When John Vincent, after waiting twelve years, married Phebe Etheridge,
the whole neighborhood experienced that sense of relief and satisfaction
which follows the triumph of the right. Not that the fact of a true love
is ever generally recognized and respected when it is first discovered;
for there is a perverse quality in American human nature which will not
accept the existence of any fine, unselfish passion, until it has been
tested and established beyond peradventure. There were two views of the
case when John Vincent's love for Phebe, and old Reuben Etheridge's hard
prohibition of the match, first became known to the community. The girls
and boys, and some of the matrons, ranged themselves at once on the side
of the lovers, but a large majority of the older men and a few of the
younger supported the tyrannical father.
Reuben Etheridge was rich, and, in addition to what his daughter would
naturally inherit from him, she already possessed more than her lover,
at the time of their betrothal. This in the eyes of one class was a
sufficient reason for the father's hostility. When low natures live
(as they almost invariably do) wholly in the present, they neither
take tenderness from the past nor warning from the possibilities of the
future. It is the exceptional men and women who remember their youth.
So, these lovers received a nearly equal amount of sympathy and
condemnation; and only slowly, partly through their quiet fidelity and
patience, and partly through the improvement in John Vincent's
worldly circumstances, was the balance changed. Old Reuben remained an
unflinching despot to the last: if any relenting softness touched his
heart, he sternly concealed it; and such inference as could be drawn
from the fact that he, certainly knowing what would follow his death,
bequeathed his daughter her proper share of his goods, was all that
could be taken for consent.
They were married: John, a grave man in middle age, weather-beaten
and worn by years of hard work and self-denial, yet not beyond the
restoration of a milder second youth; and Phebe a sad, weary woman,
whose warmth of longing had been exhausted, from whom youth and its
uncalculating surrenders of hope and feeling had gone forever. They
began their wedded life under the shadow of the death out of which
it grew; and when, after a ceremony in which neither bridesmaid nor
groomsman stood by their side, they united their divided homes, it
seemed to their neighbors that a separated husband and wife had come
together again, not that the relation was new to either.
John Vincent loved his wife with the tenderness of an innocent man,
but all his tenderness could not avail to lift the weight of settled
melancholy which had gathered upon her. Disappointment, waiting,
yearning, indulgence in long lament and self-pity, the morbid
cultivation of unhappy fancies--all this had wrought its work upon her,
and it was too late to effect a cure. In the night she awoke to weep at
his side, because of the years when she had awakened to weep alone;
by day she kept up her old habit of foreboding, although the evening
steadily refuted the morning; and there were times when, without any
apparent cause, she would fall into a dark, despairing mood which her
husband's greatest care and cunning could only slowly dispel.
Two or three years passed, and new life came to the Vincent farm. One
day, between midnight and dawn, the family pair was doubled; the cry of
twin sons was heard in the hushed house. The father restrained his happy
wonder in his concern for the imperilled life of the mother; he guessed
that she had anticipated death, and she now hung by a thread so slight
that her simple will might snap it. But her will, fortunately, was as
faint as her consciousness; she gradually drifted out of danger, taking
her returning strength with a passive acquiescence rather than with joy.
She was hardly paler than her wont, but the lurking shadow seemed to
have vanished from her eyes, and John Vincent felt that her features
had assumed a new expression, the faintly perceptible stamp of some
spiritual change.
It was a happy day for him when, propped against his breast and gently
held by his warm, strong arm, the twin boys were first brought to be
laid upon her lap. Two staring, dark-faced creatures, with restless
fists and feet, they were alike in every least feature of their
grotesque animality. Phebe placed a hand under the head of each, and
looked at them for a long time in silence.
“Why is this?” she said, at last, taking hold of a narrow pink ribbon,
which was tied around the wrist of one.
“He's the oldest, sure,” the nurse answered. “Only by fifteen minutes or
so, but it generally makes a difference when twins come to be named;
and you may see with your own eyes that there's no telling of 'em apart
otherways.”
“Take off the ribbon, then,” said Phebe quietly; “_I_ know them.”
