Bart Ridgeley Part 23

How under the heavens did you ever find your way here? How you must have suffered! See! here is your hood!" placing it over her tangled and dripping hair. "And let me put this on you." Removing his "wamus,"

and putting her arms through the sleeves, he tied the lower corners about her little waist, and b.u.t.toned the top over her bosom and about her neck. He gave her another draught of wine, and paused for a moment--"I must carry you."

"Oh, I can walk!" said the revived girl, with vivacity.

He lifted his nearly consumed torch, and conducted her to the stream.

"We must cross this, and find shelter on the other side." He let himself at once from the abrupt bank, into the cold, swift water, that came to his middle. "I must carry you over;" unhesitatingly she stooped over to him, and was taken with one strong arm fully to himself, while he held his torch with the other. He turned with her then, and plunged across the creek, holding her above its waters. Its deepest part ran next the bank where he entered; fortunately it was not very wide, and he bore her safely to the opposite and lower bank.

The other side was protected from the tempest, which was at its greatest fury, by a high and perpendicular ledge of rocks which the course of the creek followed, but leaving a narrow s.p.a.ce of hard land along the base. Under the shelter, Bart turned up stream with his charge, occasionally lifting his torch and inspecting the mossy ledge.

Within a few feet of them the snow fell in wreaths and swirls, and sometimes little eddies of wind sifted it over them.

"Somewhere near here, is a place where they made shingles last summer, and there was a shed against the rocks, if we could only find it."

Finally they doubled an abrupt angle in the nearly smooth wall, which bent suddenly back from the stream, for many feet, making a semicircle of a little s.p.a.ce, and in the back of which Bart discovered the anxiously looked-for shed;--a mere rude cover, on posts driven into the ground.

Under and about it were great quant.i.ties of dry shavings, and short bits of wood, the hearts and saps of shingle blocks. To place a pile of these on the margin of the creek, and apply his torch to them, took but a moment; and in an instant a bright, white flame flashed and lit up the little sheltered alcove. Another, and the almost overcome girl was placed on a seat of soft, dry shavings, against the moss-grown rock, under the rude roof, out of the reach of the snow or wind; and another fire was lit of the dry shingle blocks, at her feet, from which her saturated shoes were removed, and to which warmth was soon restored.

Barton now took from a pocket on the outside of the "wamus," a small parcel, and produced some slices of tongue and bread, which the famished girl ate with the relish and eagerness of a hungry child.

More wine, now mingled with water, completed her repast; and Bart made further preparations for her comfort and rest. A larger ma.s.s of the shavings so adjusted that she could recline upon them, was arranged for her, which made an easy, springy couch; and as she lay wearily back upon them, still others were placed about and over her, until, protected as she was, warmth and comfort came to her.

What a blessed sense of shelter, and safety, and peace, as from heaven, fell upon the rescued girl's heart! And how exquisitely delicious to be carried, and supported, and served by this beautiful and heroic youth, who hovered about her so tenderly, and kneeling at her feet, so gently and sweetly ministered to her! No thought of being compromised, none of impropriety in the atmosphere of absolute purity, came to cloud the stainless mind of the maiden. No memory of the past, no thought of the future, was near her. She was lost, exhausted, and dying, and G.o.d sent him to her; and she accepted him as from the hand of G.o.d. He had restored, warmed and cheered her. She was under shelter and protection, and now heavy with sleep, and still the storm raged all about and over their heads, and the snow still fell within a few feet of them, while in that little circle warmth and light pulsated, like a tender human heart.

When all was done that occurred to the tender, thoughtful youth, and the eyes of the maiden were dreamily closing: "Have you said your prayers?" asked Bart, who had spoken barely a word since lighting the fires.

"Not of thanks for my deliverance," replied the girl. "Will you say a prayer for us?" in a low, sweet voice.

The youth knelt a little from her.

"Our Father, Whose Presence is Heaven, and Whose Presence is everywhere, let this weary, wandering one feel that Presence in Its sweetest power; let her repose in It; and through all time rest in It. Hush the storm, and make short the hours of darkness, and with the dawn give her back to her home of love. Impress her parents with a sense of her safety. Remember my widowed mother and young brothers.

Be with all wanderers, all unsheltered birds, and lambs on bleak hill-sides, and with all helpless, hopeless things."

He ceased.

"You ask nothing for yourself, Barton," in her tenderest voice.

"Have I not been permitted to save you? What remains for me to ask?"

How these words came to her afterwards! She turned, moved a little, as if to make room, and slept.

Barton shall at some time, in his own way, tell of his experiences of that strange night.

