Will N. Harben - Westerfelt

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In a corner dimly lighted by a tallow-dip, and surrounded by pans,
pots, and cooking utensils, Mrs. Bradley stood washing dishes. She
turned when he entered.

"Why," she exclaimed, "I--I thought you'd gone; what are you comin' in
the back way fer?"

"I've got something to say to--to her," he said, in a low tone. "I
thought I'd ask you to stay out here for a minute--I won't be long."

She said nothing for a moment, but looked at him strangely, as she
slowly dried her hands on a dish-towel. Then she burst out impulsively:

"John Westerfelt, ef Luke wusn't so particular 'bout my conduct with
men, I'd kiss you smack dab in the mouth an' hug you; no wonder women
make fools of the'rse'ves about you. Ef anybody ever dares agin to say
anything agin yore character to me, I'll--"

She choked up, turned to the corner, and dived into her dishpan, and he
saw only her back. He went into the next room. Mrs. Dawson's dull
glance was fixed on the coals under the logs. She started when she
looked up and saw him behind her, and shrank from him in a pitiful
blending of fright and questioning astonishment as he drew a chair near
to hers and sat down.

"What do you want, man?" she asked, looking towards the kitchen door,
as if she hoped Mrs. Bradley would appear.

"I want to talk to you, Mrs. Dawson," he said. "I don't want you to
hate me any longer. I am awfully sorry for you; I did you a big
injury, but I didn't do it on purpose. I did not dream it would end
like it did. I have suffered over it night and day. It will stick to
me the rest of my life."

The old woman was rapidly regaining her self-possession and with it her
hatred of him; her eyes flashed in the firelight. The sad expression
he had surprised on her face was gone.

"She's in 'er grave," she snarled. "Give 'er back an' I'll git down on
my knees to you, as much as I hate you!"

"You know I'm helpless to undo what's been done," he said, regretfully.

"Well, take yorese'f out'n my sight then. You've made a' ol' woman
perfectly miserable; go on an' marry, an' be happy, ef you kin."

"I never expect to be that. I've repented of my conduct a thousand
times. I have suffered as much as God ought to make a man suffer for a
wrong deed."

"Not as much as me, an' I hain't guilty o' no crime nuther."

"I've humbly begged your forgiveness. I can do no more." He rose
slowly, despondently.

"Git out'n my sight, you vagabond!" Mrs. Dawson's voice rose till the
last word ended in a shriek.

Footsteps were heard in the kitchen, the door opened, and Mrs. Bradley
strode in, her face aflame. Westerfelt stepped towards her and put his
hands on her shoulders.

"Don't say anything," he said; "for God's sake, pity her."

"I cayn't stand it," she blurted out, half crying; "she's gwine
entirely too fur!" She pushed his hands down and stood glaring at Mrs.
Dawson.

"Look a heer, Sue Dawson," she said, getting her breath fast, "yo're a
older woman an' me, an' I've got due respect fer age an' a gray head,
but John Westerfelt is my friend, an' is a-visitin' of me 'n' Luke at
present. You are welcome in my house ef you'll behave yorese'f decent,
but you cayn't come under my roof to goad him to desperation. Now I've
said my say. Thar's the door ef you dare open yore mouth agin. Thar
ain't a speck o' Christian sperit in you. I'm ashamed to call you
neighbor."

With an expression of mingled anger and fear in her face, Mrs. Dawson
looked at her hostess, and without a word rose stiffly and went to the
bed, on which lay her shawl, carpet-bag, and bonnet. Her face was to
the wall as she drew her bonnet on and began to tie the strings.

"I'll go out the back way," whispered Westerfelt to Mrs. Bradley; "for
God's sake, don't let her go!"

"All right," promised Mrs. Bradley; "go on. I'll make 'er stay, I
reckon, but she's as stubborn as a mule."

He went through the kitchen, round the house, and out at the gate. He
stopped, leaned against the fence, and watched the two women through
the window. Mrs. Dawson had put on her shawl. She held her bag in
front of her, and stood in the centre of the room. Mrs. Bradley leaned
against the mantel-piece. Their lips moved, and Mrs. Dawson was
gesticulating furiously, but he could not hear their voices. Suddenly
Mrs. Bradley took the bag from the old woman and put it on the bed.
Then she untied Mrs. Dawson's bonnet-strings, took off the bonnet and
shawl, and drew her back to the fire. They stood talking for a moment,
then sat down together. Mrs. Bradley, holding the shawl and bonnet in
her lap, put her arm round the old woman. Mrs. Dawson began fumbling
in the pocket of her dress. She got out her handkerchief and held it
to her face, then Mrs. Bradley began to wipe her own eyes on the corner
of her apron.

