University of Virginia Library

55. CHAPTER LV.
REWARD.

The summer waned, and in the bright autumnal
days, Beatrice resumed the active
out-of-doors life she had so much enjoyed during
her girlhood. Many an hour she spent
upon old Moloch, climbing his topmost crest
to catch the first rays of sunrise, seeking new
points of view whence to admire the well-remembered,
well-beloved landscape, where
sparkles of the distant sea seemed glimpses
of another world, with promise of delights not
known of this.

But best she loved, in the melancholy, golden
light of afternoon—those autumn afternoons
which murmur, in their sleep upon the hills,

of the long, dreamless sleep waiting for them
beneath the snows of winter—to sit beside the
rushing mill-brook, half choked now with
gold and scarlet and rich brown leaves whirled
down upon it from the trees above; and sitting
there, she dreamed—her wistful eyes
fixed upon those distant sparkles of the ocean,
or upon the sky stooping to meet it, almost
as blue, almost as bright, and holding no less
of promise, dared one accept it. These
dreams? Sometimes they were of the lands
beyond the sea, whither she had already wandered,
and might some day return—sometimes
of fairer possible worlds beyond that smiling
sky—sometimes of her own life, which seemed,
having rounded its circle of experience, to be
finishing here where it begun.

And then, with a stifled sigh, Beatrice would
sometimes look about her, and remember the
glow and glory of those early days, and the
unreflecting gayety with which she had so
often trod the mountain-paths, or sat here beside
the mill-brook, and not alone.

“But that was spring, and this is autumn,”
whispered she one day, and fell to thinking
of the two—spring, so full of promise and of
growth; crude, raw, and untaught, but glowing
with hope and possibilities that make
amends for all—autumn, strong, brilliant, mature,
bringing sheaves and fruit instead of
buds and flowers, and yet with an inexpressible
melancholy in its glory, tears beneath its
smiles, the hint of approaching death in all
its brilliant coloring.

“And this is autumn,” repeated Beatrice,
slowly rising and descending the hill, until in
the cloudy glory of sunset she passed between
the rows of box, holding her breath not to perceive
their fragrance, and entered the gray
old house which was now her home.

“Where have you been all the afternoon,
Beatrice?” asked her aunt from her seat beside
the fire in the eastern room. “We have
had company. Marston Brent has been here,
and waited until the last moment to see you.
He came East on business, and ran down here
for the afternoon. He was very sorry not to
see you.”

But Beatrice, with a sudden faintness upon
her, sat suddenly down beside her aunt, and
did not reply. Mrs. Bliss, busy with her
story, and a troublesome stitch in her knitting,
went on without looking up.

“He could not stay because he had to attend
a directors' meeting in the city to-morrow
early, and was to start for home in the afternoon
with some of the other directors. He
has got a company to take his mine—sold it,
I suppose; at any rate, he has made a great
deal of money, and don't mean to stay in
Pennsylvania always, he says; he thinks
some of going abroad.”

“Does he?” said Beatrice with an effort.

“Yes, as soon as he gets matters settled out
there. I believe he thinks he shall stay there
this winter. That Brewster girl and Paul
Freeman are going to be married at Christmas.”

“Did Mr. Brent say so?”

“Yes; and old Zilpah is dead. Marston
was over at her brother's this morning to tell
them about it, and arrange about some property
Zilpah left them.”

“Zilpah dead! Why did she?” asked Beatrice,
over whose pallid face had come a sudden
color.

“Why did she? What a queer question,
Beatrice! Because she couldn't help it, I suppose;
she had the lung-fever besides,” said
Mrs. Bliss dryly.

“Oh! yes, I dare say; but, aunt, I forgot to
ask you to begin some knitting for me. Can
you do it now?”

“I began this for you, child. You have
grown amazingly industrious lately. You
never did half so much work before you were
married as you do now, and I am sure you
didn't while you were married.”

“I like to be doing something,” said Beatrice
with a brilliant smile, whose meaning
her aunt could not define.

