 | Beauty and the beast |  |
TWIN-LOVE.
WHEN John Vincent, after waiting
twelve years, married Phebe
Etheridge, the whole neighborhood
experienced that sense of
relief and satisfaction which follows
the triumph of the right.
Not that the fact of a true love is ever generally recognized
and respected when it is first discovered; for
there is a perverse quality in American human nature
which will not accept the existence of any fine, unselfish
passion, until it has been tested and established
beyond peradventure. There were two views of the case
when John Vincent's love for Phebe, and old Reuben
Etheridge's hard prohibition of the match, first became
known to the community. The girls and boys, and some
of the matrons, ranged themselves at once on the side of
the lovers, but a large majority of the older men and a
few of the younger supported the tyrannical father.
Reuben Etheridge was rich, and, in addition to what
his daughter would naturally inherit from him, she already
possessed more than her lover, at the time of their betrothal.
for the father's hostility. When low natures live (as they
almost invariably do) wholly in the present, they neither
take tenderness from the past nor warning from the possibilities
of the future. It is the exceptional men and
women who remember their youth. So, these lovers received
a nearly equal amount of sympathy and condemnation;
and only slowly, partly through their quiet fidelity
and patience, and partly through the improvement in
John Vincent's worldly circumstances, was the balance
changed. Old Reuben remained an unflinching despot
to the last: if any relenting softness touched his heart, he
sternly concealed it; and such inference as could be
drawn from the fact that he, certainly knowing what would
follow his death, bequeathed his daughter her proper
share of his goods, was all that could be taken for consent.
They were married: John, a grave man in middle
age, weather-beaten and worn by years of hard work and
self-denial, yet not beyond the restoration of a milder
second youth; and Phebe a sad, weary woman, whose
warmth of longing had been exhausted, from whom youth
and its uncalculating surrenders of hope and feeling had
gone forever. They began their wedded life under the
shadow of the death out of which it grew; and when,
after a ceremony in which neither bridesmaid nor groomsman
stood by their side, they united their divided homes,
it seemed to their neighbors that a separated husband and
wife had come together again, not that the relation was
new to either.
John Vincent loved his wife with the tenderness of an
innocent man, but all his tenderness could not avail to
lift the weight of settled melancholy which had gathered
upon her. Disappointment, waiting, yearning, indulgence
in long lament and self-pity, the morbid cultivation of unhappy
fancies—all this had wrought its work upon her,
and it was too late to effect a cure. In the night she
awoke to weep at his side, because of the years when she
had awakened to weep alone; by day she kept up her old
habit of foreboding, although the evening steadily refuted
the morning; and there were times when, without any
apparent cause, she would fall into a dark, despairing mood
which her husband's greatest care and cunning could only
slowly dispel.
Two or three years passed, and new life came to the
Vincent farm. One day, between midnight and dawn, the
family pair was doubled; the cry of twin sons was heard
in the hushed house. The father restrained his happy
wonder in his concern for the imperilled life of the mother;
he guessed that she had anticipated death, and she
now hung by a thread so slight that her simple will might
snap it. But her will, fortunately, was as faint as her consciousness;
she gradually drifted out of danger, taking
her returning strength with a passive acquiescence rather
than with joy. She was hardly paler than her wont, but
the lurking shadow seemed to have vanished from her
eyes, and John Vincent felt that her features had assumed
a new expression, the faintly perceptible stamp of some
spiritual change.
It was a happy day for him when, propped against
his breast and gently held by his warm, strong arm, the
twin boys were first brought to be laid upon her lap.
Two staring, dark-faced creatures, with restless fists and
feet, they were alike in every least feature of their grotesque
animality. Phebe placed a hand under the head of
each, and looked at them for a long time in silence.
“Why is this?” she said, at last, taking hold of a
narrow pink ribbon, which was tied around the wrist of
one.
“He's the oldest, sure,” the nurse answered. “Only
by fifteen minutes or so, but it generally makes a difference
when twins come to be named; and you may see
with your own eyes that there's no telling of 'em apart
otherways.”
“Take off the ribbon, then,” said Phebe quietly; “I
know them.”
