Will N. Harben - Westerfelt

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"I thank you," he said, "but I reckon I'll have to eat with Mrs.
Bradley." He might have accepted the invitation if Bates had not been
grinning so complacently and looking at Harriet with such a large air
of ownership.

"Oh, come on," urged Bates. "You get Bradley hash every day; there is
some'n good in our basket; I could smell it all the way out here."

"I wish you _would_ come," urged Harriet. "Mrs. Bradley will let you
off."

There was something in her look and tone that convinced him that she
had detected his jealousy and was sympathizing with him, and that in
itself angered him.

"No, I thank you, not to-day," he said, coldly; "how did you like the
preacher?"

"Very well," she replied, her face falling. "I have heard him before."

He had brought it on himself, but he was stung to the quick when she
touched Bates's arm, smiled indifferently, and said: "I see Sue and
Hyram out there waiting for us; we'd better go."

As Westerfelt walked on, overwhelmed with jealous rage, he heard her in
the same tone ask Jennie Wynn to send Frank after her basket.
Westerfelt edged his way through the crowd to Mrs. Bradley and Mrs.
Dawson.

"Why," said Mrs. Bradley, "I 'lowed you'd go off an' eat with some o'
yore young friends. But we are glad you come."

"I never go back on home folks," he said, making an effort to speak
lightly.

"Well, I fetched enough fer a dozen field-hands," laughed Mrs. Bradley.
"Two young preachers have promised to eat with me; that's all I've
axed. Luke, you go bring Brother Jones an' his friend, an' wait fer us
out at the wagon."

"Why cayn't we fetch the dinner in heer an' not have to sit on the damp
ground?" suggested Bradley.

"Beca'se, gumption! they won't have us greasin' up the benches that
folks set on in the'r best duds," she retorted. "Besides, the pine
straw will keep us off'n the ground, ef you ain't too lazy to rake it
up."

Just then Harriet and her friends passed, and Westerfelt saw the girl
looking inquiringly at Mrs. Dawson. He heard the old woman grunt
contemptuously, and saw her toss her head and fiercely eye Harriet from
head to foot as she went down the aisle.

Westerfelt shuddered. He wondered if the old woman could possibly know
of Harriet's past connection with Wambush and her girlish infatuation.
He turned away with Luke to get the basket. Bradley was saying
something about a suitable place to spread the lunch, but Westerfelt
did not listen. He could think of nothing but the strange, defiant
look in Mrs. Dawson's eyes as they fell on the girl he loved.

Chapter XIX

At luncheon Westerfelt sat next to Mrs. Bradley and could not see Mrs.
Dawson, who was on the other side of her. Among the trees on his
right, he had a good view of Harriet Floyd's party. They all seemed
exasperatingly merry. Bates was making himself boyishly conspicuous,
running after water, preparing lemonade, and passing it round to the
others, with his silk hat poised on the back part of his head. Mrs.
Bradley and her friends remained seated for some time after they had
finished eating, and Westerfelt saw the young men in Harriet's party
rise, leaving the girls to put the remains of the lunch into the
baskets. Hyram and Frank strolled off together, and Bates, after a
moment's hesitation, came straight over to Westerfelt.

"I want to talk to you, if you are through," he said, alternately
pulling at a soiled kid glove on his hand and twisting his stubby
mustache.

Westerfelt rose, conscious that Mrs. Dawson was eying him, and walked
down a little road through the pines. Neither spoke till they were out
of sight of the crowd. Then Bates stopped suddenly and faced his
companion. He put his foot on a fallen log, and cleared his throat.
He looked up at the sky and slowly caressed his chin with his fingers,
as Westerfelt had once seen him do in making a speech before the
justice of the peace.

"We ain't well acquainted, Westerfelt," he began, stroking his chin
downward and letting his lips meet with a clucking sound, also another
professional habit; "but, you'd find, ef you knew me better, that I
never beat the devil round the stump, as the feller said, an' I'm above
board." He paused for a moment; then he kicked a rotten spot on the
log with the broad heel of his brogan till it crumbled into dust.
"I've got some'n to say to you of a sort o' confidential nature, an' ef
you'll let me, I may ask you a point-blank question."

"Fire away," said Westerfelt, wonderingly.

