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Will N. Harben - Westerfelt

W >> Will N. Harben >> Westerfelt




But as he continued to watch the approaching figure he was surprised to
note that Slogan was displaying more energy than usual. The little,
short man was taking long steps, and now and then jumping over an
obstacle instead of going around it. And when he had reached the gate
he leaned on it and stared straight at Westerfelt, as if he had lost
his power of speech. Then it was that Westerfelt remarked that
Slogan's face looked troubled, and that a general air of agitation
rested on him.

"I wish you'd step out, if you please, John," he said, after a moment,
"I've been walkin' so blamed fast I've mighty nigh lost my breath. I'm
blowin' like a stump-suckin' hoss."

Westerfelt went to him.

"What is the matter, Slogan?" he questioned, in a tone of concern.

"We've had big trouble over our way," panted Slogan. "Sally fell off'n
the foot-log into the creek this mornin' an' was drowned."

"Drowned! You don't mean that, Slogan!" cried Westerfelt, in horror;
"surely there is some mistake!"

"No; she's as dead as a mackerel," Slogan answered. "She wasn't
diskivered tell she'd been under water fer a good half-hour. She
started, as usual, about daybreak, over to her cousin, Molly Dugan's,
fer a bucket o' fresh milk, an' we never missed 'er until it was time
she was back, an' then we went all the way to Dugan's before we found
out she hadn't been thar at all. Then her ma tuck up a quar notion,
an' helt to it like a leech fer a long time. My hoss had got out o'
the stable an' strayed off some'rs in the woods, an' Sally's mother
firmly believed the gal had run off. I don't know why she 'lowed Sally
would do sech a thing, but she did, and jest paced up an' down the yard
yellin' an' takin' on an' beggin' us to go fetch her back, so that none
of us at the house thought o' draggin' the hole at the foot-log. But
Bill Dugan did, an' soon come with the news whar she was at. Then her
ma jest had a spasm. I railly believe on my soul she cussed God an'
all futurity. She raved till she was black in the face."

"Then there is--is no doubt about it?" gasped Westerfelt. "She is
dead?"

"Of course she's dead," answered Slogan; "an' bein' as my hoss ain't to
be had, I 'lowed I'd try to borrow one o' yore'n to go order the
coffin." Slogan here displayed a piece of twine which he had wound
into a coil. "I've got the exact length o' the body. I 'lowed that
would be the best way. I reckon they kin tell me at the store how much
play a corpse ort to have at each end. I've noticed that coffins
always look longer, a sight, than the pusson ever did that was to
occupy 'em, but I thought ef I tuck the exact measure--"

"Here's the stable key," interrupted Westerfelt, with a shudder. "Take
any horse you want. You'll find saddles and bridles in the shed."

Slogan turned away, and Westerfelt walked back to the veranda. "My
God!" he groaned; "why don't I _know_ it was accident? If it was not,
then may the Lord have mercy on my soul!"

He went into his room and threw himself on his bed and stared fixedly
at the ceiling, a thousand conflicting thoughts crowding upon him.
Presently he heard Slogan talking to the horse in the yard, and went
out just as he was mounting.

"I wisht you'd hand me a switch, John," he said. "I don't want to be
all day goin' an' comin'. I'll be blamed ef I ain't afeerd them two
ol' cats 'll be a-fightin' an' scratchin' 'fore I get back. They had a
time of it while the gal was alive, an' I reckon thar 'll be no peace
at all now."

"Does Mrs. Dawson blame anybody--or--or--?" Westerfelt paused as if he
hardly knew how to finish.

"Oh, I reckon the ol' woman does feel a leetle hard at us--my wife in
particular, an'--an' some o' the rest, I reckon. You see, thar was a
lot said at the quiltin' yesterday about Lizzie Lithicum a-cuttin' of
Sally out, an' one thing or other, an' a mother's calculated to feel
bitter about sech talk, especially when her only child is laid out as
cold an' stiff as a poker."

Again Westerfelt shuddered; his face was ghastly; his mouth was drawn
and his lips quivered; there was a desperate, appealing, shifting of
his eyes.

"I reckon Mrs. Dawson feels hurt at me," he said, tentatively.

Slogan hesitated a moment before speaking.

"Well," he said, as if he felt some sort of apology should come from
him, "maybe she does--a little, John, but the Lord knows you cayn't
expect much else at sech a time, an' when she's under sech a strain."

"Did she mention any names?" questioned the young man, desperately; and
while he waited for Slogan to speak a look of inexpressible agony lay
in his eyes.

