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.