“Why, ma'am, it's always done, where they're so like!
And I'll never be able to tell which is which; for they
sleep and wake and feed by the same clock. And you
might mistake, after all, in giving 'em names—”
“There is no oldest or youngest, John; they are two
and yet one: this is mine, and this is yours.”
“I see no difference at all, Phebe,” said John; “and
how can we divide them?”
“We will not divide,” she answered; “I only meant
it as a sign.”
She smiled, for the first time in many days. He was
glad of heart, but did not understand her. “What shall
fathers?”
“No, John; their names must be David and Jonathan.”
And so they were called. And they grew, not less,
but more alike, in passing through the stages of babyhood.
The ribbon of the older one had been removed,
and the nurse would have been distracted, but for Phebe's
almost miraculous instinct. The former comforted herself
with the hope that teething would bring a variation to
the two identical mouths; but no! they teethed as one
child. John, after desperate attempts, which always
failed in spite of the headaches they gave him, postponed
the idea of distinguishing one from the other, until they
should be old enough to develop some dissimilarity of
speech, or gait, or habit. All trouble might have been
avoided, had Phebe consented to the least variation in
their dresses; but herein she was mildly immovable.
“Not yet,” was her set reply to her husband; and one
day, when he manifested a little annoyance at her persistence,
she turned to him, holding a child on each knee, and
said with a gravity which silenced him thenceforth:
“John, can you not see that our burden has passed into
them? Is there no meaning in this—that two children
who are one in body and face and nature, should be given
to us at our time of life, after such long disappointment
and trouble? Our lives were held apart; theirs were united
before they were born, and I dare not turn them in
different directions. Perhaps I do not know all that the
is here!”
“I was only thinking of their good,” John meekly answered.
“If they are spared to grow up, there must be
some way of knowing one from the other.”
“They will not need it, and I, too, think only of them.
They have taken the cross from my heart, and I will lay
none on theirs. I am reconciled to my life through them,
John; you have been very patient and good with me, and
I will yield to you in all things but in this. I do not think
I shall live to see them as men grown; yet, while we are
together, I feel clearly what it is right to do. Can you
not, just once, have a little faith without knowledge,
John?”
“I'll try, Phebe,” he said. “Any way, I'll grant that
the boys belong to you more than to me.”
Phebe Vincent's character had verily changed. Her
attacks of semi-hysterical despondency never returned;
her gloomy prophecies ceased. She was still grave, and
the trouble of so many years never wholly vanished from
her face; but she performed every duty of her life with at
least a quiet willingness, and her home became the abode
of peace; for passive content wears longer than demonstrative
happiness.
David and Jonathan grew as one boy: the taste and
temper of one was repeated in the other, even as the voice
and features. Sleeping or waking, grieved or joyous, well
or ill, they lived a single life, and it seemed so natural for
one to answer to the other's name, that they probably
for their mother's unerring knowledge. Perhaps unconsciously
guided by her, perhaps through the voluntary action
of their own natures, each quietly took the other's
place when called upon, even to the sharing of praise or
blame at school, the friendships and quarrels of the playground.
They were healthy and happy lads, and John
Vincent was accustomed to say to his neighbors, “They're
no more trouble than one would be; and yet they're four
hands instead of two.”
Phebe died when they were fourteen, saying to them,
with almost her latest breath, “Be one, always!” Before
her husband could decide whether to change her plan of
domestic education, they were passing out of boyhood,
changing in voice, stature, and character with a continued
likeness which bewildered and almost terrified him. He
procured garments of different colors, but they were accustomed
to wear each article in common, and the result
was only a mixture of tints for both. They were sent to
different schools, to be returned the next day, equally pale,
suffering, and incapable of study. Whatever device was
employed, they evaded it by a mutual instinct which rendered
all external measures unavailing. To John Vincent's
mind their resemblance was an accidental misfortune,
which had been confirmed through their mother's
fancy. He felt that they were bound by some deep, mysterious
tie, which, inasmuch as it might interfere with all
practical aspects of life, ought to be gradually weakened.
Two bodies, to him, implied two distinct men, and it was
either from exercising his own separate will and judgment.
