Prince seemed fully to appreciate the day, and to be inspired with its subtle and exhilarating elixir; but after a mile or two of over-spirit, he sobered down into his long, easy, springy, untiring gallop. They passed the fields and went along the hard and dry highway, till she reached the diverging trail that struck off through the woods toward the settlement on the other side, the nearest house of which was Wilder's.
On she went among the trees, past recently deserted sugar camps, away from human habitations, into and through the heart of the forest, joyous and glad in her beauty and young life and hope, and happy thoughts; and finally she came to the creek; here she drew up her still fresh horse, and rode slowly through its clear, rapid waters, and turned down on its other bank. How glad it seemed, gurgling and rippling, and swirling, with liquid music and motion! Slowly she rode down and with a half timid feeling, as somehow doubting if she would not return. But it was all silent and quiet; the sunshine and the voice of the stream seemed to re-assure her, and the strange feeling passed away, as she entered the little nook so dear to her memory. How silent and empty it was, in the rich, bright light of the mid-forenoon! She dismounted, and taking her skirt upon her arm, was about to step under the rude shed, with the thought of the birds who had reared their young there the year before, when Prince lifted his head with a forward movement of his ears, and turning her eyes down the stream, they fell upon Barton, who had just passed around the lower angle of the rocks, and paused in speechless surprise, within a few feet of her.
With a little cry of joy, she threw out her hands and sprang towards him. Her forgotten skirt tripped her, and she would have fallen, but the quick arms of Barton were about her, and for an exquisite moment she abandoned herself fully to him.
"Oh, Arthur, you have come to me!"
Their lips found each other, the great mass of dark brown hair almost overflowed the light brown curls, and their glad tears mingled.
"Julia! I am alive—awake! and you are in my arms! Your kiss has been on my lips! You love me!"
"With my whole heart and soul!"
"Oh, how blessed to die at this moment!" murmured Bart.
"Would it not be more blessed to live, love?" she whispered.
"And you have always loved me?"
"Always—there—there!" with a touch of her lips at each word.
"I thought—"
"I know you did. You shall never, never think again—there!"
She withdrew from his arms, and adjusted her skirt, and stood by him in her wondrous beauty, radiant with the great happiness that filled her heart.
Barton was still confused, and looked with eyes wide open with amazement, partly at seeing her at all, partly at her marvellous beauty, which to him was seraphic, and more and most of all, at the revelation of her great love.
"Oh Julia! How was this? how is this—this coming of Heaven to me; this marvel of your love?"
"Did you really think, Arthur, that I had no eyes; that I had no ears; that I had no woman's heart? How could you think so meanly of me, and so meanly of yourself?"
"But you so scorned me."
"Hush! that was your word: it was not true; you were even then in my foolish girl's heart. Don't speak of that to me now; surely you must have known that that was all a mistake."
"And you always loved me? How wonderful that we should meet here and to-day!" he said, unable to take his eyes from her.
"You know the place and remember the day? Is it more marvellous, than that we should have been here before? I never knew how you found me then, and I am as much puzzled about your being here now. Father wrote us that you would come down with him to-morrow."
"Tell me how you come to be here, to-day, of all the things in the world?" said Bart.
"Am I to tell first? Well, you see, I wanted to see Mrs. Wilder and Rose; I have not been to their house since last fall, and so, having nothing else to do, I rode over, and just thought we would come down here—didn't we, Prince?"
"And so you call him Prince?" said Bart, who had recognized the horse.
"Yes, and I will sometime tell you why, if you will tell me how you came here to-day."
"I came on purpose, because I wanted to. Because you had hallowed the place, I knew that I should find your haunting presence in it. Oh, when that case was over, and I got out, all the old dreams, and visions, and memories, and voices came to me. And your face never absent, not with the old look of scorn that it seemed to wear, but sweet, and half reproachful, haunted me, and made me half believe what poor Henry's smitten love said to me of you, when I told her my story."
"Bless her," murmured Julia.
"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 God 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 God and his blessed sun and blue sky, and their two young, pure, loving hearts joined in a fervent outpouring of gratitude.
