The Sherrods Part 25

"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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sa.s.sin, sneaking, cringing, shivering? With a groan he recklessly strode forward to the dark window frame. His fingers touched the gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s.

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 a.s.sailed 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 ma.s.s 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, hoa.r.s.ely, 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 G.o.d, 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 m.u.f.fled 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, G.o.d!" 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."