But, while he was planning and pondering, the boys
became young men, and he was an old man. Old, and
prematurely broken; for he had worked much, borne
much, and his large frame held only a moderate measure
of vital force. A great weariness fell upon him, and his
powers began to give way, at first slowly, but then with accelerated
failure. He saw the end coming, long before
his sons suspected it; his doubt, for their sakes, was the
only thing which made it unwelcome. It was “upon his
mind” (as his Quaker neighbors would say) to speak to
them of the future, and at last the proper moment came.
It was a stormy November evening. Wind and rain
whirled and drove among the trees outside, but the sitting-room
of the old farm-house was bright and warm. David
and Jonathan, at the table, with their arms over each
other's backs and their brown locks mixed together, read
from the same book: their father sat in the ancient rocking-chair
before the fire, with his feet upon a stool. The
housekeeper and hired man had gone to bed, and all was
still in the house.
John waited until he heard the volume closed, and then
spoke.
“Boys,” he said, “let me have a bit of talk with you.
I don't seem to get over my ailments rightly,—never will,
maybe. A man must think of things while there's time,
and say them when they have to be said. I don't know as
there's any particular hurry in my case; only, we never
thing will belong to you two, share and share alike, either
to buy another farm with the money out, or divide this: I
won't tie you up in any way. But two of you will need
two farms for two families; for you won't have to wait
twelve years, like your mother and me.”
“We don't want another farm, father!” said David
and Jonathan together.
“I know you don't think so, now. A wife seemed far
enough off from me when I was your age. You've always
been satisfied to be with each other, but that can't last.
It was partly your mother's notion; I remember her saying
that our burden had passed into you. I never quite
understood what she meant, but I suppose it must rather
be the opposite of what we had to bear.”
The twins listened with breathless attention while their
father, suddenly stirred by the past, told them the story of
his long betrothal.
“And now,” he exclaimed, in conclusion, “it may be
putting wild ideas into your two heads, but I must say it!
That was where I did wrong—wrong to her and to me,—
in waiting! I had no right to spoil the best of our lives;
I ought to have gone boldly, in broad day, to her father's
house, taken her by the hand, and led her forth to be my
wife. Boys, if either of you comes to love a woman truly,
and she to love you, and there is no reason why God (I
don't say man) should put you asunder, do as I ought to
have done, not as I did! And, maybe, this advice is the
best legacy I can leave you.”
“But, father,” said David, speaking for both, “we
have never thought of marrying.”
“Likely enough,” their father answered; “we hardly
ever think of what surely comes. But to me, looking
back, it's plain. And this is the reason why I want you
to make me a promise, and as solemn as if I was on my
death-bed. Maybe I shall be, soon.”
Tears gathered in the eyes of the twins. “What is it,
father?” they both said.
“Nothing at all to any other two boys, but I don't
know how you'll take it. What if I was to ask you to live
apart for a while?”
“Oh father!” both cried. They leaned together, cheek
pressing cheek, and hand clasping hand, growing white
and trembling. John Vincent, gazing into the fire, did
not see their faces, or his purpose might have been shaken.
“I don't say now,” he went on. “After a while, when
—well, when I'm dead. And I only mean a beginning, to
help you toward what has to be. Only a month; I don't
want to seem hard to you; but that's little, in all conscience.
Give me your word: say, `For mother's sake!'”
There was a long pause. Then David and Jonathan
said, in low, faltering voices, “For mother's sake, I promise.”
“Remember that you were only boys to her. She
might have made all this seem easier, for women have reasons
for things no man can answer. Mind, within a year
after I'm gone!”
He rose and tottered out of the room.
The twins looked at each other: David said, “Must
we?” and Jonathan, “How can we?” Then they both
thought, “It may be a long while yet.” Here was a present
comfort, and each seemed to hold it firmly in holding
the hand of the other, as they fell asleep side by side.
The trial was nearer than they imagined. Their father
died before the winter was over; the farm and other
property was theirs, and they might have allowed life to
solve its mysteries as it rolled onwards, but for their promise
to the dead. This must be fulfilled, and then—one
thing was certain; they would never again separate.