"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 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.
CHAPTER LI.
THE RETURN.
Spring came with its new life and promise, sweetly and serenely to the home and heart of Barton's mother, who was looking and hoping for his return, with a strong, intense, but silent yearning. For herself, for his brothers, and more for Julia, whom she now understood, and tenderly loved, and whose secret was sacred to her woman's heart; and most of all for Barton's own sake; for she knew that when these two met, the shadow that had surrounded them would disappear. Some pang she felt that there should be to him a dearer one; but she knew that Julia did not come between them, and that nothing would chill that side of his heart—the child side—that was next her own.
On Wednesday morning Julia had galloped up and given her Bart's letter of Tuesday, so that she knew he was in Chardon, well and hopeful, and would return to her as soon as he escaped from his trial.
Thursday evening Dr. Lyman came all aglow from Chardon. He had seen Bart and heard his argument, and all the enthusiasm of his nature was fully excited.
Now on this long, warm Friday—the anniversary of his departure—he was to come; and naturally enough she looked to see him come the way he went—from the east. Often, even before noon, she turned her eyes wistfully down the road, and until it met the rise the other side of the little valley, so on up past the red school house, and was lost over the summit; but the road was empty and lonely.
As the afternoon ran toward evening, she began to grow anxious. Suddenly the sound of wheels caught her ear, and she turned as Judge Markham's grays headed up to her gate. She recognized Julia, who, without waiting to be helped, sprang lightly from the carriage, with her face radiant, and bounding to her threw her arms about her neck.
"Oh, mother—my mother now—he is here. I met him in those blessed woods and brought him to you."
Then she made room for him, and for a moment the mother's arms encircled them both. How glad and happy she was, no man may know; as no man understands, and no woman can reveal, the depth and strength of mother love.
The three in happy tears—tears, that soon vanish, went into the dear old house, into whose every room Bart rushed in a moment, calling for the boys, and asking a thousand unanswered questions, and coming back, with a flood of words, half tears and half laughs.
"So, Bart," said the proud and happy mother, "it is all right," with a look towards Julia. "I knew it would be."
"And, mother, you knew it, too?"
"A woman sees where a man is blind, sometimes," she answered. "And boys must find these things out for themselves. Poor boy, I wanted somebody to whisper it to you."
"Somebody has done so, mother, and I am now so glad that it was left for that one to tell me."
The boys came in, and were a little overwhelmed, even George, with the warmth of their brother's reception. Julia went straight to George, saying, "Now, sir, you belong to me; you are to be my dear youngest brother! What a row of handsome brothers I shall have—there!—there!"—with a kiss for each word.
George at first did not quite comprehend: "Julia, are you going to be
Bart's wife?"
"Yes," with a richer color.
"When?"
"Hush! That isn't a question for you to ask." And she bent over him with another low sweet "hush," that he understood.
Soon the Colonel and his sweet young wife came in, and they all came to know that Julia was one of them; and she knew what warm, true hearts had come so suddenly about her with their strong, steady tenderness.
Then, as the sun fell among the western tree tops, Julia said to Mrs. Ridgeley, "Now Arthur must drive me home; his other mother has not seen him; and to-morrow I will bring him to you. He is to remain with us, and we will come and go between our two homes for, I don't know how long; until he grows stout and strong, and has run through all the woods, and visited all the dear old places, and grows weary of us, and sighs for Blackstone, and all those horrid books."
She took her happy place by his side in the carriage, after kissing them all, including Ed, and they drove leisurely away.
As they went, he told her gaily of the lonely walk, in darkness, when he last went over this road. The sketch brought new tears to the tender eyes at his side.
"Oh, Arthur! if you could have only known! if you had come to me for one moment."
"Today could never have come," he interrupted. "I like it as it is. How could I ever have had the beautiful revelation of your high and heroic qualities, Julia? And we could not have met as we did this morning. The very memory of that meeting equals the hope and blessedness of Heaven."
