MRS. HARDESTY'S CHARITY.
For many days after their marriage Jud and Justine were obliged to
endure coarse jokes, kindly meant if out of tune with their sensitive
minds. Happy weeks sped by, weeks replete with the fullness of joy
known only to the newly wedded. Days of toil, that had once been long
and irksome, now were flitting seasons of anticipation between real
joys. At dusk he came home with eyes glowing in the delight that knows
no fatigue, with a heart leaping with the love that is young and eager,
and blood carousing under the intoxication of passion's wine. In the
kitchen door of the little cot, no longer dismal in its weather-worn
plainness, there always stood the slim, supple girl, her heart leaping
with the eagerness to be clasped in his arms. She was growing into
perfect womanhood, perfect in figure, perfect in love, perfect in all
its mysteries. Her whole life before now appeared as a dreamless sleep
to her; the present was the beginning of a divine dream that softens
the rest of life into mellow forgetfulness.
She walked with him in the hayfield, from choice, delighted to toil
near him, to breathe the same air, to endure the same sun, to enjoy the
same moments of rest beneath the great oaks, to drink from the same
brown jug of spring water, to sing, to laugh, to play with him. It was
not work. Then came the harvesting, the thrashing, and the fall
sowing. Six months were soon gone and still these children played like
cupids. Other married people in the neighborhood, whose honeymoons had
not been more than a week old before they began to show callous spots,
wondered dumbly at the beautiful girl who grew prettier and straighter
instead of turning sour, frowsy, and bent under the rigors of connubial
joy--as they had found it. They could not understand how the husband
could be so blithe and cheery, so upstanding and strong, and so
devoted. The wives of the neighborhood pondered over the latter
condition. The husbands did not deem it worth while or expedient to
wonder--they merely called Jud a "dinged shif'less boy that'll wake up
some time er 'nother an' understan' more 'n he does now." Yet they had
to admit that Jud was conducting the little farm faultlessly, even
though he did find time to moon with his wife, to bask in the sunshine
of her love, to wander over wood and field with her beside him,
sketching, sketching, eternally sketching.
Rainy days and Sundays brought hours of sweet communion to the happy,
simple young couple. So thoroughly were they devoted to one another
that their lack of attention to the neighbors was the source of more or
less indignation on the part of those who "knowed that Jud and her
hadn't no right to be so infernal stuck-up." And yet these same
discontents were won over in the briefest conversation with the pair
when they chanced to meet. Even the most snappish and envious were
overcome by the gentle good humor, the proud simplicity of these young
sweethearts, who saw no ugliness, who knew no bitterness, who found
life and its hardships no struggle at all.
They were desperately poor, but they made no complaint. The vigor of
life was theirs, and they sang as they suffered, looking forward with
bright, confident eyes to the East of their dreams, in which their sun
of fortune was to rise.
Justine was to have the school another year, beginning in October,
after a six-months' vacation. Jud's pride revolted at first against
this decision of hers, but she overcame every argument, and he loved
her more than ever for the share she was taking in the dull battle
against poverty. The land he tilled was not fertile; it had been
overworked for years. The crops were growing thinner; the timber was
slowly falling beneath the stove-wood ax; the meadow plot was almost
barren of grass. It was not a productive "thirty," and they knew it.
There was a bare existence in it when crops were good, but there was,
as yet, no mortgage to face. Jud owned a team of horses, and Justine
two cows and a dozen hogs. They had no other vehicle than a farm
wagon, old and rattling. When they went to the village it was in this
wagon; when to church, they walked, although the distance was two
miles, so tender was their pride.
Little Justine was the politic one. Jud was proud, and was ever ready
to resent the kindly offices of neighbors. Had it been left to him,
young Henry Bossman would have been summarily dismissed when he offered
to help Jud stack the hay, "jes' fer ole times' sake." It was Justine
who welcomed poor, awkward Henry, and it was she who sent him away
rejoicing over a good deed, determined to help "Jud and Justine ever'
time he had a chanst."
It was she who accepted the proffer to thrash their thirty acres of
wheat, free of charge, from David Strong, stopping off one day as his
separator and engine passed by. She thanked him so graciously that he
went his way wondering whether he was indebted to them or they to him.
When Harve Crose offered to get their mail at the crossroads
post-office every day and leave it at the cottage gate as he rode by,
she thanked him so beautifully that he felt as though she ought to
scold him when he was late on rare occasions. Doc Ramsey, the man who
was knocked down by 'Gene Crawley at the toll-gate one night, helped
Jud build a rail fence over half a mile long, and said he "guessed he'd
call it square if Jud 'd give him that picter he drawed of Justine
summer 'fore las'. Kinder like to have that picter, 'y ginger; skeer
the rats away with," ending with a roar of apologetic laughter at his
homely excuse.