"My God!" groaned Westerfelt, as he turned away, "this is more than I
can bear!"

The next day was Sunday. It was as bright and balmy as spring.
Westerfelt slept late. When he went in to breakfast Mrs. Bradley told
him that Mrs. Dawson was out at the barn with Luke. They all intended
to go to camp-meeting that day, she said. A revival had been going on
at the meeting-house for the past week, and the congregation had
increased so much that the little building would no longer hold the
people. It had, therefore, been announced that the Sunday service
would be held at Stone Hill Camp-ground, two miles from the village on
the most picturesque of the Cohutta Valley roads.

As Westerfelt went down to the stable after breakfast he saw wagons,
hacks, and old-fashioned carriages standing at nearly every gate on the
street. Washburn and a colored boy, Jake, were at the stable busy
washing and oiling the wheels of vehicles and currying horses.

"I wus jest about to send up to you," was Washburn's greeting.
"Turnouts are at a premium to-day. I didn't know whether to let out
yore own hoss an' buggy or not; two or three fellers that want to take
the'r girls are offerin' any price fer some'n to ride in."

"I am going myself."

"Hossback ur buggy?"

"Buggy." Westerfelt turned suddenly and walked back towards the hotel.
He had decided to invite Harriet Floyd to go to camp-meeting with him,
let the consequences be what they might. He wanted to see her, and
nothing should prevent it--not even Mrs. Dawson's presence in the
village nor her threats.

As Westerfelt walked away Washburn said to himself; "It u'd be tough on
'im ef Bascom Bates is ahead of 'im, after all his hangin' back. By
George! I can't imagine who else Bates could 'a' intended to ask; he's
give up goin' to Hansard's. I'll bet my hat Bates means business with
Miss Harriet."

Westerfelt walked into the parlor of the hotel. A colored girl was
sweeping the carpet and went out to tell Harriet that he wished to see
her. Harriet didn't keep him waiting long. On rising she had dressed
for church. She wore a pretty gray gown with a graceful bow of ribbon
at her throat, and carried her cloak on her arm. She put it on the
sofa as she entered. She was agitated, and he felt her hand quiver
when he took it.

"I came to ask you to drive to the camp-ground with me," he said, as
her hand slid out of his; "will you go?"

"Why--why," she stammered, "I--I--promised to go with Mr. Bates; I'm
very sorry; if I had known--"

He glanced through the open door; his face had suddenly grown cold,
hard, and suspicious. He was jealous even of a man she had never been
with before. She sank into a chair and looked up at him helplessly,
appealingly. She knew he was jealous, and in that proof of his love
her heart went out to him.

"Oh, it don't matter," he said, quickly. "I'm going to drive out
myself anyway, and I thought if you had nobody to take you, you might
like to go 'long."

"He asked me yesterday," she faltered. Her voice was full of startled
concern. "I'd rather go with you, you know I had. I have never gone
with him anywhere. We are almost strangers. I--I would hardly know
how to talk to him."

She knew it was not with his natural voice that Westerfelt answered.
"Well," he said, coldly, "you can't go with two fellows, and he got to
you first. I reckon Bates knows the roads; you'd better take the
river-bottom route. Washburn says the other is not as good as it might
be. Good-bye."

He had reached the veranda when she called him back. As he re-entered
the room she rose and stepped towards him.

"Are you mad with me, Mr. Westerfelt?"

He was ashamed of himself, but he could not conquer his horrible humor.
"Not in the least; I don't blame you." His tone was still cold and his
glance averted. She put her handkerchief to her face in vexation, but
removed it quickly as she caught his glance.

"I'll not go; I'll stay at home," she affirmed.

"No, go; you'd never hear the end of it if you were to slight Bates."

"Shall I see you out there?"

"I reckon not," he laughed, harshly. "I never want anybody bothering
me when I take a girl anywhere, and I try to obey the Golden Rule with
other men. You belong to Bates to-day." He left the room. She heard
him stride across the veranda and walk hurriedly away. She went to the
window and tried to catch another glimpse of him, but he was out of
sight. She turned into the next room. Her mother was there packing
some table linen into the bottom of a wardrobe.

"Mother," the girl faltered, "Mr. Westerfelt asked me just now to go to
the camp-ground with him."

Mrs. Floyd let a table-cloth which she was folding hang down in front
of her for a moment as she looked at Harriet. "Well, you told him you
was going with Bascom Bates, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course, but--"

"Well, what of it? I wish you'd just look what a mess the rats have
gone and made of this linen. They've been trying to gnaw the starch
out of it, and have cut holes in nearly every piece."

