The Sherrods Part 29

"Wasn't he all right when he was here?" asked he, slowly. She had to hesitate for a moment before she could answer the question. She must choose her words.

"He has not been well, 'Gene," she said at last. "You know sickness is a dreadfully discouraging thing in a big place like Chicago. n.o.body cares whether you get well or die, and if you get too sick to work some one else takes your place. Jud has had a lot of bad luck and I know he's sick and discouraged."

"He didn't look right well when he was here," admitted 'Gene. "I wouldn't git upset about it, 'f I was you, Justine. He'll come out all right."

"But maybe he is sick and can't do anything," she persisted. "When he was here he said he'd been out of work and in a hospital for a long time."

"Out of work?" repeated he, slowly.

"Yes," she went on, hurriedly, now that she had begun the confession, "and he is in debt, too. It costs so much money to live up there, and if one gets behind it's hard to catch up, he says. Oh, 'Gene, do you suppose anything has happened to him? I have had no letter since last Thursday and this is Wednesday, isn't it? I know he is sick, I know it, 'Gene."

"Ain't he on the paper any more?"

"He has been off the paper for months."

"Doin' nothin'?"

"Some private work, but it hasn't paid well. And, besides, he hasn't been well. That's held him back."

"What did he say when he was here? Did he have a job in view?"

"No," she answered, shame outfacing her pride. Neither spoke for a long time. She was looking intently at the frozen ground, nervously clasping and unclasping her fingers. His black eyes were upon the white, drooping face, and his slow mind was beginning to see light.

His heart began to swell with rage against the man who had won this prize and could not protect it.

With the shrewdness of the countryman, he concluded that Jud had not been able to combat the temptations of the great city. He had failed because he had fallen. He cast a slow glance at Justine. Her head was bent and her hands were clasping and unclasping. He knew what it was costing her to make confession to him and lifted his head with the joy of feeling that she had come to him for sympathy.

"Why don't he come home if he's sick?" he asked. "He could rest up down here an'--an' mebby that'd git him on his feet ag'in."

"He doesn't like to give up, that's all. You know how brave and true he is, 'Gene. It would be awful to come back here and admit that--that he couldn't get along up there. O, I wish he would come back, I wish he would come back," she wailed, breaking down completely. The tears forced themselves through the fingers that were pressed to her eyes.

"G.o.d A'mighty, how she loves him," groaned Crawley to himself. In this moment the big blasphemer of other days loved her more deeply than ever before in his dark, hopeless life. "Couldn't you--you write an' tell him to come down here fer a couple of weeks or--or a month?" he stammered, after a moment of thought.

"He wouldn't come, 'Gene, he wouldn't come," she sobbed. "He said he would not give up until he had made a home for me up there. When he came the last time he was discouraged, but--but he got over it and--and--Oh, I wish he would write to me! The suspense is killing me."

Crawley had turned his back and was leaning against the fence.

"He needs me, 'Gene," she said; "he needs me to cheer him on. I ought to be with him up there."

He started sharply and turned to her. She was looking into his eyes, and her hands were half lifted toward him.

"He is so lonely and I'm sure he is sick. I must go to him--I must.

That's what I want to talk to you about. How am I to go to him? What shall I do? I can't bear it any longer. My place is with him."

"If he ain't got a job, Justine, you'll--you'll be----"

"You want to say that I'll be a burden to him, that's it, isn't it?

But I'll work for him. I'll do anything. If he's sick, I'll wash and iron and sew and scrub and--oh, anything. I've been thinking about it since last night, and you must not consider me foolish when I tell you what I want to do. I want to borrow some money on the place."

"You mean you want to put a morgidge on the--on the farm?" he asked, slowly.

"How else can I get the money, 'Gene? A small mortgage won't be so bad, will it? What is the farm worth?" She was feverish with excitement.

"It's not the best of land, you know, and there ain't no improvements,"

he said, still more deliberately. "You might sell the place for $800, but I doubt it."

"I won't sell it; it must be kept for my boy. But I can borrow a little on it, can't I? Wouldn't David Strong let me have $200 on it?"

"Good Lord, Justine, don't put a morgidge on the place!" he cried.

"That will be the end of it. It's the way it always goes. Don't do anything like that."

"There is no other way to get the money and I--I am going to Jud," she said, determinedly, and he saw the light in her eye.

In the end he promised to secure the money for her, and he did. The next day Martin Grimes loaned Eugene Crawley $150, taking a chattel mortgage on a farm wagon and harness and the two big bay horses that stood in Justine's barn. At first she refused to take the money, but his insistence prevailed, and three days later she and her boy left Glenville for Chicago and Jud. She promised to acquaint Crawley with Jud's true condition and their plans for the future.

Crawley said good-bye to her as she climbed into Harve Crose's wagon on the day of departure. He wished her luck in a harsh, unnatural tone, and abruptly turned to the barn. For hours he sat in the cold mow, disconsolate, exalted. His horses stamping below were mortgaged! Lost to him, no doubt, but he gloried in the sacrifice. He had given his fortune to gratify her longing to be with the man she loved.

At sunset he trudged to the tollgate. An unreasoning longing filled his lonely heart. When he asked for the mail there was uppermost in his mind the hope of a letter from her, although she had been gone not more than five hours. His loneliness increased when Mrs. Hardesty said that there was no mail for him or Justine. For the first time in months he felt the old longing for drink.

"Jestine gone to Chickago fer a visit er to stay?" asked Jim Hardesty, when Crawley joined the crowd that lounged about the big sheet-iron stove in the store.

'Gene did some very quick thinking in the next few minutes. He realized that her departure had been the subject of comment and speculation, and that it would be necessary for him to resort to something he knew nothing about--diplomacy. Had he been an observing man he would have noticed the sudden cessation of talk about the stove when he first entered the toll house. The loungers had been discussing her departure, and there would have been a murderer in their midst had 'Gene Crawley heard the remark that fell from Luther Hitchc.o.c.k's lips.

"Don't know how long she'll stay," responded 'Gene, briefly. He leaned against the counter, crossing his legs.

"How's Jed gittin' 'long up yander?" continued Jim.

"All right, I reckon."

"Justine hain't been lookin' very well lately," said Link Overs.h.i.+ne, from the nail-keg.

"Hain't looked herself sence the kid come," added Hitchc.o.c.k.

"When did she last hear from Jud?" asked Link.

"Talkin' to me?" asked Crawley.

"Yes."

"Well, how do you s'pose I know anything about her letters?"

"Don't you git the mail?"

"Harve Crose leaves it as he goes by, an' you know it, Overs.h.i.+ne."

"She ain't had a letter from him in more'n a week," volunteered the postmaster. "He don't write very reg'lar here of late."

"Does the gover'ment hire you to tell who gits letters through this office an' when they git 'em?" demanded Crawley, sharply. Jim hitched back in his chair nervously.

"Why, they ain't no harm in that," explained he.