“Why, ma'am, it's always done, where they're so like! And I'll never
be able to tell which is which; for they sleep and wake and feed by the
same clock. And you might mistake, after all, in giving 'em names--”
“There is no oldest or youngest, John; they are two and yet one: this is
mine, and this is yours.”
“I see no difference at all, Phebe,” said John; “and how can we divide
them?”
“We will not divide,” she answered; “I only meant it as a sign.”
She smiled, for the first time in many days. He was glad of heart, but
did not understand her. “What shall we call them?” he asked. “Elias and
Reuben, after our fathers?”
“No, John; their names must be David and Jonathan.”
And so they were called. And they grew, not less, but more alike, in
passing through the stages of babyhood. The ribbon of the older one had
been removed, and the nurse would have been distracted, but for Phebe's
almost miraculous instinct. The former comforted herself with the hope
that teething would bring a variation to the two identical mouths; but
no! they teethed as one child. John, after desperate attempts, which
always failed in spite of the headaches they gave him, postponed the
idea of distinguishing one from the other, until they should be old
enough to develop some dissimilarity of speech, or gait, or habit.
All trouble might have been avoided, had Phebe consented to the least
variation in their dresses; but herein she was mildly immovable.
“Not yet,” was her set reply to her husband; and one day, when he
manifested a little annoyance at her persistence, she turned to him,
holding a child on each knee, and said with a gravity which silenced
him thenceforth: “John, can you not see that our burden has passed into
them? Is there no meaning in this--that two children who are one in body
and face and nature, should be given to us at our time of life, after
such long disappointment and trouble? Our lives were held apart; theirs
were united before they were born, and I dare not turn them in different
directions. Perhaps I do not know all that the Lord intended to say to
us, in sending them; but His hand is here!”
“I was only thinking of their good,” John meekly answered. “If they
are spared to grow up, there must be some way of knowing one from the
other.”
“THEY will not need it, and I, too, think only of them. They have taken
the cross from my heart, and I will lay none on theirs. I am reconciled
to my life through them, John; you have been very patient and good with
me, and I will yield to you in all things but in this. I do not think I
shall live to see them as men grown; yet, while we are together, I feel
clearly what it is right to do. Can you not, just once, have a little
faith without knowledge, John?”
“I'll try, Phebe,” he said. “Any way, I'll grant that the boys belong to
you more than to me.”
Phebe Vincent's character had verily changed. Her attacks of
semi-hysterical despondency never returned; her gloomy prophecies
ceased. She was still grave, and the trouble of so many years never
wholly vanished from her face; but she performed every duty of her life
with at least a quiet willingness, and her home became the abode of
peace; for passive content wears longer than demonstrative happiness.
David and Jonathan grew as one boy: the taste and temper of one was
repeated in the other, even as the voice and features. Sleeping or
waking, grieved or joyous, well or ill, they lived a single life, and
it seemed so natural for one to answer to the other's name, that they
probably would have themselves confused their own identities, but for
their mother's unerring knowledge. Perhaps unconsciously guided by her,
perhaps through the voluntary action of their own natures, each quietly
took the other's place when called upon, even to the sharing of praise
or blame at school, the friendships and quarrels of the playground. They
were healthy and happy lads, and John Vincent was accustomed to say
to his neighbors, “They're no more trouble than one would be; and yet
they're four hands instead of two.”
Phebe died when they were fourteen, saying to them, with almost her
latest breath, “Be one, always!” Before her husband could decide whether
to change her plan of domestic education, they were passing out of
boyhood, changing in voice, stature, and character with a continued
likeness which bewildered and almost terrified him. He procured garments
of different colors, but they were accustomed to wear each article in
common, and the result was only a mixture of tints for both. They were
sent to different schools, to be returned the next day, equally pale,
suffering, and incapable of study. Whatever device was employed, they
evaded it by a mutual instinct which rendered all external measures
unavailing. To John Vincent's mind their resemblance was an accidental
misfortune, which had been confirmed through their mother's fancy. He
felt that they were bound by some deep, mysterious tie, which, inasmuch
as it might interfere with all practical aspects of life, ought to be
gradually weakened. Two bodies, to him, implied two distinct men, and
it was wrong to permit a mutual dependence which prevented either from
exercising his own separate will and judgment.
