The Sherrods Part 34

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 ent.i.tled to all that Jud had left as a legacy; she deliberately cla.s.sified 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sing over the bitterness in his voice. "You are goin' to-night. Good G.o.d!----" 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 grat.i.tude. 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 grat.i.tude 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed. 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.