"He looked mad, mother; he pretended he didn't care, but I never saw
such a look on anybody's face. Oh, mother--"

"Harriet!" Mrs. Floyd looked straight into the girl's eyes as she
closed the wardrobe door and turned the key. "Looky' here, I'm older
than you, and I know men a sight better. Mr. Westerfelt is a nice man
and a good enough catch, but he's got plenty of faults. You've just
got to listen to reason. Some men will despise a girl quicker for
letting themselves be run over than anything else, and he's one of that
sort. He has deliberately insulted you by throwing up a delicate
matter to you, which God knows you couldn't help, and now--well, he's a
purty thing to dictate to you who you go with--"

"Mother, something was wrong with his mind when he said that,"
interrupted Harriet. "He's just gettin' well, that's all. Oh, mother,
he loves me--I know he does--I know it! I'll bet he hardly remembers
what he said. And now this old Bascom Bates has come between us."

Mrs. Floyd was moved, in spite of her desire to hold her ground.

"Yes," she admitted, "I think he acts like he loves you, and after
staying away so long, his wanting to go with you to-day looks powerful
like he has come to his senses at last. But you will spoil it all if
you slight another respectable man to please him. That's the long and
short of it. Now, you take my advice and give him as good as he sends
every time, and a little more to boot. It's a woman's right."

"Mother, you don't know Mr. Westerfelt; he--"

"La! yes, I do; they are every one p'int-blank alike. They want what
they can't get, and what other men have, a sight more than what is in
easy reach. If you've got any gumption, you'll make him think you are
having a mighty good time with Bascom Bates to-day. If Bascom keeps
coming to see you it will make him think all the more of you, too.
Bates belongs to mighty nigh as good stock as he does anyway, and folks
say he is the sharpest trader and note-shaver in the county. Ef you
don't encourage him to come regular I shall do it for you. And if I
ever get a chance I'll throw out a hint to Westerfelt that you have a
little leaning towards the law anyway."

"I don't want you to do that, mother," objected Harriet, quite
seriously.

Mrs. Floyd laughed slyly as she turned away. "You leave them two Jakes
to me. I feel like I was a girl again. We used to have lots o' fun
with Mr. Floyd, me 'n' mother did. Did I ever tell you the time me'n'
her--" But Harriet, with a preoccupied air, had turned away.

Chapter XVIII

Westerfelt went back to the stable and ordered Jake to get out his
horse and buggy. Washburn watched him over the back of the mule he was
hitching to a spring wagon and smiled. "Got it in the neck that pop!"
he murmured. "I knowed Bates wusn't a-buyin' a new whip an' lap-robe
fer nothin'. I'll bet my life Mr. Westerfelt 'll lose that gal, an',
by George, he ort to! He don't seem to know his own mind."

Just then Bascom Bates whirled by on his way to the hotel. There was
something glaringly incongruous between his glistening silk hat and the
long-haired "plough horse" and rickety buggy he was driving. The silk
hat was a sort of badge of office; lawyers wore them, as a rule, and he
was the only lawyer at Cartwright. He had bought his silk hat on the
day of his admission to the bar, and had worn it regularly on dry
Sundays ever since. It would have suited anybody else better than it
did him. He was not at all good-looking. His hair was stiff and
rather red, his eyes were pale blue, his face was freckled, and the
skin of his neck had a way of folding itself unattractively. He wore
thick cow-leather shoes, which he never blacked, but greased
frequently, and that made them catch and hold the dust. He never
considered himself carefully dressed unless all the buttons of his vest
were unfastened, except one at the top and one at the bottom. The gap
between the two buttons was considered quite a touch of rural style.
He held the reins, but a little negro boy sat on the seat beside him.
He was taking the boy to hold his horse while he went into the hotel
after Harriet. That, too, was considered quite the proper thing--a
custom which had come down from slavery days--and as there was a
scarcity of black boys in the village, Bates had brought his all the
way from his father's plantation. The boy was expected to walk back
home after the couple got started, but Bates intended to give him
something for his trouble, and the distinction of holding Mr. Bates's
horse in town was something the boy never expected to forget.

Bates had been a common farm-boy before he studied law, and the handles
of ploughs, axes, and grubbing-hoes had enlarged the joints of his
fingers and hardened his palms. He had studied at night, earned a
reputation as an off-hand speaker hard to be downed in debating
societies, made a few speeches on the stump for willing gubernatorial
candidates, and was now looked upon as a possible Democratic nominee
for the Legislature. Most young lawyers in that part of the State were
called "Colonel," and Bates had been addressed by the title once or
twice.