"I'm not a ladies' man," continued Bates, with a kick at another soft
spot on the log. "I'm jest a plain Cohutta Mountain, jack-leg lawyer.
I've not been much of a hand to go to the shindigs the young folks have
been gitting up about heer. One reason was I couldn't afford it,
another was I didn't have the time to spare, so I haven't never paid
court to any special young lady in Cartwright. But now, I think I am
in purty good shape to marry. I believe all young men ought to get 'em
a wife, an' if I ever intend to do the like, I'll have to be about it,
for I'm no spring chicken. Now, to make a long story short, I've taken
a strong liking to the girl I fetched out here to-day, an', by George,
now that I've got headed that way, I simply can't wait any longer, nor
hold in either. I intend to ask her to be my wife if--" he began again
to kick the log. "Dang it, it seems to me--you see, I know that she
don't care a rap for Wambush; a few of us thought thar was something
between 'em once, but since he went off it is as plain as day that she
is not grieving after him. But, somehow, it seems to me that she may
have a hankering after you. I don't know why I think so, but if thar
is any understanding between you two I'd take it as a great favor if
you'd let me know it, right now at the start. I'll wish you well--but
I'd like to know it. It's a powerful big thing to me, Westerfelt--the
biggest thing I ever tackled yet."

Westerfelt's face was hard and expressionless. He avoided the lawyer's
searching glance, shrugged his shoulders and smiled coldly.

"I am not engaged to her," he said, doggedly; "as far as I know she is
free to--to choose for herself."

"Ah!" Bates slowly released his chin and caught his breath.

Westerfelt could have struck out the light that sprang into his eyes.
"I hain't seen a bit of evidence in that line, I'll admit," went on
Bates, with a chuckle of relief; "but some of the boys and girls seemed
to think that something might have sprung up between you and her while
you was laid up at the hotel. I reckon I was mistaken, but I thought
she looked cut up considerable when you didn't come to dinner with us
jest now. She wasn't lively like the rest."

"Pshaw!" said Westerfelt; "you are off the track."

"Well, no odds." Bates began to tug at his glove again. "I've come to
you like a man an' made an open breast of it, as the feller said. I
intend to ask her point-blank the very first time I get her alone
again. The girl hain't give me the least bit of hope, but her mother
has--a little. I reckon a feller might take it that way."

"What did Mrs. Floyd say?" Westerfelt started, and looked Bates
straight in the eyes.

"Oh, nothing much; I may be a fool to think it meant anything, but this
morning when I called for Miss Harriet the old lady came in and acted
mighty friendly. She asked me to come to dinner with 'em next Sunday,
and said Harriet always was backward about showing a preference for the
young man she really liked, an' said she was shore I didn't care much
for her or I'd come oftener."

Westerfelt was silent. He had never suspected Mrs. Floyd of scheming,
but now that his suspicions were roused he let them run to the opposite
extreme.

Yes, he thought, she was trying to marry her daughter off. Perhaps
because she wanted her to forget Wambush, who was certainly a man no
sensible woman would like to have in her family.

Bates's round red face appeared in a blur before him. Bates said
something, but it sounded far off, and he did not catch its import.
There was a long silence, and then the lawyer spoke again:

"What do you say? Why are you so devilish grum?" He took off his hat,
and wiped his brow with a red bandanna. Westerfelt stared into his
face. He was unable to collect his senses. It was an awful moment for
him. If he intended to marry her, and forget all, he must propose to
her at once, or, urged by her mother, she might marry Bates and be lost
to him forever. Bates caught his arm firmly.

"I'm no fool," he said, impatiently. "Dad burn it, you _do_ love her.
I see it! You are trying to throw me off the track! Look heer! If
you've lied to me--" Voices were heard in the bushes up the road.
Jennie Wynn and Harriet were approaching. "There they are now!"
exclaimed Bates, in another tone; "you have not been open with me; for
God's sake, don't keep me in suspense! Is she _yours_? Answer that!"

"I have never asked her." Westerfelt spoke through tight lips. "I've
no claim on her."

"Well, then, it's as fair for one of us as the other." Bates was half
angry. "We both want her; let's have it over with. Let's speak out
now an' let her take her choice. If she takes you, you may drive her
home; ef it's me--well, you bet it'll make a man of me. She is the
finest girl on God's green earth. Here they come! What do you say?"

