Beauty and The Beast - Bayard Taylor (story read aloud .TXT) 📗

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 here and there. At the click of the gate-latch she started 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 for us,—I mean for you, Jonathan. Yes, we must learn to 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 willing to believe it. But she was hardly aware how nearly 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 would not be entirely welcome to the home which must 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 we were born, and we cannot do any thing but work 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 tomorrow, 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