CHAPTER XIX.
THE PURE AND THE POOR.
For four months Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Sherrod wandered over Europe. They saw Paris, Venice, Rome, Amsterdam, Brussels, Vienna and quaint German towns, unknown to most American tourists. Celeste had visited the Old World many times before, but it was all new to her now; she was traveling with the man she loved. To Sherrod, the wonders of the land he had never hoped to see were a source of the most intense delight. His artistic, romantic nature leaped under the spur of awakening forces; his love for the beautiful, the glorious, the quaint and the curious was satiated daily. He lived in the perfect glory of the present, doggedly disregarding the past and braving everything that the future might bring forth, good or evil.
Basking in the love of this fair girl, adoring her and being adored, he lost all vestige of conscience. The shadow that hung over him on the wedding day drifted away into forgetfulness, and he saw nothing but the pleasures of life. A dread that the law would surely find him out and snatch him from the love and respect of two women, devastating the lives of both, was dissipated by degrees until scarcely a line across his brow was left to mark its course within.
Once a week he sent loving letters home to Justine, letters full of tenderness and affection. Often a mist of tears came to his eyes as he thought of her, wishing that she, too, might be with them on this happy tour. At times he saw his selfishness and was ashamed, but the brightness of life with Celeste overcame these touches of remorse and he sank back into the soft cushions of bliss and—forgot. Letters from Justine were rare, and he kissed them passionately and read them over and over again—before he destroyed them. Here and there the Sherrods wandered, the rich and loving wife's purse the provider, dawdling and idling in dreamland.
At last she confessed to him that she was tired of the Continent and was eager to get back to Chicago, where she could have him all to herself in the home over which he was to be master. So deep in luxury and forgetfulness was he, that future pain seemed impossible, and he did not even oppose her wish. But as the steamer drew away from the dock he grasped the rail and for an instant his body turned numb.
"Back to America!" he gasped, realizing at last. "Oh! how long can I hold it off? What will be the end of it?"
In the meantime, Clay township was in a turmoil of gossip. Poor Justine was discussed from one prayer service to another, and with each succeeding session of the gossips the stories were magnified. Quite unconscious of the storm brewing about her innocent head, she struggled painfully on with her discouraging work, the dullness of life brightened once a week or so by letters from across the sea. Every night she prayed for the safe return of that husband-lover, and there was no hour that did not find her picturing the delights of meeting after these months of separation.
She heard nothing of the wedding that Parson Marks and Jim Hardesty discussed months before. The few Glenville and Clay township people who saw the account in the papers may have regarded the coincidence in names remarkable, but attached no other significance to the affair. Certainly no one mentioned it to Justine. Jud's letter swept the doubts and fears from the mind of Mr. Marks and the incident was forgotten.
From her face there began to disappear the glorious colors of health; the bright eyes were deep with a new wistfulness. But her strong young figure never drooped.
At last 'Gene Crawley became aware of the gossip. He saw the sly looks, the indirect snubs, the significant pauses in conversation, when he or she drew nigh. For weeks he controlled his wrath, grinding his teeth in secret over the injustice of it all. In the end, after days of indecision, he told himself that but one course was left open to him. He must leave the country.
But there was left the task of telling Justine of his resolve. Would she despise him for deserting her in the hour of greatest need? He could not tell her that scandal was driving him away for her sake. To let her know that the neighbors had accused her of being false to Jud would break her heart. To run away surreptitiously would be the act of a coward; to tell her the real reason would be cruel; to leave designedly for a better offer of wages would be base under the circumstances. In the last few weeks she had depended on him for everything; he had become indispensable.
While he was striving to evolve some skillful means of breaking the news to her gently, the populace of Clay township made ready to take the matter in its own hands. Parson Marks, to whom nearly every member of his congregation had come with stories of misconduct at the little place down the lane, finally felt obliged to call a general meeting to consider the wisest plan of action in the premises. The word was passed among the leading members of the church, and it was understood that a secret meeting would be held in the pastor's home on a certain Thursday night. Justine had a few true friends and believers, but they were not asked to be present; no word was permitted to reach the ears of either offender.
