Bart Ridgeley: A Story of Northern Ohio

by A. G. Riddle

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE BABES IN THE WOODS.

"There, Orville, here are our fields. I am almost home; now hurry back. It is late. I am obliged to you." They had reached the opening, and the young man turned back, and the young girl tripped lightly and carelessly on; not to find the fence, as she expected, but an expanse of fallen timber, huge trunks, immense jams of tree-tops, and numerous piles of brush, under which the path was hidden. As she looked over and across, in the gloomy twilight, trees seemed to stand thick and high on the other side. Julia at once concluded that they had taken a wrong path; and she thought that she remembered to have seen one, which she and Barton passed, on the memorable night of their adventure; and without attempting to traverse the chopping, or go around it, she turned and hurried back to the old road. As she went, she thought of what had then happened, and how pleasant it would be if he were with her, and how bad it had all been since that time.

When she got back to the old road, it seemed very strange, and as if it had undergone some change; looking each way, for a moment, undecided, she finally walked rapidly to the north, until she came to a path leading to the left, which she entered, with a sense of relief, and hurried forward.

It was quite dark, silent, and gloomy in the woods, and she sped on—on past huge trees, through open glades, down through little sinks and swales, and up on high ground, until she came to an opening. "Thank God! thank God!" cried the relieved and grateful child; "I am out at last. How glad I am!" And she reached the margin of the woods, to be confronted with an interminable black jungle of fallen and decaying tree-trunks, limbs and thick standing brush, over which, and out of which, stood the dense tops of young trees. She paused for a moment, and turning to the left, thought to skirt about this obstruction, until she should reach the fence and field, which she was sure were now near her. On and on, and still on she went; over the trunks of fallen trees, through tangles of brush and pools of water, until, when she turned to look for the opening, she was alarmed and dismayed to find that it had disappeared. Her heart now for the first time sank within her. She listened, but no sound, save the ominous moan in the air, came to her ear. The solemn, still, black night was all about her. She looked up, and a cold, starless, dim blank was all over her; and all around, standing thick, were cold, dark, silent trees. She stood and tried to think back: where was she, and how came she there? She knew she had once turned back, from something to somewhere—to the old road, as she remembered; and it flashed across her, that in the strange appearance of things, and in her confusion, she had crossed it, and was in the awful, endless woods! How far had she gone? If lost, had she wandered round and round, as lost folks do? Then she thought of her dear, distracted mother, and of her brave and kind father. She had been missed, and they were looking for her. Everybody would hear of it, and would join in the hunt; and Barton might hear of it, and if he did, she knew he would come to find her. He was generous and heroic; and what a wonder and a talk it would all make, and she didn't care if it did. Then she wondered if she had not better stop and stand still, for fear she would go wrong. How awfully dark it was, and the air was chilly. Did she really know which way home was? And she strained her unseeing eyes intently for a moment, and then closed them, to let the way come into her mind. That must be the way, and she would go in that direction until she thought she could make them hear; and then she would call. And ere she started, amid the cold, unpitying trees, in her purity and innocence, that savage nature reveres and respects, she knelt and prayed; she asked for guidance and strength, and arose hopeful. But she found that she was very weary: her feet were wet and cold, and when she was to start, that she was confused and uncertain as to the direction. One more invocation, and she went forward. How far or how long she travelled, she had no idea. She paused to listen: no sound. Perhaps they would now hear her, and she raised her voice, and called her father's name, and again and again, with all her force, through the black, blank, earless night, she sent her cry.

As her voice went out, hope, and spirit, and strength went with it. She trembled and wept, and tried once again to pray. She clasped her hands; but suffocating darkness seemed to close over her, and she felt lost, utterly and hopelessly lost!

A sense of injustice, of ill-usage, came to her, and she dried her eyes; she was young, and brave, and strong; and must; and would care for herself. She should not perish; day would come some time, and she should get out. She found she was very cold, and must arouse and exert herself. Then came the thought and dread of wild animals; of that awful beast; and she listened, and could hear their stealthy steps in the dry leaves, and she shrunk from meeting the horrid glare of their eyes. Oh, if Barton were only with her, just to drive them away! God would protect him.

