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!
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.
"HIS EYES TOOK IN THE PICTURE.""HIS EYES TOOK IN THE PICTURE."
"HIS EYES TOOK IN THE PICTURE.""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.
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 overhisgood 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 theGlenville Weekly Tomahawkprovided 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 youareafraid 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 theWife'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."
"'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 tosaythere'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.