CHAPTER XV.
ONE HEART FOR TWO.
The passing of two months saw Sherrod a constant, even a privileged, visitor at the Wood home. In that time he visited the cottage in Indiana but once, and on that occasion glowingly related to Justine the story of his first visit to the goddess and of her subsequent interest in his affairs.
Just now he was beginning to realize the consequences of his deception. Affairs had reached the stage where it seemed next to impossible to acknowledge his marriage to Justine, and he certainly could not tell that honest, trusting wife of his unfortunate duplicity. He loved her too deeply to inflict the wound that such a confession would make, and yet he could see that delay would only increase the violence of the shock should she learn of his mistake, innocently conceived, but unwisely fostered.
Justine also had a secret. When he was ready to take her to the city, she would confess to him that 'Gene Crawley was to farm the place for her that spring and summer, working it on shares. He was to use his own team, for her horses had died of influenza. So little did Jud know of the old home place now that he did not recognize Crawley's horses in the stable, nor could he see that a man's hand had performed wonders in the field. He was thinking of Chicago and the miserable broil in which his affairs were involved. Justine induced Crawley to remain away from the farm during Jud's stay, an undertaking which required some force of persuasion. Crawley wanted to make peace with Jud and to assure him of his good faith; he begged her to let him apologize to his old adversary and ask him to shake hands and say quits. But she knew that Jud would not understand and that there could be no forgiveness. Never in her life had she loved Jud as in these days when she was disobeying and deceiving him. While she knew that 'Gene was no longer the brute and the blackguard of old, she saw that her husband could look upon him only as he had known him.
The farm was bound to do well this year and she was happy to give Jud that assurance. Once he caught her looking wistfully at him when he was telling of expected triumphs in the city. He knew that she was hoping he would say that she could soon go with him to the city, leaving the farm to care for itself. But how could he take her there now? He groaned with the shame of it.
A week of sleepless nights followed this visit to Clay township. The young artist's work on the paper suffered and his fellows advised him to take a rest. He had had no vacation since taking the position many months before. But it was not overwork that told on him; it was the lying awake of nights striving to find a way out of his predicament without losing the respect of all these friends, especially that of one whom he admired so deeply. He had permitted her to believe him free and had behaved as a free man behaves to such an extent that explanations were impossible. To tell her the truth concerning the man she had gone to the theatre with, had lunched with in downtown restaurants, had entertained in her own home almost to the exclusion of others, could bring but one end—the scorn and detestation he deserved.
Poor Converse had given up the conflict in despair, but, good fellow that he was, held no grudge against Sherrod, for whom he had genuine admiration. They were lunching together a week or two after his trying trip to Clay township, and Jud was so moody that Converse took note of it. As they sat at the table, Converse mentally observed that his friend was growing handsomer every day; the moods improved him. After a long silence, the artist said:
"I had an offer to-day to do some book illustrating for a publishing house."
"Good! That's the stuff! Book pictures will be your line, old man. Will you accept?"
"I'm afraid I'd be a failure," said Jud, gloomily.
"Is that what's the matter with you?"
"What do you mean?" demanded the other, quickly.
"O, your grumpiness. You've been all out of sorts for a couple of weeks, you know—or maybe you don't. But you have, anyway. I never saw a fellow change as you have in—in, well, ten days."
"I don't understand why you think so. Everything is all right with me," said Jud, shortly.
"Maybe you're off your feed a bit."
"Never was better in my life."
"Well, it's darned queer. You act like a man whose liver is turning mongrel. Why, you ought to be satisfied. You've made a big hit here and you'll soon be getting the biggest salary of any newspaper artist in town. You have been elected to the Athletic Club, you have been invited to lecture before some of the clubs, you've got plenty of coin to throw at birds, so why don't you rub those wrinkles from between your eyes?"
Jud laughed rather mirthlessly, without taking his eyes from the coffee which he was stirring.
"Wrinkles don't come because you want them, but because you don't."
"Well, old chap, I'm sure something is worrying you. Can I help you in any way?" went on his generous friend.
"Thanks, Doug; you can help me to another lump of sugar."
"The devil take you," cried Converse, handing him the bowl. "Say," he said, a moment later, watching Jud as he calmly buttered his bread, "I believe there's a woman in it."
"A woman!" exclaimed the other, almost dropping his knife. For an instant his gray eyes seemed to look through the other's brain. "What are you driving at, Doug?" he went on, controlling himself.
"I'm next to you at last, old man. You're in a deuce of a boat. You're in love."
"And if I were, I can't see why I should have to hire a boat."
"It's all right to talk that way, but you are in the boat, just the same. Maybe it's a raft, though, and maybe you're shipwrecked. You are one of these unlucky dogs who find out that they love the second girl after having promised to marry the first one. The size of it is, you've about forgotten the little Indiana girl you were telling me about." For a whole minute Jud stared at him, white to the lips.
