THE ENCOUNTER WITH CRAWLEY.
Justine received his letter at the end of the week. The three days
intervening between his departure and its arrival had seemed almost
years. Since their marriage day they had not been separated for more
than twelve consecutive hours. It was the first night she had spent
alone--the night which followed his departure. In her brief, blissful
married life it was the only night she had spent without his arm for a
pillow.
The days were bleak and oppressive; she lived in a daze, almost to the
point of unconsciousness. The nights brought dismal forebodings, cruel
dreams, and sudden awakenings. She felt lost, in strange and
unfriendly surroundings; where love, tenderness, and joy had been the
reigning forces there was now only loneliness. No object seemed
familiar to her. Everything that had given personality to the little
farm was gone with the whistle of a locomotive, the clacking of railway
coaches, the clanging of a bell. The landscape was not the same, the
sky was no longer blue, the moon and stars were somber. Yank, the dog,
moped about the place, purposeless, sad-eyed, and with no ambition in
his erstwhile frisky tail. Jud had not been gone more than half a day
when curious neighbors pulled up their horses at the gate.
"Heerd from Jud? How's he gittin' 'long in Chickawgo?"
"I haven't heard, Mr. Martin, but I am expecting a letter soon. How
long does it take mail to get here from Chicago?"
"Depends a good deal on how fer it is."
"Oh, it's over two hundred miles, I know."
"Seems to me y'oughter be hearin' 'fore long, then. Shell I ast ef
they's any mail fer you down to the post-office?"
"I have sent Charlie Spangler to the toll-gate, thank you."
"Gitep!"
Mail reached the cross-roads post-office twice a day, carried over by
wagon from Glenville. Little Charlie Spangler was at the toll-gate
morning and evening, at least half an hour before Mr. Hardesty drove up
with the slim pouch, but it was not until the third morning that he was
rewarded. Then came a thick envelope on which blazed the Chicago
postmark. Every hanger-on about the toll-gate unhesitatingly declared
the handwriting to be that of Jud Sherrod. It was addressed to Mrs.
Dudley Sherrod. The letter was passed around for inspection before it
was finally delivered to the proud boy, who ran nearly all the way to
Justine's in his eagerness to learn as much as he could of its
contents. Jim Hardesty had promised him a bunch of Yucatan if he
brought all the news to the toll-gate before supper-time.
Justine knew the letter had come when she saw the spindle-shanked boy
racing up the lane. She was awaiting the messenger at the gate.
"Is it from Jud?" she cried, hurrying to meet him, her face glowing
once more. He was waving the epistle on high.
"That's what they all say," he panted, as he drew near. "Jim says he'd
know Jud's writin' if he wrote in Chinese."
The poor, lonesome girl read the long letter as if it were the most
thrilling novel, fascinated by every detail, enthralled by the
wonderful experiences of her boy-husband in the great city. His
descriptions of places, people, and customs, as they appeared to his
untrained, marveling eye, were vivid, though disconnected. Then came
the narration of his experience with the artist, supplemented by
playful boasting, and the welcome news that he was to have employment
on the great newspaper.
Justine had not, from the first, doubted his ability to find work in
the city. While she glowed with pride and happiness, there was a
little bitterness in her lonely heart. In that moment she realized
that there had existed, unknown and unfelt, a hope that he would fail
and that the failure would send him back to gladden the little home.
Afterwards the bitterness gave way to rejoicing. Success to him meant
success and happiness to both; his struggle was for her as well as for
himself, and the end would justify the sacrifice of the beginning. It
could not be for long--he had already clutched the standard of fame and
she knew him to be a man who would bear it forward as long as there was
life and health. She had supreme faith in his ambition--the only rival
to his love.
She read certain parts of his letter aloud to Mrs. Crane and Charlie,
glorying in their astonished ejaculations, widespread eyes, and excited
"Ohs." Within herself she felt a certain wifely superiority, a little
disdain for their surprise, a certain pity for their ignorance. With a
touch of self-importance, innocently natural, she enjoyed the emotions
of her companions, forgetting that she had just begun to break through
the chrysalis of ignorance that still bound them.
