LII. THE CACTUS BLOOMS.
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IN the joy of the moment, all the darkness of
doubt was banished as by a great light, an illumination
that flooded her whole being; so that,
had his wrongs towards her been a hundred-fold greater than
they were, she would have forgotten them all in the rapture
of their re-union.
His countenance was full of ineffable love and tenderness;
and his voice was thick with crowding emotions, as he called
her, —
“My wife! — my own wife!” — and clasped her to his
heart.
Old Ben Arlyn choked and gasped, and brushed his eyes,
and walked away to the gate where Jehiel stood by the panting
and foaming horse that Guy had driven.
And now — after the first convulsion, in which the stream
of their love, that had been so long, not dry, but dammed in
its course, burst forth again — they talked together; and he
told her how the day had been decided, and assured her, that,
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until the morning after the murder, he was even ignorant that
it had been committed.
“Do you think, if I had known of it, I would have left
the gold with you in that careless way?” he asked.
“Why, then, didn't you declare the simple truth?” said
Lucy.
“Because the law will not accept the simple truth. There
were circumstances which placed me in jeopardy. I did not
intend that any serious harm should happen to Pelt. I did
not know which road he would return by, but thought it most
probable he would take the south road. So I went myself,
alone, to wait for him there; and there I waited till Murk
and Madison brought me the gold. Murk said they had
done only `what was necessary,' and let Pelt go. The pistol
I had not even seen; but, though I had no suspicion of the
murder, I felt a strong presentiment of trouble. And when,
the next morning, I heard what had happened, I knew that,
if they had done the deed, and it was proved, together with
my action in the matter, the law would regard me as an accessory
both before and after the fact, and hold me subject to
the same penalty as if I had been really the principal criminal.
So I took counsel, and determined to use the law to
defend myself against the law. I know how you got rid of
the gold, Lucy; and I have you to thank for saving my life;
though the boots I gave Archy came very near turning
traitors against me!”
“We have escaped great perils!” said Lucy. “I
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tremble to think of them! Are they all passed, do you think,
Guy?” For now came up thoughts of Christina, of his
father, of their future.
He answered all her doubts. He had spoken with Christina
a moment after the trial, and she had bidden him farewell.
“She did you a great service at last!” said Lucy
gratefully.
“Yes; and she has done more for me than that,” replied
Guy, “as you will learn some day.”
“O Guy!” said she penitently, “I am not willing to
separate you from any of your friends. I have not trusted
you as I should, — as I can trust you now.”
“The friends you have distrusted — they have fulfilled
their use, a great use to me!” he exclaimed. “Heaven has
been kind to me. I have not been a fanatic for nothing!”
he added with a smile of wonderful meaning.
Lucy saw the radiance, and felt in her own heart a strange
consciousness of blessedness; and she knew then that all had
been wisely ordered, and that all was well.
“As for my father,” said Guy, “I consider the inheritance
fairly forfeited by the miserable deception I have been
guilty of; and if it should fall to us now, Lucy, it will be
ours only for the good we can do with it, — ours to hold in
trust for the poor. But, for his own sake, I hope he will
forgive me and love you.”
“We cannot be fully happy, and how can he have peace,
without a reconciliation?” said Lucy. “He cannot help
rejoicing that you are acquitted.”
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“He does not know it yet. I wish we could carry him
the news: I am sure his heart would be softened then.”
“Yes: we will go. But, Guy, I have not shown
you” —
And tremblingly, with hushed lips, she led him to their
baby's grave. He knelt down. They knelt together, and
wept.
“My precious Agnes! — she is with the angels! But
God has left us each other; and love is not lost, Lucy. The
dear ties we think broken, they are not destroyed; but Christ
takes them all in his hand, and holds them for us, and draws
us by them up to him.”
They had risen to depart, when Archy Brandle, with a
pair of innocent old shoes on his feet, coming into the village
to get news of the trial, stopped at the gate where Jehiel and
Mr. Arlyn were waiting, and saw Lucy and Guy with his
astonished eyes, and heard the story of the verdict with his
astonished ears.
“And I ain't so crazy, my boy,” cried Mr. Arlyn, “but
that I remember who was our friends when we needed friends.
You and your mother were kind to me: but, more than that,
you were angels to my poor child; and here she is to thank
you.”
The angel in old shoes, confounded and overwhelmed very
much as if he had been a mere mortal, turned, and blushed,
and grew pale, as he saw Lucy affectionately reaching out
her hand to him.
