CHAPTER XXIII.
THE TALE OF TEARS.
He had told Celeste that he would be away from home over one night, and she was alarmed when he did not return on the second night after his departure. On the third day she could not shut out the picture of his despondent face. When she heard his footsteps in the lower hall that afternoon her heart gave a great bound of relief, and all his plans went scattering before her joyous greeting.
He entered the house steeled to tell her, but his resolution wavered, and, with the words on his tongue's end, he felt them forced back by her kisses. He let himself procrastinate; every vestige of courage vanished before this attack of love and confidence. If his response to her welcome was lifeless and cold, she did not complain; if he seemed distraught, she overlooked it in the joy of having her apprehensions swept away.
"Do you know, dear, I was beginning to fear you had been lost in the snow storm and that I should have to send St. Bernard dogs out to find you?" she said, gaily, as she drew him into the big chair before the grate and climbed cozily upon the arm beside him.
"I can't tell her now," he was groaning to himself. "I can't break her heart to-day—not to-day."
"Was it so warm and pleasant in Milwaukee that you couldn't tear yourself away?" she went on, her hand caressing his hair.
"Where? Mil—Oh, yes, Milwaukee," he stammered, recalling that he had told her he was going there on business. "No; it was beastly. I had to stay a day longer than I expected."
"Tell me all about it," she said. "Did everything turn out as good as you hoped? Will he take the pictures?"
He was unable to reply at once. Indeed, it was necessary for him to remember just what excuse he had given her for going to Milwaukee. Slowly it came back to him. Without lifting his guilty eyes from the coals, he told her that Mr. Evans had not given him the order for the five paintings until he had consulted his partner, who was delayed in returning from St. Paul. On the partner's return (here Jud's twisted heart leaped at a fresh inspiration) the firm promptly agreed to accept all of his paintings and contracted for others to be finished within a very short space of time.
"Isn't that a very short time in which to do the work, Jud?" she inquired, anxiously. A cunning thought had prompted his statement; in it he saw the respite that might be needed. The task of supplying the fictitious order would command his closest thought and energy, and, by preventing the trip to Florida, would give him a longer time in which to make ready for the trial at hand. He saw that he would lack the immediate courage to tell her, and that it would require hours and days of torture to bring him to the task.
"It means that I'll have to give up the Florida trip," he said.
"O, no, Jud! Let the old pictures go! Can't they wait? You must go to Florida. It will do you so much good, and my heart is so set on it."
A new thought struck him sharply and his spirits leaped upward. "You could go without me, Celeste. There's no reason why you should give up the pleasure because I have to——"
"Dudley Sherrod," she interrupted, decisively, "you are hateful. I will not go a step without you. It is you who need the rest and the change. Write to Mr. Evans this afternoon and tell him you cannot do the pictures until next spring."
"I can't do that, dear. They must be done at once," he said.
"But you must have the two months in Florida," she persisted in troubled tones. "Why, dear, I have made preparations to leave on Saturday and this is Thursday. Won't you, please, for my sake, give up the pictures?"
"Impossible," he said, firmly, rising suddenly. He pressed her hand softly and passed from the room, afraid to look back into her eyes. She sat perfectly still for many minutes, the puzzled expression deepening in her eyes.
"To-morrow I will tell her all," he vowed, as he paced the floor of his studio. The memory of the distressed look in her eyes bore him down. He knew that he could not endure the sight of prolonged pain in those loving eyes, and what little wisdom he had at his command told him that to end the suspense quickly was the most charitable thing to do. "To-morrow, to-morrow," he repeated, feverishly. He groaned aloud with loathing for himself and shame of what the morrow was to bring. "I love her. How can I tell her that she is not my wife? How can I tell her that I deceived her deliberately? And what will she say, what will she do? Good God, what is to be the end of it? Will she submit or will she cry for the vengeance that is justly hers?"
For the first time the agony of this question was beyond his power of suffering. His mind refused to consider it. He was dulled; he felt nothing—and presently there was a relief in feeling nothing. Up to that time his sensitive nature had responded to every grief. Of a sudden his mind refused grief; and the inspiration came to him to support that refusal. He shut out thoughts of Celeste, and let himself look forward to the happiness with Justine and his boy.
The next day he faltered in his determination to tell Celeste, and the day after it was the same. He could not stand before her and look into her eyes and tell her. He was conscious of the fact that her troubled gaze was following him wherever he moved, that she seemed to be reading his thoughts. He grew more apathetic under the scrutiny. He took to good food as a refuge from his thoughts, and surprised her by asking for dainty dishes. He found some poetry, careless with fatalism, and instantly became a fatalist. He would let affairs take their course. The yearning for Justine dulled a little.
But one day, entering his studio, expecting to find him at work, she was amazed to see him with a picture in his hand. He was looking at it eagerly. She could see the face. It was Justine Van.
Justine Van! The girl of the meadow; the sweetheart of the old days! The first jealousy tore at her heart and she began vaguely to comprehend the stoop in his shoulders.
He had found the picture among some old drawings, and the sight of it enlivened his desire for Justine. He wrote her a letter, and then conceived the plan of writing a confession to Celeste, and slinking off to his room to await the crash. He knew she would fly to him and—well, it would be like defending himself against an assault. He laughed harshly at himself as he contemplated this last exhibition of cowardice. He wrote not only one but ten confessions, destroying one after the other as the lingering spark of manhood flared up in resistance to this mode of doing battle.
One night Celeste came to him in the dimly lighted studio. The trouble in her heart revealed itself in her voice and eyes. He sat dreaming before the little grate and started when her hands gently touched his cheeks from behind.
"What is the matter, Jud, dear?" she asked, softly. "There is something on your mind. Won't you confide in me? I love you, dear. Tell me everything, Jud, and don't try to bear it alone. Don't you think I love you enough to share the greatest pain that might come to you?"
He tried to speak, but could only reach up and clasp her hands in his.
"Can you guess, Jud, of whom I was thinking to-day?" she went on bravely.
"I—I can't guess," he said, with misgiving in his soul.
"I was thinking of Justine Van, that pretty girl down in the country. Her face was as clear as if it were before me in reality. Do you know, Jud, I shall always see her as she appeared on that day at Proctor's Falls. She was so pretty and you were so handsome. I thought you were sweethearts, you remember. How embarrassed you were, both of you, when I so foolishly told you that the money I paid for the picture was to be her wedding present. I believe I began to love you on that very day."
Her hands were still pressing his cheeks and her heart suddenly stood still and grew icy cold when something hot and wet trickled over the fingers. Without a word she drew away from him, and when he looked up through the mist of tears, she was passing from the room, straight and still.