A RAMBLE IN THE WOODS, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Already the summer had deepened and ripened into autumn. The sky had
a darker tint, and the breeze had a plaintive note in its voice; and
here and there the footprints of change were in the tree-tops.
On one of those serene, deep afternoons, Barton, who had been
importuned by the boys to go into the woods in pursuit of a flock of
turkeys, that George had over and over declared "could be found just
out south, and which were just as thick and fat as anything," yielded,
and, taking his rifle, started out, accompanied by them, in high glee.
George's declaration about the turkeys was, without much difficulty,
verified, and Bart, who was a practised hunter, and knew all the
habits of the shy and difficult bird, managed in a short time to
secure two. He felt an old longing for a good, long, lonely ramble,
and directed the boys, who were in ecstacies at his skill and the
result, to carry the game back to their mother, while he went out
to the Slashing, adding that if he did not come back until into the
night, they might know he had gone to the pond, to meet the Doctor and
a fishing-party; and with a good-natured admonition from George, to
look out for that wolverine that haunted the Slashing, they separated.
The "Slashing" was a large tract of fallen timber, all of which had
been cut down years before, and left to decay as it fell. Near this,
and to the east, an old roadway had been cut, leading south, which was
often used by the neighbors to go from the Ridgeley neighborhood
to settlements skirting the eastern border of "the woods" before
mentioned. Still further east, and surrounded by forest, on a small
stream, was Coe's carding machine and fulling mill, to which a
by-way led from the State road, at a point near Parker's. The Coes,
a shiftless, harmless set, lived much secluded, and were often the
objects of charity, and as such somewhat under the patronage of Mrs.
Markham and Julia; and some of her young friends were occasionally
attracted there for a ramble among the rocks and springs, from which
Coe's creek, a little stream, arose. From the old road a path led to
the fields of Judge Markham, about a fourth of a mile distant, which
was the shortest route from his house to Coe's.
* * * * *
On his return ramble, just as Bart was about to emerge from the woods
into the opening made by the old road from the west, he was surprised
to see Julia approaching him, going along that track towards home. She
was alone, and walking with a quick step. Lifting his hat, he stepped
forward towards the path in which she was walking. The meeting in the
wild, still woods, under the deepening shades of approaching night,
was a surprise to both; and, by the light in the eyes of the youth,
and warmer color in the face of the maiden, seemed not unpleasant to
either.
"This is a surprise, meeting you here alone," said Barton, stepping to
the side of the footway, a little in advance of her.
"It must be," answered Julia. "Poor old lady Coe is quite ill, and
I've been around there, and, as it was latish, I have taken this short
way home, rather than go all the way around the road."
"Indeed, if you are really going this way you must permit me to
attend you," said Bart, placing his gun against a stump. "It is a
good half-mile to the path that leads out to your father's, and it is
already darkening;" and he turned and walked by her side.
"It is really not necessary," said the girl, quite decidedly. "I know
the way, and am not in the least afraid."
"Forgive me, Miss Markham, but I really fear that you must choose
between my attendance out of these woods and turning back around the
road," replied Bart.
His manner, so frank and courteous, and his voice, so gentle, had
nevertheless, to her woman's ear, a vibration of the man's nerve of
force and will, to which the girl seemed unconsciously to yield. They
walked along. The mystery of night was weaving its weird charm in the
forest, and strange notes and sounds came from its depths, and these
young, pure natures found an undefined sweetness in companionship.
On they walked in silence, as if neither cared to break it. The young
girl at length said:
"Mr. Ridgeley"--not Barton, or his first name, as in her
childhood--what a heart-swoon smote the youth at the formal
address!--"Mr. Ridgeley, there is something I must say to you. My
father does not care to have me in your company, and I must not
receive the most ordinary attention from you. He would not, I fear,
like to know that you were at our house."
Did it cost her anything to say this? Apparently not, though her voice
and manner diminished its sting. A moment's pause, and Barton's voice,
cold and steady, answered back:
"I know what your father's feelings towards me are," and then, with
warmth, "but I am sure that he would think less of me, if possible,
were I to permit any woman to find her way, at this hour, out of this
wilderness."
It was not much to say, but it was well said, and he turned his face
towards her as he said it, lit up with a clear expression of man's
loyalty to woman--not unpleasant to the young girl. Why could not
he leave it there and to the future? They walked on, and the shadows
deepened.
"Miss Markham, I, too, must say a thing to you: from my boyhood to
this hour, deeply, passionately, with my whole heart and soul, have I
loved you."
