“Judy,” he breathed, deeply moved by all this, “don’t ye remember when we was—befo’ ever this feller come—Why, in them days I used to think shore we’d be wedded.”
Judith rested a hand on the bars and, lips apart, stared back into the eager eyes of the man who addressed her. Blatchley had always had some charm for the girl. Power he did not lack; and his lawlessness, his license, which might have daunted a feebler woman, liberated something correspondingly brave and audacious in her. He had been the first to pay court to her, and a girl does not easily forget that.
For a moment the balance swung even. Then it bore down to Blatch’s side. She would go. Yes, she would. Creed might have Huldah. The girl might be his wife, or his widow. She, Judith Barrier, would show them—she would show them. Her parted lips began to shape to a reckless yes. The word waited in her mind behind those lips all formed. Her swift imagination pictured to her herself riding away beside Blatch leaving the sick man who had been cause of so many humiliations to her to die or get well. Blatch, watching narrowly, read the coming consent in her face. His hand stole forward toward the draw-bars.
Her salvation was in a very small and commonplace thing. The picture of herself riding beside Blatch Turrentine brought back to her, with an awakening shock, the recollection of herself and Creed riding side by side, her arm across his shoulder, his drooping head against it. How purely happy she had been then—how innocent—how blest! What were these fires of torment that raged in her now? No, no! That might be lost to her; but even so, she could not decline from its dear memory to a mating like this. Without a word she turned and ran back to the house, never looking over her shoulder in response to the one or two cautious calls that Blatch sent after her.
Judith’s day was mercifully full of work. When Creed did not require her, Dilsey demanded help and direction, and one or two errands from outside kept her mind from sinking in upon itself. It was night-fall, Andy was lending her his awkward aid in the sick-room, when Jeff came in and beckoned the two of them out mysteriously.
“How’s Bonbright this evenin’, Jude? Do you reckon I could have speech with him?” he asked in a troubled tone.
Judith shook her head. Her own near approach to absolute failure in her charge that morning made her the more punctilious now.
“No.” She spoke positively. “Uncle Jep said he wasn’t to be werried about anything.”
“Why, he’s settin’ up some, ain’t he?” said the boy in surprise. “I thort he looked right peart.”
“Yes,” agreed Judith dejectedly, “he’s gettin’ his strength all right; he does look well. But you ax him questions, or name anything to him to trouble him, an’ it throws him right back. Uncle Jep says hit’s more his mind than his body now. What is it ye want from Creed? Cain’t I tend to it?”