“First one’s down again,—see, he’s doin’ it over!” said the pieman, and the call and lunge were repeated as before. But this time the girl’s eye did not follow; the wonder and rush of it all was thrilling her from head to foot. She had seen the sky-dance of the woodcock, the free Walpurgis night’s festival of the American river woods, with wild flowers for bracken and hemlock boughs for witches’ brooms. Once more her toes tingled, music rang in her ears, sorrow and love both slipped away, and she was again the little girl playing at gypsy queen in her River Kingdom. That night Brooke slept deeply, but it was the sleep of dreams that comes from being drowned in a “best room” feather-bed for the first time, an experience both fearful and wonderful.
Instead of starting on his return trip at seven the next morning, as usual, the pieman’s advice was asked by his widowed relative concerning the buying of a cow, which was to be sold at auction that morning in the next village. For this one day at least Brooke was in no haste, and as the auction began at nine o’clock and was two miles distant, the pieman suggested that she might like to spend the time in the woods that they had skirted the previous night, and walk along the stream. Then, when she had gone as far as she chose, all she had to do was to follow the brook north again without fear of going astray, while by way of a lunch Sairy Ann gave her half a dozen mellow russet apples, the storing and keeping of which, in prime condition, well into the summer was a matter of great pride.
Nothing could have suited Brooke better than these few hours of perfect liberty,—she was responsible for nothing about her, not even for her presence there. The widow’s hens were cackling vigorously, and she laughed as she realized that, whether they broke their eggs or stole their nests, it was a matter of indifference to her. The revulsion from the tense responsibility of the past three months flew to her head like the subtle May wine of the Old World, her heart beat fast, she stretched her limbs, and then began to thread the woods toward the stream in a delicious waking dream.
Being guided by sound, she stood looking at the bits of drift that swirled by, the water drawing her eyes and holding them as a mirror does those who are near it.
In a few moments she noticed that, while there was a distinctly marked path among the rocks and stones along her side of the watercourse, the opposite bank was heavily brushed and almost impenetrable, while the sunlight came filtering through and danced upon the water in a way that entranced the artist in her. Choosing a mossy stump, and being thirsty, for the first thirst of spring is more keen than any that follows, she seated herself, buried her shoe tips in the deep moss, and taking an apple from her pocket bit into it deliberately, critically watching the juice ooze from the wound her teeth had made. As she munched, gazing at the sunbeams chasing the shadows over the water, she was startled by a ringing sound, as of metal striking stone. It was repeated several times before she located its direction, and as she did so, saw that the noise was made by the shoes of a horse, who was coming downstream, browsing along the foot-path, in the line of which she was seated.
A second glance showed her that it was Manfred, Stead’s horse, with bridle fastened loosely to the saddle, while a fishing basket attached to one side easily explained his presence. Seeing Brooke, he came quickly toward her with a friendly whinny and nosed the apple. Almost at the same time Robert Stead himself, in the water to the knees, slowly wading the somewhat treacherous shallows, and whipping the stream as he came, appeared from under the arch of overhanging hemlocks.
For a moment he did not seem to believe the sight of his own eyes, and then, rapidly reeling in his line, he looked out for the nearest landing spot and stood before Brooke, with an expression that might be interpreted either as one of surprise or resentment at having his sport thus interrupted. But then he had acquired a stern expression by practice. Brooke had often before thought he wore it as a mask, and his words were not angry, but almost playful.
“Eve, the apple, and a bit of Eden! But how did you come here and what are you doing?”
“Not Eve, because, as you will observe, I am not going to offer my apple to the only man in sight, but share it with a good sensible horse, who will not tell tales. I came up to the farm last night with Mr. Banks, the pieman, to see the woodcock dance, and I’m waiting here while he buys a cow for Sister-in-law Sairy Ann. As to what I am doing, I was eating an apple, but Manfred interrupted me; and now I’m going to begin another, and I’m very sorry that your simile prevents my offering one to you,—for they’re good,” and Brooke took a bite from a particularly fine specimen, a mischievous glance following her words.
Stead tethered the horse a few yards away and, coming back, threw himself down on the clean hemlock needles beside her. He felt suddenly relaxed, tired he would have called it, as if rigidity and strength had mysteriously left him.