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.