Westerfelt pretended not to see him as he passed, but he urged Jake to
hurry up and get out his horse and buggy. He had a strange idea that
it would humiliate him in Harriet's eyes to be seen by her as she
passed with a man he now regarded as a rival. He would have given much
to have had any sort of companion with him. Jake had some difficulty
in backing the horse into the shafts, and before Westerfelt could get
started, he saw Harriet come out on the veranda and follow Bates to his
buggy. However, Westerfelt managed to get started before they did, and
drove on without looking back. Knowing that Bates was fond of fast
driving, and fearing that he might overtake him, Westerfelt drove
rapidly. The fires of jealousy were raging within him. He told
himself that it would be a long time before he would ask her again to
go with him anywhere, and during that drive he almost convinced himself
that he could give her up without much regret. He was sure Bates
wanted to marry her. Such a stolid, matter-of-fact man would never
visit a girl with less serious intentions. Bates, of course, was
ignorant of the girl's early love for Wambush. He wondered if she
would ever confess to the lawyer as she had to him. He thought it
unlikely; for he had found it out and mentioned it to her first, and,
besides, her experience with him had taught her discretion. Westerfelt
would have been more generous in his estimation of her character had he
been less jealous, and less angered by the disappointment of not being
her escort. People driving slow teams looked at him curiously as he
dashed past them. He had but one desire at that moment, and that was
not to face Harriet and Bates together.

The road, near the camp-ground, went through a dense wood, and was so
narrow that vehicles could not pass one another on it. In the
narrowest part of this road Westerfelt was forced to stop. A wagon
filled with women and children, and driven by old John Wambush, had
halted in front of him.

"What's the matter?" Westerfelt called out to the old man, who had got
down beside his horses and was peering at the motionless line of
vehicles ahead.

"A hack's broke down," the old fellow replied. "Nobody hurt, it seems,
but the banks on both sides is so steep that they cayn't cleer the
road. We'll have to take our time. I'd jest about as soon set heer in
my wagon as to listen to them long-winded preachers, anyway."

Westerfelt heard the beat of hoofs behind him. He was sure Bates and
Harriet were approaching, but he dared not look around. Through the
trees came the sound of singing from the camp-ground. The horse behind
got nearer and nearer, till it stopped with its nose in the back part
of Westerfelt's buggy, Westerfelt did not turn his head. He leaned
over the dash-board and impatiently called out to old Wambush:

"How long are they going to keep us?"

"Tell kingdom come ur Gabriel blows his horn," laughed the old man, and
all his family and the neighbors who were sharing the hospitality of
his wagon joined in the laugh. It was a thing the old man would have
said to anybody else and in the same tone, but it irritated Westerfelt.
The silence of the couple behind convinced him that it was Bates and
Harriet, for men in love do not talk much. Mrs. Wambush turned her
head and took off her gingham bonnet to get a good look at the man her
son had tried twice to kill. Her features were so much like Toot's
that Westerfelt, who had never seen her before, thought he had
discovered the fountain-head of the young outlaw's villany. He glanced
aside, but she continued to stare at him fixedly.

"How are you comin' on?" she asked him, slapping a little girl in a
blue homespun dress who was about to fall out of the wagon.

"Pretty well, thank you," replied Westerfelt, coldly. He had detected
a suggestion of a sneer about the old woman's lips.

"Cuts _is_ a bad thing," she went on. "I reckon yore doctor bill run
up to some more'n you'd 'a' lost that day by jest lettin' my boy have
some'n to ride out home in."

"Dry up!" thundered old Wambush. He climbed back into his chair and
glared at her. "Ef you dare open yore mouth agin, I'll make you git
right out an' make tracks fer home." The old woman jerked on her
bonnet and turned her face towards the horses. Old Wambush looked over
his shoulder at Westerfelt, a sheepish look on his face.

"Don't pay no 'tention to her," he apologized; "she's had the very old
scratch in 'er ever since Toot was run off; I don't harbor no ill-will,
but women ain't got no reason nohow. They never seem to know when
peace is declared. It's the women that's keepin' up all the strife
twixt North and South right now. Them that shouldered muskets an' fit
an' lived on hard-tack don't want no more uv it."

Westerfelt said nothing.

"Hello thar!" The voice was from the buggy behind. Westerfelt turned.
It was Frank Hansard with Jennie Wynn.

"Hello!" replied Westerfelt, greatly relieved,

"Whyn't you git down an' fight it out while we're waitin'?" jested
Frank, in a low voice. "Anything 'u'd be better'n this; but I'll tell
you, she's a regular wild-cat, if you don't know it."

