Crittenden Part 20

"Judith," he said; "Judith," he repeated, with a quick breath. "Why, my G.o.d, you! Why--you--you've come to see me! you, after all--you!"

He raised himself slowly, and as he bent over her, he saw his father's sword, caught tightly in her white hands--the old sword that was between him and Basil to win and wear--and he knew the meaning of it all, and he had to steady himself to keep back his own tears.

"Judith!"

His voice choked; he could get no further, and he folded his arms about her head and buried his face in her hair.

XV

The gray walls of Indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory of many fires s.h.i.+ne out among the leaves. Once or twice the breath of winter smote the earth white at dawn. Christmas was coming, and G.o.d was good that Christmas.

Peace came to Crittenden during the long, dream-like days--and happiness; and high resolve had deepened.

Day by day, Judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved her, as he loved her now. He had given her the locket and had told her the story of that night at the hospital. She had shown no surprise, and but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent. And Crittenden, too, was silent, and, as always, asked no questions. It was her secret; she did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering. Besides, he had his secrets as well. He meant to tell her all some day, and she meant to tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companions.h.i.+p that both forbore to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent together.

It was at the stiles one night that Judith handed Crittenden back the locket that had come from the stiffened hand of the Rough Rider, Blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, unstamped, addressed to herself, marked on the envelope "Soldier's letter," and countersigned by his Captain.

"I heard him say at Chickamauga that he was from Kentucky," ran the letter, "and that his name was Crittenden. I saw your name on a piece of paper that blew out of his tent one day. I guessed what was between you two, and I asked him to be my 'bunkie;' but as you never told him my name, I never told him who I was. I went with the Rough Riders, but we have been camped near each other. To-morrow comes the big fight. Our regiments will doubtless advance together. I shall watch out for him as long as I am alive. I shall be shot. It is no premonition--no fear, no belief. I know it. I still have the locket you gave me. If I could, I would give it to him; but he would know who I am, and it seems your wish that he should not know. I should like to see you once more, but I should not like you to see me. I am too much changed; I can see it in my own face. Good-night. Good-by."

There was no name signed. The initials were J. P., and Crittenden looked up inquiringly.

"His name was not Blackford; it was Page--Jack Page. He was my cousin,"

she went on, gently. "That is why I never told you. It all happened while you were at college. While you were here, he was usually out West; and people thought we were merely cousins, and that I was weaning him from his unhappy ways. I was young and foolish, but I had--you know the rest."

The tears gathered in her eyes.

"G.o.d pity him!"

Crittenden turned from her and walked to and fro, and Judith rose and walked up to him, looking him in the eyes.

"No, dear," she said; "I am sorry for him now--sorry, so sorry! I wish I could have helped him more. That is all. It has all gone--long ago. It never was. I did not know until I left you here at the stiles that night."

Crittenden looked inquiringly into her eyes before he stooped to kiss her. She answered his look.

"Yes," she said simply; "when I sent him away."

Crittenden's conscience smote him sharply. What right had he to ask such a question--even with a look?

"Come, dear," he said; "I want to tell you all--now."

But Judith stopped him with a gesture.

"Is there anything that may cross your life hereafter--or mine?"

"No, thank G.o.d; no!"

Judith put her finger on his lips.

"I don't want to know."

And G.o.d was good that Christmas.

The day was snapping cold, and just a fortnight before Christmas eve.

There had been a heavy storm of wind and sleet the night before, and the negroes of Canewood, headed by Bob and Uncle Ephraim, were searching the woods for the biggest fallen oak they could find. The frozen gra.s.s was strewn with wrenched limbs, and here and there was an ash or a sugar-tree splintered and prostrate, but wily Uncle Ephraim was looking for a yule-log that would burn slowly and burn long; for as long as the log burned, just that long lasted the holiday of every darky on the place. So the search was careful, and lasted till a yell rose from Bob under a cliff by the side of the creek--a yell of triumph that sent the negroes in a rush toward him. Bob stood on the torn and twisted roots of a great oak that wind and ice had tugged from its creek-washed roots and stretched parallel with the water--every tooth showing delight in his find. With the cries and laughter of children, two boys sprang upon the tree with axes, but Bob waved them back.

"Go back an' git dat cross-cut saw!" he said.

Bob, as ex-warrior, took precedence even of his elders now.

"Fool n.i.g.g.e.rs don't seem to know dar'll be mo' wood to burn if we don't waste de chips!"

The wisdom of this was clear, and, in a few minutes, the long-toothed saw was singing through the tough bark of the old monarch--a darky at each end of it, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth, the muscles of each powerful arm playing like cords of elastic steel under its black skin--the sawyers, each time with a mighty grunt, drew the s.h.i.+ning, whistling blade to and fro to the handle. Presently they began to sing--improvising:

Pull him t'roo! (grunt) Yes, man.

Pull him t'roo--huh!

Saw him to de heart.

Gwine to have Christmas.

Yes, man!

Gwine to have Christmas.

Yes, man!

Gwine to have Christmas Long as he can bu'n.

Burn long, log!

Yes, log!

Burn long, log!

Yes, log, Heah me, log, burn long!

Gib dis n.i.g.g.e.r Christmas.

Yes, Lawd, long Christmas!

Gib dis n.i.g.g.e.r Christmas.

O log, burn long!

And the saw sang with them in perfect time, spitting out the black, moist dust joyously--sang with them and without a breath for rest; for as two pair of arms tired, another fresh pair of sinewy hands grasped the handles. In an hour the whistle of the saw began to rise in key higher and higher, and as the men slowed up carefully, it gave a little high squeak of triumph, and with a "kerchunk" dropped to the ground.

With more cries and laughter, two men rushed for fence-rails to be used as levers.

There was a chorus now:

Soak him in de water, Up, now!

Soak him in de water, Up, now!

O Lawd, soak long!