Bart Ridgeley Part 6

"Mr. Ridgeley"--not Barton, or his first name, as in her childhood--what a heart-swoon smote the youth at the formal address!--"Mr. Ridgeley, there is something I must say to you. My father does not care to have me in your company, and I must not receive the most ordinary attention from you. He would not, I fear, like to know that you were at our house."

Did it cost her anything to say this? Apparently not, though her voice and manner diminished its sting. A moment's pause, and Barton's voice, cold and steady, answered back:

"I know what your father's feelings towards me are," and then, with warmth, "but I am sure that he would think less of me, if possible, were I to permit any woman to find her way, at this hour, out of this wilderness."

It was not much to say, but it was well said, and he turned his face towards her as he said it, lit up with a clear expression of man's loyalty to woman--not unpleasant to the young girl. Why could not he leave it there and to the future? They walked on, and the shadows deepened.

"Miss Markham, I, too, must say a thing to you: from my boyhood to this hour, deeply, pa.s.sionately, with my whole heart and soul, have I loved you."

There was no mistaking; the intensity of his voice made his words thrill. She recoiled from them as if stunned, and turned her face, pale now, and marked, fully towards him.

"What! What did you say?"

"I love you!" with a deep, full voice.

"How dare you utter such words to me?"

Her eyes flashed and nostrils dilated.

"Because they are true; because I am a man and you are a woman,"

steadily and proudly.

"A man! you a man! Is it manly to waylay me in this lonely place, and force yourself upon me, and insult me with this? You compel me to--to--"

"Scorn and despise you!" supplied the youth, in a bitter tone.

"Take the words, then, if you choose them."

She was simply grand in her style, till this last expression, which had the angry snap of an enraged woman. Some high natures might have answered back her scorn; a lower one might have complained; and still another would have left her in the woods. Barton said nothing, but, with a cold, stony face, walked on by her side. If, in his desperation, he wanted this killing thrust, which must ever rankle and never heal, to enable him to overcome and subdue his great pa.s.sion, he had got it. That little hand, that emphasized her words with a gesture of superb disdain, would never have to repeat the blow. It raised about her a barrier that he was never after to approach.

He was not a man to complain. He would have told her why he said these words; he could not now. Some men are like wolves in traps, and die without a moan. Barton could die, and smile back into the face of his slayer, and say no word.

Night was now deepening in the woods, with the haughty maiden, and high, proud and humiliated youth, walking still side by side through its shadows. They at length reached the path that led from the open way to the left, approaching Julia's home. There was a continuous thicket of thrifty second-growth young trees bordering the track along which the two were journeying, and the opening through it made by this narrow path was black with shadow, like the entrance to a cave.

"This is the way," said Bart, turning into it.

These were the first words he had uttered, and came as if from a distance. Without a word of hesitation Julia turned into the path with him, yet with almost a shudder at the darkness. They had not taken a dozen steps when an appalling, shrieking yell, a brute yell, of ferocious animal rage--the rage for blood and l.u.s.t to mangle and tear--burst from the thicket on their right. A wild plunge through tangled brush and limbs, another more appalling shriek, and a dark, shadowy form, with a fierce, hungry growl, crouched in the pathway just before them, with its yellow, tawny, cruel eyes flas.h.i.+ng in their faces. The first sound seemed to heat every fiery particle of the blood of the youth into madness, and open an outlet to the burning elements of his nature. Here was something to encounter, and for her, and in her presence; and the brute had hardly crouched as if for its spring, when, with an answering cry, a man's shout, a challenge and a charge, he sprang forward, with his unarmed strength, to the encounter. As if cowed and overcome by the higher nature, the brute turned, and with a complaining whine like a kicked dog, ran into the depths of the woods. Barton had momentarily, in a half frenzy, wished for a grapple, and felt a pang of real disappointment.

"The brute is a coward," he said, as he turned back, where the white robes of Julia were dimly visible in the darkness. She was a daughter of the Puritans, and had the blood and high courage of her race. The first cry of the animal had almost frozen her blood, but the eager, proud, manly shout of Barton affected her like a trumpet-call. She exulted in his das.h.i.+ng courage, and felt an irresistible impulse to rush forward to his aid. It all occurred in the fraction of a moment; and when she realized that the peril was over, she was well-nigh overcome.

"You were always brave," said Barton, cheerily, with just a little strain in his voice; "you were in no danger, and it is all over."

No answer.