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“No, Archy; I can never thank you: but I shall try to
be as kind to others who need kindness as you and your
mother have been to me. This is my husband, — MY INNOCENT
HUSBAND, — Archy.”
“Then I am glad!” he exclaimed, brightening, the real
angel shining through his awkwardness. “I'm as glad as I
can be!” — with a gush of honest tears.
Guy, touched with admiration and affection, held out his
hand to the faithful and generous youth.
“You and I will be better friends than we have been yet,
Archy,” he said.
“I shall like you if you are good to her,” Archy replied.
“Oh, then you will worship me!” said Guy.
“Go home with Jehiel,” then said Lucy to her father.
“We will be there soon. We have first a duty to do.”
And the group separated, and Archy was left standing
alone; and as he watched Guy and Lucy riding away in
the sunset light, so young, so beautiful, so beloved of each
other, it must be owned that his lonely heart gave one great
heave of grief; then it was still, and sweet peace flowed
into it; and the joy which neither wit nor good fortune can
bring their possessor, which can only be his who serves faithfully
and loves unselfishly, went home that night with Archy,
walking at his side like a heavenly companion.
Guy and Lucy rode through the village. The story of
their marriage had preceded them. Marvellous was the sensation,
and wonderful the buzzing of gossips. “Did you
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ever hear any thing so romantic?” — “No, I never! Mrs.
Guy Bannington! — only think of it! Well, I always knew
she was a girl above the common. More character than fifty
like that — Of course you have heard about Sophy Pinworth?
What a shame! What will her mother say now, I
wonder? Well, I always knew” —
And so forth, and so forth. For this world of gossip is a
curious world; a chattering idiot, his back turned upon the
realities of things, viewing the solemn procession of life's
changes in a flawed mirror, making his own coarse traits the
largest part of the picture, and sapiently commenting.
Sweetly unconscious of the figure they made in that fantastic
glass, Guy and Lucy rode on. An atmosphere of love
and peace wrapped them in its halo. Under the trees and
the soft sky lay the cool tranquil pond as they passed, with
far-off sunset mountains in its depths; and like the transparent
water seemed their souls, full of the beauty of earth
and the purity of heaven.
As they rode, a vision of future days floated before
them, — a vision of happy labor, of high uses, of wedded
blessedness, and dear parental cares; charity no idle phrase
with them, but an essence flowing out from their daily lives;
reform no vague or fine-spun theory, but first a reality in
themselves, and thence proceeding outward, a power in the
world.
And so they reached Guy's father's house. Descending
at the door, they were met and cordially welcomed by Rhoda.
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They inquired for the colonel. She pointed to the library,
whispering, —
“He came home dreadfully excited. He sent Aaron off
for Squire Wells: something about altering his will, Aaron
said.”
“Tell him we have come to see him,” said Guy, drawing
the timid Lucy to his side.
“He told me not to disturb him, or let any one see him till
they came back,” replied Rhoda. “But of course you can
do as you please.”
Guy softly opened the door. There sat the colonel in his
chair, with his head on his breast, — as he often sat, when
his troubles were heavy.
“Come, Lucy! — courage! The first thing he sees, when
he looks up, should be your face!” And well might Guy
think that the tender radiance of her sweet, sad, hopeful expression
would touch his father's heart.
They entered with noiseless steps on the thick carpet.
The colonel, wearied, had fallen asleep. He did not look up
or stir. A peculiar chilliness and gloom pervaded the library.
Dimly from her picture, Guy's mother looked down upon the
scene.
“Father!” said Guy, kneeling with Lucy.
No response; and somehow his own voice startled him,
breaking the ominous hush.
“Father!” he repeated, looking up in the still face,
whose pallor appalled him. “Father!” And he took hold
of the sleeper's hands.
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They were tightly clinched, and damp with the clamminess
of death.
At that moment, Lucy, with shuddering awe, saw a man
standing behind the corpse. It was Guy's father; not he
whose rigid members sat up there in hideous mockery of
life, but the same of other days, — her father's friend, ever
kind to her, and looking kindly upon her now with a forgiving
smile. In an instant the image vanished; and she told
Guy.
“It is a good omen!” he said.
And, kneeling still, he prayed with his whole heart: —
“O Lord of life! guide us in the way of thy law; hold
us in the bosom of thy love!”
And, when he had prayed, he lifted Lucy up; and, turning
to the window, he showed her, flaming between them and
the sunset sky, two full-blown cactus-flowers.
“One for my father,” he said, “and one for me.”
THE END.
