# Atalanta in the South/Chapter 20

CHAPTER XX.
Golden September has come and gone, and brown October, her elder sister, more sober and not less beautiful than the yellow month, is here. The nuts are ripe, the corn is gathered, the apples stand in high pyramids in the four corners of the orchards,—one pile russet-brown, one rosy red, another deep yellow, and the fourth green with the color of the famous greening, the best apple in the world for cider and tart. It is the merry season of the year in good New England. The farmer's lads and lasses, who have not stolen one day's holiday during the busy time of ploughing the soil and planting the seed, of tending the ripening crops and finally of harvesting the fruits of the earth, now take what little of rest and pleasure the year holds for them. The county Agricultural Fair has drawn people together from the remote hamlets and scattered farms which radiate from the centre of Woodbridge. The roads are alive with vehicles of all degrees, from the ox-cart laden with giant vegetables on its way to the Fair, to the spider ​of the farmer jockey, bound to try the speed of the colt he has raised against that of the other contestants in the race. Here come a pair of rustic lovers in a trim farm-wagon newly varnished for the occasion. They have a stout plough-horse, whose speed the unwary youth pits against that of the slender steed of a city shopman who, with a horse and chaise hired for the occasion, is bringing the lady of his choice out to the Fair. The city horse is a nervous, light-limbed creature, which at a touch of the whip springs forward into a swift gait, his fleet hoofs tossing the dust into the face of the discomfited farmer, who is soon left far behind. In the hour of defeat it is little comfort for him to reflect that had the race-course been a field, the vehicle a harrow, the results would have been very different.
From her favorite seat, high up in the arms of a giant apple-tree, Margaret watches the line of wagons and wayfarers passing down the high road that bounds the orchard. She looks with careless interest at the farmers and their wives, at the townspeople and the gentlefolk, as they pass on their way to the Fair, her eyes always reverting to a point in the road where the first glimpse of a carriage returning from the station may be had. At last! There are the grays, behind them her father, a fearless driver, and at ​his side the man whose coming she has so long anticipated. Once sure that he is there, her interest in the carriage ceases; she buries her face in her hands, and for an instant contemplates mounting to a still loftier aerie at the very top of the great tree. The idea is dismissed as being childish: the old orchard always makes her feel herself a child again; and descending lightly from the tree, she stands beneath its shadow, afraid to go back to the house to meet him, and dreading lest he should fail to find her in the orchard. She hears a step on the path, a shadow falls across the heap of red-gold pumpkins on the other side of the wall, the gate swings open and shuts again, and some one stands beside her. She does not look up; she dares not lift her eyes to his face, lest she should find it changed.
"Won't you speak to me, Margaret?"
She is silent.
"Look at me, at least; I have come so far."
He is devouring her with his eyes, which find her bonnier than ever; but still she cannot look at him. It is as if her eyelids were weighed down with the burden of the happy tears which sparkle from under the long lashes.
"Atalanta, are you not glad that I have come to you? Shall I go?"
There is a shade of reproach in his voice. With an effort of will she lifts her eyes slowly ​till they rest on his collar, and then pause as if intent on studying the jewel in his scarf. He steps back a pace, as if to go; then the eyes flash upward into his, the glad color pulses to her cheek and brow, for at what she sees all her fear is forgotten.
