten minutes. I was never so strong, I seemed to know that I would find you, and felt that it was for this I had staid, and blamed myself for the selfish joy I felt, that I could serve and perhaps save you.
"I examined the old road, and in one wet place, I found your track going north, and a little further was the old path, that led to the slashing. At the entrance to it, the leaves had been disturbed, as if by footsteps; I saw many of them, and thought you had become lost, and would follow the path; so I went on. When I reached the slashing, I knew you would not enter that, but supposed you would skirt around on the east and south side, as the path led southwesterly to it. Of course I looked and searched the ground, and could occasionally see where a footfall had disturbed the leaves.
"I concluded that sooner or later, you would realize that you were lost; and then—for I knew you were strong and brave—would undertake to strike off toward home, without reference to anything; and I knew, of course, that you would then go exactly the wrong way, because you were lost. After skirting about the slashing, I could find no foot-marks in the leaves; and I struck out southerly, and in a little thicket of young beeches and prickly ash, hanging to a thorn, I found your hood. Oh, God! what joy and thankfulness were mine; and there in the deep leaves, going westerly, was your trail."
"I thought I saw that awful beast, just before I reached that place, and fled, not knowing where," said Julia.
"Did you call, Julia?"
"I had called before that, many times."
"You were too far to be heard by your father and friends; and I was too late to hear you. I called several times, when I found the hood. Of course no answer came, and following the trail where it could be seen, I went on. I missed it often, and circled about until I found it, or something like it, always bearing away deeper and deeper into the wood. Then the wind blew awfully, and the snow began to sift down. My first torch was well burned out, and I knew I had been out some hours. I lighted the other and went on; soon I struck this creek, and fancied that you, if you had reached it, would follow it down."
"I did."
"Soon after, at a soft place where a little branch came in, I found your tracks again, several of them; and I knew I was right, and was certain I should find you. In my great joy, I thanked God, with my whole heart. It was storming fearfully; and trees were cracking, and breaking, and falling, in the fury of the wind. I called, but I knew nobody could hear me a dozen rods away. It had become intensely cold, and I feared you would become exhausted and fall down, and perhaps perish ere I could reach you. I hurried on, looked by every tree and log, calling and searching. I don't know where I struck the creek, though I knew every rood of the woods: I am, as you know, a born woodsman, and know all wood craft. Although I was certain I would find you, I began to grow fearfully anxious, and almost to doubt. As I went I called your name, and listened. Finally a faint sound came back to me, and I sprang forward—when you rose partly up before me. Oh, God! oh, God!" and his voice was lost in emotion. "For one moment I was overcome, and did, I know not what, save that I knelt by you and kissed your hands. Their chilly touch recalled me. I felt that I had saved you not only for your father and mother, but for your pure self, and to be the bride of some unknown man; and I was resolved that no memory of yours, and no thought of his, should ever occasion a blush for what should occur between us."
"How noble and heroic you were—"
"You know all that happened after."
"And in your anxiety to save me from myself, you would not even let me thank you. And when I slept, you stole away."
"What could I do. Julia? I had saved you, I had redeemed myself; and found a calm, cold peace and joy in which I could go. In view of what had happened between us before, how hard and embarrassing for you to meet and thank me, and I feared to meet you. It was better that I should go, and with one stolen look at your sweet, sleeping face, I went."
"Arthur, my poor best will I do to repay you for all your pain and anguish."
"Am I not more than repaid, proud and happy? It was for the best. I needed to suffer and work; and yet how blessed to have carried the knowledge of your love with me!"
"Oh, I wanted to whisper it to you, to have you know; and I was unhappy because I knew you were," she murmured.
"My poor letter in answer to yours I fear was rude and proud and unmanly. What could I say? The possibility that I could be more than a friend to you never occurred to me, and when Ida tried to persuade me that you did love me, her efforts were vain; I could hardly induce her to abandon the idea of writing you."
"There is a blessed Providence in it all, Arthur; and in nothing more blessed than in bringing us together here, where we could meet and speak, with only the sunshine and this bright stream for witnesses."
"And what a sweet little story of love and hope and joy it carries murmuring along!" said Bart, struck with the poetry of her figure.
"But we must not always stay here," said the practical woman. "We must go home, must not we, Prince?" addressing the horse, which had stood quietly watching the lovers, and occasionally looking about him.
"You have changed his name?" said Bart.
