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.