'GENE CRAWLEY'S SERMON.
"'Gene, 'tain't none o' my business, understan', but 'pears to me you
ain't doin' a very sensible thing in hirin' out to Jestine Sherrod like
this. She'd oughter have some one else down there 'tendin' to the
place. You ain't the feller, take it jest how you please. She's all
alone, 'cept ole Mis' Crane, an' folks is boun' to talk, dang 'em. I
don't think it's jest right fer you to be there."
"There ain't nothin' wrong in it, Martin. There ain't a thing. Do you
think there is?"
"W--e--ll, no, not that, 'zackly, but it gives people a chanst to _say_
there's somethin' wrong," said Mr. Grimes, shifting his feet
uncomfortably. The two men were standing in the farmer's barnyard
about a fortnight after it became generally known in the community that
Jud had gone to Europe. "Y'see, ever'body reecollects that nasty thing
you said down to the tollgate the night o' the weddin'. 'Tain't human
natur' to fergit sich a brag as that wuz. What a goshamighty fool you
wuz to talk like----"
"Oh, I know I wuz, I know it. Don't be a throwin' it up to me, Martin.
I wish I'd never said it. I wish I'd died while I wuz sayin' it so's I
could 'a' gone right straight to hell to pay fer it. I wuz a crazy
man, Martin, that's what I wuz. Ever'body knows I didn't mean it,
don't they?"
"W--e--ll, mos' ever'body knows you couldn't kerry out yer boast, no
matter ef you meant it er not. But, you c'n see fer yerself 'at your
workin' over on her place ain't jest the thing, with all the talk 'at
went on a couple year ago. Like's not ever'thing's all proper an' they
ain't no real harm in it, but----"
"Look here, Martin Grimes, do you mean to insinyate that it ain't
proper? 'Cause ef you do, somethin's goin' to drap an' drap all-fired
hard," exclaimed 'Gene, his brow darkening.
"Don't be so techy, 'Gene. I ain't insinyated a blame thing; cain't
you see I'm tryin' to lay the hull case afore you clearly? 'Tain't no
use beatin' roun' the bush, nuther. She's boun' to be compermised."
Crawley stared long and silently at a herd of cattle on the distant
hillside.
"Martin," he said, at last, "that girl's made a different man of me. I
ain't the same ornery cuss I wuz a couple of year ago. Anybody c'n see
that. I ain't teched a mouthful of whisky fer purty nigh a year.
Seems to me I don't keer a damn to swear--I mean I don't keer to swear
any more. That one slipped out jest because talkin' to you like this
kind o' takes me back to where I used to be. I go to church purty
reg'lar, don't I? Well, it's all her. She's made a different man of
me, I tell you, an' I wouldn't do her no wrong if the hull world
depended on it. She's the best woman that ever lived, that's what she
is. An' she keers more fer Jud Sherrod's little finger than fer all
the balance of the world put together. There ain't no honester girl in
Clay township, an' darn me, if ever I hear anybody say anything mean
ag'in her, I'll break his neck. I'm helpin' her over on the place, an'
she's payin' me wages, jest like she'd pay any hand, an' I don't know
whose business it is but her'n an' mine."
"I know all that, 'Gene, but people don't----"
"Who in thunder is the people? A lot of old women who belong to
church, an' go to sociables jest to run one 'nother down, an' all the
time there ain't one-tenth of 'em that ain't jealous of the women they
think's goin' wrong. They're so derned selfish an' evil-minded that
they cain't even imagine another woman doin' somethin' that ain't right
without feelin' jealous as blazes an' gittin' dissatisfied with
ever'thing around 'em. You cain't tell me nothin' about these old
scarecrows that keep a sign hangin' out all the time--'virtue is its
own reward.' Say, Martin, you don't suppose that I'm the only hired
hand workin' around these parts, do you?" snarled 'Gene, malevolently.
"No, course not, but--what you mean, 'Gene?"
"I'm not the only man that's workin' on a farm where there's a woman,
am I?" grated 'Gene.
"Lookee here, 'Gene, 'splain yerself. That don't sound very well,"
exclaimed Martin, turning a shade paler and glancing uneasily toward
his own house.
