Judith of the Cumberlands

								

first sharp rise she drew rein for the inevitable separation, she could
not have said that she had failed; but she knew that she had not
succeeded.
"Ye can jest turn Pete a-loose now," she told him gently. "He'll foller
from here on."
Bonbright, on his part, was not quite aware why he paused here, yet it
seemed cold and unfriendly to say good-bye at once, Again he assured her
that he would go immediately to the jail and find what could be done for
her cousins. There was no more to be said now--yet they lingered.
It was a blowy, showery March day, its lips puckered for weeping or
laughter at any moment, the air full of the dainty pungencies of new
life. Winged ants, enjoying their little hour of glory, swarmed from
their holes and turned stone or stump to a flickering, moving grey. About
them where they stood was the awakening world of nature. Great, pale blue
bird-foot violets were blooming on favoured slopes, and in protected
hollows patches of eyebright made fairy forests on the moss, while under
tatters of dead leaves by the brookside arbutus blushed. Above their
heads the tracery of branches was a lace-work overlaid with fanlike
budding green leaves, except where the maples showed scarlet tassels, or
the Judas tree flaunted its bold, lying, purple-pink promise of fruitage
never to be fulfilled.
Could two young creatures be wiser than nature's self? It was the new
time; all the gauzy-winged ephemeræ in the moist March woods were
throbbing with it, buzzing or flashing about seeking mates and nectar.
The earth had wakened from her winter sleep and set her face toward her
ancient, ardent lover, the sun. In the soul of Judith Barrier--Judith the
nature woman--all this surged strongly. As for the man, he had sent forth
his spirit in so general a fashion, he conceived himself to have a
mission so impersonal, that he scarce remembered what should or should
not please or attract Creed Bonbright.
Judith dreaded lest he make his farewells before she had from him some
earnest of a future meeting. He could not say good-bye and let her leave
him so! It seemed to her that if he did she should die before she reached
the mountain-top. Dark, rich, earth-born, earth-fast, material, she
looked down at Creed where he stood beside her, his hand on the sorrel's
neck, his calm blue eyes raised to hers. Her gaze lingered on the fair
hair flying in the March breeze, above a face selfless as that of some
young prophet. Her eager, undisciplined nature found here what it craved.
Coquetry had not availed her; it had fallen off him unrecognised--this
man who answered it absently, and thought his own thoughts. And with the
divine pertinacity of life itself she delved in the ancient wisdom of her
sex for a lure to make him rise and follow her. It was not bright eyes
nor red lips that could move or please him? But she had seen him moved,
aroused. The hint was plain. Instantly abandoning her personal siege, she