There—as she could not help but stare into the black darkness, there surely was the glare of their eyes, that horrid, yellowish-green, glassy glare! and with a shriek she fled—not far, for she fell, and a half swoon brought her a moment's oblivion; when the dead cold night, and the dumb trees came back about her again. With the reaction she arose, and found that she had lost her hood. She felt that a wild beast had torn it from her head; and that she had taken his hot, brute breath.

Weak, hardly with the power of motion, she supported herself by the trunk of a tree. "Father! Father God! a helpless, weak child calls to Thee; show me my sin, let me repent of it; weak and lost, and hopeless; sweet Saviour, with Thy loving sympathy, stay and help my fainting heart. If it be Thy will that I perish, receive my spirit, and let this weak, vain body, unmangled, be given back to my poor grief-stricken parents. God and Saviour, hear me!"

There now came to her ear the voice of running water. It had a sweet sound of companionship and hope, and she made towards it, and soon found herself on the banks of a wild and rapid stream. "Oh, thanks! thanks!" she murmured, "this runs from darkness out to human habitations, somewhere. It will lead out to daylight, and on its banks are human homes, somewhere. Oh, give me strength to follow it, it is so hard to perish here!"

The wind had long been blowing, and had now risen to a tempest, bitter and sharp from the north, and the trees were bending and breaking under its fury. Julia was thoroughly chilled, and her feet were benumbed with cold. She had been aware for some time that snow was sifting over her, and rattling on the dry leaves under her feet. She was dizzy, and almost overcome with sleep; and was conscious of strange visions and queer voices, that seemed to haunt her senses. Could she hold out till morning? She could not fix her wandering mind, even on this question. She occasionally heard her own voice in broken murmurs, but did not understand what she said. It was like the voice of another. She knew her mouth was dry and parched with thirst, but never thought of trying to drink from the stream, whose drowsy voice ran through her wandering consciousness. The impulse to move on remained long after all intelligent power of directing her movements had left her; and blindly and mechanically, she staggered and reeled about for a few or many minutes, until she sank to the earth unable and unwilling to struggle further. Her last act was with pure womanly instinct, to draw her torn and draggled skirts about her limbs and feet. The faces of her father and mother, warm and sweet, were with her for a moment, and she tried to think of her Heavenly Father; and another face was all the time present, full of tenderness and love; and then all faded into oblivion, blank and utter …

What was it? something whispered, or seemed to whisper in her heart as vague consciousness returned, unutterably sweet; was it the voice of an angel coming to bear her hence? Once again! and now her ear caught—and still again—a voice of earth, clear; and it had power to start her up from under the snow, that was surely weaving and thickening her virgin winding-sheet. God in heaven! once again! Strong, clear and powerful, it pealed through the arches of the forest, overtopping the tempest. It was a voice she knew, and if aught might, it would have called her back from death; as now, from a deadly swoon.

And once again, and nearer, with a cadence of impatience, and almost doubt, a faint answer went back; and then a gleam of light; a broad, wavering circle of glory, and Barton, with his flashing eyes, and eager, flushed face, with his mass of damp curls filled with snow, and dashed back, sprang with a glad cry to her side!

"Barton!" she cried, trying to rise, and throwing out her hands to him.

"Oh, Julia! you are found! you are alive! Thank God! thank God!" Throwing himself on his knees by her, and, clasping her cold hands in his, and, in a paroxysm, pressing them to his lips and heart, and covering them with kisses and with tears.

"God sent you to me! God sent you to me!" murmured the poor, dear grateful girl.

Bart's self-command returned in a moment; he lifted her to her feet, and supported her. "You are nearly frozen, and the snow had already covered you. See what my mother sent to you," filling the top of his flask and placing it to her lips. "It is nothing but old wine." How revivingly it seemed to run through her veins! "I am very thirsty," she said, and he brought her a full draught from the running stream.

"Can you walk? let me carry you. We must get to some shelter."

"I thought you would come. Where is my father?"

"I am alone—may I save you?"

"Oh, Barton!"

"I have not seen your father; they are looking for you, miles away. How under the heavens did you ever find your way here? How you must have suffered! See! here is your hood!" placing it over her tangled and dripping hair. "And let me put this on you." Removing his "wamus," and putting her arms through the sleeves, he tied the lower corners about her little waist, and buttoned the top over her bosom and about her neck. He gave her another draught of wine, and paused for a moment—"I must carry you."

"Oh, I can walk!" said the revived girl, with vivacity.