But, while he was planning and pondering, the boys became young men, and
he was an old man. Old, and prematurely broken; for he had worked much,
borne much, and his large frame held only a moderate measure of vital
force. A great weariness fell upon him, and his powers began to give
way, at first slowly, but then with accelerated failure. He saw the end
coming, long before his sons suspected it; his doubt, for their sakes,
was the only thing which made it unwelcome. It was “upon his mind” (as
his Quaker neighbors would say) to speak to them of the future, and at
last the proper moment came.
It was a stormy November evening. Wind and rain whirled and drove among
the trees outside, but the sitting-room of the old farm-house was bright
and warm. David and Jonathan, at the table, with their arms over each
other's backs and their brown locks mixed together, read from the same
book: their father sat in the ancient rocking-chair before the fire,
with his feet upon a stool. The housekeeper and hired man had gone to
bed, and all was still in the house.
John waited until he heard the volume closed, and then spoke.
“Boys,” he said, “let me have a bit of talk with you. I don't seem to
get over my ailments rightly,--never will, maybe. A man must think of
things while there's time, and say them when they HAVE to be said. I
don't know as there's any particular hurry in my case; only, we never
can tell, from one day to another. When I die, every thing will belong
to you two, share and share alike, either to buy another farm with the
money out, or divide this: I won't tie you up in any way. But two of you
will need two farms for two families; for you won't have to wait twelve
years, like your mother and me.”
“We don't want another farm, father!” said David and Jonathan together.
“I know you don't think so, now. A wife seemed far enough off from me
when I was your age. You've always been satisfied to be with each other,
but that can't last. It was partly your mother's notion; I remember her
saying that our burden had passed into you. I never quite understood
what she meant, but I suppose it must rather be the opposite of what WE
had to bear.”
The twins listened with breathless attention while their father,
suddenly stirred by the past, told them the story of his long betrothal.
“And now,” he exclaimed, in conclusion, “it may be putting wild
ideas into your two heads, but I must say it! THAT was where I did
wrong--wrong to her and to me,--in waiting! I had no right to spoil the
best of our lives; I ought to have gone boldly, in broad day, to her
father's house, taken her by the hand, and led her forth to be my wife.
Boys, if either of you comes to love a woman truly, and she to love you,
and there is no reason why God (I don't say man) should put you asunder,
do as I ought to have done, not as I did! And, maybe, this advice is the
best legacy I can leave you.”
“But, father,” said David, speaking for both, “we have never thought of
marrying.”
“Likely enough,” their father answered; “we hardly ever think of what
surely comes. But to me, looking back, it's plain. And this is the
reason why I want you to make me a promise, and as solemn as if I was on
my death-bed. Maybe I shall be, soon.”
Tears gathered in the eyes of the twins. “What is it, father?” they both
said.
“Nothing at all to any other two boys, but I don't know how YOU'll take
it. What if I was to ask you to live apart for a while?”
“Oh father!” both cried. They leaned together, cheek pressing cheek, and
hand clasping hand, growing white and trembling. John Vincent, gazing
into the fire, did not see their faces, or his purpose might have been
shaken.
“I don't say NOW,” he went on. “After a while, when--well, when I'm
dead. And I only mean a beginning, to help you toward what HAS to be.
Only a month; I don't want to seem hard to you; but that's little, in
all conscience. Give me your word: say, 'For mother's sake!'”
There was a long pause. Then David and Jonathan said, in low, faltering
voices, “For mother's sake, I promise.”
“Remember that you were only boys to her. She might have made all this
seem easier, for women have reasons for things no man can answer. Mind,
within a year after I'm gone!”
He rose and tottered out of the room.
The twins looked at each other: David said, “Must we?” and Jonathan,
“How can we?” Then they both thought, “It may be a long while yet.” Here
was a present comfort, and each seemed to hold it firmly in holding the
hand of the other, as they fell asleep side by side.
The trial was nearer than they imagined. Their father died before the
winter was over; the farm and other property was theirs, and they might
have allowed life to solve its mysteries as it rolled onwards, but for
their promise to the dead. This must be fulfilled, and then--one thing
was certain; they would never again separate.