Westerfelt drew his arm from Bates's grasp, and stared at him with eyes
which seemed paralyzed.

"Don't mention me to her," he demanded, coldly. "I'll manage my own
affairs."

"All right," Bates lowered his voice, for the two girls were now quite
near; "you may be sure of your case, and I may be making a blamed fool
of myself, but she's worth it."

"What are you two confabbin' about?" cried Jennie, in a merry voice.
Neither of the men answered. Harriet looked curiously at them, her
glance resting last and longer on the lawyer. That encouraged him to
speak.

"I want to see you a minute, Miss Harriet," he said, reaching out for
her sunshade. "May I?"

"Certainly," she said, looking at him in slow surprise. She
relinquished her umbrella, and they walked off together.

"What on earth is the matter with that man?" asked Jennie, her eyes on
the receding couple; then she glanced at Westerfelt, and added, with a
little giggle, "What's the matter with _you_?"

Westerfelt seemed not to hear.

"Mr. Bates looks like he's lost his best friend," went on the
irrepressible girl. "Look how he wabbles; he walks like he was
following a plough in new ground. I wouldn't want him to swing my
parasol about that way. What do you reckon ails him?"

"I don't know," said Westerfelt. Her words irritated him like the
persistent buzzing of a mosquito.

"I wonder if that fellow is goose enough to go an' fall in love with
Harriet."

"What if he should?" Westerfelt was interested.

"She hain't in love with him."

"How do you know?"

"How do I _know_? Because she is silly enough to be gone on a man that
don't care a snap for her."

"Wambush?"

"No," scornfully; "_you_, that's who."

Westerfelt was silent for a moment, then he said: "How do you know I
don't care for her?"

"You don't show it; you always stay away from her. They say you've
been spoiled to death by girls over the mountain."

"I asked her to come out here with me to-day."

"Did you? You don't mean it! Well, I'll bet she--but I'm not goin' to
tell you; you are vain enough already." They were silent for several
minutes after that. She seated herself on a log by the roadside, and
he stood over her, his eyes on the pines behind which Bates and Harriet
had disappeared. What could be keeping them so long? Jennie prattled
on for half an hour, but he did not hear half she said. Afternoon
service began. The preacher gave out the hymn in a solemn, monotonous
voice, and the congregation sang it.

"We must be goin' purty soon," said Jennie; "my gracious, what is the
matter with them people; hadn't we better go hunt 'em?"

"I think not, they--but there they are now."

Harriet and Bates had turned into the road from behind a clump of
blackberry vines, and, with their heads hung down, were slowly
approaching. Looking up and seeing Westerfelt and Jennie, they
stopped, turned their faces aside, and continued talking.

Westerfelt was numb all over. Had she accepted Bates? He tried to
read their faces, but even the open countenance of Bates revealed
nothing.

"Come on, you ninnies!" Jennie cried out. "What on earth are you
waiting for?"

Her voice jarred on Westerfelt. "Hush! for God's sake, hush!" he
commanded, sharply. "Let's go on--they don't want us!"

Wondering over his vehemence, Jennie rose quickly and followed him. He
walked rapidly. She glanced over her shoulder at Harriet and Bates,
but Westerfelt did not look back. When the shed was reached, Jennie
asked him if he were going in with her, but he shook his head, and she
entered alone. He remained in the crowd on the outside, pretending to
be listening to the sermon, but was furtively watching the spot where,
concealed by the trees, Bates and Harriet still lingered.

The preacher ended his discourse, started a hymn, and commenced to
"call up mourners." Old Mrs. Henshaw began to pray aloud and clap her
hands. The preacher came down from the platform, gave his hand to her,
and she rose and began to shout. Then the excitement commenced.
Others joined in the shouting and the uproar became deafening. It was
a familiar scene to Westerfelt, but to-day it was all like a dream. He
could not keep his eyes off the trees behind which he had left Harriet
with his new rival. What could be keeping them?

Presently he saw them emerge from the woods. They were still walking
slowly and close together. Westerfelt could learn nothing from
Harriet's passive face, but Bates now certainly looked depressed. A
sudden thought stunned Westerfelt. Could she have told Bates of her
old love for Wambush, and had he--even he--decided not to marry her?
They passed the shed, went on to Bates's buggy, got into it, and drove
down the road to Cartwright.

