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.