“Well, here it is then,” said she, holding
out the stupendous “tidy” she had commenced;
but Beatrice murmuring, “One minute,
aunty,” left the room, and appeared no
more until summoned from her chamber to
the tea-table.

“Seems to me your rage for knitting was
soon over this afternoon,” said Mrs. Bliss, as
she handed her a cup of tea.

“The knitting? Oh! dear me, aunty, I forgot
all about it!” exclaimed Beatrice with
such a laugh and such a blush as no one had
seen upon her face for many a month—nay,
year.

The autumn passed, and the winter, and the
spring. Then came summer, and the garden
of the Old Garrison House was gay with all
its homely, heartsome bloom, and the willow

beside the river had donned its fullest verdure,
untouched as yet by dust, or worm, or decay,
when Beatrice one morning thither betook
herself and her book—a volume of sweet, rare
old Herbert.

Her days of mourning were over, yet faintly
remembered in her pure white dress, with a
violet ribbon threading her golden hair, and
knotted at her throat; and although there
was no mourning in her face, its beauty had
taken a pensive and thoughtful cast in this
last year, not farther removed from the light-hearted
grace of girlhood than from the cold
and somewhat haughty expression most often
seen upon the face of Vezey Chappelleford's
wife.

So sitting—the unopened book upon her
lap, her eyes fixed upon the shining, sunlit
brook—she heard a step coming down the
path — heard and knew it, and would not
turn until Marston Brent stood close beside
her—his hand outstretched—his frank eyes
full upon her face, with a meaning other than
ordinary greeting in their glance. Then she
rose, gave her hand—both hands indeed—and
while the words of courtesy died upon her
lips, she gave him welcome with all her glowing
face. At last, seated beside her upon the
rustic bench, so carefully kept in repair because
he had made it, Marston said

“Beatrice, we parted here six years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Parted forever, as we thought.”

“Yes; you said so.”

“I? But it was you who willed it!”

“I? No, you!”

“Oh! never, Beatrice!”

“Well, then, not you. But I wish I had
known you thought so through all these
years.”

“Beatrice, we two have suffered—”

“So much!”

“And erred, both of us—”

“Not you.”

“Yes, I; I might have yielded something in
that old time.”

“You could not, and remain true to yourself.”

“You have not blamed me, then?”

“No—no, indeed.”

And then he took her hand, and what would
next have been, who can say, when the sparrow
who all this time had watched these terrible
interlopers upon her domain with round
black eyes shining like little stars above the
edge of her nest, fled with a sudden whirr of
wings, which startled the lovers, and brought
a laugh to relieve the somewhat stringent
pressure of the moment.

“Beatrice, are `any birds in last year's
nest?”' asked Marston softly, as he glanced
up into the tree.

“Yes, for they are singing in my heart at
this moment,” whispered she.

“And then—”

But as they went back through the garden,
Beatrice paused beside the heart-shaped pansy-plot,
and looking into her lover's face with a
shy smile, said:

“There were two large purple pansies and
one yellow one on the ground here, one morning,
and now they are pressed between the
leaves of a little Bible Beatrice Wansted used
to keep upon her dressing-table.”

“What! you found them and saved them,
darling!” exclaimed Marston in pleased surprise.
“I looked for them as I went back,
but could not find them. The willow staff I
cut that morning, however, is now a thriving
tree beside the Sachawissa. I wanted to carry
a cutting to Ironstone Mountain, but I dared
not.”

“You were always better than I,” said Beatrice,
smiling and blushing. “I kept the
pansies through every thing, although I pretended
to myself that I had forgotten them.”

Marston returned her smile, but absently,
and stood looking at her with all the love of
his great truthful heart, so long and painfully
repressed, shining in his eyes.

“I wonder if it is the summer sunshine or
if it is you that lights up this old garden so!”
said he at length. “Even the creeping shadow
of old Moloch seems full of brightness
and joy.”

“We have lived in his shadow six long
years, and it is time that it should turn to
sunshine,” whispered Beatrice tenderly; and so
they passed on through the garden and into
the dim and echoing old house, so full of
memories, and now so full of hope.