"There ain't nothin' to explain, but it's somethin' to think about,
Martin. You c'n tell that to all the old women you see, too, an' mebby
they won't do so much thinkin' about Justine Van. That's all. If I'd
waited fer any of these other women 'round here to do me a good turn,
I'd be worse than I ever wuz. 'Tain't in 'em, Martin; all they c'n do
is to cackle an' look around to see if they got wings sproutin' on
theirselves. They don't think of nobody else, unless they think bad.
Justine ain't that sort, I want to tell you. Here I wuz, her enemy,
an' no friend of her husband's. I'd done a hull lot o' mean things to
her an' him. But did she hold it up ag'in me when the chanst come for
her to do some good fer me? No, sir, she didn't. She tole me that I
had the makin' of a man in me, an' then she tuck holt of me an' give me
a new start. She said I wuz a beast an' a drunkard an' a coward, an' a
hull lot o' things, but she said I could be a good man if I'd try. So
I tried, an' I hadn't no idee it wuz so easy. She done it an' she
don't keer no more fer me than she does fer that spotted calf of your'n
over yander. Now, I want to tell you somethin', Martin. She needs me
down there on the place an' I'm goin' to stay there till she tells me
to quit. Then I'm goin' to quit like a man. It don't make no
difference what I said two er three year ago, either, 'cause I'm not
the same man I wuz then. If Clay township don't like the way I'm
doin', let 'em say so an' be done with it. Then we'll settle some
scores."
Grimes shuffled his feet frequently and expectorated nervously without
regard to direction or consequences during this unusually long speech.
Mrs. Grimes was recognized as one of the most ravenous gossips in the
neighborhood, and her husband knew it. Yet he was too much in dread of
Crawley's prowess to take up the cudgels in her defense. He had also
suspected, years before, that she was in love with one of his "hired
men"; hence his uneasiness under 'Gene's implications.
"You better not talk too much, 'Gene," he said at last. "I'm yer
friend, but I cain't stave off the hull township fer you. Ef it gits
out that you're making sich bold talk an' braggin'----"
"Braggin'! Who's braggin'? I mean ever' word I said, an' a heap sight
more, too. You jest tell 'em what I said an' let 'em come to me. But
if any of 'em goes to Justine with their sneakin' tales an' their
cussed lies, I'll not stop to see whether it's a man er a woman. I'll
wrap 'em up in a knot an' chuck 'em out into the middle of the lane."
"Now, that wouldn't be a wise thing to do, don't you see?" said Grimes,
growing more and more uncomfortable. At this point it may be announced
that Mr. Grimes had been deputized by his wife to convince 'Gene of the
error of his way and of the wrong he was doing Justine. "You'd have
the constables down here in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail."
"Old Bill Higgins an' Randy Dixon? They wouldn't try to arrest me if I
wuz tied hand an' foot an' chloroformed into the bargain. But, say,
there ain't no use talkin' about this thing. I want the folks to know
that I'm goin' to stick to Justine an' help her out as long as I can.
I'm doin' it honest an' I'm gittin' paid fer it like anybody else.
Martin, I don't want to have 'em say anything ag'in her. She's as good
as gold an' we all oughter be proud of her. Jud's in hard luck, I
reckon. Leastwise he looked it last time he wuz here. Mebby he'll git
on his feet over there in Europe, an' then he c'n do the right thing by
her. But I'll tell you, Martin, we all want to stick to her now.
She's all broke up an' I c'n see she's discouraged. She wouldn't let
on fer the world, allus bright an' happy, but old Mrs. Crane told me
t'other day that she'd ketched her cryin' more'n onct. That
gosh-darned little farm of her'n ain't payin' a thing, an' I want to
tell you she needs sympathy 'nstead of hard words."
"They ain't a soul ever said anything ag'in her, 'Gene," broke in the
other. "But they're apt to ef it goes on. But go ahead; you know
best, 'Gene, you know best."
"I don't know best, either. That's the trouble. I c'n talk to you an'
sweat about it, but I don't know what to do. I'm awful worried about
it. Of course, if any responsible person ever said anything wrong she
could sue him in the courts, somehow er other, but she'd hate to do
that," said 'Gene, reflectively. Plainly, he saw the girl's position
better than his loyalty would allow him to admit. Martin started
violently at the word "sue" and was from that moment silenced. He
lived in terror of a lawsuit and its dangers.
"D'you suppose she'd go to court?"
"She wouldn't want to, but me--me an'--me an' Jud could coax her to do
it," said 'Gene, shrewd in an instant. "I don't reckon folks remember
about the courts, do they?"
