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diff --git a/35335-8.txt b/35335-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..94fad6b --- /dev/null +++ b/35335-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8807 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sherrods, by George Barr McCutcheon + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Sherrods + +Author: George Barr McCutcheon + +Illustrator: C. D. Williams + +Release Date: March 19, 2011 [EBook #35335] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHERRODS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Cover art] + + + + +[Frontispiece: JUSTINE SHERROD.] + + + + +[Illustration: Title page] + + + + +THE + +SHERRODS + + +By + +George Barr McCutcheon + + +Author of "Graustark", "Castle Craneycrow", Etc. + + + +With Illustrations by + +C. D. Williams + + + +Grosset & Dunlap + +New York + + + + + Copyright, 1903, by + Dodd, Mead and Company + + + _Entered at + Stationers' Hall_ + + + _Published September, 1903_ + + + HILL AND LEONARD + NEW YORK CITY, U. S. A. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + + I. THE SOFT SUMMER NIGHT + II. "LET NOT MAN PUT ASUNDER" + III. JUD AND JUSTINE + IV. MRS. HARDESTY'S CHARITY + V. WHEN THE CLASH CAME + VI. THE GIRL IN GRAY + VII. LEAVING PARADISE + VIII. THE FIRST WAS A CRIMINAL + IX. THE ENCOUNTER WITH CRAWLEY + X. THE CLOTHES AND THE MAN + XI. WHEN THE WIND BLOWS + XII. THE GOOD OF EVIL + XIII. THE FINDING OF CELESTE + XIV. "MY TRUEST COMRADE" + XV. ONE HEART FOR TWO + XVI. THE FALL OF THE WEAK + XVII. AT SEA + XVIII. 'GENE CRAWLEY'S SERMON + XIX. THE PURE AND THE POOR + XX. THE SOCIABLE + XXI. THE COMING IN THE NIGHT + XXII. THE FIRST-BORN + XXIII. THE TALE OF TEARS + XXIV. THE NIGHT OUT + XXV. THE LETTER TO CRAWLEY + XXVI. TWO WOMEN AND A BABE + XXVII. THE END OF IT ALL + XXVIII. HEARTS + XXIX. CRAWLEY'S LEGACY + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +JUSTINE SHERROD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ + +"IN A SECOND CRAWLEY WAS ROLLING UP HIS SLEEVES" + +"YOU MUST LET ME PAY YOU FOR IT" + +"HIS EYES TOOK IN THE PICTURE" + +"'YOU'RE A LIAR--YOU'RE ALL LIARS'" + +"'IT IS NOT TRUE,' HALF SHRIEKED CELESTE" + + + + +THE SHERRODS + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE SOFT SUMMER NIGHT. + +Through the soft summer night came the sounds of the silence that is +heard only when nature sleeps, imperceptible except as one feels it +behind the breath he draws or perhaps realizes it in the touch of an +unexpected branch or flower. The stillness of a silence that is not +silent; a stillness so dead that the croaking of frogs, the chirping of +crickets, the barking of dogs, the hooting of owls, the rustling of +leaves are not heard, although the air is heavy with those voices of +the night--the stillness of a night in the country. All human activity +apparently at an end, all sign of life lost in somber shadows. The +ceaseless croaking, the chirping, the hooting, the rustling themselves +make up this unspeakable silence--this sweet, unconscious solitude. + +A country lane, dark and gloomy, awaited the moon from the clouded +east. Lighted only here and there by the twinkling windows in roadside +homes, it lay asleep in its bed of dust. Far off it straggled into a +village, but out there in the country it was lost to the world with the +setting of the sun. + +The faint glow from the window of a cottage poured its feeble but +willing self into the night as if seeking to dispel the gloom, dimly +conscious that its efforts were unappreciated and undesired. Down at +the rickety front gate, cloaked in blackness, stood two persons. +Darkness could not hide the world from them, for the whole world dwelt +within the confines of a love-lit garden gate. For them there was no +sound of life except their tender voices, no evidence that a world +existed beyond the posts between which they stood, his arm about her, +her head upon his breast. They spoke softly in the silence about them. + +"And to-morrow night at this time you will be mine--all mine," he +murmured. She looked again into his face, indistinct in the night. + +"To-morrow night! Oh, Jud, it does not seem possible. We are both so +young and so--so--" + +"So foolish!" he smiled. + +"So poor," she finished plaintively. + +"But, Justine, you don't feel afraid to marry me because I am poor, do +you?" he asked. + +"Do you think I have been poor only to be afraid of it? We love each +other, dear, and we are rich. To-morrow night I shall be the richest +girl in the world," she sighed tremulously. + +"To-morrow night," he whispered. His arm tightened about her, his head +dropped until his lips met hers and clung to them until the world was +forgotten. + +Far away in the night sounded the steady beat of a galloping horse's +hoofs. Louder and nearer grew the pounding on the dry roadway until at +last the rollicking whistle of the rider could be heard. Standing in +the gateway, the silent lovers, their happy young hearts beating as +one, listened dreamily to the approach. + +"He has been in the village," said she, at length breaking the silence +that had followed their passionate kiss. Her slender body trembled +slightly in his arms. + +"And he is going home drunk, as usual," added the youth sententiously. +"Has he annoyed you lately?" + +"We must pay no attention to what he says or does," she answered +evasively. + +"Then he has said or done something?" + +"He came to the schoolhouse yesterday morning, dear--just for a +moment--and he was not so very rude," she pleaded hurriedly. + +"What did he say to you; what did he want?" persisted her lover. + +"Oh, nothing--nothing, Jud. Just the same old thing. He wanted me to +give you up and--and--" She hesitated. + +"And wait for him, eh? If he bothers you again I'll kill him. You're +mine, and he knows it, and he's got to let you alone." + +"But it will all be over to-morrow night, dear. I'll be yours, and +he'll have to give up. He's crazy now, and you must not mind what he +does. When I'm your wife he'll quit--maybe he'll go away. I've told +him I don't love him. Don't you see, Jud, he has hope now, because I +am not married. Just as soon as the wedding's over he'll see that it's +no use and--and he'll let us alone." + +"The drunken hound! The idea of him daring to love you! Justine, I +could kill him!" + +The horseman swept past the gate, a swift black shadow amid the thunder +of hoof-beats, and the lovers drew closer together. Just as he roared +past them his whistling ceased and a strong, bold voice shouted: + +"Hello, Justine!" He was saluting, in drunken gallantry, the girl whom +he believed to be asleep beneath a counterpane near some black window +in the little house. The horse shied, his whip swished through the air +and cut across the animal's flank; the ugly snort of the beast mingled +with oaths from the rider. + +The girl shuddered and placed her hands over her ears; her companion +set his teeth and muttered: + +"The dog! I wish that horse would throw him and break his neck! He's +not fit to live. Justine, if there is a man who will go to hell when +he dies, that man is 'Gene Crawley. And he wants you--the hound! The +sweetest, gentlest, purest girl in the world! He wants you!" + +They forgot the rider, and the clatter of the horse's hoofs died away +in the night. The lovers turned slowly toward the house. At the door +he stooped and kissed her. + +"The last night we are to part like this," he whispered. + +She laid both hands upon his face. + +"Let us pray to-night, dear, that we may be always as happy as we now +are," she said softly. + +She opened the door, and the two stood for a moment in the fair light +from the cottage lamp. From above him on the door-sill, she laid her +fingers in his curly brown hair, and said, half timidly, half joyfully: + +"The last night we shall say good-bye like this." + +Then she kissed him suddenly and was gone, blushing and trembling. He +looked at the closed door for an instant, and then dropped to his knees +and kissed the step on which she had stood. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +"LET NOT MAN PUT ASUNDER." + +The next night they were married. In the little cottage there were +lights and the revelry known only in country nuptials. The doors and +windows were open, and scores of young people in their best clothes +flitted in and out, their merry voices ringing with excitement, their +faces glowing with pleasure, their eyes sparkling with the mischief +peculiar to occasions of the kind. There were the congratulations and +the teasings; the timid jests and the coarse ones; the cynical bits of +advice from lofty experts; the blushes of prospective brides; the +red-faced denials of guilty beaux; the smiles, the winks, and the +songs; the feasting and the farewells. + +"That boy," Jud Sherrod, and "Cap" Van's daughter, Justine, were to be +married. The community would have liked to be glad. Everybody had +"allowed" they would be married some day. Now that the day had come, +amid the rejoicing there were doubts, such as this: + +"They's a mighty nice-appearin' couple, but dinged 'f I see how they're +goin' to git along. Jud ain't got no more bizness workin' on a farm +than a hog hez in a telegraft office. Course, his pap was a farmer, +but Jud's been off to seminary. He don't give a dodgast fer the farm, +nohow, an' I perdict that she'll haf to keep on teachin' school fer a +livin'. Course, that little land o' hern might keep 'em goin', but I +bet a barrel o' cider 'at Jud won't be wuth a bushel o' corn-husks at +runnin' it. He's a dern nice boy, though, an' I'd hate like Sam Patch +to see a morgidge put on the place. What she'd orter done wuz to +married some big cuss like Link Overshine er Luther Hitchcock. They'd +'a' made somethin' out'n that little eighty up yander, an' she'd never +need to worry. Dinged if she ain't put' nigh the purtiest girl I ever +see. Looks jest like her ma. 'Member her? Don't see what she ever +could see in Jud Sherrod. He cain't do a dasted thing but draw +picters. His pap had orter walloped him good an' made him chop wood er +somethin', 'stead o' lettin' him go on the way he did. They do say he +kin sketch things powerful fine. He tuck off a picter uv Sim Brookses' +sucklin' calves that was a daisy, I've hearn. But that ain't farmin' +by a dern sight." + +Even Jud and Justine had looked forward to the great day with anxious +minds. Both realized the importance of the step they were to take, for +they were possessed of a judgment and a keenness uncommon in young and +ardent lovers. Justine, little more than a girl in years, knew that +Jud was not and never could be a farmer; it was not in him. He knew it +as well as she, though he was not indolent; he was far from that. He +was ambitious and he was an indefatigable toiler--in art, not of the +soil. He was a born artist. By force of circumstances he was a +farmer. The tan on his hands and face, the hardness in his palms had +not been acquired unwillingly, for he was not a sluggard, nor a +grumbler. He plowed, though his thoughts were not of the plowing; he +reaped, though his thoughts were not of the harvest. + +They had been sweethearts from childhood. They had played together, +read together, studied together, and suffered together. It seemed to +them that they just grew up to their wedding day, a perfectly natural +growth. Had this marriage come five years earlier everything would +have been different. Instead of the little cottage, clean, cozy, and +poor, there would have been the big white house on the hill, surrounded +by maples and oaks; instead of the simple gown of white lawn there +would have been a magnificent silk or satin; instead of the sympathy +and the somber head-shakings of wedding guests there would have been +rejoicing; and approval. + +To-night, as the little clock on Justine's bureau struck eight, she +left her room and met Jud in the narrow hall upstairs. Downstairs +could be heard the muffled voices of an expectant crowd, an occasional +giggle breaking through the buzz. He kissed her and both were silent, +thinking of other homes. One remembered the big white house on the +hill, the other the old yellow farmhouse, large and rambling, "over on +the pike." To-night they faced the minister in the parlor of one of +the lowliest dwellings in the neighborhood. The boy had not an acre of +all his father's lands; the girl was poor, at the gates of the famous +Van homestead. They were married not in his house, but in hers. The +cottage stood in the corner of a thirty-acre farm that had come to her +through her grandmother. This was all except memories that the child +had to connect her present life with the comfortable days of the past. + +Old Mrs. Crane, who lived with Justine in the little cot, met them at +the foot of the creaking stairway and threw open the door to the +parlor. Before the boy and girl gleamed the faces of a score or more +of eager, excited friends. There was hardly a girl in the crowd who +was not dressed more expensively than the bride. Justine was proudly +aware of the critical, simpering gaze that swept over her simple gown; +she could almost read the exultant thoughts of her guests, as they +compared her plain lawn to the ridiculous finery that hid their +sunburnt necks, scrawny arms, and perspiring bodies. + +Her face was fresh and flushed with happiness, pride--perhaps disdain; +their faces had, at least, been washed and lavishly powdered. Most of +them wore absurd white gloves over their red arms. Yet they were the +élite of the county. There were red dresses, blue dresses, yellow +dresses, and there were other dresses in which the colors of the +rainbow shone, all made to fit women other than those who wore them. +The men, old and young, bearded and beardless, were the most uncouth +aristocrats that ever lorded it over a countryside. True, they had put +on their store clothes and had blackened their boots and shoes; they +had shaved, and they had plastered their hair faultlessly; they had +cast aside their quids of tobacco and they were as circumspect as if +they were at church. + +Justine and Jud stood with clasped hands before the young minister, +listening to his lengthy and timely discourse on the blessedness of +matrimony. Then came the vows. Their eyes met. The answers! They +breathed them--the yes and the yes and the yes--almost unconsciously. +Then the last words--"Whom God hath joined together let not man put +asunder!" + +For the next two or three hours they were in a whirl of emotions; +everything was hazy, uncertain, misty to them. They had taken up each +other's burdens, each other's joys for life; they had begun a new +existence. She was no longer Justine Van, he was no longer the +thoughtless boy. They were husband and wife. The laughter, the jests, +the quips, and the taunts of their merry friends were a jangle of +discordant sounds, unpleasant and untimely, and kindly as they were +meant, unkind. There were aimless hand-shakings, palsied kisses, inane +responses to crude congratulations, and it was all over. The guests +departed, singing, shouting, and laughing. The last to leave was old +Mrs. Crane, Justine's companion for four long years. She was going to +live with her brother up near the village. Jud and Justine were to +live alone. + +Down at the toll-gate, nearly a mile from Justine's home in the +direction of the village, a small and select company of loungers spent +that evening. The toll-gate, kept by Jim Hardesty and his wife, +Matilda, was at the junction of the big gravel pike which led to the +county seat and the slim, shady lane that passed Justine's cottage. +Here of evenings the "hired hands" of the neighborhood gathered to +gossip, tell lies, and "talk ugly" about the farmers by whom they were +employed. On the night of the wedding there were five or six slouchy, +sweat-smelling rustics lounging on the porch. The wedding formed the +only topic of conversation. + +They talked of Justine's good looks and how "they'd liked to be in +Jud's boots"; and of the days when old "Cap" Van lived and the bride of +the night had not had to teach school; of the days when she rode horses +of her own, and went to the city to make purchases instead of to the +humble village as now; they talked of her kindly in their rough way. +They discussed Jud with enthusiasm. Everybody liked him. His two +years at college had not "swelled his head." He was "jest the feller +fer Justine Van, an' she got him, too, 'g'inst ever' girl in the +township--an' ever' one of 'em had set their caps fer him, too, you +bet." The loungers agreed it was "too bad that Jud and Justine was so +derned pore, but mebbe they'd make out somehow er 'nother." + +They laughed about 'Gene Crawley's affection for Justine Van. + +'Gene Crawley! A "hand" over at Martin Grimes' place--a plain, +every-day hired man, working for eighteen dollars a month for the +meanest, stingiest farmer in Clay Township! He was not any better than +the rest of the hands on the place, "'s fer as learnin' an' manners wuz +concerned. Hadn't no more license to be skylarkin' 'round after +Justine Van 'n he had after Queen Willimeny. 'S if she'd notice sech a +derned cuss as him; allus cussin' an' drinkin' an' fightin'. No +'spectabull girl would want to be saw with him." + +About nine o'clock a dark figure approached the toll-gate afoot. It +was a man, and he came from the night somewhere to the east, probably +from the village of Glenville. There was no mistaking his identity. +The heavy, swift tread told the watchers that it was 'Gene Crawley long +before he came within the radius of light that shot through the open +doorway. Someone in the crowd called out: + +"H' are ye, 'Gene! Thought you'd be up to the weddin'." + +'Gene did not reply. He strode up to the porch and threw himself into +a vacant chair near the window. The light from within shone fairly +upon his dark, sullen face, his scowling brow, and his flushed, +unshaven cheeks. An ugly gleam was in his black eyes. He had been +drinking, but he was not intoxicated. His hickory shirt, dirty and +almost buttonless, was open at the throat as if it had been torn that +its wearer might save himself from choking. He wore no coat, and his +faded, patched blue overalls were pushed into the tops of his heavy +boots. An old straw hat lay where he had cast it behind his chair. +The black, coarse hair, rumpled and unkempt, grew low on his scowling +forehead. His face was hard and deeply marked, not unlike that of an +Indian. The jaw was firm, the chin square and defiant, the mouth broad +and cruel, the nose large and straight, the eyes coal-black and set far +apart, beneath heavy brows. The arm which rested on the sill was bare +to the elbow; it was rugged, with cords of muscle that looked like +ropes interlaced. A glimpse of the arm revealed, as if he stood stark +naked, the strength of this young Samson. He was a huge, unwieldy man, +a little above medium height; he might have weighed one hundred and +seventy pounds; but with his square shoulders, broad chest, and an +unusually erect carriage for an overworked farm-boy, he looked larger +than he really was. + +"You ain't got your Sunday-go-to-meetin' close on, 'Gene," commented +Jim Hardesty, tilting back in his chair and spitting tobacco juice half +way across the road. + +"Didn' y' git a bid to the weddin'?" asked Harve Crose, with mock +sympathy. + +A flush of anger and humiliation reddened the face of Grimes' hired +man, but it was gone in a second. + +"No; I didn' git no bid," he answered, a trifle hoarsely. "Guess they +didn' want me. I ain't good 'nough, 'pears like." + +"Seems to me she'd orter ast you, 'Gene. You be'n kinder hangin' +'round an' teasin' her to have you, an' seems no more'n right fer her +to have give you a bid to the weddin'," said Doc Ramsey, meaningly. +"She'd orter done that, jest to show you why she wouldn' have you, +don't y' see?" + +Crawley's only reply was a baleful glare. + +"How does it feel to be cut out by another feller, 'Gene?" asked Crose +tauntingly. + +"I'd never let a feller like Jud Sherrod beat my time," added Joe +Perkins. + +"Course, Jud's been to college and learned how to spoon with the girls, +so I guess it's no wonder he ketched Justine. She's jest like all +girls, I reckon. Smooth cuss kin ketch 'em all, b'gosh. Never seed it +fail yit. Trouble with you, 'Gene, is 'at you--" + +'Gene sprang to his feet with an oath so ugly that the jesters shrank +back. For several minutes he tramped up and down the porch like a +caged animal, cursing hoarsely to himself, his broad shoulders hunched +forward as if he were bent on crushing everything before them. Finally +he came to a standstill in front of the expectant crowd. The devil was +in his face. + +"Don't none o' you fellers ever say anything more to me about this. Ef +you do I'll break somebody's neck. It's none o' your business how I +feel, an' I won't have no more of it. Do y' hear me?" he snarled. + +"I on'y ast fer information--" began Crose, apologetically. + +"Well, I'll give you some, dang ye! You say I'm cut out, eh! Mebbe I +am--mebbe I am! But you'll see--you'll see! I'll make him sorry fer +it! He's whupped me this time, but I'll win yet! D' y' hear? I'll +win yet!" + +His face was almost white under the coat of tan, his eyes glowed, his +voice was low and intense. The loungers waited in suspense. + +"He thinks he's won! But I'll show him--I'll show him! She's like all +women! She kin be won ag'in--she kin love more'n once! You say he's +cut me out! Mebbe he has--mebbe he has! But this ain't a marker to +the way I'll cut him out. I'll take her away from him, I will, so he'p +me God! D' y' hear that? She'll shake him fer me some day, sure 's +there's a hell, an' then! Then where'll he be? She'll be mine! Fair +'r foul, I'll have her! I won't give up tell I take her 'way from him! +An' she'll come, too; she'll come! She'll leave him, jest like other +women have done, an' then who'll be cut out? Answer, damn ye! Who'll +be cut out?" + +He was facing them and his lips were almost as white as the gleaming +teeth beneath them. For a moment no one dared to reply. At last Doc +Ramsey scrambled to his feet. + +"Consarn ye, 'Gene Crawley!" he exclaimed. "You cain't stan' up there +an' say that 'bout Justine Van! She's a good girl, an' you're a dern +hound fer talkin' like thet! They ain't a bad drop o' blood in her +body--they ain't a wrong thought in her head, an' you know it. You kin +lick me, I know, but dern ef you kin say them things to me. She won't +look at you no more'n she'd look at that dog o' Jim's over yander." + +'Gene Crawley's arm struck out and Doc Ramsey crashed to the floor of +the porch. He lay motionless for a long time. The dealer of the blow +stood over him like a wild beast waiting for its prey to move. Not +another man in the group lifted a hand against him. + +At last he stooped and picked up his hat. + +"That's what you'll all git ef you open your heads," he grated. "What +I said about her goes!" + +He fixed his hat roughly on his head and swung away in the darkness. + +In the open door of the cottage down the lane Jud and Justine stood +side by side, her hand in his, long after the last guest had departed. +It was near midnight and behind them the lamps flickered and sputtered +with the last gasps of waning life. Silhouetted in the long, bright +frame of the doorway, the silent lovers presented a picture of a new +life begun, youth on the threshold of a new world. + +His arm drew her to his breast and her fluttering hands went slowly, +gently to his cheeks. He bent and kissed the upturned lips. + +Then the door closed and the picture was gone. + +Across the road, beside the great oak that sent its branches almost to +the little gateway, a man fell away from the fence, upon which, with +murder in his heart, he had been leaning. His hands were clasped to +his eyes, his strong figure writhed convulsively in the damp grass; his +breath came almost in sobs. At last, taking his hands from his hot +eyes, he raised his head and looked again toward the cottage. One by +one the bright windows, grew dark, until at last the house was as black +as the night about it. Then he sprang to his feet, clutching blindly +at the darkness, uttering inarticulate moans and curses. For the first +time in his life he knew a sense of loneliness and despair. + +He turned his back to the cottage and fled across the meadow. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +JUD AND JUSTINE. + +Dudley Sherrod was the only son of John Sherrod, who had died about +four years before the marriage. Up to the day of his death he was +considered the wealthiest farmer in Clay Township. On that day he was +a pauper; his lands were no longer his own; his wife and his son were +penniless. In an upstairs room of the great old farmhouse, built by +his grandfather when the country was new, he blew out his brains, +unable to face the ruin that fate had brought to his door. + +His father had been a member of the Legislature, and the boy had spent +two years in the city, attending a medical college. When the diploma +came he went back to the old home and hung out his shingle in quaint +little Glenville. In less than a year he brought a bride to the +farm--Cora Bloodgood, the daughter of a banker in the capital city of +his State. Before the end of another year he was, as heir, owner of +all his father's acres. So it was that John and Cora Sherrod began +life rich and happy. Their boy was born, grew up a bright and +sprightly lad, and was sent to college. From the rude country +schoolhouse and its simple teachings he was sent to the busy +university, among city boys and city girls, miserable in ungainly +self-consciousness, altogether out of place. He left behind him the +country lads and lasses, the tow-heads and the barefoots, and his heart +was sore. But in the beginning of his second year the simplicity of +his rural heart showed signs of giving way to urban improvements. His +strength won for him a place on the football team, and the sense of +dignity of this position displaced his self-consciousness and taught +him to be interested in the world beyond his home. He began to know +something besides the memory of green fields and meadows and clear blue +skies. + +All these months he was faithful to a slip of a girl down in the +country to whom he had feared to utter a word of love. She knew she +loved him because she had cried when he went away and had cried when he +came back. Letters, stiff and painfully correct as to spelling and +chirography, came each week from dear little Justine Van. To her his +long letters, homesickness crowding between the lines, although she +could not see it, were like messages from paradise. A dozen times a +day she read each letter as she sat in her room, or in the hated +schoolroom at Glenville, or in the shady orchard, or in the lonely +lane. She longed to have him back at home, to hear his merry laugh, to +romp with him as they had romped before he went away to school--but +here she blushed and remembered that he was tall now, and dreadfully +old and grand, and she was--she was fifteen! Jud thrashed a fellow +student one day because he poked fun at an old tintype of Justine that +he happened to see in the boy's room. The victim had laughed at the +green bonnet, the long pig-tails, and the wide eyes of the girl in the +picture--"just as if they were looking for the photographer's bird, you +know." + +Near the middle of his second year at college the crash came and the +half-dazed boy hurried home. His father was dead and the whole country +was telling the stories of his great financial losses. Every dollar, +every foot of land had been swept away by reverses arising from +investments in Arizona mines. Captain James Van went down in the same +disaster. When word reached his home of the suicide of John Sherrod, +he was on his way to the barn with a pistol hidden over his heart. +Horror and the awakening of courage made him cast the pistol aside and +turn to face the blow as a brave man should, with his wife and child +behind his back. + +Jud and Justine could not at first, and did not for many days, realize +the force of the blow. One had lost father as well as home; the other +had lost home and had sunk to a depth of poverty that grew more and +more appalling as her young mind began to understand. The boy, when he +finally grasped the situation, bared his arms and set forth to support +himself and his mother by hard work. The shock of the suicide was too +great for Mrs. Sherrod. Her reason fled soon after her husband was +laid in the grave, but it was a year before death took her to him. +During that last year of life she lived in the old place, a helpless +invalid, mentally and physically, although the property belonged to +another. David Strong held a mortgage on the home place, but he did +not foreclose it until she was gone. + +For a year Jud cared for his mother, and worked in the fields with +David Strong's men at wages of twelve dollars a month. Half of the +year's crop Strong gave to the widow of John Sherrod, although not a +penny's worth of it was hers by right. After her death Strong and his +family moved into the big old house, and Jud Sherrod lived in a room in +what had been his home. + +Justine Van's grandmother, in her will, left to the girl a thirty-acre +piece of ground, half timber, half cultivated, about a mile from the +white house in which the beneficiary was born and which was swallowed +up by the great disaster. Bereft of every penny, James Van took his +wife and daughter to the miserable little cottage. The girl shouldered +as much of the burden of poverty as her young and tender shoulders +could carry. She begged for an appointment as teacher in the humble +schoolhouse where her a-b-abs had been learned, and for two years and a +half before her marriage she had taught the little flock of boys and +girls. Especially necessary did this means of earning a livelihood +become when, two years after the failure, her father died. Then Mrs. +Van followed him, and Justine, not nineteen, was face to face with the +world, a trembling, guileless child. + +Her wages at the schoolhouse were twenty-five dollars a month, for six +months in a year, and the yield of grain from her poorly tilled farm +was barely enough to pay the taxes and the help hire. Old Jim Hardesty +farmed the place for her, and he robbed her. For six months after the +mother's death she lived alone in the cottage, and then the neighbors +finally taking the matter in hand and insisting that she be provided +with a companion, her old nurse, Mrs. Crane, came to the place. She +was shrewd from years of adversity and persuaded Justine to send Jim +Hardesty packing--and that was the hardest duty Justine had ever had to +meet. + +The discouraged boy, over on David Strong's place, worn thin with hard +work and sickness, deprived of every chance, as he thought, to realize +his ambitions, found in the girl a sympathetic comrade. Of all the +people in his world she was the only one who understood his desires, +and could, in a way, share with him the despair that made life as he +lived it seem like a narrow cell from which he could look longingly +with no hope of escape. Tired and sore from misfortune, these two +simple, loving natures turned to each other. His first trembling kiss +upon her surprised, parted lips was a treasure that never left her +memory. The bloom came to her cheeks, lightness touched her flagging +heart, happiness shone through the gloom, and the whole countryside +marveled at her growing beauty. This slim, budding maid of the meadow +and wood was as fair a bit as nature ever perfected. The sweetness and +purity of womanhood undefiled dwelt in her body and soul. No taint of +worldliness had blighted her. She was a pure, simple, country girl, +ignorant of wile, sinless and trustful. + +Justine was like her father, fair faced and straight of form. Her hair +was long and reddish-brown, her brow was broad and full, her eyes big +and brown and soft with love, her cheeks smooth and clear. A trifle +above the medium height, straight and strong, of slender mold, she was +as graceful as a gazelle. Health seemed to glow in the atmosphere +about her. + +With Jud, too, the realization of love and the feeling that there was +something to live for, brought a change. His stooping shoulders +straightened, his eyes brightened, his steps became springy. He +whistled and sang at his work, took an interest in life, and presently +even resumed his drawing. The country folk winked knowingly. The two +were constantly together when opportunity afforded, so it soon became +common report that he was her "feller, fer sure," and she was his +"girl." + +One evening, as they sat in the dusk down by the creek, which ran +through her bit of pasture land, Jud drew his mother's plain gold ring +from his little finger and slipped it upon Justine's third. They were +betrothed. + +Never were such sweethearts as Jud and Justine. They were lovers, +friends, comrades. Her sweet, serious face took a new life, new color +at his approach, her dreamy eyes grew softer and more wistful, her low +voice more musical. Her soul was his, her life belonged to him, her +heart beat only for him. Jud's famished hopes of something beyond the +farm found fresh encouragement in her simple, wondering praise. She +was his critic, his unconscious mentor. Beneath her untrained eye he +sketched as he never sketched before. Looking over his shoulder as he +lay stretched upon the grass, she marveled at the skill with which his +pencil transferred the world about them to the dearly bought drawing +pads, and her enthusiastic little cries of delight were tributes that +brought confidence to the heart of the artist. + +The girl had scores of admirers. Every boy, every man in the township +longed to "make up" to her, but she gave no thought to them. Half a +dozen widowers with children asked her to marry them. She and Jud +laughed when Eversole Baker besought her to become mother to his nine +children, including two daughters older than herself. + +But there was one determined suitor, and she feared him with an uncanny +dread that knew no rest until she was safely Jud's on the wedding +night. That one was Eugene Crawley, drunkard and blasphemer. + +Crawley was born in the dense timber land north of Glenville. His +father had been a woodchopper, hunter, and fisherman. Hard stories +came down to town about Sam Crawley. Of 'Gene, the boy, nothing +against his honesty at least could be said. He was a vile wretch when +drinking, little better when sober, but he was as honest as the sun. + +He had gone to school with Jud and Justine when they were little +"tads," and his rough affection for her began when they were mastering +the "first reader." He and Jud had fought over her twice and each had +been a victor. The girl despised him, from childhood, and he knew it. +Still, he clung to the hope that he could take her away from his rival. +He dogged her footsteps, frightened her with his mad protestations, and +finally alarmed her by his threats. The day before the wedding he had +met her as she left the schoolhouse and had sworn to kill Jud Sherrod. +She did not tell Jud of this, nor did she tell him that she had pleaded +with Crawley to spare her lover's life. Had she told Jud all this she +would have been obliged to tell him how the brute had suddenly burst +into tears and promised he would not harm Jud if he could help it. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +MRS. HARDESTY'S CHARITY. + +For many days after their marriage Jud and Justine were obliged to +endure coarse jokes, kindly meant if out of tune with their sensitive +minds. Happy weeks sped by, weeks replete with the fullness of joy +known only to the newly wedded. Days of toil, that had once been long +and irksome, now were flitting seasons of anticipation between real +joys. At dusk he came home with eyes glowing in the delight that knows +no fatigue, with a heart leaping with the love that is young and eager, +and blood carousing under the intoxication of passion's wine. In the +kitchen door of the little cot, no longer dismal in its weather-worn +plainness, there always stood the slim, supple girl, her heart leaping +with the eagerness to be clasped in his arms. She was growing into +perfect womanhood, perfect in figure, perfect in love, perfect in all +its mysteries. Her whole life before now appeared as a dreamless sleep +to her; the present was the beginning of a divine dream that softens +the rest of life into mellow forgetfulness. + +She walked with him in the hayfield, from choice, delighted to toil +near him, to breathe the same air, to endure the same sun, to enjoy the +same moments of rest beneath the great oaks, to drink from the same +brown jug of spring water, to sing, to laugh, to play with him. It was +not work. Then came the harvesting, the thrashing, and the fall +sowing. Six months were soon gone and still these children played like +cupids. Other married people in the neighborhood, whose honeymoons had +not been more than a week old before they began to show callous spots, +wondered dumbly at the beautiful girl who grew prettier and straighter +instead of turning sour, frowsy, and bent under the rigors of connubial +joy--as they had found it. They could not understand how the husband +could be so blithe and cheery, so upstanding and strong, and so +devoted. The wives of the neighborhood pondered over the latter +condition. The husbands did not deem it worth while or expedient to +wonder--they merely called Jud a "dinged shif'less boy that'll wake up +some time er 'nother an' understan' more 'n he does now." Yet they had +to admit that Jud was conducting the little farm faultlessly, even +though he did find time to moon with his wife, to bask in the sunshine +of her love, to wander over wood and field with her beside him, +sketching, sketching, eternally sketching. + +Rainy days and Sundays brought hours of sweet communion to the happy, +simple young couple. So thoroughly were they devoted to one another +that their lack of attention to the neighbors was the source of more or +less indignation on the part of those who "knowed that Jud and her +hadn't no right to be so infernal stuck-up." And yet these same +discontents were won over in the briefest conversation with the pair +when they chanced to meet. Even the most snappish and envious were +overcome by the gentle good humor, the proud simplicity of these young +sweethearts, who saw no ugliness, who knew no bitterness, who found +life and its hardships no struggle at all. + +They were desperately poor, but they made no complaint. The vigor of +life was theirs, and they sang as they suffered, looking forward with +bright, confident eyes to the East of their dreams, in which their sun +of fortune was to rise. + +Justine was to have the school another year, beginning in October, +after a six-months' vacation. Jud's pride revolted at first against +this decision of hers, but she overcame every argument, and he loved +her more than ever for the share she was taking in the dull battle +against poverty. The land he tilled was not fertile; it had been +overworked for years. The crops were growing thinner; the timber was +slowly falling beneath the stove-wood ax; the meadow plot was almost +barren of grass. It was not a productive "thirty," and they knew it. +There was a bare existence in it when crops were good, but there was, +as yet, no mortgage to face. Jud owned a team of horses, and Justine +two cows and a dozen hogs. They had no other vehicle than a farm +wagon, old and rattling. When they went to the village it was in this +wagon; when to church, they walked, although the distance was two +miles, so tender was their pride. + +Little Justine was the politic one. Jud was proud, and was ever ready +to resent the kindly offices of neighbors. Had it been left to him, +young Henry Bossman would have been summarily dismissed when he offered +to help Jud stack the hay, "jes' fer ole times' sake." It was Justine +who welcomed poor, awkward Henry, and it was she who sent him away +rejoicing over a good deed, determined to help "Jud and Justine ever' +time he had a chanst." + +It was she who accepted the proffer to thrash their thirty acres of +wheat, free of charge, from David Strong, stopping off one day as his +separator and engine passed by. She thanked him so graciously that he +went his way wondering whether he was indebted to them or they to him. +When Harve Crose offered to get their mail at the crossroads +post-office every day and leave it at the cottage gate as he rode by, +she thanked him so beautifully that he felt as though she ought to +scold him when he was late on rare occasions. Doc Ramsey, the man who +was knocked down by 'Gene Crawley at the toll-gate one night, helped +Jud build a rail fence over half a mile long, and said he "guessed he'd +call it square if Jud 'd give him that picter he drawed of Justine +summer 'fore las'. Kinder like to have that picter, 'y ginger; skeer +the rats away with," ending with a roar of apologetic laughter at his +homely excuse. + +'Gene Crawley was never to be seen in the little lane. Sullen and +savage, he frequented the toll-gate, but not so much as formerly. He +drank more than ever, and it was said that Martin Grimes had taken him +out of jail twice at the county seat, both times on a charge of "drunk +and disorderly conduct." It seemed that he avoided all possible chance +of meeting Jud and his wife. Curious people speculated on the outcome +of his increasing moroseness, and not a few saw something tragic in the +scowl that seldom left his swarthy brow. + +For many weeks after her marriage Justine dreamed of the fierce eyes +and the desperate threats of this lover, and the only bar to complete +happiness was the fear that 'Gene Crawley would some day wreak +vengeance upon her husband. As the weeks wore away, this fear +dwindled, until now she felt secure in the hope that he had forgotten +her. And yet, when his name was mentioned in her presence, she could +not restrain the sudden leaping of her heart or the troubled look that +widened her tender brown eyes. When Jud bitterly alluded to him and +assured her, with more or less boyish braggadocio, that he would whip +him if he ever so much as spoke to her or him again, she felt a dread +that seemed almost a presentiment of evil. She did not fear Crawley +for herself, but for Jud. + +'Gene's boast before the men at the toll-gate created a sensation in +the usually unruffled community. The blow that felled Doc Ramsey was +universally condemned, yet no man had the courage to take to task the +man who delivered it. The story of his mad declaration concerning +Justine spread like wildfire. Of course, no one believed that his +boast could be carried out, or attempted, for that matter; but, as +gossip traveled, the substance of his vow increased. Within a week the +tale had grown in vileness until Crawley was credited with having given +utterance to the most unheard-of assertions. Black and foul as his +actual words had been, they were tame and weak in comparison with the +things the honest farmers and their wives convinced themselves and +others that he had said. + +In the course of time the incident which made historical her wedding +night reached the ears of Justine Sherrod. She had seen 'Gene but two +or three times in the four months that intervened between that time and +the day on which she heard the wretched story from Mrs. Hardesty--an +honest soul who had heard 'Gene's words plainly, and was therefore +qualified to exaggerate if she saw fit. Once the girl passed him in +the lane near the toll-gate. He was leaning on the fence at the +roadside as she passed. She had seen him looking at her hungrily as +she approached, but when she lifted her eyes again, his broad back was +toward her and he was looking across the fields. There was something +foreboding in the strong shoulders and corded brown arms that bore down +upon the fence in an evident effort at self-control. She felt the +panic which makes one wish to fly from an unknown danger. Not daring +to look back, she walked swiftly by, possessed of the fear that he was +following, that he was ready to clutch her from behind. But he stood +there until she turned into the gate a half mile down the lane. + +It remained for Mrs. Hardesty to tell Justine the story. The bony wife +of the toll-gate keeper carried her busy presence up to the cottage one +afternoon late in September, and found the young wife resting after a +hard, hot ironing. Her pretty face was warm and rosy, her strong arms +were bare to the shoulder, her full, deep breast was heaving wearily +beneath the loose blue-and-white figured calico. As Mrs. Hardesty came +up the path from the gate she could not resist saying to herself, as +she looked admiringly but with womanly envy upon the straight figure +leaning against the door-casing, fanning a hot face with an old +newspaper: + +"I don' blame 'Gene Crawley er enny other man fer wantin' to have her. +They ain't no one like her in the hull State, er this country, either, +fer that matter." + +Justine greeted her cordially. + +"How do you do, Mrs. Hardesty? Aren't you almost baked in this sun? +Come into the shade and sit down. I'll get you a dipper of water and a +fan." + +"Don't put yourself out enny--don't trouble yourself a bit now, +Jestine. Jes' git me a sup o' water an' I'll be all hunky-dory. I +don't mind the sun very much. My, I'm glad to set down in the shade, +though. Never saw the roads so dusty, did you? Thank ye, +Jestine--much obliged. You must have a grand spring here to git such +fine water. It's as cold, purt' nigh, as the ice water you git up to +town. Set down, my dear; you look hot an' tired. I know you look nice +standin' up like that, but you'll be a heap sight more comfortable if +you set down an' rest them tired legs o' your'n. Where's Jed?" + +"He's gone over to Hawkins's blacksmith shop on the pike to have Randy +shod. She cast two shoes yesterday," explained the girl, sitting on +the doorstep. "Do you want to see him about anything in particular, +Mrs. Hardesty? He said he'd be home by six." + +"No; I jes' ast. Thought ef he was aroun' I'd like to see his +good-lookin' face fer a minnit er two. I reckon, though, he don't look +at other women when you're aroun'," tittered the visitor, who was not a +day under sixty. + +"Oh, yes, he does," laughed Justine, turning a shade rosier. "He's +getting tired of seeing me around all the time. You see, I'm an old +married woman now." + +"Good heavens, child, wait tell you've been married thirty-nine years +like I have, an' then you kin begin to talk about gittin' tired o' +seein' certain people all the time. I know I could see Jim Hardesty ef +I was as blind as a bat. I kin almost tell how menny hairs they is in +his whiskers." + +"Well, how many, for instance?" asked Justine gaily. + +"Two hundred and ninety-seven," answered Mrs. Jim, promptly and +positively. She regaled the young wife with a long and far from +original dissertation on married life as she had encountered it with +James. Finally she paused and changed the subject abruptly, leaping to +a question that had doubtless been on her mind for days. + +"Have you saw much of 'Gene Crawley lately, Jestine?" The question was +so unexpected that the girl started, and stammered in replying. + +"No; very little. I don't believe I've seen him more than twice in +several months. Is he still working for Martin?" + +"Oh, yes. They was some talk o' his goin' over to Rumley to work in a +saw-mill, but seems as though he can't leave this part o' the country." +After a moment's hesitation, she went on boldly, smiling with the +awkwardness of one who is determined to learn something at any cost. +"I s'posed he'd been comin' 'roun' here quite a little." + +"Coming here, Mrs. Hardesty?" cried the girl in surprise. "Why, he'll +never come here. He and Jud are not friends and he knows I don't like +him. Whatever put that into your head?" + +"Oh, I dunno," said Mrs. Hardesty evasively. "I heerd somethin' 'bout +his sayin' he was a great frien' o' your'n, so I thought, like as not, +he was--er--that is, he might 'a' drapped in onct in awhile, you +know--jes' like fellers will, you know." + +"Well, you may be sure 'Gene will never come here." + +"He wouldn't be welcome, I take it." + +"I don't like to say that anybody would not be welcome, Mrs. Hardesty. +I hardly think he'd _care_ to come," said the girl nervously. + +"Him an' Jed have had some words, hain't they? Never been friends +sence they was boys, I've heered. Do you think he's afeared o' Jed?" + +"Why should he be afraid of Jud? So long as each attends to his own +business there is nothing to be afraid of. They're not good friends, +that's all." + +"Well, 'Gene's been doin' some ugly talkin'," said the visitor doggedly. + +"What do you mean?" asked Justine. A strange chill seized her heart--a +fear for Jud. + +"He's been very unwise to say the things he has. I tole Jim Hardesty +ef they ever got to Jed's ears 'Gene 'd pay purty dearly fer them. But +Jim says 'twouldn't be good fer Jed ef he tackled 'Gene. He's wuss'n +pison." + +"Why, Mrs. Hardesty, I don't--I don't know what you're talking about," +cried the poor girl. "What has 'Gene been saying?" + +"Oh, it wouldn't be right fer me to git mixed up in it. It's none o' +my funeral," said Mrs. Hardesty, now in the full delight of keeping a +listener tortured with suspense. It was a quarter of an hour before +she could be induced to relate the very tales she had come to tell in +the first place. + +"'Gene tole the boys that night that he'd made love to you ever sence +you was children and that he could tell Jed Sherrod some things ef he +was a mind to. He said he could take you away from him any time, an' +that Jed 'd have to stay 'roun' home purty close ef he wanted to be +sure o' you." + +"Oh, oh, oh!" moaned the dumfounded girl. + +"An' then he went on to say that you'd promised to--to--well--well, to +leave Jed some time an' go away with him. That's the mildest way to +put it. I couldn't say it the way 'Gene did. Don't look so put-out +about it, Jestine--really, you look like you want to faint. Shell I +git you some water?" + +"Did--did he say all of that?" Justine whispered hoarsely. + +"Yes, he did. I heered him. I was in the house an'----" + +"Mrs. Hardesty, don't tell me any more. I cannot bear it. How could +he have said it--how could he have been so mean?" she wailed, +struggling to her feet. + +"Of course, they wasn't any truth in what 'Gene said," Mrs. Hardesty +volunteered, but the declaration bore distinct marks of a question. +Justine's eyes blazed, her body trembled, her lips quivered. Never had +any one seen such a look upon that sweet, gentle face. + +"No!" burst from her lips so fiercely that Mrs. Jim's eyes wavered and +fell. "No! And everybody knows it! How can you ask?" + +"I didn't ask--you know I didn't, Jestine----" stammered the guest. + +"You _did_ ask. God forgive 'Gene Crawley for those awful lies--God +forgive him! Oh, Matilda, how could he--how could he have said such +things? I never did him any wrong----" + +"Jed ought to kill him--the mean snake! He ought to go right over to +Martin Grimes's an'----" began Mrs. Hardesty excitedly. + +"No, no! He must not know!" cried Justine, with a new terror. She +clutched Mrs. Hardesty by the shoulders so that the old lady winced. +"Jud must never know! Don't you see how it would end? There would be +a murder--a murder! Jud would kill him. Let it be as it is; I can +stand it--yes, I can! We must keep it from him. You will help me, +won't you? You will see that nobody goes to Jud with this awful +story--I know you will! Oh, God! They would fight and--one of them +would be killed. How can we keep Jud from hearing?" + +Mrs. Hardesty stared up at her, and after a moment laid a hand upon the +clinging one upon her shoulder. + +"You are right," she agreed. "Jed mus' never be tole. Him an' 'Gene +would settle it, an' I'm afeard fer Jed's sake. 