“The sooner the better,” said David. “It shall be the visit to our uncle
and cousins in Indiana. You will come with me as far as Harrisburg;
it may be easier to part there than here. And our new neighbors, the
Bradleys, will want your help for a day or two, after getting home.”
“It is less than death,” Jonathan answered, “and why should it seem to
be more? We must think of father and mother, and all those twelve years;
now I know what the burden was.”
“And we have never really borne any part of it! Father must have been
right in forcing us to promise.”
Every day the discussion was resumed, and always with the same
termination. Familiarity with the inevitable step gave them increase
of courage; yet, when the moment had come and gone, when, speeding on
opposite trains, the hills and valleys multiplied between them with
terrible velocity, a pang like death cut to the heart of each, and the
divided life became a chill, oppressive dream.
During the separation no letters passed between them. When the neighbors
asked Jonathan for news of his brother, he always replied, “He is well,”
and avoided further speech with such evidence of pain that they spared
him. An hour before the month drew to an end, he walked forth alone,
taking the road to the nearest railway station. A stranger who passed
him at the entrance of a thick wood, three miles from home, was
thunderstruck on meeting the same person shortly after, entering the
wood from the other side; but the farmers in the near fields saw two
figures issuing from the shade, hand in hand.
Each knew the other's month, before they slept, and the last thing
Jonathan said, with his head on David's shoulder, was, “You must know
our neighbors, the Bradleys, and especially Ruth.” In the morning,
as they dressed, taking each other's garments at random, as of old,
Jonathan again said, “I have never seen a girl that I like so well
as Ruth Bradley. Do you remember what father said about loving and
marrying? It comes into my mind whenever I see Ruth; but she has no
sister.”
“But we need not both marry,” David replied, “that might part us, and
this will not. It is for always now.”
“For always, David.”
Two or three days later Jonathan said, as he started on an errand to the
village: “I shall stop at the Bradleys this evening, so you must walk
across and meet me there.”
When David approached the house, a slender, girlish figure, with her
back towards him, was stooping over a bush of great crimson roses,
cautiously clipping a blossom here and there. At the click of the
gate-latch she started and turned towards him. Her light gingham bonnet,
falling back, disclosed a long oval face, fair and delicate, sweet brown
eyes, and brown hair laid smoothly over the temples. A soft flush rose
suddenly to her cheeks, and he felt that his own were burning.
“Oh Jonathan!” she exclaimed, transferring the roses to her left hand,
and extending her right, as she came forward.
He was too accustomed to the name to recognize her mistake at once, and
the word “Ruth!” came naturally to his lips.
“I should know your brother David has come,” she then said; “even if I
had not heard so. You look so bright. How glad I am!”
“Is he not here?” David asked.
“No; but there he is now, surely!” She turned towards the lane, where
Jonathan was dismounting. “Why, it is yourself over again, Jonathan!”
As they approached, a glance passed between the twins, and a secret
transfer of the riding-whip to David set their identity right with
Ruth, whose manner toward the latter innocently became shy with all its
friendliness, while her frank, familiar speech was given to Jonathan,
as was fitting. But David also took the latter to himself, and when they
left, Ruth had apparently forgotten that there was any difference in the
length of their acquaintance.
On their way homewards David said: “Father was right. We must marry,
like others, and Ruth is the wife for us,--I mean for you, Jonathan.
Yes, we must learn to say MINE and YOURS, after all, when we speak of
her.”
“Even she cannot separate us, it seems,” Jonathan answered. “We must
give her some sign, and that will also be a sign for others. It will
seem strange to divide ourselves; we can never learn it properly; rather
let us not think of marriage.”
“We cannot help thinking of it; she stands in mother's place now, as we
in father's.”
Then both became silent and thoughtful. They felt that something
threatened to disturb what seemed to be the only possible life for them,
yet were unable to distinguish its features, and therefore powerless
to resist it. The same instinct which had been born of their wonderful
spiritual likeness told them that Ruth Bradley already loved Jonathan:
the duty was established, and they must conform their lives to it. There
was, however, this slight difference between their natures--that David
was generally the first to utter the thought which came to the minds of
both. So when he said, “We shall learn what to do when the need comes,”
it was a postponement of all foreboding. They drifted contentedly
towards the coming change.