Never did days fly by as did those that followed Robert's arrival at Woodbridge. There was so much for him to see, there were so many people for him to meet, that every hour was filled. He had never been at the North, and everything he saw had the interest of novelty. The beautiful old Ruysdale house, which was new when the century was young, with its treasures of ancient carving, of ancestral silver, its family portraits by Stuart and Copley, its miniatures by Malbone of the dead-and-gone Ruysdales, all sleeping in the graveyard of the old church which the founder of the family had erected. Then there were the living Ruysdales, even more awesome to Feuardent's mind,—the General's aunt and Margaret's several dozens of cousins, all of whom felt themselves privileged to mystify and embarrass him as to their puzzling names and identity. Margaret was immensely popular in this large family circle, and not a day passed in which Robert was not made to understand what a lucky fellow he was,—first in winning a Ruysdale for his wife, and secondly in that the particular ​Ruysdale he had won was the sweet maid Margaret. The Ruysdales were a powerful clan, and a proud one. They had some right to be so. They had furnished a governor to the Colony in the old days, and ever since that time members of the family had held offices of trust in the State and had stood high in public esteem. All this Robert was made to appreciate fully by the afore-mentioned relatives, "who rubbed it in extra hard," Mrs. Harden observed to her husband, "because they did n't know when they should catch a real live Creole fresh from Louisiana again."
The Hardens had come to share in Margaret's happiness, and Colonel Lagrange with Bouton de Rose, who was to stand by Robert in the hour of need as best man, was hourly expected. The wedding-day had been set, and the mail and express-carriers were bringing boxes and packages every day, whose contents were of the most profound interest to all the female cousins, as well as to Sara Harden and Margaret herself. One afternoon, about a fortnight before the happy day, Margaret and Robert, returning from one of their long rambles through the crispy autumn woods, encountered Mrs. Harden strolling leisurely along, leaning on the arm of a young and good-looking Ruysdale of the other sex.
​"I was looking for you, young moon-doves," she began, "because I want to separate you for one brief half hour. I have something very particular to say to my dear Margaret. Gentlemen, we will excuse you."
Margaret knew what was coming, and looked down uneasily, rolling a ribbon end between her fingers.
"Dear, I wanted to ask you if you had written to Philip when it is to be?"
"No, Sara."
"I think you ought."
"He will have heard, don't you think so?"
"How can one tell?—he is so shut off from the world at Thebes."
"And he has been there all the summer?"
"Yes, fighting the fever like a true knight of the Red Cross."
"He is a noble fellow; would it not be better for you to tell him of our marriage?"
"No, I can't. I can't do it; and I don't want him to read it in the papers. You must write him, and ask him to come."
"O Sara!"
"Yes, you or Robert; and I do not think that monsieur will undertake it."
This with a faint trace of satire in her voice. She could never quite forgive Feuardent. Margaret looked at her reproachfully, and then said ​with a sigh: "You are right; the letter shall be written to-night."
The writing of the letter was the one painful hour of all that bright, brief courtship. Margaret indited it alone in her room late that night, not without a good deal of feeling; but the tears were dried and forgotten an hour after, as she fell into a happy dream, soon to be made a reality. The letter was written and despatched, and in due time reached its destination at Thebes. A week passed, and Margaret received no answer,—at which she wondered a little, and then ceased to think about it in the thousand and one busy, happy thoughts that invaded her mind.
The time of the Harvest Home was come, and the whole community in and about Woodbridge was busy in making ready for that joyous festival. The old stone church, where this service had been held for more than a hundred seasons, assumed the appearance of a temple of Ceres. Sheaves of yellow grain stood in the four corners of the sanctuary, and at the chancel-rail lay heaps of rich-toned vegetables, pumpkins shining like new burnished gold, melons of every shape, and great bunches of purple grapes and masses of chrysanthemums flaunting their fringed banners and filling the air with their clean pungent perfume. A vine, heavy with clusters of white grapes, which seemed ready to burst with the ​sunshine in their hearts, was wreathed across the altar. The delicate stone pillars were outlined with vivid crimson woodbine climbing from base to capital, and the design of the cornice was followed by a garland of ripe ears of corn twisted together, with here and there a branch heavy with apples or pears. At the altar foot lay a shining ploughshare, a rake, and a sickle. All these decorations had been planned by Margaret, who had worked with loving willingness to make the temple fair and fitting for that festival, older than Christianity, older than Greece itself, as old as man's gratitude to his Creator for the garnered harvest. Other preparations were making, and from every kitchen of every farm-house in all the country round came the fragrant odors of pumpkin-pies, of pound-cake, of jellies and sweetmeats, of doughnuts, of smoked bacon and sugared hams, of baking beans and roasting meats, for the festival was to be one of good cheer.