"Yes. You see he is your horse, and I called him Prince Arthur the very day I received him, which was the day your letter came. I call him Prince. He is a prince—and so is his namesake," she added, playfully pulling his moustache. "You don't like that?" said Bart; "the moustache? I can cut it away in a moment."
"I do like it, and you must not cut it away. Stand out there, and let me have a good look at you; please turn your eyes away from me—there so."
"You find me changed," he said, "and I find you more lovely than ever," rushing back to her.
"You spoilt my view, sir."
"You will see enough of me," he said, gaily.
"You are changed," she went on, "but I like you better. Now, sir, here is your horse. I deliver you, Prince, to your true lord and master; and you must love him, and serve him truly."
"And I have already dedicated you to your lady and mistress," said
Bart, "and you must forever serve her."
"And the first thing you do, will be to carry Wilder down to my dear mother, with a letter—how blessed and happy she will be!—asking her to send up a carriage—unless you have one somewhere?"
"Me? I haven't anything anywhere, but you. A carriage brought me into this region, and I sent it back. Keep and ride the Prince, as you call him; I can walk. I've done it before."
"You shall never do it again; if you do I will walk with you. We will go to Wilder's, and see Mrs. Wilder, who is a blessed woman, and who knew your secret, and knows mine; and Rose, who took me into her bed; and we will have some dinner, unromantic ham and eggs; and when the carriage comes, I will drive you to your mother's, and then you shall drive me home—do you understand?"
"Perfectly; and shall implicitly obey. Do you know, I half suspect this is all a dream, and that I shall wake up in Albany, or Jefferson, or somewhere? I know I am not in Chardon, for I could not sleep long enough to dream there."
"Why?"
"I was too near Newbury, and under the spell of old feelings and memories; and I don't care to sleep again."
As they were about to leave the dear little nook, "Arthur," said Julia, "let us buy a bit of this land, and keep this little romantic spot from destruction." So they went out through the trees in the warm sun, Bart with Prince's bridle in his hand, and Julia with her skirt over one arm and the other in that of her lover.
"I hold tightly to your arm," said Bart, laughing, "so that if you vanish, I may vanish with you."
"And I will be careful and not go to sleep while we are at Wilder's, for fear you will steal away from me, you bad boy. If you knew how I felt when I woke and found you had gone—"
"I should not have gone," interrupted Bart.
Thus all the little sweet nothings that would look merely silly on paper, and sound foolish to other ears, yet so precious to them, passed from one to the other as they went.
Wilder had eaten his dinner, and lounged out into the sun, with his pipe, as they walked up. He knew Julia, of course, and Prince, and looked hard at Bart, as they passed; when the comely wife came running out.
"Oh," she exclaimed, taking Julia's hand, "and this—this is Mr.
Ridgeley."
"It is indeed," said Bart, brightly.
"And you are not—not—Oh! your two hearts are happy I see it in both your faces. I am so glad."
Julia bent and kissed her.
"Oh, I knew when he went off so heart-broken, that it wasn't your fault, and I always wished I had kept him."
Sweet, shy, blushing Rose came forward, and Bart took her hands and hoped she would look upon him as an older brother long absent, and just returned. And little lisping George, staring at him curiously, "Are you Plinth Arthur?"
"Prince Arthur?" cried Bart, catching him up, "do I look like a prince?"
"Yeth."
"Take that," said Bart, laughing, giving him a gold coin.
"He is a prince," said Julia, "and you see he gives like a prince."
"Exactly," answered Bart; "princes always give other peoples' gold for flattery."
"And now, Mr. Wilder, I want you to put your saddle on Prince, and gallop straight to my mother, and drive back a carriage. I found this unhappy youth wandering about in these same woods, and I am going to take him with me this time."
When Wilder was ready, she gave him the following note:
"Dear Mother:—I am so blessed and happy. Arthur and I met this morning in the dear old nook under the rocks, and we are the happiest two in the world.
"JULIA.
"P.S. I forgot. Send a carriage by Wilder. I don't want a driver. We will go round by Arthur's mother's, and be with you this evening. J.
"P.S. Send me a skirt."
And whether the sun stood still or journeyed on, they did not note, nor could they remember what Mrs. Wilder gave them for dinner, or whether they tasted it. At last Wilder appeared with a light carriage and pair. Julia's saddle was put on board, and the lovers, Julia holding the reins, drove away.