"You mean--oh, Celeste, you don't mean to say that he is tired of this happiness?" he cried.

"He is unhappy, I'm sure of it. He loves me, I know, but--" She could go no further.

"I know what you mean, Celeste, but you are wrong--fearfully wrong.

Poor little woman! G.o.d, but you are brave to look at it as you do."

They did not hear Jud as he stopped on the stairs to look down upon them. He saw them and was still. The pain was almost unbearable.

There was no jealousy in it, only remorse and pity.

"Ah, if only she belonged to him and not to me," he was thinking. "He is straight as a die, and she would never know unhappiness. He loved her, he loves her still, and she--poor darling, loves me, the basest wretch in all the world."

He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the stairway. Its creaking attracted the attention of the two in the drawing-room. When he looked again, they were standing and staring at him. Slowly he descended, a mechanical smile forcing itself into his face.

"h.e.l.lo, Doug," he said. "I thought I heard your voice. Glad to see you."

A quick glance of apprehension pa.s.sed between Converse and Celeste.

Had he heard?

"I just inquired for you, Jud," said Converse, pulling himself together as quickly as possible. "Celeste says you're terribly busy. Don't overwork yourself, old man. I dropped in to say you are to go to a little dinner with me to-night. Some of the boys want to eat something for old times' sake."

The shadow that pa.s.sed over Jud's face was disconcerting.

"There is nothing else in the way, Jud, dear," Celeste hastened to say.

"It would be awfully jolly, I should think."

"Vogelsang says you haven't been in his place for months," added Converse, reproachfully. "You shouldn't go back on a crowd like this, old man. They'll think you're stuck up because you've made a hit."

Sherrod smiled wearily, then pulled his nerves together and made a brave show of being pleased and interested.

"I don't believe they'll accuse me of that, Doug," he said. "They know I'm frightfully busy. Who is to be there?"

Converse, with all his good intentions, had not been foresighted enough to see that he might be asked this natural question. It was impossible to count on any one in particular, and it would be far from politic to mention names and then be obliged to give flimsy excuses if their owners failed to appear.

"Oh, just some of the old crowd," he replied, evasively, even guiltily.

Jud's gaze was on the fire in the grate and Converse was thankful for the respite. "They'll be mighty glad to see you again. It doesn't seem right to take you away from Celeste, but we're talking of doing something like this at least once a week."

"Can't you have ladies' night occasionally, as they say at the clubs?"

asked Celeste, merrily entering into the spirit of the conspiracy.

"I suppose we could," said Converse, with well a.s.sumed reluctance.

"Count me out to-night, Dougla.s.s," said Jud, at this juncture. "I'll come down for the next one, but just now I'm----"

"That won't do!" exclaimed Converse, peremptorily. "Work is no excuse.

There was a time when you worked a blamed sight harder than you do now, and yet you found time to eat, drink and be merry--I should say, eat and be merry. You go with us to-night. That's all there is about it.

I'm not going down and tell the fellows you couldn't come because you had to stay at home and put on a few dabs of paint that don't have to be on before to-morrow. I'll stop for you on my way down at 7:30, and I'll get him home safe and sound and sober, Celeste. Don't worry if he's out after nine o'clock."

"I shan't sleep a wink," smiled Celeste, putting her arm through Jud's and laying her cheek against his shoulder. Sherrod sighed and smiled and said he would be ready when his friend called.

Celeste went to the door with her confederate. She pressed his hand warmly and her eyes seemed to exact a promise that could not be broken.

"Do everything in your power, Dougla.s.s," she said, softly.

"He hates to leave you alone, Celeste; that's the worst obstacle to the plan," said Converse, his lips whitening. "But we'll try to make him--to--I was going to say forget, but that would be impossible. He can't forget that you are here and loving him all the time."

Then he was off, confronted by rather arduous conditions. It would be necessary to get together a party of congenial spirits, and it was imperative that it be done in such a way that Jud's suspicion might not be aroused. When his hansom stopped for Jud at 7:30 Converse was thoroughly satisfied with the result of his expedition in search of guests, but he was conscious of a fear that the attempt to take Sherrod "out of himself" would be a failure.

A half-dozen good fellows of the old days had promised to come to Vogelsang's at eight, and, under ordinary circ.u.mstances, there was no reason why the night should not be a merry one. It all rested with Jud. Converse was gratified to find his friend in excellent spirits.

His eyes were bright, his face was alive with interest. The change was so marked that Converse marveled while Celeste rejoiced.

If he had any doubts at the beginning, they were dispelled long before the night was over. Sherrod's humor was wild, unnatural. To Converse it soon became ghastly. To the others, it was merely cause for wonder and the subject for many a sly remark about the "muchly married man who finally gets a night off."

Going homeward in the hansom, Converse, now convinced that Jud's mind was disordered, asked in considerable trepidation if he really meant to dine out every evening, as he had said to the others at the table.

Sherrod's hilarity, worked up for the occasion, had subsided. He was, to the utter bewilderment of his companion, the personification of gloominess. Involuntarily Converse moved away from his side, unable to conquer the fear that the man was actually mad.

"Did I say that?" came in slow, mournful tones from the drooping figure beside him.

"Yes," was all that Converse could reply. Sherrod's chin was on his breast, his arms hanging limply to the seat.

"I don't believe I care much for that sort of thing any more," he said, slowly.

"Why, Jud, I thought you had a bully time to-night," cried Converse, in hurt tones.

Sherrod looked up instantly. After a moment's silence, his hand fell on the other's knee and there was something piteous in his voice when he spoke.

"Did you, old man? How in the world--" here he brought himself up with a jerk--"I should say, how could I help having a good time?" he cried, enthusiastically. "They are the best lot of fellows in the world. I had the time of my life."

CHAPTER XXV.

THE LETTER TO CRAWLEY.

Justine waited and waited patiently. His midnight visit was the most dramatic event of her life. That he had come to kill her and then himself she was slow in realizing. As the days and nights went by, the real horror of his thought took root and grew. Sometimes she awakened in the night cold with perspiration, dreading to see the white-faced man in the doorway. In some of her dreams he stood above her, knife uplifted, his face full of unspeakable malevolence. Waking she would scream aloud and instinctively she would draw her baby close to her breast as if seeking protection from this tiny guardian.

His letter, intended to inspire confidence and hope, was not skillful enough to deceive even Justine. She could read between the lines and there she could see that he was hiding something from her. She could not help feeling that he was facing failure and that he was miserable.

With every mail she expected to receive a letter from him in which he would announce that he had given up the fight, and then would come the dispatch bearing the news that he had killed himself.

Mrs. Crane knew, of course, of Sherrod's strange visit. 'Gene Crawley saw him but once on that occasion, looking gloomily from the window.

The two men did not speak to each other, although Crawley would have called a greeting to him had not the man in the window turned away abruptly as soon as he met the gaze of the one in the barnyard. The only human creature about the little farm who did not feel the oppressiveness was the baby, Dudley the second. He was a healthy, happy child, and, birth-gift of tragedy though he was, he brought sunshine to the sombre home.

One day, three weeks after Jud's visit, Justine approached 'Gene as he crossed the lot on his way to feed the stock in the sheds. A team of horses occupied stalls in the barn, but they were not Justine's. When her horses had died, 'Gene, from the savings of many months, had bought a team of his own, and his animals were doing the work on her place.

The cow and the hogs and the chickens belonged to Justine--and Jud.

Crawley observed an unusual pallor in her face and her eyes were dark with pain and trouble.

"'Gene, I can't get it out of my mind that everything is not going well with Jud," she said, as he came up to her.