The day of the Harvest Home dawned bright and clear, one of those electric autumn days when every breath of the pure bracing air stimulates like a draught of sparkling wine. The sky was one flawless crystal, pale blue at the horizon, and deepening to sapphire at the zenith. There was not a cloud in sight, but about the sun hung a light veil of mist which changed his ​yellow radiance to a silver light It was as if the moon had grown as powerful as himself, and, forsaking the realm of night, had sailed boldly into the day and usurped the place of its monarch. The ocean which washes the shores of Woodbridge was not broken by a ripple. It shone like a vast silver shield stretching out to the white horizon.
After the services in the church, where Margaret's fresh sweet voice led the village choir for the last time, the whole congregation poured out upon the church-green, set about with fir-trees, shut in from the high-road by a famous screen of cypress,—the despair and envy of every church and every gardener in the country side. Here were spread long tables laden with the good things the farmers' wives had been so busy in preparing. At the chief of these Margaret presided, cutting with her own hand the first piece from a gigantic game-pie, as wonderful in its flavor and manufacture as the pasty of the Golden Kootoo. The governor of the State—a Ruysdale of the real old-fashioned sort, a florid, handsome old fellow, with the courtly manners of his grandfather's time—stood on Margaret's right hand, the clergyman on her left. In his speech he made a veiled allusion to the event of her marriage, which was received with great enthusiasm. Barrels of fresh cider and kegs of ​foaming beer were tapped, and healths were drunk and glasses clinked merrily. This last was something of an innovation; but Margaret had begged to be allowed to contribute to the feast these innocent beverages, as well as the mammoth pasty, the pair of giant turkeys, and the great wedding-cake, big as a small cart wheel. Robert was introduced to many of the farmers, who had seen Margaret grow up from a wee motherless baby to the winsome young woman she now was. They regarded him with a less covert curiosity than her kinsfolk had shown; and Joseph Halloway, the chief of the selectmen, who had given her apples when she was no higher than his knee, expressed it as his opinion that "Margaret Ruysdale had found a downright smart, handsome-looking husband down South, though he dooes look and talk more like a furriner than an American."
It was a joyous day, long remembered at Woodbridge as the merriest Harvest Home there had been in many years. It was held in Margaret's remembrance, all her life through, as a happy day,—the last of her girlhood days; for on the morrow Robert Feuardent was to claim his bride, and General Ruysdale had pledged his word to deliver over his prisoner to the enemy, even without the return of the hostage heart.
••••••• ​It had come at last, that hour which Robert Feuardent had so ardently desired. The bells of the little church, which was still brave with the triumph of the Harvest, rang out merrily. Bouton de Rose came to the door of his room in the village inn and warned him that the time had come when they should start for the church. He was a pale bridegroom, almost as pale as he had been that day when Margaret had seen him at the Hôtel-Dieu; but he had never looked handsomer in his life, his bride thought, than at that moment when he turned from the altar and made one involuntary step to meet her as she came up the aisle, all smiles and flowers and blushes, leaning on the General's arm. The bells rang out merrily. The old sexton, who had seen Margaret christened, pulled lustily at the rope, and the air was full of the joyous marriage-peal, echoing from woodland aisle to village street. To Margaret's ears the chime was full of melody; to Robert it seemed like the silver note of a celestial clarion summoning him to the joy and triumph of his love. To the ears of Sara Harden the bells had a sinister sound. She heard one note, brazen and hoarse as an alarm, swinging through the linked sounds, killing the merriment and turning it to a melancholy minor key. She stood before her mirror, dressed out in all her finery, the prettiest ​woman—after the bride, who on that day was radiant with that fleeting beauty which comes once in every woman's life—in all the gay throng of guests who had come to witness the wedding of Margaret. She could not shut the doleful sound out from her ears, though she tried bravely, as with blanched face she turned away from the glass that a moment before had shown so rosy and smiling a reflection.