“The sooner the better,” said David. “It shall be
the visit to our uncle and cousins in Indiana. You will
come with me as far as Harrisburg; it may be easier to
part there than here. And our new neighbors, the Bradleys,
will want your help for a day or two, after getting
home.”
“It is less than death,” Jonathan answered, “and
why should it seem to be more? We must think of
father and mother, and all those twelve years; now I
know what the burden was.”
“And we have never really borne any part of it!
Father must have been right in forcing us to promise.”
Every day the discussion was resumed, and always
with the same termination. Familiarity with the inevitable
step gave them increase of courage; yet, when the
moment had come and gone, when, speeding on opposite
trains, the hills and valleys multiplied between them with
terrible velocity, a pang like death cut to the heart of each,
and the divided life became a chill, oppressive dream.
During the separation no letters passed between them.
When the neighbors asked Jonathan for news of his brother,
he always replied, “He is well,” and avoided further
speech with such evidence of pain that they spared him.
An hour before the month drew to an end, he walked
forth alone, taking the road to the nearest railway station.
A stranger who passed him at the entrance of a thick
wood, three miles from home, was thunderstruck on meeting
the same person shortly after, entering the wood from
the other side; but the farmers in the near fields saw two
figures issuing from the shade, hand in hand.
Each knew the other's month, before they slept, and
the last thing Jonathan said, with his head on David's
shoulder, was, “You must know our neighbors, the Bradleys,
and especially Ruth.” In the morning, as they
dressed, taking each other's garments at random, as of old,
Jonathan again said, “I have never seen a girl that I like
so well as Ruth Bradley. Do you remember what father
said about loving and marrying? It comes into my mind
whenever I see Ruth; but she has no sister.”
“But we need not both marry,” David replied, “that
might part us, and this will not. It is for always now.”
“For always, David.”
Two or three days later Jonathan said, as he started
on an errand to the village: “I shall stop at the Bradleys
this evening, so you must walk across and meet me there.”
When David approached the house, a slender, girlish
figure, with her back towards him, was stooping over a
bush of great crimson roses, cautiously clipping a blossom
and turned towards him. Her light gingham bonnet, falling
back, disclosed a long oval face, fair and delicate,
sweet brown eyes, and brown hair laid smoothly over the
temples. A soft flush rose suddenly to her cheeks, and he
felt that his own were burning.
“Oh Jonathan!” she exclaimed, transferring the roses
to her left hand, and extending her right, as she came forward.
He was too accustomed to the name to recognize her
mistake at once, and the word “Ruth!” came naturally
to his lips.
“I should know your brother David has come,” she
then said; “even if I had not heard so. You look so
bright. How glad I am!”
“Is he not here?” David asked.
“No; but there he is now, surely!” She turned towards
the lane, where Jonathan was dismounting. “Why,
it is yourself over again, Jonathan!”
As they approached, a glance passed between the
twins, and a secret transfer of the riding-whip to David
set their identity right with Ruth, whose manner toward
the latter innocently became shy with all its friendliness,
while her frank, familiar speech was given to Jonathan, as
was fitting. But David also took the latter to himself, and
when they left, Ruth had apparently forgotten that there
was any difference in the length of their acquaintance.
On their way homewards David said: “Father was
right. We must marry, like others, and Ruth is the wife
say mine and yours, after all, when we speak of her.”
“Even she cannot separate us, it seems,” Jonathan
answered. “We must give her some sign, and that will
also be a sign for others. It will seem strange to divide
ourselves; we can never learn it properly; rather let us
not think of marriage.”
“We cannot help thinking of it; she stands in mother's
place now, as we in father's.”
Then both became silent and thoughtful. They felt
that something threatened to disturb what seemed to be
the only possible life for them, yet were unable to distinguish
its features, and therefore powerless to resist it. The
same instinct which had been born of their wonderful
spiritual likeness told them that Ruth Bradley already
loved Jonathan: the duty was established, and they must
conform their lives to it. There was, however, this slight
difference between their natures—that David was generally
the first to utter the thought which came to the minds
of both. So when he said, “We shall learn what to do
when the need comes,” it was a postponement of all foreboding.