'Gene's so vicious +like." + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +WHEN THE CLASH CAME. + +Despite her apparent cheerfulness, Jud could but note the +ever-recurring look of trouble in her eyes. Those wistful eyes, when +they were not merry with smiles, were following him with an anxious +look like that of a faithful dog. Sometimes he came upon her suddenly +and found her staring into space. At such times he saw indignation in +the soft brown eyes, or wrath, or terror. He wondered and his soul was +troubled. Was she unhappy? Was she tired of him? He thought of +asking her to confide in him, but his simple heart could not find +courage to draw forth the confession he feared might hurt him endlessly. + +Early in October she resumed her work in the schoolhouse. There was +not an evening or a noon that did not see her hurrying home, dreading +that 'Gene and Jud had met. One day when she saw 'Gene gallop past the +schoolhouse, coming from the direction of the farm, she dismissed the +school early and ran almost all the way home. When Jud met her near +the gate she was sobbing with joy. He never forgot the kisses she +burnt upon his lips. + +How she loathed and feared 'Gene Crawley! She had dismal nightmares in +which he was strangling her husband. In her waking hours she dreamed +of the dreadful boast he had made. One night she was startled by the +fear that people might believe the words the wretch had uttered. + +One Friday evening they were coming home across the meadow from the +Bossman farm. The sun was almost below the ridge of trees in the west +and long shadows darkened the edges of the pasture land. The evening +was cool and bright, and they were as happy as children. Reaching the +little creek which ran through a corner of Justine's land, not far from +the house, they sat down to watch the antics of two sportive calves. +Peace was in their hearts, quiet in the world about them. She was like +a delighted child as she laughed with him at the inane caperings of the +calves, those poor little clowns in spots and stripes. He looked more +often at her radiant, joyous face than at their entertainers, and his +heart throbbed with the pride of possessing her. + +Suddenly she gasped and he felt her hand clasp his arm with the grip of +a vise. A glare of horror drove the merriment from her eyes. + +"It's 'Gene Crawley!" she whispered. "He's coming this way. Oh, Jud!" + +"What's the matter, Justine? He won't hurt you while I'm here. Let +him come. Dear, don't look like that!" he laughed. + +Crawley was approaching from down the creek, walking rapidly and +glancing covertly toward the house. It was evident he had not seen the +couple on the bank. + +"Let us go in, Jud. _Please_ do! I don't want to see him," she begged. + +"I'd like to know what in thunder he's doing in our pasture," growled +Jud, with a sudden flame of anger. + +"Maybe he's drunk and has lost his way. He'll find the way out, Jud. +Come to the house--quick!" She was on her feet and was dragging him up. + +"You go in, Justine, if you want to. I'm going to find out what he's +doing here. This isn't a----" + +"No, no! You must not stay--you must not have words with him. If you +stay, I'll stay! Won't you please come in, Jud?" she implored; but his +eyes were not for her. They were glaring angrily at the trespasser, +who, seeing them, had stopped in some confusion twenty feet away. + +"Do you think I'm afraid of the derned scoundrel?" he demanded, loud +enough for 'Gene to hear. The man down on the bank put his hand out +and steadied himself against a sapling. For an instant his black eyes +shot fire toward Sherrod, but turned away when they met the wild, dark +eyes of the girl. He had not been drinking and he was truly surprised +by the meeting. There was a stillness for a moment. The two men again +glared at one another, all the hatred in their hearts coming to the +surface. The girl was suffocating with the knowledge that she could do +nothing to stay the catastrophe. + +"Get off this place and don't you ever step your foot on here again," +said Jud savagely. Justine's hand fell tremblingly from his rigid arm +and she looked a mute appeal to 'Gene, who, still holding to the +sapling, was trying to control his rage. + +"I was jest takin' a short cut to Bossman's," he began, hoarsely, +through his teeth. "I'll git off yer place, if you say so. I didn't +think you'd mind my cuttin' off a mile er so. Mrs. Grimes's baby's +sick an'----" + +"You needn't explain. Get out--that's all!" + +"Oh, Jud," moaned the girl helplessly. + +"Don't be afraid, Justine. I won't hurt your doll baby. I'll git off +yer place. If it wasn't fer you, though, I'd pound his head into dog +meat," sneered 'Gene. + +"You would, would you? You're a liar, dem you! A liar! Are you +coward enough to take that?" cried Jud, taking a step forward. She +threw her arms about him and tried to drag him away. + +"Let go, Justine!" he shouted. "How can I protect myself with you +hanging--let go, I say!" She was stunned by the first angry words he +had ever spoken to her. Her arms dropped and she staggered back. + +"Oh, God! Oh, God!" she half whispered. "Jud, Jud, don't! He will +kill you!" + +"Let him try it! Justine, dear, I'm no coward, and I owe him a +licking, anyhow. Now's as good a time as any other. Go to the house, +dear--it won't do for you to see it," said her husband, very pale and +breathing heavily. He was throwing his coat to the ground where his +hat already lay. + +"You must not--you shall not fight, Jud! Do you want to kill me? Mrs. +Hardesty says he is a devil! Don't, don't, don't, Jud! If you love +me, don't fight him, Jud!" She threw herself between the men. Crawley +had not moved from his tracks, but the wild glare of the beast was +fighting its way to his eyes. He was fast losing control. Try as he +would he could not retreat; he could not turn coward before his old +enemy. + +"Will you fight, 'Gene Crawley?" demanded Jud, over his shoulder. "Or +will you run like a whipped pup?" + +In a second Crawley's coat was off and he was rolling up his sleeves. +Jud pushed Justine aside. + +[Illustration: "IN A SECOND CRAWLEY WAS ROLLING UP HIS SLEEVES."] + +"You'd better go to the house," 'Gene said to her. "It ain't right fer +you to see us fight. I didn't want to, remember, but, dern him, he +can't call me a coward. I'll fight him till I'm dead." + +"We'll settle up old scores, too," said Jud. "You've annoyed Justine +and you ain't fit to breathe the same air as she does." + +"Damn you, Jud Sherrod, I keer as much fer her as you do. I'd die fer +her, if she'd let me. You took her from me an' we've got to have it +out now. You kin kill me, but you cain't make me say I don't love her!" + +"I despise you, 'Gene Crawley! Oh, how I hate you!" cried the girl. +"I've always hated you!" + +"I know it! I know it! You needn't throw it up to me! But I'll make +you sorry fer it, see if I don't----" + +"Stop that! Don't you talk that way to my wife! Are you ready to +fight?" cried Jud, advancing. She made a clutch at his arm and then +sank back powerless against the great oak. + +"As soon as she goes to the house," replied the other. + +"Go to the house, Justine," cried Jud impatiently, but she did not move. + +"I'll stay right here!" she said mechanically. "If he murders you, +I'll kill him." + +Crawley ground his teeth and backed away. + +"I won't fight before her. 'Tain't right, Jud, 'n you know it. Le's +go over to the lane," he said. + +"If she's bound to stay, let her stay. And I want her to see me lick +you! She's a brave girl; you needn't worry so dern much. Why don't +you want to fight before her?" + +"'Cause I'll git mad an' I'll say things she ortn't to hear. I don't +want her to hear me cuss an' go on like that. I cain't help cussin' +an'----" + +"Oh, you're backin' out!" sneered Jud, and he made a rush at his +adversary. Before 'Gene could prevent it, a heavy blow landed on his +neck and he went to the ground. Justine saw and her heart throbbed +with joy. As the man fell she turned her back upon the thrilling +scene, insanely throwing her arms about the oak as if to claim its +protection. + +But Crawley was not conquered by that blow. He was on his feet in an +instant, his face livid with rage, his mouth twitching with pain. +There were tears in his black eyes, but they were tears of fury. With +a bull-like rush he was upon Sherrod. The girl heard the renewed +straggling and turned her face in alarm, still clinging to the tree. +Fascinated beyond the power of movement, she watched the combat. Her +eyes never left Jud's white, convulsed face, and she prayed, prayed as +she had never prayed in her life. + +Jud was the taller, but 'Gene was the heavier. Almost at the beginning +of the hand-to-hand struggle their shirts were stripped from their +bodies. Both were well muscled--one clean, wiry, and like a tiger, the +other like a Greek Hercules. One had the advantage of a quick brain +and a nimble strength, offsetting the brute-like power and slower mind +of the other. Never in her life had Justine seen two strong men fight. + +Sherrod's coolness returned the instant he dealt the first mad blow. +Neither knew the first rudiment of the boxer's art, but he was the +quicker witted, the more strategic. He knew that 'Gene's wild swings +would fell him if he allowed them to land, so he avoided a close fight, +dodging away and rushing in with the quickness of a cat. He was +landing light blows constantly on the face of his foe, and was escaping +punishment so surprisingly well that a confident smile twitched at the +corners of his mouth. Crawley, blinded by anger and half stunned by +the constant blows, wasted his strength in impotent rushes. Jud was +not in reach when he struck those mighty, overbalancing blows. + +"Don't be afraid, Justine," panted Jud; "he can't hurt me." + +"I can't, eh?" roared 'Gene savagely. "You'll see!" And there +followed a storm of oaths. + +In spite of herself, the girl could not turn her eyes away. The +fierceness, the relentless fury of the fighters fascinated her. They +were so quick, so strong, so savage that she could see but one +end--death for one or the other. Their panting sounded like the snarl +of dogs, their rushing feet were like the trampling of cattle, in their +faces murder alone was dominant. She prayed that some one might come +to separate them. In her terror she even feared that her husband might +win. Jud the victor--a murderer! If only she could call for help! +But her tongue was like ice, her voice was gone. Murder came into her +own heart. Could she have moved from the tree she would have tried to +kill 'Gene Crawley. Rather be the slayer herself than Jud. She even +thought of the hanging that would follow Jud's deed. + +Gradually 'Gene's tremendous strength began to gain ascendency. His +face was bleeding from many cuts, his white shoulders were covered with +blood from a lacerated lip, but his great muscles retained their power. +Jud was gasping. The girl began to see in his dulling eyes that the +tide was turning. An unconscious shriek came with the conviction that +her loved one was losing. She saw the triumphant gleam in 'Gene's +eyes, recognized the sudden increase of energy in his attack. + +"'Gene! 'Gene!" she tried to cry, but her throat was in the clutch of +a terror so great that the appeal was no more than a whisper. + +An instant later Crawley succeeded in doing what he had tried to +accomplish for ten minutes. He clinched with his tired antagonist, and +all Jud's skill was beaten down. The big arms closed about his +shoulders and waist, and a strong leg locked the loser's knee. Jud +bent backward. They swayed and writhed in that deadly embrace, Jud +striking savagely upon the unprotected face of his foe, 'Gene forcing a +resolute hand slowly toward Jud's throat. Jud's blows made no +impression upon the brutal power of the man, whose burning, +wide-staring eyes saw only the coveted throat, as a beast sees its prey. + +A strangling cry came from Jud's lips as the fingers touched his +throat. He knew it was all over. He was being crushed--he was +helpless. If he could only escape that hand! The fingers closed down +upon his neck; the hot breath of his foe poured into his face; the big +tree in front of him seemed suddenly to whirl upside down; something +was spinning in his head. As they turned he caught a glimpse of +Justine still standing at the tree. He tried to call out to her to +help him--to save him--help! But there was no sound except a gurgle. +His hands tore at the merciless thing in his throat. He must tear it +away quickly or he would--he was suffocating! He was blind! He felt +himself crashing for miles and miles down a precipice. + +Justine saw them plunge to the foot-torn turf, 'Gene above. Beneath +she saw the agonized face of her husband, her life, her world. With a +rush those awful dreams came back to her and she screamed aloud. + +"'Gene!" + +Her voice roused the reason of the man, and his blood-shot eyes, for +the first time, sought the object that stood paralyzed, immovable +against the tree. + +"I'll kill him!" he panted malignantly. + +"Mercy, 'Gene! Mercy! For my sake!" she moaned. She tried to throw +herself upon her knees before him, but her forces were benumbed. The +look in her eyes brought the conqueror to his senses. His eyes, still +looking into hers, lost their murderous glare and his knotted fingers +drew slowly away from the blue neck. + +He moved his knee from the other's breast and sank away from him, half +lying upon the grass, his heaving body clear of her loved one. The +action brought life to the girl. + +With a cry she threw herself beside Jud's rigid figure. + +"He is dead! Jud! Jud!" she wailed. "Don't look like that!" + +Crawley raised himself from the ground, bewildered and dumb. To his +brain came the knowledge that he had killed a man. Terror supplanted +fury in his closing eyes, a pallor crept over his swarthy face. For +the first time he looked into the wide eyes in the strangled face. He +did not hear the cries of the woman; he heard only the gasping of that +throttled man as they had plunged to the ground. + +"I hope I haven't--haven't killed him," struggled through his bleeding +lips, tremulously. "He's dead!" Like a hunted beast he looked about +for some place in which to hide, for some way to escape. "They'll hang +me! They'll lynch me!" He leaped to his feet and with a yell turned +to plunge across the fields toward the woods. + +But the reaction had come upon him. His strength was gone. His knees +gave way beneath him and he dropped helplessly to the ground, his eyes +again falling upon the face of his victim. Trembling in every nerve, +he tried to look away, but could not. + +Suddenly he started as if struck from behind. His intense eyes had +seen a quiver on Jud's lips, a convulsive twitching of the jaws; his +ears caught the sound of a small, choking gasp. The world cleared for +him. Jud was not dead! + +"He's alive!" burst from his lips. He flung the convulsed form of the +girl from the breast of the man who was struggling back to life. + +As he raised the prostrate man's head, overjoyed to see the blackness +receding, to hear the gasp now grow louder and faster, a heavy body +struck him and something like a steel trap tightened on his neck. +Writhing backward he found the infuriated face of the girl close to +his. Her hands were upon his throat. + +"You killed him and I'll kill you!" she hissed in his ear, and he knew +she was mad! It was but a short struggle; he overpowered her and held +her to the ground. She looked up at him with such a malevolent glare +that he cowered and shivered. Those tender eyes of Justine Van! + +"He ain't dead!" he gasped. "Be quiet, Justine! For God's sake, be +quiet! Look! Don't you see he's alive? I'll help you bring him to--I +won't tech him again! Be quiet an' we'll have him aroun' all right in +a minute! Lookee! He's got his eyes closed! I'll git some water!" + +He released her and staggered down the bank to the little stream. He +heard her scream with the discovery that her husband was breathing. In +his nervous haste, inspired by fear that Jud might die before he could +return, the victor made half a dozen futile efforts before he could +scoop up a double handful of water from the creek. + +When he reached Jud's side again, he found that she was holding his +head in her lap and was rubbing his throat and breast. The purple face +was fast growing white and great heaving gasps came from the contracted +throat. 'Gene dashed the water in his face, only to receive from her a +cry of anger and a look of scorn so bitter that it made her face +unrecognizable. He shrank back and in rebellious wonder watched her +dry the dripping face. + +For many minutes they remained as a tableau, she alone speaking. All +her heart was pouring itself out in the loving words that were meant +for Jud's ears alone. His ears could not hear them, but 'Gene +Crawley's did, and his face grew black with jealousy. He could not +tear himself away; he stood there, rigid, listening to phrases of love +for another that mingled with words of hatred for him. He could not +believe it was gentle Justine Van who was pouring out those wild words. +At last he passed his unsteady hand across his eyes and spoke. + +"I--I guess I'll be goin', Justine. Hope Jud'll not----" he began +nervously. She turned upon him. + +"You! You here? Why don't you go? For God's sake, go, and don't let +me see your face again as long as I live!" she cried. "Don't stand +there and let him see you when he comes to. The blood is terrible! Go +away!" + +He wiped the blood from his face, conscious for the first time that it +was there. Then he tore down to the brook and bathed his swollen face, +scrubbing the stains from his broad chest and arms. Going back, he +quickly put on his coat, ashamed of his nakedness. Then he picked up +Jud's coat and threw it to her, feeling a desire, in spite of all, to +help her in some way. She did not glance toward him, and he saw the +reason. Jud's eyes were conscious and were looking up into hers, dumb +and bewildered. With a muttered oath 'Gene started away, taking a +dozen steps down the creek before a sudden reversal of mind came over +him. He stopped and turned to her, and something actually imploring +sounded in his voice. + +"Cain't I carry him to the house fer you?" he asked. + +"Oh!" she cried, turning a terrified face toward him and shielding Jud +with her body. "Don't you dare come near him! Don't you touch him! +You dog!" + +A snarl of rage escaped his lips. + +"I s'pose you'll try to have me arrested, won't you? He'd 'a' killed +me if he could, an' I didn't kill him jest because you ast me not to. +But I s'pose that won't make no difference. You'll have the constable +after me. Well, lookee here! All the constables in Clay township +cain't take me, an' I won't run from 'em, either. I'll kill the hull +crowd! Go on an' have me arrested if you want to. You c'n tell that +husband o' your'n that I let him go fer your sake, but if he ever +forces me into a fight ag'in all hell cain't save him. You tell him to +go his way an' I'll go mine. As fer you--well, I won't say what I'll +do!" + +"Oh, I'm not afraid of you!" she cried defiantly. He strode away +without another word. From afar, long afterwards, he saw her assist +Jud to his feet and support him as he dragged himself feebly toward the +house. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE GIRL IN GRAY. + +For days after the fight Jud caught himself stealing surreptitious +glances at his wife, with the miserable feeling that some time he would +take her unawares and detect scornful pity in her eyes. He was sure +she could not respect a man who had been forced to submit to defeat, +especially after he had vaingloriously forced the conflict upon an +unwilling foe. + +But Justine loved him more deeply than ever. In her eyes he was a +hero. For her sake he had fought a desperate man in the face of +certain defeat. + +At the house as she tenderly bathed his swollen face, "Jud," she said, +"you won't fight him again, will you?" A lump rose in his throat. He +felt that she was begging him to desist merely because she knew his +shameful incompetency. + +"You won't fight him again, will you?" she repeated earnestly. + +"I can't whip him, Justine," he said humbly. "I thought I could. How +you must despise me!" + +"Despise you! Despise _you_! Oh, how I love you, Jud!" she cried. He +looked into her eyes, fearing to see a flicker of dishonesty, but none +was there. + +"I won't fight him until I know I can lick him fair and square. It may +be never, but maybe I'll be man enough some day. He's too much for me +now. He'd have killed me if it hadn't been for you, dear. Good God, +Justine, I thought I was dying. You don't know how terrible it was!" + +The story of the fight was soon abroad. The fact that Jud's face bore +few signs of the conflict struck the people as strange. 'Gene had told +wondrous tales of his victory. On the other hand, 'Gene's face was a +mass of cuts and bruises. It was hard for them to believe, but the +farmers soon found themselves saying that Jud Sherrod had whipped 'Gene +Crawley. Even when Jud acknowledged that 'Gene had whipped him, every +one said that Jud was so magnanimous that he "couldn't crow over 'Gene." + +"Now, mebby 'Gene Crawley'll take back what he said 'bout Jed an' +Jestine las' spring," said James Hardesty, down at the toll-gate, in +the presence of a large audience. "He'll keep his dern mouth shet now, +I reckon. He cain't go 'roun' here talkin' like that 'bout our women +folks. Gosh dern him, ef he ever opened his head 'bout my wife I'd +knock him over into Butter township, Indiany. What'n thunder's the use +bein' afeared o' 'Gene Crawley? He's a big blow an' he cain't lick +nobody 'nless he gits in a crack 'fore the other feller's ready. Good +gosh, ef I was as young as some o' you fellers, I'd had him licked +forty-seven times 'fore this." + +So 'Gene's reputation as a fighter suffered. But not for long. Harve +Crose, Joe Perkins, and Link Overshine undertook, on separate +occasions, to "take it out'n his hide" for old-standing grievances, and +'Gene reëstablished himself in their estimation. Link Overshine was in +bed for a week afterwards. + +The winter passed rather uneventfully. In a few of the simpler country +gatherings Jud and Justine took part, but poverty kept them pretty +closely at home. The yield of grain had not been up to the average and +prices were low. It was only by skimping almost to niggardliness that +they managed to make both ends meet during the last months of the +winter. Justine's school-teaching was their salvation, notwithstanding +the fact that the township was usually in arrears. Jud chopped wood +for an extra dollar now and then. Justine made frocks for herself. + +She wore plain colors and plain material. The other girls wondered why +it was that Justine Van--they always called her Justine Van--looked "so +nice in them cheap little calicos." The trimness and daintiness of her +dress was refreshing in a community where the taste of woman ran to +ribbons, rainbows, and remnants. No girl in the neighborhood +considered herself befittingly gowned for parade unless she could +spread sail with a dozen hues in the breeze, the odor of perfume in the +air, and unblushable pink in her cheeks. Society in Clay township +could never be accused of color-blindness. The young gallants, in +their store clothes, were to be won by ribbons and rouge, and, as the +sole object of the girls was to get married and have children, the +seasons apparently merged in an ever-lasting Eastertide. Justine, +then, aroused curiosity. In the winter she wore a rough black coat and +a featherless fedora. In the spring her modest gowns would have been +sniffed at had they covered the person of any one less dainty. A +single rose in her dark hair, a white trifle at her throat, or a red +ribbon somewhere, made up her tribute to extravagance. + +Jud sketched her adoringly. He had scores of posings even. When +spring came and they began to plant, in the midst of privation they +found time to be happy. It was on one of their Sunday-afternoon +sketching expeditions that an incident occurred which was to change the +whole course of their lives. They had walked several miles across the +hills, through leafy woodland, to Proctor's Falls. Here the creek +wriggled through a mossy dell until it came to a sudden drop of twenty +feet or more, into a pool whose shimmering surface lay darkly in the +shade of great trees that lined the banks. It was one of the prettiest +spots in the country, and Jud had long meant to try his skill in +sketching it. + +This day he sat far down the ravine, facing the Falls, and rested his +back against a tree. She nestled beside him, leaning against his +shoulder, watching with proud eyes the hand that fashioned the picture. +To her, his art was little short of the marvelous; to a critic, it +would have shown crudities enough, though even the faults were those of +genius. Her eye followed his pencil with a half-knowing squint, +sending an occasional glance into Nature's picture up the glen as if +seeing blemishes in the subject rather than in the work of the artist. + +"What a pity there is not more water coming over the rock," she said +regretfully. "And that log would look better if it were turned upside +down, don't you think, Jud? Goodness, how natural you have made it, +though. I don't see how you do it." + +Presently she ventured, somewhat timidly: "Don't you think you might +sell some of your pictures, Jud, dear? If I were rich, I know I'd like +to have them, and I----" + +"They're yours, anyway," he interrupted, laughing. "Everything I draw +is yours. You don't have to be rich." + +"I mean, I'd like to have them if I was somebody else, somebody who +wasn't anything to you. They'd look so nice in frames, Jud. Honestly, +they would. Dear me, they're much nicer than those horrid things +'Squire Roudebush paid a dollar and a quarter apiece for." + +"Nobody would want to buy my things, Justine. They're not worth the +paper they cover. Now, who the dickens is there in this county that +would give me a dollar for the whole lot? I couldn't give them +away--that is, excepting those I've made of you. Everybody wants one +of you. I guess I must draw you better than anything else." + +"You make me look so much prettier than I really am," she expostulated. + +"No, I don't, either," he responded. For a long time she forgot to +look at his pencil. Her eyes were bent reflectively upon the brown, +smooth face with the studious wrinkle in the forehead, and she was not +thinking of the picture. Suddenly she patted his cheek and afterwards +toyed in silence with the curls that clustered around his ear. + +An elderly lady, a slender young woman in a modish gown of gray, and a +tall, boyish chap slowly approached the point from which Proctor's +Falls could best be viewed. Their clothes and manner proclaimed them +to be city people. The boy, over whose sullen forehead tilted a rakish +traveling cap, seemed to be expostulating with the young woman. From +his manner it was easy to be seen that he did not regard further +progress into the wilds as pleasant, profitable, or necessary. The +elder lady, who was fleshy, evidently supported the youth in his +impatience, but the gray gown was enthusiastically in the foreground +and was determined to push its very charming self into the heart of the +sylvan discovery. + +When they had come within a hundred feet of the big tree that sheltered +the artist and his companion, the little bit of genre in their +landscape attracted them. The visitors halted and surveyed the +unconscious couple, the young lady showing curiosity, the young man +showing disgust, the old lady showing indecision. Their brief +discussion resolved itself into a separation of forces. The young lady +petulantly forsook her companions and picked her way through the trees +toward the Falls. + +"Let 'em alone, Sis," objected the youth, as she persisted in going +forward; "it's some country jay and his girl and he'll not thank you +for----" + +"Oh, go back to the train, Randall," interrupted the young maiden. "He +won't eat me, you know, and one can't see that pretty little waterfall +unless one gets out there where your lovers sit. If you won't go with +me, let me go alone in peace. Wait here, mamma, until I come back, and +don't let little Randall sulk himself into tears." + +"You make me sick," growled the youth wrathfully. + +The girl in gray soon came to the edge of the little opening in which +Jud and Justine sat, pausing some twenty feet away to smile admiringly +upon the unsuspecting pair. It was a charming picture that lay before +her, and she was loth to disturb its quiet beauty. With a sudden +feeling that she might be intruding, she turned to steal away as she +had come. A twig crackled under her shoe. The other girl, startled, +looked up at her with amazement in her eyes, her ripe lips apart as if +ready to utter an exclamation that would not come. The youth's eyes +also were upon her. The intruder, feeling painfully out of place, +laughed awkwardly, her cheeks turning a brilliant pink. + +"I did not mean to disturb you," she stammered. "I wanted to see the +Falls and--and--well, you happened to be here." + +Jud recovered himself first and, in visible agitation, arose, not +forgetting to assist to her feet his wife, who in all her life had seen +no such creature as this. To her the stranger was like a visitor from +another world. Her own world had been Clay township. She did not +dream that she was the cause of envy in the heart of the immaculate +stranger, who, perhaps for the first time in her short, butterfly life, +was looking upon a perfect type of rural health and loveliness. + +"You don't disturb us," said Jud quickly. "I was only trying to draw +the Falls and I--we don't mind. You can see very well if you will step +over here by the tree." + +"But you must not let me disturb you for the tiniest second. Please go +on with your drawing," said the stranger, pausing irresolutely. She +was waiting for an invitation from the vivid creature at Jud's side. + +"He has it nearly finished," said Justine, almost unconsciously. The +new arrival was charmed more than ever by the soft, timid voice. + +"Won't you let me see the picture, too?" she asked eagerly. "Let me be +the critic. I'll promise not to be harsh." But Jud, suddenly +diffident, put the picture behind him and shook his head with an +embarrassed smile. + +"Oh, it's no good," he said. "I don't know anything about drawing +and----" + +"Let me judge as to that," persisted Gray Gown, more eager than before, +now that she had found opposition. "I am sure it must be good. Your +modesty is the best recommendation." She held forth her small gloved +hand appealingly. Justine looked upon that hand in admiration. It was +so unlike her own strong brown hand. + +"It isn't quite finished," objected Jud, pleased and almost at ease. +She was charmingly fair and unconventional. + +"This is the first time he ever tried to get the Falls," apologized +Justine, and her smile bewitched the would-be critic. She was charmed +with these healthy, comely strangers, found so unexpectedly in the +wilds. They were not like the rustics she had seen or read about. + +"Then I'll watch him finish it," she said decisively. "Will it take a +very long while?" + +"Just a few more lines," said Jud. "But I can't work with any one +looking on." + +"Wasn't this young lady looking on?" + +"Oh, but I am different," cried Justine. + +"I know," said the other delightedly, "you are--are sweethearts. Of +course, that does make a difference. Now, aren't you sweethearts?" +The two flushed unreasonably and exchanged glances. + +"I guess it's not hard to guess that," said Jud lamely. "You probably +saw us before we saw you." + +"Show her the picture," murmured Justine, dimly conscious that she and +Jud had seemed amusing to a stranger. Jud reluctantly held up the +sketching board. The stranger uttered a little cry of amazement. + +"Why!" she cried, looking from the picture to the Falls up the glen, +"this is clever!" Then a quizzical expression came into her eyes and +she looked from one to the other with growing uncertainty. "Pardon me, +I thought you were--I mean, I thought you lived near here. You must +overlook my very strange behavior. But you will admit that you are +dressed like country people, and you are tanned, and----" Here she +checked herself in evident confusion. + +"And we are country people," said Jud blankly. The young lady looked +bewildered. + +"Are you in earnest?" she demanded doubtingly. "Are you not out here +from the city?" + +"We have lived all our lives within five miles of this spot," said Jud, +flushing. + +"And I have never seen a big city," added Justine, first to divine the +cause of the stranger's mistake. The critic thought herself to be in +the presence of a genius from some city studio. It was a pretty and +unfeigned compliment to Jud's picture. + +"I cannot believe it," she cried. "You may live here, sir, but you +have studied drawing. I have never seen a more perfect sketch." + +"I have never taken an hour's instruction in my life," said Jud, his +voice trembling with joy. + +"Oh, now I know you have been trifling with me," she cried, flushing +slightly. + +"It is the truth, isn't it, Justine? I thought anybody could see that +I know nothing about drawing. I only wish I could go to an art school." + +"You really are in earnest?" the stranger asked, looking from one to +the other. "Then you must tell me all about yourself. A man with your +talent should not be lost in these wilds. You have a wonderful gift. +Truly, I can hardly believe even now that you are not deceiving me." + +The two glanced at each other rather helplessly, not knowing how to +reply. + +"You haven't looked at the Falls," stammered Jud, at last. The girl in +gray laughed and her eyes went to Justine's rich, warm face as if +expecting her to join in the merriment at his expense. Justine, +however, was too deep in admiration to think of smiling. Caught by the +gaze of the stranger, she was at last forced to smile vaguely. + +"I haven't time for the Falls," said the stranger. "I am interested +only in you. You are worth cultivating. Dear me, if I had you in +Chicago, I'd make a lion of you. How long have you been hiding this +talent out here in the woods?" + +Then Jud proceeded to tell her in a disjointed, self-conscious manner +how he had been drawing ever since he was a child; how his mother had +assisted him; how Justine had encouraged him; how much he longed to be +an artist. At the end of his brief biography, the listener abruptly +asked: + +"Will you sell me this picture?" + +"I--I--If you'd really like to have it, I--I--will give it to you. I +could not ask you anything for it. It's not worth a price. Besides, +you've been so kind to me. Won't you accept it as a gift?" he +answered, beginning awkwardly, but ending eagerly. Justine's eyes were +pleading with the young lady to take it. + +"But you must let me pay you for it. You don't know me, nor I you; you +are under no obligation to me. And I would rather pay you for it. You +see, it may be your start in life." + +[Illustration: "YOU MUST LET ME PAY YOU FOR IT."] + +"It's not worth anything," objected Jud. + +"I know what it is worth. Fifty dollars is cheap." + +Before she had finished speaking she was counting the money from her +purse. Thrusting five bills into Jud's hand, she snatched up the +picture and said: + +"It's a bargain, isn't it? You can't take back the picture because you +have accepted payment." + +"Good heaven!--I mean, I can't take all of this!" + +"But you can and shall," she cried delightedly. "It is not enough, I'm +sure, but it is all I have with me. Some day, when you are famous, I +shall have a valuable picture. Now I must be going. My mother and +brother are probably in convulsions. See them? Don't they look angry? +Our train had to wait three hours over at the other side of the woods +until they could repair the engine. We had a breakdown." + +"I wish you wouldn't force me to----" Jud began. + +"Don't object, now!" she cried. "I am the gainer. Save that money to +give to your sweetheart on your wedding day. That's a very pretty +idea, isn't it? I know she will approve." And here she came to +Justine and kissed her. "I know I should like you very much," she said +honestly. Justine felt a queer sensation in her throat and her heart +went out more than ever to the girl in gray. + +"Remember, it is to be your wedding present when the sweet day comes." + +Jud and Justine glanced sheepishly at one another, but before either +had found words to tell her they were already married, she was +hastening away. + +"Oh, by the way," she cried, turning back, "what is your name?" + +"Dudley Sherrod." + +"It would be well for me to know it when you are famous. Good-bye!" +she called cheerfully. + +Jud hesitated an instant. + +"Won't you tell me your name?" he cried. Justine clasped his arm in +mute astonishment. + +The receding girl turned, smiled, and held up her card, hastily +withdrawn from its case. It fluttered to the grass, and she was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +LEAVING PARADISE. + +Jud hurried down the slope and snatched up the piece of cardboard. His +eyes sought the name, then the departing enchantress. His heart was +full of thankfulness to the stranger, whose gray figure was +disappearing among the oaks. + +"She seems just like the fairy queen in the stories we used to read, +Jud," said Justine. Looking over his shoulders, she read aloud: "'Miss +Wood.' Oh, dear; it doesn't give her first name. How I wish I knew +it!" + +"And it don't say where she lives," said Jud slowly. + +"Chicago, I'm sure. Don't you remember what she said about wishing she +had you there? Dear me, what could she do with a country boy like you +in that great place? Harve Crose says there are more people there than +there are in this whole county. But wasn't she nice, Jud, wasn't she +nice? And did you ever see such a beautiful face?" Here Jud's sober, +thoughtful eyes looked so intently upon his wife's brilliant face that +she blushed under the unspoken compliment. "And her clothes, Jud! +Weren't they grand? Oh, oh, I never saw any one like her!" + +The two walked slowly homeward, excitedly discussing the fair stranger +and her generosity. All the evening she and the fifty dollars so +unexpectedly acquired were the topics of conversation. Jud insisted +upon buying a new dress for Justine--as a "wedding present"--but she +demurred. The money was to go into the bank the next day, she +insisted; and she ruled. + +He was lying beneath a big tree in the yard, looking up at the stars, +reflectively drawing a long spear of wire grass through his teeth. She +sat beside him, her back against the tree, serene, proud, and happy. +It was he who broke the long silence, dreamily. + +"I wonder if I could make it go in Chicago." + +She started from her reverie and her hand fell upon his arm. For an +instant her big eyes narrowed as if trying to penetrate some shadow. +In another moment they opened wide again, and she was earnestly seeking +to convince him that he could succeed in the great city. + +The months sped by and side by side they toiled, she with love and +devotion in her soul, he with ambition added. As the winter came he +slaved with his pencil and pen, his heart bound to the new hope. The +prediction at Proctor's Falls had inspired him; the glowing blue eyes +had not lied to him even though the lips might have flattered. She had +praised his work, and she knew! She must have known what he could do! + +Justine shared the enthusiasm that had been awakened by Miss Wood. She +looked upon that young woman as a goddess who had transformed her +husband into a genius whose gifts were to make the world fall down in +worship. + +As the spring drew near Jud began to speak more often of the city and +his chances for success there. He could see the pride and devotion in +his wife's eyes, but he could also see a certain dim, wistful shadow in +the depths. He knew she was grieving over the fear that some day he +would desert their happy, simple home and rush out into the world, +leaving her behind until he had won a place for her. She knew that he +could not take her with him at the outset. He was to try his fortune +in the strange, big city, and she was to stay in the little cottage and +pray for the day to come speedily that would take her to him. + +With him, ambition was tempered by love for her and the certainty that +he could not leave her even to win fame and fortune. When he allowed +himself to think of her alone in the cottage, looking sadly at the +stars and thinking of him in the rushing city, he said to himself: "I +can't leave her!" Both knew, although neither spoke it aloud, that if +he went, he would have to go alone. + +Justine understood his hesitation and its cause. She knew that she was +holding him back, that she alone kept him from making the plunge into +the world, and her heart was sore. Night after night she lay awake in +his arms, her poor heart throbbing against his ambitious heart, +writhing beneath the certain knowledge that she was the weight about +his neck. + +One day, late in the fall, when the strain upon her heart had become +too great, she broke the fetters. It was at dusk, and, coming around +the corner of the cottage, she found him sitting on the doorstep, his +gaze far away, his dejection showing in the droop of the broad +shoulders. A little gasp of pain came from her lips--pain mingled with +love and pity for him. She stood for a moment, reading his thoughts as +if they were printed before her eyes--thoughts of fame, honor, success, +trial, chance! How good, how handsome, how noble he was! She was the +weight, the drag! The hour had come for her to decide. He would never +say the word--that much she knew. + +"Jud," she said, standing bravely before him. He looked up, shaking +off his dream. "Don't you think it about time you were trying your +luck in Chicago? You surely have worked hard enough at your drawing, +and I don't see why you put it off any longer." + +For a moment he was unable to speak. Into his eyes came a blur of +tears. + +"But, Justine, dear, how are we to live there? They say it takes a +fortune," he said. There was a breath of eagerness in his voice and +she detected it. + +She sat beside him and laid her arm about his shoulder. He turned his +face to hers, wondering, and their eyes met. For a long time neither +spoke by tongue, but they understood. A sob came into his throat as he +lifted her hand from her lap and drew her to him almost convulsively. + +"Justine, I can't do that! I can't go away off there and leave you +here alone. Why, sweetheart, I'd die without you," he cried. + +"But when you are able, dear, to take me to you in the great city, we +can be the happiest people in the world," she said huskily. "I'll be +lonesome and you'll be lonesome, but it won't be for long. You will +succeed. I know it, dear, and you must not waste another day in this +wilderness----" + +"It is the sweetest place in the world," he cried, passionately. +"Wilderness? With you here beside me? Oh, Justine, it will be +wilderness if I go away from you!" + +"Surely, _surely_, Jud, it is for the best. I know you can't take me +now, but you can come after me some day, and then I'll know that I have +lost nothing by letting you go. You will be a great--you _will_ +succeed! Why, Jud, you draw better than any one I ever knew about. +Your pictures even now are better than any I have ever seen. They +can't help liking you in Chicago. You must go--you must, Jud!" She +was talking rapidly, excitedly. + +"You love me so much that you are blind, dear. Up in Chicago they have +thousands of artists who are better than I am, and they are starving. +Wait a minute! Suppose I should fail! Suppose they should laugh at me +and I couldn't get work. What then? I have no money, no friends up +there. If I don't get on, what is to become of me? Did you ever think +of that?" + +"Haven't you me and the little farm to come back to, Jud? I'll be here +and I'll love you more than ever. And I'll die here on this old place +with you beside me, and never be sorry that you couldn't do for me +everything you wish," she said solemnly. Then she went on quickly: +"But you won't fail--you can't, Jud, you can't. Don't you remember +what pretty Miss Wood said about your work? Well, didn't she know? Of +course, she did. She _lives_ in Chicago and she knows." + +"If I knew where to find her or write to her, she might help me," said +he, a new animation in his voice. "But there's no one I can write to. +I don't know how to go about it." + +"Go about it like other boys have done. Lots of them have gone out +into the world and won their way. Now, Jud, when will you go?" + +The moment of decision came too suddenly. He was not ready to meet it. + +"I--I--oh, we can talk about this later on," he faltered. + +"We must settle it now." + +"Do you want me to go?" he asked after a moment. + +"Yes, I do, Jud." + +"How queer you are! I'd rather die than leave you, and yet you want me +to go away from you," he said inconsistently. + +"Don't say that! I love you better than my life! Don't you see that +is why I want you to go? It is because I love you so, oh, so much, and +I know it is for the best. It's not like losing you altogether. We'll +be with each other soon, I know. You can come home to see me every +once in awhile, don't you see? And then, when you feel that you can do +so, you will take your poor little country girl into the great city to +live with you. You'll be great, then; will you be ashamed of me?" + +"Ashamed of you!" he cried. + +For a long time he held her in his arms in the twilight, and pleaded +with her to let him remain. To her courage, to the breaking of her +heart, was due the step which started him out into the world to seek +his fortune and hers. + +The day was set for his departure. She drew from the bank the fifty +dollars his first picture had brought, and pressed it into his +reluctant hands. It was she who drove him into the village. In the +pocket of his Sunday clothes he carried the names of newspaper artists, +so familiar to him; they were the men he was to see--the strangers who +were to be his Samaritans. If they lent him a helping hand all might +go well. + +She was to live without him in the little paradise, with old Mrs. Crane +and Caleb Spangler's boy as companions. They were to conduct the +affairs of the farm through the winter months, while he fought for a +footing in another universe. + +It was a sobbing girl who lay all that night in the broad bed, thinking +of the boy whose curly head was missing from the pillow beside her, +whose loving arms were gone, perhaps forever. + + +'Gene Crawley knew of Jud's intentions long before his departure. In +fact, the whole township was aware of the great undertaking, and there +was more or less gossip, and no end of doubt as to the wisdom of the +step. It was generally conceded that Jud was a bright boy, but still +"he wuzn't much to git ahead, even out in the country, so how in +tarnation did he expect to make it go in the city?" A few of the +evil-minded saw signs of waning love in the Sherrod cottage; others +slyly winked and intimated that 'Gene Crawley had something to do with +it; and the whole neighborhood solemnly shook hands with Jud and "hoped +he'd come back richer'n Vanderbilt." + +Crawley saw them drive away to the station in the village, and he saw +the dejected young wife come slowly homeward at dusk. That night, +while she rolled and sobbed in her bed, he sat on the fence across the +lane from the dark cottage until long after midnight. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE FIRST WAS A CRIMINAL. + +Jud's first night in Chicago was sleepless, even bedless. The train +rolled into the Dearborn Street station at ten o'clock and he stumbled +out into the smoky, clanging train-sheds among countless strangers. It +was all different from the station platform at Glenville, or even the +more pretentious depot in the town that had seen his short college +career. Sharp rebuffs, amused smiles, and sarcastic rejoinders met his +innocent queries as he wandered aimlessly about the station, carrying +his ungainly "telescope." Dismayed and resentful, he refrained from +asking questions at last, and for more than an hour sat upon one of the +unfriendly benches near the gates. Once he plucked up enough courage +to ask a stranger when he could get a train back to Glenville. + +"Never heard of Glenville," was the unfeeling response. + +The crowds did not interest the new arrival; he saw the people and +novelties of a great city through dim, homesick eyes, and thought only +of the old, familiar, well-beloved fences, lanes, and pastures, and +Justine's sad face. His ambition waned. He realized that he did not +belong in this great, unkind place; he saw that he was an object of +curiosity and amusement; keenly he felt the inconsiderate stares of +passers-by, and indeed he knew that his own strangeness was an excuse +for the smiles which made him shrink with mortification. An old +gentleman stopped at the news-stand hard by and selected a magazine. +He stood beneath a dazzling arc light and turned the pages, glancing at +the pictures. Jud was attracted by the honest kindliness of his face, +and approached him. The old gentleman looked up. + +"Excuse me, sir, but I am a stranger here, and I'd like to ask a +favor," said Jud. He found that his voice was hoarse. + +"I have nothing for you," said the old gentleman, returning to the +magazine. + +"I'm not a beggar," cried Jud, drawing back, cut to the quick. + +"Don't you want enough to get a bed or something for a starving mother +to eat?" sarcastically demanded the old gentleman, taking another look +at the youth. + +"I have had nothing but hard words since I came into this depot, and +God knows I've tried to be respectful. What am I that every one should +treat me like a dog? Do I look like a beggar or a thief? I know I +look just what I am, a country boy, but that oughtn't to turn people +against me." Jud uttered these words in a voice trembling with pent-up +anger and the tears of a long-tried indignation. Suddenly his eyes +flashed and he blurted forth the real fierceness of his feelings in a +savage, and, for him, unusual display of resentment: "For two cents I'd +tell the whole crowd to go to hell!" + +It was this intense and startling expression that convinced the +stranger of Jud's genuineness. There was no mistaking the sincerity of +that wrath. + +"My boy, you shouldn't say that. This is a big and busy city, and you +must get used to the ways of it. I see you are a good, honest lad, and +I beg pardon for my unkind words. Now, tell me, what can I do for you? +My train leaves in ten minutes, so we have no time to spare. Tell me +what you are doing here." + +Jud's heart leaped at the sound of these, the first kindly tones he had +heard, and he poured forth the disjointed story of his ambitions, not +once thinking that the stranger could have no personal interest in +them. But he had won an attentive listener. + +"You're the sort of a boy I like," exclaimed the gray-haired Chicagoan, +grasping the boy's hand. "I'll be back in Chicago in three or four +days, and I'll do all I can to help you. Get along here as best you +can till next Friday, and then come to see me. Here is my card," and +he handed forth an engraved piece of cardboard. "Don't forget it, now, +for I am interested in you. Hanged if I don't like a boy who talks as +you did awhile ago. I feel that way myself sometimes. Good-bye; I +must get this train. Friday morning, Mr.--Oh, what is your name?" + +"Dudley Sherrod, sir, and I'm much obliged to you. But I wanted to ask +a favor of you. Where can I find a place to sleep?" + +"Good Lord, was that all you wanted?" And then the old gentleman +directed him to a nearby hotel. "Stay there to-night, and if it's too +high-priced, hunt a cheaper place to-morrow. There goes my train!" + +Jud looked after him as he raced down the yard, and drew a breath of +relief as he swung upon the rear platform of the last sleeper, +awkwardly, but safely. Then he read the card. "Christopher Barlow," +it said, "Investment Broker." It seemed promising, and with a somewhat +lighter heart he made his way to his cumbersome valise, so unlike the +neat boxes carried by other travelers, and prepared for the walk out +into the lamplights of a Chicago street. He found the hotel, but had +to occupy a chair in the office all night, for the rooms were full. A +kind-hearted clerk gave him permission to remain there until morning, +observing his fatigue and his loneliness. He even checked the boy's +valise for him and told him where he could "wash up." + +It was Tuesday morning when he started forth for his first walk about +the streets of Chicago. The clerk recommended a cheap lodging-house +and he found it without much difficulty, and began to feel more at +home. Some one told him how to reach the _Record_ office, and he was +soon asking a youth in the counting-room where he could find a certain +artist. Here he encountered a peculiar rebuff. He was told that the +artists did not go to work until nearly noon. To Jud, who had always +gone to work at four in the morning, this was almost incomprehensible. +In his ignorance, he at once began to see the easy life he might lead +if ever he could obtain such a position. + +All the morning he wandered about State and Clark Streets, Wabash +Avenue, and the Lake Front. Everything was new and marvelous. From +the lowly cot in the lane to the fifteen-story monsters in Chicago; +from the meadows and cornfields to the miles of bewildering +thoroughfares; from the occasional vehicle or passing farmhand of the +"pike" to the thousands of rushing men and women on the congested +sidewalks; from the hayracks and the side-boarded grain-wagon to the +clanging street cars and the "L" trains; from the homely garb of the +yokel to the fashionable clothes of the swell. It is a striking +transition when it comes suddenly. + +In the afternoon he was directed to the room of the newspaper artist. +He carried with him his batch of drawings, and his heart was in his +shoes. Already he had begun to learn something of the haste of city +life. How could he hope to win more than the passing attention of the +busy man? Several girls in the counting-room giggled as he strode by, +and his ears flamed red. He did not know that more than one of those +girls admired his straight, strong figure and sunburnt face. + +The artist was drawing at his board when Jud entered the little room +facing Fifth Avenue. There was no halo of glory hovering over the +rumpled head, nor was there a sign of the glorious studio his dreams +had pictured. He found himself standing in the doorway of what looked +like a junk-shop. Desks were strewn with drawing-boards, cardboard, +pens, pads, weights, thumb-tacks, unmounted photographs, and a +heterogeneous assortment of things he had never seen before. The +cartoonist barely glanced at him as he stepped inside the doorway. + +"Morning," remarked the eminent man, and coolly resumed work on the +drawing. Jud was stricken dumb by this indifference, expected as it +was. He forgot the speech he had made up and stood hesitating, afraid +to advance or retreat. + +"Is this Mr. Brush?" he asked at length, after his disappointed eyes +had swept the untidy den from floor to ceiling. Was this the room of a +great artist? Shattered dream! The walls were covered with flaring +posters, rough sketches, cheaply framed cartoons, and dozens of odd and +ends, such as one sees in the junk-shops of art. + +"Yes," was the brief response. "Have a chair. I'll talk to you in a +minute." Jud sat in a chair near the door, his fingers spasmodically +gripping the humble package of drawings he had brought all the way from +the fields of Clay township to show to this surly genius whose work had +been his inspiration. + +"Fine day," said Mr. Brush, his head bent low over the board. + +"Yes, sir," responded the visitor, who thought it one of the most +dismal days in his life. After fully ten minutes of awkward silence, +during which Jud found himself willing to hate the artist and that +impolite pen, the artist straightened up in his chair and for the first +time surveyed his caller. + +"Do you want to see me about something?" + +"I want to show you some of my drawings, if you have time to look at +'em--them, sir," said Jud timidly. + +"Oh, you're another beginner who wants a job, eh?" said the other, a +trifle sardonically. "Let's see 'em. I can tell you in advance, +however, that you'll have a devil of a time finding an opening in +Chicago. Papers all full and a hundred fellows looking for places. +Live here? Oh, I see--from the country." This after a swift +inspection of his visitor's general make-up. "I am a little busy just +now. Can you come in at six o'clock?" + +"Yes, sir. I'm sorry I bothered you," said Jud, glad, in his +disillusionment, to find an excuse for leaving the crowded workshop. +The artist, whimsical as are all men of his profession, suddenly fell +to admiring the young man's face. It was a strong type, distinctly +sketchable. + +"Wait a minute. I have an engagement at six, come to think of it. +I'll look at 'em now," he said, still gazing. Jud reluctantly placed +the package on the table and proceeded, with nervous fingers, to untie +the string which Justine had so lovingly, but so stubbornly, knotted. +Every expression of the eager, embarrassed face impressed itself upon +the keen eye of the watcher. It was with little or no interest, +however, that Mr. Brush took up the little stock of drawings. This boy +was but one of a hundred poor, aspiring fellows who had wearied him +with their miserable efforts. + +"Did you draw these?" he asked, after he had looked at three or four. +Even Jud in all his embarrassment could see that his face had suddenly +turned serious. + +"Yes, sir, certainly," answered Jud. + +"Didn't copy them?" + +"No, sir. They are pictures of places and objects down in Glenville." + +"Where is that?" + +"In Indiana. You don't think they are copies, do you?" + +"Drew 'em from life?" asked the other incredulously. + +"Of course I did," said Jud with acerbity. + +"Don't get mad, my boy. How long have you been drawing?" + +"Since I was a boy--'knee high to a duck'--as we say down there." + +"Ever have any instructions?" + +"No, sir. I haven't been able to afford it. I want to go to an art +school when I have raised the money." + +The artist looked through the pack without another word and Jud +fidgeted under the strain. He was anxious to have the critic condemn +his work so that he could flee and have done with it. + +"Here's a pad of paper and a pencil. See how long it will take you to +sketch that elevated track and the building across the street. Sit up +here near the window," commanded the artist. + +Jud's nerve fled as he found himself called upon to draw beneath the +eye of an expert, and it was only after some little urging that he was +induced to attempt the sketch. He felt uncertain, incompetent, +uncomfortable, mainly because he was to draw objects entirely new to +his eyes. It was not like sketching the old barns and fences down in +Clay township. Closing his jaws determinedly, however, he began the +task, wondering why he was doing so in the face of a decision he had +reached but a moment before. He had come to the conclusion that it was +not worth while to try for a place in Chicago and had made up his mind +to go back to the farm, defeated. In twenty minutes he had a good +accurate outline of all that met his keen gaze beyond the window-sill, +and was beginning to "fill in" when the artist checked him. + +"That's enough. You can do it, I see. Now I believe that you drew all +these from life and nature. What's your name?" + +"Dudley Sherrod." + +"Well, Mr. Sherrod, I don't know you, nor do I know where Glenville is, +but I will say this much to you: a man who can draw such pictures as +these is entitled to consideration anywhere. It kind o' paralyzes you, +eh? You may rest assured that I am sincere, because we don't praise a +man's work unless it is deserving. What are you doing up here? +Looking for work?" + +"I want to earn enough at something to give me a start, that's all. Do +you really think I'll do, Mr. Brush?" His eyes were actually snapping +with excitement. + +"You can be made to do. It's in you. Try your hand at newspaper +illustrating and then sail in for magazine work, etching, +paintings--thunder, you can do it, if you have the nerve to stick to +it!" + +"But how am I to get work on a paper?" + +"There are twenty-five applicants ahead of you here, and we are to lose +a man next month--Mr. Kirby, who goes to New York. I'll see that you +get his place. In the mean time, you'll have to wait until the first +of the month, and, if you like, you may hang around the office and go +out with the fellows on some of their assignments, just for practice. +You won't get much of a salary to begin with, but you'll work up. I'm +darn glad you came here first." + +"How do you know I came here first?" + +"Because you wouldn't have got away from another paper if you'd gone +there. Have you any friends in the city?" + +"No, sir--yes, I did meet a gentleman at the depot last night. I'm to +call on him next Friday. Do you know him?" Sherrod gave him +Christopher Barlow's card. The artist glanced at it, and, without a +word, picked up a photograph from his desk. + +"This the man?" + +"Why, yes--isn't it funny you'd have it?" + +"And here is his daughter." This time he displayed the picture of a +beautiful girl. "And his wife, too." Jud held the three portraits in +his hand, wondering how they came to be in the artist's possession. +"Mrs. Barlow committed suicide this morning." + +"Good heaven! You don't mean it. And has Mr. Barlow come home?" + +"That's the trouble, my boy. You'll have a good deal to learn in +Chicago, and you can't trust very much of anybody. You see, old man +Barlow, who has been looked upon as the soul of honor, skipped town +last night with a hundred thousand dollars belonging to depositors, and +he is now where the detectives can't find him." + +Jud was staggered. That kindly old gentleman a thief! The first man +to give him a gentle word in the great city a fleeing criminal! He +felt a cold perspiration start on his forehead. What manner of world +was this? + +His first day in Chicago ended with the long letter he wrote to +Justine, an epistle teeming with enthusiasm and joy, brimming over with +descriptions and experiences, not least of which was the story of +Christopher Barlow. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE ENCOUNTER WITH CRAWLEY. + +Justine received his letter at the end of the week. The three days +intervening between his departure and its arrival had seemed almost +years. Since their marriage day they had not been separated for more +than twelve consecutive hours. It was the first night she had spent +alone--the night which followed his departure. In her brief, blissful +married life it was the only night she had spent without his arm for a +pillow. + +The days were bleak and oppressive; she lived in a daze, almost to the +point of unconsciousness. The nights brought dismal forebodings, cruel +dreams, and sudden awakenings. She felt lost, in strange and +unfriendly surroundings; where love, tenderness, and joy had been the +reigning forces there was now only loneliness. No object seemed +familiar to her. Everything that had given personality to the little +farm was gone with the whistle of a locomotive, the clacking of railway +coaches, the clanging of a bell. The landscape was not the same, the +sky was no longer blue, the moon and stars were somber. Yank, the dog, +moped about the place, purposeless, sad-eyed, and with no ambition in +his erstwhile frisky tail. Jud had not been gone more than half a day +when curious neighbors pulled up their horses at the gate. + +"Heerd from Jud? How's he gittin' 'long in Chickawgo?" + +"I haven't heard, Mr. Martin, but I am expecting a letter soon. How +long does it take mail to get here from Chicago?" + +"Depends a good deal on how fer it is." + +"Oh, it's over two hundred miles, I know." + +"Seems to me y'oughter be hearin' 'fore long, then. Shell I ast ef +they's any mail fer you down to the post-office?" + +"I have sent Charlie Spangler to the toll-gate, thank you." + +"Gitep!" + +Mail reached the cross-roads post-office twice a day, carried over by +wagon from Glenville. Little Charlie Spangler was at the toll-gate +morning and evening, at least half an hour before Mr. Hardesty drove up +with the slim pouch, but it was not until the third morning that he was +rewarded. Then came a thick envelope on which blazed the Chicago +postmark. Every hanger-on about the toll-gate unhesitatingly declared +the handwriting to be that of Jud Sherrod. It was addressed to Mrs. +Dudley Sherrod. The letter was passed around for inspection before it +was finally delivered to the proud boy, who ran nearly all the way to +Justine's in his eagerness to learn as much as he could of its +contents. Jim Hardesty had promised him a bunch of Yucatan if he +brought all the news to the toll-gate before supper-time. + +Justine knew the letter had come when she saw the spindle-shanked boy +racing up the lane. She was awaiting the messenger at the gate. + +"Is it from Jud?" she cried, hurrying to meet him, her face glowing +once more. He was waving the epistle on high. + +"That's what they all say," he panted, as he drew near. "Jim says he'd +know Jud's writin' if he wrote in Chinese." + +The poor, lonesome girl read the long letter as if it were the most +thrilling novel, fascinated by every detail, enthralled by the +wonderful experiences of her boy-husband in the great city. His +descriptions of places, people, and customs, as they appeared to his +untrained, marveling eye, were vivid, though disconnected. Then came +the narration of his experience with the artist, supplemented by +playful boasting, and the welcome news that he was to have employment +on the great newspaper. + +Justine had not, from the first, doubted his ability to find work in +the city. While she glowed with pride and happiness, there was a +little bitterness in her lonely heart. In that moment she realized +that there had existed, unknown and unfelt, a hope that he would fail +and that the failure would send him back to gladden the little home. +Afterwards the bitterness gave way to rejoicing. Success to him meant +success and happiness to both; his struggle was for her as well as for +himself, and the end would justify the sacrifice of the beginning. It +could not be for long--he had already clutched the standard of fame and +she knew him to be a man who would bear it forward as long as there was +life and health. She had supreme faith in his ambition--the only rival +to his love. + +She read certain parts of his letter aloud to Mrs. Crane and Charlie, +glorying in their astonished ejaculations, widespread eyes, and excited +"Ohs." Within herself she felt a certain wifely superiority, a little +disdain for their surprise, a certain pity for their ignorance. With a +touch of self-importance, innocently natural, she enjoyed the emotions +of her companions, forgetting that she had just begun to break through +the chrysalis of ignorance that still bound them. + +Before "supper-time" Charlie Spangler was in possession of the Yucatan +and Jim Hardesty's place was ringing with the news of Jud's success. +Long before the night was over certain well-informed and calculating +individuals were prophesying that inside of five years he would be +running for the presidency of the United States. + +"'Y gosh!" volunteered Mr. Hardesty, "thet boy's got it in him to be +shuriff of this county, ef he'd a mind to run. 'F he stays up there in +Chickawgo fer a year er two an' tends to his knittin' like a sensible +feller'd oughter, he'll come back here with a reecord so derned hard to +beat thet it wouldn't be a whipstitch tell he'd be the most pop'lar man +in the hull county. Chickawgo puts a feller in the way of big things +an' I bet three dollars Jed wouldn't have no trouble 't all gittin' the +enomination fer shuriff." + +"Shuriff, thunder! What'd he wanter run fer shuriff fer? Thet's no +office fer a Chickawgo man. They run fer jedge or general or senator +or somethin' highfalutin'. I heerd it said onct thet there has been +more Presidents of the United States come from Chickawgo than from airy +other State in the West. What Jed'll be doin' 'fore long will be to +come out fer President or Vice-President, you mark my words, boys." +Thus spake Uncle Sammy Godfrey, the sage of Clay township. He had been +a voter for sixty years and his opinion on things political was next to +law. + +'Gene Crawley soon heard the news. He had been awaiting the letter +with almost as much impatience as had Justine. If such a creature as +he could pray, it had been his prayer that Justine's husband might find +constant employment in Chicago. The torture of knowing that she was +another man's wife could be assuaged if he were not compelled to see +the happiness they found in being constantly together. He could have +shouted for joy when he heard that Jud was to live in Chicago and that +she was to remain on the farm, near him, for a time, at least. + +"Well, Jed's gone, 'Gene," said Mrs. Hardesty, meaningly, as he leaned +over the greasy counter that evening. "'Spose you don't keer much, do +you?" + +"Don't give a damn, one way or t'other," responded he, darkly, puffing +away at his pipe. Despite his apparent calmness, his teeth were almost +biting the cane pipe-stem in two. "Has he got a job?" + +"He's goin' to draw picters fer a newspaper up there, an' they do say +the pay's immense." + +"How much is he to git?" + +"He says in his letter he's to start out with $15 a week, an'll soon be +gittin' twict as much." + +"You mean a _month_." + +"No; a week, 'Gene. Thet's what the letter said." + +"Aw, what you givin' us! Him to git $15 a week? Why, goldern it, I'm +only gittin' $18 a month, an' I've allus been counted a better hand'n +him. Who said that was in the letter?" Jealousy was getting the +better of 'Gene. + +"Charlie Spangler heerd Justine Van read it right out loud, an' he's a +powerful quick-witted boy. He gen'rally hears things right." + +"He's the cussedest little liar in Clay township," snarled 'Gene. + +"You know better'n that, 'Gene Crawley. You're jest mad 'cause Jed's +doin' well, thet's what you air, and you know it," cried she. + +"Mad? What fer?" exclaimed he, trying to recover his temper for the +first time in his life. + +"'Cause you're jealous an' 'cause he's got her, thet's what fer," she +said, conscious that she was stirring his violent nature to the boiling +point. But to her surprise--and to his own, for that matter--he gulped +and laughed coarsely. + +"Well, he's welcome to her, ain't he?" he asked. "Who's got a better +right?" + +"Thet ain't the way you talked a year ago," she said meaningly. + +"You know too dern much," he said and walked away, leaving behind a +thoroughly dissatisfied woman. But Mrs. Hardesty did not know how +deeply she had cut nor how he raged inwardly as he hurried homeward +through the night. + +Several days later he boldly climbed the meadow fence, and, for the +first time since the fight, started across Justine's property on a +short cut to the hills. What his object was in going to the hills in +the dusk of that evening he himself did not clearly understand, but at +the bottom of it all was the desire to intrude upon forbidden ground. +Beneath the ugliness of his motive, however, there lurked a certain +timidity. He was conscious that he was trespassing, and he knew she +would not like it. But if she saw him cross the meadow, he never knew. +His intention had been, of course, to attract her notice, and he was +filled with disappointment. Late in the night he walked back from the +hills. There was a light in one of her rear windows, and he peered +eagerly from the garden fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. When +Yank began to bark, he threw stones at the faithful brute and stood his +ground, trusting that she would come to the door. He cursed when old +Mrs. Crane appeared in the yard, calling in frightened tones to the +dog. Then he slunk away in the night. The next day and the next he +strode through the meadow. With each failure he grew uglier and more +set in his purpose, for he had a fair certainty that she saw and +avoided him. + +One evening he ventured across the meadow, his black eyes searching for +her. Suddenly he came upon her. She was driving a cow home from a far +corner of the pasture, leisurely, in the waning daylight, her thoughts +of Jud and the future. She did not see Crawley until he was almost +beside her, and she could not restrain the gasp of terror. Hoping that +he would not speak to her, she hurried on. + +"Have you heerd from Jud ag'in, Justine?" he asked, his voice trembling +in spite of himself. + +"How dare you speak to me?" she cried, not checking her speed, nor +glancing toward him. + +"Well, I guess I've got a voice an' they ain't no law ag'in me usin' +it, is there? What's the use bein' so unfriendly, anyhow? I'll drive +the cow in fer you, Justine," he went on with a strange bashfulness. + +His stride toward her brought her to a standstill, her eyes flashing +with resentment. + +"'Gene Crawley, you've been ordered to keep off of our place and I want +you to stay off. If you ever put your foot in this pasture again I'll +sic' Yank on you. Don't you ever dare speak to me again." She drew +her form to its full height and looked into his face. + +"If you sic' Yank on me I'll kill him, jes' as I could 'a' killed _him_ +when we fit over yander by the crick. I let him up fer your sake an' +I've been sorry fer it ever sence. Say, Justine, I want to be your +friend----" + +"Friend!" she exclaimed scornfully. "You're a treacherous dog and you +don't deserve to have a friend on earth. If you were a man you'd keep +off this place and quit bothering me. You know that Jud's away and you +are coward enough to take the advantage. I want you to _go_--go at +once!" + +"You ain't got no right to call me a coward," he growled. + +"Do you think it brave to say what you did about me and to make your +boasts down at the toll-gate? Is that the way a man acts?" + +"Somebody's been lyin' to you----" he began confusedly. + +"No! You did say it and there's no use lying to me. I loathe you +worse than a snake, and I wouldn't trust you as far. 'Gene Crawley, +I've got a loaded shotgun in the house. So help me God, I'll kill you +if you don't keep away from me." + +She was in deadly earnest and he knew it. The rage of despair burned +away every vestige of the brutal confidence in which he had intruded +upon her little domain. + +"I'm not such a bad feller, Justine----" he began, with a mixture of +defiance and humbleness in his voice. It was now dark and they were +alone, but she commanded the situation despite her quaking heart. + +"You lie, 'Gene Crawley!" she exclaimed. "You are a drunken brute, and +you don't deserve to be spoken to by any woman. You are not fit to +talk to--to--to the hogs!" + +He clenched his fists and an oath sprang to his lips. "I've a notion +to----" he hissed, but could not complete the threat. The suppressed +words were "brain you." + +"I expect you to," she cried. "Why don't you do it, you coward?" He +glared at her for a moment, baffled. Suddenly his eyes fell, his +shoulders trembled, and his voice broke. + +"I wouldn't hurt you for the whole world, Justine." He turned and +walked away from her without another word. + +'Gene Crawley never touched liquor after that night. "Not fit to talk +to the hogs," "a drunken brute," were sentences that curdled in his +heart, freezing forever the lust of liquor. He was beginning to crave +the respect of a woman. Deep in his soul lay the hope that if he could +only cease drinking he might win more than respect from her. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE CLOTHES AND THE MAN. + +It was six weeks before Jud had saved enough money to make the rather +expensive trip to Glenville. In that time he found many experiences, +novel and soul-trying. The busy city clashed against the rough edges +of this unsophisticated youth and quickly wore them off. By the time +he was ready to board the train for a two-days' stay with Justine he +had acquired what it had taken other men years to learn. Keen and +quick-witted, he easily fell into the ways of strangers, putting +forward as good a foot as any country-bred boy who ever went to Chicago. + +The newspaper on which he was employed recognized his worth, and at the +end of the month he was pleased beyond all expression to find a twenty +dollar gold piece in his envelope instead of a ten and a five. The +chief artist told him his salary would improve correspondingly with his +work. Still, he realized that twenty dollars a week was but little +more than it required to keep him "going" in this spendthrift +metropolis. The men he met were good fellows and they spent money with +the freedom customary among newspaper workers. Jud did not spend his +foolishly, yet he found he could save but little. He did not touch +liquor; the other boys in the office did. His friend, the chief +artist, advised him to save what money he could, but to avoid as much +as possible the danger of being called a "cheap skate." He was told to +be anything but stingy. + +The young artist would gladly have eaten at lunch counters and slept in +the lowliest of flats if he could have followed his own inclinations. +But how could he let the other boys spend money on expensive meals +without responding as liberally? It was with joy, then, that he +welcomed the increase; and besides, it proved to him that there was +promise of greater advancement, and that at no far distant day he could +bring Justine to the city. + +He took a bright twenty dollar gold piece to her on that first and +long-expected visit. She met him at the station. All the way out to +the little cottage he beamed with the pleasure and pride of possessing +such love as came to him from this glowing girl. He forgot to compare +her with the visions of loveliness he had become accustomed to seeing +in the city. So overjoyed was he that he did not notice her simple +garments, her sunburnt hands, her brown face. To him she was the most +beautiful of all beings--the most perfect, the most to be desired. + +"Jud, dear, I am so happy I could die," she whispered as they entered +the cottage door after the drive home. He took her in his arms and +held her for neither knew how long. + +"Are you so glad to see me, sweetheart?" he asked tenderly. + +"Glad! If you had not come to-day I should have gone to Chicago +to-night. I could not have waited another day. Oh, it is so good to +have you here; it is so good to be in your arms! You don't know how I +have longed for you, Jud;--you don't know how lonely I have been all +these years." + +"Years! It has been but a month and a half," he said, smiling. + +"But each day has been a year. Have they not seemed long to you?" she +cried, chilled by the fear that they had been mere days to him when +they had been such ages to her. + +"My nights were years, Justine. My days were short; it was in the +nights that I had time to think, and then I felt I should go wild with +homesickness. You will never know how often I was tempted to get up +out of bed and come back to you. It can't be long, it must not, till I +can have you up there with me. I can't go through many such months as +the last one; I'd die, Justine, honest I would." + +"It won't be long, I know. You are getting on so nicely and you'll be +able soon to take me with you. Maybe this winter?" She asked the +question eagerly, dubiously. + +"This winter? Good heavens, if I can't have you up there this winter, +what's the use of trying to do anything? I want you right away, but I +know I can't do it for a month or two----" + +"Don't hope too strongly, dear. You must not count on it. I don't +believe you can do it so soon--no, not for six months," she said, again +the loving adviser. + +"You don't know me," he cried. "I can do it!" + +"I hope you can, Jud, but--but, I am afraid----" + +"Afraid? Don't you believe in me?" + +"Don't say that, please. I am afraid you won't be ready to have me up +there as a--a----" + +"A what, sweetheart?" + +"A very heavy burden." + +"Burden! Justine, you will lift the greatest burden I will have to +carry--my spirits. I need you, and I'll have you if I starve myself." + +"When you are ready, Jud, I'll go with you. You can tell when the time +comes. I'll starve with you, if needs be." + +That night they received callers in the fire-lit front room. The whole +community knew that he was at home, and everybody came to sate +legitimate curiosity. Some talked, others joked, a few stared; until +at length the township was satisfied and hurried home to bed. For days +the people talked of the change they had observed in Jud--not so much +in respect to his clothes as to his advanced ideas. "Aleck" Cranby was +authority for the statement that Sherrod was engaged in "drawin' +picters fer a dictionary. Thet's how he knows so all-fired much." + +The young artist's brief stay at home was the most blissful period in +his life and in hers. They were separated only for moments. When the +time came for him to go away he went with a cheerier heart and he left +a happier one behind. In their last kiss there was the promise that he +would return in a month, and there was, back of all, the conviction +that she would go with him to Chicago within six months. On the train, +however, he allowed gloomy thoughts to drive away the optimism that +contact with Justine had inspired. He realized that every dollar he +possessed in the world was in his pocket, and he had just six dollars +and thirty cents. At such a rate, how much could he accumulate in six +short months? + +Back on the little farm there was a level-headed thinker who was +counting on a year instead of six months, and who was racking her +brains for means with which to help him in the struggle. One good crop +would be a godsend. + +For several weeks Jud observed the strictest economy. When next he +went to the farm for a visit it was with sixty dollars. Most of this +he gave to Justine, who hid it in a bureau drawer. Winter was on in +full blast now, and he did not forget to purchase a warm coat for her, +besides heavy dress-goods, underwear, and many little necessities. +Thanksgiving saw her dressed in better clothes than she had known since +those almost forgotten days of affluence before the mining swindle. +Jud, himself, was not too warmly clad. He refused to buy clothes for +himself until he had supplied Justine with all she needed. His suit +was old but neat, his shoes were new, his hat was passable, but his +overcoat was pitiful in its old age. + +The night after his return from the farm, he had a few good friends in +his room to eat the apples, cakes, and nuts which his wife had given +him at home. It was a novel feast for the Chicago boys. Ned Draper, a +dramatic critic, had money in the new suit of clothes which graced his +person, and he sent out for wine, beer and cigars. The crowd made +merry until two o'clock, but not one drop of liquor passed Jud's lips. + +"Sherrod, where did you get that overcoat I saw you wearing to-day?" +asked Draper, in friendly banter. Jud flushed, but answered steadily: +"In Glenville." + +"The glorious metropolis of Clay township--the city of our youth," +laughed Hennessy, the police reporter. + +"You ought to pension it and give it a pair of crutches," went on +Draper. "It has seen service enough and it's certainly infirm. I'll +swear, I don't see how it manages to hang alone." + +"It's the best I can afford," cried the owner, resentfully. + +"Aw, what are you givin' us? You're getting twenty a week and you're +to have thirty by Christmas--if you're good, you know,--and I would +blow myself for some clothes. Hang it, old man, I mean it for your own +good. People will think more of you if you spruce up and make a +showing. Those clothes of yours don't fit and they're worn out. You +don't know what a difference it will make in your game if you make a +flash with yourself. It gets people thinking you're a peach, when you +may be a regular stiff. Go blow yourself for some clothes, and the +next time you chase down to Glenville to see that girl she'll break her +neck to marry you before you can get out of town. On the level, now, +old man, I'm giving it to you straight. Tog up a bit. It doesn't cost +a mint and it does help. I'll leave it to the crowd." + +"The crowd" supported Draper, and Jud could but see the wisdom in their +advice, although his pride rebelled against their method of giving it. +The sight of the other men in the office dressing well, if not +expensively, while he remained as ever the wearer of the rankest +"hand-me-downs," had not been pleasing. For weeks he had been tempted +to purchase a cheap suit of clothes at one of the big department +stores, but the thought of economy prevented. + +"You haven't any special expense," said Colton, the third guest. +"Nobody depends on your salary but yourself, so why don't you cut +loose? Your parents are dead, just as mine are, and you are as free as +air. I can put you next to one of the best tailors in Chicago and +he'll fix you out to look like a dream without skinning you to death." + +Jud smiled grimly when Colton said that no one but himself depended on +his salary. These fellows did not know he was married. An +unaccountable fear that they might ridicule him if he posed as a +married man who could not support his wife had caused him to keep +silent concerning his domestic affairs. Besides, he had heard these +and other men speak of certain wives, often in the presence of their +husbands, in a manner which shocked him. No one had asked him if he +were married and he did not volunteer the information. It amused him +hugely when his new acquaintances teased him about "his girl down in +old Clay." Some day he would surprise them by introducing them to +Justine, calmly, in a matter-of-fact way, and then he would laugh at +their incredulity. + +"I can't afford clothes like you fellows wear," he said in response to +Colton's offer. + +"Of course, you can--just as well as I can," said Colton. + +"Or any one of us," added Draper. "Clothes won't break anybody." + +"You're a good-looking chap, Sherrod, and if you dressed up a bit you'd +crack every girl's heart in Chicago. 'Gad, I can see the splinters +flying now," cried Hennessy, admiringly. + +"It's no joke," added Colton. "I could tog you out till you'd----" + +"But I haven't the money, consarn it," cried the victim, a country boy +all over again. They laughed at his verdancy, and it all ended by +Colton agreeing to vouch for him at the tailor's, securing for him the +privilege of paying so much a month until the account was settled. + +Jud lay awake nights trying to decide the matter. He knew that he +needed the clothes and that it was time to cast aside the shabby +curiosities from Glenville. He saw that he was to become an object of +ridicule if he persisted in wearing them. Pride demanded good clothes, +that he might not be ashamed to be seen with well-dressed men; +something else told him that he should save every penny for a day that +was to come as soon as he could bring it about. At last he went to +Colton and asked him what he thought the clothes would cost, first +convincing himself that tailor-made garments were the only kind to be +considered. + +Colton hurried him off to the tailor, and within an hour he was on the +street again, dazed and aware that he had made a debt of one hundred +and thirty dollars. He was to have two suits of clothes, business and +dress, and an overcoat. For a week he was miserable, and a dozen times +he was tempted to run in and countermand the order. How could he ever +pay it? What would Justine think? At length the garments were +completed and he found them at his hall door. Attached was a statement +for $130, with the information that he was to pay $10 a month, "a very +gracious concession as a favor to our esteemed friend, Mr. Colton," +said the accompanying note. In a fever of excitement he tried them on. +The fit was perfect; he looked like other men. Still, his heart was +heavy. That night, taking up his old cast-off suit, he mourned over +the greasy things that he and Justine had selected at Dave Green's +store the week before they were married. They were his wedding clothes. + +"I'll keep them forever," he half sobbed, and he hung them away +carefully. The time came for his next visit to the little farm. In +his letters he had said nothing about the new clothes, but he had +admitted that unexpected expenses had come upon him. He could not +bring himself to tell her of that extravagance. He believed that she +would have approved, but he shrank from the confession. + +When he boarded the train for the trip home, he was dressed in the +clothes he had first worn to Chicago, the greasy wedding garments. He +never forgot how guilty he felt when she told him the next evening, as +they sat before the old fireplace, that he should buy a new overcoat +and a heavy suit of clothes. And after he went away on Monday she +wondered why he had been so quiet and preoccupied during his visit. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. + +For weeks he hated the new clothes, handsome though they were, and yet +he realized the difference they made at the office, where tolerance was +turning to respect. He could but appreciate the impression he now made +in places where he had had no standing whatever up to the time when he +had donned the guilty garments. + +Not a day passed during his residence in the city that did not find him +on the look-out for a certain graceful figure and glorious face. He +never gave up the hope of some day meeting the vivacious Miss Wood. +When first he had come to Chicago there had been no doubt in his mind +that he would presently see her in the street, but that hope had been +dissipated in a very short time. He did not fear that he would fail to +recognize her, but he ceased to believe that she would remember in him +the simple boy of Proctor's Falls. He was also conscious of the fact +that she could be friendly with the country lad, but might not so much +as give greeting to the new Jud Sherrod. In one of his conversations +with the chief artist he innocently asked if he knew Miss Wood. The +artist said that he did not, but that as there were probably a million +and a half of people in the city who were strangers to him, he did not +consider it odd. Jud looked in a directory. He found 283 persons +whose surname was Wood. Not knowing his friend's Christian name, he +was unable to select her from the list. + +He did not know that the names of unmarried girls living with their +parents were not to be found in the directory. In the society columns +of the newspapers he frequently saw a name that struck his fancy, and +he decided that if it did not belong to her she had been imperfectly +christened. He began to think of her as Celeste Wood. A Celeste Wood +lived in the fashionable part of the north side, and he had not been +there a month before he found the house and had gazed in awe upon its +splendor--from a distance. Several times he passed the place, but in +no instance did his eye behold the girl of Proctor's Falls. + +He told Justine of his search for the beautiful stranger, and she was +as much interested as he. She, too, came to call her Celeste and to +inquire as to his progress in every letter. They exchanged merry notes +in which the mysterious Celeste was the chief topic. + +Christmas came and he spent it with Justine. It was a white Christmas +and a glad one for everyone except Jud. He cursed the cowardice that +forced him to sneak down to Glenville in that tattered suit of clothes, +for he still shrank from the confession of what seemed extravagance and +vanity. In spite of all he could do to prevent it, the cost of living +in the city increased and he could save but little. Paying for those +hated garments was a hard task each month; it seemed to take the very +ten dollars he had intended to save. The clothes he wore home were now +bordering on the disreputable, and at Christmas time he vowed he would +wear them no more. Justine had said that she hated to accept the +present he brought when she saw how much he needed clothing. + +Not once did he swerve in his fidelity to her. He was the only man in +Chicago, it seemed to him, who refused to drink liquor. He dined with +the fellows, accompanied them on various rounds of pleasure, but he +never broke the promise he made to Justine: to drink no liquor. The +gay crowd into which he was tossed--artists, writers and good +fellows--introduced him here and there, to nice people, to gay people +and to questionable people. In the cafés he met wine-tippling ladies +who smiled on him; in the theatre he met gaily dressed women who smiled +on him; in the street he met stylish creatures who smiled on him. He +met the wives and sisters of his friends, and was simple, gentle, and +gallant; he met the actresses and the gay ones of the midnight hour and +was the same; he met the capricious, alluring women of the fashionable +world, and was still the abashed, clean-hearted lover of one good girl. +She was the only woman. Three objects he had to strive for: to succeed +in his work, to make a home for Justine, and to find Celeste. One sin +harassed him--the purchase of two suits of clothes and an overcoat. + +Winter struggled on and matters grew worse with Justine. She did not +tell Jud of the privations on the farm; to him she turned a cheerful +face. Nothing depressive that might happen down there on the +over-tilled little farm should come to him; he should be handicapped in +no way by the worries which beset her. The fall crop had been poor +throughout the entire state. There had been little wheat in the +summer, and the corn-huskers of September found but half a crop. The +farm was run on half rations after the holidays, simply because the +granary was none too full. She had sold but little grain, being +obliged to retain most of it for feeding purposes. What little money +Jud sent to her soon disappeared, despite her frugality. She and old +Mrs. Crane lived alone in the cottage, and together they fought the +wolf from the kitchen door and from the barnyard. How Justine wished +that she might again teach the little school down the lane! She had +given it up that fall because the time could not be spared from the +farm. + +She cared for the horses, cows and pigs--few in number, but pigs after +all--while Mrs. Crane looked after the chickens. That winter was the +coldest the country had known in thirty years, according to Uncle Sammy +Godfrey, who said he had "kep' tab on the therometer fer fifty-three +year, an' danged ef he didn't b'lieve this'n wuz the coldest spell in +all that time, 'nless it wuz that snap in sixty-two. That wuz the year +it fruz the crick so solid 'at it didn't thaw out tell 'long 'bout the +Fourth of July." + +January was bitter cold. There were blizzards and snowstorms, and +people, as well as stock, suffered intensely. Horses were frozen to +death and whole flocks of sheep perished. Justine, young, strong and +humane, worked night and day to keep her small lot of stock +comfortable. The barn, the cowshed and the hogpens were protected in +every way possible from the blasts, and often she came to the house, +half-frozen, her hands numb, her face stinging. But that bravery never +knew a faltering moment. She faced the storms, the frosts and the +dangers with the hardihood of a man, and she did a man's work. + +With an ax she chopped wood in the grove back of the pasture until the +heavy snows came. She would not ask neighbors to help her; indeed, she +refused several kindly offers. There was not a man in the neighborhood +who would not have gladly found time to perform some of her more +difficult tasks. + +One morning, cold almost beyond endurance, she awoke to find that in +some mysterious manner a large pile of chopped wood lay in her +dooryard. How it came there she did not know, nor would she use it +until she found by the sled tracks in the snow that it had been hauled +from her own piece of timber land. Again, in the night time, someone +rebuilt a section of fence that had been torn down by the wind. She +was grateful to the good neighbors, but there was a feeling of +resentment growing out of the knowledge that people were pitying her. +So when Harve Crose drove up one afternoon with a load of pumpkins for +the stock, she declined to accept them. But she could not sit up of +nights, tired and cold as she was, to drive away those who stole in +surreptitiously and befriended her. She could not so much as thank +these indefatigable friends. + +Her heart and courage sank to the bottom one morning when she arose to +learn that during the night the wind had blown the straw-thatched roof +from her cowshed and the two poor beasts were well-nigh dead from +exposure. She sat down and cried, nor could Mrs. Crane comfort her. +To replace that roof was a task to try the strength and endurance of +the hardiest man; for her it seemed beyond accomplishment. + +Nevertheless, she set about it as soon as the cows were transferred to +the crowded barn. The roof, intact, lay alongside the pen, the straw +scattered to the winds. There was but one way to replace the timbers, +and that was to take them apart and reconstruct the roof, piece by +piece. She had battered several rough-hewn supports from their +position and was surveying the task before her with a sullen expression +in her eyes. The vigorous exercise had put a hot glow in her cheeks, +and, as she stood there in the snow, her ax across her shoulder, as +straight as an arrow, she was a charming picture. A biting atmosphere +chilled the breath as it came from her red, full lips, wafting it away, +white and frosty. The man who vaulted the fence behind her and came +slowly across the barn lot felt his heart beat fiercely against the +rough oilskin jacket. The girl did not see him until she turned at the +sound of his hoarse voice. + +"That ain't no work fer you," he was saying. + +She found herself looking into the hostile eyes of 'Gene Crawley. +There was real anger in the man's face; he looked contemptuously at the +girl's slim figure, then at the wrecked house, then slowly down at his +big, mittened hands. Justine gasped and moved back a step. + +"I ain't agoin' to hurt you, Missus Sherrod," he said, quickly. "I'm +goin' to help you, that's all." + +"I do not require your assistance," she said, coldly. "Why do you come +here, 'Gene, when you know I despise to look at you? Why do you +persist in annoying me? Is it because my husband isn't here to protect +me?" + +"We won't argy about that ag'in," he answered, slowly. "You cain't put +that roof on the shed an' I kin, so that's why I'm here. I was jes' +goin' past when I seen you out here slashin' away with that ax. Thinks +I, I'll not 'low her to do that nasty job, an' so I jes' clumb over the +fence an'--an'--well, ef helpin' you out of a hard job is annoyin' you, +Justine, you'll have to put up with it, that's all; I'm goin' to put +that roof on, whether you want me to er not. You're damn--I'm sorry I +said that--but you're mighty near froze. Go in by the fire an' I'll +'tend to this." + +"I insist that you are not to touch a hand to this lumber. I cannot +pay you for the work and I will not accept----" + +"Don't say a word about pay. You k'n have me arrested ef you want to +fer trespass, er you k'n go in an' git that shotgun of your'n an' blaze +away at me, but I'm not goin' to let you kill yourself workin' out here +on a job like this." + +He drew off his oil jacket and threw it back in the snow. The ax +dropped from her shoulder and was buried in the white drift. Without a +word he strode to her side and fished the implement from the snow. + +"I'd rather die than to have you do this for me, 'Gene Crawley," she +hissed. "What do you think I'd be if I let you do it? What will the +neighbors say if I let you lift a hand to help me? What----" + +He interrupted with a smothered oath. + +"They dassent say anything, dang 'em," he grated. "This is my +business, an' ef they stick their noses in it they'll git 'em pounded +to hell an' gone." + +"Couldn't you have said all that without swearing?" she exclaimed, +scornfully. His face actually burned with shame and his bold eyes +wavered. + +"I didn't mean to, Justine. I--I jes' fergot. I want to tell you I +don't cuss like I used to. Only when I git right mad. 'Sides, ef +you'd gone in the house when I told you to, you wouldn't 'a' heerd." + +"Are you going to get off of my place?" she suddenly demanded. + +"Not tell I've fixed this roof," he replied doggedly. + +"I don't want it fixed," she said. + +"What's the use sayin' that? You was trying to do it yourself when I +come up here. Will you go in the house er will you stand out here an' +freeze?" + +"Do you think you're doing me a favor in this? Do you think I will +thank you after it is done?" + +"I don't believe I expect to be thanked, an' I'm only doin' it because +you hadn't ought to. I'd do it fer any woman." + +He swung the ax against the restraining timbers and a dozen strokes +freed the roof from its twisted fastenings. She stood off at one side +and glared at him. She forgot everything except that her enemy--Jud's +bitterest foe--was deliberately befriending her. A sudden thought came +to her, and the sharp exclamation that fell from her lips caused him to +pause and glance at her. + +"Ain't you goin' in by the fire?" he demanded, panting from the +exertion. + +"'Gene Crawley, do you know who has been cutting wood up in the grove +and bringing it to my door?" she demanded. + +"Yes," he answered, looking away. + +"You?" + +"Yes." + +"If I had known that, I'd have frozen to death before I used a stick," +she cried, the tears rushing to her eyes. + +"An' I fixed your fences an'--an'--an', I might as well tell you, I +come around ever' night to see that your stock is all right," he went +on. + +"You! oh, if I had only known! You! You!" she exclaimed, glaring at +him with such fury and hatred that his eyes dropped and a miserable +laugh of humiliation struggled through his teeth. As if to ward off +the fierce, direct stabs of those bitter eyes, he fell to wielding the +ax with all his strength. The chips flew and far away through the +crisp air rang the song of the steel. He did not look up until the +roof lay detached and there was no more chopping to be done. His face +was still burning hotly. It was the first real goodness of heart he +had ever shown, and it had met repulse. + +The anger melted when he saw her. She had not moved from the spot, but +it was another creature altogether who stood there now. Justine's +hands were pressed to her eyes and she was crying. Her whole body +trembled and her thinly clad shoulders heaved convulsively. + +Big 'Gene Crawley was helpless before this exhibition of feeling. He +felt that he was to blame for her grief, and yet a longing to comfort +her came over him. She looked forlorn, wretched, cold. He would have +liked to pick up the shivering girl and carry her to the house. He +tried to speak to her, but there was nothing to say. The fear that she +would resent a friendly word from him checked the impulse. + +Unable to control his own feelings and possessed of a wild desire to +act in some way, he threw down the ax and performed one of those feats +of prodigious strength for which he was noted. Stooping, he lifted the +edge of the heavy roof until he could work his broad shoulders under +the end. Then, with an effort, he slowly shifted his load to the side +of the low shed. Rapidly he went about the little structure and +replaced timbers that had been wrenched away, not once turning his face +toward her. When all was in readiness for the final effort, he grasped +the side of the roof that still touched the ground and prepared for the +lift. The cords stood out in his neck, the veins were bursting in his +temples, but steadily his heavy shoulders rose and with them the whole +weight of the timbers. His great back and powerful legs pushed forward +and the roof moved slowly back to its place. + +Then he collapsed against the side of the shed. She had witnessed this +frightful display of strength with marveling eyes. Once she was on the +point of crying out to him to stop, certain that no human power could +endure such a strain. When the task was done she gave way to +unaccountable tears and fled to the house, leaving him leaning against +his support, fagged and trembling. + +After a few moments his strength returned and he began to fill up the +open places under the edge of the roof. At the end of an hour the shed +was as good as new. Then, with a long look toward the unfriendly house +in which she dwelt, he turned and started for the road, defeated but +satisfied that he had been of service to her. At the sound of her +voice he stopped near the fence. She had come from the house and was +following him. + +"'Gene, I can only thank you for what you have done. I did not want +you to do it, but--but I know I couldn't have managed it myself," she +said, hoarsely. + +"O, it wasn't much," he growled, looking away. + +"'Gene, you must not come here again and you must not do these things +for me. I don't want you to help me. I know what you said about me +down at the toll-gate that night, and I know what people will say if +you come here. Won't you please stay away, 'Gene?" + +He looked steadily into her eyes for the first time and there was a +touch of real nobility in his face as he said slowly and with +difficulty: + +"I thought, maybe, Justine, ef I kinder slaved aroun' fer you they +might see that I am good an' honest, an' that I didn't mean what I said +that night. I wisht somebody'd cut my tongue out afore I said them +things, er I wisht I'd been Doc Ramsey an' got knocked down fer +standin' up fer you. I cain't see you workin' aroun' like this when I +ain't got a thing to do, an' I--I--well, I jes' thought people'd see I +was sorry fer what I said." + +"But they'll say the very worst they can about it," she cried, +piteously. + +"Then I'll kill somebody!" he grated, and, clearing the fence, was off +down the road. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE GOOD OF EVIL. + +When Justine wrote her next letter to Jud she purposely neglected to +describe the encounter with 'Gene. For the first time she wilfully +deceived him. In her letter she spoke lightly of the wind's work and +casually mentioned the unimportant fact that one of the neighbors had +generously helped her to make the repairs. She felt that Jud's hatred +for Crawley would have inspired something rash in him. She was +confident that he would throw aside his work, his +chances,--everything,--and rush to her protection. And so she found +consolation in deception. + +It was her duty--to God and to herself--to keep these men apart, to +prevent the addition of fuel to the flame which smoldered silently, +stealthily. There was no doubt in her mind that 'Gene was truly +penitent. She could not trust him, for she despised him too deeply, +but she felt for him a new spirit of fairness. He had served her and +he had served like the whipped, beaten dog who loves the hand of a +cruel master. For days after the episode at the cowshed she did not +see him, and she was glad. + +Every morning, however, she looked forth, fearful that she might see +him at work or behold some result of his labor in the night. One +morning she found a brace of rabbits and a wild turkey at her door. +Mrs. Crane saw them, too, and she was so full of joy that the girl +could not find heart to cast 'Gene Crawley's offering away. And she +herself was hungry. While Mrs. Crane fried the rabbits, the girl sat +back of the stove, out of patience with herself, yet scarcely able to +resist the fragrant aroma that arose from the crackling skillet. Pride +and hunger were struggling and hunger won. + +Jud came and went once more. She wore her best frocks and was +cheeriness itself when he was with her. He brought her a few trifles, +and she loved him as much as if he had given her jewels, and indeed +what pleased her most was the change in his looks. He wore his +tailor-made suit. She did not know that he was still in debt to his +tailor, and he did not tell her. + +On the day of Jud's departure she met 'Gene in the village. Her +husband had made her happy with the renewed promise that she could come +to him in the spring. Justine's heart was singing, her lips were +burning with the warmth of his love. Bundled in shawls and blankets, +she drove slowly from the village through the first vicious attacks of +a blizzard. Her thoughts were of the handsome, well-dressed youth in +the warm railway coach. She forgot the cold, blustery weather and saw +only the bright garden of paradise which his love had created. Her +heart sang with the memory of the past two days and nights spent with +him. + +Just as her old gray horse fumbled his way into the open lane at the +edge of town, she saw a man plodding against the wind, not far ahead +along the roadside. It was 'Gene and he was starting out upon a long +walk to Martin Grimes's place. With a blow or two of the "gad," she +urged the horse past him. The single glance she gave him showed his +face red with the cold and his head bent against the wind. As she +passed he looked up and spoke. "Howdy, Justine." + +"Good evening, 'Gene," she replied, but she could hardly hear her own +voice. + +"It's a nasty drive you got ahead of you," he called. + +"O, I'll soon be home," she responded, and he was left behind. + +For half a mile there rang in her ears the accusing words: "It's a +nasty drive you got ahead of you." What of the walk ahead of him? Now +that she had grown calm she wondered how she could have passed him +without asking him to ride home. He had been kind to her, after all; +he had redeemed himself to some extent in the past few weeks and--he +had not asked her for the ride as she had feared he would. She +recalled his cheery greeting and his half-frozen face and then his +anxiety concerning the discomfort ahead of her. By no sign did he show +a desire to annoy her with his company. She looked back over the road. +In the twilight, far behind, she saw him trudging along, a lonely +figure against the sky. + +"It's a shame to make him walk all the way home. He'll freeze, and I +can just as well take him in as not," she said to herself, and pulled +the horse to a standstill, resolved to wait for him. Then came the +fear that some one might see him riding home with her. The country +would wonder and would gossip. Unsophisticated country girl as she +was, she knew and abhorred gossip. Once a good girl's name is coupled +with that of a man in the country, the whole community shuns her; she +is lost. In the country they never forget and they never investigate. +Turning her face resolutely she whipped up, leaving him far behind. + +While she was stabling her horse, by the light of a lantern, she found +herself, amidst warm thoughts of Jud, reproaching herself for the +unkindness to this man who hated her husband and who had sworn to be +her undoing. She might have given him the ride, she argued against +herself; it was so little to give and he was so cold. The blizzard was +blowing in force by this time, and her conscience smote her fiercely as +she thought of him forging along against its blasting chill. In the +village Jud had purchased several suits of warm underclothes for her +and she had placed the package in the seat beside her. Groceries and +other necessaries were beneath the seat. To her dismay and grief, she +found that the package had been in some manner jolted from the seat and +was doubtless lost on the road, miles back. + +The next morning saw the storm still raging. The night just past had +been one of the most cruel the country had ever known. Her first +thought was of her stock, then of 'Gene Crawley. Had he reached home +safely or had he been frozen out there on the open road? A chill of +fear and remorse seized her and she turned sick at heart. Jud would +not have allowed the man to face such a storm, and if he were frozen no +one would condemn her cruelty more bitterly than tender-hearted Jud. + +She ran to the rear door of her house, from which Grimes's home on the +hill could be seen, a mile away. The gust of wind drove the door open +as she turned the knob. Something rolled against her feet. The lost +bundle lay before her, left there in the night by--it could have been +no other than 'Gene Crawley. It was a sob of honest thankfulness to +the poor wretch she had spurned in the highway that came from her lips +as she lifted the package and closed the door. For many minutes she +stood by the window, clasping the bundle in her arms, looking out into +the bleak morning. A feeling of relief surged up in the multitude of +thoughts, and tears stood in her eyes. Not only had he braved the +blizzard safely, hardily, but he had traveled a mile or more farther +through the freezing night to deliver at her door the package she had +lost from the seat that might have been shared with him. + +"Did ye hear 'bout 'Gene Crawley?" asked Mrs. Crane, later, when +Justine came in from the barn. The old woman was preparing the frugal +breakfast and Justine was seated beside the stove, her half-frozen feet +near the oven. A sickening terror forced a groan from her lips, for +something told her that the news was the worst. His body had been +found! + +"What--what is it?" she whispered. + +"He whupped the daylights out'n Jake Smalley an' Laz Dunbar down to the +tollgate day 'fore yest'day. Mrs. Brown wuz here las' night jest 'fore +you got home, an' she says her man says 'twuz the wust fight that ever +wuz fit in the county." + +Justine was leaning back in her chair, her heart throbbing with relief. + +"Was--was he hurt?" she asked, indefinitely. + +"Who? 'Gene? Not a speck! But that big Smalley wuz unsensibul when +'Gene got off'n him. Doc Pollister says he won't be able to see out'n +them eyes o' his'n fer over a week. Laz lit out an' run like a +whitehead after 'Gene hit him onct. I'm glad he didn't git hurt much, +'cause he's goin' to be babtised down at the crick tomorrer, an' he'd +'a' tuck cold, shore. I tell you, that 'Gene Crawley's a nasty feller. +Constable O'Brien's afeered to serve the warrant on him." + +"What was it all about, Aunt Sue?" + +"O, nothin' much," answered Mrs. Crane, evasively, suddenly busying +herself about the stove. "I never did see sitch a fire! It jest won't +act right. Where'd this wood come from, Jestine?" + +"From the jack-oak grove," said Justine. For a while she was silent, a +new impression forming itself in her brain. Stronger and stronger it +grew until it became almost a conviction. "Tell me what the fight was +about," she went on, breaking in upon Mrs. Crane's chatter. + +"O, I'd ruther--er--I don't know fer shore what it wuz about. +Somethin' Jake said to 'Gene, I reckon. 'Gene fights 'thout any real +cause, y' know." The old woman was clearly embarrassed and eager to +evade the explanation. + +"You do know and you must tell me," exclaimed Justine, now fully +convinced. + +"'Twon't do you no special good, Jestine, an' I wouldn't mind about it, +'f I wuz you." + +"Tell me: was it--did it have anything to do with me?" + +"Didn't amount to nothin'--not a thing," expostulated the other. "You +know how these fool fellers will talk." + +"Did 'Gene Crawley say anything mean about me?" she insisted. + +"No. 'Twuz jest the other way--er--I mean----" + +"Heavens! What did they say? Tell me! What could they say?" + +"I hadn't orter tell you, but I guess it's best you know. Seems like +Jake an' Laz met 'Gene down to the tollgate an' wuz a wonderin' how you +wuz gittin' along this cold spell. Jake, who's a low down feller ef +they ever wuz one, give 'Gene the wink an' says--now, this is how Mrs. +Brown tells it--he says: 'Jud don't git home much, does he?' 'Gene +said he didn't know an' he didn't give a damn--'scuse me, but them's +the words. 'Nen Laz says: 'Now's yer time to cut in, 'Gene. Do what +you said you would. You cain't have a better chanst.' 'Nen Jake +laughed an' said: 'She's all alone up yander an' I reckon she's purty +dern lonesome. Now's yer oppertunity, 'Gene,----' Jest then, Mrs. +Brown says her man says, the fight begin. 'Fore Jake could finish up +sayin' what he started out to say, 'Gene lit into him right an' left. +Down went Jake an' Laz follered him. Jake wuz up fust, an' while he +wuz tryin' to keep 'Gene off, Laz broke fer the door an' got away. But +the way 'Gene did whup that Smalley feller wuz a caution. Mr. Brown +says you could 'a' heerd him beller clean down to the mill." + +"Is that all?" asked Justine, breathlessly. + +"Wuzn't that almost enough? O, yes; 'Gene tole Jake an' everybody else +there 'at ef ever a word wuz said about you ag'in, in any shape er form +that wuzn't jest right, he'd lick the tarnation soul out'n the hull +capoodle, men an' women. He said he meant women when he said women, +an' ef he ever heerd of one of them talkin' about you er repeatin' what +he said there at the tollgate on your weddin' night, he'd jest lay her +over his knee an'----" + +"Were there many people at the tollgate when the fight took place?" +interrupted Justine. She was glowing with excitement. + +"The place wuz full, an' Mr. Brown says he never did see sitch a +scatterment as they wuz when 'Gene sailed into Jake. Jim Hardesty +tried to git under the stove, an' Uncle Sammy Godfrey, old as he is, +jumped clean over the counter an' upsot a half barrel of sugar. +Ever'body run, an' nobody tried to help Jake, 'cept Doc Ramsey's +mother, an' that's 'cause he goes with Liz Ramsey. They do tell that +that's sure to be a match," and then the voluble Mrs. Crane branched +off into other lanes of gossip. + +The next Sunday a whole township saw Eugene Crawley walk into the +little Presbyterian church on the hill and nervously take a seat near +the stove. Mr. Marks, the minister, was reading the first hymn when +'Gene plunged into this strange place, and so great was the sensation +that the reader, having stared blankly with the remainder of the +witnesses, resumed reading on the opposite page and no one was the +wiser. At first there was a certain fear in the hearts of all that he +had come for no other purpose than to report the death of some loved +one. No one dreamed that he had come to attend divine worship. + +'Gene, himself, was astonished by his own temerity. It had taken all +his courage to do it, and he was an humble man as he sat stiffly by the +stove and looked at the upper left-hand corner of the organ. If the +minister had uttered his name suddenly, 'Gene would have swooned. It +was the first time he had been inside the church since a certain +Christmas eve, twenty years before. When Deacon Asbury asked him, +after service, if he intended to come regularly, now that he had begun, +'Gene's reserve vanished, and, transfixing the old gentleman with a +glare, he roared: + +"What is it to you, you old skinflint? You don't own the shebang, do +you? I'll come ef I want to an' you needn't meddle about it either." + +In consequence, the whole community said that his conversion was out of +the question, and that all the pulpits in Indiana could not pull him +out of the rut into which he had fallen. 'Gene, in truth, felt that he +was not wanted in the church, and he went home with the conviction that +the deacon's inquiry was inspired by the hope that such a sinner as he +might not continue to blight the sanctuary with his presence. + +A day or so later the word was carried to the tollgate by Charlie +Spangler that Justine Sherrod was "sick-a-bed" and it "looked as though +she was liable to have lung fever." Dr. Pollister called at her house +and found her really ill. He took her in hand at once, and instructed +Mrs. Crane to see that she remained in bed until he said she could get +up. + +"But who is to take care of the stock?" wailed the sick girl. + +"Mrs. Crane and I will see to the stock, so don't you worry, Justine. +You've got to stay in bed or Jud'll be coming to a funeral purty soon," +observed the doctor, with the best of intentions, but with little tact. +She gasped at the thought that she might die and leave Jud; her illness +had been but a trifling matter to her until the grim old physician so +plainly told her the truth. She realized that she was in danger and +that she wanted Jud to sit by the bedside. + +"Is it so serious, doctor?" she asked, anxiously. + +"Not if you stay in bed. Only a bad cold and some fever, but it has to +be looked after. You've got good lungs or you'd be a good deal wuss." + +Then he went out and told Mrs. Crane to look after her, and said that +he'd ask some one to drop around every day to care for the horses, cows +and hogs, and to chop some wood occasionally. + +As he drove toward the village in his rattling old buggy, he met 'Gene +Crawley in the road. + +"Whoa!" he said to the horse; and that evening 'Gene Crawley was living +up to a promise to "look out fer Justine's stock and to git up some +wood whenever she needed it." + +When Mrs. Crane told Justine that he was to come three times a day +while she was sick, to "look after things," the tired, feverish girl +shook her head and sighed, but offered no protest against the unwelcome +fate. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE FINDING OF CELESTE. + +Jud received several letters from her, telling him that she was ill, +but getting better, and that the neighbors were very kind to her. He +replied that he would come home if she needed him, but she insisted +that it was not necessary. She penned that letter, sitting up in bed. +She wanted him, she hungered for him, she suffered in longing for one +touch of his hand. + +By this time Sherrod had formed many acquaintances and had at last been +persuaded to join an artists' club. The cost was not much, and he +found great pleasure in the meetings. His salary had been increased, +but his expenses grew correspondingly. Try as he would, he could find +no way to curtail the cost of living. Sometimes he looked back and +wondered how he had existed during the first few months in the city. +Once he tried the plan of living as humbly as he had at first, but it +was an utter impossibility. The worst feature was that he could send +Justine but little money, nor could he see his way clear for bringing +her to the city. He was bitter against himself. He loved her; no +other woman tempted him from that devotion. But there seemed to be no +way of making a home for her in Chicago. The honest fellow did not +perceive the fact that selfishness was the weight which drew his +intentions out of balance. + +His companions liked him all the more because he was unswerving in his +resolve to touch no liquor. He went with them to bars and wine rooms, +but he never touched wines, nor did other vices tempt him. Up in his +room at the lodging house hung a picture he had drawn after reading the +story of a man's downfall. He called it "Wine, Women, Woe." + +He had now allowed his friends to believe him unmarried so long that it +was next to impossible to explain. They alluded frequently to the +sweetheart down in the country, and he smiled as if to say: "I don't +mind being teased about her." He made no one his confidant and no one +asked questions. The boys took it for granted that some day he would +marry "the girl down there," and said nothing. He laughed when he +thought of the surprise in store for them some day. This thought +usually took him back to the day at Proctor's Falls when Celeste had +spoken of him and Justine as sweethearts and had given him fifty +dollars with which to buy her a wedding present. The name and face of +the donor had haunted him ever since that day. Her card was in his +pocketbook. Somewhere in this great city she lived and, he was +beginning to know, left other cards in the halls of her friends every +day--ordinary cards; not like this that had made a man's career. But +there seemed to be no chance to tell her the difference. He had not +seen her. + +One of the fellows at the club was Converse, a rich young man with a +liking for art and the will to cultivate a rather mediocre talent. He +took a fancy to the handsome young newspaper man, and invited him to +his home on the South Side. One evening late in March he dined with +Converse and his parents. Douglass Converse was an only child and was +little more than a boy in years. The home in Michigan Avenue was +beautiful and its occupants lived luxuriously. The dinner over, the +two young men lounged in Converse's "den"--a room which astonished and +delighted Jud--smoking and chatting idly. + +"Funny you don't drink, Sherrod," said Converse, quizzically. + +"I took a pledge once, and I expect to keep it." + +"Always?" + +"Always." + +"Pledge to your mother, I suppose?" + +"No; to a girl who--lives down there." + +"Oho, that's the first bit of sentiment I ever heard from you. A +sweetheart, eh?" + +"Well, I can't deny it," said Jud, ashamed of his equivocation. + +"Tell me about her," cried his friend, enthusiastically. + +"There's nothing to tell. I had a letter from her to-day." + +"Then it's still on?" + +"I hope so," answered Jud, smiling mysteriously. + +"You're devilishly uncommunicative. If I had a sweetheart who could +make me live up to a promise like that, I'd be only too glad to sing +her praises to the sky." + +"Fall in love with some good, true girl, old fellow, and see how much +you'll tell the world about it," said Jud, cleverly dodging the point. + +"I am in love and with the best girl in the world, but what good does +it do me? She's not in love with me. Confound the luck, I'm younger +than she is," cried Converse, ruefully. Sherrod laughed and puffed +dreamily at his cigar for a few moments. + +"It's a crime to be young, I presume," he said, as if obliged to reopen +the conversation. Converse was standing at his desk, looking at a +photograph. + +"Don't give up because you are young. You'll outgrow it. I was very +young when--when--I mean, I was younger than you by several years when +I first fell in love," went on Jud confusedly. + +"But, I have no chance, you know," said the other, boyishly. + +"Prefers another?" + +"Don't know; I haven't had the courage to ask. She thinks I'm a nice +boy and such good company. Girls don't say those things about the +fellow they care for seriously. I'd rather be anything than a nice +boy." + +"Is that her photograph?" + +"Yes. Isn't she a dream?" + +The owner of the den passed the portrait to his guest. Converse was +surprised to see him start violently and then pass his hand over his +eyes as if brushing away some form of doubt. + +"This is--this is Miss Wood?" asked Sherrod at last. + +"Do you know her? If you do, you can't wonder that I'm hard hit," +cried the other. + +"I met her once down near my old home. One doesn't forget a face like +hers. So I find her, after all, and the sweetheart of my best friend," +Jud was saying, hazily. + +"Oh, no! Don't put it that way. She'd fall dead if any one suddenly +intimated that such a relationship existed--keel over with surprise. +But have you never seen her more than once?" + +"Just once. She bought the first picture I ever sold." + +"Great Cæsar! Are you the fellow who drew a picture of a waterfall +somewhere and sold it to her for fifty dollars?" Converse was staring +at Jud with eager eyes. + +"I'm the one who imposed upon her," said Jud, lamely. + +"Then, you're the good-looking country boy with the beautiful +sweetheart that Celeste talked so much about. Well, this beats the----" + +"Celeste? Is that her name?" cried Jud, sitting bolt upright. + +"Yes. Her mother is French--she was a countess, by the way. Celeste +has that picture hanging in her den--and her den is a wonder, too--and +she never fails to tell about that little experience down in Indiana. +She'll be crazy to meet you." + +Jud's heart gave a leap. He was bewildered in a tumult of emotions. +The recognition of the portrait, the mysterious coincidence in +names--the one his imagination had given her, and the one she bore; the +thoughts that she remembered him and Justine; that his picture hung in +her den; that she might really be glad to see him. Impossibilities +upon impossibilities! + +"My picture in her den?" he managed to stammer, feeling sure that his +friend could detect an emotion that might require explanation. + +"Sure--most prominent thing in the room. She says the boy who drew it +will be a master some day. The trouble is, she forgot your name. She +says she'd know your face or the girl's anywhere, but the name is gone. +By George, this will please her." + +The girl's! Jud's thoughts flew back to Justine, tenderly, even +resentfully, for why should this careless city maid speak of her as +"the girl"? + +"I'll take you to call, Sherrod. I know she'll be glad to see you, and +I'll surprise her. This is great! Let's see: I'll say you are a +particular friend, but I'll not give up your name. She'd remember it. +I can see her now when she first gazes upon your face. Great!" + +Jud went home that night in a delightful torture of anticipation. +After all these months of waiting and watching, fate--nothing less than +fate--was to bring him to her side with the long unspoken words of +gratitude and joy. What would she be like? How would she look? How +would she be dressed? Not in that familiar gray of his memory, to be +sure, but--but--and so he wondered, as he tossed in his bed that night. +It would be some days before Converse could take him to the home of +Miss Wood, and until then he must be content with imaginings. One +thing worried him. Just before he left his friend, Douglass had asked +with an unhidden concern in his voice: + +"You're sure you've got a sweetheart down there?" + +Jud's heart stopped beating for a second. Something within him urged +him to cry out that he had no sweetheart, but a loving, loyal wife. +But the old spirit of timidity conquered. + +"I am sure I had one," he replied, and his heart throbbed with relief. + +"And you're the kind of a fellow who'll stick to her, too. I know you +well enough to say that," said the other warmly, as if some odd +misgiving had passed from his mind. + +"Thanks for the good opinion," said Jud, a great lump clogging his +throat. + +And when at last he slept, his dreams were of the old days and Justine, +and how lonely he was without her--how lonely she must be down there in +the cold, dark night--sick, perhaps, and longing for him. In his dream +they were at Proctor's Falls, then in Chicago, then she was beside him +in the bed. His arm, moved by dream love, stretched out and drew her +close to his breast and there were no scores of miles between his +tranquil heart and that of the girl he worshiped. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +"MY TRUEST COMRADE." + +He looked forward to the meeting with Miss Wood as if it were to be one +of the epochs in his life. An odd fear took possession of +him--cowardice, inspired by the knowledge that he was not of her world. +Once again he felt like the crude, ignorant country boy, and he +trembled at the thought of meeting this beautiful "society girl" in her +own realm. In the old days he had interested her as if he were a +curiosity; now he was to see her on different grounds. He was to +submit to an inspection which he knew he was not yet able to endure. +As the night drew near for the visit to her home, as arranged by the +glowing Converse, self-consciousness overpowered him. What would she +think of him? + +Converse rushed in one day and told him that he had just seen Miss Wood +on the street--in fact had ridden several blocks in her carriage--and +that a strange coincidence was to be related. She was driving to the +Art Institute with his drawing of Proctor's Falls. She had, through +some influence of her own, obtained permission to hang it for a few +weeks. No sooner had his visitor departed than Jud, throwing aside his +work, dashed from the building and off to the Institute. He hoped that +he might see her there; at least, he might again look upon that humble +sketch as it hung among the aristocratic lordlings of art. She was not +there, but he managed to find his picture. A man was placing it in a +rather conspicuous place on the wall. + +"New picture, eh?" Jud asked, assuming indifference. + +"Yes. It beats the devil how the management lets cranks, just because +they're pretty, come in here and hang chromos. Look at that. Wouldn't +that jar you? Lead pencil and crayon, and as cheap as mud. Next thing +we know they'll be hanging patent medicine ads in here." + +Jud walked away. He never forgot that half minute of impersonal +criticism. As he was hurrying from the building he saw a carriage +drive swiftly from the curb below. For one brief instant he had a +glimpse of a face inside--one that he had never forgotten. + +She drove toward State Street, in the direction of the big stores to +the north. Hoping for another glimpse of her, he followed. From afar +he saw her enter her carriage and whirl away toward the river and her +North Side home. Then he went back to work and to the letter he was +writing to Justine. It teemed with references to the fairy of +Proctor's Falls. + +The next evening but one found him ready for the call, but very +nervous. He felt that he was taking a step into the world in which he +might not be fit to hold a place; a world which would stare curiously +at him as a gifted plebeian, and shut its doors upon him when the +novelty had died. + +He dressed himself laboriously for the event. It was to be his +introduction into select society, and he must not let that be the +occasion for the faintest twinkle of mirth in the eyes of those to the +manner born. At the Athletic Club he met Converse, who looked him over +admiringly. If Converse had purposed exhibiting him to Miss Wood as a +matter of entertainment for one night, the plan was not feasible. +Instead of the careless artist or the unsophisticated youth, there +appeared a straight, strong figure, a clean-cut face, keen and +handsome. Indeed, Converse found himself envying Jud's dignity of +manner. He did not know that the apathy of the person who rode beside +him was the composure of extreme dread. Almost before Jud was aware of +it, he was inside the Wood drawing-room, awaiting the appearance of its +mistress. Through the maze he could barely remember passing an august +personage who opened the doors to them and who said that Miss Wood was +expecting Mr. Converse. Then he found himself sitting in a gorgeous +apartment, blankly listening to the undertones of his friend, and +responding with mechanical calmness, so that Converse marveled again at +his conventional bearing. That young man was delighted with the +surprise he had in store for the girl he loved. + +She came into the room suddenly and unexpectedly, and the two men +arose--one with a laugh, the other with serious, questioning eyes. +Miss Wood gave Converse her hand and turned to Jud with the smile which +precedes an introduction. He detected the instantaneous gleam of +inquiry, strengthened presently to perplexity and wonder. + +"Let me present----" began Converse, but she restrained him quickly. +There was now an intentness in her gaze that brought the blood to Jud's +face. + +"I know your face--don't speak, Douglass. Will you let me guess--let +me think? Pardon my extraordinary behavior, but I am so sure I know +you. I have seen you often, very often, I know. You are--oh, dear, +how embarrassing! Yes, yes, I know now!" Her eyes fairly danced with +the joy of discovery and she impulsively came to him with hand +outstretched. "You are the artist--the boy who drew the picture!" + +"Yes, you have guessed," said Jud. + +"I knew your face. I am so glad to see you. And you are living out my +prophecy, too. Where is the country boy now? What did I tell you?" +She stood before him, her eyes looking squarely up into his face, +bright with smiles. + +"I am trying to merit the recommendation you gave me, but I am afraid +I'll fail," said he. + +"Fail?" cried Converse. "You've made a sensational hit, Sherrod, and +you owe it to this prophet in petticoats. She made you. If it hadn't +been for her, you'd be down there in the woods plowing hay and digging +cucumbers and nobody'd know you were on earth. If I were you I'd jump +up and crack my heels together, and yell like a cannibal. That's how +happy I'd feel." + +The boy's excitement was contagious, and Jud began to lose some of his +embarrassment. + +"I am happy, and I'd like to shout my gratification to Miss Wood," he +said. "She fairly drove me to some sort of action. Without her +encouragement I'm sure nothing could have induced me to try my luck +here." + +"Oh, you would have discovered yourself some day. Genius like yours +would sooner or later become a master and compelled you to obey. I +merely poked you until you awoke from the dreams and began to see +things as they are. And are you really living in Chicago?" + +Then she compelled him to tell her all about himself, his work, and his +plans. She was so deeply interested that his heart glowed. As he sat +and talked with her, forgetting that Converse was present, he felt +himself gradually lulled into security, like that of a traveler who has +crept along the edge of a precipice for miles and has reached a haven +from which he can look back and laugh at the terrors. + +For an hour they conversed, seriously, merrily about his experiences in +the city. He was a true gentleman, therefore modest; the pronoun "I" +was used as sparingly as possible, and there was an absence of egotism +that charmed his new-found friend. He was beginning to realize the +success he had achieved in the city, but one look into his honest gray +eyes proved that he was no braggadocio. She saw that she could safely +compliment him on his progress; she compared him as he sat before her +with the country boy she had first known, when she told him that she +knew then that he was a great diamond that needed little polishing. +The magnificence of his surroundings, the beauty of his hostess, the +subtle influence of splendor, softened his first rough feelings of +apprehension into the mellow confidence of ease and urbanity. It was +all so strange and sweet that he lived it over and over again in the +days that followed, before he could convince himself that he--poor Jud +Sherrod--had not really been in fairyland. + +There was no questioning the sincerity of her admiration. Converse sat +back and jealously watched the light in her eyes, and listened to the +new fervor in her voice as she talked to the man whose demeanor plainly +indicated that he considered her his guiding star in the journey from +obscurity to light. + +"O, yes," she cried, suddenly, a taunting gleam coming to her eyes, "I +have forgotten something quite important. What has become of the +beautiful sweetheart? I never saw a prettier girl. Is she still down +there?" + +For a moment the spell was broken. He caught his breath. He had +forgotten Justine--his own Justine! His composure fled, his eyes +wavered before the laughing eyes of his inquisitor. His lips parted +with the impulse to blurt out that she was his wife, when he remembered +Converse. He had led Converse with the others to consider him +unmarried, unintentionally and innocently he knew down in his heart. +His helpless looks from one to the other showed such unmistakable signs +of embarrassment that Miss Wood hastily sought to relieve the +situation, fearing she had committed a painful blunder. + +"I beg your pardon. It is not my affair and I----" she began, but +Converse, obtuse and rejoicing in Jud's discomfiture, interrupted. + +"O, she's still there, all right, all right. Look at his blushes! I +wish I had the luck he has." + +"Douglass Converse, I'll send you to the library if you don't keep +quiet. I hope you will pardon my natural curiosity, Mr. Sherrod," she +said, gravely. + +Sherrod caught his breath again and battled for an instant with +something in his throat, then allowed a deeper flush to follow the +first--the flush that comes with criminal bravery. + +"I don't mind telling you about her. She still lives down at my old +home and often writes to me about you, wondering whether I have seen +you," he said in a hard voice, fully resolved to deceive for the time +being. + +"Don't forget to let me know what she says when you tell her you have +really seen me. I am so interested in her. What is her name?" + +Without a moment's hesitation he took the plunge. + +"Justine Van." + +"What an odd name. Yet she was an odd looking girl. Her beauty was so +different, so fresh, so pure. I hope the gay life of the city is not +turning you away from that jewel down there. O, I know what the city +does for young men who come from the country. It usually spoils them. +They forget the best, the truest part of their lives, and they let new +faces drive out the old and loving ones." + +"I--I don't think you quite understand the situation," floundered Jud, +moved to contrition. Had she not interrupted at that instant, he would +have told the truth. + +"It is easier to understand than you think," she said. "You are up +here, she is there. You are a new man with new ideas, new +possibilities, new hopes; she is the same sweet, innocent country girl, +no farther advanced than she was the day you left her. You have gone +forward, she stands still. You are Dudley Sherrod, the most promising +of young artists, with popularity ready to leap at you; she is the +common lass of the fields, honest and true, unknown except to the +people who live nearby. You are up here, thrown with bright men, and +perhaps with clever women, while she is back there with the farmers and +the farmers' wives. You have every opportunity to be somebody; she +will always be nobody unless she is lifted from that mire of +inactivity. Don't you see how well I understand the situation? You +have every advantage, she has none. Yes, Mr. Sherrod, you are living +out the promise I made for you months ago, and you are winning only +what is yours by right. But you must not forget that there are few +such jewels here as the one you left behind when you sought treasures +in the world." + +"That's the neatest lecture I ever heard, Celeste," cried Converse, +admiringly. "You musn't forget to go back and polish up the jewel, +Sherrod. That's what she means, in few words." + +Jud feared that both were laughing at him and resented it. + +"I am sure Miss Wood has said nothing that is untrue concerning Justine +Van. She is the noblest girl I ever knew," he said, deliberately. +"She is far above me in every way. She has more reason to stoop to me +than I to her. She is my best friend." + +"Friend?" echoed Miss Wood. + +"My truest comrade," said he. The perspiration started on his forehead. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +ONE HEART FOR TWO. + +The passing of two months saw Sherrod a constant, even a privileged, +visitor at the Wood home. In that time he visited the cottage in +Indiana but once, and on that occasion glowingly related to Justine the +story of his first visit to the goddess and of her subsequent interest +in his affairs. + +Just now he was beginning to realize the consequences of his deception. +Affairs had reached the stage where it seemed next to impossible to +acknowledge his marriage to Justine, and he certainly could not tell +that honest, trusting wife of his unfortunate duplicity. He loved her +too deeply to inflict the wound that such a confession would make, and +yet he could see that delay would only increase the violence of the +shock should she learn of his mistake, innocently conceived, but +unwisely fostered. + +Justine also had a secret. When he was ready to take her to the city, +she would confess to him that 'Gene Crawley was to farm the place for +her that spring and summer, working it on shares. He was to use his +own team, for her horses had died of influenza. So little did Jud know +of the old home place now that he did not recognize Crawley's horses in +the stable, nor could he see that a man's hand had performed wonders in +the field. He was thinking of Chicago and the miserable broil in which +his affairs were involved. Justine induced Crawley to remain away from +the farm during Jud's stay, an undertaking which required some force of +persuasion. Crawley wanted to make peace with Jud and to assure him of +his good faith; he begged her to let him apologize to his old adversary +and ask him to shake hands and say quits. But she knew that Jud would +not understand and that there could be no forgiveness. Never in her +life had she loved Jud as in these days when she was disobeying and +deceiving him. While she knew that 'Gene was no longer the brute and +the blackguard of old, she saw that her husband could look upon him +only as he had known him. + +The farm was bound to do well this year and she was happy to give Jud +that assurance. Once he caught her looking wistfully at him when he +was telling of expected triumphs in the city. He knew that she was +hoping he would say that she could soon go with him to the city, +leaving the farm to care for itself. But how could he take her there +now? He groaned with the shame of it. + +A week of sleepless nights followed this visit to Clay township. The +young artist's work on the paper suffered and his fellows advised him +to take a rest. He had had no vacation since taking the position many +months before. But it was not overwork that told on him; it was the +lying awake of nights striving to find a way out of his predicament +without losing the respect of all these friends, especially that of one +whom he admired so deeply. He had permitted her to believe him free +and had behaved as a free man behaves to such an extent that +explanations were impossible. To tell her the truth concerning the man +she had gone to the theatre with, had lunched with in downtown +restaurants, had entertained in her own home almost to the exclusion of +others, could bring but one end--the scorn and detestation he deserved. + +Poor Converse had given up the conflict in despair, but, good fellow +that he was, held no grudge against Sherrod, for whom he had genuine +admiration. They were lunching together a week or two after his trying +trip to Clay township, and Jud was so moody that Converse took note of +it. As they sat at the table, Converse mentally observed that his +friend was growing handsomer every day; the moods improved him. After +a long silence, the artist said: + +"I had an offer to-day to do some book illustrating for a publishing +house." + +"Good! That's the stuff! Book pictures will be your line, old man. +Will you accept?" + +"I'm afraid I'd be a failure," said Jud, gloomily. + +"Is that what's the matter with you?" + +"What do you mean?" demanded the other, quickly. + +"O, your grumpiness. You've been all out of sorts for a couple of +weeks, you know--or maybe you don't. But you have, anyway. I never +saw a fellow change as you have in--in, well, ten days." + +"I don't understand why you think so. Everything is all right with +me," said Jud, shortly. + +"Maybe you're off your feed a bit." + +"Never was better in my life." + +"Well, it's darned queer. You act like a man whose liver is turning +mongrel. Why, you ought to be satisfied. You've made a big hit here +and you'll soon be getting the biggest salary of any newspaper artist +in town. You have been elected to the Athletic Club, you have been +invited to lecture before some of the clubs, you've got plenty of coin +to throw at birds, so why don't you rub those wrinkles from between +your eyes?" + +Jud laughed rather mirthlessly, without taking his eyes from the coffee +which he was stirring. + +"Wrinkles don't come because you want them, but because you don't." + +"Well, old chap, I'm sure something is worrying you. Can I help you in +any way?" went on his generous friend. + +"Thanks, Doug; you can help me to another lump of sugar." + +"The devil take you," cried Converse, handing him the bowl. "Say," he +said, a moment later, watching Jud as he calmly buttered his bread, "I +believe there's a woman in it." + +"A woman!" exclaimed the other, almost dropping his knife. For an +instant his gray eyes seemed to look through the other's brain. "What +are you driving at, Doug?" he went on, controlling himself. + +"I'm next to you at last, old man. You're in a deuce of a boat. +You're in love." + +"And if I were, I can't see why I should have to hire a boat." + +"It's all right to talk that way, but you are in the boat, just the +same. Maybe it's a raft, though, and maybe you're shipwrecked. You +are one of these unlucky dogs who find out that they love the second +girl after having promised to marry the first one. The size of it is, +you've about forgotten the little Indiana girl you were telling me +about." For a whole minute Jud stared at him, white to the lips. + +"You have no right to talk like that, Converse," he said, hoarsely. + +"I beg pardon, Jud; I didn't mean to offend. Honestly now, I was +talking to hear myself talk," cried the other. + +"I have not promised to marry any one in Indiana," said Jud, slowly, +cruelly, deliberately. + +"Then, you are free as air?" asked Converse, a chill in his heart. + +"Or as foul," said Sherrod. + +"Sherrod, is this girl down in the country in love with you?" + +"You mean the one I spoke of?" asked Jud, his head swimming. + +"Yes, the one you spoke of." + +"'My dear fellow, the girl I spoke of has been married for three years. +I am very sure she loves her husband." + +"Thank God for that, Jud. I was afraid you were forgetting her, just +as Celeste said you might. It wouldn't be right to break her heart, +you know." + +"Excellent advice," said Jud. + +"Have you seen Celeste since Sunday? I saw you together at St. James'." + +Sherrod had already dropped four lumps into his coffee and was now +adding another. + +"I saw her last night. Why?" + +"'Gad, you're pretty regular, aren't you?" said Converse, bitter in +spite of himself. + +"It strikes me you are talking rather queerly." + +"I presume I am. You'll forgive me, though, when I remind you that I +care a great deal for her. It rather hurts to have her forget me +entirely," said the poor fellow. + +"Come, come, old man, you're losing your nerve," cried Jud, his eye +brightening. "I'm sure you can win if you'll only have heart." + +"Win! You know better than that. If you don't know it, I'll tell you +something. She's desperately in love with another man at this very +minute." + +"What?" ejaculated Jud. "Miss Wood in love with--with--another man? +Why--why--I've not seen her pay any especial attention to any one." + +"You must be blind, then. There's only one man in the world she cares +to see any more, or cares to have near her." + +"Good heavens, no! I never suspected--by George, Doug, surely you're +dreaming!" He could not understand a certain jealousy that came to him. + +"Can't you see that she's in love with you--you?" cried the boy. + +The two looked at each other intently for a moment, despair in the eyes +of one, incredulous joy in those of the other. Sherrod could feel the +blood rushing swifter and swifter to his heart, to his throat, to his +face, to his eyes. Something red and hot floated across his vision, +turning the whole world a ruddy hue; something strong and light seemed +striving to lift his whole being in the air. + +"Well, why don't you say you don't believe it?" said a voice in front +of him. + +"I--I can't say a word. You paralyze me. My heavens, Converse, I +never dreamed of such a thing and I know you're mistaken. Why, it +cannot be--it shouldn't be," he almost gasped. + +"Bah! What's the use? Women don't ask permission to fall in love, do +they? They just fall, that's all. I'm not saying it is absolutely +true, but I'm making a pretty fine guess. She is more interested in +you than in any man she has ever known. I know that much." + +"Interested, perhaps, yes, but that is not love. Hang it, Douglass, +she cares for you." + +"No, she doesn't, Jud; no, she doesn't. No such luck, I don't appeal +to her at all and I never can. I step down and out; you've a clear +field so far as I am concerned. If I can't have her, I'd rather see +her go to you than to any one in the world. You're good and honest and +a man." + +"Impossible! Impossible! It can't be that. You don't understand the +real situation----" floundered Jud. + +"I understand it as well as you do, my boy,--better, I think. I know +Celeste Wood and that's all there is to it. You've won something that +a hundred men have fought for and lost. You're a lucky dog." + +Jud Sherrod went to his rooms that night, after a dizzy evening at the +theatre and the club, his head whirling with the intoxication coming +from a mixture of rejoicing, regret, shame, apprehension, +incredulity,--a hundred irrepressible thoughts. What if Converse's +supposition should be true? Then, what a beast he had been! This +night he slept not a wink--in fact, he did not go to bed. He even +thought of suicide as he paced the floor or buried his face in the +cushions on his couch. + +With it all before him there suddenly came uppermost the thought of his +base treatment of Justine. Here he was earning a handsome salary, +living comfortably and cozily, spending his money in the entertainment +of another woman, leading that other woman on to what now seemed +certain unhappiness, and all the time neglecting the trusting, loving +wife even to the point of cruelty. Down there in the bleak, uncouth +country she was struggling on, loving him, trusting him, believing in +him, and he was keeping himself afar off, looking on with selfish, +indifferent eyes. All this grew worse and worse as he realized that of +all women he loved none but Justine--loved and revered her deeper and +deeper with every hour and day. + +As the dawn came, in the eagerness of repentance, he seized pen and +paper and wrote two letters, one to Justine, one to Celeste. To +Justine he poured forth his confession and urged her to save him, to +live with him, to go with him to another city where he could begin +anew. To Celeste he admitted his shameful behavior, pleaded for +forgiveness, and asked her to forget that he had ever come into her +sweet, pure life. But he never sent the letters. + +His courage failed him. With the temporizing weakness of the guilty, +he destroyed the bits of honesty his heart had inspired, and planned +anew, feverishly, sincerely, almost buoyantly. He would see Celeste +personally the next day or night, tell her all and face her scorn as +best he could. He would see her once more--once more--and +then,--Justine forever! + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +THE FALL OF THE WEAK. + +He had the firmest intention to lay bare before Miss Wood the miserable +facts, without the faintest hope for pardon. He knew this frank, pure +girl so well by this time that her reception of the humiliating truth +was as plain as day to him. The esteem in which she had held him would +vanish with the first recovery from the shock his words would bring; +all the honors he had won through her instrumentality would turn to the +most despised of memories; all that she had done for him would be +regretted; the dear companionship, the cheer, the encouragement, all +would go. + +He had not intended a wrong in the beginning. In his wretched brain +there was the persistent cry: "You did not think! You did not know +what you were doing! There was no desire to gain by this deception. +You did not intend to be dishonest!" + +It had begun with the sly desire to surprise the "boys" some happy day +when he could show to them the wife who was his pride. Almost +unconsciously he had gone deeper into the mire of circumstances from +which he could not now flounder except with sullied honor. Without a +thought as to the seriousness of the situation, he had allowed this +innocent friend to compromise herself by an almost constant association +with him. He had intended telling her the secret when first he met +her, exacting a promise to keep it from Converse for a little while, at +least. She was to be his confidante, his and Justine's, for he meant +to tell her that the brave little woman of Proctor's Falls cherished +her as ideal, unknown but loved. + +Celeste had unconsciously baffled all these good intentions, building a +wall about the truth so strong that it could not break through. It +went on, this sweet comradeship, until he--a married man--was looked +upon by outsiders as the man to whom this unattainable girl had given +her love. Converse's blunt assertion had given him the first inkling +of the consequences the intimacy had engendered. Worse than all else, +he now realized how dear Celeste Wood had become to him. On one hand, +Justine was his ideal; on the other hand, Celeste was an ideal. It +seemed to him as he rode in a hansom to the North Side the next night +after his talk with Converse that he could not bear to lose one more +than the other. Both were made for him to adore. + +He faltered as he mounted the steps at the Wood home. At the top he +turned and looked out over the lake. A wild desire to rush down and +throw himself over the sea-wall into the dark, slashing waters came +upon him. To go inside meant the end of happiness so far as Celeste +Wood was concerned; to turn away would mean the end of his honor and +his conscience. + +As he stood debating she opened the door and he was trapped. A +dazzling light shone in upon his darkness and he staggered forward +deeper into its warm radiance, conscious only that a deadly chill had +been cast off and that he was in the glow of her smile. + +In the dimly lighted hall, red and seductive from the swinging lantern +with its antique trappings and scarlet eyes, he removed his overcoat +and threw it, with his hat, upon the Flemish chair. Slim, sweet and +graceful, she looked up into his somber face. There was a quizzical +smile on hers. And now, for the first time, he saw more than +friendship in those violet eyes. Plain, too plain, was the glint that +brightened the dark pupils; too plain were the roses in her cheeks. + +"I know you appear very distinguished and important when you wear that +expression, but I'd much rather see you smile," she said, gaily. + +"Smiles are too expensive, sometimes," he said, without knowing what he +uttered. + +"I'll buy them at your own price," she laughed, but a shade of anxiety +crossed her face. + +"No; I'll trade my dull smiles for your bright ones. It will be enough +to cheat, without robbing you," he said, pulling himself together and +allowing a dead smile to come to life. + +Her den was the most seductive of rooms. It was beautiful, quaint, +indolent. Before he dropped into his accustomed chair his muscles were +drawn taut; an instant later he was aware of a long sigh and conscious +of relaxation. His brain cleared, his courage revived, and he was +framing the sentences which were to lead up to that final confession. +He had an eager desire to have it over with and to hurry away from her +wrath. + +She, on the other hand, was all excitement over the report that he was +at last to do book-illustrating. She brought a tingling to his heart +by her undisguised gladness. Her face was so bright with joy, so alive +with interest, that he could but defer striking the blow. + +"But perhaps you'd rather talk about some other subject than yourself," +she said, finally. "I want to tell you about my brother. He is in +Egypt now and he is wild over everything there:--perfectly crazy. A +letter came to-day and he gives a wonderful account of a trip to an old +town up the Nile. Those boys must be fairly awakening the mummies if +we are to judge by his letters. He has set me wild to go to Egypt. +Shall I read his letter to you?" + +Patiently he listened to an entertaining letter from the boy who was +seeing the world with a party of friends. As she read, he watched her +face. It was a face to idolize, a face to covet, a face for the memory +to subsist upon forever. Stealing into his troubled heart came the +realization that this girl was enthroned there beside that other loved +one, both for him to worship and both to worship him. There grew into +shape, positive and strong, the delightful certainty that these two +women could love each other and that in so loving could share his +honest love, for now he believed that his love was big enough to +envelope them both. As she read to him this dream mastered and +enslaved him and his heart expanded, letting in the love of this second +petitioner, dividing the kingdom fairly that she might reign with the +one already there. He convinced himself that he loved two women +honestly, purely and with his whole soul. He loved unreservedly and +equally Justine, his wife, and Celeste, his friend. + +"You're not listening at all," she cried, dropping the letter suddenly. +"What are you thinking of?" + +"Of--of the very strangest of things," he stammered. + +"But not of the letter? I am so sorry I bored you with----" + +"Stop! Please, stop! Pardon me, I--I--for God's sake, let me think!" +he burst out, starting to his feet. He strode to the window and, with +his back to her, looked out into the night. The action, sudden and +inexplicable, brought flashes of red and white to her face, and then a +steady glow--the flush not of indignation, but of joy. A heart throb +sent the blood tingling through her veins and a smile flew to her +startled face. Her eyes melted with a sweet, tender joy and her whole +being was suffused with the radiance of understanding. Woman's +intuition told her all, and, with clasped hands, she looked upon the +motionless figure. One hand went out toward him as if to lead him into +the light of her love. He loved her! + +She went to the piano and gently, with a soft smile on her lips, began +to play "La Paloma," the daintiest of waltzes, for her heart was +dancing. At last he turned slowly and looked upon the player. Her +back was toward him. His eyes took in the picture--the white shoulders +and neck, the pretty head, the dark hair and the red rose. All his +good resolutions, all his remorse, all his honor fled with the first +glance. The dullness left his eyes and in its stead came the flaring +spark of passion. He strode impulsively to her side and when she +glanced up in confusion, her eyes found the refuge they had sought--the +awakened love in his. + +[Illustration: "HIS EYES TOOK IN THE PICTURE."] + +"O, Jud!" she murmured, faint and happy. + +"Celeste!" he whispered, hoarsely, his face almost in her hair. "I +worship you! I adore you!" + +He crushed her in his arms and she smiled through her tears. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +AT SEA. + +Even at that moment he thought of the wrong he was doing Justine, +forgetting that he was blasting the life of the other one. And again, +when he asked Celeste to be his wife, he thought of the cruel deception +he was practicing upon Justine. Not till afterwards did he fully +realize that he had deceived Celeste a thousand fold more grossly than +Justine--for Justine was his lawful wife, Celeste his victim. + +And yet that night he gained her promise to be his wife, calmly, +remorselessly leading her to the sacrifice of love. It was enough for +the moment that he loved her and that she loved him. As he hurried +homeward with her kisses tingling on his lips, he whispered joyously to +himself that he loved them both and that he could live for them +both--worshiping one no more than the other. And he slept that night +with a smile of happiness on his lips. + +The day for the wedding was set, and it was not until then that his +eyes were opened to the wrong he was doing Celeste. She could not be +his wife. All the marriage vows in the land could not bind her to him +in law. For the first time he realized that reality. But to his +rescue came the assurance that he loved her and that she was his in the +holy sight of God, if not in the wretched laws of man. He saw the +wrong of it all, but he made his own law and he made his wrong a right. +As he made his arrangements for the marriage he was afraid that +something like conscience might overthrow him before his desires could +be realized. + +Blissfully ignorant and deeply in love, she filled him with joy by +naming a day just one month from that on which he told her that he +loved her. Acceding again to his wishes, for his eager will, urged on +by fear, carried her with it, she agreed to a very quiet wedding. + +The power of his love--the love which shrank and trembled with the fear +that it might be thwarted--carried everything before it, sweeping honor +and dishonor into a heap which he called the mountain of happiness, and +he resolved that it should be strong and enduring. + +A week before the wedding day he went to Justine, utterly +conscienceless, glorying in his love for her, rejoicing in his capacity +to share it with another. Happy were the day and night he spent with +her. She gave him the fullness of a love long restrained, long +pent-up. She had not seen him in more than three months. All the +unhappiness, all the joylessness, all the lonesomeness were swept away +by the return of this handsome boy, her husband, her Jud. + +It must be confessed that she felt some uneasiness lest he meet 'Gene +Crawley on the place and lest the long averted catastrophe might occur. +She felt guilty in that she was deceiving Jud in regard to 'Gene. That +was her greatest sin! But Crawley went to the village on that day. He +had seen Jud enter the gate the evening before while he was doing the +work about the barn, and had slunk back to his lodging place in Martin +Grimes' barn. An ugly hatred came into the soul Justine had tempered +until it was gentler than one could have supposed 'Gene Crawley's soul +could be. The little farm looked fairly prosperous. Jud did not know +that the season had turned unproductive and that Justine had been +forced to observe the utmost frugality in order to make both ends meet. + +And so he basked in her love and then went away, loving her more deeply +than ever. He told her of his hopes and his desires and of his +struggles to go ahead. Some time, he was sure, he could take her to +the city and they could be happy forever. + +"Poor Jud," she said, with tears in her eyes. "You are so lonesome, so +unhappy! I wish I could be with you. But we are so awfully, awfully +poor, aren't we?" + +"Cruelly poor, dear, is better. You haven't had a new dress in a year, +and look at these clothes of mine." + +He was wearing once more the wretched garments in which he was married! +Down at the tollgate Jim Hardesty said to the crowd the day after his +departure for Chicago: + +"He's made a fizzle uv it, boys. Gol-dinged, ef I c'n make it out. +'Peared as though he wuz bound to make it go up yander an' I'd 'a' bet +my last chaw tebaccer 'at he'd 'a' got to be president er somethin' two +year' ago. But he's fell down somehow. I never did see sitch a wreck +as him. He don't look 's if he had money 'nough to git a good squar' +meal. No wonder he ain't been to see her. It's too dern' fer to walk." + +A week afterwards Justine received a letter from Jud. With pale face +and crushed heart she read and re-read it. It brought grief and joy, +terror and gladness, distress and pride. In her solitude she wept +piteously, but whether with joy or sadness she could not have told. + +"And now I must tell you of the great good luck that has befallen me. +It means that poor Jud Sherrod is to have the greatest opportunity that +ever came to a man. I am going to Europe, across the ocean, dearest. +Can you imagine such a thing? Think of me going to Europe, think of me +sailing across the sea. I'll believe it when I find that I am not +really dreaming. Truly, it is too wonderful to be true. How I wish I +could take you with me. But think of the wonderful things I'll have to +tell you when I come back. I can tell you of Paris, London, Rome and +all the places we have talked and read about so often together. Am I +not fortunate to have such a friend as the one who is to give me this +unheard of chance? I must tell you that I don't think I deserve it at +all. Some day my benefactor will learn that kindness can be wasted and +that barrenness sometimes follows the best of sowing. This friend, of +whom I shall write you more fully when I have obtained consent, is so +deeply interested in me and my future that the art schools in Europe +are to be made accessible to me--poverty-stricken me--because of that +interest. There is so much to be gained by a brief tour of Europe and +by a short stay in the big art schools that my benefactor says it would +be criminal for me to be deprived of the chance because I have no +money. We are to go together and we are to stay several months, +possibly six. I am to have the best of instruction and am to have the +additional lessons acquired only by travel. When I come back to this +country I shall be ready to startle the world. We sail next week and I +don't know just where we are to go after first reaching England. Of +course, I shall write to you every day, dearest, and I shall think of +you every moment. It is for you that I am building all my future. +When I am rich and famous, we will go to Europe together, you and I. I +am so rushed now for time, getting ready and everything, that I cannot +come to see you before I go, but you must pray for me and you must love +me more than ever. At the end of this week I give up my place on the +paper, and when I come back I expect to open a studio of my own. The +only thing I hate about the affair is that I must leave you, but it +won't be so hard for you to bear, will it, dear? You know it is for my +own and your good." + +When all the misery of losing him for months, when all the dread of +losing him forever, perhaps, in that voyage across the awful sea, had +been lost in the joy over _his_ good fortune, Justine gloried. Though +her voice trembled and grew faint and her eyes glistened as she read +the news to Mrs. Crane and 'Gene, it was from pride and joy. How proud +she was of him! + +A week later Dudley Sherrod and wife sailed from New York. As the huge +ship left the dock, Celeste, clasping his arm and looking up into his +face, somber with thoughts of the future, exclaimed: + +"We are at sea! We are at sea!" + +"Yes," he said, slowly. "We are at sea." + + * * * * * + +"I see in a Chicago paper that a feller named Dudley Sherrod wuz +married t'other day," remarked Postmaster Hardesty to Parson Marks +while the latter was waiting for his mail at the tollgate a few days +later. "Cur'os, how derned big this world is, ain't it, parson?" + +"Oh, Chicago is a world in itself," said the parson. + +"Kinder startled me when I seen that name," Jim went on, pausing in his +perusal of a postal card directed to Martin Grimes. "By ginger, +Martin's been buyin' hogs up in Grant township--I mean--er--I sh'd say +that this is a derned big world," he stammered, guiltily dropping the +card behind the counter. "I reckon there's a hunderd Sherrods in +Chicago, though." + +"Oh, I daresay you'd find three or four Dudley Sherrods there if you +looked through the directory." + +"Our Jud has jist gone to the old country, Harve Crose tells me." + +"Is it possible?" + +"Goin' to take some drawin' lessons, I believe." + +"I am very glad to hear that he has such a remarkable opportunity. But +I was under the impression that he had little or no money." Mr. Marks +was now deeply interested. + +"Harve said somethin' about a friend payin' all the expenses because he +took a likin' to Jud." + +"And what provision has he made for Justine?" + +"Well, now you're askin' somethin' I cain't answer. Harve's such a +derned careless fool he didn't ast anythin' about that part of it." + +Later in the afternoon Mr. Marks drove back to the tollgate and asked +Hardesty if he had kept the paper containing the notice of the wedding +in Chicago. He could not account for the feeling that inspired this +act on his part. Something indefinable had formed itself in his brain +and he could not rest until he had settled it within himself. + +Few Chicago papers found their way into this section of Indiana. Clay +township was peculiarly isolated. Its people were lowly, and +comfortable in the indifference of the lowly to the progress of the +world aside from its politics, its wars and its markets. Farm papers, +family story papers and the _Glenville Weekly Tomahawk_ provided the +reading for these busy, homely people. Jim Hardesty "took" a Chicago +paper, but he was usually too busy whittling and telling stories to +read much more than the headlines. + +"Dinged if I know what I done with it, parson," said Jim, scratching +his head thoughtfully. "'Pears to me I wrapped some bacon up in it fer +Mis' Trimmer yesterday. Anythin' pertickler you wanted to see about +the weddin'?" + +"Do you remember what it said about the wedding?" + +"Lemme see, what did it say? Said the groom wuz from northern +Indiana--up about Fort Wayne, I think. The girl's name wuz--hold on a +minute--what wuz her name? Wood--that's it. Swell people, I guess. +This feller wuz an artist, too. Say, that's kinder queer, ain't it?" + +"A coincidence--a rare coincidence, I must say." + +"Course, it couldn't 'a' been our Jud," said Jim, conclusively. "He's +already married." + +"Oh, no, no! Of course not, Mr. Hardesty. He is devoted to Justine +and--and----" + +"An' a man 'at's got any sense ain't goin' to load hisself down with +two when it's so derned hard to git rid of one," grinned Jim, referring +to his own connubial condition. + +"And bigamy is a very serious crime. I wonder if any one else in the +neighborhood has noticed the similarity of names?" + +"I ain't heerd no one mention it, Mr. Marks. By ginger, you ain't got +no--er--suspicions, have ye?" asked Jim, suddenly acute. Mr. Marks +stammered confusedly and assured him that no such thought had entered +his head. + +"Would you mind giving me Dudley's Chicago address?" he asked, at last, +that same indefinable something struggling for recognition. + +"He's half way to Europe by this time," explained Jim. + +"I feel that it would be wise to secure a letter from Jud himself in +case rumor confuses him with this other man. It would be just to him +and to Justine, Mr. Hardesty. If you'll give me his address I'll write +to him and we can have his own word for it in case people get to +talking." + +"Then you _are_ afraid people will think it's Jud?" demanded Jim. + +"You cannot tell what people might think and say," said the parson, +sagely. "And, by the way, did Mrs. Hardesty see that notice in the +paper?" + +"Naw! She's too busy readin' that continued story in the _Wife's Own +Magazine_. Thunder! I wouldn't even hint to her that it might be Jud! +She's jest the woman to swear it wuz him anyhow, an' she'd peddle it +over the country quicker'n scat. But, course, it cain't be Jud, so +what's the use worryin' about it? This is a thunderin' big world, as I +said before, Mr. Marks, an' they do say that up in Indianapolis there +is sixty-four fellers named James Hardesty. Gosh, I hope my wife never +gits it into her head that I've got sixty-four other wives, jist +because the name's the same. She'd never git tired askin' me about +that trip I took to Indianapolis six year' ago with the rest o' the +G.A.R. boys from Glenville." + +Nevertheless, Mr. Marks wrote to Jud Sherrod, delicately referring to +the strange similarity in names and to the embarrassment he might +suffer if the community came to regard him as identical with the +Chicago bridegroom. The letter was nothing less than a deliberate +command for Dudley Sherrod to say "guilty" or "not guilty." + +Weeks afterwards, from across the sea, came a reply from Jud in all the +cold dignity of a conscience in defense. He closed with these words: + +"_I have but one wife--the one whom God and the law has given me. You +will greatly oblige me, Mr. Marks, by informing any inquiring person in +your community that Justine is my wife and that I am not the Sherrod +who was married in Chicago. Thank you for your interest in Justine and +me._" + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +'GENE CRAWLEY'S SERMON. + +"'Gene, 'tain't none o' my business, understan', but 'pears to me you +ain't doin' a very sensible thing in hirin' out to Jestine Sherrod like +this. She'd oughter have some one else down there 'tendin' to the +place. You ain't the feller, take it jest how you please. She's all +alone, 'cept ole Mis' Crane, an' folks is boun' to talk, dang 'em. I +don't think it's jest right fer you to be there." + +"There ain't nothin' wrong in it, Martin. There ain't a thing. Do you +think there is?" + +"W--e--ll, no, not that, 'zackly, but it gives people a chanst to _say_ +there's somethin' wrong," said Mr. Grimes, shifting his feet +uncomfortably. The two men were standing in the farmer's barnyard +about a fortnight after it became generally known in the community that +Jud had gone to Europe. "Y'see, ever'body reecollects that nasty thing +you said down to the tollgate the night o' the weddin'. 'Tain't human +natur' to fergit sich a brag as that wuz. What a goshamighty fool you +wuz to talk like----" + +"Oh, I know I wuz, I know it. Don't be a throwin' it up to me, Martin. +I wish I'd never said it. I wish I'd died while I wuz sayin' it so's I +could 'a' gone right straight to hell to pay fer it. I wuz a crazy +man, Martin, that's what I wuz. Ever'body knows I didn't mean it, +don't they?" + +"W--e--ll, mos' ever'body knows you couldn't kerry out yer boast, no +matter ef you meant it er not. But, you c'n see fer yerself 'at your +workin' over on her place ain't jest the thing, with all the talk 'at +went on a couple year ago. Like's not ever'thing's all proper an' they +ain't no real harm in it, but----" + +"Look here, Martin Grimes, do you mean to insinyate that it ain't +proper? 'Cause ef you do, somethin's goin' to drap an' drap all-fired +hard," exclaimed 'Gene, his brow darkening. + +"Don't be so techy, 'Gene. I ain't insinyated a blame thing; cain't +you see I'm tryin' to lay the hull case afore you clearly? 'Tain't no +use beatin' roun' the bush, nuther. She's boun' to be compermised." + +Crawley stared long and silently at a herd of cattle on the distant +hillside. + +"Martin," he said, at last, "that girl's made a different man of me. I +ain't the same ornery cuss I wuz a couple of year ago. Anybody c'n see +that. I ain't teched a mouthful of whisky fer purty nigh a year. +Seems to me I don't keer a damn to swear--I mean I don't keer to swear +any more. That one slipped out jest because talkin' to you like this +kind o' takes me back to where I used to be. I go to church purty +reg'lar, don't I? Well, it's all her. She's made a different man of +me, I tell you, an' I wouldn't do her no wrong if the hull world +depended on it. She's the best woman that ever lived, that's what she +is. An' she keers more fer Jud Sherrod's little finger than fer all +the balance of the world put together. There ain't no honester girl in +Clay township, an' darn me, if ever I hear anybody say anything mean +ag'in her, I'll break his neck. I'm helpin' her over on the place, an' +she's payin' me wages, jest like she'd pay any hand, an' I don't know +whose business it is but her'n an' mine." + +"I know all that, 'Gene, but people don't----" + +"Who in thunder is the people? A lot of old women who belong to +church, an' go to sociables jest to run one 'nother down, an' all the +time there ain't one-tenth of 'em that ain't jealous of the women they +think's goin' wrong. They're so derned selfish an' evil-minded that +they cain't even imagine another woman doin' somethin' that ain't right +without feelin' jealous as blazes an' gittin' dissatisfied with +ever'thing around 'em. You cain't tell me nothin' about these old +scarecrows that keep a sign hangin' out all the time--'virtue is its +own reward.' Say, Martin, you don't suppose that I'm the only hired +hand workin' around these parts, do you?" snarled 'Gene, malevolently. + +"No, course not, but--what you mean, 'Gene?" + +"I'm not the only man that's workin' on a farm where there's a woman, +am I?" grated 'Gene. + +"Lookee here, 'Gene, 'splain yerself. That don't sound very well," +exclaimed Martin, turning a shade paler and glancing uneasily toward +his own house. + +"There ain't nothin' to explain, but it's somethin' to think about, +Martin. You c'n tell that to all the old women you see, too, an' mebby +they won't do so much thinkin' about Justine Van. That's all. If I'd +waited fer any of these other women 'round here to do me a good turn, +I'd be worse than I ever wuz. 'Tain't in 'em, Martin; all they c'n do +is to cackle an' look around to see if they got wings sproutin' on +theirselves. They don't think of nobody else, unless they think bad. +Justine ain't that sort, I want to tell you. Here I wuz, her enemy, +an' no friend of her husband's. I'd done a hull lot o' mean things to +her an' him. But did she hold it up ag'in me when the chanst come for +her to do some good fer me? No, sir, she didn't. She tole me that I +had the makin' of a man in me, an' then she tuck holt of me an' give me +a new start. She said I wuz a beast an' a drunkard an' a coward, an' a +hull lot o' things, but she said I could be a good man if I'd try. So +I tried, an' I hadn't no idee it wuz so easy. She done it an' she +don't keer no more fer me than she does fer that spotted calf of your'n +over yander. Now, I want to tell you somethin', Martin. She needs me +down there on the place an' I'm goin' to stay there till she tells me +to quit. Then I'm goin' to quit like a man. It don't make no +difference what I said two er three year ago, either, 'cause I'm not +the same man I wuz then. If Clay township don't like the way I'm +doin', let 'em say so an' be done with it. Then we'll settle some +scores." + +Grimes shuffled his feet frequently and expectorated nervously without +regard to direction or consequences during this unusually long speech. +Mrs. Grimes was recognized as one of the most ravenous gossips in the +neighborhood, and her husband knew it. Yet he was too much in dread of +Crawley's prowess to take up the cudgels in her defense. He had also +suspected, years before, that she was in love with one of his "hired +men"; hence his uneasiness under 'Gene's implications. + +"You better not talk too much, 'Gene," he said at last. "I'm yer +friend, but I cain't stave off the hull township fer you. Ef it gits +out that you're making sich bold talk an' braggin'----" + +"Braggin'! Who's braggin'? I mean ever' word I said, an' a heap sight +more, too. You jest tell 'em what I said an' let 'em come to me. But +if any of 'em goes to Justine with their sneakin' tales an' their +cussed lies, I'll not stop to see whether it's a man er a woman. I'll +wrap 'em up in a knot an' chuck 'em out into the middle of the lane." + +"Now, that wouldn't be a wise thing to do, don't you see?" said Grimes, +growing more and more uncomfortable. At this point it may be announced +that Mr. Grimes had been deputized by his wife to convince 'Gene of the +error of his way and of the wrong he was doing Justine. "You'd have +the constables down here in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail." + +"Old Bill Higgins an' Randy Dixon? They wouldn't try to arrest me if I +wuz tied hand an' foot an' chloroformed into the bargain. But, say, +there ain't no use talkin' about this thing. I want the folks to know +that I'm goin' to stick to Justine an' help her out as long as I can. +I'm doin' it honest an' I'm gittin' paid fer it like anybody else. +Martin, I don't want to have 'em say anything ag'in her. She's as good +as gold an' we all oughter be proud of her. Jud's in hard luck, I +reckon. Leastwise he looked it last time he wuz here. Mebby he'll git +on his feet over there in Europe, an' then he c'n do the right thing by +her. But I'll tell you, Martin, we all want to stick to her now. +She's all broke up an' I c'n see she's discouraged. She wouldn't let +on fer the world, allus bright an' happy, but old Mrs. Crane told me +t'other day that she'd ketched her cryin' more'n onct. That +gosh-darned little farm of her'n ain't payin' a thing, an' I want to +tell you she needs sympathy 'nstead of hard words." + +"They ain't a soul ever said anything ag'in her, 'Gene," broke in the +other. "But they're apt to ef it goes on. But go ahead; you know +best, 'Gene, you know best." + +"I don't know best, either. That's the trouble. I c'n talk to you an' +sweat about it, but I don't know what to do. I'm awful worried about +it. Of course, if any responsible person ever said anything wrong she +could sue him in the courts, somehow er other, but she'd hate to do +that," said 'Gene, reflectively. Plainly, he saw the girl's position +better than his loyalty would allow him to admit. Martin started +violently at the word "sue" and was from that moment silenced. He +lived in terror of a lawsuit and its dangers. + +"D'you suppose she'd go to court?" + +"She wouldn't want to, but me--me an'--me an' Jud could coax her to do +it," said 'Gene, shrewd in an instant. "I don't reckon folks remember +about the courts, do they?" + +Martin pulled his nerves together sufficiently to send a stream of +tobacco juice into a knot-hole in the fence fifteen feet away, and said: + +"Well, they'd oughter remember, by ginger!" + +After a few minutes of rather energetic chewing for him (Martin rarely +chewed tobacco vigorously because of the extravagance), he calmly +reopened the conversation. + +"When are you liable to git through plantin' over there?" + +"In a couple of days, if it keeps dry." + +"I'll let Bud Jones go over an' help you ef you need him." + +"Oh, I c'n git along, I guess." + +"I wuz thinkin' a little of sendin' Bud over this week with a couple +bushels of potaters fer Jestine. Never seed sich potaters in my born +days." + +"I think she's got a plenty, Martin." + +"You don't say so. Well, how's she off fer turnips?" + +"She could use a few bushels of turnips an' some oats an' little corn, +I reckon. Dern it, I believe she's purty nigh out of hay, too," said +'Gene, soberly. + +"Tell her I'll drive over this week with some," said Martin, wiping his +brow. + +"She'll pay you fer the stuff when you take it over." + +"I didn't 'low to ask fer pay." + +"Well, she ain't askin' fer favors, either." + +Martin stared down the road for some minutes. + +"But I got more'n I c'n use," he said. + +"If that's the case you c'n send it over an' she'll be mighty thankful. +An' say, I guess I c'n use Bud to-morrow an' next day." + +"We're purty busy an' I don't see how----" + +"Don't send him, then. You said you'd thought of it, you know." + +"I'll send him, though, come to think of it. You say pore little +Jestine 'pears to be discouraged?" + +"Kinder so, I should say. Poor little girl, she's----" Here he leaned +over and uttered an almost inaudible bit of information. Martin's eyes +bulged and he gasped. + +"The devil you say! Well, I'll be danged!" + +'Gene started down the lane, his jaws set and hard for the moment. +Suddenly he turned, and, with the first chuckle of mirth Grimes had +heard from him that day, said: + +"Don't fergit to send over them potaters, too, Martin." + +Then he trudged rapidly away, leaving Mr. Grimes in a state bordering +on collapse. Between the startling bit of information 'Gene had given +him, the hint at lawsuits, the insinuation against other women in the +locality and his own astounding liberality, he was the most thoroughly +confused farmer in Clay township. He went to the house and talked it +all over with his wife, and the words of advice that he gave to her +savored very much of the mandatory. He dreamed that night that some +one sued him for damages and got judgment for $96,000. The next day he +sent a wagonload of supplies to Justine, after which he told his wife +she could not have the new "calico" he had been promising for three +months. + +Eugene Crawley's position on the old Van farm was queer. He was a +self-appointed slave, as it were. True, he was paid wages and he was +given his meals in the little kitchen where Justine and Mrs. Crane ate. +That privilege was the one recompense that made slavery a charm. In +his undisciplined heart there had grown a feeling of reverence for the +wife of Jud Sherrod that displaced the evil love of the long ago. His +love, in these days, was pure and hopeless. He thought only of lifting +the burden that another's love had left upon her shoulders. The 'Gene +Crawley of old was no more. In his place was a simple, devoted toiler, +a lowly worshipper. + +Against her will he had attached himself to the farm, and at last he +had become indispensable. The fear with which she had once regarded +him was gone with the wonderful alteration in his nature. Innocent, +unsuspecting child that she was, she thought that his love had died and +that it could never be awakened. She did not know the depths of his +silent adoration. + +At nightfall each day he trudged back to Martin Grimes's barn to sleep, +and in the morning, before sunrise, he was at his post of duty again. +So thoughtful was he of her welfare that he never lingered after the +night's chores were done, realizing that the least indiscretion would +give rise to neighborhood gossip. Their conversations were short, but +always free and friendly. They met only as necessity obliged and +nothing could have been more decorous than their conduct. Yet 'Gene +went to his little room in the barn that night with a troubled heart. + +"Sure they cain't talk about her," he thought. "She's an angel, if +there ever wuz one." + +Months before he had said aloud to himself, off in the field, as he +looked toward the house in which his fair employer lived: + +"I wouldn't harm her by word er thought fer all heaven. She's honest +an' I'm goin' to be. She's Jud's wife an' she loves him, an' I ain't +got no right to even think of lovin' her. 'Gene Crawley, you gotter +give up. You gotter be honest." + +And he was honest. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +THE PURE AND THE POOR. + +For four months Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Sherrod wandered over Europe. They +saw Paris, Venice, Rome, Amsterdam, Brussels, Vienna and quaint German +towns, unknown to most American tourists. Celeste had visited the Old +World many times before, but it was all new to her now; she was +traveling with the man she loved. To Sherrod, the wonders of the land +he had never hoped to see were a source of the most intense delight. +His artistic, romantic nature leaped under the spur of awakening +forces; his love for the beautiful, the glorious, the quaint and the +curious was satiated daily. He lived in the perfect glory of the +present, doggedly disregarding the past and braving everything that the +future might bring forth, good or evil. + +Basking in the love of this fair girl, adoring her and being adored, he +lost all vestige of conscience. The shadow that hung over him on the +wedding day drifted away into forgetfulness, and he saw nothing but the +pleasures of life. A dread that the law would surely find him out and +snatch him from the love and respect of two women, devastating the +lives of both, was dissipated by degrees until scarcely a line across +his brow was left to mark its course within. + +Once a week he sent loving letters home to Justine, letters full of +tenderness and affection. Often a mist of tears came to his eyes as he +thought of her, wishing that she, too, might be with them on this happy +tour. At times he saw his selfishness and was ashamed, but the +brightness of life with Celeste overcame these touches of remorse and +he sank back into the soft cushions of bliss and--forgot. Letters from +Justine were rare, and he kissed them passionately and read them over +and over again--before he destroyed them. Here and there the Sherrods +wandered, the rich and loving wife's purse the provider, dawdling and +idling in dreamland. + +At last she confessed to him that she was tired of the Continent and +was eager to get back to Chicago, where she could have him all to +herself in the home over which he was to be master. So deep in luxury +and forgetfulness was he, that future pain seemed impossible, and he +did not even oppose her wish. But as the steamer drew away from the +dock he grasped the rail and for an instant his body turned numb. + +"Back to America!" he gasped, realizing at last. "Oh! how long can I +hold it off? What will be the end of it?" + +In the meantime, Clay township was in a turmoil of gossip. Poor +Justine was discussed from one prayer service to another, and with each +succeeding session of the gossips the stories were magnified. Quite +unconscious of the storm brewing about her innocent head, she struggled +painfully on with her discouraging work, the dullness of life +brightened once a week or so by letters from across the sea. Every +night she prayed for the safe return of that husband-lover, and there +was no hour that did not find her picturing the delights of meeting +after these months of separation. + +She heard nothing of the wedding that Parson Marks and Jim Hardesty +discussed months before. The few Glenville and Clay township people +who saw the account in the papers may have regarded the coincidence in +names remarkable, but attached no other significance to the affair. +Certainly no one mentioned it to Justine. Jud's letter swept the +doubts and fears from the mind of Mr. Marks and the incident was +forgotten. + +From her face there began to disappear the glorious colors of health; +the bright eyes were deep with a new wistfulness. But her strong young +figure never drooped. + +At last 'Gene Crawley became aware of the gossip. He saw the sly +looks, the indirect snubs, the significant pauses in conversation, when +he or she drew nigh. For weeks he controlled his wrath, grinding his +teeth in secret over the injustice of it all. In the end, after days +of indecision, he told himself that but one course was left open to +him. He must leave the country. + +But there was left the task of telling Justine of his resolve. Would +she despise him for deserting her in the hour of greatest need? He +could not tell her that scandal was driving him away for her sake. To +let her know that the neighbors had accused her of being false to Jud +would break her heart. To run away surreptitiously would be the act of +a coward; to tell her the real reason would be cruel; to leave +designedly for a better offer of wages would be base under the +circumstances. In the last few weeks she had depended on him for +everything; he had become indispensable. + +While he was striving to evolve some skillful means of breaking the +news to her gently, the populace of Clay township made ready to take +the matter in its own hands. Parson Marks, to whom nearly every member +of his congregation had come with stories of misconduct at the little +place down the lane, finally felt obliged to call a general meeting to +consider the wisest plan of action in the premises. The word was +passed among the leading members of the church, and it was understood +that a secret meeting would be held in the pastor's home on a certain +Thursday night. Justine had a few true friends and believers, but they +were not asked to be present; no word was permitted to reach the ears +of either offender. + +That Thursday night came, and with it also came to 'Gene's troubled +mind the sudden inspiration to go before the young minister and lay +bare his intentions, asking his help and advice. + +The "neighbors" timed their arrival at the parson's home so +thoughtfully that darkness had spread over the land long before the +first arrival drew up and hitched his team in the barn-lot. By +half-past eight o'clock there were twenty immaculate souls in the +parlor and sitting room of the parsonage, and Mrs. Ed. Harbaugh, the +president of the Woman's Home Missionary Society, was called upon to +state the object of the meeting, Mr. Marks observing that he preferred +to sit as a court of appeals. A stiffer-backed gathering of human +beings never assembled under the banner of the Almighty, ready to do +battle for Christianity. There was saintly courage in every face and +there was determination in every glance of apprehension that greeted +the creaking of a door or the nicker of a horse. When Jim Hardesty, +while trying to hitch his horse to a fence post in a dark corner of the +barn-lot, exploded as follows: "Whoa, damn ye!" everybody shivered, and +Mrs. Bolton said she wondered "how 'Gene Crawley heerd about the +meetin'." Mr. Hardesty never could understand why his entrance a few +minutes later was the signal for such joy. + +"It's our bounding duty," said Mrs. Harbaugh in conclusion, "to set +right down as a committee an' directate a letter to Jud Sherrod, +tellin' him jest how things is bein' kerried on over to his house. +That pore feller is off yander in Europe or Paris some'ere's, doin' his +best to git ahead in the world, an' his wife is back here cuttin' up as +if old Satan hisself had got into her." + +"But how air we to git a letter to Jed ef we don't know where he's at?" +demanded Mr. Hardesty. "I been workin' fer the gover'ment long enough +to know that you cain't git a letter to a feller 'nless it's properly +addressed. Now, who knows where he's to be found?" The speaker looked +very wise and important. The truth is, he was inclined to favor +Justine, but his wife's stand in the controversy made it imperative for +him to express other views. + +"I sh'd think a postal card would catch him at Europe," volunteered +Ezekiel Craig. Parson Marks stared at the speaker. + +"But Europe is not a city, Mr. Craig," he said. + +"No, of course not," exclaimed Mr. Hardesty, contemptuously. "It's an +umpire." + +"Well, I didn't know," murmured Mr. Craig, and his voice was not heard +again until he said good-night to the door post when he left the +parson's house. + +"Mebby somebody could find out his address from Justine," said Mrs. +Grimes. "Needn't let on what it's fer, y' see, an' thataway we +couldn't take no chances on wastin' a stamp." + +"I kin ast her," said Mrs. Bolton. "I'm goin' over to her house +to-morry to see if I c'n borry a couple pounds o' sugar. Dear me, I +never did have sitch luck with watermillon preserves as I'm havin' this +year. Silas, I leave it to you if I ain't sp'iled more----" + +"We ain't yere to talk about preserves, Liz, so shet up," interrupted +her better half sourly. + +"That's right, Si. I wish to gosh I could shet mine up like that," +said Mr. Hardesty, enviously. + +"Why, Jim Hardesty, you ain't sayin' that I talk too much," cried his +wife, indignantly. + +"You don't say 'leven words a day, my dove," said he, arising and +bowing so low that his suspenders creaked threateningly. Then he +winked broadly at the assemblage, and the women tittered, whereupon +Mrs. Hardesty glared at them greenly. + +"We are getting away from the subject, please," came the mild reproof +of the pastor. + +"How fer had we got?" demanded Deacon Bossman. + +"We hain't got anywheres yet," said Mrs. Harbaugh. "That's what we're +talkin' about, deacon." + +"Hain't found out where Jud's at yet?" + +"Have you been asleep?" demanded the chairman. + +"I'd like to know how in thund--I mean, how in tarnation--er--how in +the world I could go to sleep with all you women talkin' to onct about +dresses an' so forth----" + +"We ain't mentioned dress to-night," snorted the chairman. "You better +'tend to----" + +"Come, come; we must get along with the business," remonstrated the +pastor. + +"I want to make a motion," said the postmaster, rising impressively. +When he had secured the attention of the crowd he walked solemnly to +the door, opened it and expectorated upon the porch. Then, wiping his +lips with the back of his hairy hand, he returned to his position in +the circle. + +"I move you, Mr. Cheerman--er, Mrs. Cheerman, beggin' your excuse--that +we app'int a committee to see how much truth they is in these reports +afore we go to puttin' our foot--er, properly speakin'--our feets in it +too da--too extry deep." There was a dead silence and Jim looked +serenely up at the right-hand corner of the parson's clothes-press, +expecting the wrath of the virtuous to burst about him at any moment. + +"I don't think we need any more committee than our own eyes, Jim," said +his wife, feeling her way. + +"Well, then, if that's the case, I move you we app'int a committee of +hearts to work j'intly with the eyes," said James, soberly, still +looking at the closet. + +"I make an amendment," said Mrs. Bolton sharply. "Mrs. Cheerman, I +amend that we app'int a committee of three to go to Justine an' tell +her this thing's got to stop an'----" + +"It seems to me----" began Mr. Marks. + +"I think it'd be best if we'd write to her an' sign no name," said Mrs. +Grimes. + +"That's a good idy," mused Mr. Bolton. + +"Mrs. Cheerman, I withdraw my motion," said Hardesty. "I move you now +that we app'int a committee composed of Mr. Bolton, Mr. Craig an' Mr. +Grimes to go an' notify 'Gene Crawley 'nstead of her." + +A shiver swept through the room. The men gasped and the perspiration +started on their foreheads. Their wives moved a bit closer to them and +looked appealingly toward the chairman. Postmaster Hardesty had +considerable difficulty in suppressing a chuckle. + +"What's the use seein' 'Gene?" stammered Martin Grimes. "He ain't to +be reasoned with 't all, Jim, an' you know it." + +"Well, you might try it," insisted Jim. + +"I think Justine's the most likely to be sensible," said Bolton. + +"Course, she'd cry an' take on turrible, while ef you went to 'Gene he +might do somethin' else, so I guess it'd be best to have a committee go +over an' tell her fust. She could break it gentle-like to 'Gene, y' +see," agreed Hardesty, reflectively. "'N'en he could do jest as he +liked." + +"Come to think of it," said Grimes, "I reckon it's best to write to +Jud." + +"Then I'll move you, Mrs. Chairman, that the secretary address a letter +to Mr. Sherrod, setting forth the facts as they exist," said Pastor +Marks. + +"I can't do it alone," cried meek little Miss Cunningham, the school +teacher. + +"We c'n all help," said Grimes, mightily relieved. "Git out yer +writin' paper." + +The secretary nervously prepared to write the letter. Her pen +scratched and every eye was glued on the holder as it wobbled +vigorously above her knuckles. + +"I've got this far: 'Judley Sherrod, Esq., Dear Sir,'" she said. "What +next?" + +"His name is Dudley," corrected the parson. + +"Oh," murmured the secretary, blushing. Then she wrote it all over +again on another piece of paper. + +"You might say something like this," said Mr. Marks, thoughtfully. +"'It is with pain that we feel called upon to acquaint you with the +state of affairs in your home.' Have you written that?" + +"'Fate of astairs in your home,'" read Miss Cunningham. Mr. Hardesty +was looking over her shoulder, and at times his unconscious +chin-whiskers tickled her rosy ear. + +"'We are sure that you will forgive the nature of this missive, and yet +we know that it will hurt you far beyond the pain of the most cruel +sword thrust. You, to whom we all extend the deepest love and respect, +must prepare to receive a shock, but you must bear it with Christian +fortitude.' Do I go too fast, Miss Cunningham?" + +"'You, who toom'--I mean--'to whom, etc.'" wrote the secretary. + +"Sounds like we're trying to tell him there's a death in the family," +said Mr. Hardesty. + +"'Your wife has been left so long to the mercies of the----' No; +please change that, Miss Secretary. 'Your wife has not conducted +herself as a good woman should. She has forgotten her wifely +honor----'" + +"Good Lord!" came a hoarse voice from the hallway. The assemblage +turned and saw Eugene Crawley. Jim Hardesty afterwards admitted that +he did not "breathe fer so long that his lungs seemed air-tight when he +finally did try to git wind into 'em." + +"What's goin' on here?" grated the unwelcome visitor, after a long +pause. He was half-stunned by what he had heard, having entered the +hall just as the letter was begun. So intent were the others that no +one heard his knock or his entrance. + +"Why--why," stammered Mr. Marks, "we were--ahem--writing to----" + +"I know what you were doin', so you needn't lie about it, parson. +You're writin' a pack o' lies to Jud Sherrod, a pack o' lies about her. +That's what you're doin'. Who's the one that started this dirty piece +of business? How'd you come to meet here this way? Why don't you +answer?" snarled Crawley, stepping inside the door. + +"We jest happened to drop in an'----" murmured Mr. Bolton from behind +his wife. + +"You're a liar, Sam Bolton. You're all liars. You come here to ruin +that poor girl forever, that's all there is to it. I come here, +parson, to ask you to help me befriend her. An' what do I find? +You--you, a minister of the gospel--helpin' these consarned cats an' +dogs here to jest naturally claw that girl to pieces. You git up an' +preach about charity an' love an' all that stuff in your pulpit, an' I +set down in front an' believe you're an honest man an' mean what you +say. That's what you preach; but if God really let such pups as you +'tend to His business down here He'd be a fool, an' a sensible man had +better steer clear of Him. The size of the matter is, you meal-mouthed +sneak, God made a mistake when you was born. He thought you'd be a +fish-worm an' he give you a fish-worm's soul. What are you goin' to do +with that letter?" + +[Illustration: "'YOU'RE A LIAR--YOU'RE ALL LIARS.'"] + +"Eugene, will you let me speak earnestly to you for a few moments?" +asked the young parson. He felt, uncomfortably, that he might be +blushing. + +"You'll have to speak earnest an' quick, too," returned the other. +"Don't talk to me about my soul, parson, an' all that stuff. I c'n +take care of my soul a heap sight better'n you kin, I've jest found +out. So, cut it short. What you got to say fer yourself, not fer me?" + +"It is time you and she were made to understand the penalty your awful +sin will bring down upon----" + +"Stop! You c'n say what you please about me, but if you breathe a +sound ag'in her I'll fergit that you're a preacher. It won't do no +good to plead with you people, but all I c'n say is that she don't +deserve a single harsh word from any one. She's the best woman I ever +knowed, that's what she is. She's been one of your best church people +an' she's as pure as an angel. That's more'n you c'n say fer another +man er woman in your congregation. Don't look mad, Mrs. Grimes. I +mean what I say. You are the meanest lot of people that God ever let +live, if you keep on tryin' to make her out bad. This thing's gone fer +enough. I know I'm not a good man--I ain't fit to live in the same +world with her--but she's been my friend after all the ugly things I +done to her an' Jud. I come here to-night, parson, to tell you I wuz +goin' to leave her place an' to ask you to tell her why. Now, I'm +goin' to stay an' I'm goin' to make you an' all the rest of these folks +go over an' tell her you're her friends." + +"I'll do nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Harbaugh. + +"Yes, you will, Mis' Harbaugh, an' you'll do it to-morrow," said 'Gene, +his black eyes narrowing and gleaming at her. + +"Mr. Crawley, you must certainly listen to reason," began the preacher, +softly. + +"Not until you listen to it yerself," was the answer. "You are +committin' an outrage an' you've _got_ to stop it right now." He +strode across to where Miss Cunningham sat. Pointing his finger at the +partially written letter he said: "Tear that letter up! Tear it up!" + +The paper crackled and fluttered to the floor from the secretary's +nerveless fingers. He picked it up himself and scattered the pieces +about the table. + +"Now, how many of you are goin' to kerry this thing any further?" he +demanded, wheeling about and glaring at the speechless crowd. There +was not a sign of response. "How many of you are goin' to treat her +fair?" he went on. + +"We intend to treat her fair," said Mr. Marks. + +"Do you call it fair to write a letter like that?" + +"'Gene's right, by ginger," cried Jim Hardesty. "Shake, 'Gene. I've +been ag'in this thing all along." + +"I never did approve of it," said Mr. Bolton. + +"Nobody could ever make me believe 'at Justine ever done anything +wrong," said Mr. Bossman, emphatically. "You know how I objected to +this thing, Maria." + +The women looked nervous and ready to weep. + +"Mebby we've been too hasty," said Mrs. Harbaugh, in a whining tone. + +"I'm goin' over to Justine's to-morry, pore girl," said Mrs. Bolton. + +"I'm goin' home now," said 'Gene, "but I want to say jest this: I'll +see that she gits fair play. Now, you mark that, every one of you. +An' as fer you, parson, I want to say, bad as I am, that I'm too good a +man to go inside your church ag'in." + +He went out, slamming the door behind him. After a long pause James +Hardesty exploded: + +"Who in thunder called this meetin', anyhow?" + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +THE SOCIABLE. + +On the day following the meeting at the home of Parson Marks, Justine +was surprised to receive visits from half a dozen of the leaders in the +church society. Mrs. Harbaugh came first, followed soon afterwards by +Mrs. Grimes. The "chairman" was graciousness itself. Crawley, from a +field nearby, saw the women drive up, one by one, and a grim smile +settled on his face. + +"I'd like to be in the front room just to hear what the old hens say to +Justine," he mused; "I'll bet she's the surprisedest girl in the world. +I hope they don't say anything 'bout that meetin', an' what I done to +'em last night. It 'u'd hurt her terrible." + +Properly subdued, Mrs. Harbaugh did a surprising thing--and no one was +more surprised than she. On the way over to Justine's place the +ex-chairman had been racking her brain for a motive to explain the +visit--the first she ever had accorded Justine. Mrs. Harbaugh, it may +be said, regarded herself as "quality," and was particular about her +associates. + +Mrs. Sherrod was very uncomfortable and so was Mrs. Harbaugh during the +first five minutes of that visit. They sat in the cold, dark little +"front room," facing one another stiffly, uttering disjointed +commonplaces. Before Mrs. Harbaugh realized what she was doing, she +committed herself to an undertaking that astonished the whole +neighborhood. + +"Justine, I've been thinking of giving a sociable an' an oyster supper +next week, an' I want you to be sure to come," she said in desperation, +after a long and trying silence. + +Now, the truth is, such a thought had not entered Mrs. Harbaugh's head +until that very moment. She felt called upon to do something to prove +her friendship for the girl, but, now that she had done it, she would +have given worlds to recall the impulse and the words. In her narrow +heart she believed the worst of Justine. How could she reconcile her +conscience to this sudden change of front? She had been the most +bitter of denunciators--in fact, she herself had suggested the meeting +of the night before. And now she was deliberately planning a +"sociable" for the sole purpose of asking the girl to be one of her +guests! Mrs. Harbaugh was beginning to wonder if her mind was affected. + +Justine was speechless for a moment or two. She was not sure that she +had heard aright. + +"A sociable, Mrs. Harbaugh?" she asked. + +"And an oyster supper," added the other, desperately. + +"I--I should like to come, but--I am not sure that I can," said +Justine, doubtfully. She was thinking of her scant wardrobe. + +"Oh, you must come. I won't take 'no' for an answer," cried Mrs. +Harbaugh, who hoped in her heart that Justine would not come. For the +first time she bethought herself of the expense, then of her husband's +wrath when he heard of the project. Next to the Grimeses, the +Harbaughs were the "closest" people in the township. + +While Justine was trying to frame excuses for not attending the party, +Mrs. Harbaugh was just as earnestly explaining that "bad weather," +"sickness," "unforeseen acts of Providence," and a lot of other +emergencies might necessitate a postponement, but, in case nothing +happened to prevent, the "sociable" would take place on "Friday night a +week." Mrs. Grimes came in while the discussion was still on. When +she was told of Mrs. Harbaugh's plan to entertain the "best people in +the neighborhood," Mrs. Grimes made a remark that promptly decided the +giving of the party. + +"My sakes, Mrs. Harbaugh, how c'n you afford it? We couldn't, I know, +an' I guess Martin's 'bout as well off as the next one 'round about +here," she said superciliously. + +Mrs. Harbaugh bridled. "Oh, I guess we c'n afford it an' more, too, +Mrs. Grimes, if we'd a mind to. I know that most people 'bout here is +mighty hard up, but who's to give these pleasant little entertainments +unless it's them that's in good circumstances? That's the way Mr. +Harbaugh an' me feels about it." + +Mrs. Harbaugh was hopelessly committed to the "sociable." Other women +came in and they soon were in a great flutter of excitement over the +coming event. Justine was amazed by this exhibition of interest and +friendship on the part of her rich neighbors. She did not understand +the significant smiles that went among the visitors as each new arrival +swelled the crowd in the "front room." The look of surprise that +marked each face on entering the room was succeeded almost instantly by +one best described as "sheepish." Not a woman there but felt herself +ashamed to be caught in the act of obeying 'Gene Crawley's injunction +so speedily. + +Bewildered, Justine promised to attend the "sociable." The meaning +expressed in the sly glances, smirks, and poorly concealed sniffs +escaped her notice. She did not know what every one else knew +perfectly well--that Mrs. Harbaugh's party was a peace-offering--and a +sacrifice that almost drew blood from the calloused heart of the +"chairman." + +That evening she told 'Gene of the visitation from the "high an' +mighty" (as Crawley termed the Clay "aristocrats"), and she made no +effort to conceal her distress. + +"How can I go to the party, 'Gene?" she said in despair. "I have +nothing to wear--absolutely nothing----" + +"Now, that's the woman all over," scoffed Crawley, resorting to +badinage. "I wouldn't let that worry me, Justine. Go ahead an' have a +good time. The clothes you've got are a heap sight more becomin' th'n +the fine feathers them hens wear. Lord 'a' mercy, I think they're +sights!" + +"But, 'Gene, it's the first time any one of them has been to see me in +months," she protested, dimly conscious of distrust. + +"Well, I--I guess they've been purty busy," said he, lamely. Crawley +was a poor dissembler. + +"Besides, I don't care to go. Jud isn't here, and--and, oh, I can't +see how it could give me any pleasure." + +'Gene shifted from one foot to the other. He was beginning to accuse +himself of adding new tribulation to Justine's heavy load. He had not +anticipated such quick results from his onslaught of the night before, +nor had he any means of knowing to what length the women might go in +their abasement. That they had surrendered so abjectly had given him +no little satisfaction until he had seen that Justine was distressed. + +"You'll have a good time, Justine. Ever'body does, I reckon. Seems +like they want you to come purty bad, too," he said encouragingly. + +"They really did insist," she agreed, smiling faintly. Crawley's gaze +wavered and then fell. Out in the barn-lot, later in the evening, he +worked himself into a rare state of indignation. + +"If them folks don't treat her right over at the 'sociable' they'd +oughter be strung up," he was growling to himself. "If I thought they +wuz just doin' this to git a chanct to hurt her feelin's some way, +I'd--I'd----" But he could think of nothing severe enough to meet the +demand. + +Mr. Harbaugh did just as his wife expected he would do when she broke +the news to him. He stormed and fumed and forgot his position as a +deacon of the church. Two days passed before he submitted, and she was +free to issue her invitations. Their social standing in the +neighborhood was such that only the "best people" could be expected to +enjoy their hospitality. + +"How air you goin' to invite 'Gene Crawley 'thout astin' all the other +hired men in the township? He ain't no better'n the rest," argued Mr. +Harbaugh sarcastically. + +"I'm not goin' to invite Mr. Crawley," said his wife firmly. + +"Well, then, what air you givin' the shindig fer? I thought it was fer +the purpose o' squarin' things regardin' them two." + +"We are under no obligations to 'Gene. Besides, he's no gentleman. He +ain't fit to step inside the parlor." + +"I noticed he stepped into one t'other night, all right," grinned Mr. +Harbaugh. + +"I s'pose you are defending him," snapped his wife. + +"'Pears to me he c'n keer fer himse'f purty well. He don't need no +defendin'. But, say--don't you think he'll rare up a bit if he don't +git a bid to the party?" + +"Well, he won't take it out o' me," she spoke, meaningly. + +"Course not," he exclaimed. "That's the tarnation trouble of it; he'll +take it out o' me." Mr. Harbaugh involuntarily glanced over his +shoulder as though expecting Crawley to appear in the doorway as +mysteriously as he had appeared on the night of the "meeting." + +"It don't make any difference. You'll have to stand it, that's all. +I'm not goin' to have that low-down fool in _my_ house," was Mrs. +Harbaugh's parting shot. The result was that Crawley was not +invited--he had not expected to be--and Harbaugh felt obliged to +"dodge" him carefully for the next two or three months. + +The "Harbaugh oyster supper" was the talk of an expectant community for +a full and busy week. Justine Sherrod apparently was the only person +in the whole neighborhood who did not know the inside facts concerning +the affair. Generally, it was said to be a "mighty nice thing in the +Harbaughs," but every one interested knew that the influence of Eugene +Crawley prompted the good intentions. + +Half-heartedly, the unconscious guest of honor prepared for the event. +Her ever-neat though well-worn garments were gone over carefully, not +to her satisfaction but to the delight of Mrs. Crane. Mr. and Mrs. +Grimes stopped for her on their way over to Harbaugh's on the night of +the party. Trim and straight and graceful in the old black dress that +looked new, Justine sat beside the fluttering Mrs. Grimes on the "back +seat" of the "canopy top." There was a warm flush in her cheek, a +half-defiant gleam in her eyes. She went to the party with the feeling +in her breast that every woman there would "tear the old black dress to +shreds" and in secret poke fun at her poverty. Crawley stood in the +barn-door as she drove away with the Grimeses. There was something +bitterly triumphant in the slow smile that uncovered the gleaming teeth +as he waved a farewell to her--not to Mrs. Grimes, who was responding +so eagerly. + +"I'd like to be there,--just to see how much purtier she looks than the +rest," he murmured, wistfully, as he turned away to finish the +evening's chores. + +Despite her illness, suffering, and never-ceasing longing for Jud, she +was by far the prettiest woman in the motley crowd. The men +unhesitatingly commented on her "good looks," and not one of them +seemed to notice that her dress was old and simple. Many a woman went +home that night envious and jealous of Justine's appealing beauty. +Hard as they felt toward her, they were compelled to admit that she was +"quality." She was a Van--were she ever so poor. + +She was young. The heartiness with which she was received, the gaiety +into which she was almost dragged, beat down the shyness that marred +her first half-hour. Pride retreated before good spirits, and, to her +own surprise, she came to enjoy the festivities of the night. + +Glenville supported one newspaper--a weekly. Its editor and publisher +and general reporter was a big man in the community. He was a much +bigger man than his paper. Few people in Clay township did not know +the indefatigable and ubiquitous Roscoe Boswell, either personally or +by reputation. His _Weekly Tomahawk_, made up largely of "boiler-plate +matter" and advertisements in wonderful typography, adorned the +pantry-shelves of almost every house in the township. Jim Hardesty +once ironically remarked that he believed more housewives read the +paper in the pantry than they did in the parlor. For his own part, he +frequently caught himself spelling out the news as he "wrapped up bacon +and side-meat" with sections of the _Tomahawk_. But Mr. Boswell was a +big man politically and socially. His "local and personal" column and +his "country correspondence" column were alive with the gossip of the +district. If 'Squire Higgins painted his barn, the "news" came out in +the _Tomahawk_; if Miss Phoebe Baker crossed the street to visit Mrs. +Matlock the fact was published to the world--or, at least, to that part +of it bounded by the Clay township lines; if our old friend and +subscriber George Baughnacht drove out into the country with his new +"side-bar" buggy the whole community was given to understand that it +"looked suspicious" and that a "black-haired girl was fond of +buggy-riding." + +Mrs. Harbaugh's party would not have been complete without the presence +of Roscoe Boswell. He came with his paper-pad, his pencil and his +jokes. Incidentally, Mrs. Boswell came. She described the dresses of +the ladies. Every one was nice to Roscoe. The next issue of the +_Tomahawk_ was carefully read and preserved by the guests at the +"sociable," for it contained a glowing account of the "swell affair," +and it also had a complete list of names, including those of the +children. + +Now, Mr. Boswell, besides being a big man, was an observing person. He +had seen a Chicago paper containing the news of the Wood-Sherrod +wedding, but, like others, he was convinced that the groom was not the +old Clay township boy. Nevertheless, he made up his mind to question +Justine, when he saw her at the "sociable." + +"How do you do, Mrs. Sherrod?" he greeted, just before the oysters were +served. She was passing through the parlor in search of Mrs. Harbaugh. + +"Why, Mr. Boswell," she said gaily. "It is quite an honor to have you +with us. Is Mrs. Boswell here?" + +"Yes--she'll be getting a description of your dress pretty soon," he +said, glancing at the plain black. "My, but you look fine to-night," +he added, observing the embarrassed look in her eyes. "Black's my +favorite color. Always sets a woman off so. What do you hear from +Jud?" + +"He has been in Paris, Mr. Boswell, studying art, and he is very well. +I heard from him a day or so ago." + +Roscoe Boswell breathed a sigh of relief. + +"How long will he be over there?" he asked. + +"He is expected back this week. Perhaps I'll get a letter from him in +a day or two." + +"Say, would you mind letting me have the letter for publication?" cried +Roscoe, quickly. "It would make great reading for his friends here. +He's an awfully bright fellow, and his letter would be a corker. Won't +you please send it up to me?" + +"Oh, I'm sure it wouldn't be good reading, Mr. Boswell," cried Justine, +flushing with pleasure. "They are mostly personal, you know, and would +sound very silly to other people." + +"I'll cut out the love part," he grinned, "and use nothing but the +description of Paris or whatever he says about the old country." + +"I don't believe he would like it, Mr. Boswell," said she, but in her +mind she was wishing that one of his interesting letters could be given +to the public. She wanted the people to know how splendidly he was +doing. + +"We'll risk that," said Roscoe conclusively. "He won't mind, and +besides, he won't see it. He don't take the paper, you know. I +haven't many subscribers in Chicago just now," he added, reflectively. + +"He will come to see me just as soon as he gets back to Chicago and +then I'll ask him about it," she said. + +"Is he coming down soon?" asked the editor, going to his original +object. + +"Oh, yes. He will be down in a week or two, I am sure." + +"Are you--er--do you expect to go to Chicago to live?" he asked, rather +nervously for him. + +"Yes--quite soon, I think. Mr. Sherrod is making arrangements to have +me come up very shortly. He says he is getting a home ready for us on +the North Side. Do you know much about the North Side?" + +"Er--I--well, not much," murmured Roscoe Boswell, who had been in +Chicago but once in his life--he had spent two days at the World's +Fair. "I'm pretty much acquainted on the South Side and the East Side, +though. Great old city, ain't she?" + +"I have not been there since I was a small baby, but Jud says it is +wonderful." + +"It'll be mighty nice for you both when Jud takes you up," said he, not +knowing how to proceed. He could not bring himself to ask her if she +had heard of that strange similarity in names in connection with the +Chicago wedding. + +"It will, indeed, and I'll be so happy. Jud wants me so much, and +he'll be earning enough, soon to keep us both very nicely," she said, +simply. Roscoe Boswell not only believed in the integrity of Jud +Sherrod as she went away smiling, but he swore to himself that the +stories about her and 'Gene Crawley were "infernal lies." + +He saw her from time to time in the course of the evening, and she +seemed so blithe and happy that he knew there was no shadow in her +young heart. + +"I'm glad of it," he mused, forgetting to respond to Mrs. Harbaugh's +question. "It would have been a thundering good story for the +_Tomahawk_ if it had been our Jud, old as the story is by this time, +but I'm darned glad there's nothing in it." Then aloud, with a jerk: +"What's that, Mrs. Harbaugh?" + +Nevertheless, he could not help saying to Parson Marks, just before the +party came to an end: + +"Mrs. Sherrod is having the time of her young life, ain't she? She's a +mighty pretty thing. Jud ought to be mighty proud of her. Every man +here's half or dead in love with her." + +"We all admire her very much," said Mr. Marks, with great dignity. He +did not like the free and easy speech of the editor. + +"I noticed a curious thing in a Chicago paper not long ago," said +Boswell, whose eyes were following the girl. "Fellow with the same +name as Jud's was married up there. Funny, wasn't it?" + +"Not at all, Mr. Boswell," said Mr. Marks, stiffly. "There are +hundreds of Sherrods in Chicago; the name is a common one. I saw the +same article, I presume. It so impressed me, I confess, that I took +the liberty of writing to Jud Sherrod to inquire if he knew anything +about it." + +"You did?" cried the editor, his eyes snapping eagerly. "And did he +answer?" + +"He did, most assuredly." + +"Well?" asked Boswell, as the pastor paused. "What did he say?" + +"He said that he knew nothing about it except what he had seen in the +papers, that's all." + +"That's just what I thought," said the editor, emphatically. "I knew +it wasn't our Jud." + +"How could it be our Jud? He has a wife," said the minister, severely. + +"Well, such things do happen, parson," said Boswell, somewhat +defiantly. "You hear of them every day; papers are full of them." + +"You may rest assured that Jud Sherrod is not that sort of a boy. I +married him and Justine Van, and I know them both," said Mr. Marks, +with final scorn, and went away. + +"These darn-fool preachers think they know everything," muttered +Boswell. + +When the Grimeses set Justine down at her gate just before midnight, +'Gene Crawley, who stood unseen in the shadow of the lilac bush, waited +breathlessly for the sign that might tell him how she had fared among +the Philistines. + +All the evening he had been anxious. He could not put away the fear +that she might be mistreated or slighted in some way up at Harbaugh's. +But his heart jumped with joy when he heard her voice. + +"Good-night," called Justine, as she sprang lightly to the ground. +"I've had such a good time, Mrs. Grimes. And it was good of you to +take me over with you." + +There was no mistaking the ring in her voice. Crawley's deep breath of +relief seemed to himself almost audible. + +"I thought you was having a right good time, Justine," said Martin +Grimes, with a laugh. "You cut in pretty free." + +"Well, it was an awfully nice party," said Mrs. Grimes. "Everybody +seemed to enjoy it." + +"I'm so glad I went. Thank you, ever so much," Justine said, and there +was a song in her voice. + +Her step was light and full of life as she sped up the path to the door +of the cottage. + +"Thank the Lord," thought 'Gene, as he strode off into the night, "I +guess it was all right for her, after all. She's been happy to-night." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +THE COMING IN THE NIGHT. + +Soon after their return to Chicago, Celeste began to observe changes in +her husband's manner. He gave up newspaper illustrating and went in +for water colors and began to take lessons in oil painting. The +cleverness of Jud Sherrod, the boy, was not wanting in the man. In a +short time the born artist in him was mastering the difficulties of +color and he was painting in a manner that surprised not only his +critical friends but himself. He toiled hard and faithfully; his +little studio on the top floor of their home was always a place of +activity. + +Feverishly he began these first attempts at coloring, Celeste his only +critic. With loving yet honest eyes she saw the faults, the virtues +and the improvement. He worked day and night, despite her +expostulations. The bright eyes he turned to her when he took them +from the canvas were not the gray, hungry ones that dulled into reverie +when he was alone with his pigments. His eyes saw two dancing faces in +the colors as he spread them: one dark, distressed, and weary, the +other fair, bright, and happy. + +There came to him a powerful desire to see Justine, but with it the +fear that he could not leave her if he again felt her presence touching +his. For an hour at a time, day after day, he would hold Celeste in +his arms, uttering no word, stroking her hair, caressing her face, +gloomily repentant. The enormity of his mistake--he would not call it +crime--had come full upon him. It was not that he had broken the laws +of the land, but that he had deceived--deceived. + +Men about town remarked the change and wondered. Douglass Converse, in +anxiety, sought to ascertain the cause, fearing to find Celeste +unhappy. She was, beyond doubt, blissfully happy, and he fell back +upon the old solution: Sherrod was not well. The latter, in response +to blunt questioning, told him he was not sick, not tired, not worried, +but his heart quaked with the discovery that the eyes of his friends +were upon him and always questioning. + +"Dudley, dear, let us go to Florida next month," said Celeste one night +as they drove home from the theatre. He had drooped moodily through +the play and had been silent as they whirled along in the carriage. In +casting about for the cause of his apparent weariness, she ascribed it +to overwork. + +"Do you really want to go, Celeste?" he asked, tenderly. "Will the +stay down there do you good?" + +"I want to get away from Chicago for awhile. I want to be where it is +bright and warm. Why should we stay here through all this wretched +winter when it is so easy to go to such a delightful place? You must +finish your picture in time to start next month. You don't know how +happy it will make me." + +If he could only take Justine with them! That longing swelled his +heart almost to the bursting. "If Justine could only enjoy it all with +me," he groaned to himself. "If she could go! If she could go where +it is warm and bright! If I could have them both with me there could +be no more darkness, no more chill, no more unhappiness." + +As the days dragged along, nearer and nearer the date set for the +departure for Florida, he grew moodier, more dejected. But one thought +filled his mind, the abandonment of Justine; not regret for the wrong +he was doing Celeste, but remorse for the wrong he was doing Justine. +Sleepless nights found him seeing her slaving, half-frozen, on that +wretched farm, far from the bright world he had enjoyed and she would +have enjoyed. + +At last, a week before the day set for their departure for Florida he +reached a sudden determination. He would see Justine, he would go to +her in the night and kiss her and take her up in his arms and bear her +to Chicago with him, there to--but no! He could not do that! He could +only kiss her and take her in his arms and then steal back to the other +one, a dastard. There could be but one and it was for him to choose +between them. + +He wondered if he could go back to the farm and live, if he could give +up all he had won, if he could confess his error to Justine, if he +could desert Celeste, if he could live without both of them. +Selfishness told him to relinquish Justine, honor told him to strip the +shackles from Celeste, even though the action broke her heart. + +Then there came to his heart the design of the coward, and he could not +get away from its horrible influence. It battled down manly +resistance, it overthrew every courageous impulse, it made of him a +weak, forceless, unresisting slave. With the fever of this malignant +impulse in his blood, he stealthily began the laying of plans that were +to end his troubles. But one person would be left to suffer and to +wonder and she might never know the truth. + +One dark night there descended from the railway coach at Glenville, a +roughly clad man whose appearance was that of a stranger but whose +actions were those of one familiar with the dark surroundings. There +had been few changes in Glenville since the day on which Jud Sherrod +left the place for the big city on the lake, but there had been a +wondrous change in the man who was returning, under cover of night, to +the quaint, old-fashioned home of his boyhood. He had gone away an +eager, buoyant youth, strong and ambitious; he was coming back a +heartsick, miserable old man, skulking and crafty. + +Through unused lanes, across dark, almost forgotten fields, frozen and +bleak, he sped, his straining eyes bent upon the blackness ahead, +fearfully searching for the first faint flicker in a certain window. +He did not know how long it took him to cover the miles that lay +between the village and the forlorn cottage in the winter-swept lane. +He had carefully concealed his face from the station men and there were +so few people abroad in that freezing night that no one knew of the +return of Justine's long-absent husband. His journey across the fields +was accomplished almost before he knew it had begun, so full was his +mind of the purpose that brought him there. Every sound startled and +unnerved him, yet he hurried on unswervingly. He was going to the end +of it all. + +At last he came to the fence that separated Justine's little farm from +the broad acres of David Strong. Scarce half a mile away stood the +cottage, hidden in the night. He knew it was there, and he knew that a +light shone from a window on the side of the house farthest from him. +It was there that she loved to sit, and, as it was not yet ten o'clock, +she could not have gone to bed. He swerved to the south, and by a wide +detour came to the garden fence that he had built in the days gone by. +As he slunk past the corner of the barn his gaze fell upon the lighted +window. + +He clung to the fence and gazed intently at the square blotch of yellow +in the blackness. She was there! In that room! His Justine! For a +moment his resolution wavered. Then he doggedly turned his back upon +the kindly glimmer in her window, and looked into the shadow. He did +not dare look again upon the loving light that stretched its warmth out +to him as he shuddered and cringed on the threshold of his own home, +almost within the clasp of those adoring arms. + +But, with his back to her, his face to the darkness, he waited, waited, +waited. It seemed to him that hours passed before he dared again to +face the house, fearing that another glimpse of her light would break +his resolution. His mind was a blank save for one tense thought--the +one great thought that had drawn him from one woman to the other. He +thought only of the moment when the light in the window should +disappear, when stillness should be in Justine's bed-chamber, when no +accusing eye could look upon what was to follow. His numb fingers felt +for the knife that lay sheathed in his overcoat pocket, and he +shuddered as they touched it. + +His eyes again turned apprehensively toward the house. The window was +dark; he could see nothing except the dense outlines of the square +little building against the black sky. There was a dead chill in the +air. The silence weighed upon him. He made a stealthy way to the +weather boards of the house. The touch of his numb fingers against the +frosty wood was uncanny, and he drew his hand sharply away. For a +moment he paused, and his crouching form straightened with a sudden +consciousness of its position. The deepest revulsion swept over him, +the most inordinate shame and horror. Why was he coming to her in the +dead of night, like an assassin, sneaking, cringing, shivering? With a +groan he recklessly strode forward to the dark window frame. His +fingers touched the glass of two or three panes, then the rags that +kept the wind out of others. In there she was lying asleep, alone, +breathing softly, dreaming of him perhaps. He was within ten feet of +that dear, unconscious body and she was sweetly alive--a tender +breathing thing that loved him better than life. Alive, and he had +come to take life away from her! + +He had come to steal the only thing that was left to her--her life. + +With wild eyes he sought to penetrate the darkness beyond the glass. +As plainly as if it were broad daylight his imagination revealed to him +the interior of the bare room. There were his drawings on the walls; +the worn ingrain carpet of green and red; the old rocking-chair and the +two cane-bottom chairs; the walnut stand with its simple cover of white +muslin, the prayer-book and the kerosene lamp; Justine's little +work-basket with its yarn, its knitting, its thread, thimble, +patch-pieces and the scissors. Across the back of a chair hung her +pitifully unfashionable dress of calico, her white underskirt, her +thick petticoat; beside the bed stood the heavy, well-worn shoes with +her black stockings lying limp and lifeless across them. The white +coverlet, rumpled and ridged by the lithe figure that snuggled +underneath; the brown hair, the sweet, tired face with its closed eyes, +sunk in the broad pillow; the gentle breathing, the regular movement of +the covers that stretched across the warm, slumbering body; the brown, +strong hand that wore his ring resting beside the cheek of the sleeper. +A sudden eagerness to clasp the hand, to hold it firm, to protect it +from something, came to him. He wondered for a moment why she should +need protection--before he remembered. + +How could he live without her? The folly of trying to do so! Better, +far better, that he should die and take her with him, leaving the other +to wonder and at last find her young way back to happiness through +forgetfulness. Foresworn to end his own misery and to destroy every +possible chance that might convey his faithlessness to the trusting +Justine, he had slunk away from the city, bidding farewell to the world +that had weakened him, and was now clinging to her window sill with +love and murder in his heart. He had come to kill her and to kill +himself. He must have it over. There was no other way. His legs +trembled as he sped on to the kitchen door. The door was bolted and he +sought the narrow window. It moved under his effort, creaking +treacherously, but he did not pause. A half-dead fire smoldered in the +kitchen stove--their kitchen stove--and he sank beside it, craving its +friendly warmth. He crouched there for many minutes, steeling himself +for what was to come. Indecision and weakness assailed him again and +again, but he overcame them; the fear of death made him cast glances +over his shoulder, but he set his teeth; the terror of crime shook him, +but he fought it away. There was but one way to end the tragedy, there +was but one way to save Justine. It would be over in a moment; there +was relief in that. + +How he crept through the kitchen and the dark sitting-room he did not +know, but at last he found himself, breathless and pulseless, at her +door. Then came the stunning thought: