CHAPTER XXIX.
CRAWLEY'S LEGACY.
The people of Clay Township were kept in the dark concerning the manner in which Jud came to his death. The letter to 'Gene merely announced that his sudden death was due to a hemorrhage, and another letter to Parson Marks from Justine's friend in the city bore the same news. Naturally Jud's friends believed that the hemorrhage was of the lungs, which inspired ninety per cent. of them to say that they had always regarded him as frail. Some went so far as to recall predictions made when he was a boy to the effect that he "wouldn't live to see thirty year."
Crawley and Harve Crose drove to Glenville in Harve's wagon to meet the train, prepared to haul the casket to the cemetery, where Mr. Marks was to conduct short services. There was no hearse in Glenville, but there was a carpenter who buried people as a "side line." Rich people in the neighborhood sent to an adjoining county seat for embalmers and undertakers; Clay township buried its dead at it was able and saw fit. Justine would not permit Celeste to pay the expenses of the funeral at Jud's old home and she herself could not afford the luxury of a hearse and mourners' carriage. The arrangements were in the hands of Mr. Marks, Crawley and Crose, and the details were of the simplest character.
The aristocratic "two-seated rig" of David Strong and Martin Grimes's surrey were at the station to act as conveyances for Justine and the minister and a select few. Dozens of buggies, buckboards and not a few spring wagons fell in behind the "mourners' carriages" when the cortege left the depot platform, headed for the cemetery four miles away. Justine, her face hidden in a dense veil of black, occupied the back seat in David Strong's vehicle, and the whole country-side longed to comfort her. By her side sat a pale, beautiful woman in a simple gown of black—the city friend the community had heard so much about. The baby found a comfortable resting place in the capacious lap of Mrs. Strong, who sniffled continuously while her husband drove solemnly and imposingly through the streets of the village. The town looked on with sombre gaze and the country spoke in a respectful whisper. Sad was the home-coming of the Sherrods.
The long procession, headed by the wagon containing the casket, wound its slow way out into the country, through the winter-clean lane, past the house in which Jud and Justine were married, and up to the gate of the dilapidated, weather-worn "burying-ground" on the hill. In oppressive silence, the throng crowded over and about the weed-covered graves in the ill-kept little cemetery to witness every movement in connection with the ceremony. They saw the casket lifted from the wagon bed by six young men and they opened a pathway from the gate to the grave through which the pall-bearers passed with heavy tread; they saw the long black box in which Dudley Sherrod had come home lowered into the clay-colored gulf; they saw Justine, moaning as she stood between old Mrs. Crane and the stranger from the city; but they could not see the heart of that white-faced stranger, who looked with tear-dimmed eyes into the grave at her feet.
Justine's grief was pitiful. Not a man, woman or child in that assemblage but shed tears of genuine sympathy. The men and women who had gathered at the pastor's home not many months before to condemn her, now stood among the graves and wept with her. Not a few cast curious eyes upon the fair stranger and went away to say afterwards that she was the kind of friend to have.
The choir of the little church sang several hymns from books that Jud and Justine had used in days gone by. Heads were bared in the biting air, and no man was there who did not do full honor to Jud Sherrod, the goodliest boy the township had ever produced. The grief of the people was honest. Mr. Marks, inspired by the opportunity, delivered such a discourse on the goodness, the nobility of the young man, that the community, with one voice, proclaimed it to be a masterpiece of oratory.
"And to this devoted young wife, for whom he struggled so manfully, so loyally up to the very hour of his taking away, God gives His boundless pity and will extend His divinest help. Dudley Sherrod, our departed brother, was the soul of honor. He loved his home and the mistress of it second only to his Maker. I voice what is known to the world at large when I say that never lived there a man whose heart was more thoroughly given over to the keeping of woman. And she loved and revered him, and we see her inconsolable, bereft of all earthly joy. We pray God that she may see the brightness beyond this cloud that He has in His wisdom thrown about her. And we pray for the life, the soul of this baby boy who lies fatherless in this—er—this cold world. He will never know the love of a father. We all glory in the privilege of having known this true, honest Christian man, a man whose life bore not a single blemish. His life was an example to all mankind. Oh, ye who listen to my words in this sad hour, strive to emulate his example. Do ye as he has done, live the life he has lived. How many of us are there who might have lived as he—er—did—if we but had the courage to follow the impulses of the soul. He has gone to his reward."
*****
Just before the shades of night fell across the grief-ridden community, Justine escaped the kind ministrations of Mrs. Crane, Mrs. Hardesty, Mrs. Bolton and other good dames who had followed her to the cottage after the chill services in the cemetery for the purpose of comforting her. They had gone to the cottage with red eyes, choking whispers and hands eager to lift her up, and she was trying to avoid these good offices. She crept into the bleak little room upstairs to which Celeste had long since fled to find solitude for her broken heart.
Celeste was stretched upon the bed, face downward, and her slim body was as still as Jud's had been. The feeling of dread in Justine's heart was not dispelled until her hands touched the warm cheek, and her ear caught the sound of a faint, tear-choked sigh.
"It is I, Celeste," she said, gently. "Won't you let me hold you in my arms? See! I am strong again and I must take some one to my heart. 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 entitled to all that Jud had left as a legacy; she deliberately classified 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 pass 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 passing over the bitterness in his voice. "You are goin' to-night. Good God!——" 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 gratitude. 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 gratitude 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 God 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 passed. 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.
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