There was no mistaking; the intensity of his voice made his words
thrill. She recoiled from them as if stunned, and turned her face,
pale now, and marked, fully towards him.
"What! What did you say?"
"I love you!" with a deep, full voice.
"How dare you utter such words to me?"
Her eyes flashed and nostrils dilated.
"Because they are true; because I am a man and you are a woman,"
steadily and proudly.
"A man! you a man! Is it manly to waylay me in this lonely place,
and force yourself upon me, and insult me with this? You compel me
to--to--"
"Scorn and despise you!" supplied the youth, in a bitter tone.
"Take the words, then, if you choose them."
She was simply grand in her style, till this last expression, which
had the angry snap of an enraged woman. Some high natures might have
answered back her scorn; a lower one might have complained; and still
another would have left her in the woods. Barton said nothing,
but, with a cold, stony face, walked on by her side. If, in his
desperation, he wanted this killing thrust, which must ever rankle and
never heal, to enable him to overcome and subdue his great passion, he
had got it. That little hand, that emphasized her words with a gesture
of superb disdain, would never have to repeat the blow. It raised
about her a barrier that he was never after to approach.
He was not a man to complain. He would have told her why he said these
words; he could not now. Some men are like wolves in traps, and die
without a moan. Barton could die, and smile back into the face of his
slayer, and say no word.
Night was now deepening in the woods, with the haughty maiden, and
high, proud and humiliated youth, walking still side by side through
its shadows. They at length reached the path that led from the open
way to the left, approaching Julia's home. There was a continuous
thicket of thrifty second-growth young trees bordering the track along
which the two were journeying, and the opening through it made by this
narrow path was black with shadow, like the entrance to a cave.
"This is the way," said Bart, turning into it.
These were the first words he had uttered, and came as if from a
distance. Without a word of hesitation Julia turned into the path with
him, yet with almost a shudder at the darkness. They had not taken
a dozen steps when an appalling, shrieking yell, a brute yell, of
ferocious animal rage--the rage for blood and lust to mangle and
tear--burst from the thicket on their right. A wild plunge through
tangled brush and limbs, another more appalling shriek, and a dark,
shadowy form, with a fierce, hungry growl, crouched in the pathway
just before them, with its yellow, tawny, cruel eyes flashing in their
faces. The first sound seemed to heat every fiery particle of the
blood of the youth into madness, and open an outlet to the burning
elements of his nature. Here was something to encounter, and for her,
and in her presence; and the brute had hardly crouched as if for its
spring, when, with an answering cry, a man's shout, a challenge and
a charge, he sprang forward, with his unarmed strength, to the
encounter. As if cowed and overcome by the higher nature, the brute
turned, and with a complaining whine like a kicked dog, ran into the
depths of the woods. Barton had momentarily, in a half frenzy, wished
for a grapple, and felt a pang of real disappointment.
"The brute is a coward," he said, as he turned back, where the white
robes of Julia were dimly visible in the darkness. She was a daughter
of the Puritans, and had the blood and high courage of her race. The
first cry of the animal had almost frozen her blood, but the eager,
proud, manly shout of Barton affected her like a trumpet-call. She
exulted in his dashing courage, and felt an irresistible impulse to
rush forward to his aid. It all occurred in the fraction of a moment;
and when she realized that the peril was over, she was well-nigh
overcome.
"You were always brave," said Barton, cheerily, with just a little
strain in his voice; "you were in no danger, and it is all over."
No answer.
"You are not overcome?" with an anxious voice. "Oh," coming close to
her, "if I might offer you support!"
He held out his hand, and she put hers in it. How cool and firm his
touch was, and how her tremor subsided under it! He pulled her hand
within his arm, and hers rested fully upon his, with but their light
summer draperies between them.
"But a little way further," he said, in his cheery voice, and they
hurried forward.
Neither spoke. What did either think? The youth was sorry for the
awful fright of the poor girl, and so glad of the little thing that
eased his own humiliation. The girl--who can tell what a girl thinks?
As they reached the cleared land, a sense of relief came to Julia,
who had started a dozen times, in her escape out of the woods, at
imaginary sounds. Day was still in the heavens, and the sight of her
father's house gladdened her.
"Will you mind the dew?" asked her companion.
"Not in the least," she answered; and he led her across the pastures
to the rear of an enclosure that surrounded the homestead. He seemed
to know the way, and conducted her through a large open gate, and so
to a lane that led directly to the rear of the house, but a few yards
distant. He laid his hand upon the small gate that opened into it, and
turning to her, said:
"I may not intrude further upon you. For your relief, I ought perhaps
to say that the words of madness and folly which I uttered to you will
neither be recalled nor repeated. Let them lie where they fell--under
your feet. Your father's house, and your father's daughter, will be
sacred from me."