Chapter XX

The religious excitement had spread over all the congregation. Every
bench held some shouting or praying enthusiast. Some of the women
began to move about on the outside, pleading with the bystanders to go
forward for prayer. One of them spoke to Westerfelt, but he simply
shook his head. Just then he noticed Mrs. Dawson sitting on the end of
a bench next to the centre aisle. She had turned half round and was
staring at him fixedly. When she caught his eye, she got up and came
towards him. Other women were talking to men near him, and no one
noticed her approach.

In the depths of her bonnet her withered face had never appeared so
hard and unrelenting. She laid her hand on his arm and looked up into
his eyes.

"Are you a seeker, John Westerfelt?" she asked, with a sneer.

"No, I am not." He tried to draw his arm away, but her bony fingers
clutched and held it.

"They say the's a chance fer all to wipe out sins," she went on, "but I
have my doubts 'bout you. You know whar you'll land. You kin mighty
nigh feel the hot now, I reckon."

He caught her wrist and tore his arm from her grasp.

"Leave me alone!" he cried; then he dropped her wrist and added: "For
Heaven sake don't--_don't_ devil me to death; you make me forget you
are a woman and not a beast--a snake! My God, let me alone!"

His angry tone had drawn the attention of a few of the bystanders. A
tall, lank countryman, standing near Westerfelt, turned on him.

"Be ashamed o' yorese'f, young man," he said; "ef you don't want to be
prayed fer you don't have to, but don't cut up any o' yore shines with
these Christian women who are tryin' to do good."

"You don't know what you are talking about," replied Westerfelt, and he
turned away quickly, and went across the cleared space to his horse and
buggy. Jake, who was lying on the ground with some other negroes, ran
forward and unfastened his horse, and gave him the reins.

"Want me to go back wid yer, Marse John?" he asked.

"No," answered Westerfelt, and he drove rapidly homeward. Reaching the
stable, he put up his horse, and went to the room over the office. He
sat down, took up an old newspaper, and tried to read it, but there
seemed to be something in the paling light on the bare fields outside
and the stillness of the empty building that oppressed him. He rose
and looked out of the window. Not a soul was in sight. The store and
the bar, with their closed shutters, looked as if they had not been
opened for a century. A brindled cow stood in the middle of the
street, jangling a discordant bell, and lowing dolefully. He rose,
went down-stairs, walked aimlessly about in the stable, and then went
up the street towards Bradley's. He wondered if Harriet had returned,
but as he passed the hotel he had not the courage to look in.

Every door of the Bradley house was closed. He tried all the windows,
but they were held down by sticks placed over the sashes on the inside.
Even the chickens and ducks in the back yard seemed to have fallen
under the spell of the unwonted silence. The scare-crow in the
cornfield beyond the staked-and-ridered rail fence looked like the
corpse of a human being flattened against the yellow sky.

He went out at the gate and turned up the Hawkbill road till he was
high enough to see the village street above the trees. Later he
noticed the vehicles beginning to come back from the camp-ground, and
he returned home by a short path through the fields. He reached the
Bradleys' just as Luke was helping his wife out of the spring-wagon at
the gate.

"We didn't fetch Mis' Dawson back," explained Mrs. Bradley. "She met
some old acquaintances--the Hambrights--an' they made 'er go home with
'em. Lawsy me, haven't I got a lots to tell you, though! You had as
well prepare fer a big surprise. You couldn't guess what tuk place out
thar atter you left ef you made a thousand dabs at it. Luke, go put up
the hoss. I want to talk to John, an' I don't want you to bother us
tell I'm through, nuther. You kin find plenty to do out at the barn
fer a few minutes."

Westerfelt followed her into the sitting-room and helped her kindle the
fire in the big chimney.

"Well, what has happened?" he asked, when the red flames were rolling
up from the heap of split pine under the logs.

"It's about Mis' Dawson," announced Mrs. Bradley, as she sank into a
big chair and began to unpin her shawl. "She's got religion!"

"You don't mean it!"

