A Perilous Passage
It was a strange thing to Judith to be left alone in the house, in charge
of it and the sick man. Old Dilsey did the cooking and all the domestic
labour. Had Wade been at home, and the patient any other than Creed
Bonbright, she would have had a capable assistant at the nursing. Andy
and Jeff tried to be as kind as they could. But they were an untamed,
untrained pair, helpless and hapless at such matters, and their
approaching wedding kept them often over at the Lusk place. From Iley
Judith held savagely aloof.
It was on the second morning of her uncle's absence that Dilsey Rust
brought again that message from Blatch, and Judith caught at it. She had
done her best; she had refrained from any questions; but the night before
Creed told her without asking that Huldah had been in to see him twice
again. As her patient's physical strength notably increased, his appeal
to her tender forbearance of course lessened, and the raw insult of the
situation began to come home to her.
She put a shawl over her head and ran swiftly down through the chill
November weather to the draw-bars, where in the big road outside
Turrentine slouched against a post waiting for her. The man spoke over
his shoulder.
"Howdy, Jude--you did come at last."
"Ef yo' goin' to say anything to me, you'll have to be mighty quick,
Blatch," she notified him, shivering. "I got to get right back."
"They's somebody new--and yet not so new--a-visitin' in the Turkey Tracks
that you'd like to know of," he prompted coolly. "Ain't that so?"
"Huldy," she gasped, her dark eyes fixed upon his grey ones.
He nodded.
"I 'lowed you'd take an intrust in that thar business, an' I thort as a
friend you ort to be told of it," he added virtuously.
"Where's she at?" demanded Judith.
"Over at my house," announced Turrentine easily, with a backward jerk of
his head.
"At _yo'_ house!" echoed Judith; "at _yo'_ house! Why, hit ain't
decent."
"Huh," laughed Blatch. "I don't know about decent. She was out thar
takin' the rain; she had nobody to roof her; an' I bid her in, 'caze I'm
in somewhat the same fix myse'f."
"No one to roof her," repeated Judith. "What's henderin' her from comin'
over this side the Gulch?"
"Well, seein' the way she's done Wade I reckon she 'lows she'd better
keep away from his pap's house. She's at the outs with Iley--Jim Cal's
lady sont her word she needn't never show her face thar agin. She gives
it out to everybody that'll listen at her talk that she's skeered o' you
'count o' Bonbright."
Judith studied his face with half-incredulous eyes.
"How long has she been there?" she interrogated keenly.
Turrentine seemed to take time for reflection.
"Lemme see," he ruminated, "she come a Wednesday night. Hit was rainin',
ef you remember, an' I hearn something outside, and it scairt me up some,
fer fear it was revenuers. When I found hit was Huldy, I let her in, an
she's been thar ever sence."
Wednesday night! It was Thursday morning that Creed had first announced
the visit of his wife. Oh, it must be true! Judith trembled all through
her vigorous young body with a fury of despair. As always, Blatchley had
found the few and simple words to bid her worser angel forth. She even
felt a kind of hateful relish for the quarrel. They had tricked her. They
had made a fool of her. She had suffered so much. She longed to be
avenged.
"Judy," murmured Blatch softly, bending toward her but not laying a hand
upon her, "you white as a piece o' paper, an' shakin' from head to foot.
That's from stayin' shet up in the house yonder nussin' that feller
Bonbright night an' day like a hirelin'. W'y, he never did care nothin'
for ye only becaze ye was useful to him. Ye stood betwixt him an' danger;
ye he'ped him out when he needed it wust. An' he had it in mind to fool
ye from the first. Now him and Huldy Spiller has done it. Don't you let
'em. You show 'em what you air. I've got a hoss out thar, and Selim's
down in the stable. I'll put yo' saddle on him. Git yo' skirt, honey.
Let's you and me ride over to Squire Gaylord's and be wedded. Then we'll
have the laugh on these here smart folks that tries to fool people."
He leaned toward her, all the power of the man concentrated in his gaze.
Perhaps he had never wanted anything in his twenty-seven years as he now
wanted Judith Barrier and her farm and the rehabilitation that a union
with her would give him. Once this girl's husband, he could curtly refuse
to rent to Jephthah Turrentine, who had, he knew, no lease. He could call
into question the old man's stewardship, and even up the short, bitter
score between them. He could reverse that scene when he was sent packing
and told to keep his foot off the place.
"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?"
"I don't reckon a gal like you could he'p any," Jeff said doubtfully. His
eye wandered toward his twin. "I reckon this is men's business. I've got
word that Huldy Spiller--or some say Huldy Bonbright--is over at Blatch's
cabin, and he's got her shut up."
Judith's heart gave a great leap as of terror; the thing was out at
last--people knew it. Then that heavily beating heart sank sickeningly;
what difference to her, though all the world knew it? Yet she held to her
trust.
"Oh, shore not, Jeff. You cain't _nigh_ talk to him about nothin' like
that," she maintained. "Uncle Jep made me promise that nothin' should be
named to him to excite him."
"Well, then," pursued Jeff, "pappy not bein' here, nor Wade, and Jim Cal
over at Spiller's, an' the gal not havin' no men folks in reach, me an'
Andy has got to look after this thing. Fact is, Blatch sent word that ef
we wanted her we could come over and git her."
"I don't know as we do want her--I don't know as we do," put in Andy.
"And we both promised pappy that we wouldn't set foot on the land whilst
Blatch had it rented."
"Then ag'in," debated Jeff--"Oh, no, buddy, we cain't leave the gal thar.
We're plumb obliged to find out if she wants to come away, anyhow."
Andy turned to his cousin.
"What do you say, Jude? Ort we to go?"
Judith locked her hands hard together and held down her head, fighting
out her battle. She longed to say no. She longed to shout out that Huldah
Spiller might take care of herself, since she had been so unwomanly as to
run after men and bring all this trouble on them. What she did say, at
the end of a lengthened struggle, was:
"Yes, I think both of you ort to go. Can it be did quiet? You got to
think of her good name."
Jeff nodded.
"Well, how air we goin' to be sure that gal's over there?" inquired Andy,
still half reluctant.
"Oh, she's there," returned Judith heavily; and when the boys regarded
her with startled looks, "I ain't seen her, but she's been on the
mountain since Thursday. She's been slippin' over to visit--her--Creed
named it to me then."
"Well that does settle it," Andy concluded. "Reckon Blatch has shut her
up for pure meanness. When was we to go? Was there any time sot?"
"To-night," Jeff informed them. "Any time after ten o'clock'll do--that
was the word I got."
"Well, that'll be all right," agreed Andy; "I can fix Creed up for the
night, and ef we git Huldy away in the dark nobody need know of the
business--not even Bonbright."
A slow flush rose in Judith's pale cheeks. But she offered no comment on
this aspect of the case. She only said:
"Just do what you think best, and don't name it to me again, please."
Then, as both boys looked wonderingly at her, she added haltingly, "I've
got enough to werry over--with a sick man here on my hands, an' Uncle Jep
gone."
She went to her room. When at midnight she slipped down as of custom to
see how all fared in the sick-room, she found the patient sleeping
quietly, and Andy ready for the trip across the Gulch. The boys were
going unarmed; they felt no fear of treachery on Blatch's part--it could
profit him nothing to injure either of them in so public a way, and
indeed he had never shown them any ill-will.