"You have no right to talk like that, Converse," he said, hoarsely.
"I beg pardon, Jud; I didn't mean to offend. Honestly now, I was talking to hear myself talk," cried the other.
"I have not promised to marry any one in Indiana," said Jud, slowly, cruelly, deliberately.
"Then, you are free as air?" asked Converse, a chill in his heart.
"Or as foul," said Sherrod.
"Sherrod, is this girl down in the country in love with you?"
"You mean the one I spoke of?" asked Jud, his head swimming.
"Yes, the one you spoke of."
"'My dear fellow, the girl I spoke of has been married for three years. I am very sure she loves her husband."
"Thank God for that, Jud. I was afraid you were forgetting her, just as Celeste said you might. It wouldn't be right to break her heart, you know."
"Excellent advice," said Jud.
"Have you seen Celeste since Sunday? I saw you together at St. James'."
Sherrod had already dropped four lumps into his coffee and was now adding another.
"I saw her last night. Why?"
"'Gad, you're pretty regular, aren't you?" said Converse, bitter in spite of himself.
"It strikes me you are talking rather queerly."
"I presume I am. You'll forgive me, though, when I remind you that I care a great deal for her. It rather hurts to have her forget me entirely," said the poor fellow.
"Come, come, old man, you're losing your nerve," cried Jud, his eye brightening. "I'm sure you can win if you'll only have heart."
"Win! You know better than that. If you don't know it, I'll tell you something. She's desperately in love with another man at this very minute."
"What?" ejaculated Jud. "Miss Wood in love with—with—another man? Why—why—I've not seen her pay any especial attention to any one."
"You must be blind, then. There's only one man in the world she cares to see any more, or cares to have near her."
"Good heavens, no! I never suspected—by George, Doug, surely you're dreaming!" He could not understand a certain jealousy that came to him.
"Can't you see that she's in love with you—you?" cried the boy.
The two looked at each other intently for a moment, despair in the eyes of one, incredulous joy in those of the other. Sherrod could feel the blood rushing swifter and swifter to his heart, to his throat, to his face, to his eyes. Something red and hot floated across his vision, turning the whole world a ruddy hue; something strong and light seemed striving to lift his whole being in the air.
"Well, why don't you say you don't believe it?" said a voice in front of him.
"I—I can't say a word. You paralyze me. My heavens, Converse, I never dreamed of such a thing and I know you're mistaken. Why, it cannot be—it shouldn't be," he almost gasped.
"Bah! What's the use? Women don't ask permission to fall in love, do they? They just fall, that's all. I'm not saying it is absolutely true, but I'm making a pretty fine guess. She is more interested in you than in any man she has ever known. I know that much."
"Interested, perhaps, yes, but that is not love. Hang it, Douglass, she cares for you."
"No, she doesn't, Jud; no, she doesn't. No such luck, I don't appeal to her at all and I never can. I step down and out; you've a clear field so far as I am concerned. If I can't have her, I'd rather see her go to you than to any one in the world. You're good and honest and a man."
"Impossible! Impossible! It can't be that. You don't understand the real situation——" floundered Jud.
"I understand it as well as you do, my boy,—better, I think. I know Celeste Wood and that's all there is to it. You've won something that a hundred men have fought for and lost. You're a lucky dog."
Jud Sherrod went to his rooms that night, after a dizzy evening at the theatre and the club, his head whirling with the intoxication coming from a mixture of rejoicing, regret, shame, apprehension, incredulity,—a hundred irrepressible thoughts. What if Converse's supposition should be true? Then, what a beast he had been! This night he slept not a wink—in fact, he did not go to bed. He even thought of suicide as he paced the floor or buried his face in the cushions on his couch.
With it all before him there suddenly came uppermost the thought of his base treatment of Justine. Here he was earning a handsome salary, living comfortably and cozily, spending his money in the entertainment of another woman, leading that other woman on to what now seemed certain unhappiness, and all the time neglecting the trusting, loving wife even to the point of cruelty. Down there in the bleak, uncouth country she was struggling on, loving him, trusting him, believing in him, and he was keeping himself afar off, looking on with selfish, indifferent eyes. All this grew worse and worse as he realized that of all women he loved none but Justine—loved and revered her deeper and deeper with every hour and day.
As the dawn came, in the eagerness of repentance, he seized pen and paper and wrote two letters, one to Justine, one to Celeste. To Justine he poured forth his confession and urged her to save him, to live with him, to go with him to another city where he could begin anew. To Celeste he admitted his shameful behavior, pleaded for forgiveness, and asked her to forget that he had ever come into her sweet, pure life. But he never sent the letters.
His courage failed him. With the temporizing weakness of the guilty, he destroyed the bits of honesty his heart had inspired, and planned anew, feverishly, sincerely, almost buoyantly. He would see Celeste personally the next day or night, tell her all and face her scorn as best he could. He would see her once more—once more—and then,—Justine forever!