'Gene Crawley was never to be seen in the little lane. Sullen and
savage, he frequented the toll-gate, but not so much as formerly. He
drank more than ever, and it was said that Martin Grimes had taken him
out of jail twice at the county seat, both times on a charge of "drunk
and disorderly conduct." It seemed that he avoided all possible chance
of meeting Jud and his wife. Curious people speculated on the outcome
of his increasing moroseness, and not a few saw something tragic in the
scowl that seldom left his swarthy brow.
For many weeks after her marriage Justine dreamed of the fierce eyes
and the desperate threats of this lover, and the only bar to complete
happiness was the fear that 'Gene Crawley would some day wreak
vengeance upon her husband. As the weeks wore away, this fear
dwindled, until now she felt secure in the hope that he had forgotten
her. And yet, when his name was mentioned in her presence, she could
not restrain the sudden leaping of her heart or the troubled look that
widened her tender brown eyes. When Jud bitterly alluded to him and
assured her, with more or less boyish braggadocio, that he would whip
him if he ever so much as spoke to her or him again, she felt a dread
that seemed almost a presentiment of evil. She did not fear Crawley
for herself, but for Jud.
'Gene's boast before the men at the toll-gate created a sensation in
the usually unruffled community. The blow that felled Doc Ramsey was
universally condemned, yet no man had the courage to take to task the
man who delivered it. The story of his mad declaration concerning
Justine spread like wildfire. Of course, no one believed that his
boast could be carried out, or attempted, for that matter; but, as
gossip traveled, the substance of his vow increased. Within a week the
tale had grown in vileness until Crawley was credited with having given
utterance to the most unheard-of assertions. Black and foul as his
actual words had been, they were tame and weak in comparison with the
things the honest farmers and their wives convinced themselves and
others that he had said.
In the course of time the incident which made historical her wedding
night reached the ears of Justine Sherrod. She had seen 'Gene but two
or three times in the four months that intervened between that time and
the day on which she heard the wretched story from Mrs. Hardesty--an
honest soul who had heard 'Gene's words plainly, and was therefore
qualified to exaggerate if she saw fit. Once the girl passed him in
the lane near the toll-gate. He was leaning on the fence at the
roadside as she passed. She had seen him looking at her hungrily as
she approached, but when she lifted her eyes again, his broad back was
toward her and he was looking across the fields. There was something
foreboding in the strong shoulders and corded brown arms that bore down
upon the fence in an evident effort at self-control. She felt the
panic which makes one wish to fly from an unknown danger. Not daring
to look back, she walked swiftly by, possessed of the fear that he was
following, that he was ready to clutch her from behind. But he stood
there until she turned into the gate a half mile down the lane.
It remained for Mrs. Hardesty to tell Justine the story. The bony wife
of the toll-gate keeper carried her busy presence up to the cottage one
afternoon late in September, and found the young wife resting after a
hard, hot ironing. Her pretty face was warm and rosy, her strong arms
were bare to the shoulder, her full, deep breast was heaving wearily
beneath the loose blue-and-white figured calico. As Mrs. Hardesty came
up the path from the gate she could not resist saying to herself, as
she looked admiringly but with womanly envy upon the straight figure
leaning against the door-casing, fanning a hot face with an old
newspaper:
"I don' blame 'Gene Crawley er enny other man fer wantin' to have her.
They ain't no one like her in the hull State, er this country, either,
fer that matter."
Justine greeted her cordially.
"How do you do, Mrs. Hardesty? Aren't you almost baked in this sun?
Come into the shade and sit down. I'll get you a dipper of water and a
fan."
"Don't put yourself out enny--don't trouble yourself a bit now,
Jestine. Jes' git me a sup o' water an' I'll be all hunky-dory. I
don't mind the sun very much. My, I'm glad to set down in the shade,
though. Never saw the roads so dusty, did you? Thank ye,
Jestine--much obliged. You must have a grand spring here to git such
fine water. It's as cold, purt' nigh, as the ice water you git up to
town. Set down, my dear; you look hot an' tired. I know you look nice
standin' up like that, but you'll be a heap sight more comfortable if
you set down an' rest them tired legs o' your'n. Where's Jed?"
"He's gone over to Hawkins's blacksmith shop on the pike to have Randy
shod. She cast two shoes yesterday," explained the girl, sitting on
the doorstep. "Do you want to see him about anything in particular,
Mrs. Hardesty? He said he'd be home by six."
"No; I jes' ast. Thought ef he was aroun' I'd like to see his
good-lookin' face fer a minnit er two. I reckon, though, he don't look
at other women when you're aroun'," tittered the visitor, who was not a
day under sixty.
"Oh, yes, he does," laughed Justine, turning a shade rosier. "He's
getting tired of seeing me around all the time. You see, I'm an old
married woman now."
"Good heavens, child, wait tell you've been married thirty-nine years
like I have, an' then you kin begin to talk about gittin' tired o'
seein' certain people all the time. I know I could see Jim Hardesty ef
I was as blind as a bat. I kin almost tell how menny hairs they is in
his whiskers."
"Well, how many, for instance?" asked Justine gaily.
