“Don’t, Dannie!” Cather entreated.
“I’d have ye listen, Judy,” said I, in earnest, kind reproach, “t’ what John Cather says. I’d have ye heed his words. I’d have ye care for him.” Being then a lad, unsophisticated in the wayward, mercilessly selfish passion of love, ignorant of the unmitigated savagery of the thing, I said more than that, in my folly. “I’d have ye love John Cather,” says I, “as ye love me.” ’Tis a curious thing to look back upon. That I should snarl the threads of our destinies! ’Tis an innocency hard to credit. But yet John Cather and I had no sensitive 200 intuition to warn us. How should we––being men? ’Twas for Judith to perceive the inevitable catastrophe; ’twas for the maid, not misled by reason, schooled by feeling into the very perfection of wisdom, to control and direct the smouldering passion of John Cather and me in the way she would, according to the power God gives, in infinite understanding of the hearts of men, to a maid to wield. “I’d have ye love John Cather,” says I, “as ye love me.” It may be that a lad loves his friend more than any other. “I’d have ye t’ know, Judy,” says I, gently, “that John Cather’s my friend. I’d have ye t’ know––”
“Dannie,” Cather interrupted, putting an affectionate hand on my shoulder, “you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Judith turned.
“I do, John Cather,” says I. “I knows full well.”
Judith’s eyes, grown all at once wide and grave, looked with wonder into mine. I was made uneasy––and cocked my head, in bewilderment and alarm. ’Twas a glance that searched me deep. What was this? And why the warning? There was more than warning. ’Twas pain I found in Judith’s great, blue eyes. What had grieved her? ’Twas reproach, too––and a flash of doubt. I could not read the riddle of it. Indeed, my heart began to beat in sheer fright, for the reproach and doubt vanished, even as I stared, and I confronted a sparkling anger. But presently, as often happened with that maid, tears flushed her eyes, and the long-lashed lids fell, like a curtain, upon her grief: 201 whereupon she turned away, troubled, to peer at the sea, breaking far below, and would not look at me again. We watched her, John Cather and I, for an anxious space, while she sat brooding disconsolate at the edge of the cliff, a sweep of cloudless sky beyond. The slender, sweetly childish figure––with the tawny hair, I recall, all aglow with sunlight––filled the little world of our thought and vision. There was a patch of moss and rock, the green and gray of our land––there was Judith––there was an infinitude of blue space. John Cather’s glance was frankly warm; ’twas a glance proceeding from clear, brave, guileless eyes––springing from a limpid soul within. It caressed the maid, in a fashion, thinks I, most brotherly. My heart warmed to the man; and I wondered that Judith should be unkind to him who was our friend.
’Twas a mystery.
“You will not listen, Judith?” he asked. “’Tis a very pretty thing I want to say.”
Judith shook her head.
A flash of amusement crossed his face. “Please do!” he coaxed.