"Go 'way!" she cried.
I would not go away: 'twas Aunt Esther, the gossip, that went, and in
a rout--with a frightened backward glance.
"Go 'way!" Judith pleaded. "I'm not able to bear it, Dannie. Oh, go
back!"
'Twas an unworthy whim, and I knew it to be so, whatever the vagaries
of maids may be, however natural and to be indulged, at these crises
of emotion. She had sent John Cather away, it seemed, that she might
be for a space alone, in the way of maids at such times, as I had been
informed; and she would now deny to me the reflection of her
happiness.
"'Tis unkind," I chided, "not to share this thing with me."
She started: I recall that her eyes were round and troubled with
incomprehension.
"I've come to tell you, Judith," says I, "that I do not care."
'Twas a brave lie: I am proud of it.
"'Tis kind," she whispered.
We were alone. 'Twas dusk: 'twas dusk, to be sure, of a disquieting
day, with the sky most confidently foreboding some new and surprising
tactics in the ancient warfare of the wind against us; but Judith and
I, being young and engaged with the passion of our years, had no
consciousness of the signs and wonders of the weather. The weather
concerns the old, the satisfied and disillusioned of life, the folk
from whom the romance of being has departed. What care had we for the
weather? 'Twas dusk, and we were alone at the turn of the road--a
broad, rocky twist in the path, not without the softness of grass,
where lovers had kissed in parting since fishing was begun from Twist
Tickle and Whisper Cove. By the falling shades and a screen of young
leaves we were hid from the prying eyes of Whisper Cove. 'Twas from
me, then, that the maid withdrew into a deeper shadow, as though,
indeed, 'twas not fit that we should be together. I was hurt: but
fancied, being stupid and self-centred, that 'twas a pang of isolation
to which I must grow used.
"Why, Judy," says I, "don't, for pity's sake, do that! Why, maid," I
protested, "I don't care. I'm glad--I'm just _glad_!"
"Glad!" she faltered, staring.
"To be sure I'm glad," I cried.
She came close to me.
"I don't care," says I.
"You do not care!" she muttered, looking away. "You do not care!" she
repeated, in a voice that was the faintest, most drear echo of my
own.
"Not I!" I answered, stoutly. "Not a whit!"
She began to cry.
"Look up!" I besought her. "I do not care," I declared again, seeking
in this way to ease her pity of me. "I do _not_ care!"
'Twas a strange thing that happened then: first she kissed the cuff of
my coat, in the extravagant way of a maid, and then all at once
clapped her hands over her eyes, as though to conceal some guilt from
a righteous person. I perceived this: I felt the shame she wished to
hide, and for a moment wondered what that shame might be, but forgot,
since the eyes were mine neither to have read nor to admire, but John
Cather's. And what righteousness had I? None at all that she should
stand ashamed before me. But there she stood, with her blue eyes
hid--a maid in shame. I put my finger under her chin and tried to
raise her face, but could not; nor could I with any gentleness
withdraw her hands. She was crying: I wondered why. I stooped to peer
between her fingers, but could see only tears and the hot color of her
flushes. I could not fathom why she cried, except in excess of
happiness or in adorable pity of me. The wind rose, I recall, as I
puzzled; 'twas blowing through the gloaming in a soothing breeze from
the west, as though to put the fears of us to sleep. A gentle gust,
descending to our sheltered place, rustled the leaves and played with
the maid's tawny hair; and upon this she looked up--and stepped into
the open path, where, while her tears dried and her drooping
helplessness vanished, she looked about the sky, and felt of the wind,
to discover its direction and promise of strength. 'Twas a thing of
tragical significance, as it seems to me now, looking back from the
quiet mood in which I dwell; but then, having concern only to mitigate
the maid's hysteria, following upon the stress of emotion I conceived
she had undergone, this anxious survey of the weather had no meaning.
I watched her: I lingered upon her beauty, softened, perfected,
enhanced in spiritual quality by the brush of the dusk; and I could no
longer wish John Cather joy, but knew that I must persist in the
knightly endeavor.
"The wind's from the west," says she. "A free wind."
"For Topmast Harbor," says I; "but a mean breeze for folk bound
elsewhere."
"A free wind for Topmast Harbor," she repeated.
"No matter," says I.
"'Tis a great thing," she replied, "for them that are bound to Topmast
Harbor."
'Twas reproachfully spoken.
"You'll be going home now, maid," I entreated. "You'll leave me walk
with you, will you not?"
She looked down in a troubled muse.
"You'll leave me follow, then," says I, "to see that you've no fear of
the dark. 'Twill be dark soon, Judith, and I'm not wanting you to be
afraid."
"Come!" cries she. "I _will_ walk with you--home!"
She took my hand, and entwined her long fingers with mine, in the
intimate, confiding way she was used to doing when we were a lad and a
maid on the dark roads. Many a time, when we were lad and maid, had
Judith walked forward, and I backward, to provide against surprise by
the shapes of night; and many a dark time had she clutched my hand,
nearing the lights of Twist Tickle, to make sure that no harm would
befall her. And now, in this childish way, she held me; and she walked
with me twenty paces on the path to Twist Tickle, whereupon she
stopped, and led me back to that same nook of the road, and doggedly
released me, and put an opposing hand on my breast.
"Do you bide here," says she; "and when I call, do you go home."
"An you wish it," I answered.
'Twas not more than twenty paces she walked towards the impoverished
cottages of Whisper Cove: then turned, and came again to me. I
wondered why she stood in this agony of indecision: but could not
tell, nor can be blamed for the mystification, relentlessly as I blame
myself.
"Dannie," she moaned, looking up, "I can go nowhere!"
"You may go home, maid," says I. "'Tis a queer thing if you may not go
home."
"'Tis an unkind thing."
"Come!" I pleaded. "'Twill so very soon be dark on the road; and I'm
not wantin' you t' wander in the dark."
"I cannot," says she. "I just cannot!"
"Judith," I chided, "you may. 'Tis an unseemly thing in you to say."
"But I cannot bear it, Dannie!"
"I would cry shame upon you, Judith," I scolded, "were _I_ not so
careful of your feelings."
She seemed now to command herself with a resolution of which tender
maids like Judith should not be capable: 'tis too lusty and harsh a
thing. I stood in awe of it. "Dannie," says she, "do you go home. I'll
follow an I can. And if I do not come afore long, do you tell un to
think that I spend the night with the wife of Moses Shoos. You may
kiss me, Dannie, lad," says she, "an you cares t' do it."