JEALOUS PASSIONS.
"Walk in, Mr. Storms. Judith will be somewhere about. Oh, here she
is!"
Yes, there she was, lighting up the bare hall with the rosy glow of
her smiles, which, sullen as she strove to make them, beamed upon the
visitor quite warmly enough to satisfy his insatiate vanity.
"Daughter, this is Mr. Storms, a young gentleman from the neighborhood
of 'Norston's Rest,' come up the valley on business. He was kind
enough to walk along the hill with me after I got through work, and
when I told him of the view, he wanted to see it from the house."
Neither of the young people gave the slightest sign that they had met
before. Judith's smile turned to an inward laugh as she made a dashing
courtesy, and gave the young man her hand the moment her father's back
was turned.
Storms might have kissed the hand, while the old man was hanging up
his hat, but was far too prudent for anything of the kind, though he
saw a resentful cloud gathering on the girl's face.
The old man gave a quiet signal to Judith that she should stop a
moment for consultation, while their visitor went out of the
back-door, as if tempted by a glimpse of the scenery in that
direction.
"I couldn't help asking him in, daughter, so you must make the best of
it. Is there anything in the house--anything for tea, I mean? No
butter, I suppose?"
"Yes, there is; I churned this morning."
"You churned this morning! Why, what has come over you, daughter?"
"Dear me, what a fuss about a little churning! As if I'd never done as
much before!"
The old man was so well pleased that he did not hint that butter, made
in his own house, seemed like a miracle to him.
"But bread--when did we have a baking?"
"No matter about that. There are plenty of cakes, raised with eggs,
too."
"That's capital," said the old man, throwing off a load of anxiety
that had oppressed him all the way home. "We shall get along famously.
The young man has got uncommon education, you see, Judith, and it
isn't often that I get a chance to talk with any one given to reading;
so I want you to make things extra nice. Now I'll go and see what can
be found on the bushes."
"I've picked all the berries, and got them in the dish, father."
"Why, Judith!"
"You asked me to, or as good as that, so there's nothing to wonder
at."
The old man drew a deep breath. A little kindness was enough to make
him happy, but this was overpowering.
"So you picked 'em for the old man just as if _he_ were company, dear
child!--dressed up for him, too!"
Judith blushed guiltily. Her poor father was so easily deceived, that
she felt ashamed of so many unnecessary falsehoods.
"I dressed up a little because I wanted to be like other girls."
"I wish you could be more like other girls," said the father, sighing,
this time heavily enough; "but it's of no use wishing, is it, child?"
"I think that there is a great deal of use in it. If it were not for
hoping and wishing and dreaming day-dreams, how could one live in this
stupid place?"
The old man looked at his child wistfully. It was so many years since
he had known a day-dream, that the idea bewildered him.
"It is so long since I was young," he said; "so very long. Perhaps I
had them once, but I'm not sure--I'm not sure."
"I'm sure that the cakes will burn up if I stand here any longer,"
said Judith, on whom the sad pathos of her father's words made no
impression. "I'll put them on the table at once. Call your friend in
before they get heavy."
When the old man came in with Storms, he found Judith standing by the
table, which she was surveying with no little pride. Unusual attempts
had been made to decorate the room. The fireplace was turned into a
tiny bower fairly set afire by a jar crowded full of great
golden-hearted marigolds, that glowed through the soft greenness like
flame.
All this surprised and delighted the old man. He turned with childlike
admiration from the fireplace to the table, and from that to his
daughter, who was now casting stolen and anxious glances into the old
mirror opposite, over which was woven more delicate flowers, with the
sprays of some feathery plant, heavy and rich with coral berries that
scattered themselves in reflection on the glass.
The room was cool with shadows, but swift arrows of gold came shooting
from the sunset through the thick vines, and broke here and there upon
the floor, giving a soft glow to the atmosphere which was not heat.
The old man glanced at all this very proudly, and when one of these
arrows was shivered in his daughter's hair he sat fondly admiring her;
for to him she was wonderfully beautiful.
Young Storms looked at her also, with a little distrust. There was
something unnatural in her high color and in the dashing nervousness
of her movements as she poured out the tea, that aroused his interest.
Once or twice she fixed her eyes upon him in a wild, searching
fashion, that made even his cold gray eyes droop beneath their lids.
At last they all arose from the table and gathered around the window,
looking out upon the sunset. It was a calm scene, rich with golden
haze near the horizon; while the gap below was choked up with purple
shadows through which the river flowed dimly. Of those three persons
by the window, the old man was perhaps the only one who thoroughly
felt all the poetic beauty of the scene; even to him the rural picture
became more complete when the only cow he possessed came strolling up
to the gate, thus throwing in a dash of life as she waited to be
milked.
"I'll go out and milk her," said the old man. "You've had a good deal
to attend to, daughter, and it is no more than fair that I should help
a little."
Help a little! why it was not often that any one else went near the
poor beast for weeks together; but the old man was pleased with all
the girl had done, and covered her delinquency with this kindly craft
as he went into the kitchen in search of a pail.
The moment he was gone, Judith turned upon her visitor.
"Let us go down into the orchard; I want to speak with you," she said.
"Why not here?" questioned the young man, who instinctively refused or
evaded everything he did not himself propose.
"Because he may come back, and I want to be alone--quite alone," said
the girl, impatiently. "Come, I say!"
There was something rudely imperative in the girl's manner that forced
him to go; but a sinister smile crept over his face as he took his hat
and followed her through the back way down to the orchard, over which
the purple dusk was gathering, though flashes of sunlight still
trembled on the hill-tops.
Judith did not accept the half-offered arm of the young man, but
walked by his side, her head erect, her hands moving restlessly, and
her black eyes, full of wistful fire, now and then turning upon him.