"Yes, an' I'm what give it to her--me, an' nobody else. I'm a purty
thing to be talkin' that way, but it's the livin' truth. I caused it.
When I seed her git up an' go acrost to you and drive you clean off, I
got so mad I could a-choked her. I wus sittin' by Brother Tim
Mitchell. You don't know 'im, I reckon, but he's the biggest bull-dog
preacher 'at ever give out a hymn. He's a ugly customer, not more'n
thirty, but he's consecrated, an' had ruther rake a sinner over the
coals of repentance 'an eat fried chicken, an' he's a Methodist
preacher, too. He's nearly six foot an' a half high an' as slim as a
splinter; he lets his hair run long an' curls it some. He's as dark as
a Spaniard, an' his face shines like he eats too much grease an' sweats
it out through the pores uv his skin.

"Well, he seed me a-lookin' at Mis' Dawson, when she went to devil you,
an' he bent over to me an' sez he: 'Sister Bradley, what ails that
woman anyhow?'

"'What ails her?' sez I. 'What'd you ax that fer, Brother Tim?'

"'She don't do nat'ral,' sez he. 'I've been talkin' to 'er about 'er
speritual welfare ever sence I set down heer, an' she won't say one
word. She ain't a bit like the gineral run o' old women; an' what's
more, she hain't doin' one bit o' exhortin' that I kin see. I don't
know whether she's in the vineyard or not.'

"Then, John Westerfelt, I jest come out an' tol' 'im about 'er. Of
course I never give no names; but I made 'im see what ailed her, an' I
never seed a man look so interested. 'Sister Bradley,' sez he, rubbin'
his hands, when I got through, 'I'm going to wade in an' get hold o'
that woman's soul.'

"'Well,' sez I, 'you may have to wade purty fur an' dive consider'ble,
fer she's about the toughest snag you ever struck.'

"'I'm a-goin' to have 'er _soul_,' sez he, an' he laughed. 'I'd ruther
make that sort of a struggle for the Lord 'an to put out a burnin'
house, ur keep a pizen snake frum bitin' a baby. You watch my smoke.
Is she a-comin' back heer?'

"'I kin bring 'er back,' sez I, 'fer right this minute I'd ruther see
that woman a shoutin' convert 'n to have a meal sack full o' gold
dollars.'

"'Well,' sez he, sorter jokin' like, 'you fetch 'er heer an' set 'er
down whar she wus a minute ago, an' I'll put a plaster on 'er back
that'll make 'er _think_ she's shoutin' whether she is or not.'

"Well, I went to whar she was outside an' tol' 'er Brother Mitchell
wanted to see 'er. 'I jest ain't a-goin' a step,' sez she, 'so I
ain't,' an' she looked sorter suspicious.

"'Well, I don't railly see how yo're goin' to help yorese'f, Mis'
Dawson,' sez I. 'Goodness knows yo're showin' mighty little int'rust
in the meetin' anyways. Looks like you wouldn't insult one of the most
saintly men we got by turnin' yore back on 'im. Mebby he wants to ax
about startin' a meetin' over yore way. You'd better go.'

"That settled it; I took 'er back an' set 'er down by him, an' he begun
to git in his work. I never knowed a man called to preach could be so
mealy-mouthed. He begun--you see I was next to him an' could ketch
ev'ry word, although thar was jest a regular hullabaloo o' shoutin' an'
singin' goin' on all about--he begun by goin' over his own family
trouble, an' I wanted to laugh out, fer the Lord knows, while Brother
Tim's folks has had _some_ few ordinary reverses, an' _did_ lose a few
head o' stock in the war, an' one o' the gals married a no-'count
Yankee carpenter an' never would write back home, an' Brother
Mitchell's ma an' pa died uv ripe old age--but, as I say, nobody ever
thought they wus particular unfortunate. Howsomever, she thought they
wus from his tale an' his sad, mournful way o' talkin'. Job an' all he
went through, b'iles an' all, wasn't a circumstance, an' it was all the
Lord's doin's, Brother Tim said, to show him the true light. I seed
she was listenin' an' that he had hold uv 'er some, but I kinder
thought she wusn't as easy prey as he 'lowed, fer he broke down once in
awhile an' had a sort o' sickly, quivery look about the mouth. All at
once he turned to me as mad as a hornet. Sez he: 'It's that dern
bonnet,'--no, he didn't say that exactly. I heer Luke say them things
so much 'at his words slip in when I'm in a hurry--'it's that bonnet o'
her'n, Sister Bradley,' sez he. 'I'll never git 'er in a wearin' way
as long as that poke keeps bobbin' up an' down twixt me 'n her eyes.
Cayn't you manage to git it off?'