The days went by, and their visits to Ruth Bradley were continued.
Sometimes Jonathan went alone, but they were usually together, and the
tie which united the three became dearer and sweeter as it was more
closely drawn. Ruth learned to distinguish between the two when they
were before her: at least she said so, and they were willing to believe
it. But she was hardly aware how nearly alike was the happy warmth
in her bosom produced by either pair of dark gray eyes and the soft
half-smile which played around either mouth. To them she seemed to be
drawn within the mystic circle which separated them from others--she,
alone; and they no longer imagined a life in which she should not share.
Then the inevitable step was taken. Jonathan declared his love, and was
answered. Alas! he almost forgot David that late summer evening, as they
sat in the moonlight, and over and over again assured each other how
dear they had grown. He felt the trouble in David's heart when they met.
“Ruth is ours, and I bring her kiss to you,” he said, pressing his lips
to David's; but the arms flung around him trembled, and David whispered,
“Now the change begins.”
“Oh, this cannot be our burden!” Jonathan cried, with all the rapture
still warm in his heart.
“If it is, it will be light, or heavy, or none at all, as we shall bear
it,” David answered, with a smile of infinite tenderness.
For several days he allowed Jonathan to visit the Bradley farm alone,
saying that it must be so on Ruth's account. Her love, he declared, must
give her the fine instinct which only their mother had ever possessed,
and he must allow it time to be confirmed. Jonathan, however, insisted
that Ruth already possessed it; that she was beginning to wonder at his
absence, and to fear that she would not be entirely welcome to the home
which must always be equally his.
David yielded at once.
“You must go alone,” said Jonathan, “to satisfy yourself that she knows
us at last.”
Ruth came forth from the house as he drew near. Her face beamed; she
laid her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him. “Now you cannot doubt
me, Ruth!” he said, gently.
“Doubt you, Jonathan!” she exclaimed with a fond reproach in her eyes.
“But you look troubled; is any thing the matter?”
“I was thinking of my brother,” said David, in a low tone.
“Tell me what it is,” she said, drawing him into the little arbor of
woodbine near the gate. They took seats side by side on the rustic
bench. “He thinks I may come between you: is it not that?” she asked.
Only one thing was clear to David's mind--that she would surely speak
more frankly and freely of him to the supposed Jonathan than to his real
self. This once he would permit the illusion.
“Not more than must be,” he answered. “He knew all from the very
beginning. But we have been like one person in two bodies, and any
change seems to divide us.”
“I feel as you do,” said Ruth. “I would never consent to be your wife,
if I could really divide you. I love you both too well for that.”
“Do you love me?” he asked, entirely forgetting his representative part.
Again the reproachful look, which faded away as she met his eyes. She
fell upon his breast, and gave him kisses which were answered with equal
tenderness. Suddenly he covered his face with his hands, and burst into
a passion of tears.
“Jonathan! Oh Jonathan!” she cried, weeping with alarm and sympathetic
pain.
It was long before he could speak; but at last, turning away his head,
he faltered, “I am David!”
There was a long silence.
When he looked up she was sitting with her hands rigidly clasped in her
lap: her face was very pale.
“There it is, Ruth,” he said; “we are one heart and one soul. Could he
love, and not I? You cannot decide between us, for one is the other. If
I had known you first, Jonathan would be now in my place. What follows,
then?”
“No marriage,” she whispered.
“No!” he answered; “we brothers must learn to be two men instead of one.
You will partly take my place with Jonathan; I must live with half my
life, unless I can find, somewhere in the world, your other half.”
“I cannot part you, David!”
“Something stronger than you or me parts us, Ruth. If it were death,
we should bow to God's will: well, it can no more be got away from than
death or judgment. Say no more: the pattern of all this was drawn long
before we were born, and we cannot do any thing but work it out.”
He rose and stood before her. “Remember this, Ruth,” he said; “it is no
blame in us to love each other. Jonathan will see the truth in my face
when we meet, and I speak for him also. You will not see me again until
your wedding-day, and then no more afterwards--but, yes! ONCE, in some
far-off time, when you shall know me to be David, and still give me the
kiss you gave to-day.”
