He broke off, made a gesture with his hand toward one of the long aisles of pine trees, and then, with a muttered “God bless you both,” left me, and going a little way down the stream, stood with his back to a great tree and his eyes upon the slow, deep water.
She was coming, I watched the slight figure grow out of the dusk between the trees, and the darkness in which I had walked of late fell away. The wood that had been so gloomy was a place of sunlight and song; had red roses sprung up around me I had felt no wonder. She came softly and slowly, with bent head and hanging arms, not knowing that I was near. I went not to meet her,—it was my fancy to have her come to me still,—but when she raised her eyes and saw me I fell upon my knees.
For a moment she stood still, with her hands at her bosom; then, softly and slowly through the dusky wood, she came to me and touched me upon the shoulder. “Art come to take me home?” she asked. “I have wept and prayed and waited long, but now the spring is here and the woods are growing green.”
I took her hands and bowed my head upon them. “I believed thee dead,” I said. “I thought that thou hadst gone home, indeed, and I was left in the world alone. I can never tell thee how I love thee.”
“I need no telling,” she answered. “I am glad that I did so forget my womanhood as to come to Virginia on such an errand; glad that they did laugh at and insult me in the meadow at Jamestown, for else thou mightst have given me no thought; very heartily glad that thou didst buy me with thy handful of tobacco. With all my heart I love thee, my knight, my lover, my lord and husband——” Her voice broke, and I felt the trembling of her frame. “I love not thy tears upon my hands,” she murmured. “I have wandered far and am weary. Wilt rise and put thy arm around me and lead me home?”
I stood up, and she came to my arms like a tired bird to its nest. I bent my head, and kissed her upon the brow, the blue-veined eyelids, the perfect lips. “I love thee,” I said. “The song is old, but it is sweet. See! I wear thy colour, my lady.”
The hand that had touched the ribbon upon my arm stole upwards to my lips. “An old song, but a sweet one,” she said. “I love thee. I will always love thee. My head may lie upon thy breast, but my heart lies at thy feet.”
There was joy in the haunted wood, deep peace, quiet thankfulness, a springtime of the heart,—not riotous like the May, but fair and grave and tender like the young world in the sunshine without the pines. Our lips met again, and then, with my arm around her, we moved to the giant pine beneath which stood the minister. He turned at our approach, and looked at us with a quiet and tender smile, though the water stood in his eyes. “ ‘Heaviness may endure for a night,’ ” he said, “ ‘but joy cometh in the morning.’ I thank God for you both.”
“Last summer, in the green meadow, we knelt before you while you blessed us, Jeremy,” I answered. “Bless us now again, true friend and man of God.”
He laid his hands upon our bowed heads and blessed us, and then we three moved through the dismal wood and beside the sluggish stream down to the great bright river. Ere we reached it the pines had fallen away, the haunted wood was behind us, our steps were set through a fairy world of greening bough and springing bloom. The blue sky laughed above, the late sunshine barred our path with gold. When we came to the river it lay in silver at our feet, making low music amongst its reeds.