It had never come near him--the thought of seeking and saving her for himself---and when he found her perishing, and bore her over the water, and found shelter, and cheered and restored her, and as he now sat to protect her, the idea that she was or could be more to him, or different from what she had been, never approached him. It had been an inspiration to seek her, and a great possession to find her. It had brought back to him his self-respect, and had perhaps redeemed him, in her eyes, from the scorn and contempt with which she had regarded him, and in his heart he gratefully thanked G.o.d for it. Now his path was open and serene, although unwarmed and unlighted with this precious love, and so, in the heart of the forest, in the soul of the night, in the bosom of the tempest, he had brought life and hope and peace and rest to her, and an angel could not have done it with a purer self-abnegation.

He sat near her, at the foot of an old hemlock, waiting for the dawn.

The forest and night and storm thus held in their arms these two young, strong, brave, sweet, and rich natures, so tender, and so estranged, till the morning light brightened and flashed up in the serene sky, and sent a new day over the snow-wreathed earth. The tempest subsided, the snow ceased, the wind sunk to whispers, and the young morning was rosy in the east.

Barton had kept the fire burning near Julia, and when the new light became decided, approached her, and not without some anxiety: "Miss Markham--Miss Markham--Miss Markham!" raising his voice at each repet.i.tion. She did not hear. "Julia!" in a low voice, bending over her. Her eyes opened to the rude roof over her, and she started, turned to him, flushed, and smiled: "Oh, we are still here in the woods! Is it day?"

"Yes; how do you feel? Can you walk?" cheerily.

"Oh yes, I haven't suffered much!" rising from the woody coverings, which she gayly shook from her.

"Excuse me, while you make your toilet in this extensive dressing-room, and I will look about. I will not go far, or be gone long." Going still further up the stream, he found the end of the ledge of rocks, with a steepish hill sloping down to the creek, down which, under the snow, appeared to wind a road, which crossed the creek when the water was low. He turned into this road, and went up to the top of the hill, from which he could see an opening in the otherwise unbroken woods, and a little farther on he was gladdened with the sight of a smoke, rising like a cloud-column, above the trees.

He hastened back to find Julia equipped, and busy placing new fuel to the crackling fire. "There is a cabin not more than half a mile away, and the snow is not more than two or three inches deep; we can easily reach it," he said, brightly.

"Oh, Barton!" said the girl, with a deep rich voice, coming to him, "how can we ever--how can my father and mother ever--how can I repay"--and her voice broke and faltered with emotion, and tears fell from her wondrous eyes.

"Perhaps," said Bart, off his guard, "perhaps you may be willing to forget the past!"

"The past--forget the past?"

"Pardon me, it was unfortunate! Let us go."

"Barton!"

"Not a word now," said Bart, gayly. "I am the doctor, you are terribly shaken up, and not yourself. I shall not let you say a word of thanks.

Why, we are not out of the woods yet!"--this last laughingly. "When you are all your old self, and in your pleasant home, everything of this night and morning will come to you."

"What do you mean, Mr. Ridgeley?" a little coolly.

"Nothing," in a sad, low voice. They had gained the road. "See," said he, "here is somebody's road, from some place to somewhere; we will follow it up to the some place. There! I hear an axe. I hope he is cutting wood; and there--you can see the smoke of his cabin.

'I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled.'

Oh, I hope he will have a rousing fire."

Julia walked rapidly and silently by his side, hardly hearing his last words; she was thinking why he would not permit her to thank him--and that it would all be recalled in her home--finally, his meaning came to her. He would seek and save her from death, and even from the memory of an unconsidered word, which might possibly be misconstrued; and she clung more closely to the arm which had borne her over the flood.

"I am hurrying you, I fear."

"No, not a bit. Oh, now I can see the cabin; and there is the man, right by the side of it."

"It must be Wilder's," said Bart. "He moved into the woods here somewhere."

As they approached, the chopper stopped abruptly, and gazed on them in blank wonder. The dishevelled girl, with hanging hair, and red "wamus," and the wild, haggard-looking, coatless youth, with belt and hatchet, were as strange apparitions, coming up out of the interminable woods, as could well meet the gaze of a rustic wood-chopper of an early morning.

"Can you give this young lady shelter and food?" asked Bart, gravely.

"I guess so," said the man; "been out all night?" and he hurried them into a warm and cheerful room, bright with a blazing fire, where was a comely, busy matron, who turned to them in speechless surprise.

"This is Judge Markham's daughter," said Bart, as Julia sank into a chair, strongly inclined to break down completely; "she got lost, last night, near her father's, and wandered all night alone, and I found her just beyond the creek, not more than two hours ago. I must place her in your hands, my good woman."

"Poor, precious thing!" cried the woman, kneeling and pulling off her shoes, and placing her chilled feet to the fire. "What a blessed mercy you did not perish, you darling."

"I should, if it had not been for him," now giving way. Mrs. Wilder stepped a moment into the other of the two rooms, into which the lower floor of the cabin was divided, and spoke to some one in it; and giving Julia a bowl of hot milk and tea, led her to the inner apartment.

"Take care of him;" were her words, as she left, nodding her head towards Barton.

"How far is it to Markham's?" asked Bart.