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.