“Ah, after death!” she thought: “I have parted them forever.” She was
about to rise, but fell upon the seat again, fainting. At the same
moment Jonathan appeared at David's side.
No word was said. They bore her forth and supported her between them
until the fresh breeze had restored her to consciousness. Her first
glance rested on the brother's hands, clasping; then, looking from one
to the other, she saw that the cheeks of both were wet.
“Now, leave me,” she said, “but come to-morrow, Jonathan!” Even then she
turned from one to the other, with a painful, touching uncertainty, and
stretched out both hands to them in farewell.
How that poor twin heart struggled with itself is only known to God. All
human voices, and as they believed, also the Divine Voice, commanded the
division of their interwoven life. Submission would have seemed easier,
could they have taken up equal and similar burdens; but David was
unable to deny that his pack was overweighted. For the first time, their
thoughts began to diverge.
At last David said: “For mother's sake, Jonathan, as we promised. She
always called you HER child. And for Ruth's sake, and father's last
advice: they all tell me what I must do.”
It was like the struggle between will and desire, in the same nature,
and none the less fierce or prolonged because the softer quality foresaw
its ultimate surrender. Long after he felt the step to be inevitable,
Jonathan sought to postpone it, but he was borne by all combined
influences nearer and nearer to the time.
And now the wedding-day came. David was to leave home the same evening,
after the family dinner under his father's roof. In the morning he said
to Jonathan: “I shall not write until I feel that I have become other
than now, but I shall always be here, in you, as you will be in me,
everywhere. Whenever you want me, I shall know it; and I think I shall
know when to return.”
The hearts of all the people went out towards them as they stood
together in the little village church. Both were calm, but very pale and
abstracted in their expression, yet their marvellous likeness was still
unchanged. Ruth's eyes were cast down so they could not be seen; she
trembled visibly, and her voice was scarcely audible when she spoke the
vow. It was only known in the neighborhood that David was going to make
another journey. The truth could hardly have been guessed by persons
whose ideas follow the narrow round of their own experiences; had it
been, there would probably have been more condemnation than sympathy.
But in a vague way the presence of some deeper element was felt--the
falling of a shadow, although the outstretched wing was unseen. Far
above them, and above the shadow, watched the Infinite Pity, which was
not denied to three hearts that day.
It was a long time, more than a year, and Ruth was lulling her first
child on her bosom, before a letter came from David. He had wandered
westwards, purchased some lands on the outer line of settlement, and
appeared to be leading a wild and lonely life. “I know now,” he wrote,
“just how much there is to bear, and how to bear it. Strange men come
between us, but you are not far off when I am alone on these plains.
There is a place where I can always meet you, and I know that you have
found it,--under the big ash-tree by the barn. I think I am nearly
always there about sundown, and on moonshiny nights, because we are then
nearest together; and I never sleep without leaving you half my blanket.
When I first begin to wake I always feel your breath, so we are never
really parted for long. I do not know that I can change much; it is not
easy; it is like making up your mind to have different colored eyes
and hair, and I can only get sunburnt and wear a full beard. But we are
hardly as unhappy as we feared to be; mother came the other night, in a
dream, and took us on her knees. Oh, come to me, Jonathan, but for one
day! No, you will not find me; I am going across the Plains!”
And Jonathan and Ruth? They loved each other tenderly; no external
trouble visited them; their home was peaceful and pure; and yet, every
room and stairway and chair was haunted by a sorrowful ghost. As a
neighbor said after visiting them, “There seemed to be something lost.”
Ruth saw how constantly and how unconsciously Jonathan turned to see
his own every feeling reflected in the missing eyes; how his hand sought
another, even while its fellow pressed hers; how half-spoken words,
day and night, died upon his lips, because they could not reach the
twin-ear. She knew not how it came, but her own nature took upon itself
the same habit. She felt that she received a less measure of love than
she gave--not from Jonathan, in whose whole, warm, transparent heart no
other woman had ever looked, but something of her own passed beyond him
and never returned. To both their life was like one of those conjurer's
cups, seemingly filled with red wine, which is held from the lips by the
false crystal hollow.