The voice was firm, low, and steady; and opening the gate, the young
girl entered, paused a moment, and then, without a word, ran rapidly
towards the house. As she turned an angle, she saw the youth still
standing by the gate, as if to protect her. She flew past the corner,
and called, in a distressed voice:
"Mamma! mamma! oh, mother!"
She was a Puritan girl, with the self-repression and control of her
race, and the momentary apprehension that seized her as she left the
side of Barton was overcome as she entered her father's house.
"Julia!" exclaimed her mother, coming forward, "is that you? Where
have you come from? What is the matter?"
"I came through the woods," said the girl, hurriedly. "I've been so
awfully frightened! Such dreadful things have happened!" with a half
hysterical laugh, which ended in a sob.
"Julia! Julia! my child! what under the heavens has happened? Are you
hurt?"
"No, only dreadfully frightened. I was belated, and it came on dark,
and just as we turned into the path from the old road, that awful
beast, with a terrible shriek, sprang into the road before us, and was
about to leap upon me, when Barton sprang at him and drove him off. If
it had not been for him, I would have been torn in pieces."
"Barton?--was he with you? Thank God! oh, bless and thank God for
your escape! My child! my child! How awful it sounds! Come! come to my
room, and let me hold you, and hear it all!"
"Oh, mamma! what a weak and cowardly thing a woman is! I thought I was
so strong, and really courageous, and the thought of this thing makes
me tremble now."
They gained her mother's room, and Julia, seating herself at her
mother's feet, and resting her arms on her mother's lap, undertook to
tell her story.
"I cannot tell you how it all happened. Barton met me, and would come
along with me, and then he said strange things to me; and I answered
him back, and quarrelled with him, and--"
"What could he have said to you? Tell me all."
Julia began and told with great minuteness, and with much feeling, her
whole adventure. She explained that she really did not want Bart to
come with her, for that it would displease her father; and that when
he did, she thought he ought to know that he was not at liberty to be
her escort or come to the house, and so she told him. She could not
tell why she answered him just as she did, but she was surprised, and
not quite herself, and she might have said it differently, and need
not have said so much, and he certainly must know that she did not
mean it all. Surely it was most his fault; if he really had such
feelings, why should he tell her, and tell her as he did? It was
dreadful, and she would never be happy again; and she laid her head in
her mother's lap, in her great anguish.
When her burst of grief had subsided, and she was calm, her mother
asked several questions, and learned all that was said, and was
much excited at Julia's account of the encounter with the beast and
Barton's intrepidity. She seemed to feel that they had both escaped a
great danger, through his courage.
"My dear child," she said, "I don't know what to think of these
strange and trying events, mixed up as they are. There is one very,
very unfortunate thing about it."
"That I met Barton? Oh, mother!"
"No, no; not that. It was unfortunate that you came the way you did,
or unfortunate that you went, perhaps; but it is not that. It was most
providential that Barton was with you, but so unfortunate that he said
to you what he did."
"Is it a misfortune to be loved, mother?"
"Let us not talk of this to-night, my darling," stooping and kissing
her still pale cheek. "God only knows of these things. It may not be a
misfortune, but it may bring unhappiness, dear, to somebody."
"Perhaps, mother, if he had not had such feelings he would not have
come with me."
"My child! my child! don't say what might have happened. I am glad
and grateful--so grateful that he was with you--that he was generous
enough to come, after what you said to him; but now, how can we
express our gratitude to him?"
"Oh, mamma! I am sure it is no matter. He won't care now what we
think."
"You are too much agitated, my daughter, to-night; let us not talk it
over now. But what became of Barton? did he come in?"
"No, I left him at the back gate, without a word, only waiting for me
to run in. Of course he went back to the woods and wild beasts. What
other place was there for him?"
"Don't, don't, Julia! don't say such words. Harm will not come to
him."
"I know it won't," said the young girl; "for when the whole world
turns against a brave, true heart, God watches over it with the more
care."
"True, my child; and we can at least pray God to be near him, only
don't think of this matter now. In a day or two you will be yourself,
and look at it in a different light. Your father will return
to-morrow, and it may not be best to tell him of all this at present.
It would only disturb him."
"Yes, mamma; I could not tell him everything as I have told you, and
so I must not tell him anything, nor anybody else. How wretched it all
is!"