He lifted his nearly consumed torch, and conducted her to the stream. "We must cross this, and find shelter on the other side." He let himself at once from the abrupt bank, into the cold, swift water, that came to his middle. "I must carry you over;" unhesitatingly she stooped over to him, and was taken with one strong arm fully to himself, while he held his torch with the other. He turned with her then, and plunged across the creek, holding her above its waters. Its deepest part ran next the bank where he entered; fortunately it was not very wide, and he bore her safely to the opposite and lower bank.

The other side was protected from the tempest, which was at its greatest fury, by a high and perpendicular ledge of rocks which the course of the creek followed, but leaving a narrow space of hard land along the base. Under the shelter, Bart turned up stream with his charge, occasionally lifting his torch and inspecting the mossy ledge. Within a few feet of them the snow fell in wreaths and swirls, and sometimes little eddies of wind sifted it over them.

"Somewhere near here, is a place where they made shingles last summer, and there was a shed against the rocks, if we could only find it." Finally they doubled an abrupt angle in the nearly smooth wall, which bent suddenly back from the stream, for many feet, making a semicircle of a little space, and in the back of which Bart discovered the anxiously looked-for shed;—a mere rude cover, on posts driven into the ground.

Under and about it were great quantities of dry shavings, and short bits of wood, the hearts and saps of shingle blocks. To place a pile of these on the margin of the creek, and apply his torch to them, took but a moment; and in an instant a bright, white flame flashed and lit up the little sheltered alcove. Another, and the almost overcome girl was placed on a seat of soft, dry shavings, against the moss-grown rock, under the rude roof, out of the reach of the snow or wind; and another fire was lit of the dry shingle blocks, at her feet, from which her saturated shoes were removed, and to which warmth was soon restored.

Barton now took from a pocket on the outside of the "wamus," a small parcel, and produced some slices of tongue and bread, which the famished girl ate with the relish and eagerness of a hungry child. More wine, now mingled with water, completed her repast; and Bart made further preparations for her comfort and rest. A larger mass of the shavings so adjusted that she could recline upon them, was arranged for her, which made an easy, springy couch; and as she lay wearily back upon them, still others were placed about and over her, until, protected as she was, warmth and comfort came to her.

What a blessed sense of shelter, and safety, and peace, as from heaven, fell upon the rescued girl's heart! And how exquisitely delicious to be carried, and supported, and served by this beautiful and heroic youth, who hovered about her so tenderly, and kneeling at her feet, so gently and sweetly ministered to her! No thought of being compromised, none of impropriety in the atmosphere of absolute purity, came to cloud the stainless mind of the maiden. No memory of the past, no thought of the future, was near her. She was lost, exhausted, and dying, and God sent him to her; and she accepted him as from the hand of God. He had restored, warmed and cheered her. She was under shelter and protection, and now heavy with sleep, and still the storm raged all about and over their heads, and the snow still fell within a few feet of them, while in that little circle warmth and light pulsated, like a tender human heart.

When all was done that occurred to the tender, thoughtful youth, and the eyes of the maiden were dreamily closing: "Have you said your prayers?" asked Bart, who had spoken barely a word since lighting the fires.

"Not of thanks for my deliverance," replied the girl. "Will you say a prayer for us?" in a low, sweet voice.

The youth knelt a little from her.

"Our Father, Whose Presence is Heaven, and Whose Presence is everywhere, let this weary, wandering one feel that Presence in Its sweetest power; let her repose in It; and through all time rest in It. Hush the storm, and make short the hours of darkness, and with the dawn give her back to her home of love. Impress her parents with a sense of her safety. Remember my widowed mother and young brothers. Be with all wanderers, all unsheltered birds, and lambs on bleak hill-sides, and with all helpless, hopeless things."

He ceased.

"You ask nothing for yourself, Barton," in her tenderest voice.

"Have I not been permitted to save you? What remains for me to ask?"

How these words came to her afterwards! She turned, moved a little, as if to make room, and slept.

Barton shall at some time, in his own way, tell of his experiences of that strange night.