"Are you ready, my dear?" asked her husband.
"Yes."
"How pale you look! Are you not well?"
"Yes, yes, Gaffer; it is nothing. Bring my smelling-salts."
Her hand was on the door, when again the chime rang out, and again she heard that note of grief swelling now like a dirge, and sending the blood tingling through her veins. She gave a terrified cry, and mindless of her laces and bravery, fell upon her knees. In a moment her husband had her in his arms, trying to soothe the unaccountable paroxysm that shook her frame. It passed quickly, and she was soon quietly weeping upon his shoulder.
"Go, dear; go, my good, kind husband, and leave me. I cannot go to that wedding. I shall never be missed; and if I should be, say that I am ill!"
​"I can't leave you, Sara; I never saw you so upset before."
"You must go, dear, dear Darius; but come back soon, for I don't know, indeed, what ails me. I am afraid to be alone with my thoughts, they are so strange and terrible."
She was missed at the church by many; most of all by the susceptible young Ruysdale, on whose heart her perfections had made a very deep impression. They came in search of her when the bridal party returned to the house; and yielding to their solicitation, Sara Harden touched her pale cheeks with a little rouge—for perhaps the second time in her life—and joined the festivities below. Her usual vivacious spirits were missing, however,—which did not prevent the feast from being a merry one; for confiding her depression to the favored cousin, she passed the time with him in a remote corner of the conservatory, where the casual observer supposed them to be carrying on a desperate flirtation. Here Bouton de Rose came in search of her, and here he did brave and valiant battle with the cousin for possession of the seat by the little lady's side. But the impressionable Ruysdale was immovable; and until the moment came when all gathered together to say farewell to the bride, they remained in the shadow of the palms.
​"Good-by, good-by, my Atalanta!" Sara whispered, as her turn came to take Margaret in her arms in an affectionate embrace; and Margaret felt that the cheek laid for a moment against her own was wet with tears. They were the only ones that marred the smiles of that bright wedding-day, and they were forgotten five minutes after they were dry.
Amidst a storm of rice and satin shoes, of kisses and farewells, Robert and Margaret left the old Ruysdale mansion and started on that first and shortest stage of their life-journey.
The summer was past, and Thebes, the broken and desolate city, was beginning to give thanks for her deliverance from the pestilence. In the churches thanksgivings were offered, and in the decimated households men and women were rejoicing for the lives of the dear ones who had been spared to them. At the headquarters of the Aid Society, whose members had ministered so nobly and generously to the suffering community, no medicines were given out now, no orders for the grim appliances of burial, but strong soup and jellies for the convalescents, cordials and tonics for those who were still weak. The nurses and doctors, such of them as had been spared, were taking their departure, bearing away with them the thanks and ​blessing of the people unto whose cry they had hearkened. Business began to be resumed, and men and women met in the streets and market place without that dread avoidance of contagion which has separated each man from his brothers. A hearty willingness to lend a hand to those who had suffered most was noticeable, even in those professions wherein envy and jealousy are thought to be the only binding links. A thoughtful cheerfulness was the prevailing expression of men's faces; the most frivolous among them was chastened by what he had endured, the most austere softened by the sorrow of the past summer. In the columns of the local press the bulletin of deaths had resumed its normal dimensions, and the marriage notices, which had ceased entirely, began to come slowly into the office. The streets lost their desolate emptiness and the houses assumed their ordinary appearance.
The vengeance of the pauper had been wreaked upon the rich man, and the pestilence was dead, or slept, glutted with its victims. It is as sure as that thunder-clap shall follow lightning-flash that the neglected and squalid denizens of the vile tenements shall breed in their misery and filth a disease which when it has grown strong is not to be stifled in the quarter whence it sprang, but will walk abroad and will not be denied at the doors of the grand houses where the beggar ​dares not ask for bread. The cities of the world have suffered many such a chastening as that which Thebes has endured. May they profit by the warning and follow the example of the people of that city, who, when their sick were whole again, tarried not, but purged and cleansed the town, wherein will never again be found foothold for the dreaded visitor!