Neither spoke of this: neither dared to speak. The years dragged out
their slow length, with rare and brief messages from David. Three
children were in the house, and still peace and plenty laid their signs
upon its lintels. But at last Ruth, who had been growing thinner and
paler ever since the birth of her first boy, became seriously ill.
Consumption was hers by inheritance, and it now manifested itself in a
form which too surely foretold the result. After the physician had
gone, leaving his fatal verdict behind him, she called to Jonathan,
who, bewildered by his grief, sank down on his knees at her bedside and
sobbed upon her breast.
“Don't grieve,” she said; “this is my share of the burden. If I have
taken too much from you and David, now comes the atonement. Many things
have grown clear to me. David was right when he said that there was no
blame. But my time is even less than the doctor thinks: where is David?
Can you not bid him come?”
“I can only call him with my heart,” he answered. “And will he hear me
now, after nearly seven years?”
“Call, then!” she eagerly cried. “Call with all the strength of your
love for him and for me, and I believe he will hear you!”
The sun was just setting. Jonathan went to the great ash-tree, behind
the barn, fell upon his knees, and covered his face, and the sense of
an exceeding bitter cry filled his heart. All the suppressed and baffled
longing, the want, the hunger, the unremitting pain of years, came upon
him and were crowded into the single prayer, “Come, David, or I die!”
Before the twilight faded, while he was still kneeling, an arm came upon
his shoulder, and the faint touch of another cheek upon his own. It was
hardly for the space of a thought, but he knew the sign.
“David will come!” he said to Ruth.
From that day all was changed. The cloud of coming death which hung over
the house was transmuted into fleecy gold. All the lost life came back
to Jonathan's face, all the unrestful sweetness of Ruth's brightened
into a serene beatitude. Months had passed since David had been heard
from; they knew not how to reach him without many delays; yet neither
dreamed of doubting his coming.
Two weeks passed, three, and there was neither word nor sign. Jonathan
and Ruth thought, “He is near,” and one day a singular unrest fell upon
the former. Ruth saw it, but said nothing until night came, when she
sent Jonathan from her bedside with the words, “Go and meet him?”
An hour afterwards she heard double steps on the stone walk in front of
the house. They came slowly to the door; it opened; she heard them along
the hall and ascending the stairs; then the chamber-lamp showed her the
two faces, bright with a single, unutterable joy.
One brother paused at the foot of the bed; the other drew near and bent
over her. She clasped her thin hands around his neck, kissed him fondly,
and cried, “Dear, dear David!”
“Dear Ruth,” he said, “I came as soon as I could. I was far away, among
wild mountains, when I felt that Jonathan was calling me. I knew that I
must return, never to leave you more, and there was still a little work
to finish. Now we shall all live again!”
“Yes,” said Jonathan, coming to her other side, “try to live, Ruth!”
Her voice came clear, strong, and full of authority. “I DO live, as
never before. I shall take all my life with me when I go to wait for one
soul, as I shall find it there! Our love unites, not divides, from this
hour!”
The few weeks still left to her were a season of almost superhuman
peace. She faded slowly and painlessly, taking the equal love of the
twin-hearts, and giving an equal tenderness and gratitude. Then first
she saw the mysterious need which united them, the fulness and joy
wherewith each completed himself in the other. All the imperfect past
was enlightened, and the end, even that now so near, was very good.
Every afternoon they carried her down to a cushioned chair on the
veranda, where she could enjoy the quiet of the sunny landscape, the
presence of the brothers seated at her feet, and the sports of her
children on the grass. Thus, one day, while David and Jonathan held her
hands and waited for her to wake from a happy sleep, she went before
them, and, ere they guessed the truth, she was waiting for their one
soul in the undiscovered land.
And Jonathan's children, now growing into manhood and girlhood, also
call David “father.” The marks left by their divided lives have long
since vanished from their faces; the middle-aged men, whose hairs are
turning gray, still walk hand in hand, still sleep upon the same pillow,
still have their common wardrobe, as when they were boys. They talk of
“our Ruth” with no sadness, for they believe that death will make them
one, when, at the same moment, he summons both. And we who know them, to
whom they have confided the touching mystery of their nature, believe so
too.