THE TALE OF TEARS.
He had told Celeste that he would be away from home over one night, and
she was alarmed when he did not return on the second night after his
departure. On the third day she could not shut out the picture of his
despondent face. When she heard his footsteps in the lower hall that
afternoon her heart gave a great bound of relief, and all his plans
went scattering before her joyous greeting.
He entered the house steeled to tell her, but his resolution wavered,
and, with the words on his tongue's end, he felt them forced back by
her kisses. He let himself procrastinate; every vestige of courage
vanished before this attack of love and confidence. If his response to
her welcome was lifeless and cold, she did not complain; if he seemed
distraught, she overlooked it in the joy of having her apprehensions
swept away.
"Do you know, dear, I was beginning to fear you had been lost in the
snow storm and that I should have to send St. Bernard dogs out to find
you?" she said, gaily, as she drew him into the big chair before the
grate and climbed cozily upon the arm beside him.
"I can't tell her now," he was groaning to himself. "I can't break her
heart to-day--not to-day."
"Was it so warm and pleasant in Milwaukee that you couldn't tear
yourself away?" she went on, her hand caressing his hair.
"Where? Mil--Oh, yes, Milwaukee," he stammered, recalling that he had
told her he was going there on business. "No; it was beastly. I had
to stay a day longer than I expected."
"Tell me all about it," she said. "Did everything turn out as good as
you hoped? Will he take the pictures?"
He was unable to reply at once. Indeed, it was necessary for him to
remember just what excuse he had given her for going to Milwaukee.
Slowly it came back to him. Without lifting his guilty eyes from the
coals, he told her that Mr. Evans had not given him the order for the
five paintings until he had consulted his partner, who was delayed in
returning from St. Paul. On the partner's return (here Jud's twisted
heart leaped at a fresh inspiration) the firm promptly agreed to accept
all of his paintings and contracted for others to be finished within a
very short space of time.
"Isn't that a very short time in which to do the work, Jud?" she
inquired, anxiously. A cunning thought had prompted his statement; in
it he saw the respite that might be needed. The task of supplying the
fictitious order would command his closest thought and energy, and, by
preventing the trip to Florida, would give him a longer time in which
to make ready for the trial at hand. He saw that he would lack the
immediate courage to tell her, and that it would require hours and days
of torture to bring him to the task.
"It means that I'll have to give up the Florida trip," he said.
"O, no, Jud! Let the old pictures go! Can't they wait? You must go
to Florida. It will do you so much good, and my heart is so set on it."
A new thought struck him sharply and his spirits leaped upward. "You
could go without me, Celeste. There's no reason why you should give up
the pleasure because I have to----"
"Dudley Sherrod," she interrupted, decisively, "you are hateful. I
will not go a step without you. It is you who need the rest and the
change. Write to Mr. Evans this afternoon and tell him you cannot do
the pictures until next spring."
"I can't do that, dear. They must be done at once," he said.
"But you must have the two months in Florida," she persisted in
troubled tones. "Why, dear, I have made preparations to leave on
Saturday and this is Thursday. Won't you, please, for my sake, give up
the pictures?"
"Impossible," he said, firmly, rising suddenly. He pressed her hand
softly and passed from the room, afraid to look back into her eyes.
She sat perfectly still for many minutes, the puzzled expression
deepening in her eyes.
"To-morrow I will tell her all," he vowed, as he paced the floor of his
studio. The memory of the distressed look in her eyes bore him down.
He knew that he could not endure the sight of prolonged pain in those
loving eyes, and what little wisdom he had at his command told him that
to end the suspense quickly was the most charitable thing to do.
"To-morrow, to-morrow," he repeated, feverishly. He groaned aloud with
loathing for himself and shame of what the morrow was to bring. "I
love her. How can I tell her that she is not my wife? How can I tell
her that I deceived her deliberately? And what will she say, what will
she do? Good God, what is to be the end of it? Will she submit or
will she cry for the vengeance that is justly hers?"
For the first time the agony of this question was beyond his power of
suffering. His mind refused to consider it. He was dulled; he felt
nothing--and presently there was a relief in feeling nothing. Up to
that time his sensitive nature had responded to every grief. Of a
sudden his mind refused grief; and the inspiration came to him to
support that refusal. He shut out thoughts of Celeste, and let himself
look forward to the happiness with Justine and his boy.
The next day he faltered in his determination to tell Celeste, and the
day after it was the same. He could not stand before her and look into
her eyes and tell her. He was conscious of the fact that her troubled
gaze was following him wherever he moved, that she seemed to be reading
his thoughts. He grew more apathetic under the scrutiny. He took to
good food as a refuge from his thoughts, and surprised her by asking
for dainty dishes. He found some poetry, careless with fatalism, and
instantly became a fatalist. He would let affairs take their course.
The yearning for Justine dulled a little.
But one day, entering his studio, expecting to find him at work, she
was amazed to see him with a picture in his hand. He was looking at it
eagerly. She could see the face. It was Justine Van.
Justine Van! The girl of the meadow; the sweetheart of the old days!
The first jealousy tore at her heart and she began vaguely to
comprehend the stoop in his shoulders.
He had found the picture among some old drawings, and the sight of it
enlivened his desire for Justine. He wrote her a letter, and then
conceived the plan of writing a confession to Celeste, and slinking off
to his room to await the crash. He knew she would fly to him
and--well, it would be like defending himself against an assault. He
laughed harshly at himself as he contemplated this last exhibition of
cowardice. He wrote not only one but ten confessions, destroying one
after the other as the lingering spark of manhood flared up in
resistance to this mode of doing battle.
One night Celeste came to him in the dimly lighted studio. The trouble
in her heart revealed itself in her voice and eyes. He sat dreaming
before the little grate and started when her hands gently touched his
cheeks from behind.
"What is the matter, Jud, dear?" she asked, softly. "There is
something on your mind. Won't you confide in me? I love you, dear.
Tell me everything, Jud, and don't try to bear it alone. Don't you
think I love you enough to share the greatest pain that might come to
you?"
He tried to speak, but could only reach up and clasp her hands in his.
"Can you guess, Jud, of whom I was thinking to-day?" she went on
bravely.
"I--I can't guess," he said, with misgiving in his soul.
"I was thinking of Justine Van, that pretty girl down in the country.
Her face was as clear as if it were before me in reality. Do you know,
Jud, I shall always see her as she appeared on that day at Proctor's
Falls. She was so pretty and you were so handsome. I thought you were
sweethearts, you remember. How embarrassed you were, both of you, when
I so foolishly told you that the money I paid for the picture was to be
her wedding present. I believe I began to love you on that very day."
Her hands were still pressing his cheeks and her heart suddenly stood
still and grew icy cold when something hot and wet trickled over the
fingers. Without a word she drew away from him, and when he looked up
through the mist of tears, she was passing from the room, straight and
still.