Before "supper-time" Charlie Spangler was in possession of the Yucatan
and Jim Hardesty's place was ringing with the news of Jud's success.
Long before the night was over certain well-informed and calculating
individuals were prophesying that inside of five years he would be
running for the presidency of the United States.
"'Y gosh!" volunteered Mr. Hardesty, "thet boy's got it in him to be
shuriff of this county, ef he'd a mind to run. 'F he stays up there in
Chickawgo fer a year er two an' tends to his knittin' like a sensible
feller'd oughter, he'll come back here with a reecord so derned hard to
beat thet it wouldn't be a whipstitch tell he'd be the most pop'lar man
in the hull county. Chickawgo puts a feller in the way of big things
an' I bet three dollars Jed wouldn't have no trouble 't all gittin' the
enomination fer shuriff."
"Shuriff, thunder! What'd he wanter run fer shuriff fer? Thet's no
office fer a Chickawgo man. They run fer jedge or general or senator
or somethin' highfalutin'. I heerd it said onct thet there has been
more Presidents of the United States come from Chickawgo than from airy
other State in the West. What Jed'll be doin' 'fore long will be to
come out fer President or Vice-President, you mark my words, boys."
Thus spake Uncle Sammy Godfrey, the sage of Clay township. He had been
a voter for sixty years and his opinion on things political was next to
law.
'Gene Crawley soon heard the news. He had been awaiting the letter
with almost as much impatience as had Justine. If such a creature as
he could pray, it had been his prayer that Justine's husband might find
constant employment in Chicago. The torture of knowing that she was
another man's wife could be assuaged if he were not compelled to see
the happiness they found in being constantly together. He could have
shouted for joy when he heard that Jud was to live in Chicago and that
she was to remain on the farm, near him, for a time, at least.
"Well, Jed's gone, 'Gene," said Mrs. Hardesty, meaningly, as he leaned
over the greasy counter that evening. "'Spose you don't keer much, do
you?"
"Don't give a damn, one way or t'other," responded he, darkly, puffing
away at his pipe. Despite his apparent calmness, his teeth were almost
biting the cane pipe-stem in two. "Has he got a job?"
"He's goin' to draw picters fer a newspaper up there, an' they do say
the pay's immense."
"How much is he to git?"
"He says in his letter he's to start out with $15 a week, an'll soon be
gittin' twict as much."
"You mean a _month_."
"No; a week, 'Gene. Thet's what the letter said."
"Aw, what you givin' us! Him to git $15 a week? Why, goldern it, I'm
only gittin' $18 a month, an' I've allus been counted a better hand'n
him. Who said that was in the letter?" Jealousy was getting the
better of 'Gene.
"Charlie Spangler heerd Justine Van read it right out loud, an' he's a
powerful quick-witted boy. He gen'rally hears things right."
"He's the cussedest little liar in Clay township," snarled 'Gene.
"You know better'n that, 'Gene Crawley. You're jest mad 'cause Jed's
doin' well, thet's what you air, and you know it," cried she.
"Mad? What fer?" exclaimed he, trying to recover his temper for the
first time in his life.
"'Cause you're jealous an' 'cause he's got her, thet's what fer," she
said, conscious that she was stirring his violent nature to the boiling
point. But to her surprise--and to his own, for that matter--he gulped
and laughed coarsely.
"Well, he's welcome to her, ain't he?" he asked. "Who's got a better
right?"
"Thet ain't the way you talked a year ago," she said meaningly.
"You know too dern much," he said and walked away, leaving behind a
thoroughly dissatisfied woman. But Mrs. Hardesty did not know how
deeply she had cut nor how he raged inwardly as he hurried homeward
through the night.
Several days later he boldly climbed the meadow fence, and, for the
first time since the fight, started across Justine's property on a
short cut to the hills. What his object was in going to the hills in
the dusk of that evening he himself did not clearly understand, but at
the bottom of it all was the desire to intrude upon forbidden ground.