It had never come near him—the thought of seeking and saving her for himself—-and when he found her perishing, and bore her over the water, and found shelter, and cheered and restored her, and as he now sat to protect her, the idea that she was or could be more to him, or different from what she had been, never approached him. It had been an inspiration to seek her, and a great possession to find her. It had brought back to him his self-respect, and had perhaps redeemed him, in her eyes, from the scorn and contempt with which she had regarded him, and in his heart he gratefully thanked God for it. Now his path was open and serene, although unwarmed and unlighted with this precious love, and so, in the heart of the forest, in the soul of the night, in the bosom of the tempest, he had brought life and hope and peace and rest to her, and an angel could not have done it with a purer self-abnegation.

He sat near her, at the foot of an old hemlock, waiting for the dawn. The forest and night and storm thus held in their arms these two young, strong, brave, sweet, and rich natures, so tender, and so estranged, till the morning light brightened and flashed up in the serene sky, and sent a new day over the snow-wreathed earth. The tempest subsided, the snow ceased, the wind sunk to whispers, and the young morning was rosy in the east.

Barton had kept the fire burning near Julia, and when the new light became decided, approached her, and not without some anxiety: "Miss Markham—Miss Markham—Miss Markham!" raising his voice at each repetition. She did not hear. "Julia!" in a low voice, bending over her. Her eyes opened to the rude roof over her, and she started, turned to him, flushed, and smiled: "Oh, we are still here in the woods! Is it day?"

"Yes; how do you feel? Can you walk?" cheerily.

"Oh yes, I haven't suffered much!" rising from the woody coverings, which she gayly shook from her.

"Excuse me, while you make your toilet in this extensive dressing-room, and I will look about. I will not go far, or be gone long." Going still further up the stream, he found the end of the ledge of rocks, with a steepish hill sloping down to the creek, down which, under the snow, appeared to wind a road, which crossed the creek when the water was low. He turned into this road, and went up to the top of the hill, from which he could see an opening in the otherwise unbroken woods, and a little farther on he was gladdened with the sight of a smoke, rising like a cloud-column, above the trees.

He hastened back to find Julia equipped, and busy placing new fuel to the crackling fire. "There is a cabin not more than half a mile away, and the snow is not more than two or three inches deep; we can easily reach it," he said, brightly.

"Oh, Barton!" said the girl, with a deep rich voice, coming to him, "how can we ever—how can my father and mother ever—how can I repay"—and her voice broke and faltered with emotion, and tears fell from her wondrous eyes.

"Perhaps," said Bart, off his guard, "perhaps you may be willing to forget the past!"

"The past—forget the past?"

"Pardon me, it was unfortunate! Let us go."

"Barton!"

"Not a word now," said Bart, gayly. "I am the doctor, you are terribly shaken up, and not yourself. I shall not let you say a word of thanks. Why, we are not out of the woods yet!"—this last laughingly. "When you are all your old self, and in your pleasant home, everything of this night and morning will come to you."

"What do you mean, Mr. Ridgeley?" a little coolly.

"Nothing," in a sad, low voice. They had gained the road. "See," said he, "here is somebody's road, from some place to somewhere; we will follow it up to the some place. There! I hear an axe. I hope he is cutting wood; and there—you can see the smoke of his cabin.

'I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled.'

Oh, I hope he will have a rousing fire."

Julia walked rapidly and silently by his side, hardly hearing his last words; she was thinking why he would not permit her to thank him—and that it would all be recalled in her home—finally, his meaning came to her. He would seek and save her from death, and even from the memory of an unconsidered word, which might possibly be misconstrued; and she clung more closely to the arm which had borne her over the flood.

"I am hurrying you, I fear."

"No, not a bit. Oh, now I can see the cabin; and there is the man, right by the side of it."

"It must be Wilder's," said Bart. "He moved into the woods here somewhere."

As they approached, the chopper stopped abruptly, and gazed on them in blank wonder. The dishevelled girl, with hanging hair, and red "wamus," and the wild, haggard-looking, coatless youth, with belt and hatchet, were as strange apparitions, coming up out of the interminable woods, as could well meet the gaze of a rustic wood-chopper of an early morning.

"Can you give this young lady shelter and food?" asked Bart, gravely.

"I guess so," said the man; "been out all night?" and he hurried them into a warm and cheerful room, bright with a blazing fire, where was a comely, busy matron, who turned to them in speechless surprise.

"This is Judge Markham's daughter," said Bart, as Julia sank into a chair, strongly inclined to break down completely; "she got lost, last night, near her father's, and wandered all night alone, and I found her just beyond the creek, not more than two hours ago. I must place her in your hands, my good woman."