They drifted contentedly towards the coming
change.
The days went by, and their visits to Ruth Bradley
were continued. Sometimes Jonathan went alone, but
they were usually together, and the tie which united the
three became dearer and sweeter as it was more closely
drawn. Ruth learned to distinguish between the two when
they were before her: at least she said so, and they were
alike was the happy warmth in her bosom produced by
either pair of dark gray eyes and the soft half-smile which
played around either mouth. To them she seemed to be
drawn within the mystic circle which separated them from
others—she, alone; and they no longer imagined a life in
which she should not share.
Then the inevitable step was taken. Jonathan declared
his love, and was answered. Alas! he almost forgot
David that late summer evening, as they sat in the
moonlight, and over and over again assured each other
how dear they had grown. He felt the trouble in David's
heart when they met.
“Ruth is ours, and I bring her kiss to you,” he said,
pressing his lips to David's; but the arms flung around
him trembled, and David whispered, “Now the change
begins.”
“Oh, this cannot be our burden!” Jonathan cried,
with all the rapture still warm in his heart.
“If it is, it will be light, or heavy, or none at all, as
we shall bear it,” David answered, with a smile of infinite
tenderness.
For several days he allowed Jonathan to visit the
Bradley farm alone, saying that it must be so on Ruth's
account. Her love, he declared, must give her the fine
instinct which only their mother had ever possessed, and
he must allow it time to be confirmed. Jonathan, however,
insisted that Ruth already possessed it; that she was
beginning to wonder at his absence, and to fear that she
always be equally his.
David yielded at once.
“You must go alone,” said Jonathan, “to satisfy
yourself that she knows us at last.”
Ruth came forth from the house as he drew near.
Her face beamed; she laid her hands upon his shoulders
and kissed him. “Now you cannot doubt me, Ruth!”
he said, gently.
“Doubt you, Jonathan!” she exclaimed with a fond
reproach in her eyes. “But you look troubled; is any
thing the matter?”
“I was thinking of my brother,” said David, in a low
tone.
“Tell me what it is,” she said, drawing him into the
little arbor of woodbine near the gate. They took seats
side by side on the rustic bench. “He thinks I may
come between you: is it not that?” she asked. Only
one thing was clear to David's mind—that she would
surely speak more frankly and freely of him to the supposed
Jonathan than to his real self. This once he
would permit the illusion.
“Not more than must be,” he answered. “He knew
all from the very beginning. But we have been like one
person in two bodies, and any change seems to divide
us.”
“I feel as you do,” said Ruth. “I would never consent
to be your wife, if I could really divide you. I love
you both too well for that.”
“Do you love me?” he asked, entirely forgetting his
representative part.
Again the reproachful look, which faded away as she
met his eyes. She fell upon his breast, and gave him
kisses which were answered with equal tenderness. Suddenly
he covered his face with his hands, and burst into
a passion of tears.
“Jonathan! Oh Jonathan!” she cried, weeping with
alarm and sympathetic pain.
It was long before he could speak; but at last, turning
away his head, he faltered, “I am David!”
There was a long silence.
When he looked up she was sitting with her hands
rigidly clasped in her lap: her face was very pale.
“There it is, Ruth,” he said; “we are one heart and
one soul. Could he love, and not I? You cannot decide
between us, for one is the other. If I had known you
first, Jonathan would be now in my place. What follows,
then?”
“No marriage,” she whispered.
“No!” he answered; “we brothers must learn to be
two men instead of one. You will partly take my place
with Jonathan; I must live with half my life, unless I
can find, somewhere in the world, your other half.”
“I cannot part you, David!”
“Something stronger than you or me parts us, Ruth.
If it were death, we should bow to God's will: well, it
can no more be got away from than death or judgment.
Say no more: the pattern of all this was drawn long before
it out.”
He rose and stood before her. “Remember this,
Ruth,” he said; “it is no blame in us to love each other.
Jonathan will see the truth in my face when we meet,
and I speak for him also. You will not see me again until
your wedding-day, and then no more afterwards—but,
yes! once, in some far-off time, when you shall know me
to be David, and still give me the kiss you gave to-day.”