That Thursday night came, and with it also came to 'Gene's troubled mind the sudden inspiration to go before the young minister and lay bare his intentions, asking his help and advice.
The "neighbors" timed their arrival at the parson's home so thoughtfully that darkness had spread over the land long before the first arrival drew up and hitched his team in the barn-lot. By half-past eight o'clock there were twenty immaculate souls in the parlor and sitting room of the parsonage, and Mrs. Ed. Harbaugh, the president of the Woman's Home Missionary Society, was called upon to state the object of the meeting, Mr. Marks observing that he preferred to sit as a court of appeals. A stiffer-backed gathering of human beings never assembled under the banner of the Almighty, ready to do battle for Christianity. There was saintly courage in every face and there was determination in every glance of apprehension that greeted the creaking of a door or the nicker of a horse. When Jim Hardesty, while trying to hitch his horse to a fence post in a dark corner of the barn-lot, exploded as follows: "Whoa, damn ye!" everybody shivered, and Mrs. Bolton said she wondered "how 'Gene Crawley heerd about the meetin'." Mr. Hardesty never could understand why his entrance a few minutes later was the signal for such joy.
"It's our bounding duty," said Mrs. Harbaugh in conclusion, "to set right down as a committee an' directate a letter to Jud Sherrod, tellin' him jest how things is bein' kerried on over to his house. That pore feller is off yander in Europe or Paris some'ere's, doin' his best to git ahead in the world, an' his wife is back here cuttin' up as if old Satan hisself had got into her."
"But how air we to git a letter to Jed ef we don't know where he's at?" demanded Mr. Hardesty. "I been workin' fer the gover'ment long enough to know that you cain't git a letter to a feller 'nless it's properly addressed. Now, who knows where he's to be found?" The speaker looked very wise and important. The truth is, he was inclined to favor Justine, but his wife's stand in the controversy made it imperative for him to express other views.
"I sh'd think a postal card would catch him at Europe," volunteered Ezekiel Craig. Parson Marks stared at the speaker.
"But Europe is not a city, Mr. Craig," he said.
"No, of course not," exclaimed Mr. Hardesty, contemptuously. "It's an umpire."
"Well, I didn't know," murmured Mr. Craig, and his voice was not heard again until he said good-night to the door post when he left the parson's house.
"Mebby somebody could find out his address from Justine," said Mrs. Grimes. "Needn't let on what it's fer, y' see, an' thataway we couldn't take no chances on wastin' a stamp."
"I kin ast her," said Mrs. Bolton. "I'm goin' over to her house to-morry to see if I c'n borry a couple pounds o' sugar. Dear me, I never did have sitch luck with watermillon preserves as I'm havin' this year. Silas, I leave it to you if I ain't sp'iled more——"
"We ain't yere to talk about preserves, Liz, so shet up," interrupted her better half sourly.
"That's right, Si. I wish to gosh I could shet mine up like that," said Mr. Hardesty, enviously.
"Why, Jim Hardesty, you ain't sayin' that I talk too much," cried his wife, indignantly.
"You don't say 'leven words a day, my dove," said he, arising and bowing so low that his suspenders creaked threateningly. Then he winked broadly at the assemblage, and the women tittered, whereupon Mrs. Hardesty glared at them greenly.
"We are getting away from the subject, please," came the mild reproof of the pastor.
"How fer had we got?" demanded Deacon Bossman.
"We hain't got anywheres yet," said Mrs. Harbaugh. "That's what we're talkin' about, deacon."
"Hain't found out where Jud's at yet?"
"Have you been asleep?" demanded the chairman.
"I'd like to know how in thund—I mean, how in tarnation—er—how in the world I could go to sleep with all you women talkin' to onct about dresses an' so forth——"
"We ain't mentioned dress to-night," snorted the chairman. "You better 'tend to——"
"Come, come; we must get along with the business," remonstrated the pastor.
"I want to make a motion," said the postmaster, rising impressively. When he had secured the attention of the crowd he walked solemnly to the door, opened it and expectorated upon the porch. Then, wiping his lips with the back of his hairy hand, he returned to his position in the circle.