"Poor, precious thing!" cried the woman, kneeling and pulling off her shoes, and placing her chilled feet to the fire. "What a blessed mercy you did not perish, you darling."

"I should, if it had not been for him," now giving way. Mrs. Wilder stepped a moment into the other of the two rooms, into which the lower floor of the cabin was divided, and spoke to some one in it; and giving Julia a bowl of hot milk and tea, led her to the inner apartment.

"Take care of him;" were her words, as she left, nodding her head towards Barton.

"How far is it to Markham's?" asked Bart.

"'Bout seven mile round, an' five 'cross."

"Have you a horse?"

"Fust rate!"

"Saddle him, and go to Markham's at once. The father and mother of this girl are frantic: a thousand men are hunting for her; you'll be paid."

"I don't want no pay," said Wilder, hurrying out. Five minutes later, sitting on his saddle, he received a slip of paper from Bart.

"Who shall I say?" said Wilder, not without curiosity on his own account.

"That will tell the Judge all he'll want to know. He will hear my name as soon as he will care to."

Wilder dashed off down the forest-road by which Bart and Julia had approached his house.

Bart went listlessly into the house. His energy and excitement had suddenly died out, with the exigency which called them forth; his mental glow and physical effort, both wonderful and long-continued to an intense strain, left him, and in the reaction he almost collapsed. Mrs. Wilder offered him one of her husband's coats. He was not cold. She placed a smoking breakfast before him. He loathed its sight and fragrance, and drank a little milk.

She knew he was a hero; so young and so handsome, yet a mere boy; his sad, grave face had a wonderful beauty to her, and his manners were so high, and like a gentleman born. She asked him some questions about his finding Julia, and he answered dreamily, and in few words, and seemed hardly to know what he said.

"Is Miss Markham asleep?—is she quiet?"

Mrs. Wilder stepped to the inner room. "She is," she answered; "nothing seems to ail her but weariness and exhaustion. She will not suffer from it."

"Is she alone?"

"She is in bed with my daughter Rose."

"May I just look at her one moment?"

"Certainly."

One look from the door at the sweetly-sleeping face, and without a word he hurried from the house. He had felt a great heart-throb when he came upon her in the woods, and now, when all was over, and no further call for action or invention was on him, the strong, wild rush of the old love for a moment overwhelmed him. It would assert itself, and was his momentary master. But presently he turned away, with an unspoken and final adieu.

Two hours later the Judge, on his smoking steed, dashed up to the cabin, followed by the Doctor and two or three others. As he touched the ground, Julia, with a cry of joy, sprang into his arms.

She had murmured in her sleep, awoke, and would get up and dress. She laughed, and said funny little things at her looks and dress, and examined the "wamus" with great interest, with a blush put it on, and tied it coquettishly about her waist, then seemed to think, and took it off gravely. Next she ran eagerly out to the other room, and asked for Bart, and looked grave, and wondered, when Mrs. Wilder told her he had gone, and she wondered that Mrs. Wilder would let him go.

She kissed that good woman when she first got up, and was already in love with sweet, shy, tall, comely Rose, who was seventeen, and had made fast friends with Ann and George, the younger ones. Then she ran out into the melting snow and bright soft air. How serene it all was, and how tall and silent stood the trees, in the bright sun! How calm and innocent it all was, and looked as if nothing dreadful had ever happened in it, and a robin came and sang from an old tree, near by.

And she talked, and wondered about her mother and father, and, by little bits, told much of what happened the night before; and wondered—this time to herself—why Bart went off; and she looked sad over it.

Mrs. Wilder looked at her, and listened to her, and in her woman's heart she pondered of these two, and wished she had kept Bart; she was sad and sorry for them, and most for him, for she saw his soul die in his eyes as he turned from Julia's sleeping face.

Then came the tramp of horses, and Julia sprang out, and into her father's arms.

One hour after came Julia's mother and Nell, in the light carriage; and kisses, and tears, and little laughy sobs, and words that ran out with little freshets of tears, and unanswered questions, and unasked answers, broken and incoherent; yet all were happy, and all thankful and grateful to their Father in Heaven; and blessings and thanks—many of them unsaid—to the absent one.

And so the lost one was restored, and soon they started back.