THE FIRST-BORN.
Slowly she half raised herself from the pillow, her right arm going out
as if to shield the tiny bit of life beside her, her great eyes staring
at the intruder; the inclination to shriek was met by the paralysis of
every faculty and she could do no more than moan once in her fear. The
eyes of the tall, gaunt man, upon whose face the fitful light of the
candle threw weird shadows, held her motionless.
"Wha--what do you want?" she finally whispered.
"Justine, don't you--don't you know me?" he asked, hoarsely, not
conscious of the question, motionless in the doorway.
"Oh, oh," she moaned, tremulously, and then her hand was stretched
toward him, wonder, uncertainty, fear in her eyes.
"I am Jud--Jud; don't you know me? Don't be frightened," he went on,
mechanically.
"It is a dream--oh, it is a dream," she whispered.
"No, no! I thought you were asleep. Don't look at me, Justine, don't
look at me! Oh God, I cannot do it--I cannot!" He fell back against
the wall. The knife clattered to the floor. Half convinced, now that
she was thoroughly awake, Justine pressed her hand to her eyes, and
then, suddenly with a glad cry, threw back the bed covers and sprang to
the floor.
"Don't come near me," he cried, drawing back. She paused in amazement.
"What is it, Jud--what is it?" she cried. "Why are you here? What has
happened?" The candle dropped from his nerveless fingers.
"Justine!" he groaned, stricken with terror in the darkness. An
instant later he felt her warm arms about him and her trembling voice
was pleading with him to tell her what had happened. He was next
conscious of lying back in the old rocker, listlessly watching her
relight the candle. It was freezing cold in the room. His lips and
cheeks were warm where she had kissed them. And he had thought to
touch her dear, loving lips only after they were cold in the death he
was bringing.
"Tell me, Jud, dear Jud," she cried, dropping to her knees beside him,
her hands clutching his shoulders. Even in the dim, uncertain light he
could see how thin and wan she had grown--he could see the suffering of
months. A muffled wail came from the bed and her face turned instantly
in that direction. His hand fell heavily upon hers.
"Whose child is that?" he demanded, harshly. She looked up into his
face with a quick, startled glance, the bewildered expression in her
eyes slowly giving way to one of pain.
"Why, Jud!" she cried, shrinking back. Her honest brown eyes searched
his face.
"Is it mine?" he asked, blind with suspicion.
"How could it be any one's but--Oh, Jud Sherrod! Do you mean
that--that--you don't think he is--my husband, do you think that of
me?" she whispered, slowly shrinking away from him.
"I--I--you did not tell me," he muttered, dazed and bewildered. "How
was I to know?"
"Oh, I have loved you so long and so truly," she faltered. A sob of
shame and anguish choked her as she arose and turned dizzily toward the
bed. She threw herself face downward upon it, her arms across the
sleeping babe, and burst out into weeping.
Startled into sanity by the violence of her grief he cast himself on
his knees beside the bed.
"I was mad, crazy, Justine," he cried. She shuddered as his hands and
arms touched her. "Oh, God!" he groaned. "My wife, my girl, don't
shrink from me like that. I did not mean it, I did not know what I was
saying. Look up, Justine, my Justine!" He seized her hand and covered
it with kisses. At first she struggled to withdraw it; then suddenly
abandoned it to him. Presently she pressed it against his lips, and
then in an instant her face was turned toward him, the cheeks wet, the
eyes swimming.
"Oh, Jud, you did not think it, I know you didn't," she choked out, and
sobbed again as he lifted and clasped her to his breast. In that
moment he forgot his dreadful mission, forgot the baby and the misery
of everything, and she was happier than she had been in months. Once
more the tender and thoughtful Jud, he drew the covers over her
shivering body and tucked them in, while she smiled happily up into his
wan face.
"Don't you want to see the baby, dear?" she asked, timidly, after a
long time. He had seated himself on the side of the bed, his coat
collar turned up about his chilled throat, his red hands clasped under
his arms. "He is three months old, Jud, and you never knew. It is so
strange you did not receive my letter. I could not write, though, for
many weeks, I was so weak. Oh, Jud, you don't know how much I have
suffered."
It was the first complaint she had ever expressed to him in all those
weary, despairing months of loneliness and privation, and he covered
his face with his hands. She drew them gently away, so that he might
look at the baby. It was with a feeling of shame that he first saw his
child. Young as it was, it bore the features of its father; there
could be no doubt. He gazed upon the little face and the clenched
fists, and a deep reverence came to him. Pity for the baby, the mother
and himself overcame him and he dropped his head upon Justine's
shoulder.
"Justine, forgive me, forgive me," he sobbed.
"There is nothing to forgive, dear. Don't cry," she said, softly. "It
will all come right some day and we'll be so proud of the boy. Isn't
he strong? Just feel of his little arms. And isn't he just like you?
