“Yes—yo’ wife, Huldy Spiller,” Judith urged mildly. “Don’t you mind namin’ it to me the first time she slipped in to visit you?”
An abashed look succeeded the expression of bewilderment. A faint, fine flush crept on the thin, white cheek.
“I—I do,” Creed whispered, with a foolish little smile beginning to curve his lips; “but there wasn’t a word of truth in it—dear. I’ve never seen the girl since she left Aunt Nancy’s that Saturday morning.”
“What made you say it then?” breathed Judith wonderingly.
“I—I don’t know,” faltered the sick man. “It seemed like you was mad about something; and then it seemed like Huldah was here; and then—I don’t know Judith—didn’t I say a heap of other foolishness?”
The simple query reproved his nurse more than a set arraignment would have done. He had indeed babbled, in his semi-delirium, plenty of “other foolishness,” this was the only point upon which she had been credulous.
“Oh Creed—honey!” she cried, burying her face in the covers of his bed, “I’m so ’shamed. I’ve got such a mean, bad disposition. Nobody couldn’t ever love me if they knew me right well.”
She felt a gentle, caressing touch on her bowed head.
“Jude, darling,” Creed’s voice came to her, and for the first time it sounded really like his voice, “I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. I didn’t sense it for a spell, but I come to see that you were the one woman in the world for me. There never was a man done what went more against the grain than I the night I parted from you down at the railroad station and let you go back when you would have come with me—so generous—so loving—”
He broke off with a choking sigh, and Judith raised her head in a sort of consternation. Were these the exciting topics that her Uncle Jep would have banished from the sick-room? she wondered. But no, Creed had never looked so nearly a well man as now. He raised himself from the pillows.