ONE HEART FOR TWO.
The passing of two months saw Sherrod a constant, even a privileged,
visitor at the Wood home. In that time he visited the cottage in
Indiana but once, and on that occasion glowingly related to Justine the
story of his first visit to the goddess and of her subsequent interest
in his affairs.
Just now he was beginning to realize the consequences of his deception.
Affairs had reached the stage where it seemed next to impossible to
acknowledge his marriage to Justine, and he certainly could not tell
that honest, trusting wife of his unfortunate duplicity. He loved her
too deeply to inflict the wound that such a confession would make, and
yet he could see that delay would only increase the violence of the
shock should she learn of his mistake, innocently conceived, but
unwisely fostered.
Justine also had a secret. When he was ready to take her to the city,
she would confess to him that 'Gene Crawley was to farm the place for
her that spring and summer, working it on shares. He was to use his
own team, for her horses had died of influenza. So little did Jud know
of the old home place now that he did not recognize Crawley's horses in
the stable, nor could he see that a man's hand had performed wonders in
the field. He was thinking of Chicago and the miserable broil in which
his affairs were involved. Justine induced Crawley to remain away from
the farm during Jud's stay, an undertaking which required some force of
persuasion. Crawley wanted to make peace with Jud and to assure him of
his good faith; he begged her to let him apologize to his old adversary
and ask him to shake hands and say quits. But she knew that Jud would
not understand and that there could be no forgiveness. Never in her
life had she loved Jud as in these days when she was disobeying and
deceiving him. While she knew that 'Gene was no longer the brute and
the blackguard of old, she saw that her husband could look upon him
only as he had known him.
The farm was bound to do well this year and she was happy to give Jud
that assurance. Once he caught her looking wistfully at him when he
was telling of expected triumphs in the city. He knew that she was
hoping he would say that she could soon go with him to the city,
leaving the farm to care for itself. But how could he take her there
now? He groaned with the shame of it.
A week of sleepless nights followed this visit to Clay township. The
young artist's work on the paper suffered and his fellows advised him
to take a rest. He had had no vacation since taking the position many
months before. But it was not overwork that told on him; it was the
lying awake of nights striving to find a way out of his predicament
without losing the respect of all these friends, especially that of one
whom he admired so deeply. He had permitted her to believe him free
and had behaved as a free man behaves to such an extent that
explanations were impossible. To tell her the truth concerning the man
she had gone to the theatre with, had lunched with in downtown
restaurants, had entertained in her own home almost to the exclusion of
others, could bring but one end--the scorn and detestation he deserved.
Poor Converse had given up the conflict in despair, but, good fellow
that he was, held no grudge against Sherrod, for whom he had genuine
admiration. They were lunching together a week or two after his trying
trip to Clay township, and Jud was so moody that Converse took note of
it. As they sat at the table, Converse mentally observed that his
friend was growing handsomer every day; the moods improved him. After
a long silence, the artist said:
"I had an offer to-day to do some book illustrating for a publishing
house."
"Good! That's the stuff! Book pictures will be your line, old man.
Will you accept?"
"I'm afraid I'd be a failure," said Jud, gloomily.
"Is that what's the matter with you?"
"What do you mean?" demanded the other, quickly.
"O, your grumpiness. You've been all out of sorts for a couple of
weeks, you know--or maybe you don't. But you have, anyway. I never
saw a fellow change as you have in--in, well, ten days."
"I don't understand why you think so. Everything is all right with
me," said Jud, shortly.
"Maybe you're off your feed a bit."
"Never was better in my life."
"Well, it's darned queer. You act like a man whose liver is turning
mongrel. Why, you ought to be satisfied. You've made a big hit here
and you'll soon be getting the biggest salary of any newspaper artist
in town. You have been elected to the Athletic Club, you have been
invited to lecture before some of the clubs, you've got plenty of coin
to throw at birds, so why don't you rub those wrinkles from between
your eyes?"
Jud laughed rather mirthlessly, without taking his eyes from the coffee
which he was stirring.
"Wrinkles don't come because you want them, but because you don't."
"Well, old chap, I'm sure something is worrying you. Can I help you in
any way?" went on his generous friend.
"Thanks, Doug; you can help me to another lump of sugar."
"The devil take you," cried Converse, handing him the bowl. "Say," he
said, a moment later, watching Jud as he calmly buttered his bread, "I
believe there's a woman in it."
"A woman!" exclaimed the other, almost dropping his knife. For an
instant his gray eyes seemed to look through the other's brain. "What
are you driving at, Doug?" he went on, controlling himself.
"I'm next to you at last, old man. You're in a deuce of a boat.
You're in love."
"And if I were, I can't see why I should have to hire a boat."
"It's all right to talk that way, but you are in the boat, just the
same. Maybe it's a raft, though, and maybe you're shipwrecked. You
are one of these unlucky dogs who find out that they love the second
girl after having promised to marry the first one. The size of it is,
you've about forgotten the little Indiana girl you were telling me
about." For a whole minute Jud stared at him, white to the lips.
