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."
"Well, I'm disappointed, shore 'nough," said Mrs. Bradley. "I had
clean forgot the room at the stable, an' I ought to 'a' knowed, too,
that Saunders' boys bunked thar. Well, I won't raise no objections;
Mis' Boyd, a widow woman, is keepin' the hotel now, and folks say she
feeds well an' cheap enough. She's from Tennessee, an's got a
good-lookin', sprightly daughter. Nobody knows a thing about 'em; they
don't talk much about the'rse'ves. They tuk the hotel when Rick Martin
sold out last fall, an' they've been thar ever sence."
Supper was served in the room adjoining the kitchen. After it was
over, Westerfelt and his host went back to the sitting-room. Alf, a
colored farm-hand, was heaping logs on the old-fashioned dog-irons in
the wide fireplace, and a mass of fat pine burning under the wood
lighted the room with a soft red glow.
Westerfelt looked round him in surprise. While they were at supper the
carpet had been taken up, the floor swept clean, and a number of chairs
placed against the wall round the room.
"Marthy's doin's," Bradley explained, sheepishly; "don't hold me
accountable; she's arranged to give you a shindig to introduce you to
the young folks round about."
Just then Mrs. Bradley came in.
"Sweep the hearth, Alf," she said, pointing to a live coal that had
popped out on the floor. "Didn't I tell you never to put on them
chestnut logs? Do you want to burn the roof over our heads? Give it
to me!" She snatched the unwieldy bundle of broomstraw from him. "Go
tell Mis' Snow I'm much obleeged fer the cheers, an' ef I need any more
I'll send fer um after 'while. Tell 'er ef she don't let Mary an' Ella
come I'll never set foot in her house agin."
"What's all this for?" asked Westerfelt.
"_You_." She slapped him familiarly on the arm. "I'm goin' to give
you a mount'in welcome. This settlement is full o' nice gals, an' you
hain't the least idee how much excitement thar's been sence the report
went out that you are gwine to live amongst us. I'm the most popular
woman in Cartwright, jest beca'se I know you. I tell you I've been
blowin' yore horn. I've talked a sight about you, an' you must do yore
best an' look yore purtiest. Oh, yore clothes is all right!" (seeing
that he was looking doubtfully at his boots and trousers). "They
hain't a dressy set over heer." Her husband was leaving the room, and
she waited till he had closed the door after him. "I want to talk to
you like a mother, John," she said, sitting down near him and holding
the bundle of broom between her knees. "The truth is, I've had a sight
o' worry over you. I often lie awake at night thinkin' about you, an'
wonderin' ef yore ma wouldn't blame me ef she wus alive fer not lookin'
atter you more. I've heerd what a solitary life you've been livin'
sence she died. God knows she wus a big loss, an' it does bring a
great change to part with sech a friend, but, from what I heer, you let
'er death bother you most too much. Why, folks tell me you hain't at
all like you used to be, an' that you jest stayed at home an' never
went about with the young folks any more. You don't look as well as
you did the last time I seed you, nuther. I reckon it's yore way o'
living but you jest sha'n't do that away over heer. You've got to be
natural like other young folks, an' you jest shall, ef I have anything
to say in the matter. John, yore mamma was the best friend I ever had,
an'--"
She paused. Luke was hallooing to some one down the road, and
Westerfelt heard the rumble of wheels over a distant bridge. Mrs.
Bradley went to the door and went out.
"They are comin', the whole caboodle of 'em!" she cried, excitedly. "I
declare, I believe I enjoy a party as much as any gal that ever lived,
an' at my age, too--it's shameful. I'd be talked about in some
places." She laid her hands on the shoulders of her guest, her face
beaming. "Now, ef you want to primp up a little an' bresh that
hoss-hair off'n yore pants, go in yore room. It's at the end o' the
back porch. Alf's already tuck yore saddle-bags thar."