Judith of the Cumberlands Part 31

There was a sound at the door. Andy and Jeff came awkwardly in, and while they all stood looking, Creed's eyes opened suddenly upon them. Andy put out a hand swiftly.

"I'm mighty sorry for--for all that chanced," he said huskily.

"So 'm I," Jeff instantly seconded him.

Creed looked at them both with a little puzzled drawing of the brows; then the ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, and his hand that lay on the covers moved weakly toward theirs.

"It's all right," he said, scarcely above a whisper--the first words he had uttered. "I told--Aunt Nancy--you were good--boys--" he faltered to a hesitating close, his eyelids drooped over the tired eyes; but they flashed open once more with a smile that included Judith and her uncle standing back of the two.

"You're all--mighty--good--to me," said Creed Bonbright. And again he sank into that lethargic sleep.

As the day advanced came the visitors that are the torment of a sick-room in the country. It would scarcely have been thought that a bare land like that could produce so many. Finally Judith went to her uncle and begged that Creed be no longer made a show of, and that old Dilsey set out food in the other room and entertain those who came, without promising that they should see the sick man.

"Uh--huh," agreed Jephthah, understandingly, "I reckon yo' about right, Jude. Creed's obliged to lay there like a baby an' sleep ef he's to have any chance for his life. I don't want to fall out with the neighbours, but we'll see if we cain't make out with less visitin'."

But this prohibition was not supposed to apply to Iley Turrentine, a member of the family. About eight o'clock that morning, having then for the first time heard of the arrival at the cabin, she came hurrying across the slope with the baby on her hip. Long abstinence had made keen that temper of hers, and here was a situation where virtue itself cried to arms. She was eager to give Creed Bonbright a piece of her mind.

"You cain't go in unless'n you'll promise to be plumb quiet--not to open yo' mouth," Judith told her sharply. "Uncle Jep ain't here right now--but that's what he said."

"Don't Bonbright know folks? Cain't a body talk to him? Is he plumb outen his head?" demanded Iley, somewhat taken aback.

"He knew some of us a while ago," admitted Judith, "but mostly he doesn't notice nothing--jest stares right in front of him, and Uncle Jep said we mustn't let him be talked to nor werried."

The big red-headed woman, considerably lowered in note, stepped inside the door of the sick-room, hushing the child in her arms. A moment she stood staring at the bed and its single occupant, at the pale face on the pillow, then she burst suddenly into tempestuous sobs and fled.

Judith followed her out.

"What's the matter, Iley? You never set much store by Creed Bonbright--what you cryin' about?" she asked.

"Hit's--Huldy," choked the sister. "I reckon you thort I talked mighty big about the business the last time you an' me had speech consarnin'

hit; but the facts air that I don't know a thing about whar she's at, nor how she's doin'. Judy, ef yo' a-goin' to take keer o' the man, cain't ye please ax him for me when did he see Huldy last, an'--an' is they wedded?"

Judith a.s.sented. She knew what her uncle would think of such an inquiry being put to the sick man, yet her own heart so fiercely demanded knowledge on this point that she promised Iley she would ask the question as soon as she dared.

The week that followed was a strange one to active Judith Barrier, used to out-door life under the sky for such a large part of her days. Now those same days were bounded by the four walls of a sick-room, the sole matter of importance in them whether the invalid took his gruel well, whether he had seemed better, whether her uncle spoke encouragingly of the eventful outcome of this illness. Old Jephthah himself nursed Creed, and Judith was but a helper; yet, such was her torture of uncertainty, of anxiety, that she often left to go to her own room and get some sleep, only to return and beg that she might be allowed to sit outside the threshold for the rest of the night and be ready if she were needed.

"Ain't no use wearin' yourself out thataway," her uncle used to say kindly. "That won't do Creed no good, nor you neither. I wish to the Lord I had Nancy here to he'p me!"

For in this day of real need he dropped all banter about Nancy's value in sick-room practice, and longed openly for her a.s.sistance. Creed had been in the house nearly a week and was showing marked improvement, when Judith got a message from Blatch Turrentine--Would she be at the draw-bars 'long about sundown? He had something to tell her.

She paid no attention to the request, but it put her in mind to do finally what she had long contemplated--write to her cousin Wade. It was but a short scrawl, stating that Creed Bonbright was sick at their house, and not able to tell them anything concerning Huldah, and that Iley and the others were troubled. Would Wade please ask information in Hepzibah, and write to his affectionate cousin.

Every day Iley made a practice of coming up and sitting dejectedly in the kitchen till Judith entered the room, when she would draw her mysteriously to one side and say:

"Have ye axed him yet? What did he tell ye? I'm plumb wo' out and heart-broke' about it, Jude."