"I move you, Mr. Cheerman—er, Mrs. Cheerman, beggin' your excuse—that we app'int a committee to see how much truth they is in these reports afore we go to puttin' our foot—er, properly speakin'—our feets in it too da—too extry deep." There was a dead silence and Jim looked serenely up at the right-hand corner of the parson's clothes-press, expecting the wrath of the virtuous to burst about him at any moment.
"I don't think we need any more committee than our own eyes, Jim," said his wife, feeling her way.
"Well, then, if that's the case, I move you we app'int a committee of hearts to work j'intly with the eyes," said James, soberly, still looking at the closet.
"I make an amendment," said Mrs. Bolton sharply. "Mrs. Cheerman, I amend that we app'int a committee of three to go to Justine an' tell her this thing's got to stop an'——"
"It seems to me——" began Mr. Marks.
"I think it'd be best if we'd write to her an' sign no name," said Mrs. Grimes.
"That's a good idy," mused Mr. Bolton.
"Mrs. Cheerman, I withdraw my motion," said Hardesty. "I move you now that we app'int a committee composed of Mr. Bolton, Mr. Craig an' Mr. Grimes to go an' notify 'Gene Crawley 'nstead of her."
A shiver swept through the room. The men gasped and the perspiration started on their foreheads. Their wives moved a bit closer to them and looked appealingly toward the chairman. Postmaster Hardesty had considerable difficulty in suppressing a chuckle.
"What's the use seein' 'Gene?" stammered Martin Grimes. "He ain't to be reasoned with 't all, Jim, an' you know it."
"Well, you might try it," insisted Jim.
"I think Justine's the most likely to be sensible," said Bolton.
"Course, she'd cry an' take on turrible, while ef you went to 'Gene he might do somethin' else, so I guess it'd be best to have a committee go over an' tell her fust. She could break it gentle-like to 'Gene, y' see," agreed Hardesty, reflectively. "'N'en he could do jest as he liked."
"Come to think of it," said Grimes, "I reckon it's best to write to Jud."
"Then I'll move you, Mrs. Chairman, that the secretary address a letter to Mr. Sherrod, setting forth the facts as they exist," said Pastor Marks.
"I can't do it alone," cried meek little Miss Cunningham, the school teacher.
"We c'n all help," said Grimes, mightily relieved. "Git out yer writin' paper."
The secretary nervously prepared to write the letter. Her pen scratched and every eye was glued on the holder as it wobbled vigorously above her knuckles.
"I've got this far: 'Judley Sherrod, Esq., Dear Sir,'" she said. "What next?"
"His name is Dudley," corrected the parson.
"Oh," murmured the secretary, blushing. Then she wrote it all over again on another piece of paper.
"You might say something like this," said Mr. Marks, thoughtfully. "'It is with pain that we feel called upon to acquaint you with the state of affairs in your home.' Have you written that?"
"'Fate of astairs in your home,'" read Miss Cunningham. Mr. Hardesty was looking over her shoulder, and at times his unconscious chin-whiskers tickled her rosy ear.
"'We are sure that you will forgive the nature of this missive, and yet we know that it will hurt you far beyond the pain of the most cruel sword thrust. You, to whom we all extend the deepest love and respect, must prepare to receive a shock, but you must bear it with Christian fortitude.' Do I go too fast, Miss Cunningham?"
"'You, who toom'—I mean—'to whom, etc.'" wrote the secretary.
"Sounds like we're trying to tell him there's a death in the family," said Mr. Hardesty.
"'Your wife has been left so long to the mercies of the——' No; please change that, Miss Secretary. 'Your wife has not conducted herself as a good woman should. She has forgotten her wifely honor——'"
"Good Lord!" came a hoarse voice from the hallway. The assemblage turned and saw Eugene Crawley. Jim Hardesty afterwards admitted that he did not "breathe fer so long that his lungs seemed air-tight when he finally did try to git wind into 'em."
"What's goin' on here?" grated the unwelcome visitor, after a long pause. He was half-stunned by what he had heard, having entered the hall just as the letter was begun. So intent were the others that no one heard his knock or his entrance.
"Why—why," stammered Mr. Marks, "we were—ahem—writing to——"
"I know what you were doin', so you needn't lie about it, parson. You're writin' a pack o' lies to Jud Sherrod, a pack o' lies about her. That's what you're doin'. Who's the one that started this dirty piece of business? How'd you come to meet here this way? Why don't you answer?" snarled Crawley, stepping inside the door.
