JUDITH.
Ruth Jessup was indeed more deeply pledged to Richard Storms than she
was herself aware of. The old farmer and Jessup had been fast friends
for years when these young people were born, and almost from the first
it had become an understanding between them that their families should
be united in these children. The two fathers had saved money in their
hard-working and frugal lives, which was to lift the young people
into a better social class than the parents had any wish to occupy,
and each had managed to give to his child a degree of education
befitting the advancement looked forward to in their future.
Young Richard had accepted this arrangement with alacrity when he was
old enough to comprehend its advantages, for, of all the maidens in
that neighborhood, Ruth Jessup was the most beautiful; and what was
equally important to him, even in his boyhood, the most richly
endowed. As for the girl herself, the importance of this arrangement
had never been a subject of serious consideration.
Bright, gay, and happy in her nest-like home, she accepted this lad as
a special playmate in her childhood, and had no repugnance to his
society after that, so long as more serious things lay in the
distance. Brought up with those habits of strict obedience so
commendable in the children of English parents, she accepted without
question the future that had seemed most desirable to her father, who
loved her, as she well knew, better than anything on earth.
Indeed, there had been a time in her immature youth when the presence
of young Storms filled all the girlish requirements of her life. Nay,
as will sometimes happen, the very dash and insolence of his character
had the charm of power for her; but since then the evil of his nature
had developed into action, while her judgment, refined and
strengthened, began to revolt from the traits that had seemed so bold
and manly in the boy.
Jessup had himself been somewhat displeased by the idle habits of the
young man, and had expostulated with the father on the subject so
directly that Richard was put on a sort of probation after his
escapade at the hunt, and found his presence at the gardener's
cottage less welcome than it had been, much to his own disgust.
"I have given up the dogs and nursed that lame brute as if I had been
his grandmother--what more can any reasonable man want?" he said one
day when Jessup had looked coldly on him.
"If you would win favor with daughter Ruth, my lad, go less with that
gang at 'The Two Ravens,' and turn a hand to help the old father. When
that is done there will always be a welcome for you; but my lass has
no mother to guide her, and I must take extra care that she does not
match herself illy. Wait a while, and let us see the upshot of
things."
"Is it that you take back your word?" questioned Richard, anxiously.
"Take back my word! Am I a man to ask that question of? No, no; I was
glad about the terriers, and shall not be sorry to see you on the back
of the horse when he is well, for he is a fair hunter and worth money;
but daughter Ruth has heard of these things, and it'll be well to keep
away for a bit till they have time to get out of her mind."
"I'll be sure to remember what you say, and do nothing to anger any
one," said Storms, with more concession than Jessup expected, and the
young man rode away burning with resentment.
"So I am to be put in a corner with a finger in my mouth till this
pretty sweetheart of mine thinks fit to call me out of punishment. As
if there were no other inn but 'The Two Ravens,' and no other lass
worth making love to but her! Now, that the hunter is on his feet
again, I'll take care that she'll know little of what I am doing."
This conversation happened a few days after the hunt. Since that time
Storms had never been heard of at the "Two Ravens," and his name had
begun to be mentioned with respect in the village, much to Jessup's
satisfaction.
Occasionally, however, the young man was seen mounted on the hunter,
and dressed like a gentleman, riding off into the country on business
for his father. The people who met him believed this, and they gave
him credit for the change that a few weeks had wrought.
Was it instinct in the animal, or premeditation in his rider that
turned the hunter upon the old track the first time he was taken from
the stable? Certain it is that Richard Storms rode him leisurely up
the long hill and by the lane which led to the dilapidated house he
had visited on the day of his misfortune, but without calling at the
house.
After he had pursued this course a week or more, riding slowly in full
view of the porch, until he was certain that one of its inmates had
seen him, he turned from the road one day, left his horse under a
chestnut tree that grew in the lane, and sauntered down the weedy path
toward the house.
Looking eagerly forward, he saw Judith Hart in the porch. She was
standing on a small wooden bench, with both arms uplifted and bare to
the shoulders. Evidently the unpruned vines had broken loose, and she
was tying them up again.
As she heard the sound of hoofs the girl stooped down and looked
through the vines with eager curiosity.
She jumped down from the bench as she recognized the young man, a
vivid flush of color coming into her face and a sparkle of gladness in
her eyes. If he had forgotten that day when the first cup of milk was
given, she had not.
At first a smile parted her red lips; then a sullen cloud came over
her, and she turned her back, as if about to enter the house, at which
he laughed inly, and walked a little faster until a new mood came over
her, and she stood shyly before him on the porch, playing with the
vine leaves, a little roughly; yet, under all this affectation, she
was deeply agitated.
"I have come," he said, mounting the broken steps of the porch, "for
another glass of water. You look cross, and would not give me a cup of
milk if I asked for it ever so humbly."
"There is water in the well, if you choose to draw it," answered the
girl, turning her face defiantly upon him. "I had forgotten all about
the other."
"And about me too, I dare say?"
"You! Ah, now, that I look again, you have been here before. One
cannot remember forever."
Storms might have been deceived but for the swift blushes that swept
that face, and the smile that would not be suppressed.
"I have been so busy," he said; "and this is an out-of-the-way place."
Out-of-the-way place! Why, Judith had seen him ride by a dozen times
without casting his eyes toward the poor house she lived in, and each
time with a swift pang at the heart; but she would have died rather
than let him know it, having a fair amount of pride in her nature,
crude as it was.
"Will you come in?" she said, after an awkward pause.
The young man lifted his hat and accepted this half-rude invitation.
He did draw water from the well that day, while Judith stood by with
a glass in her hand, exulting while she watched him toil at the
windlass, as she had done when he asked for a drink. Some vague idea
of a woman's dignity had found exaggerated development since that time
in Judith's nature, and though she dipped the water from the bucket,
and held it sparkling toward him, it was with the air of an Indian
princess, scorning toil, but offering hospitality. She was piqued with
the man, and would not seem too glad that he had come back again.
"There is no water in all the valley like that in your well," he said,
draining the glass and giving it back with a smile; "no view so
beautiful as that which strikes the river yonder and looks up the
gorge. There must be pleasant walks in that direction."
"There the river is awful deep, and a precipice shelves over it ever
so high. I love to sit there sometimes, though it makes most people
dizzy."
"Some day you will show me the place?"
"Oh, it is found easy enough. A foot-path is worn through the orchard.
Everybody knows the way."
"Still, I shall come to-morrow, and you will show it to me?"
The color rose in Judith's face.
"No," she said; "I shall have work to do."
There was pride, as well as a dash of coquetry, in this. Judith
resented the time that had been lost, and the forgetfulness that had
wounded her.
Perhaps it was this seeming indifference that inspired new admiration
in the young man. Perhaps it was the unusual bloom of beauty dawning
upon her that reminded him vividly of Ruth Jessup; for the same
richness of complexion was there--the dark eyes and heavy tresses with
that remarkable purple tinge that one sees but once or twice in a
lifetime. Certain it is, he came again, and from that time the change
in Judith, body and soul, grew positive, like the swift development of
a tropical plant.