Westerfelt smiled, but made no response. Beyond Hansard's buggy was
another, and in it sat Harriet and Bates; there was no mistaking the
old-fashioned silk hat and Harriet's gray dress. It seemed to
Westerfelt that the blood in his veins stopped at the sight of the
couple sitting so close together.

"Can you see who's behind us?" asked Jennie, mischievously. "It's
undoubtedly a case; they've been connoodlin' all the way an' didn't
even have the politeness to speak to us as we passed 'em in the big
road."

Westerfelt pretended not to hear. Old Wambush's wagon had started.
The camp-ground was soon reached. As Westerfelt was hitching his horse
to a tree, he could not help seeing Bates and Harriet in the bushes not
far away. Bates was taking his horse out of the shafts and looping up
the traces, and she stood looking on. Westerfelt knew that Jake or
Washburn would attend to his horse, so he walked on to the spot where
the service was to be held.

The camp-ground was in a level grove of pine-trees, between two steep
hills. A space had been cleared in the centre of the grove and a long
shed built. It was open at the sides and at one end, and filled with
benches without backs. Straw was strewn in the aisles and between the
benches. There was a platform at the closed end of the shed, and on it
sat a number of preachers and elders of the church.

The crowd was large. Westerfelt stood for a moment in the phalanx of
men surrounding the shed, and surreptitiously eyed Bates and Harriet.
Her back was towards him as she stood, her cloak on her arm, still
politely watching her escort's movements. She looked so pretty, and
there was such appealing grace in her posture. He saw Bates join her
and take her arm, and then he watched them no longer. He knew they
were coming, and he went in at the end of the shed and found a seat
near the centre on the left. He saw Luke Bradley drive up and help his
wife and Mrs. Dawson to alight, then Frank Hansard and Jennie Wynn came
in and sat on the bench just behind him. Jennie was laughing in her
handkerchief.

"There is old Mis' Henshaw," she whispered to Frank; "she's the'r
regular stan'-by at shouting. When they begin to call up mourners she
commences to clap 'er hands an' shout, then the rest get over their
bashfulness an' the fun begins. We may see a lot of excitement if the
town-people don't come and freeze 'em out with their finery an' stiff
ways."

"You ort ter go up yorese'f, Jen," replied Frank; "you need it ef
anybody does."

"I went up once," she laughed; "but Mary Trumbull pinched me an' tol'
me to look at ol' Mis' Warlick's dress, right in front of us. It had
split wide open between the shoulders an' all down the back. I thought
I'd die laughin'. They all believed I was cryin', and I got hugged by
a whole string of exhorters."

"We'd better lie low," cautioned Frank; "last year, these camp-ground
folks had some town-people indicted for disturbin' public worship, an'
they had a lots o' trouble at court. They say they've determined to
break up the fun that goes on here."

Westerfelt saw Luke Bradley and his party come in and sit down near the
centre of the shed. He caught Mrs. Dawson's glance, but she quickly
looked away. She had not forgiven him; that fact lay embedded in the
sallow hardness of her face.

A moment later he forgot that Mrs. Dawson was in existence, for Harriet
and Bates were coming in. Bates still clutched her arm and carried her
cloak thrown over his shoulder. Westerfelt looked straight ahead at
the platform, but he heard their feet rustling in the straw, and knew
that they had sat down on the bench behind Hansard and Jennie. He
overheard Bates, who could not possibly speak in a whisper, ask her in
a mumbling bass voice if she wanted her cloak, and he saw the shadows
of the couple on the ground as she stood up and allowed him to help her
put it on.

Gradually the shed had filled to overflowing. A white-haired preacher
raised the tune of a familiar hymn, and the principal service of the
day began.

After the sermon was over, the congregation rose to get their
lunch-baskets, which had been left in their vehicles.

"Mighty poky business so far," Westerfelt heard Jennie Wynn say, as she
and Hansard went out ahead of him; "wait until after dinner, they'll
get limbered up by that time."

Westerfelt hoped Harriet and Bates would leave as soon as the others
did, but he saw them standing between the benches as if waiting for
some one. He looked straight ahead of him as he approached them, and
was about to pass without looking in the direction, when Bates caught
his arm and detained him.

"Miss Harriet wants to see you," he said, with a grin; "you wouldn't be
in such a hurry if you knew what for."

"I want you to come to dinner with us," Harriet said, tremulously,
leaning forward. "Jennie Wynn and I are going to put our baskets
together, and Hyram Longtree and Sue Kirby are coming."

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