Bart Ridgeley Part 43

"And I walked, and mused, and dreamed all the night; and this morning I sent your kind, good father a note, and came off. I came as directly here as I could, and now indeed I believe G.o.d sent me."

His arm was about her, and he held both her hands. The frank confession, so sweet to her, had its immediate reward from her lips.

"Arthur," she said, "I, too, came to see this place, with its sweet and sacred memories. I have been here three times before. You may know every thought and feeling of my heart. I could not have got through the day without coming: and how blessed I am for coming. Do you remember, when you had done all you could for my rest and comfort, how, on that awful yet precious night, you asked me if I had said a prayer, and I asked you to pray? Do you know that my mother and I both believe that that prayer was answered, and that she was impressed with my safety in answer to it? Oh, how grateful to our Father for his goodness to us we should be. Arthur, can you thank Him for us, now?"

And they knelt in the forest solitude, with G.o.d and his blessed sun and blue sky, and their two young, pure, loving hearts joined in a fervent outpouring of grat.i.tude.

"Our Father, for the precious and blessed revelation of our hearts, each to the other, we thank Thee. Let this love be as pure, and sacred, and holy, and eternal, as we now feel it to be. Grant, dear Father, that it may be sanctified by holy marriage; and that through Thy gracious providence, this union of hearts and souls may ever be ours. Hear us, thy young, helpless, yet trusting, believing, and loving children."

And she: "Sweet and blessed Saviour; let Thy precious love and presence be also about us, to keep us, help us, and bless us; and Father, let the maiden's voice also join in the prayer that Thou wilt bless us, as one."

They arose, and turned to each other, with sweet, calm, restful, happy faces; with souls full of trust and confidence, that was to know no change or diminution.

CHAPTER L.

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 pa.s.sage 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 grat.i.tude. 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 pa.s.sion 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 slas.h.i.+ng. 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 slas.h.i.+ng, 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 slas.h.i.+ng, I could find no foot-marks in the leaves; and I struck out southerly, and in a little thicket of young beeches and p.r.i.c.kly ash, hanging to a thorn, I found your hood. Oh, G.o.d! 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."