“I am going to find Judith.”
He had never called her by her name before, and did it unconsciously. Mrs. Temple, though, who was acute as most women are about these things, looked at him steadily. Throckmorton colored a little, but his eye had never drooped before any woman’s, not even Mrs. Temple’s. But she, after a little pause, laid her hand on his shoulder—he was not a tall man, like General Temple, and she could easily reach it—and said: “I hope you—will find Judith, George Throckmorton.”
He went forth and struck out toward the belt of fragrant pines, where he knew Judith oftenest walked. It was spring again—April, with the delicious smell of the newly plowed earth in the air, and the faint perfume of the coming leaves—the putting-forth time. The entrancing stillness that all people born and nurtured in the country love so much was upon the soul of Nature. The dreamy and solemn murmur of the pines seemed only to make the greater silence obvious. In a little while he saw Judith’s graceful figure coming his way. She wore a pale-gray gown, and a large black hat shaded her face. In her hand she carried a branch of the pale-pink dogwood, that does not grow by open roads and farm-fields, but in the depths of the woods. Beverley, with another branch of dogwood across his shoulder, like a gun, marched sturdily ahead of her. Throckmorton, who had carefully guarded his behavior since he had been home, was quite reckless now. He meant to risk it, and since all depended on the cast of a die, prudence was superfluous. He took Judith’s hand and held it until he saw the red blood steal into her face. He looked at her so, that she could not lift her eyes from the ground. Beverley, however, claimed his rights. He and Throckmorton were great friends.
“How you is?” he asked, offering his chubby hand and looking up fearlessly into Throckmorton’s face. The child had lost his mother’s shy, appealing glance. He was a little man, instead of a baby, as he often told her proudly. “I’m going to be a soldier, I am,” was his next remark, “and I’m going to be a brave soldier.”
“That’s right,” said Throckmorton, “and, as I’m a soldier, too, perhaps I’ll help you along.”
“Will you make me a soldier?” asked Beverley, pushing his cap back off his curly head.
“Yes, if you will go immediately home—all by yourself. You see—it isn’t far—just along the path and through the gap, to the orchard, and then to the house.”
Beverley looked meditatively at the distance. It seemed a perilous way for a six-year old. Judith stood, crimson and helpless. Throckmorton was a masterful man, and, when he took things in his own hands, he was apt to have his own way. She knew at once what he meant, and it gave her a kind of shock—she seemed about to be transported to another world. This sending away of her child was what nobody had ever done before. Throckmorton, smiling, said to the boy, “A soldier shouldn’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of nothin’,” answered Beverley, stoutly. Judith stooped toward him, and the child threw his arms about her and kissed her—a kiss she passionately returned. She felt it to be her farewell to him as the first object of her existence. She knew that he was to be supplanted. The boy trotted off, not looking behind once.