“Ah, after death!” she thought: “I have parted
them forever.” She was about to rise, but fell upon the
seat again, fainting. At the same moment Jonathan appeared
at David's side.
No word was said. They bore her forth and supported
her between them until the fresh breeze had restored
her to consciousness. Her first glance rested on
the brother's hands, clasping; then, looking from one to
the other, she saw that the cheeks of both were wet.
“Now, leave me,” she said, “but come to-morrow,
Jonathan!” Even then she turned from one to the
other, with a painful, touching uncertainty, and stretched
out both hands to them in farewell.
How that poor twin heart struggled with itself is
only known to God. All human voices, and as they believed,
also the Divine Voice, commanded the division of
their interwoven life. Submission would have seemed
easier, could they have taken up equal and similar burdens;
but David was unable to deny that his pack was
overweighted. For the first time, their thoughts began
to diverge.
At last David said: “For mother's sake, Jonathan,
as we promised. She always called you her child. And
for Ruth's sake, and father's last advice: they all tell me
what I must do.”
It was like the struggle between will and desire, in
the same nature, and none the less fierce or prolonged because
the softer quality foresaw its ultimate surrender.
Long after he felt the step to be inevitable, Jonathan sought
to postpone it, but he was borne by all combined influences
nearer and nearer to the time.
And now the wedding-day came. David was to leave
home the same evening, after the family dinner under his
father's roof. In the morning he said to Jonathan: “I
shall not write until I feel that I have become other than
now, but I shall always be here, in you, as you will be in
me, everywhere. Whenever you want me, I shall know
it; and I think I shall know when to return.”
The hearts of all the people went out towards them as
they stood together in the little village church. Both
were calm, but very pale and abstracted in their expression,
yet their marvellous likeness was still unchanged.
Ruth's eyes were cast down so they could not be seen;
she trembled visibly, and her voice was scarcely audible
when she spoke the vow. It was only known in the
neighborhood that David was going to make another journey.
The truth could hardly have been guessed by persons
whose ideas follow the narrow round of their own
experiences; had it been, there would probably have been
more condemnation than sympathy. But in a vague way
of a shadow, although the outstretched wing was unseen.
Far above them, and above the shadow, watched
the Infinite Pity, which was not denied to three hearts
that day.
It was a long time, more than a year, and Ruth was
lulling her first child on her bosom, before a letter came
from David. He had wandered westwards, purchased
some lands on the outer line of settlement, and appeared
to be leading a wild and lonely life. “I know now,” he
wrote, “just how much there is to bear, and how to bear
it. Strange men come between us, but you are not far off
when I am alone on these plains. There is a place where
I can always meet you, and I know that you have found it,
—under the big ash-tree by the barn. I think I am nearly
always there about sundown, and on moonshiny nights,
because we are then nearest together; and I never sleep
without leaving you half my blanket. When I first begin
to wake I always feel your breath, so we are never really
parted for long. I do not know that I can change much;
it is not easy; it is like making up your mind to have different
colored eyes and hair, and I can only get sunburnt
and wear a full beard. But we are hardly as unhappy as
we feared to be; mother came the other night, in a dream,
and took us on her knees. Oh, come to me, Jonathan,
but for one day! No, you will not find me; I am going
across the Plains!”
And Jonathan and Ruth? They loved each other
tenderly; no external trouble visited them; their home
and chair was haunted by a sorrowful ghost. As a
neighbor said after visiting them, “There seemed to be
something lost.” Ruth saw how constantly and how unconsciously
Jonathan turned to see his own every feeling
reflected in the missing eyes; how his hand sought another,
even while its fellow pressed hers; how half-spoken words,
day and night, died upon his lips, because they could not
reach the twin-ear. She knew not how it came, but her
own nature took upon itself the same habit. She felt that
she received a less measure of love than she gave—not
from Jonathan, in whose whole, warm, transparent heart
no other woman had ever looked, but something of her
own passed beyond him and never returned. To both
their life was like one of those conjurer's cups, seemingly
filled with red wine, which is held from the lips by the
false crystal hollow.