Down past the quiet houses they rode; through bits of woods that still fringed parts of the road; down past the old saw mill; up over the hill, where they paused to look over the beautiful pond, full to its high banks; then to the State road, and south over the high hills, overlooking the little cemetery, towards which Bart looked tenderly.
"Not to-night, love," said Julia; "their beautiful spirits see and love, and go with us."
So in the twilight, and with a pensive and serene happiness, they passed up through the straggling village, Julia and her lover, to her own home.
It had somehow been made known that Bart would that evening arrive. His trunk had been received by the stage, at the stage house, and a group of curious persons were on the look out in front of Parker's, as they drove past. When Bart lifted his hat, they recognized and greeted him with a hearty cheer; which was repeated when the carriage passed the store. Bart was deeply touched.
"You see," said the happy Julia, "that everybody loves you."
"You see they greet us on your account," he answered.
A little group was also at her father's gate, and as Bart sprang out,
Julia's mother took him by both hands.
"So you have come at last, and will be one of us."
Just how he answered, or how Julia alighted, he could never tell. This was the final touch and test, and if the whole did not vanish, he should certainly accept it all as real.
"What a sweet and wonderful little romance it all is," said the happy mother; "and to happen to us here, in this new, wild, humdrum region! Who shall say that God does not order, and that heroism does not exist; and that faithful love is not still rewarded."
"Mrs. Markham"—
"Call me mother!" said that lady; "I have long loved you, and thought of you as my son."
"And your husband?" said Bart.
"Is here to answer for himself," said the Judge, entering. He came forward and greeted Bart warmly.
"Judge Markham," said Bart, holding each parent by a hand; "Julia and I met by accident this morning, at the place where we were sheltered a year ago. We found that no explanation was needed, and we there asked God to bless our love and marriage. Of course we may have taken too much for granted."
"No, no!" said the Judge, warmly, placing Julia's hand within his. "We will now, and always, and ever, ask God to bless your love, and crown it with a true and sacred marriage. Such as ours has been, my love, won't we?"
"Certainly," answered Mrs. Markham. "And we take him to our home and hearts as our true son."
Then all knelt, and the father's voice in reverent prayer and thanksgiving, was for a moment lifted to the Great Father.
Later, they were quiet and happy, around a tea, or rather a supper table. But Bart toyed with his fork, and sparkled with happy, brilliant sallies. Julia watched him with real concern.
"Arthur," she said, "I am a woman; and a woman likes to see even her lover eat. It is the mother part, isn't it, mamma?" blushing and laughing, "that likes to see children feed. Now he has not eaten a mouthful to-day; and I shall be anxious."
"For that matter he dined on a gill of milk, and one ounce of honey yesterday," said the Judge, "Don't you ever eat?"
"And I shall shock him;" said Julia, "he will soon find that I am only common vulgar flesh and blood, to be fed and nourished."
"Don't fear," said Bart; "I like a strong, healthy, deep chested woman, who can live and endure. I am not the least bit of a Byron. And now let me get used to this new heaven, into which you have just taken me; let my heart get steady, if it will, in its great happiness. Let me have some good runs in the woods, some good rows on the ponds, some hard gallops. Let me get tired, and I'll astonish you with a famine."
"I shall be glad to see it," said Julia.
There came pleasant talk of trifles, that only lay about on the surface, and near the great joy of their new happiness; and little pleasantries of the Judge. He asked Julia, "how she liked the moustache, suggesting that it might be in the way.
"I like it," said Julia, "and it isn't a bit in the way."
Then he referred to a certain other grave matter, and wanted to know when?
"That isn't for you to ask, Papa Judge—is it, mamma?"
CHAPTER LII.
FINAL DREAM LAND.
Later still, when the elders had left the lovers to each other, Bart found himself reclining on the sofa, with his head in Julia's lap. And those little rosy tipped fingers toyed caressingly with that coveted moustache, and were kissed for it, and went and did it again, and so on; and then tenderly with the long light brown wavy curls.
"Julia, these blessed moments of love and rest, though they run into days or weeks, will end."
"Arthur"—reproachfully.