Martin pulled his nerves together sufficiently to send a stream of
tobacco juice into a knot-hole in the fence fifteen feet away, and said:
"Well, they'd oughter remember, by ginger!"
After a few minutes of rather energetic chewing for him (Martin rarely
chewed tobacco vigorously because of the extravagance), he calmly
reopened the conversation.
"When are you liable to git through plantin' over there?"
"In a couple of days, if it keeps dry."
"I'll let Bud Jones go over an' help you ef you need him."
"Oh, I c'n git along, I guess."
"I wuz thinkin' a little of sendin' Bud over this week with a couple
bushels of potaters fer Jestine. Never seed sich potaters in my born
days."
"I think she's got a plenty, Martin."
"You don't say so. Well, how's she off fer turnips?"
"She could use a few bushels of turnips an' some oats an' little corn,
I reckon. Dern it, I believe she's purty nigh out of hay, too," said
'Gene, soberly.
"Tell her I'll drive over this week with some," said Martin, wiping his
brow.
"She'll pay you fer the stuff when you take it over."
"I didn't 'low to ask fer pay."
"Well, she ain't askin' fer favors, either."
Martin stared down the road for some minutes.
"But I got more'n I c'n use," he said.
"If that's the case you c'n send it over an' she'll be mighty thankful.
An' say, I guess I c'n use Bud to-morrow an' next day."
"We're purty busy an' I don't see how----"
"Don't send him, then. You said you'd thought of it, you know."
"I'll send him, though, come to think of it. You say pore little
Jestine 'pears to be discouraged?"
"Kinder so, I should say. Poor little girl, she's----" Here he leaned
over and uttered an almost inaudible bit of information. Martin's eyes
bulged and he gasped.
"The devil you say! Well, I'll be danged!"
'Gene started down the lane, his jaws set and hard for the moment.
Suddenly he turned, and, with the first chuckle of mirth Grimes had
heard from him that day, said:
"Don't fergit to send over them potaters, too, Martin."
Then he trudged rapidly away, leaving Mr. Grimes in a state bordering
on collapse. Between the startling bit of information 'Gene had given
him, the hint at lawsuits, the insinuation against other women in the
locality and his own astounding liberality, he was the most thoroughly
confused farmer in Clay township. He went to the house and talked it
all over with his wife, and the words of advice that he gave to her
savored very much of the mandatory. He dreamed that night that some
one sued him for damages and got judgment for $96,000. The next day he
sent a wagonload of supplies to Justine, after which he told his wife
she could not have the new "calico" he had been promising for three
months.
Eugene Crawley's position on the old Van farm was queer. He was a
self-appointed slave, as it were. True, he was paid wages and he was
given his meals in the little kitchen where Justine and Mrs. Crane ate.
That privilege was the one recompense that made slavery a charm. In
his undisciplined heart there had grown a feeling of reverence for the
wife of Jud Sherrod that displaced the evil love of the long ago. His
love, in these days, was pure and hopeless. He thought only of lifting
the burden that another's love had left upon her shoulders. The 'Gene
Crawley of old was no more. In his place was a simple, devoted toiler,
a lowly worshipper.
Against her will he had attached himself to the farm, and at last he
had become indispensable. The fear with which she had once regarded
him was gone with the wonderful alteration in his nature. Innocent,
unsuspecting child that she was, she thought that his love had died and
that it could never be awakened. She did not know the depths of his
silent adoration.
At nightfall each day he trudged back to Martin Grimes's barn to sleep,
and in the morning, before sunrise, he was at his post of duty again.
So thoughtful was he of her welfare that he never lingered after the
night's chores were done, realizing that the least indiscretion would
give rise to neighborhood gossip. Their conversations were short, but
always free and friendly. They met only as necessity obliged and
nothing could have been more decorous than their conduct. Yet 'Gene
went to his little room in the barn that night with a troubled heart.
"Sure they cain't talk about her," he thought. "She's an angel, if
there ever wuz one."
Months before he had said aloud to himself, off in the field, as he
looked toward the house in which his fair employer lived:
"I wouldn't harm her by word er thought fer all heaven. She's honest
an' I'm goin' to be. She's Jud's wife an' she loves him, an' I ain't
got no right to even think of lovin' her. 'Gene Crawley, you gotter
give up. You gotter be honest."
And he was honest.