Sue Dawson leaned on the front gate at the Bradleys'.
"Hello! Hello! Hello! in thar!" she cried, in a shrill, piping voice.
No one replied. "I'm a good mind to go in anyway," she thought. "I
reckon they hain't got no bitin' dog." She raised the iron ring from
the post and drew the sagging gate through the grooves worn in the
pebbly ground and entered the yard. The front and back doors were
open, and she could see a portion of the back yard through the hall.
No one seemed to be in the house. A young chicken had hopped up the
back steps, crossed the entry, and was stalking about in the hall
chirping hollowly, as if bewildered by its surroundings. Across the
rear door a sudden gust of wind blew a wisp of smoke, and then it
occurred to Mrs. Dawson that some one might be in the back yard. She
drove the chicken before her as she stalked through the hall.
Martha Bradley was making soap. With her back to the house, she was
stirring a boiling mixture of grease and lye in a large wash-pot.
Under the eaves of the kitchen stood an ash-hopper, from the bottom of
which trickled a tiny amber stream.
"Howdy, Marthy?" said Mrs. Dawson, behind Mrs. Bradley's back. "It was
so still in the house, I 'lowed you wus all dead an' buried."
Mrs. Bradley turned and dropped her paddle. "Why, ef it hain't Mis'
Dawson, as I'm alive! Whar on earth are you bound fer?"
"Jest come over fer a day ur so," was the reply. "I thought some o'
stoppin' at the hotel, but, on second thought, I 'lowed you an' Luke
mought think strange ef I did, so heer I am."
"I've al'ays got room fer a old neighbor, an' you'd a-been lonely at
the hotel. I'm glad you come, but--" Mrs. Bradley took up her paddle
and began to stir the contents of the pot. "I reckon, I ortter tell
you, plain, Mis' Dawson, that John Westerfelt is stayin' with us.
We've got plenty o' room fer you both, but I thought it mought not be
exactly agreeable fer you."
A spiteful fire kindled in Mrs. Dawson's eyes. "It mought upset _him_
a little speck, Marthy, but I hain't done nothin' to be ashamed uv
myse'f."
Mrs. Bradley went to the ash-hopper and filled a dipper with lye and
poured it into the pot. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. "John
Westerfelt's had enough trouble to kill a ordinary man, Mis' Dawson,"
she said, "an' I'm his friend to the backbone; ef you've got any
ill-will agin 'im, don't mention it to me. Besides, now would be a
good time fer you to show Christian forbearance. He's been
thoughtless, but heer lately he is a changed man, an' I believe he's
tryin' his level best to do right in God's sight. He's had a peck o'
trouble in one way or another over heer, but, in addition to that, I'm
mistaken ef he don't suffer in secret day and night."
"You don't say," cried Mrs. Dawson, eagerly. "I 'lowed he wus cuttin'
a wide swath over heer."
"Never was a bigger mistake. He don't visit a single gal in the place.
He neglects his business, an' spends most o' his time in the woods
pretendin' to hunt, but he seldom fetches back a thing, and you know he
used to be the best shot at the beef matches. Luke thinks his mind is
turned a little bit. Luke happened to go 'long the Shader Rock road
t'other day an' seed John lyin' flat o' his back in the woods. He
passed 'im twice inside of a hour, an' he hadn't moved a peg. No
healthy minded man don't carry on that way, Mis' Dawson."
"Hain't he a-settin' up to that hotel gal?" Mrs. Bradley turned towards
the house with her guest. "No, he hain't," she answered. "She nussed
him when he wus down, an'--well, maybe she does kinder fancy _him_ a
little--any natcherl girl would--I don't say she _does_ nor _doesn't_,
but he hain't been to see 'er, to my knowledge, a single time, nur has
never tuk her out to any o' the parties. No, thar's nothin' twixt 'em;
she tried to git 'im to come stay at the hotel when he wus sick atter
the Whitecap outrage, an' I thought she acted a little for'ard then,
but he refused an' come to us instead."
"You don't say so; why, I heerd--"
"A body kin always heer more about a thing fur off than right whar it
happens," concluded Mrs. Bradley. They were now in the sitting-room,
and Mrs. Dawson took off her bonnet and shawl. Mrs. Bradley put some
pieces of pine under the smouldering logs in the fireplace and swept
the hearth.
That night when Westerfelt came home supper was on the table. He was
surprised to see the visitor, but she did not notice him and he said
nothing to her. The meal passed awkwardly. Luke made an effort to
keep up the conversation with her by asking about his friends in her
neighborhood, but her replies were in a low tone and short, and he
finally gave up the attempt.
Westerfelt rose from the table before any of the others and left the
house. As he turned from the gate to go to the stable, he looked
through the window and saw Mrs. Dawson move her chair to the fire. He
paused and leaned against the fence. The firelight shone in the old
woman's face; it was sad and careworn. Somehow she reminded him of his
mother, as she had looked a short time before she died. He started on
slowly, but came back again to the same spot. Luke wiped his mouth on
the corner of the table-cloth, rose from the table, and went out at the
back door. Westerfelt heard his merry whistle at the barn. Mrs.
Bradley filled a large pan with dishes and took them into the kitchen.
Mrs. Dawson bent over the fire. Something in the curve of her back and
the trembling way she held her hands to the blaze made him think again
of his mother. He hesitated a moment, then, lifting the ring from the
post, he pushed the gate open and went round the house and into the
kitchen.
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.