Though Judith realised fully just how much of this display proceeded from a desire on Iley's part for notice, yet her own pa.s.sionate, rebellious heart seconded the idle woman, and allowed the continual harping on that string to finally drive her to the set determination that, as soon as Creed could talk to her at all, she would ask him about Huldah.

Had she lacked resolution, the patient himself would have supplied and hardened it. About this time he developed a singular form of low delirium in which he would lie with closed eyes, murmuring--murmuring--murmuring to himself in a hurried, excited whisper. And always the burden of his distress was:

"I must get to her. Where is she? It's a long ways. Oh, I've got to get to her--there's n.o.body else."

Kneeling by his bed, her burning gaze upon his shut eyes and moving lips, Judith racked her soul with questioning. Often she heard her own name in those fevered whisperings; once he said with sudden determination, "I'm going home." But she listened in vain for mention of Huldah.

And what might that mean? All that she hoped? Or all that she dreaded?

Oh, she could not bear this; she must know; she must--must--must ask him.

The Evil One, having provided the counsel, was not slow in following it up with the necessary opportunity. Judith was sitting with Creed alone, on a Wednesday night--he had come to them the preceding Tuesday. Her uncle being worn out had planned to sleep till midnight, thus dividing the watch with her. About eleven o'clock Creed opened his eyes and asked in what seemed to her a fairly natural tone for a drink. She brought it to him, and when he had drank he began speaking very softly.

"I'm glad I came back to the mountains," he said in a weak, whispering voice. "I promised you I'd come, and I did come, Judith."

"Yes," answered Judith, putting down the gla.s.s and seating herself at the bedside, taking his hand and stroking it softly, studying his face with intent, questioning eyes. "You know where you are now, don't you, Creed?"

He smiled at her.

"I'm in the front room at your house where we-all danced the night of the play-party," he said. "I loved you that night, Judith--only I hadn't quite found out about it."

The statement was made with the simplicity of a child--or of a sick man.

It went over Judith with a sudden, sweet shock. Then her jealous heart must know that it was really all hers. Nerve racked as only a creature of the open can be after weeks of confinement in a sick-room, torn with the possessive pa.s.sion of her earth-born temperament, she stood up suddenly and asked him in a voice of pain that sounded harsh and menacing,

"Creed, whar's Huldy?"

"I don't know," returned Creed tremulously. The blue eyes in their great hollows came up to her face in a frightened gaze. Instantly they lost their clearness; they clouded and filmed with that look of confusion which had been in them from the first.

"You're married to her--ain't you?" choked Judith, horrified at what she had done, loathing herself for it, yet pushed on to do more.

"Yes," whispered Creed miserably. "Sit down by me again, Judith. Don't be mad. What are you mad about? I forget--there was awful trouble, and somebody was shot--oh, how they all hate me!"

The fluttering moment of normal conditions was gone. The baffled, confused eyes closed; the thin hands began to fumble piteously about the covers; the pale lips resumed their rapid motion, while from between them flowed the old, swift stream of broken whispers.

Judith had quenched the first feeble flame of intelligence that flickered up toward her. She remained a moment staring down at her handiwork, then covered her face, and burst out crying. An ungentle grasp descended upon her shoulder. Her uncle, standing tall and angry behind her, thrust her from the room.

"Thar now!" he said with carefully repressed violence, lest his tones should disturb the sick man. "You've raised up a pretty interruption with my patient. I 'lowed I could trust you, Jude. What in the world you fussin' with Creed about? For G.o.d's sake, did you see him? You've nigh-about killed him, I reckon. Didn't I tell you not to name anything to him to werry him?"

"He says he's married Huldy," said Judith in a strangled voice.

"Say! He'd say anything--like he is now," retorted her uncle, exasperated. "An' he'd sh.o.r.e say anything on earth that was put in his mouth. I don't care if he's married forty Huldy's; what I want is for him to get well. Lord, I do wish I had Nancy here, and not one of these fool young gals with their courtin' business and their gettin' jealous and having to have a rippit with a sick man that don't know what he's talkin'

about," he went on savagely.

But high-spirited Judith paid no attention to the cutting arraignment.

"Do you think that's true--oh, Uncle Jep, do you reckon he didn't mean it?" was all she said.

"I don't see as it makes any differ," retorted her uncle, testily.

"Marryin' Huldy Spiller ain't no hangin' matter--but hit'll cost that boy his life ef you fuss with him and git him excited and all worked up."

Judith turned and felt her way blindly up the steep little stair to her own room. That night she prayed, not in a formulated fashion, but to some vague, over-brooding goodness that she hoped would save her from cruelty to him she loved.