"We jest happened to drop in an'——" murmured Mr. Bolton from behind his wife.
"You're a liar, Sam Bolton. You're all liars. You come here to ruin that poor girl forever, that's all there is to it. I come here, parson, to ask you to help me befriend her. An' what do I find? You—you, a minister of the gospel—helpin' these consarned cats an' dogs here to jest naturally claw that girl to pieces. You git up an' preach about charity an' love an' all that stuff in your pulpit, an' I set down in front an' believe you're an honest man an' mean what you say. That's what you preach; but if God really let such pups as you 'tend to His business down here He'd be a fool, an' a sensible man had better steer clear of Him. The size of the matter is, you meal-mouthed sneak, God made a mistake when you was born. He thought you'd be a fish-worm an' he give you a fish-worm's soul. What are you goin' to do with that letter?"
"'YOU'RE A LIAR—YOU'RE ALL LIARS.'"
"Eugene, will you let me speak earnestly to you for a few moments?" asked the young parson. He felt, uncomfortably, that he might be blushing.
"You'll have to speak earnest an' quick, too," returned the other. "Don't talk to me about my soul, parson, an' all that stuff. I c'n take care of my soul a heap sight better'n you kin, I've jest found out. So, cut it short. What you got to say fer yourself, not fer me?"
"It is time you and she were made to understand the penalty your awful sin will bring down upon——"
"Stop! You c'n say what you please about me, but if you breathe a sound ag'in her I'll fergit that you're a preacher. It won't do no good to plead with you people, but all I c'n say is that she don't deserve a single harsh word from any one. She's the best woman I ever knowed, that's what she is. She's been one of your best church people an' she's as pure as an angel. That's more'n you c'n say fer another man er woman in your congregation. Don't look mad, Mrs. Grimes. I mean what I say. You are the meanest lot of people that God ever let live, if you keep on tryin' to make her out bad. This thing's gone fer enough. I know I'm not a good man—I ain't fit to live in the same world with her—but she's been my friend after all the ugly things I done to her an' Jud. I come here to-night, parson, to tell you I wuz goin' to leave her place an' to ask you to tell her why. Now, I'm goin' to stay an' I'm goin' to make you an' all the rest of these folks go over an' tell her you're her friends."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Harbaugh.
"Yes, you will, Mis' Harbaugh, an' you'll do it to-morrow," said 'Gene, his black eyes narrowing and gleaming at her.
"Mr. Crawley, you must certainly listen to reason," began the preacher, softly.
"Not until you listen to it yerself," was the answer. "You are committin' an outrage an' you've got to stop it right now." He strode across to where Miss Cunningham sat. Pointing his finger at the partially written letter he said: "Tear that letter up! Tear it up!"
The paper crackled and fluttered to the floor from the secretary's nerveless fingers. He picked it up himself and scattered the pieces about the table.
"Now, how many of you are goin' to kerry this thing any further?" he demanded, wheeling about and glaring at the speechless crowd. There was not a sign of response. "How many of you are goin' to treat her fair?" he went on.
"We intend to treat her fair," said Mr. Marks.
"Do you call it fair to write a letter like that?"
"'Gene's right, by ginger," cried Jim Hardesty. "Shake, 'Gene. I've been ag'in this thing all along."
"I never did approve of it," said Mr. Bolton.
"Nobody could ever make me believe 'at Justine ever done anything wrong," said Mr. Bossman, emphatically. "You know how I objected to this thing, Maria."
The women looked nervous and ready to weep.
"Mebby we've been too hasty," said Mrs. Harbaugh, in a whining tone.
"I'm goin' over to Justine's to-morry, pore girl," said Mrs. Bolton.
"I'm goin' home now," said 'Gene, "but I want to say jest this: I'll see that she gits fair play. Now, you mark that, every one of you. An' as fer you, parson, I want to say, bad as I am, that I'm too good a man to go inside your church ag'in."
He went out, slamming the door behind him. After a long pause James Hardesty exploded:
"Who in thunder called this meetin', anyhow?"