"I never was much of a hand to tote tales," said Slogan, "but I may as
well give you a little bit of advice as to how you ort to act with the
ol' woman while she is so wrought up. I wouldn't run up agin 'er right
now ef I was you. She's tuck a funny sort o' notion that she don't
want you at the funeral or the buryin'. She told me three times, as I
was startin' off, to tell you not to come to the church nur to the
grave. She was clean out o' her senses, an' under ordinary
circumstances I'd say not to pay a bit of attention to 'er, but she's
so upset she might liter'ly pounce on you like a wild-cat at the
meetin'-house."

"Tell her, for me, that I shall respect her wish," said Westerfelt. "I
shall not be there, Slogan. If she will let you do so, tell her I am
sorry her daughter is--dead."

"All right, John, I'll do what I can to pacify 'er," promised Peter, as
he took the switch Westerfelt handed him and started away.




Chapter III

When Slogan had ridden off through the mild spring sunshine, Westerfelt
saddled another horse and rode out of the gate towards the road leading
away from the house containing Sally Dawson's remains. He hardly had
any definite idea of whither he was going. He had only a vague
impression that the movement of a horse under him would to some degree
assuage the awful pain at his heart, but he was mistaken; the pangs of
self-accusation were as sharp as if he were a justly condemned
murderer. His way led past the cross-roads store, which contained the
post-office. Two men, a woman, and a child stood huddled together at
the door. They were talking about the accident; Westerfelt knew that
by their attitudes of awed attention and their occasional glances
towards Mrs. Dawson's. He was about to pass by when the storekeeper
signalled to him and called out:

"Mail fer you, Mr. Westerfelt; want me to fetch it out?"

Westerfelt nodded, and reined in and waited till the storekeeper came
out with a packet. "It must 'a' been drapped in after I closed last
night," he said. "Thar wasn't a thing in the box 'fore I went home,
an' it was the only one thar when I unlocked this mornin'. Mighty bad
news down the creek, ain't it?" he ended. "Powerful hard on the old
woman. They say she's mighty nigh distracted."

Making some unintelligible reply, Westerfelt rode on, the packet held
tightly in his hand. It was addressed in Sally Dawson's round, girlish
handwriting, and he knew it contained his letters, and perhaps--he
shuddered at the thought of what else it might contain.

He whipped his horse into a gallop. He wanted to reach a spot where he
could open the package unobserved. He met several wagons and a buggy.
They contained people who bowed and spoke to him, but he scarcely saw
them. At the first path leading from the road into the wood he turned
aside, and then opened his package. There were three or four letters
and notes he had written the dead girl, and one blotted sheet from her.
With a quaking soul he read it. It confirmed him in the fear which had
taken hold of him at the first news of the tragedy. The letter ran:


"DEAR JOHN,--I simply cannot stand it any longer. It is now about
three in the morning. Some people contend that such acts are done only
by crazy folks, but I don't believe I ever was more sensible than I am
right now. I am not ashamed to own that I had my heart and soul set on
being your wife and making you happy, but now that I know you didn't
feel a bit like I did, an' love Lizzie, I jest can't stand it. The
pain is awful--awful. I could not meet folks face to face, now that
they know the truth. I'd rather die a hundred deaths than see you an'
her even once together. I couldn't live long anyway. I'm simply too
weak and sick at heart. The hardest thing of all is to remember that
you never did care for me all the time I was making such a little fool
of myself. I know you never did. Folks said you was changeable, but I
never once believed it till last night on the road. I have fixed it so
everybody will think my death was accidental. I've been warned time
and again about that foot-log, and nobody will suspicion the truth.
You must never mention it to a soul. It is my last and only request.
It would go harder with mother if she knew that. Good-bye, John. I
love you more right now than I ever did, and I don't know as I blame
you much or harbor much resentment. I thought I would not say anything
more, but I cannot help it. John, Lizzie is not the woman for you.
She never will love you deep, or very long. Good-bye.

"SALLY."


Westerfelt put the letter in his pocket and turned his horse into an
unfrequented road leading to the mountain and along its side. The air
was filled with the subtle fragrance of growing and blooming things.
He was as near insanity as a man can well be who still retains his
mental equipoise. In this slow manner, his horse picking his way over
fallen trees and mountain streams, he traversed several miles, and
then, in utter desolation, turned homeward.

It was noon when he came in sight of his house. Peter Slogan had
returned the horse, and, with a parcel under his arm, was trudging
homeward. All that night Westerfelt lay awake, and the next morning he
did not leave his room, ordering the wondering servant not to prepare
any breakfast for him. He did not want to show himself on the veranda
or in the front yard, thinking some neighbor might stop and want to
talk over the tragedy. There were moments during this solitary morning
that he wished others knew the secret of Sally Dawson's death. It
seemed impossible for him to keep the grewsome truth locked in his
breast--it made the happening seem more of a crime. And then an awful
thought dawned upon him. Was it not a way God had of punishing him,
and would there ever be any end to it?