Neither spoke of this: neither dared to speak. The
years dragged out their slow length, with rare and brief
messages from David. Three children were in the house,
and still peace and plenty laid their signs upon its lintels.
But at last Ruth, who had been growing thinner and paler
ever since the birth of her first boy, became seriously ill.
Consumption was hers by inheritance, and it now manifested
itself in a form which too surely foretold the result.
After the physician had gone, leaving his fatal verdict
behind him, she called to Jonathan, who, bewildered by
his grief, sank down on his knees at her bedside and sobbed
upon her breast.
“Don't grieve,” she said; “this is my share of the
burden. If I have taken too much from you and David,
now comes the atonement. Many things have grown
clear to me. David was right when he said that there
was no blame. But my time is even less than the doctor
thinks: where is David? Can you not bid him come?”
“I can only call him with my heart,” he answered.
“And will he hear me now, after nearly seven years?”
“Call, then!” she eagerly cried. “Call with all the
strength of your love for him and for me, and I believe
he will hear you!”
The sun was just setting. Jonathan went to the great
ash-tree, behind the barn, fell upon his knees, and covered
his face, and the sense of an exceeding bitter cry
filled his heart. All the suppressed and baffled longing,
the want, the hunger, the unremitting pain of years, came
upon him and were crowded into the single prayer,
“Come, David, or I die!” Before the twilight faded,
while he was still kneeling, an arm came upon his shoulder,
and the faint touch of another cheek upon his own.
It was hardly for the space of a thought, but he knew
the sign.
“David will come!” he said to Ruth.
From that day all was changed. The cloud of coming
death which hung over the house was transmuted into
fleecy gold. All the lost life came back to Jonathan's
face, all the unrestful sweetness of Ruth's brightened into
a serene beatitude. Months had passed since David had
been heard from; they knew not how to reach him without
coming.
Two weeks passed, three, and there was neither word
nor sign. Jonathan and Ruth thought, “He is near,”
and one day a singular unrest fell upon the former. Ruth
saw it, but said nothing until night came, when she sent
Jonathan from her bedside with the words, “Go and
meet him?”
An hour afterwards she heard double steps on the
stone walk in front of the house. They came slowly to
the door; it opened; she heard them along the hall and
ascending the stairs; then the chamber-lamp showed her
the two faces, bright with a single, unutterable joy.
One brother paused at the foot of the bed; the other
drew near and bent over her. She clasped her thin
hands around his neck, kissed him fondly, and cried,
“Dear, dear David!”
“Dear Ruth,” he said, “I came as soon as I could.
I was far away, among wild mountains, when I felt that
Jonathan was calling me. I knew that I must return,
never to leave you more, and there was still a little work
to finish. Now we shall all live again!”
“Yes,” said Jonathan, coming to her other side, “try
to live, Ruth!”
Her voice came clear, strong, and full of authority.
“I do live, as never before. I shall take all my life with
me when I go to wait for one soul, as I shall find it there!
Our love unites, not divides, from this hour!”
The few weeks still left to her were a season of almost
taking the equal love of the twin-hearts, and giving an
equal tenderness and gratitude. Then first she saw the
mysterious need which united them, the fulness and joy
wherewith each completed himself in the other. All the
imperfect past was enlightened, and the end, even that
now so near, was very good.
Every afternoon they carried her down to a cushioned
chair on the veranda, where she could enjoy the quiet of
the sunny landscape, the presence of the brothers seated
at her feet, and the sports of her children on the grass.
Thus, one day, while David and Jonathan held her hands
and waited for her to wake from a happy sleep, she went
before them, and, ere they guessed the truth, she was
waiting for their one soul in the undiscovered land.
And Jonathan's children, now growing into manhood
and girlhood, also call David “father.” The marks left
by their divided lives have long since vanished from their
faces; the middle-aged men, whose hairs are turning gray,
still walk hand in hand, still sleep upon the same pillow,
still have their common wardrobe, as when they were
boys. They talk of “our Ruth” with no sadness, for
they believe that death will make them one, when, at the
same moment, he summons both. And we who know
them, to whom they have confided the touching mystery
of their nature, believe so too.
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