Beneath the ugliness of his motive, however, there lurked a certain
timidity. He was conscious that he was trespassing, and he knew she
would not like it. But if she saw him cross the meadow, he never knew.
His intention had been, of course, to attract her notice, and he was
filled with disappointment. Late in the night he walked back from the
hills. There was a light in one of her rear windows, and he peered
eagerly from the garden fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. When
Yank began to bark, he threw stones at the faithful brute and stood his
ground, trusting that she would come to the door. He cursed when old
Mrs. Crane appeared in the yard, calling in frightened tones to the
dog. Then he slunk away in the night. The next day and the next he
strode through the meadow. With each failure he grew uglier and more
set in his purpose, for he had a fair certainty that she saw and
avoided him.
One evening he ventured across the meadow, his black eyes searching for
her. Suddenly he came upon her. She was driving a cow home from a far
corner of the pasture, leisurely, in the waning daylight, her thoughts
of Jud and the future. She did not see Crawley until he was almost
beside her, and she could not restrain the gasp of terror. Hoping that
he would not speak to her, she hurried on.
"Have you heerd from Jud ag'in, Justine?" he asked, his voice trembling
in spite of himself.
"How dare you speak to me?" she cried, not checking her speed, nor
glancing toward him.
"Well, I guess I've got a voice an' they ain't no law ag'in me usin'
it, is there? What's the use bein' so unfriendly, anyhow? I'll drive
the cow in fer you, Justine," he went on with a strange bashfulness.
His stride toward her brought her to a standstill, her eyes flashing
with resentment.
"'Gene Crawley, you've been ordered to keep off of our place and I want
you to stay off. If you ever put your foot in this pasture again I'll
sic' Yank on you. Don't you ever dare speak to me again." She drew
her form to its full height and looked into his face.
"If you sic' Yank on me I'll kill him, jes' as I could 'a' killed _him_
when we fit over yander by the crick. I let him up fer your sake an'
I've been sorry fer it ever sence. Say, Justine, I want to be your
friend----"
"Friend!" she exclaimed scornfully. "You're a treacherous dog and you
don't deserve to have a friend on earth. If you were a man you'd keep
off this place and quit bothering me. You know that Jud's away and you
are coward enough to take the advantage. I want you to _go_--go at
once!"
"You ain't got no right to call me a coward," he growled.
"Do you think it brave to say what you did about me and to make your
boasts down at the toll-gate? Is that the way a man acts?"
"Somebody's been lyin' to you----" he began confusedly.
"No! You did say it and there's no use lying to me. I loathe you
worse than a snake, and I wouldn't trust you as far. 'Gene Crawley,
I've got a loaded shotgun in the house. So help me God, I'll kill you
if you don't keep away from me."
She was in deadly earnest and he knew it. The rage of despair burned
away every vestige of the brutal confidence in which he had intruded
upon her little domain.
"I'm not such a bad feller, Justine----" he began, with a mixture of
defiance and humbleness in his voice. It was now dark and they were
alone, but she commanded the situation despite her quaking heart.
"You lie, 'Gene Crawley!" she exclaimed. "You are a drunken brute, and
you don't deserve to be spoken to by any woman. You are not fit to
talk to--to--to the hogs!"
He clenched his fists and an oath sprang to his lips. "I've a notion
to----" he hissed, but could not complete the threat. The suppressed
words were "brain you."
"I expect you to," she cried. "Why don't you do it, you coward?" He
glared at her for a moment, baffled. Suddenly his eyes fell, his
shoulders trembled, and his voice broke.
"I wouldn't hurt you for the whole world, Justine." He turned and
walked away from her without another word.
'Gene Crawley never touched liquor after that night. "Not fit to talk
to the hogs," "a drunken brute," were sentences that curdled in his
heart, freezing forever the lust of liquor. He was beginning to crave
the respect of a woman. Deep in his soul lay the hope that if he could
only cease drinking he might win more than respect from her.