From his window he had a clear view of Mrs. Dawson's house. There was
a group of people in their best clothes on the porch, and considerable
activity about the front yard, to the fence of which a goodly number of
horses and mules were hitched. The little church, with its gray,
weather-beaten spire, could also be seen farther away, on a slight
elevation. It had a fence around it, and blended with the whiteness of
the fence were a few gravestones.

About eleven o'clock Westerfelt saw a negro boy climb a ladder leaning
against the side of the church and creep along the edge of the roof to
the open cupola and grasp the clapper of the cast-iron bell. Then it
began to toll. The boy was an unpractised hand, and the strokes were
irregular, sometimes too slow and sometimes too rapid.

It was a signal for the procession to leave the house. Westerfelt's
eyes were glued to the one-horse wagon at the gate, for it contained
the coffin, and was moving like a thing alive. Behind it walked six
men, swinging their hats in their hands. Next followed Slogan's
rickety buggy with its threatening wheels, driven by Peter. The bent
figure of the widow in black sat beside him. Other vehicles fell in
behind, and men, women, and children on foot, carrying wild flowers,
dogwood blossoms, pink and white honeysuckle, and bunches of violets,
brought up the rear.

Westerfelt was just turning from the window, unable to stand the sight
longer, when he saw Abner Lithicum's new road-wagon, with its red
wheels and high green bed, in which sat the five women of his family,
pause at his gate. Going out on the veranda, Westerfelt saw Abner
coming up the walk, cracking his wagon-whip at the stunted rose-bushes.

"Hello!" he cried out; "I 'lowed mebby you hadn't left yet. It 'll be
a good half-hour 'fore they all get thar an' settled. The preacher
promised me this mornin' he'd wait on me an' my folks. It takes my
gals sech a' eternity to fix up when they go anywhar."

"Won't you come in?" asked Westerfelt, coldly, seeing that Lithicum did
not seem to be in any hurry to announce the object of his visit.

"Oh no, thanky'," said Lithicum, with a broad grin; "the truth is, I
clean forgot my tobacco. I knowed you wasn't a chawin' man, but yore
uncle is, an' he mought have left a piece of a plug lyin' round. My
old woman tried to git me to use her snuff as a make-shift, but lawsy
me! the blamed powdery truck jest washes down my throat like leaves in
a mill-race. I never could see how women kin set an' rub an' rub the'r
gums with it like they do. I reckon it's jest a sort o' habit."

"I'm sorry," said Westerfelt, "but I don't know where my uncle keeps
his tobacco."

"Well, I reckon I'll strike some chawin' man down at the
meetin'-house." Lithicum stood, awkwardly cutting the air with his
whip. "Railly, thar is one thing more," he said, haltingly. "Lizzie
'lowed, as thar was a' extra seat in our wagon, you might like to come
on with us. She said she had some'n' particular to tell you."

"Tell her I am not going," said Westerfelt, sharply. "I am not going."

"Oh, you ain't!" Lithicum looked his surprise both at the decision and
at the unaccountable coldness of the young man's manner, which he had
not noticed till now. "Well, so long, Mr. Westerfelt, I reckon you
know yore own business, but I 'lowed everybody would turn out, through
respect to all concerned, if nothin' else."

"I am not going; it is impossible for me to go," answered Westerfelt,
and he turned abruptly into the house.

Alone in his room, Westerfelt took Sally Dawson's last letter from his
pocket and read it again. Then he lighted a match and started to burn
it, but some inward fear seemed to check him, and the match burned down
to his rigid fingers and went out. "No," he said, "that would be
cowardly. I shall keep it always, to remind me of my hellish mistake.
Great God! the idea of my going to her funeral in a red wagon with
Lizzie Lithicum--Lizzie Lithicum!"


The next morning, as he was returning from the post-office, Westerfelt
met Peter Slogan riding to a field he had rented down the road, and
which he was getting ready for cotton-planting. Slogan was astride of
his bony horse, which was already clad in shuck collar and clanking
harness, and carried on his shoulder a cumbersome plough-stock.

"Well," he smiled, reining in as he caught Westerfelt's eye, "I 'lowed
hard work in the sun would do more to git the kinks out'n me after all
the trouble at my house than anything else."

"How is Mrs. Dawson?" ventured Westerfelt.