It was a time of rest and thanksgiving in all the city, with one exception: the house of Madame Anna wore the darkened look which betokens the presence of illness. The blinds were drawn, the street outside was strewn with straw, and the heavy knocker muffled. Day and night Hero sat beside the door, that no visitor should disturb the sufferer who lay in the long dining-room, the largest and airiest apartment in the house. The callers were not a few; hardly a quarter of an hour passed without some anxious inquiry, to which Hero would answer with a mournful shake of the head,—
"No better."
For the time of the fever was past, and the illness which laid Philip Rondelet low bore no trace of the baneful disease he had fought so bravely. Men and women had time to turn from their own cares and ask news of him who had won the love and gratitude of the community.
"No better."
​The grievous response came slowly, with a monotonous reiteration which tortured Therese when it fell from the lips of physicians who tended him with unfailing devotion. Their chief had been stricken down; the man who had inspired them with faith and courage in the never-to-be-forgotten weeks now lay ill of an insidious disease whose nature they could not determine, whose progress they failed to stay.
From the hour when he had been first attacked,—it was soon after he had received a number of letters, Therese remembered,—she had hardly left him. She took such rest and refreshment as were necessary at the farther corner of the lofty room, whose gay appointments were strangely out of keeping with the scene to which they afforded a background. Certain of the pictures which she deemed unfit for dying eyes she banished, and above the bed she hung a crucifix, the parting gift of the Abbess who had been as a mother to her. It was a wonderful work of art, carven of flawless ivory, mellow with the centuries which had passed since the master-hand which wrought it had crumbled to dust. The ebony cross brought sharply into relief the emaciated body and the beautiful grieved face. Philip had told Therese that she possessed a treasure in this bit of carving, and she hung it where his ​eyes could linger on the wondrous apotheosis of pain.
One morning, perhaps ten days after he had succumbed to the illness developed by the almost superhuman toil of the summer, Therese, finding her patient apparently much improved, left him in charge of one of the physicians and went out to take a brief walk. She was gone only a short time, but when she returned she found Hero waiting for her at the gate.
Philip had been asking for her. With a feeling as if her whole life had paused for a moment, she trembled and leaned against the black creature for support; then the weakness was conquered, and she entered the house. At the threshold of the sick room she was met by the grave face of the doctor. "It is all over," he said gently. "Come and see how quietly he died,—without a pang or a struggle."
He led her to the bedside. Therese looked at him for a moment, and then, kneeling beside him, whispered:
"Look! it is the face of the dead Christ of the crucifix!"
Even as the stigmata appeared of old on the body of St. Francis, so was the shadow of that face reflected on the dead face of Philip Rondelet, a weak and sinful man, who had given his life to save his fellow-men.
​In the great concourse of people that followed all that was mortal of Philip Rondelet to the grave, all distinctions of class and sect were swept away, as they never fail to be in times of deep feeling. Roman priest and Jewish rabbi, the noisy atheistical preacher and the rigid Presbyterian divine, walked together behind the two chief mourners,—his foster-brother and servant Hero, and Therese, the woman whom he had saved from death. Only these two, out of all the friends who had known and admired him before he had joined the forsaken garrison at Thebes! The bells of the churches tolled as the procession wound through the streets, their harsh iron clangor, echoing from belfry to belfry, resounding in the aisles of the silent city of the dead, toward which the crowd was moving. It may be that their deep, hoarse notes were wafted even farther, and that they blended faintly with the marriage-chimes with which the Woodbridge woods were so merry that day. It may be that to one sensitive ear the mournful echo of a dirge was audible above the wedding-bells, and that the tears of Hero and Therese were not the only ones shed that day for Philip Rondelet.
Finis