"Time will not stand and leave us to float, and come and go on a sweet shaded river of delight; sometime I must go out to show that I am not unworthy of you, to find, and to make. You shall have your own sweet way, and will, and yet you will also—will you not?—tell me when this happiness shall be lost in the greater, merely that I may do my man's part."
"Arthur, I take you at your word. My will is that for two blessed months, of which this shall not be counted as one day, for it must stand forever apart, you shall say nothing of books, or wanting them; or of business, or cases, or location, but shall stay with us, our mothers and father, with me, and run, and ride, and hunt, and fish, and grow strong, and eat, and I will let you go, and alone, when you wish; and at the end of two months, I will tell you when."
"And Arthur," stooping low over him, "a young girl's heart and ways are curious, and not worth a man's knowing, or thought, perhaps. Let me know you, let me be acquainted with you, and I would like you to know me also, though it may not repay you; and let me grow to be your wife. We have such funny notions, such weak girl ways and thoughts. I have not had my lover a full day yet. A young girl wishes to be courted and sought, and made believe that she is supreme; and she likes to have her lover come at a set time, and sit and wait and think the clock has been turned back, and that he won't come, and yet he must come, at the moment; and she will affect to have forgotten it. She likes to be wooed with music, and flowers, and poetry, and to remain coy and only yield when her full heart had gone long before; and then to be engaged, and wear her ring, and be proud of her affianced, and to be envied—oh, it is a thousand, thousand times more to us than to you. It is our all, and we can enjoy it but once, and think what is lost out of the life of the young girl who has not enjoyed it at all. See, Arthur, what poor, petty, weak things we are, not worth the understanding, and not worth the winning, as we would be won."
Arthur had started up, and glided to the floor, on his knees, had clasped his hands about her slender waist, and was looking earnestly and tenderly into her coy, half-averted face, as, half seriously and half in badinage, she made her plaint.
"Oh, Julia!"
"Nay, Arthur, I like it as it is. It was in your nature to have known me, and to have courted me in the old way; but it would have been poor and tame, and made up of a few faded flowers and scraps of verses; and think what I have had—a daring hero between me and a wild beast—a brave, devoted and passionate lover, who, in spite of scorn and rejection, hunted for me through night and tempest, to rescue me from death, who takes me up in his strong arms, carries me over a flood, and nourishes me back to life, and goes proudly away, asking nothing but the great boon of serving me. Oh! I had a thousand times rather have this! It is now a beautiful romance. But I am to have my ring, and"—
"Be my sweet and blessed sovereign lady; to be served and worshipped, and to hear music and poetry; whose word and wish is to be law in all the realm of love."
"From which you are not to depart for two full months of thirty-one days each."
Then she conducted him to the apartment in which we beheld her the night before.
"This," pushing open the door, into the room, warm and sweet with the odor of flowers, "is your own special room, to be yours, always."
"Always?" a little plaintively.
"Always—until—until—I—we give you another."
"Good night, Arthur."
"Good night, Julia."
She tripped down the hall, and turned her bright face to catch a kiss, and throw it back.
With a sweet unrest in her full heart, the young maiden on her couch, set herself to count up the gathered treasures of the wonderful day.
How was it? Did her riding skirt really get under her feet? Would he have caught her in his arms if she had not fallen? She thought he would.
And so she mused; and at last in slumber dreamed sweet maiden's dreams of love and heaven.
And Bart found himself in a marvellous forest, wandering with Julia, wondrous in her fresh and tender beauty, on through endless glades, amid the gush of bird-songs, and the fragrance of flowers.
And there in the dream land whence I called them, I leave them. Why should I awake them again? For them can another day so bright and happy ever dawn? I who love them, could have kept them for a bright brief space longer. I could have heard the sparkling voice of Bart, and the answering laugh of Julia—and then I should listen and not hear—look anxiously around and not see!
I part in real sorrow with these bright children of my fancy, sweet awakeners of old time memories, placed amid far off scenes, to win from others, tenderness and love if they may. And may they be remembered as forever lingering in perennial youth and love, in the land of dreams.