"Two hundred and ninety-seven," answered Mrs. Jim, promptly and
positively. She regaled the young wife with a long and far from
original dissertation on married life as she had encountered it with
James. Finally she paused and changed the subject abruptly, leaping to
a question that had doubtless been on her mind for days.
"Have you saw much of 'Gene Crawley lately, Jestine?" The question was
so unexpected that the girl started, and stammered in replying.
"No; very little. I don't believe I've seen him more than twice in
several months. Is he still working for Martin?"
"Oh, yes. They was some talk o' his goin' over to Rumley to work in a
saw-mill, but seems as though he can't leave this part o' the country."
After a moment's hesitation, she went on boldly, smiling with the
awkwardness of one who is determined to learn something at any cost.
"I s'posed he'd been comin' 'roun' here quite a little."
"Coming here, Mrs. Hardesty?" cried the girl in surprise. "Why, he'll
never come here. He and Jud are not friends and he knows I don't like
him. Whatever put that into your head?"
"Oh, I dunno," said Mrs. Hardesty evasively. "I heerd somethin' 'bout
his sayin' he was a great frien' o' your'n, so I thought, like as not,
he was--er--that is, he might 'a' drapped in onct in awhile, you
know--jes' like fellers will, you know."
"Well, you may be sure 'Gene will never come here."
"He wouldn't be welcome, I take it."
"I don't like to say that anybody would not be welcome, Mrs. Hardesty.
I hardly think he'd _care_ to come," said the girl nervously.
"Him an' Jed have had some words, hain't they? Never been friends
sence they was boys, I've heered. Do you think he's afeared o' Jed?"
"Why should he be afraid of Jud? So long as each attends to his own
business there is nothing to be afraid of. They're not good friends,
that's all."
"Well, 'Gene's been doin' some ugly talkin'," said the visitor doggedly.
"What do you mean?" asked Justine. A strange chill seized her heart--a
fear for Jud.
"He's been very unwise to say the things he has. I tole Jim Hardesty
ef they ever got to Jed's ears 'Gene 'd pay purty dearly fer them. But
Jim says 'twouldn't be good fer Jed ef he tackled 'Gene. He's wuss'n
pison."
"Why, Mrs. Hardesty, I don't--I don't know what you're talking about,"
cried the poor girl. "What has 'Gene been saying?"
"Oh, it wouldn't be right fer me to git mixed up in it. It's none o'
my funeral," said Mrs. Hardesty, now in the full delight of keeping a
listener tortured with suspense. It was a quarter of an hour before
she could be induced to relate the very tales she had come to tell in
the first place.
"'Gene tole the boys that night that he'd made love to you ever sence
you was children and that he could tell Jed Sherrod some things ef he
was a mind to. He said he could take you away from him any time, an'
that Jed 'd have to stay 'roun' home purty close ef he wanted to be
sure o' you."
"Oh, oh, oh!" moaned the dumfounded girl.
"An' then he went on to say that you'd promised to--to--well--well, to
leave Jed some time an' go away with him. That's the mildest way to
put it. I couldn't say it the way 'Gene did. Don't look so put-out
about it, Jestine--really, you look like you want to faint. Shell I
git you some water?"
"Did--did he say all of that?" Justine whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, he did. I heered him. I was in the house an'----"
"Mrs. Hardesty, don't tell me any more. I cannot bear it. How could
he have said it--how could he have been so mean?" she wailed,
struggling to her feet.
"Of course, they wasn't any truth in what 'Gene said," Mrs. Hardesty
volunteered, but the declaration bore distinct marks of a question.
Justine's eyes blazed, her body trembled, her lips quivered. Never had
any one seen such a look upon that sweet, gentle face.
"No!" burst from her lips so fiercely that Mrs. Jim's eyes wavered and
fell. "No! And everybody knows it! How can you ask?"
"I didn't ask--you know I didn't, Jestine----" stammered the guest.
"You _did_ ask. God forgive 'Gene Crawley for those awful lies--God
forgive him! Oh, Matilda, how could he--how could he have said such
things? I never did him any wrong----"
"Jed ought to kill him--the mean snake! He ought to go right over to
Martin Grimes's an'----" began Mrs. Hardesty excitedly.
"No, no! He must not know!" cried Justine, with a new terror. She
clutched Mrs. Hardesty by the shoulders so that the old lady winced.
"Jud must never know! Don't you see how it would end? There would be
a murder--a murder! Jud would kill him. Let it be as it is; I can
stand it--yes, I can! We must keep it from him. You will help me,
won't you? You will see that nobody goes to Jud with this awful
story--I know you will! Oh, God! They would fight and--one of them
would be killed. How can we keep Jud from hearing?"
Mrs. Hardesty stared up at her, and after a moment laid a hand upon the
clinging one upon her shoulder.
"You are right," she agreed. "Jed mus' never be tole. Him an' 'Gene
would settle it, an' I'm afeard fer Jed's sake. 'Gene's so vicious
like."