"You have no right to talk like that, Converse," he said, hoarsely.
"I beg pardon, Jud; I didn't mean to offend. Honestly now, I was
talking to hear myself talk," cried the other.
"I have not promised to marry any one in Indiana," said Jud, slowly,
cruelly, deliberately.
"Then, you are free as air?" asked Converse, a chill in his heart.
"Or as foul," said Sherrod.
"Sherrod, is this girl down in the country in love with you?"
"You mean the one I spoke of?" asked Jud, his head swimming.
"Yes, the one you spoke of."
"'My dear fellow, the girl I spoke of has been married for three years.
I am very sure she loves her husband."
"Thank God for that, Jud. I was afraid you were forgetting her, just
as Celeste said you might. It wouldn't be right to break her heart,
you know."
"Excellent advice," said Jud.
"Have you seen Celeste since Sunday? I saw you together at St. James'."
Sherrod had already dropped four lumps into his coffee and was now
adding another.
"I saw her last night. Why?"
"'Gad, you're pretty regular, aren't you?" said Converse, bitter in
spite of himself.
"It strikes me you are talking rather queerly."
"I presume I am. You'll forgive me, though, when I remind you that I
care a great deal for her. It rather hurts to have her forget me
entirely," said the poor fellow.
"Come, come, old man, you're losing your nerve," cried Jud, his eye
brightening. "I'm sure you can win if you'll only have heart."
"Win! You know better than that. If you don't know it, I'll tell you
something. She's desperately in love with another man at this very
minute."
"What?" ejaculated Jud. "Miss Wood in love with--with--another man?
Why--why--I've not seen her pay any especial attention to any one."
"You must be blind, then. There's only one man in the world she cares
to see any more, or cares to have near her."
"Good heavens, no! I never suspected--by George, Doug, surely you're
dreaming!" He could not understand a certain jealousy that came to him.
"Can't you see that she's in love with you--you?" cried the boy.
The two looked at each other intently for a moment, despair in the eyes
of one, incredulous joy in those of the other. Sherrod could feel the
blood rushing swifter and swifter to his heart, to his throat, to his
face, to his eyes. Something red and hot floated across his vision,
turning the whole world a ruddy hue; something strong and light seemed
striving to lift his whole being in the air.
"Well, why don't you say you don't believe it?" said a voice in front
of him.
"I--I can't say a word. You paralyze me. My heavens, Converse, I
never dreamed of such a thing and I know you're mistaken. Why, it
cannot be--it shouldn't be," he almost gasped.
"Bah! What's the use? Women don't ask permission to fall in love, do
they? They just fall, that's all. I'm not saying it is absolutely
true, but I'm making a pretty fine guess. She is more interested in
you than in any man she has ever known. I know that much."
"Interested, perhaps, yes, but that is not love. Hang it, Douglass,
she cares for you."
"No, she doesn't, Jud; no, she doesn't. No such luck, I don't appeal
to her at all and I never can. I step down and out; you've a clear
field so far as I am concerned. If I can't have her, I'd rather see
her go to you than to any one in the world. You're good and honest and
a man."
"Impossible! Impossible! It can't be that. You don't understand the
real situation----" floundered Jud.
"I understand it as well as you do, my boy,--better, I think. I know
Celeste Wood and that's all there is to it. You've won something that
a hundred men have fought for and lost. You're a lucky dog."
Jud Sherrod went to his rooms that night, after a dizzy evening at the
theatre and the club, his head whirling with the intoxication coming
from a mixture of rejoicing, regret, shame, apprehension,
incredulity,--a hundred irrepressible thoughts. What if Converse's
supposition should be true? Then, what a beast he had been! This
night he slept not a wink--in fact, he did not go to bed. He even
thought of suicide as he paced the floor or buried his face in the
cushions on his couch.
With it all before him there suddenly came uppermost the thought of his
base treatment of Justine. Here he was earning a handsome salary,
living comfortably and cozily, spending his money in the entertainment
of another woman, leading that other woman on to what now seemed
certain unhappiness, and all the time neglecting the trusting, loving
wife even to the point of cruelty. Down there in the bleak, uncouth
country she was struggling on, loving him, trusting him, believing in
him, and he was keeping himself afar off, looking on with selfish,
indifferent eyes. All this grew worse and worse as he realized that of
all women he loved none but Justine--loved and revered her deeper and
deeper with every hour and day.
As the dawn came, in the eagerness of repentance, he seized pen and
paper and wrote two letters, one to Justine, one to Celeste. To
Justine he poured forth his confession and urged her to save him, to
live with him, to go with him to another city where he could begin
anew. To Celeste he admitted his shameful behavior, pleaded for
forgiveness, and asked her to forget that he had ever come into her
sweet, pure life. But he never sent the letters.
His courage failed him. With the temporizing weakness of the guilty,
he destroyed the bits of honesty his heart had inspired, and planned
anew, feverishly, sincerely, almost buoyantly. He would see Celeste
personally the next day or night, tell her all and face her scorn as
best he could. He would see her once more--once more--and
then,--Justine forever!