I hope he will grow up to be as good and as strong as you, Jud." He
looked dumbly into her eyes, still dewy with tears, and dropped his
own, lest she should sec the deceit in them. But she was not looking
for deceit.
"You are so cold, dear," she went on, "and you look so ill and tired.
Come to bed and let me get up and make some hot coffee for you. Why,
Jud, it is past midnight, and it is bitterly cold outside. How did you
come from Glenville?"
"I walked," he answered, wearily.
"Walked?" she cried. "Why, Jud, what is wrong? Why are you here? Has
anything happened to you?" Her voice was sharp with dread.
"I am the most wretched man in the world, Justine."
"Tell me all about it, Jud; let me help you. Don't look like that! It
must be all right, dear, now that we are together. All three, Jud,"
she went on, cheerily. "I would not even name him before you came, but
I want you to call him Dudley." He felt the loving arms tighten about
his neck, and there came the eager desire to confess everything and to
beg her to hide from the world with him in some place where he could
never be found out. The love for Celeste was deep, but it was not like
this love for Justine. He must keep it. The other might go; he and
Justine and the baby would go away together. But not yet. Justine
must not know, after all--at least not yet.
"Everything has gone wrong, dear, and I had nothing to live for," he
began, wearily; and then with a skill that surprised him he rushed
through with a story that drew the deepest pity from his listener and
gave him a breathing spell in which to develop a plan for the future.
"You will loathe and despise me, Justine, but I couldn't bear the
thought of going into the hereafter without you," he said, after he had
confessed his object in coming. "I had failed in everything and life
wasn't worth living. My position is gone, I have no money and I don't
seem to be able to find work. You were everything in the world to me
and you were so proud of me. I just couldn't come back here and tell
you that I had failed after all the chances I have had. When I opened
your door to-night I had that knife in my hand. Do not be afraid,
dearest; it is all over and we'll live to be happy yet. God help me, I
was going to kill you while you slept, kiss you to prove to your
departing soul that I loved you and that it was not hate that inspired
the deed, and then, the blade, wet with your dear blood, was to find
its way to my heart. Thank God, you awoke. Had it not been for that
we would be lying here dead, and our boy, hidden in the bed, would have
escaped my hand only to be thrown upon the world, a helpless orphan.
But God has helped me to-night and He will not again forget me. With
His help and your love, I will go forth again with new courage and I'll
win my way."
She shuddered and thanked God alternately during his story, and when he
paused after the firm declaration to win his way, she cried:
"You have been brave so long and I have been brave, too, Jud. Why
should we give up the fight? I have hardly enough to eat in the house,
and I have endured more than seemed just from our loving God, but I did
not forget that I have you and you are everything. It has been hard,
terribly hard, but I did not give up."
Then she confessed her secret, timorously at first, then eagerly,
pleadingly. She told him of 'Gene Crawley's reformation, his kindness,
his real nobility, expecting at the outset that Jud would be angry and
displeased. But he was thinking of the future, not of the past or the
present. After a moment or two of surprise and chagrin, he accepted
her course in regard to Crawley as a natural condition, and, trusting
her implicitly, found no fault with her action. He went so far as to
credit Crawley with more manhood than he had suspected. A flood of joy
enveloped her when she saw that he was reconciled; the weight of her
only deception was lifted from her troubled heart.
Already he was thinking of the ordeal ahead of him: the return to
Celeste, the confession of his duplicity, his plea for forgiveness and
leniency, and then the life of peace and solitude with Justine and the
boy. He knew that Celeste's heart would be crushed, but it was the
only way back to the path of honor. Justine should never know of his
marriage to Celeste; that was the one thing the honest, virtuous
country girl would not forgive. He even found himself, as he always
was in emergencies, impatient to have the ordeal over, to know his
fate, to give torture to one that he might be happy with the other.
With the arms of the real wife about his neck, he trembled with the
desire to be off to the side of the deceived one, there to unmask
himself, to grovel at her feet and then to fly from the world. How he
could face Celeste he knew not, but he must do it. There seemed no way
to lighten the blow he must deal and there seemed no escape from it.
He was a bigamist, a criminal.
To leave her without an explanation would result in a tireless search,
inspired by her love; the discovery of his duplicity by the police
would mean conviction; even Celeste could not save him. Shrewdly he
brought himself to believe that, though she could not forgive him, she
would release him to avoid a scandal. He knew that he must play out to
the end his role of the coward and the supplicant and the liar.
It was only after the most persistent pleading that Justine induced him
to remain with her through the night and the day following. She
promised to keep his visit a secret, respecting his show of
humiliation, and she vouched for the silence of Mrs. Crane who slept
upstairs. And so the would-be murderer and suicide slept and dreamed
and plotted for twenty-four hours in the house of his victim, slinking
away on the night after, with her kisses on his lips, her voice in his
ears, leaving behind brave promises and the vow to come back to her and
the boy without murder in his heart.