"You'd better ax me how she _ain't_," retorted Slogan, shrugging his
shoulders. "I could tell you a sight easier. She's turned into a
regular hell-cat. I thought her an' my wife was bad enough 'fore the
trouble, but it's wuss now. The ol' woman has left us."

"Left you?" repeated Westerfelt. "What do you mean?"

"Why, she says she won't sleep an' eat in the same house with my wife,
beca'se she give Sally advice, an'--an' one thing or nuther. The ol'
woman has bought 'er some second-hand cookin' utensils--a oven an' a
skillet an' a cup an' a plate or two, an' has moved 'er bed an' cheer
into the Hilgard cabin down below us. She slept thar last night. It
looks powerful like she's wrong in the upper-story. At fust she was
all yells an' fury, but now she jest sulks an' hain't got one word to
say to nobody. I went down thar last night an' tried to call 'er to
the door, but she wouldn't stir a peg. As soon as she heerd me at the
fence she blowed out 'er light an' wouldn't let on no more'n ef I was a
dog a-barkin'. Now, I hold that she hain't got no call to treat me
that away. I never tuck no hand in 'er disputes with my wife, an' ef
hard things has been said about Sally, why they never come from me.
Lord, I've got plenty else to think about besides gals an' women. I
think I'm on track o' the skunk 'at stole my axe."

Westerfelt walked on. It was plain to him that none of the neighbors
knew the secret of Sally Dawson's death, but he was beginning to think
that the mother of the girl might half suspect the truth, and that she
was his enemy for life he did not doubt.




Chapter IV

The cornfields had grown to their full height and turned from green to
yellow. The stalks, stripped of their tops and blades, were bent by
the weight of their ears. There was a whispering of breezes in the
sedge-fields, in the long rows of brown-bolled cotton plants, among the
fodder-stacks, and in the forest that stretched from the main road up
the mountain-side. It was the season in which the rugged landscape
appeared most brilliant; when the kalmia bloomed, the gentian, the
primrose, the yellow daisy, the woodbine, and the golden-disked aster
still lingered in sunny spots. It was the season in which the leaves
of the maple were as red as blood.

John Westerfelt was leaving home, to take up his abode in the adjoining
county over the mountain. As he sat upon his horse and slowly rode
along, one who had known him six months before would scarcely have
recognized him, so great had been the change in his appearance. His
face was thinner; at the temples his hair had turned slightly gray, and
an ineffable expression of restless discontent lay about his eyes. A
sum of money had come to him from his father's estate, and with it he
had purchased a livery-stable at the village of Cartwright. Ever since
Sally Dawson's death, he had wanted an excuse to get away from the spot
where the tragedy had occurred, and his leaving his farm to the
management of his uncle now caused no particular comment among his
neighbors.

Reaching the highest point of the mountain, the village in question lay
in the valley below. Here he paused and looked behind him.

"God being my helper, I'm going to try to begin a new life over here,"
he said, almost aloud. "Surely, I have repented sorely enough, and
this is not shirking my just punishment. A man ought to make something
of himself, and I never could, in my frame of mind, with that poor,
silent old woman constantly before my eyes, and knowing that she will
never forgive my offence, and is perhaps constantly praying for some
calamity to strike me down."

At the first house in the outskirts of the village he dismounted. A
woman hearing his approach announced by a couple of lean dogs, which
sprang from under the porch, came to the door. She smiled and spoke,
but her voice was drowned in the yelping of the dogs, which were trying
to climb over the fence to get at the stranger.

There was something admirable, if slightly discourteous, in the
fearless manner in which Westerfelt leaned over the fence and, with the
butt of his riding-whip, struck the animals squarely in the face,
coolly laughing as he did so.

"You, Tige! you, Pomp!" cried the woman, running to them and picking up
sticks and stones and hurling them at the animals, "down thar, I say!"

"They have forgotten me," said Westerfelt, with a laugh, as the dogs
retreated behind the house, and he reached over the ramshackle gate to
shake hands.

"But I hain't, John," she replied, cordially. "I wasn't lookin' fer
you quite so soon, though. I reckon you must 'a' rid purty peert."

"Generally do," he made answer, "though I started early this morning,
and lost half an hour at Long's shop, where I got my horse shod."

"Put up yore animal," she said. "That's the stable thar, an' you know
better how to feed 'im 'an I do. Luke's gone down to the livery-stable
to look atter things fer you, but he'll be back 'fore supper-time."

Westerfelt led his horse into the yard, and to the well near the door.

He pushed the bucket into the opening, and allowed the wooden windlass
to fly round of its own accord till the bucket struck the water.

"Thirsty?" she asked. "I'll git the gourd."