"Well, you kin imagine that wus a difficult thing to do, but I reckon
the Lord o' Hosts must 'a' been with us, fer all at once a idee come to
me an' I jest leaned over to her. 'Sister Dawson,' sez I, 'I beg yore
pardon, but the skirt o' yore bonnet is ripped, le'me see it a minute,'
an', la me! Brother Mitchell's eyes fairly danced in his head. I
heerd him laugh out sudden an' then he kivered his mouth 'ith his long,
bony hand an' coughed as I snatched the bonnet frum 'er head an' begun
to tear a seam open. She made a grab over his spindlin' legs fer it,
but I paid no attention to 'er, pretendin' to be fixin' it. Then the
fun begun. I seed 'im lay hold of 'er wrists an' look 'er spank, dab
in the eyes, an' 'en he begun to rant. Purty soon I seed her back
limberin' up an' I knowed, as the sayin' is, that she was our meat.
All at once, still a-hold o' 'er hands, he turned to me, an' sez he:
'Go ax Brother Quagmire to sing "How firm a foundation" three times,
with the second an' last verse left out, an' tell 'im to foller that up
with "Jesus, Lover." Git 'im to walk up an' down this aisle--this un,
remember. Tell 'im I've got a case heer wuth more 'n a whole bench
full o' them scrubs 'at'll backslide as soon as meetin' 's over; tell
'im to whoop 'em up. Sister Bradley, you are addin' more feathers to
yore wings right now 'an you ever sprouted in one day o' the Lord's
labor. But, for all you do, hold on to that blasted devil's
contraption.' He meant the bonnet.

"I slid out 'twixt the benches on one side, an' went round to the stand
an' spoke to Brother Quagmire, who wus leadin'; he's the big,
white-headed man they say looks like Moody an' has the scalps o' more
sinners in 'is belt than any man on the war-path. When I tol' 'im what
wus up, he giggled an' said, 'God bless 'im, Mitch is a wheel-hoss!'
an' with that he busted out singin' 'How firm a foundation, ye saints
o' the Lord,' an' he waved his hands up an' down like a buzzard's
wings, an' went up our aisle, a-clappin' an' singin' to beat the Dutch.
I never seed the like before. I wusn't cryin' fer the same reason 'at
the rest of 'em wus, but the tears wus jest a-streamin' down my face
like a leaky well-bucket, fer I believed the thing wus goin' to work,
an' I wus thinkin' how glad you'd be. She looked up an' seed my face
an' busted out cryin'. Then Brother Mitchell ketched 'er up in his
arms an' yelled: 'You little, ol', triflin' thing, I'm a-gwine to put
you in the arms o' yore Redeemer,' an' then I jest couldn't help
cryin'. Luke seed me give way an' sneeked off to water the hosses.
John, she was the happiest creetur God ever made. She laid 'er old
bare head in my lap an' cried like a baby. I never railly loved 'er
before, but I did then. Somehow she seemed to be my own mother come
back to life ag'in. But she didn't shout an' take on like the rest.
She jest cried an' cried an' had the youngest look on 'er face I ever
seed on a ol' person. Once she said, sez she, 'I'm goin' back to put a
grave-rock over Jasper's remains,' an' then I remembered folks said she
wus too stingy to do that when Dawson died. She looked like she wanted
to talk about you, but I didn't feel called on to fetch up the subject.
After awhile she went out to the wagon whar her carpet-bag wus, an' got
up in one o' the cheers an' begun to stitch on some'n. I wus puzzled
right sharp, fer it wus a Sunday, an' it looked like a funny thing fer
a body to do, but atter awhile she come to me with some'n wrapped up in
a paper--I'll show it to you in a minute--an' give it to me. It was a
pair uv her best knit wool socks. You know some old women think it's a
mark o' great respect to give a pair o' socks to anybody that they've
knit the'rselves.

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