was she alone in the room? Was +old Mrs. Crane with her or was she in the little half-story room at the +head of the stairs? He shrank back to the kitchen noiselessly. +Groping his way to the table he ran his hand over its surface until it +touched the candlestick that he knew was there as well as if he had +seen it. He lighted the candle from the flickering blue flame in the +stove, and, shading it with his hand, glided swiftly to her door. + +After what seemed an hour of irresolution, he softly pressed the latch. +The almost imperceptible noise sounded like a crash of thunder in his +sensitive ears, but the door swung slowly open and he stood in his +wife's room. Yes! There was the bed and there was the mass of brown +hair and the white, blurred face and---- + +But, what was that noise? His heart stopped beating--his wide eyes saw +Justine's hand slowly stretch out and, as if its owner were acting in +her sleep, apparently tuck in the covers on the side of the bed nearest +the wall. A faint, smothered wail came to his ears. There was no +mistaking the sound. + +A baby! + +As he stood there in the doorway, frozen to the spot, the candle in one +hand, the knife in the other, Justine moved suddenly and in a moment +was staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +THE FIRST-BORN. + +Slowly she half raised herself from the pillow, her right arm going out +as if to shield the tiny bit of life beside her, her great eyes staring +at the intruder; the inclination to shriek was met by the paralysis of +every faculty and she could do no more than moan once in her fear. The +eyes of the tall, gaunt man, upon whose face the fitful light of the +candle threw weird shadows, held her motionless. + +"Wha--what do you want?" she finally whispered. + +"Justine, don't you--don't you know me?" he asked, hoarsely, not +conscious of the question, motionless in the doorway. + +"Oh, oh," she moaned, tremulously, and then her hand was stretched +toward him, wonder, uncertainty, fear in her eyes. + +"I am Jud--Jud; don't you know me? Don't be frightened," he went on, +mechanically. + +"It is a dream--oh, it is a dream," she whispered. + +"No, no! I thought you were asleep. Don't look at me, Justine, don't +look at me! Oh God, I cannot do it--I cannot!" He fell back against +the wall. The knife clattered to the floor. Half convinced, now that +she was thoroughly awake, Justine pressed her hand to her eyes, and +then, suddenly with a glad cry, threw back the bed covers and sprang to +the floor. + +"Don't come near me," he cried, drawing back. She paused in amazement. + +"What is it, Jud--what is it?" she cried. "Why are you here? What has +happened?" The candle dropped from his nerveless fingers. + +"Justine!" he groaned, stricken with terror in the darkness. An +instant later he felt her warm arms about him and her trembling voice +was pleading with him to tell her what had happened. He was next +conscious of lying back in the old rocker, listlessly watching her +relight the candle. It was freezing cold in the room. His lips and +cheeks were warm where she had kissed them. And he had thought to +touch her dear, loving lips only after they were cold in the death he +was bringing. + +"Tell me, Jud, dear Jud," she cried, dropping to her knees beside him, +her hands clutching his shoulders. Even in the dim, uncertain light he +could see how thin and wan she had grown--he could see the suffering of +months. A muffled wail came from the bed and her face turned instantly +in that direction. His hand fell heavily upon hers. + +"Whose child is that?" he demanded, harshly. She looked up into his +face with a quick, startled glance, the bewildered expression in her +eyes slowly giving way to one of pain. + +"Why, Jud!" she cried, shrinking back. Her honest brown eyes searched +his face. + +"Is it mine?" he asked, blind with suspicion. + +"How could it be any one's but--Oh, Jud Sherrod! Do you mean +that--that--you don't think he is--my husband, do you think that of +me?" she whispered, slowly shrinking away from him. + +"I--I--you did not tell me," he muttered, dazed and bewildered. "How +was I to know?" + +"Oh, I have loved you so long and so truly," she faltered. A sob of +shame and anguish choked her as she arose and turned dizzily toward the +bed. She threw herself face downward upon it, her arms across the +sleeping babe, and burst out into weeping. + +Startled into sanity by the violence of her grief he cast himself on +his knees beside the bed. + +"I was mad, crazy, Justine," he cried. She shuddered as his hands and +arms touched her. "Oh, God!" he groaned. "My wife, my girl, don't +shrink from me like that. I did not mean it, I did not know what I was +saying. Look up, Justine, my Justine!" He seized her hand and covered +it with kisses. At first she struggled to withdraw it; then suddenly +abandoned it to him. Presently she pressed it against his lips, and +then in an instant her face was turned toward him, the cheeks wet, the +eyes swimming. + +"Oh, Jud, you did not think it, I know you didn't," she choked out, and +sobbed again as he lifted and clasped her to his breast. In that +moment he forgot his dreadful mission, forgot the baby and the misery +of everything, and she was happier than she had been in months. Once +more the tender and thoughtful Jud, he drew the covers over her +shivering body and tucked them in, while she smiled happily up into his +wan face. + +"Don't you want to see the baby, dear?" she asked, timidly, after a +long time. He had seated himself on the side of the bed, his coat +collar turned up about his chilled throat, his red hands clasped under +his arms. "He is three months old, Jud, and you never knew. It is so +strange you did not receive my letter. I could not write, though, for +many weeks, I was so weak. Oh, Jud, you don't know how much I have +suffered." + +It was the first complaint she had ever expressed to him in all those +weary, despairing months of loneliness and privation, and he covered +his face with his hands. She drew them gently away, so that he might +look at the baby. It was with a feeling of shame that he first saw his +child. Young as it was, it bore the features of its father; there +could be no doubt. He gazed upon the little face and the clenched +fists, and a deep reverence came to him. Pity for the baby, the mother +and himself overcame him and he dropped his head upon Justine's +shoulder. + +"Justine, forgive me, forgive me," he sobbed. + +"There is nothing to forgive, dear. Don't cry," she said, softly. "It +will all come right some day and we'll be so proud of the boy. Isn't +he strong? Just feel of his little arms. And isn't he just like you? +I hope he will grow up to be as good and as strong as you, Jud." He +looked dumbly into her eyes, still dewy with tears, and dropped his +own, lest she should sec the deceit in them. But she was not looking +for deceit. + +"You are so cold, dear," she went on, "and you look so ill and tired. +Come to bed and let me get up and make some hot coffee for you. Why, +Jud, it is past midnight, and it is bitterly cold outside. How did you +come from Glenville?" + +"I walked," he answered, wearily. + +"Walked?" she cried. "Why, Jud, what is wrong? Why are you here? Has +anything happened to you?" Her voice was sharp with dread. + +"I am the most wretched man in the world, Justine." + +"Tell me all about it, Jud; let me help you. Don't look like that! It +must be all right, dear, now that we are together. All three, Jud," +she went on, cheerily. "I would not even name him before you came, but +I want you to call him Dudley." He felt the loving arms tighten about +his neck, and there came the eager desire to confess everything and to +beg her to hide from the world with him in some place where he could +never be found out. The love for Celeste was deep, but it was not like +this love for Justine. He must keep it. The other might go; he and +Justine and the baby would go away together. But not yet. Justine +must not know, after all--at least not yet. + +"Everything has gone wrong, dear, and I had nothing to live for," he +began, wearily; and then with a skill that surprised him he rushed +through with a story that drew the deepest pity from his listener and +gave him a breathing spell in which to develop a plan for the future. + +"You will loathe and despise me, Justine, but I couldn't bear the +thought of going into the hereafter without you," he said, after he had +confessed his object in coming. "I had failed in everything and life +wasn't worth living. My position is gone, I have no money and I don't +seem to be able to find work. You were everything in the world to me +and you were so proud of me. I just couldn't come back here and tell +you that I had failed after all the chances I have had. When I opened +your door to-night I had that knife in my hand. Do not be afraid, +dearest; it is all over and we'll live to be happy yet. God help me, I +was going to kill you while you slept, kiss you to prove to your +departing soul that I loved you and that it was not hate that inspired +the deed, and then, the blade, wet with your dear blood, was to find +its way to my heart. Thank God, you awoke. Had it not been for that +we would be lying here dead, and our boy, hidden in the bed, would have +escaped my hand only to be thrown upon the world, a helpless orphan. +But God has helped me to-night and He will not again forget me. With +His help and your love, I will go forth again with new courage and I'll +win my way." + +She shuddered and thanked God alternately during his story, and when he +paused after the firm declaration to win his way, she cried: + +"You have been brave so long and I have been brave, too, Jud. Why +should we give up the fight? I have hardly enough to eat in the house, +and I have endured more than seemed just from our loving God, but I did +not forget that I have you and you are everything. It has been hard, +terribly hard, but I did not give up." + +Then she confessed her secret, timorously at first, then eagerly, +pleadingly. She told him of 'Gene Crawley's reformation, his kindness, +his real nobility, expecting at the outset that Jud would be angry and +displeased. But he was thinking of the future, not of the past or the +present. After a moment or two of surprise and chagrin, he accepted +her course in regard to Crawley as a natural condition, and, trusting +her implicitly, found no fault with her action. He went so far as to +credit Crawley with more manhood than he had suspected. A flood of joy +enveloped her when she saw that he was reconciled; the weight of her +only deception was lifted from her troubled heart. + +Already he was thinking of the ordeal ahead of him: the return to +Celeste, the confession of his duplicity, his plea for forgiveness and +leniency, and then the life of peace and solitude with Justine and the +boy. He knew that Celeste's heart would be crushed, but it was the +only way back to the path of honor. Justine should never know of his +marriage to Celeste; that was the one thing the honest, virtuous +country girl would not forgive. He even found himself, as he always +was in emergencies, impatient to have the ordeal over, to know his +fate, to give torture to one that he might be happy with the other. +With the arms of the real wife about his neck, he trembled with the +desire to be off to the side of the deceived one, there to unmask +himself, to grovel at her feet and then to fly from the world. How he +could face Celeste he knew not, but he must do it. There seemed no way +to lighten the blow he must deal and there seemed no escape from it. +He was a bigamist, a criminal. + +To leave her without an explanation would result in a tireless search, +inspired by her love; the discovery of his duplicity by the police +would mean conviction; even Celeste could not save him. Shrewdly he +brought himself to believe that, though she could not forgive him, she +would release him to avoid a scandal. He knew that he must play out to +the end his role of the coward and the supplicant and the liar. + +It was only after the most persistent pleading that Justine induced him +to remain with her through the night and the day following. She +promised to keep his visit a secret, respecting his show of +humiliation, and she vouched for the silence of Mrs. Crane who slept +upstairs. And so the would-be murderer and suicide slept and dreamed +and plotted for twenty-four hours in the house of his victim, slinking +away on the night after, with her kisses on his lips, her voice in his +ears, leaving behind brave promises and the vow to come back to her and +the boy without murder in his heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +THE TALE OF TEARS. + +He had told Celeste that he would be away from home over one night, and +she was alarmed when he did not return on the second night after his +departure. On the third day she could not shut out the picture of his +despondent face. When she heard his footsteps in the lower hall that +afternoon her heart gave a great bound of relief, and all his plans +went scattering before her joyous greeting. + +He entered the house steeled to tell her, but his resolution wavered, +and, with the words on his tongue's end, he felt them forced back by +her kisses. He let himself procrastinate; every vestige of courage +vanished before this attack of love and confidence. If his response to +her welcome was lifeless and cold, she did not complain; if he seemed +distraught, she overlooked it in the joy of having her apprehensions +swept away. + +"Do you know, dear, I was beginning to fear you had been lost in the +snow storm and that I should have to send St. Bernard dogs out to find +you?" she said, gaily, as she drew him into the big chair before the +grate and climbed cozily upon the arm beside him. + +"I can't tell her now," he was groaning to himself. "I can't break her +heart to-day--not to-day." + +"Was it so warm and pleasant in Milwaukee that you couldn't tear +yourself away?" she went on, her hand caressing his hair. + +"Where? Mil--Oh, yes, Milwaukee," he stammered, recalling that he had +told her he was going there on business. "No; it was beastly. I had +to stay a day longer than I expected." + +"Tell me all about it," she said. "Did everything turn out as good as +you hoped? Will he take the pictures?" + +He was unable to reply at once. Indeed, it was necessary for him to +remember just what excuse he had given her for going to Milwaukee. +Slowly it came back to him. Without lifting his guilty eyes from the +coals, he told her that Mr. Evans had not given him the order for the +five paintings until he had consulted his partner, who was delayed in +returning from St. Paul. On the partner's return (here Jud's twisted +heart leaped at a fresh inspiration) the firm promptly agreed to accept +all of his paintings and contracted for others to be finished within a +very short space of time. + +"Isn't that a very short time in which to do the work, Jud?" she +inquired, anxiously. A cunning thought had prompted his statement; in +it he saw the respite that might be needed. The task of supplying the +fictitious order would command his closest thought and energy, and, by +preventing the trip to Florida, would give him a longer time in which +to make ready for the trial at hand. He saw that he would lack the +immediate courage to tell her, and that it would require hours and days +of torture to bring him to the task. + +"It means that I'll have to give up the Florida trip," he said. + +"O, no, Jud! Let the old pictures go! Can't they wait? You must go +to Florida. It will do you so much good, and my heart is so set on it." + +A new thought struck him sharply and his spirits leaped upward. "You +could go without me, Celeste. There's no reason why you should give up +the pleasure because I have to----" + +"Dudley Sherrod," she interrupted, decisively, "you are hateful. I +will not go a step without you. It is you who need the rest and the +change. Write to Mr. Evans this afternoon and tell him you cannot do +the pictures until next spring." + +"I can't do that, dear. They must be done at once," he said. + +"But you must have the two months in Florida," she persisted in +troubled tones. "Why, dear, I have made preparations to leave on +Saturday and this is Thursday. Won't you, please, for my sake, give up +the pictures?" + +"Impossible," he said, firmly, rising suddenly. He pressed her hand +softly and passed from the room, afraid to look back into her eyes. +She sat perfectly still for many minutes, the puzzled expression +deepening in her eyes. + +"To-morrow I will tell her all," he vowed, as he paced the floor of his +studio. The memory of the distressed look in her eyes bore him down. +He knew that he could not endure the sight of prolonged pain in those +loving eyes, and what little wisdom he had at his command told him that +to end the suspense quickly was the most charitable thing to do. +"To-morrow, to-morrow," he repeated, feverishly. He groaned aloud with +loathing for himself and shame of what the morrow was to bring. "I +love her. How can I tell her that she is not my wife? How can I tell +her that I deceived her deliberately? And what will she say, what will +she do? Good God, what is to be the end of it? Will she submit or +will she cry for the vengeance that is justly hers?" + +For the first time the agony of this question was beyond his power of +suffering. His mind refused to consider it. He was dulled; he felt +nothing--and presently there was a relief in feeling nothing. Up to +that time his sensitive nature had responded to every grief. Of a +sudden his mind refused grief; and the inspiration came to him to +support that refusal. He shut out thoughts of Celeste, and let himself +look forward to the happiness with Justine and his boy. + +The next day he faltered in his determination to tell Celeste, and the +day after it was the same. He could not stand before her and look into +her eyes and tell her. He was conscious of the fact that her troubled +gaze was following him wherever he moved, that she seemed to be reading +his thoughts. He grew more apathetic under the scrutiny. He took to +good food as a refuge from his thoughts, and surprised her by asking +for dainty dishes. He found some poetry, careless with fatalism, and +instantly became a fatalist. He would let affairs take their course. +The yearning for Justine dulled a little. + +But one day, entering his studio, expecting to find him at work, she +was amazed to see him with a picture in his hand. He was looking at it +eagerly. She could see the face. It was Justine Van. + +Justine Van! The girl of the meadow; the sweetheart of the old days! +The first jealousy tore at her heart and she began vaguely to +comprehend the stoop in his shoulders. + +He had found the picture among some old drawings, and the sight of it +enlivened his desire for Justine. He wrote her a letter, and then +conceived the plan of writing a confession to Celeste, and slinking off +to his room to await the crash. He knew she would fly to him +and--well, it would be like defending himself against an assault. He +laughed harshly at himself as he contemplated this last exhibition of +cowardice. He wrote not only one but ten confessions, destroying one +after the other as the lingering spark of manhood flared up in +resistance to this mode of doing battle. + +One night Celeste came to him in the dimly lighted studio. The trouble +in her heart revealed itself in her voice and eyes. He sat dreaming +before the little grate and started when her hands gently touched his +cheeks from behind. + +"What is the matter, Jud, dear?" she asked, softly. "There is +something on your mind. Won't you confide in me? I love you, dear. +Tell me everything, Jud, and don't try to bear it alone. Don't you +think I love you enough to share the greatest pain that might come to +you?" + +He tried to speak, but could only reach up and clasp her hands in his. + +"Can you guess, Jud, of whom I was thinking to-day?" she went on +bravely. + +"I--I can't guess," he said, with misgiving in his soul. + +"I was thinking of Justine Van, that pretty girl down in the country. +Her face was as clear as if it were before me in reality. Do you know, +Jud, I shall always see her as she appeared on that day at Proctor's +Falls. She was so pretty and you were so handsome. I thought you were +sweethearts, you remember. How embarrassed you were, both of you, when +I so foolishly told you that the money I paid for the picture was to be +her wedding present. I believe I began to love you on that very day." + +Her hands were still pressing his cheeks and her heart suddenly stood +still and grew icy cold when something hot and wet trickled over the +fingers. Without a word she drew away from him, and when he looked up +through the mist of tears, she was passing from the room, straight and +still. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +THE NIGHT OUT. + +The next morning she telephoned to Douglass Converse. In response to +her somewhat exacting request, he presented himself at the Sherrod home +in the late afternoon. Her manner had impressed him with the fear that +something had gone wrong in the little household. They were still the +best of friends and he was a frequent, informal visitor. Jud admired +him immensely--no one could help liking this tall, good-looking, boyish +fellow. In the old days Celeste had known his love for her, but after +her marriage there had been no evidence, by word or deed, that she +still lived uppermost in his affections. To Douglass Converse, she was +the wife of his best friend. + +He had seen, with increasing alarm, the change in Jud's manner and +appearance. The anxious look in Celeste's eyes was but poorly +concealed of late; he feared that all was not well with them. There +was no mistaking Jud's attitude toward the world and the genial friends +of old. The newspaper men who had been his boon companions a few +months before now saw nothing of him. He and Celeste rarely were seen +in society, seldom at the theatres and cafés; it was as though they had +dropped entirely away from the circle which had known them so well. +The excuse that he was busy in his studio was sufficient until even +outsiders began to see the change in him. It was impossible to hide +the haggardness in his face. + +Converse, sitting opposite Celeste in the drawing-room, saw depression +under the brave show of cheerfulness in her face. His mind was filled +with the possibilities of the moment. Over the telephone she had said +that she wanted to see him on a matter of considerable importance. His +first unuttered query on entering the hall was: Where is Sherrod? He +had expected a greeting from him on the moment of his arrival. Before +the short visit was over, Converse was plying himself with scores of +silent and unanswerable questions. + +"Where is Jud?" he asked, after the first commonplaces. + +"At work in the studio," she replied. He noticed the change of tone, +but tried to look uninterested. + +"He's working a trifle hard these days, isn't he?" he asked, casually. +Somehow, he felt relieved on hearing that Jud was at work. He +discovered that he had feared--something, he could not define. + +"What is he doing, Celeste?" + +"Something for the Milwaukee people I was telling you about not long +ago. They insist on having the paintings before the first of February." + +"Before February? Why, that's--" But he checked the exhibition of +surprise and went on with admirable enthusiasm--"That's a surprisingly +nice order. It proves that he has made a hit and that the market for +his work is immediate." + +"But he is working too hard, Douglass," she cried, unreservedly. The +look in his eyes changed instantly. + +"I was afraid so," he said. Then, eager to dispel any feeling of +hesitancy she might have, he broke out, bluntly: "You are very much +disturbed about him, aren't you, Celeste? I know you are, but I think +you should find some comfort in knowing that the work will soon be +completed and you can both run away for a good rest." + +"I can't help being worried," she said, in low tones, as though fearing +her words might reach Jud's ear in the distant studio. "Douglass, I +want to talk with you about Jud. You will understand, won't you? I +wouldn't have asked you to come if it were not that I am very much +distressed and need the advice and help of some one." + +"Isn't it possible that you are needlessly alarmed?" he asked, +earnestly. "I'm sure it can be nothing serious. You will laugh at +your fears some day." + +"I hope you are right. But it doesn't cheer me a bit to talk like +that, Douglass. I am not deceiving myself. He is changed, oh, so +greatly changed," she cried. + +"You--you don't mean to say his--his love--" began Converse. +"There--there isn't any danger of--of _that_?" he substituted. + +"No, no! You don't understand me," she said, drearily. "He loves me +as much as ever--I know he does. It isn't that. Douglass, we must get +his mind off his work. He thinks of--of nothing else." She would have +given anything for the courage to tell him what she had seen the day +before. Her confidence in this tall friend was sufficient, but she +could not acknowledge the pain and terror Jud's tears had brought to +her. + +"Well, it can't be for long. The work will soon be completed," urged +he, knowing as he spoke how futile his words were. + +"But it makes me so unhappy," she cried, with a woman's logic. + +"Poor girl," he smiled. "Let the poor chap work in peace. It will +come out all right. I know him. He's ambitious, indefatigable, eager. +His soul is in this work. Just now he is winning his spurs in a new +line, and his mind, his heart is full of it. Can't you see it all? +Put yourself in his place, with his fine temperament, and see how +intensely interested you would be. You would be just as much wrapped +up in it as he--just as much enraptured, I might say. Brace up, dear +girl; Jud can't help but turn out all right. He's bound to win." + +"The trouble is--the trouble is--" She hesitated so long, staring with +wide eyes at the grate fire, that he feared she would not +continue--"His heart doesn't seem to be in the work at all." + +"You mean----?" + +"I mean, Douglass, that it is not ambition that inspires him just now. +There is something on his mind--something else. Oh, I don't know what +it can be, but it is unmistakable. He is not the same--not the same in +anything except his love for me." + +Converse was silent for a long time, his eyes on her pale face, his +mind busy with conjecture. + +"I am glad to hear you say that, Celeste," he said at last, a deep sigh +escaping involuntarily. + +"He works feverishly," she went on, as though he had not spoken. "Of +course, he is doing the work well. He never did anything badly. But I +know he is positively driving himself, Douglass. There isn't anything +like the old inspiration, nothing like the old love for the work." + +"I see it all," he said, relief in his voice. "His heart is not in the +work, simply because he is doing it for some one else and not for +himself. They told him what they wanted and he is simply breaking his +neck, Celeste, to get the job off his hands." + +"But, listen to me, Douglass," she cried, in despair. "He told me they +wanted five pictures--a series of studies from life. The series was to +represent five periods in the life of a woman, beginning with childhood +and ending in extreme old age. But, Douglass, dear, he is painting +landscapes instead." + +Converse bit his lip. + +"You must have misunderstood him," he managed to say. She shook her +head sadly. + +"No; he was most precise in explaining the conditions to me the day +after his return from Milwaukee. I remember that I was very much +interested. The work, you know, upset our plan for going to Florida, +and I was quite resentful at first. You can imagine my astonishment +when I found that he was doing landscapes and not the figures the order +calls for." + +Converse was dumb in the face of this indisputable evidence. He could +muster up no way to relieve her fears. There could be no reassuring +her after what she had seen and he wisely forebore. + +"It was very strange," he said, finally. "He must have a reason for +the change, and no doubt he has forgotten to speak to you about it." + +"I wish I could believe that, Douglass," she sighed. "He likes you. +You can help me, if you will." + +"With all my heart. Anything in the world, Celeste," he cried. + +"Then get him away from his work as much as possible. He won't go out +anywhere, you know. I've implored him to go out with me time and +again. Douglass, can't you think of some way to--to get him away from +himself?" + +She was standing beside him, her hand clasping his as it rested on the +arm of the chair. Converse looked up into the troubled eyes. + +"Tell me what to do, Celeste, and I'll try," he said, earnestly. + +"Make him go out with you--go out among the men he used to know and +liked so well. I'm sure he likes them still. He'd enjoy being with +them, don't you think? He seldom leaves his studio, much less the +house. I want you to take him to luncheons and dinners--where the men +are. It will get him out of himself, I know. Do, Douglass, do for my +sake, make him forget his work. Take him back to the old life in the +club, at the cafés--if only for a little while. Don't you understand?" + +"You mean--oh, Celeste, you don't mean to say that he is tired of this +happiness?" he cried. + +"He is unhappy, I'm sure of it. He loves me, I know, but--" She could +go no further. + +"I know what you mean, Celeste, but you are wrong--fearfully wrong. +Poor little woman! God, but you are brave to look at it as you do." + +They did not hear Jud as he stopped on the stairs to look down upon +them. He saw them and was still. The pain was almost unbearable. +There was no jealousy in it, only remorse and pity. + +"Ah, if only she belonged to him and not to me," he was thinking. "He +is straight as a die, and she would never know unhappiness. He loved +her, he loves her still, and she--poor darling, loves me, the basest +wretch in all the world." + +He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the stairway. Its +creaking attracted the attention of the two in the drawing-room. When +he looked again, they were standing and staring at him. Slowly he +descended, a mechanical smile forcing itself into his face. + +"Hello, Doug," he said. "I thought I heard your voice. Glad to see +you." + +A quick glance of apprehension passed between Converse and Celeste. +Had he heard? + +"I just inquired for you, Jud," said Converse, pulling himself together +as quickly as possible. "Celeste says you're terribly busy. Don't +overwork yourself, old man. I dropped in to say you are to go to a +little dinner with me to-night. Some of the boys want to eat something +for old times' sake." + +The shadow that passed over Jud's face was disconcerting. + +"There is nothing else in the way, Jud, dear," Celeste hastened to say. +"It would be awfully jolly, I should think." + +"Vogelsang says you haven't been in his place for months," added +Converse, reproachfully. "You shouldn't go back on a crowd like this, +old man. They'll think you're stuck up because you've made a hit." + +Sherrod smiled wearily, then pulled his nerves together and made a +brave show of being pleased and interested. + +"I don't believe they'll accuse me of that, Doug," he said. "They know +I'm frightfully busy. Who is to be there?" + +Converse, with all his good intentions, had not been foresighted enough +to see that he might be asked this natural question. It was impossible +to count on any one in particular, and it would be far from politic to +mention names and then be obliged to give flimsy excuses if their +owners failed to appear. + +"Oh, just some of the old crowd," he replied, evasively, even guiltily. +Jud's gaze was on the fire in the grate and Converse was thankful for +the respite. "They'll be mighty glad to see you again. It doesn't +seem right to take you away from Celeste, but we're talking of doing +something like this at least once a week." + +"Can't you have ladies' night occasionally, as they say at the clubs?" +asked Celeste, merrily entering into the spirit of the conspiracy. + +"I suppose we could," said Converse, with well assumed reluctance. + +"Count me out to-night, Douglass," said Jud, at this juncture. "I'll +come down for the next one, but just now I'm----" + +"That won't do!" exclaimed Converse, peremptorily. "Work is no excuse. +There was a time when you worked a blamed sight harder than you do now, +and yet you found time to eat, drink and be merry--I should say, eat +and be merry. You go with us to-night. That's all there is about it. +I'm not going down and tell the fellows you couldn't come because you +had to stay at home and put on a few dabs of paint that don't have to +be on before to-morrow. I'll stop for you on my way down at 7:30, and +I'll get him home safe and sound and sober, Celeste. Don't worry if +he's out after nine o'clock." + +"I shan't sleep a wink," smiled Celeste, putting her arm through Jud's +and laying her cheek against his shoulder. Sherrod sighed and smiled +and said he would be ready when his friend called. + +Celeste went to the door with her confederate. She pressed his hand +warmly and her eyes seemed to exact a promise that could not be broken. + +"Do everything in your power, Douglass," she said, softly. + +"He hates to leave you alone, Celeste; that's the worst obstacle to the +plan," said Converse, his lips whitening. "But we'll try to make +him--to--I was going to say forget, but that would be impossible. He +can't forget that you are here and loving him all the time." + +Then he was off, confronted by rather arduous conditions. It would be +necessary to get together a party of congenial spirits, and it was +imperative that it be done in such a way that Jud's suspicion might not +be aroused. When his hansom stopped for Jud at 7:30 Converse was +thoroughly satisfied with the result of his expedition in search of +guests, but he was conscious of a fear that the attempt to take Sherrod +"out of himself" would be a failure. + +A half-dozen good fellows of the old days had promised to come to +Vogelsang's at eight, and, under ordinary circumstances, there was no +reason why the night should not be a merry one. It all rested with +Jud. Converse was gratified to find his friend in excellent spirits. +His eyes were bright, his face was alive with interest. The change was +so marked that Converse marveled while Celeste rejoiced. + +If he had any doubts at the beginning, they were dispelled long before +the night was over. Sherrod's humor was wild, unnatural. To Converse +it soon became ghastly. To the others, it was merely cause for wonder +and the subject for many a sly remark about the "muchly married man who +finally gets a night off." + +Going homeward in the hansom, Converse, now convinced that Jud's mind +was disordered, asked in considerable trepidation if he really meant to +dine out every evening, as he had said to the others at the table. +Sherrod's hilarity, worked up for the occasion, had subsided. He was, +to the utter bewilderment of his companion, the personification of +gloominess. Involuntarily Converse moved away from his side, unable to +conquer the fear that the man was actually mad. + +"Did I say that?" came in slow, mournful tones from the drooping figure +beside him. + +"Yes," was all that Converse could reply. Sherrod's chin was on his +breast, his arms hanging limply to the seat. + +"I don't believe I care much for that sort of thing any more," he said, +slowly. + +"Why, Jud, I thought you had a bully time to-night," cried Converse, in +hurt tones. + +Sherrod looked up instantly. After a moment's silence, his hand fell +on the other's knee and there was something piteous in his voice when +he spoke. + +"Did you, old man? How in the world--" here he brought himself up with +a jerk--"I should say, how could I help having a good time?" he cried, +enthusiastically. "They are the best lot of fellows in the world. I +had the time of my life." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +THE LETTER TO CRAWLEY. + +Justine waited and waited patiently. His midnight visit was the most +dramatic event of her life. That he had come to kill her and then +himself she was slow in realizing. As the days and nights went by, the +real horror of his thought took root and grew. Sometimes she awakened +in the night cold with perspiration, dreading to see the white-faced +man in the doorway. In some of her dreams he stood above her, knife +uplifted, his face full of unspeakable malevolence. Waking she would +scream aloud and instinctively she would draw her baby close to her +breast as if seeking protection from this tiny guardian. + +His letter, intended to inspire confidence and hope, was not skillful +enough to deceive even Justine. She could read between the lines and +there she could see that he was hiding something from her. She could +not help feeling that he was facing failure and that he was miserable. +With every mail she expected to receive a letter from him in which he +would announce that he had given up the fight, and then would come the +dispatch bearing the news that he had killed himself. + +Mrs. Crane knew, of course, of Sherrod's strange visit. 'Gene Crawley +saw him but once on that occasion, looking gloomily from the window. +The two men did not speak to each other, although Crawley would have +called a greeting to him had not the man in the window turned away +abruptly as soon as he met the gaze of the one in the barnyard. The +only human creature about the little farm who did not feel the +oppressiveness was the baby, Dudley the second. He was a healthy, +happy child, and, birth-gift of tragedy though he was, he brought +sunshine to the sombre home. + +One day, three weeks after Jud's visit, Justine approached 'Gene as he +crossed the lot on his way to feed the stock in the sheds. A team of +horses occupied stalls in the barn, but they were not Justine's. When +her horses had died, 'Gene, from the savings of many months, had bought +a team of his own, and his animals were doing the work on her place. +The cow and the hogs and the chickens belonged to Justine--and Jud. +Crawley observed an unusual pallor in her face and her eyes were dark +with pain and trouble. + +"'Gene, I can't get it out of my mind that everything is not going well +with Jud," she said, as he came up to her. + +"Wasn't he all right when he was here?" asked he, slowly. She had to +hesitate for a moment before she could answer the question. She must +choose her words. + +"He has not been well, 'Gene," she said at last. "You know sickness is +a dreadfully discouraging thing in a big place like Chicago. Nobody +cares whether you get well or die, and if you get too sick to work some +one else takes your place. Jud has had a lot of bad luck and I know +he's sick and discouraged." + +"He didn't look right well when he was here," admitted 'Gene. "I +wouldn't git upset about it, 'f I was you, Justine. He'll come out all +right." + +"But maybe he is sick and can't do anything," she persisted. "When he +was here he said he'd been out of work and in a hospital for a long +time." + +"Out of work?" repeated he, slowly. + +"Yes," she went on, hurriedly, now that she had begun the confession, +"and he is in debt, too. It costs so much money to live up there, and +if one gets behind it's hard to catch up, he says. Oh, 'Gene, do you +suppose anything has happened to him? I have had no letter since last +Thursday and this is Wednesday, isn't it? I know he is sick, I know +it, 'Gene." + +"Ain't he on the paper any more?" + +"He has been off the paper for months." + +"Doin' nothin'?" + +"Some private work, but it hasn't paid well. And, besides, he hasn't +been well. That's held him back." + +"What did he say when he was here? Did he have a job in view?" + +"No," she answered, shame outfacing her pride. Neither spoke for a +long time. She was looking intently at the frozen ground, nervously +clasping and unclasping her fingers. His black eyes were upon the +white, drooping face, and his slow mind was beginning to see light. +His heart began to swell with rage against the man who had won this +prize and could not protect it. + +With the shrewdness of the countryman, he concluded that Jud had not +been able to combat the temptations of the great city. He had failed +because he had fallen. He cast a slow glance at Justine. Her head was +bent and her hands were clasping and unclasping. He knew what it was +costing her to make confession to him and lifted his head with the joy +of feeling that she had come to him for sympathy. + +"Why don't he come home if he's sick?" he asked. "He could rest up +down here an'--an' mebby that'd git him on his feet ag'in." + +"He doesn't like to give up, that's all. You know how brave and true +he is, 'Gene. It would be awful to come back here and admit that--that +he couldn't get along up there. O, I wish he would come back, I wish +he would come back," she wailed, breaking down completely. The tears +forced themselves through the fingers that were pressed to her eyes. + +"God A'mighty, how she loves him," groaned Crawley to himself. In this +moment the big blasphemer of other days loved her more deeply than ever +before in his dark, hopeless life. "Couldn't you--you write an' tell +him to come down here fer a couple of weeks or--or a month?" he +stammered, after a moment of thought. + +"He wouldn't come, 'Gene, he wouldn't come," she sobbed. "He said he +would not give up until he had made a home for me up there. When he +came the last time he was discouraged, but--but he got over it +and--and--Oh, I wish he would write to me! The suspense is killing me." + +Crawley had turned his back and was leaning against the fence. + +"He needs me, 'Gene," she said; "he needs me to cheer him on. I ought +to be with him up there." + +He started sharply and turned to her. She was looking into his eyes, +and her hands were half lifted toward him. + +"He is so lonely and I'm sure he is sick. I must go to him--I must. +That's what I want to talk to you about. How am I to go to him? What +shall I do? I can't bear it any longer. My place is with him." + +"If he ain't got a job, Justine, you'll--you'll be----" + +"You want to say that I'll be a burden to him, that's it, isn't it? +But I'll work for him. I'll do anything. If he's sick, I'll wash and +iron and sew and scrub and--oh, anything. I've been thinking about it +since last night, and you must not consider me foolish when I tell you +what I want to do. I want to borrow some money on the place." + +"You mean you want to put a morgidge on the--on the farm?" he asked, +slowly. + +"How else can I get the money, 'Gene? A small mortgage won't be so +bad, will it? What is the farm worth?" She was feverish with +excitement. + +"It's not the best of land, you know, and there ain't no improvements," +he said, still more deliberately. "You might sell the place for $800, +but I doubt it." + +"I won't sell it; it must be kept for my boy. But I can borrow a +little on it, can't I? Wouldn't David Strong let me have $200 on it?" + +"Good Lord, Justine, don't put a morgidge on the place!" he cried. +"That will be the end of it. It's the way it always goes. Don't do +anything like that." + +"There is no other way to get the money and I--I am going to Jud," she +said, determinedly, and he saw the light in her eye. + +In the end he promised to secure the money for her, and he did. The +next day Martin Grimes loaned Eugene Crawley $150, taking a chattel +mortgage on a farm wagon and harness and the two big bay horses that +stood in Justine's barn. At first she refused to take the money, but +his insistence prevailed, and three days later she and her boy left +Glenville for Chicago and Jud. She promised to acquaint Crawley with +Jud's true condition and their plans for the future. + +Crawley said good-bye to her as she climbed into Harve Crose's wagon on +the day of departure. He wished her luck in a harsh, unnatural tone, +and abruptly turned to the barn. For hours he sat in the cold mow, +disconsolate, exalted. His horses stamping below were mortgaged! Lost +to him, no doubt, but he gloried in the sacrifice. He had given his +fortune to gratify her longing to be with the man she loved. + +At sunset he trudged to the tollgate. An unreasoning longing filled +his lonely heart. When he asked for the mail there was uppermost in +his mind the hope of a letter from her, although she had been gone not +more than five hours. His loneliness increased when Mrs. Hardesty said +that there was no mail for him or Justine. For the first time in +months he felt the old longing for drink. + +"Jestine gone to Chickago fer a visit er to stay?" asked Jim Hardesty, +when Crawley joined the crowd that lounged about the big sheet-iron +stove in the store. + +'Gene did some very quick thinking in the next few minutes. He +realized that her departure had been the subject of comment and +speculation, and that it would be necessary for him to resort to +something he knew nothing about--diplomacy. Had he been an observing +man he would have noticed the sudden cessation of talk about the stove +when he first entered the toll house. The loungers had been discussing +her departure, and there would have been a murderer in their midst had +'Gene Crawley heard the remark that fell from Luther Hitchcock's lips. + +"Don't know how long she'll stay," responded 'Gene, briefly. He leaned +against the counter, crossing his legs. + +"How's Jed gittin' 'long up yander?" continued Jim. + +"All right, I reckon." + +"Justine hain't been lookin' very well lately," said Link Overshine, +from the nail-keg. + +"Hain't looked herself sence the kid come," added Hitchcock. + +"When did she last hear from Jud?" asked Link. + +"Talkin' to me?" asked Crawley. + +"Yes." + +"Well, how do you s'pose I know anything about her letters?" + +"Don't you git the mail?" + +"Harve Crose leaves it as he goes by, an' you know it, Overshine." + +"She ain't had a letter from him in more'n a week," volunteered the +postmaster. "He don't write very reg'lar here of late." + +"Does the gover'ment hire you to tell who gits letters through this +office an' when they git 'em?" demanded Crawley, sharply. Jim hitched +back in his chair nervously. + +"Why, they ain't no harm in that," explained he. + +"You talk too much fer a job like this, Jim," said Crawley. + +There followed a few moments of silence. + +"One of Grimes' men says you morgidged your team to the old man," began +Overshine. + +"Which one of Grimes' men said that?" asked 'Gene, quietly. + +"Why, I--er--lemme see, who did say it?" floundered Link, in distress. + +"Oh, it don't matter," said 'Gene, carelessly. "I just asked." + +The subject was dropped at once. The crowd watched him leave the place +and conversation was stagnant until Hardesty, who was near the window, +remarked that 'Gene was walking pretty rapidly down the road. With the +knowledge that he was out of sight and hearing, the loungers discussed +him and his affairs freely. + +It was not until the fourth day that he received a letter from Chicago, +directed in strange handwriting. A number of men were in the store +when the epistle was handed out to him by Mrs. Hardesty. Without +hesitation he tore open the envelope and began to read. The letter was +for him, beyond a doubt, but Justine had not addressed the envelope. +What had happened to her? + +He read the letter with at least a dozen eyes watching him closely, but +his dark face betrayed no sign of emotion. At the end he calmly +replaced the note in the envelope and strolled off homeward. Once out +of the hearing of the curious, he leaned against a fence, read it +again, folded it carefully, opened it and read it again, and then +lowered his hands and gazed out over the fields. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +TWO WOMEN AND A BABE. + +"Mr. Sherrod is not working for the paper now," responded a man in the +counting room when Justine, overawed, applied for information at the +office of the newspaper in which her husband's pictures had attracted +such widespread notice. At the station a policeman had put her in a +cab with directions to the driver. With her baby and her pitiful old +satchel, she was jolted over the streets and up to the door of the +newspaper office. She felt small, helpless, lost in this vast solitude +of noises. The rush of vehicles, cars and people frightened her. +Every moment she expected there would be a collision and catastrophe. +And Jud was somewhere in this seething, heartless city, sick, unhappy, +discouraged and longing for her. + +"I know," she responded, thickly, to the clerk, whose glance had been +cold and whose tones were curt. "He left here some months ago, but he +gets his mail here." + +"Does he?" brusquely. + +"I address all of my letters to this office and he gets them." + +"Country as can be," thought the clerk, his eye sweeping over her, "but +devilish pretty. Lord, what eyes she's got." Then aloud, with a +trifle more cordiality: "I'll ask Mr. Brokell if he knows where Sherrod +lives. Just wait a minute, please." As he walked away there was one +thought in his mind: "Sherrod is a lucky dog if he can get this woman +to leave her happy home for him." In a few minutes he returned with +the information that the address was not known in the office, but that +he would be glad to assist her in the search. She thanked him and +walked away. Somehow she did not like to meet the eye of this man. +There was in it an expression she had never seen before, she who had +looked only into the honest faces of countrymen. + +The shock of the clerk's blunt announcement that Jud's address was not +known to any one then in the office was stupefying. So stunned with +surprise was she that her wits did not return until she found herself +caught up by the rushing throng on the sidewalk. When she paused in +the aimless progress through the crowd she was far from the newspaper +office and paralyzed by the realization that she and the baby had +nowhere to go. In sheer terror she stopped still and looked about with +the manner of one who is aroused from a faint and finds a strange world +looking on in sympathetic curiosity. + +Busy men jostled her rudely, thoughtlessly; women arrayed as she had +seen but one in her life, stared at her as she stood frightened and +undecided in the middle of the sidewalk. There was no friendly face, +no kindly hand in all that rushing crowd. Scarcely realizing what she +did, she asked a man who leaned against the building nearby if he knew +Dudley Sherrod. The man stared at her blankly for an instant, a +sarcastic grin flashing across his hard face. The smile faded +instantly, however, for, street loafer though he was, he saw the agony +in her eyes, and knew that she had lost her way. With a politeness +that surprised himself, he answered in the negative and then advised +her to consult a directory. + +She looked so helpless and unhappy that he volunteered to lead her to +the nearest drug store. She followed him across the street, her baby +on one arm, the big "telescope" bumping against her tired leg as she +lugged it with the other hand. The city directory gave Dudley +Sherrod's address as 1837 E---- street, but she remembered that he had +left this place nearly a year before. Her friend, the lounger, advised +her to appeal to the police, but she revolted against anything +suggestive of the "criminal." To ask the police to look for her +husband was to her shocking. + +A clerk in the store was appealed to by the lounger, and that +individual agreed with him that the police alone could find "the Man," +if he was to be found at all. All this was adding new terror. Tears +came to Justine's eyes and she did not try to dash them away. Pride +was conquered by despair. The clerk, taking matters in his own hands, +called in a passing policeman, and bluntly told her to state the +situation to him. + +"In the fir'rst place, ma'am, d'ye know the felly here?" asked the +officer, regarding the lounger with an unfriendly eye. The latter +winced a bit but did his best to put up a brave show of resentment. + +"She never seen me till ten minutes ago, Maher, an' I ain't done or +said nawthin' wrong to her. Leave it to th' girl herself if I ain't +been dead square. Ain't I, ma'am?" + +"He's been very kind, policeman," answered Justine, eagerly. + +"Sure, sure, Maher, dat's right," said the lounger, triumphantly. + +"Did he's thry to touch ye, ma'am?" demanded the officer, still +unsatisfied. + +"No, sir; he did not do anything so rude. He was very kind, and I +thank him," responded she, taking the word "touch" literally. + +"What d'I tell you?" said the suspect in hurt tones. + +"Kape yer gab out, Biggs," said the officer. "I mean, ma'am, did he +ask yez fer money?" + +"Oh, no, sir," said Justine confusedly. + +"Never asked her fer a cent, on the dead----" + +"That'll do ye, Biggs. Clear out, onnyhow," said the policeman, +unpityingly. + +"Aw, dat's not right----" + +"G'wan now, will ye?" exclaimed Officer Maher, roughly shoving Mr. +Biggs toward the door. + +"Oh," cried Justine, indignantly. "Let him alone!" Her eyes were +flashing angrily. + +"It's all right, ma'am," explained the clerk, calmly. + +"But he's done nothing wrong." + +"You can't take chances with these bums. They're a bad lot. He's a +tough customer, Biggs is. Don't have anything to do with strangers on +the street. It's not safe." By this time the red-faced guardian of +the peace was with them again, and Justine reluctantly explained her +dilemma to him. + +"He worked here for a long time as a newspaper artist," she said, in +conclusion. + +"I've seen his pictures many a time," said the clerk with new interest. +"Is he your husband?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"I guess he's not on the paper now. I haven't seen his pictures for +some time." + +"He's been off the paper for nearly a year." + +"Come wid me to hidquarters, ma'am, an' the chief'll sind some wan out +to loca--ate him before night," said the officer. "Sthate yer case to +the boss. It won't be no thrick to find him." + +"I hate to have the police look for him," said she imploringly. + +"Will, thin, phat'd yez call me in fer?" demanded the officer, harshly. + +"I--I didn't call you in, sir," said she, looking helplessly at the +clerk. + +"I called you in, officer," said the clerk. "She didn't know what to +do." + +"Will, it's up to you, ma'am. We'll find him if yez say so." + +"Do you know any one else in Chicago?" asked the clerk. "Maybe there's +some one you could go to while they're trying to find your husband." + +"I don't know any one here," she said, despairingly. + +"Don't you want to leave your grip here? We'll take care of it till +you come after it." + +"That'll be all right, ma'am. It'll be safe here, an' yez don't want +to be luggin' it around town wid that kid on yer hands. L'ave it +here," said Officer Maher, and he picked it up and carried it behind +the prescription counter before she could remonstrate. The clerk +handed her a card containing the name and location of the store. + +"Oh, I do know some one here," she cried suddenly, her face +brightening. "Miss Celeste Wood. Do you think I could find her?" + +To her dismay, the name was not in the directory. + +"Does she live with her parents?" asked the clerk. + +"I--I think so," replied Justine, helplessly. + +"Do you know her father's name?" + +"No, sir. She has a brother named Randall. Would his name be in the +book?" + +Young Wood's name and address were readily found by the clerk, and +Officer Maher advised her to take a cab to the place at once. These +men unceremoniously took matters in their own hands, and, almost before +she knew it, a cab was taking her northward, bound for the home of the +girl who had so often sent her love, through Jud, to the other girl of +Proctor's Falls. + +The ride gave her ample time to reflect and she had not gone far before +her thoughts were running once more in a straight channel. Her pride +grew as the situation became plainer, displacing the first dread and +confusion. How could she go to a stranger and inflict her with her +troubles? What right had she to ask her assistance or even her +interest in this hour of need? Besides all this, the mere confession +that she could not find her husband would be humiliating to her and +explanations would be sure to put Jud in an unpleasant light. It would +mean that she must tell Miss Wood of his failure in everything, a +condition which the young woman might politely deplore, but that was +all. Her own poor garments now seemed the shabby reflection of Jud's +poverty, his degradation, his fall from the high pedestal that had been +his by promise. She could not look down into the bright, laughing eyes +of her boy and go on to the shameful exposition of his father's +misfortune. The red of pride mounted to her brown cheeks and the new +fire in her eyes burned bright with the resolution to save him and +herself from the humiliation of an appeal to Miss Wood. + +Past rows of magnificent homes she was driven, but they interested her +not at all. Beneath her pride, however, there battled the +fast-diminishing power of reason. Try as she would, she could not +drive out the stubborn spark which told her that she must call upon +some one in her helplessness--but that the "some one" should be a woman +was distressing. As she was struggling with pride and reason, the cab +turned in and drew up at the curb in front of a handsome house. Her +heart gave a great bound of dismay. + +"This is No. ----, ma'am," said the driver, as he threw open the door. + +"I--I don't believe I'll go in," she stammered, trembling in every +nerve. + +"Where shall I take you?" he asked wearily. Little he cared for the +emotions of his fares. + +"Are you sure this is the place?" she asked. + +"Yes, ma'am. Do you want to get out?" + +Fresh courage inspired her, brought about by the sharp realization that +it was the only way to find help, humiliating though the method might +be. There was no other way, and his question: "Where shall I take +you?" reminded her forcibly that she had no place to go. + +"Yes," she said, decisively, and with the haste of one who is afraid +that hesitation will bring weakness, she stepped to the carriage-block. + +"Shall I wait, ma'am?" + +"I don't know how long I'll be here," she said, her ignorance +confronted by another puzzle. The driver saw in his mind sufficient +cause for her uncertainty, and sagely concluded that she was a poor +mother who expected to find a home for her babe with the wealthy people +who lived at No. ----. + +"I'll drive into the park and be back in half an hour, ma'am, if you +think you'll be there that long," he said, and away he rolled. She +mounted the steps quickly and, after a long and embarrassing search, +found the electric button and rang the door bell. A trim maid +responded. Justine had fondly hoped that Miss Wood herself would come +to the door, and her heart sank with disappointment. + +"Is Miss Wood at home?" she managed to ask. + +"She does not live here," replied the maid, surveying the caller with a +superior and supercilious air. + +"I thought her brother----" began Justine, faintly. She felt as if she +were about to fall. + +"Mr. and Mrs. Wood live here, and they have a married daughter living +over in S---- Place. I have only been here since Monday, ma'am, and I +can't tell you her address." + +"It is Miss Celeste Wood I want to see," said poor Justine, her lip +trembling. + +"That's the name--Celeste. She was here yesterday, and I heard Mrs. +Wood speak the name. Won't Mrs. Wood do as well?" There was kindness +in the voice now; Justine's eyes had made their usual conquest. + +"I'd--I'd rather see Miss Celeste," she said, timidly. "Can't you tell +me where she lives?" + +"I'll ask Mrs. Wood. The butler'd know, but he is sick. Will you wait +inside the door? What a pretty baby." + +She was gone but a few minutes, returning before Justine's dazed eyes +had half accustomed themselves to the attractive place. + +"She lives at No. 1733 S---- Place. You go to the next corner and turn +west. The house is in the second block." + +The day was cold and her bare hands were numb. The wind from the lake +cut through her thin garments so relentlessly that she longed for the +protection of the carriage, which was not to return for half an +hour--and then to the wrong place. What if Celeste were not at home? +She could not ask to be permitted to sit in her house until her return; +that would be too much of an imposition. She could only return to the +street and wait for half an hour in the freezing winds for the cab, +which seemed like a home to her now. + +A hurrying figure in furs and brown approached from the direction in +which she was going. The two drew nearer and nearer, the one walking +rapidly against the wind, the other driven along more swiftly than was +her wont by the heavy gale at her back. Justine was the first to +recognize the other. Her heart gave a great bound of joy, for there +could be no mistaking the face of the woman who faced the wind. The +country girl jubilantly uttered in her soul a prayer of gratitude to +the Providence that had brought her face to face with the one she +sought. She half stopped as the other drew near. Celeste's eyes met +hers. Evidently she was surprised to observe a desire to speak with +her on the part of a stranger. Justine's eyes were wide with relief +and her lips were parted as if words were just inside. Celeste's eyes +narrowed for one brief instant of indecision, and then she knew. There +was but one face like Justine Van's, and it had been in her mind for +days and days. She had just come from it, in fact, and her heart was +still aching with the pain of seeing it on Jud's easel not an hour +before. But what could the girl be doing in Chicago? was the thought +that flashed into her mind. Even as she opened her lips to greet her, +her hands extended, it was known to her that Justine could be going +only to the home of Jud Sherrod. Justine's joy was too great for words +and Celeste's heart went out to her irresistibly. Despite the wanness +of the face and the dark circles under the eyes, Justine's were still +the vivid, matchless features that Celeste had envied in that other +day. Though she was sorely troubled by the inexplicable presence of +the one woman whom she had been thinking of for days, Celeste could but +greet her warmly. + +"This is the greatest surprise in the world," cried Celeste. "Who +would have dreamed of seeing you here?" + +"I have just come from your old home. They told me you lived on this +street," said Justine, her voice hoarse with emotion. + +"And you were going to my home," cried Celeste, just as if intuition +had not told her so before. "I was on my way to mother's. Isn't it +lucky we met? I will go back with you at once. You must be very cold. +And--a baby? Oh, the dear little one! How cold it must be." + +"I have him well wrapped up," said Justine. Celeste mentally noted +that the child was protected at the sacrifice of the mother's comfort, +for Justine looked half frozen. + +"Is he--is he your boy?" asked Celeste, and a wave of happiness surged +over her when the answer came. Did it not prove that she was married +and forever out of Jud's life? + +"I am sure he must be a handsome little fellow," said she, as they +turned from the sidewalk to the steps leading to the door of her home. + +"He looks like his father--and not a bit like me," said Justine, +modestly. + +"Have you named him?" + +"He is named after his father, of course." + +"A token of real love." + +"Of love, yes--he could have had no other name. I am so happy that he +is a boy." The door swung open and they were in the warm hallway. + +"You must let me see him. Bring him to the grate. But, first, take +off your hat and coat. Mary will relieve you of them. Now, let me see +him." + +Dudley, the second, was awake, wide-eyed and frightened, when he looked +up into the two faces above him. + +"Does he not look like his father?" asked Justine, happily. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +THE END OF IT ALL. + +Celeste started. Justine's innocent query rudely tore down the curtain +that had hung between her understanding and Jud's strange behavior, and +it seemed to her, in that one brief, horrible moment, that she saw all +that was black and ugly in life. + +She could take her eyes from the mother's gentle face only to let them +rest upon the features of the baby. Justine's question--"Does he not +look like his father?"--could have but one answer. Dudley Sherrod's +likeness was stamped on the face of the boy, unmistakable, accusing. +In her terror, the face of the little one seemed to age suddenly until +there loomed up before her the features of Jud, the man. + +Powerless to answer, she turned abruptly and staggered to a window, +leaning heavily against the casing, her heart like lead, her face as +white as death. She knew now the cause of everything that had +mystified and troubled her in Jud's conduct. Now she knew why the +picture of Justine was before him, now she knew why the mention of her +name threw him into confusion. The whole wretched truth was plain. + +"Oh, Jud! Oh, Jud!" she cried to herself. "Oh, this poor ruined girl! +How could he have done such a--oh, God, no, no! I must be wrong. The +resemblance is not real--it is my fancy. But--but, why does she ask me +if he looks like his father? What other father can there be--what +other man is known to both of us? But how young the boy is; Jud has +not seen her in years. He cannot be the father. Why am I afraid? Why +have I doubted him?" The voice of the other woman came to her from the +fireplace, indistinct, jumbled and as if through the swirl of a storm. + +"Pardon me, but I do not know what your name is now," was the +apologetic remark from the other side of the room, and Celeste turned +to her. + +"My name is--is Sherrod, Miss Van," she said, slowly. Justine looked +up in surprise and bewilderment. A shadow of unbelief crossed her face. + +"Sherrod?" she asked, curiously. "Why, how strange that we should have +the same name." + +"The same name, Miss Van?" + +"My name has not been Van for a long, long time. We were married +before you met us in Proctor's Falls, I'm--why, what is the matter?" + +"It is not true--it is not true," half shrieked Celeste. Justine +shrank back as if confronted by a mad woman, instinctively shielding +her boy. "Do you mean to tell me you were married to Jud Sherrod?" she +continued, scornfully. + +[Illustration: "IT IS NOT TRUE, HALF SHRIEKED CELESTE.] + +"Of course I was--don't look at me like that! What in the name of +heaven is the matter, Mrs.--Mrs.----" A sickening thought struggled +into Justine's mind. "Your name is--is Sherrod, too," she said, dully. +"Has--has Jud anything to do with it?" + +"He is not your husband," cried Celeste, pityingly. + +"What do you mean?" gasped Justine, limp and white. "Jud and I married +three years ago----" + +"Oh!" moaned Celeste. Justine's extended arm caught her as she dropped +forward. The wild blue eyes looked piteously into the frightened brown +ones, and the gray lips repeated hoarsely: "Are you sure? Are you +sure?" + +"What shall I do?" moaned Justine. "I am his wife, I know I am. +Nobody can deny it. Why, why, I have the certificate----" she went on +eagerly. Celeste struggled to her feet. + +"Then what in the name of heaven has he made of me?" she cried, +hoarsely. + +"I don't understand," murmured Justine dully. "Do you--do you love +him?" + +"Love him? Love him? Why, woman, he is my husband!" + +The world went black before Justine's eyes. She fell back in the deep +chair; her big eyes closed, her hands relaxed their clasp on the boy +and he slid to the protecting arm of the chair; her breath clogged her +throat. As consciousness fled, she saw Celeste sink to the floor at +her feet. + +A man drew aside the curtains a few minutes afterwards and planted a +heavy foot inside the room. His sombre eyes were on the floor and it +was not until he was well inside the room that his gaze fell upon the +still group at the fireplace. He paused, his tired eyes for the moment +resting wearily on the scene. Slowly his mind, which had been far +away, caught up the picture before him. His dull sensibilities became +active. + +Celeste was lying on the floor. She had fainted. He stretched forth +his arms to lift her and his eyes fell upon the upturned face of the +woman in the chair. Petrified, he stood for an age, it seemed. +Comprehension slowly forced its way into his brain. + +"Justine!" A shriek of terror burst in his throat; the sound did not +reach his lips. The end had come! It was all over! They knew--they +_knew_! They knew him for what he was. He had not the strength to +flee; he only knew that he was face to face with the end. He must +stand his ground, as well now as any time. He waited. There would be +cries, sobs, wails and bitterness. + +But no sounds came from the lips of the two women. The baby alone +stared in wonder at this strange man. The faces of the unconscious +girls were deathlike, Justine's drawn with pain, Celeste's white and +weak. Unconsciously his hand touched Justine's face, then her breast. +She did not move, but her heart was beating. With the same mechanical +calmness he dropped to one knee and half raised Celeste's head, +expecting her eyes to open. The lids lay still and dark and her neck +was limp. As he rose to his feet stiffly, his eyes fell upon the face +of the boy and it was as if he were a child again and looking at +himself in the old mirror up at the house "on the pike." + +He could not meet the smile of that innocent spectator. In a fever of +haste lest either woman should revive before he could be hidden from +their wretched eyes, he pressed cold lips to their lips, covered the +baby's face with kisses and a flood of tears that suddenly burst forth, +and then dashed blindly from the room and up the broad staircase, +terrified by the sound of his own footfalls, in dread of a piteous call +from below, eager to escape the eyes, the condemning eyes that once had +loved him. Celeste was the first to open her eyes. For many minutes +she lay where she had fallen, striving to remember how she came to be +there. Memory gradually pushed aside the kindly numbness--and she saw +clearly. Dragging herself to the mantel post, she tried to regain her +feet. The effort was vain; her strength had not returned. Leaning +against the mosaic background, she turned her eyes upon the motionless +figure in the chair. She never knew what her thoughts were as she sat +there and gazed upon the face of the other woman, Justine Van--Justine +Van, the girl of Proctor's Falls. + +At last a long sigh came from Justine's lips, there was a deep shudder +and then the fluttering lips parted, two wide, dazed eyes of brown +staring into space. Minutes passed before the gaze of the two women +met. There were no words, nothing but the fixed stare of horror. +Moved by a desperate impulse, Celeste struggled to her feet, her glazed +eyes bent upon the face of the baby. Steadying herself for an instant +against the mantel, she lurched forward, hatred in her heart, her hands +outstretched. The fingers locked themselves in the folds of the +child's dress and he was raised above the head of the frenzied woman. + +Justine's weak hand went up appealingly; she had not strength to rise +and snatch the child from the other's clutches. + +"Then kill me, too," she whispered, closing her eyes. + +A crowing laugh came from the child. The laugh of an infant who is +tossed on high and revels in the fun. A moment later he was lying in +his mother's lap and his enemy was sobbing as she laid her hand in the +dark hair of the other woman. + +A distant scream came from somewhere in the house, but the two women +did not hear it. A maid came scurrying downstairs, white and excited. +She dashed unceremoniously into the room, panting out the single +exclamation: + +"Hurry!" + +Celeste slowly turned toward her. + +"What is it, Mary?" she asked, mechanically, almost unconsciously. + +"Mr. Sherrod, ma'am--you must come quick. In the studio," gasped the +maid. + +"Is Jud here?" asked Justine, raising herself in the chair. A new +light struggled into her eyes. Celeste, cold with the certainty of +some terrible news, straightened to receive the blow. + +"Is it--bad, Mary?" she asked. + +"Oh, ma'am, I--I can't tell you," almost whispered the girl. "It's +awful! I'll see him to my dying day." + +"He--he is dead?" The question came from frozen lips. + +The maid burst into tears. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +HEARTS. + +Sherrod's body lay stretched across the rug in front of the grate in +his studio. His coat and vest had been hastily thrown aside and his +white shirt, covering the deep chest, was saturated with blood. The +carved hilt of a Malay dagger stood defiantly above the cleft heart. +The steel was deep in his body. + +He had dealt one blow, but he had sent the blade of the kris straight +home; so true was its course that death must have been instantaneous. +He lay flat on his broad back, his neck twisted as if checked in the +supreme moment of agony; death had left its stamp of pain on his +ghastly face. + +On the floor near the body a piece of white paper was found, across +which was scrawled: + +"Forgive me." + +The hand that penciled these words was the same that drove home the +blade, but it had trembled only in the writing, not in the blow. The +hasty scrawl revealed his eagerness to have over with life while there +was yet a chance to escape facing the ruined women below. The last +plea of the suicide was not directed to either of the loved ones; it +was left for each to take it to her heart and in secrecy hold it as +hers alone--cherishing it, if she could. + +His had been a crime that the law could not sufficiently punish. He +had indicted the penalty himself and he had asked forgiveness of those +he had wronged in his weakness. They had loved him to the hour of his +death; they had trusted him. Neither had known him in his baseness or +his cowardice--they knew him only as loving, devoted and true. Death +came just as the joys of being his were shattered; the pains he had +given them in life were known only after he had gone from them. They +were asked to forgive a dead man who had been everything to them in +life, and whom they had loved until his last breath was drawn; he did +not wait to receive their reproaches; he had gone away as they had +known him and they had not looked upon the face of guilt. + + * * * * * + +Celeste was the calmer of the two and yet she was the more deeply +wronged. After the first grief she arose, bleeding and broken from the +wreck of every joy, and she was strong. Justine, stunned by grief and +horror, lay for hours in the bed to which she had been carried by the +maids after the terrible scene in the studio. With the slow return of +composure, Celeste saw dimly the situation as it existed for her. She +was not a widow. The widow was the other woman who had crouched on the +opposite side of the corpse, pleading with him to come back to her and +the boy. While she could not as yet grasp the full reality of her +position, she felt that Justine's claim was best. + +It was she who had Justine taken to a room by the maids. There was no +rage in her heart; she took that other one into her grief and shared it +with her. There was no other way; they had suffered together. There +still lingered a faint hope--cruel though it was--that she might be the +real wife, and Justine the false one. Hours after the calamity, far in +the night, while her mother bathed her head and sought to soothe her, +Celeste planned and planned. + +She knew that if Justine's claim were true, Jud had deliberately made a +wanton of her, even though he loved her. The world would soon know +that she was not a wife, and the newspapers would be nauseous with the +sensation. She was confident, however, that she was the only one in +the house who knew Justine's story, and as she lay waiting for the dawn +there grew in her mind a steady purpose. The world must never know! + +Justine, pale and dead-eyed, stood looking from the window of the +bed-chamber when the knock came at her door the next morning. She did +not respond, she did not even turn her head, for her thoughts were of +the night before, and the life before that. Celeste softly opened the +door and came to her side. + +"Justine," she said gently, almost inaudibly. Dark, heavy, despairing +eyes were turned upon her and she feared for the success of her plan. + +"Am I to go to him now?" came the lifeless voice of the other. + +"Justine," said Celeste, taking a cold hand in her own, "we must +understand each other, we must know the truth. I don't think anything +that can happen now will hurt us; we are dead to all pain. We must +talk about--about ourselves." + +"I don't understand what it all means," moaned Justine. "Why can't I +go to Jud? He is mine--he is mine, and--and----" + +"But, Justine, dear, it is of this that we must talk. I--I thought he +was mine. Oh God, don't you see? I have lived as his wife for months +and--and I never knew until you came that I--that I--oh, don't you +understand?" + +Justine's unwillingness to believe evil of Jud, despite all that had +happened to prove the existence of a double life, was a barrier hard to +break down, and it was not without long entreaties and explanations +that Celeste made her see that her claim had some justification. At +last these two women brought themselves down to the point from which +the situation could be seen plainly in all its unhappy colorings. +Together in the darkness that he had cast about them they groped their +way toward the light of understanding; as they went, the heart of each +was bared to the other, and both saw and sought to ease the pain the +rents disclosed. + +There was no denying Justine's right to call Jud husband. Celeste saw +her every hope slipping away as she listened to the story of the +courtship and marriage in the little country lane. She knew now that +she had never been a wife, and she knew that she had to live all the +rest of her life beneath an ugly shadow. Whatever were her thoughts of +the man who had so basely wronged her, she kept them to herself. Not +one word of reproach did she utter in the presence of the wife and +mother. The consequences of his crime were hers to bear, and her only +object in life now was to prevent others from sharing them with her, to +prevent the world from knowing of their existence. If she loathed the +memory of the man who had despoiled her honor, she held that loathing +secret. To the world, he was her husband, and the world should see her +mourn for him. + +Her proposition to Justine was at first indignantly rejected, but so +skillfully did she paint the picture of her position in life as Jud had +left it for her, that the tender, honest girl from the country fell +completely under the influence of her pleading. Justine was made to +see Jud's fault in all its blackness, and was urged to share in the +effort to protect his memory. No one was to know of the double life he +had led; no one was to know of his crime; no one was to curse his +memory; two women alone were to--forget, if they could. + +Between them it was agreed that in Chicago Justine was to appear as a +cousin of the dead man, and the funeral obsequies were to be conducted +with the real wife in the background, the other as the deepest mourner. +The body was to be taken afterwards to Clay township for burial, and +there Justine was to claim her dead, with Celeste posing as the good +friend in the hour of direst trouble. That was the general plan, the +minor but intricate details being intrusted to Celeste. + +"Here he was my husband, and the world may never be the wiser," said +she, taking the other to her grateful heart. "Down there he is yours, +and no one there must know how he has served you. You can save me, +Justine, and I can shield him from the curses of your people. He will +lie in the grave you dig for him away down there, and your friends may +always look upon his headstone and say: 'He was a good man. We all +loved him.' It is fair, Justine, and I will love you to my dying day +for doing all this for me." + +"I love you," said Justine, and they went forth to play their unhappy +parts. + +It was Celeste, keen and bold in her desperation, who wrote the letter +to 'Gene Crawley, signing a fictitious name, Justine looking over her +shoulder with streaming eyes. It briefly told of a sudden death and +ended with the statement that a telegram would follow announcing the +time of leaving Chicago with the body. The newspapers in the city told +the story of the suicide, giving the cause as ill-health, and pictured +the grief of the young widow. Celeste saw the reporters herself. +Purposely, deliberately she misinformed them in many of the details +regarding his birthplace and his earlier life. This act of shrewdness +on her part was calculated to mislead the people of Clay township, and +it succeeded. No one could connect the identity of the suicide with +that of the youth who had gone out from that Indiana community long ago. + +How the two women lived through the funeral service in S---- Place was +past all understanding. + +The real wife heard the sobs of the other and choked with the grief she +was compelled to suppress. The other wept, but who knows whether the +tears were tribute of love for the man over whom the clergyman said +such gentle, hopeful words? A dead man and two women knew the story +that would have shocked the world. One could not speak, the others +would not. And so he was eulogized. + +That night the two women and their dead left Chicago for Glenville. +Their only companion was Dudley Sherrod, the second. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +CRAWLEY'S LEGACY. + +The people of Clay Township were kept in the dark concerning the manner +in which Jud came to his death. The letter to 'Gene merely announced +that his sudden death was due to a hemorrhage, and another letter to +Parson Marks from Justine's friend in the city bore the same news. +Naturally Jud's friends believed that the hemorrhage was of the lungs, +which inspired ninety per cent. of them to say that they had always +regarded him as frail. Some went so far as to recall predictions made +when he was a boy to the effect that he "wouldn't live to see thirty +year." + +Crawley and Harve Crose drove to Glenville in Harve's wagon to meet the +train, prepared to haul the casket to the cemetery, where Mr. Marks was +to conduct short services. There was no hearse in Glenville, but there +was a carpenter who buried people as a "side line." Rich people in the +neighborhood sent to an adjoining county seat for embalmers and +undertakers; Clay township buried its dead at it was able and saw fit. +Justine would not permit Celeste to pay the expenses of the funeral at +Jud's old home and she herself could not afford the luxury of a hearse +and mourners' carriage. The arrangements were in the hands of Mr. +Marks, Crawley and Crose, and the details were of the simplest +character. + +The aristocratic "two-seated rig" of David Strong and Martin Grimes's +surrey were at the station to act as conveyances for Justine and the +minister and a select few. Dozens of buggies, buckboards and not a few +spring wagons fell in behind the "mourners' carriages" when the cortege +left the depot platform, headed for the cemetery four miles away. +Justine, her face hidden in a dense veil of black, occupied the back +seat in David Strong's vehicle, and the whole country-side longed to +comfort her. By her side sat a pale, beautiful woman in a simple gown +of black--the city friend the community had heard so much about. The +baby found a comfortable resting place in the capacious lap of Mrs. +Strong, who sniffled continuously while her husband drove solemnly and +imposingly through the streets of the village. The town looked on with +sombre gaze and the country spoke in a respectful whisper. Sad was the +home-coming of the Sherrods. + +The long procession, headed by the wagon containing the casket, wound +its slow way out into the country, through the winter-clean lane, past +the house in which Jud and Justine were married, and up to the gate of +the dilapidated, weather-worn "burying-ground" on the hill. In +oppressive silence, the throng crowded over and about the weed-covered +graves in the ill-kept little cemetery to witness every movement in +connection with the ceremony. They saw the casket lifted from the +wagon bed by six young men and they opened a pathway from the gate to +the grave through which the pall-bearers passed with heavy tread; they +saw the long black box in which Dudley Sherrod had come home lowered +into the clay-colored gulf; they saw Justine, moaning as she stood +between old Mrs. Crane and the stranger from the city; but they could +not see the heart of that white-faced stranger, who looked with +tear-dimmed eyes into the grave at her feet. + +Justine's grief was pitiful. Not a man, woman or child in that +assemblage but shed tears of genuine sympathy. The men and women who +had gathered at the pastor's home not many months before to condemn +her, now stood among the graves and wept with her. Not a few cast +curious eyes upon the fair stranger and went away to say afterwards +that she was the kind of friend to have. + +The choir of the little church sang several hymns from books that Jud +and Justine had used in days gone by. Heads were bared in the biting +air, and no man was there who did not do full honor to Jud Sherrod, the +goodliest boy the township had ever produced. The grief of the people +was honest. Mr. Marks, inspired by the opportunity, delivered such a +discourse on the goodness, the nobility of the young man, that the +community, with one voice, proclaimed it to be a masterpiece of oratory. + +"And to this devoted young wife, for whom he struggled so manfully, so +loyally up to the very hour of his taking away, God gives His boundless +pity and will extend His divinest help. Dudley Sherrod, our departed +brother, was the soul of honor. He loved his home and the mistress of +it second only to his Maker. I voice what is known to the world at +large when I say that never lived there a man whose heart was more +thoroughly given over to the keeping of woman. And she loved and +revered him, and we see her inconsolable, bereft of all earthly joy. +We pray God that she may see the brightness beyond this cloud that He +has in His wisdom thrown about her. And we pray for the life, the soul +of this baby boy who lies fatherless in this--er--this cold world. He +will never know the love of a father. We all glory in the privilege of +having known this true, honest Christian man, a man whose life bore not +a single blemish. His life was an example to all mankind. Oh, ye who +listen to my words in this sad hour, strive to emulate his example. Do +ye as he has done, live the life he has lived. How many of us are +there who might have lived as he--er--did--if we but had the courage to +follow the impulses of the soul. He has gone to his reward." + + * * * * * + +Just before the shades of night fell across the grief-ridden community, +Justine escaped the kind ministrations of Mrs. Crane, Mrs. Hardesty, +Mrs. Bolton and other good dames who had followed her to the cottage +after the chill services in the cemetery for the purpose of comforting +her. They had gone to the cottage with red eyes, choking whispers and +hands eager to lift her up, and she was trying to avoid these good +offices. She crept into the bleak little room upstairs to which +Celeste had long since fled to find solitude for her broken heart. + +Celeste was stretched upon the bed, face downward, and her slim body +was as still as Jud's had been. The feeling of dread in Justine's +heart was not dispelled until her hands touched the warm cheek, and her +ear caught the sound of a faint, tear-choked sigh. + +"It is I, Celeste," she said, gently. "Won't you let me hold you in my +arms? See! I am strong again and I must take some one to my heart. +It seems so empty, so dead, so cold. You don't hate me for this day, +do you?" + +Celeste turned her face to the girl above and stretched forth her hand. + +"I love you, Justine," she sobbed, and their wet faces were pressed +close together on the same pillow. After many minutes she asked +abruptly: "What are you going to do, Justine?" + +"Do?" asked the other, blankly. "I don't know. I haven't thought." + +"You will not stay here, you cannot stay here where--where----" + +"But where can I go? What do you mean?" + +"I want to be with you always--I want to be near his--your boy," said +the other. "Oh, Justine, I must have some one to love, I must have +some one to love me. Don't you see, can't you see? I want you to love +me and I want his boy to love me. You--you cannot stay here--you shall +not stay here and suffer alone; you must not bear it all alone. We +took the blow together, dearest Justine; let us bear it together, let +us live through it together." + +And so it was that the women Jud Sherrod had made happy and unhappy in +his brief, misguided life, found a vacant place each in the heart of +the other and filled that place with the love that could not be +dishonored. It was a long time before Justine could fully comprehend +the extent of the other's proposition and it was much longer before she +was won over by almost abject pleading on the part of the wretched, +lonely girl who had been wife in name only. + +Celeste convinced Justine that she was entitled to all that Jud had +left as a legacy; she deliberately classified herself as a part of his +estate, an article among his goods and chattels, and as such she +belonged to his widow and heir. The home in S---- Place was, by right +of law, Justine's, argued the pleader, and all that Jud had died +possessed of was in that house. So persistent was she in the desire to +obtain her end that she triumphed over Justine's objections. It was +settled that they were to live together, travel together so long as +both found the union agreeable. + +Celeste's plan included a long stay in Europe, a complete flight from +all that had been laid bare and waste in the world they had known with +him. In two weeks they were to sail and there was no time set for +their return. Justine's most difficult task was to be performed in the +interim. It was to be the rewarding of Eugene Crawley. + +She had seen him at the grave-side, standing directly opposite her +across the narrow opening in the ground. The pallor of his face was so +marked that even she had observed it. He had not raised his eyes to +look at her, but she had seen his chest rise and fall. + +The third day after the funeral she faced Crawley in the barn-lot. +With Celeste she was to leave that evening for Chicago and the time had +come for settlement. She stood near the little gate that led to the +barn-lot and he approached slowly, uncertain as to the propriety of +addressing this woman in grief. It was to be his first word to her +since he said good-by on the day that took her to Chicago with his +money in her purse, the price of his horses. He had staked his all to +give her the means to find Sherrod and she had found him. + +"'Gene, I am going away," she said, extending her hand as he came up. + +"Going away?" he repeated, blankly. + +"Yes. Miss Wood has asked me to accompany her to Europe and--and I am +going." + +He was silent for a long time, his dazed eyes looking past her as if +sightless. + +"That's--that's a long ways to go, Justine," he said at last, and his +voice was husky. The broad hand which had held hers for an instant, +shook as he laid it on the gate post. + +"It is very good of her, 'Gene, and I love her so much," she said. She +saw again that love was not dead in his heart and the revelation +frightened her. "You have been so good to me, 'Gene, and I don't know +how I am ever to repay you," she hurried on, eager to pass the crisis. + +"You--you c'n pay me in your own way an' in your own time," he said, +looking intently at the ground, uncertain of his own meaning. + +"We leave to-night," she said, "and I must not go away without--without +settling with you." + +"Settlin' with me," he echoed. There was no passing over the +bitterness in his voice. "You are goin' to-night. Good God!----" he +burst out, but the new habit of self-repression was strong. "I beg +your pardon, Justine," he went on a moment later. "To-night?" + +"Mr. Strong will take us to the train at six o'clock," she said. She +had not looked for so much emotion. "'Gene, I owe you so much that I +don't see how I am ever to pay you. Not only is it money that I owe, +but gratitude. I have thought it all out, 'Gene, and there is only one +way in which I can pay the smallest part of my debt, for the debt of +gratitude can never be paid. I have sent for 'Squire Rawlings +and--and, 'Gene, I know you won't misunderstand me--I am going to ask +you to accept this farm from me, to be yours and yours only. The +'Squire will bring the deed, and----" + +"Justine!" he exclaimed, looking her full in the eyes. "You wouldn't +do that--you don't mean that!" The darkest pain she had ever seen was +in his eyes. + +"You deserve it and more----" she began, shrinking before his gaze. He +held up his hand piteously and turned his face away, and she could see +his struggle for control. At last he turned to her, his face white and +drawn, his eyes steady, his voice less husky than before. + +"You must never say such a thing to me ag'in, Justine. I know you +meant all right an' you thought I'd be satisfied with the bargain, but +you--you mustn't offer to pay me ag'in. You've paid me all that's +comin' to me, you've paid me by makin' a good man of me, that's what +you've done. I'd die before I'd take this--this land o' your'n an' +that little boy's. You're mighty good an'--an'---- Oh, cain't you see +it's no use in me tryin' to talk about it? Wait! You was about to +begin beggin' me to take it. I want to ast you as the greatest favor +you ever done for me, don't say it. Don't say it. I cain't stand it, +Justine!" + +"Forgive me, 'Gene, forgive me," she said, tears streaming down her +cheeks. "You deserve more than I can ever give you, dear friend. I +did not mean to hurt you----" + +"It's all over, so let's say no more about it," he said, breathing +deeply and throwing up his head. "I'll take keer o' your farm while +you're gone, Justine, an' it'll be here in good order when you're ready +to come back to it. It'll be kept in good shape for the boy. Don't +you ever worry about the place. It's your'n an' I'll take good keer of +it for you. You're goin' to ketch the evenin' train?" + +"Yes," she said gently, "and I may be gone for a long time, 'Gene." + +"Well," he said with difficulty, "I guess we'd better say +good--good-bye. You've lots to do in the house an' I want to do some +work in the wagon-shed. Good-bye, Justine; be--be good to yourself." +It was the greatest battle that rough 'Gene Crawley had ever waged, but +he came out of it without a scar to be ashamed of. + +"I want to ask you to--to look after Jud's grave, 'Gene," she said, her +hand in his. "There is no one else I can ask, and I want it kept +better--better than the rest up there. Will you see to it for me?" + +"I'll--I'll 'tend to it for you, Justine," he said, but his face went +pale. + +For a full minute she looked, speechless, upon the white, averted face +of the man whose love was going to its death so bravely, and a great +warmth crept into her cold veins--a warmth born in a strange new +tenderness that went out to him. A sudden, sharp contraction of the +heart told her as plainly as though the message had come in words that +the love in this man's heart would never die, never falter. Somehow, +the drear, chill prospect grew softer, warmer in the discovery that +love could still live in this dead, ugly world, that after all fires +were burning kindly for her. There was a thrill in her voice as she +murmured, brokenly: + +"Good-bye, 'Gene, and God bless and keep you." + +"Good-bye," he responded, releasing her hand. He did not raise his +eyes until the door of the cottage closed after her. + +At dusk David Strong drove away from the little house in the lane, and +the Sherrods went with him. 'Gene Crawley stood in the shadow of the +barn, his hopeless eyes fastened on the vehicle until it was lost among +the trees. + +A sharp, choking sound came from his throat as he turned those dark, +hungry eyes from the purple haze that screened the carriage from view. +About him stretched the poor little farm, as dead as his hopes; at his +back stood the almost empty barn; yonder was the deserted house from +which no gleam of light shone. + +He was alone. There was nothing left but the lifeless, unkind shadows. +Slowly he strode to the little gate through which she had passed. His +hands closed over the pickets tenderly and then his lips were pressed +to the latch her fingers had touched in closing the gate perhaps for +the last time--closing it with him a prisoner until she chose to come +back and release him. + +A moment later his face dropped to his arms as they rested on the post, +and he sobbed as though his heart would break. + + + + + THE GROSSET & DUNLAP + ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS + OF FAMOUS BOOKS + + +The following books are large 12mo volumes 5-3/4 x 8-1/4 inches in +size, are printed on laid paper of the highest grade, and bound in +cloth, with elaborate decorative covers. 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