"You are not overcome?" with an anxious voice. "Oh," coming close to her, "if I might offer you support!"

He held out his hand, and she put hers in it. How cool and firm his touch was, and how her tremor subsided under it! He pulled her hand within his arm, and hers rested fully upon his, with but their light summer draperies between them.

"But a little way further," he said, in his cheery voice, and they hurried forward.

Neither spoke. What did either think? The youth was sorry for the awful fright of the poor girl, and so glad of the little thing that eased his own humiliation. The girl--who can tell what a girl thinks?

As they reached the cleared land, a sense of relief came to Julia, who had started a dozen times, in her escape out of the woods, at imaginary sounds. Day was still in the heavens, and the sight of her father's house gladdened her.

"Will you mind the dew?" asked her companion.

"Not in the least," she answered; and he led her across the pastures to the rear of an enclosure that surrounded the homestead. He seemed to know the way, and conducted her through a large open gate, and so to a lane that led directly to the rear of the house, but a few yards distant. He laid his hand upon the small gate that opened into it, and turning to her, said:

"I may not intrude further upon you. For your relief, I ought perhaps to say that the words of madness and folly which I uttered to you will neither be recalled nor repeated. Let them lie where they fell--under your feet. Your father's house, and your father's daughter, will be sacred from me."

The voice was firm, low, and steady; and opening the gate, the young girl entered, paused a moment, and then, without a word, ran rapidly towards the house. As she turned an angle, she saw the youth still standing by the gate, as if to protect her. She flew past the corner, and called, in a distressed voice:

"Mamma! mamma! oh, mother!"

She was a Puritan girl, with the self-repression and control of her race, and the momentary apprehension that seized her as she left the side of Barton was overcome as she entered her father's house.

"Julia!" exclaimed her mother, coming forward, "is that you? Where have you come from? What is the matter?"

"I came through the woods," said the girl, hurriedly. "I've been so awfully frightened! Such dreadful things have happened!" with a half hysterical laugh, which ended in a sob.

"Julia! Julia! my child! what under the heavens has happened? Are you hurt?"

"No, only dreadfully frightened. I was belated, and it came on dark, and just as we turned into the path from the old road, that awful beast, with a terrible shriek, sprang into the road before us, and was about to leap upon me, when Barton sprang at him and drove him off. If it had not been for him, I would have been torn in pieces."

"Barton?--was he with you? Thank G.o.d! oh, bless and thank G.o.d for your escape! My child! my child! How awful it sounds! Come! come to my room, and let me hold you, and hear it all!"

"Oh, mamma! what a weak and cowardly thing a woman is! I thought I was so strong, and really courageous, and the thought of this thing makes me tremble now."

They gained her mother's room, and Julia, seating herself at her mother's feet, and resting her arms on her mother's lap, undertook to tell her story.

"I cannot tell you how it all happened. Barton met me, and would come along with me, and then he said strange things to me; and I answered him back, and quarrelled with him, and--"

"What could he have said to you? Tell me all."

Julia began and told with great minuteness, and with much feeling, her whole adventure. She explained that she really did not want Bart to come with her, for that it would displease her father; and that when he did, she thought he ought to know that he was not at liberty to be her escort or come to the house, and so she told him. She could not tell why she answered him just as she did, but she was surprised, and not quite herself, and she might have said it differently, and need not have said so much, and he certainly must know that she did not mean it all. Surely it was most his fault; if he really had such feelings, why should he tell her, and tell her as he did? It was dreadful, and she would never be happy again; and she laid her head in her mother's lap, in her great anguish.

When her burst of grief had subsided, and she was calm, her mother asked several questions, and learned all that was said, and was much excited at Julia's account of the encounter with the beast and Barton's intrepidity. She seemed to feel that they had both escaped a great danger, through his courage.

"My dear child," she said, "I don't know what to think of these strange and trying events, mixed up as they are. There is one very, very unfortunate thing about it."

"That I met Barton? Oh, mother!"

"No, no; not that. It was unfortunate that you came the way you did, or unfortunate that you went, perhaps; but it is not that. It was most providential that Barton was with you, but so unfortunate that he said to you what he did."

"Is it a misfortune to be loved, mother?"

"Let us not talk of this to-night, my darling," stooping and kissing her still pale cheek. "G.o.d only knows of these things. It may not be a misfortune, but it may bring unhappiness, dear, to somebody."

"Perhaps, mother, if he had not had such feelings he would not have come with me."