She leaped over the stone wall without help, though Storms reached out
his hand, and frowned darkly when she refused it.
Down to an old gnarled tree, bristling with dead limbs, she led the
way, and halted under its shadows.
"What does this mean?" said Storms, in a cold, low voice. "Why do you
insist on bringing me here?"
"Because of something that worries me," answered Judith, trembling all
over; "because I want to know the truth."
"I wonder if there is a girl in the world who has not something to
worry her?" said Storms, with smiling sarcasm. "Well, now, what is the
trouble? Have the old magpies been picking you to pieces again?"
"No, it isn't that, but something--I know it isn't true; but it seems
to me that I can never draw a long breath till you've told me so over
and over again--sworn to it."
A shade of disturbance gathered on the young man's face, but he looked
at the girl, as she spoke, with sinister coolness.
"But you do not tell me what this dreadful thing is that takes away
your breath."
"I--I know it is silly--"
"Of course; but what is it?"
"They tell me--I know it is an awful falsehood--but they tell me that
you are engaged!"
"Well!"
"Well!--you say 'well,' as if it were possible!" cried the girl,
looking wildly into his face.
"All things are possible, Judith. But is this the only thing that
troubles you?"
"Is not that enough--more than enough? Why do you wait so long before
denying it? Why do you look so dark and keen, as if an answer to that
slander needed thought? Why don't you speak out?"
"Because I want to know everything that you have heard first, that I
may deny it altogether."
"Then you deny it, do you?"
"Not till I have all the rest. When people are down on a man, they do
not often stop at one charge. What is the next?"
"Oh, they amounted to nothing compared to this--just nothing. Idling
away time, spending money. I--I don't remember! There was something,
but I took no heed. This one thing drove the rest out of my mind. Now
will you answer me?"
"Answer me a question first."
"Oh, what is it? Be quick! Have I not told you that I cannot breathe?"
"What do you care about the matter?"
"What do I care?" repeated the girl, aghast.
"Yes; why should you?"
The same love of cruelty that made this man behead thistles with his
cane and set dogs to tear each other, influenced him now. He revelled
in the young creature's anguish, and, being an epicure in malice,
sought to prolong it.
How could the girl answer, with so much stormy surprise choking back
her utterance? This man, who had spent so much time with her, who had
flattered her as if she had been a goddess, whose very presence had
made her the happiest creature on earth, was looking quietly in her
stormy face, and asking why she should care if he were pledged to
marry another!
She could not speak, but looked at him in blank dismay, her great
black eyes wildly open, her lips quivering in their whiteness.
"You ask me that?" she said, at length, in a low, hoarse voice--"you
dare to ask me that, after--after--"
"After what?" he said, with an innocent, questioning look, that stung
her like an insult.
The girl had her voice now. Indignation brought it back. But what
could she say? In a thousand forms that man had expressed his love for
her; but never once in direct words, such as even a finer nature than
hers could have fashioned into a direct claim.
The wrathful agony in her eyes startled the young man from his studied
apathy; but before he could reach out his arms or speak, she lifted
both hands to her throat and fled downward toward the gap.
This fierce outburst of passion startled the man who had so coolly
aroused it. He sprang after the girl, overtook her as she came near
the precipice, increasing her speed as if she meant to leap over, and
seizing her by the waist, swung her back with a force that almost
threw her to the ground.
"Are you crazy?" he said, as she stood before him, fierce and panting
for breath.
"No," she answered, drawing so close to him that her white face almost
touched his; "but you are worse than that--stark, staring mad, I tell
you--when you expect to even me with any other girl."
"Even you with any other girl!" said Storms, really startled. "As if
any one ever thought of it! Why, one would think you never heard of a
joke before!"
"A joke?--a joke?"
"Yes, you foolish child, you beautiful fiend--a joke on my part, but
something more with the miserable old gossips that have gotten up
stories to torment you. As if you had not had enough of their lies!"
Judith drew a deep breath, and looked at him with all the pitiful
intensity of a dumb animal recovering from a blow.
"They seemed to be in earnest. They said that you were about to marry
some girl of your mother's choosing."
"Well, what then? That was reason enough why you should have laughed
at it."
"But you hesitated. You looked at me with a wicked smile."
"No wonder. Who could help laughing at such folly?"
"Folly--is it folly? Just now your face is pale, but when I look at
you a hot red comes about your eyes. I don't like it--I don't like
it!"
"Is it strange that a sensible fellow can't help blushing when the
girl he loves makes a fool of herself?"
Judith looked in that keen, sinister face with misgiving; but Storms
had gained full command of his countenance now, and met her scrutiny
with a smile.
"Come, come," he said, "no more of this nonsense. There isn't any such
girl as you are dreaming of in the world."
"Oh, Richard, _are_ you telling me the truth?" questioned the girl,
clasping her hands, and reaching them out with a gesture of wild
entreaty.
"The truth, and nothing but the truth, on my honor--on my soul!"
A fragment of rock half imbedded in the earth lay near Judith. She
sunk down upon it, dashed both hands up to her face, and burst into a
wild passion of weeping that shook her from head to foot.
The young man stood apart, regarding her with mingled astonishment and
dismay. Up to this time she had been scarcely more than an overgrown
child in his estimation, but this outgush of strength, wrath, and
tears bespoke something sterner and more unmanageable than
that--something that he must appease and guard against, or mischief
might come of it.
He approached her with more of respect in his manner than it had ever
exhibited before, and said, in a low, conciliatory tone:
"Come, Judith, now that you know this story to be all lies, what are
you crying about? Don't you see that it is getting dark? What will
your father think?"
Judith dashed the tears from her eyes, and, taking his arm, clung to
it lovingly as she went toward home.