He nodded. "And I want to water my horse; every branch and creek is
bridged for the last ten miles."

While she was in the house he wound up the bucket, swearing at the
horse for continually touching an inquisitive nose to his moving elbow.
She returned with a great gourd dipper. He rinsed it out, and, filling
it, drank long and deeply. Then he refilled the gourd and offered it
to her.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I forgot my politeness."

"I ain't dry," she said. "I was jest a-lookin' at you, John; you look
so much older an' different-like."

"Oh, I reckon I'm all right," he said. "How's Luke?" emptying the
bucket into the trough and watching the horse drink.

"As well as common; me an' him wus both bound fer you to git the
livery-stable, an' we are glad the trade's closed. It will seem like
ol' times to have a body from Fannin over heer. As soon as you writ
the price you wus willin' to give in a lumpin' sum, Luke set to
scheming. He ain't no fool, if I do say it. Horton an' Webb had the'r
eyes on the stable, an' Luke thinks they'd a-raised his bid, but they
'lowed he wus biddin' fur himself, an' knowed he couldn't raise the
money. Mis' Thorp wus in heer this mornin', an' she said Jasper Webb
swore like rips when the administrator tol' 'im the trade wus closed
with Luke as yore agent. You orter do well with the investment; you
got it cheap; you know how to keep up stock, an' the hack-line will pay
with the mail it carries an' the passenger travel twixt heer an'
Darley."

"I'm satisfied," he said, and he took the saddle and bridle from his
horse and turned the animal into the little log stable.

"Hain't you goin' to feed 'im?" she asked, hospitably, as he was
closing the door; "the's some fodder overhead, an' the corn is in re'ch
through the crack above the trough."

"Not yet," he returned; "I fed him some shelled corn at the shop. I'll
give him a few ears at supper-time."

The slanting rays of the sun streamed from a saffron sky in the west
and blazed in the red, yellow, and pink foliage on the mountain-side.
The light brought into clearer outline the brown peaks and beetling
crags that rose bleak and bare above the wealth of color, beyond the
dark, evergreen stretches of pines and mountain cedars. The gorgeous
tail of a peacock spread and gleamed under the cherry-trees in the back
yard. A sleek calf was running back and forth in a little lot, and a
brindled cow was bellowing mellowly, her head thrown up as she cantered
down the road, her heavy bag swinging under her.

At the sight of the woman a flock of ducks, chickens, and geese
gathered round her. She shooed the fowls away with her apron. "They
want the'r supper," she said, as she led her guest back to the front
yard. She went to the gate and looked down the road. "I see Luke at
the branch," she added, coming back to him; "he'd be on faster ef he
knowed you wus heer."

Luke Bradley was about fifty years of age. He had blue eyes, a long
body, long arms, and long legs. His hair was reddish brown and his
face florid and freckled. He walked with a shambling gait, stooped
considerably, and swung his arms. He seldom wore a coat, and on days
as mild as this his shirt-sleeves were always rolled up. He presented
a striking contrast to John Westerfelt, who, by the people of that
remote section, might have been considered something of a swell.

"How are you, ol' hoss?" Bradley laughed, as he swung the sagging gate
open and grasped his friend's hand. "Glad to see you; I've done
nothin' but fight tongue battles fer you all day. Webb has been
cussin' me black an' blue fer biddin' agin 'im fer a stranger, but
thar's one consolation--we've got 'im on the hip."

Westerfelt laughed pleasantly as he followed his host into the
sitting-room. "Much obliged to you, Luke. I'm glad I took your advice
about the investment."

"Me'n Marthy wus both dead set on gettin' you over heer," Luke said, as
he placed a chair for Westerfelt in front of the fire. "Both of us
'low a change will do you good."

Mrs. Bradley sat down in a corner and spread out her ample homespun
skirt and began to run the hem of her apron through her fat, red
fingers.

"Me'n Luke's been talkin' it over," she said, with some embarrassment;
"we 'lowed you mought mebby be willin' to put up with us; we've got a
spare room, an' you know about how we live. You've lied unmercifully
ef you don't like my cookin'," she concluded, with an awkward little
laugh.

"I never lie," he retorted, smiling. "It's been a year since I ate at
your house, but I can taste your slice-potato pie yet, and your
egg-bread and biscuits, ugh!"

She laughed. "You'll stay, then?"

"I'm afraid not. I've packed up some pieces of furniture--a bed and
one thing or other--and I calculated that I'd occupy the room over the
stable. I'd like to be near my business. I reckon I can get my meals
down at the hotel. I'll stay with you to-night, though; the wagon
won't come till to-morrow."

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