The religious excitement had spread over all the congregation. Every
bench held some shouting or praying enthusiast. Some of the women
began to move about on the outside, pleading with the bystanders to go
forward for prayer. One of them spoke to Westerfelt, but he simply
shook his head. Just then he noticed Mrs. Dawson sitting on the end of
a bench next to the centre aisle. She had turned half round and was
staring at him fixedly. When she caught his eye, she got up and came
towards him. Other women were talking to men near him, and no one
noticed her approach.
In the depths of her bonnet her withered face had never appeared so
hard and unrelenting. She laid her hand on his arm and looked up into
his eyes.
"Are you a seeker, John Westerfelt?" she asked, with a sneer.
"No, I am not." He tried to draw his arm away, but her bony fingers
clutched and held it.
"They say the's a chance fer all to wipe out sins," she went on, "but I
have my doubts 'bout you. You know whar you'll land. You kin mighty
nigh feel the hot now, I reckon."
He caught her wrist and tore his arm from her grasp.
"Leave me alone!" he cried; then he dropped her wrist and added: "For
Heaven sake don't--_don't_ devil me to death; you make me forget you
are a woman and not a beast--a snake! My God, let me alone!"
His angry tone had drawn the attention of a few of the bystanders. A
tall, lank countryman, standing near Westerfelt, turned on him.
"Be ashamed o' yorese'f, young man," he said; "ef you don't want to be
prayed fer you don't have to, but don't cut up any o' yore shines with
these Christian women who are tryin' to do good."
"You don't know what you are talking about," replied Westerfelt, and he
turned away quickly, and went across the cleared space to his horse and
buggy. Jake, who was lying on the ground with some other negroes, ran
forward and unfastened his horse, and gave him the reins.
"Want me to go back wid yer, Marse John?" he asked.
"No," answered Westerfelt, and he drove rapidly homeward. Reaching the
stable, he put up his horse, and went to the room over the office. He
sat down, took up an old newspaper, and tried to read it, but there
seemed to be something in the paling light on the bare fields outside
and the stillness of the empty building that oppressed him. He rose
and looked out of the window. Not a soul was in sight. The store and
the bar, with their closed shutters, looked as if they had not been
opened for a century. A brindled cow stood in the middle of the
street, jangling a discordant bell, and lowing dolefully. He rose,
went down-stairs, walked aimlessly about in the stable, and then went
up the street towards Bradley's. He wondered if Harriet had returned,
but as he passed the hotel he had not the courage to look in.
Every door of the Bradley house was closed. He tried all the windows,
but they were held down by sticks placed over the sashes on the inside.
Even the chickens and ducks in the back yard seemed to have fallen
under the spell of the unwonted silence. The scare-crow in the
cornfield beyond the staked-and-ridered rail fence looked like the
corpse of a human being flattened against the yellow sky.
He went out at the gate and turned up the Hawkbill road till he was
high enough to see the village street above the trees. Later he
noticed the vehicles beginning to come back from the camp-ground, and
he returned home by a short path through the fields. He reached the
Bradleys' just as Luke was helping his wife out of the spring-wagon at
the gate.
"We didn't fetch Mis' Dawson back," explained Mrs. Bradley. "She met
some old acquaintances--the Hambrights--an' they made 'er go home with
'em. Lawsy me, haven't I got a lots to tell you, though! You had as
well prepare fer a big surprise. You couldn't guess what tuk place out
thar atter you left ef you made a thousand dabs at it. Luke, go put up
the hoss. I want to talk to John, an' I don't want you to bother us
tell I'm through, nuther. You kin find plenty to do out at the barn
fer a few minutes."
Westerfelt followed her into the sitting-room and helped her kindle the
fire in the big chimney.
"Well, what has happened?" he asked, when the red flames were rolling
up from the heap of split pine under the logs.
"It's about Mis' Dawson," announced Mrs. Bradley, as she sank into a
big chair and began to unpin her shawl. "She's got religion!"
"You don't mean it!"
"Yes, an' I'm what give it to her--me, an' nobody else. I'm a purty
thing to be talkin' that way, but it's the livin' truth. I caused it.
When I seed her git up an' go acrost to you and drive you clean off, I
got so mad I could a-choked her. I wus sittin' by Brother Tim
Mitchell. You don't know 'im, I reckon, but he's the biggest bull-dog
preacher 'at ever give out a hymn. He's a ugly customer, not more'n
thirty, but he's consecrated, an' had ruther rake a sinner over the
coals of repentance 'an eat fried chicken, an' he's a Methodist
preacher, too. He's nearly six foot an' a half high an' as slim as a
splinter; he lets his hair run long an' curls it some. He's as dark as
a Spaniard, an' his face shines like he eats too much grease an' sweats
it out through the pores uv his skin.
"Well, he seed me a-lookin' at Mis' Dawson, when she went to devil you,
an' he bent over to me an' sez he: 'Sister Bradley, what ails that
woman anyhow?'
"'What ails her?' sez I. 'What'd you ax that fer, Brother Tim?'
"'She don't do nat'ral,' sez he. 'I've been talkin' to 'er about 'er
speritual welfare ever sence I set down heer, an' she won't say one
word. She ain't a bit like the gineral run o' old women; an' what's
more, she hain't doin' one bit o' exhortin' that I kin see. I don't
know whether she's in the vineyard or not.'
"Then, John Westerfelt, I jest come out an' tol' 'im about 'er. Of
course I never give no names; but I made 'im see what ailed her, an' I
never seed a man look so interested. 'Sister Bradley,' sez he, rubbin'
his hands, when I got through, 'I'm going to wade in an' get hold o'
that woman's soul.'
"'Well,' sez I, 'you may have to wade purty fur an' dive consider'ble,
fer she's about the toughest snag you ever struck.'
"'I'm a-goin' to have 'er _soul_,' sez he, an' he laughed. 'I'd ruther
make that sort of a struggle for the Lord 'an to put out a burnin'
house, ur keep a pizen snake frum bitin' a baby. You watch my smoke.
Is she a-comin' back heer?'
"'I kin bring 'er back,' sez I, 'fer right this minute I'd ruther see
that woman a shoutin' convert 'n to have a meal sack full o' gold
dollars.'
"'Well,' sez he, sorter jokin' like, 'you fetch 'er heer an' set 'er
down whar she wus a minute ago, an' I'll put a plaster on 'er back
that'll make 'er _think_ she's shoutin' whether she is or not.'
"Well, I went to whar she was outside an' tol' 'er Brother Mitchell
wanted to see 'er. 'I jest ain't a-goin' a step,' sez she, 'so I
ain't,' an' she looked sorter suspicious.
"'Well, I don't railly see how yo're goin' to help yorese'f, Mis'
Dawson,' sez I. 'Goodness knows yo're showin' mighty little int'rust
in the meetin' anyways. Looks like you wouldn't insult one of the most
saintly men we got by turnin' yore back on 'im. Mebby he wants to ax
about startin' a meetin' over yore way. You'd better go.'
"That settled it; I took 'er back an' set 'er down by him, an' he begun
to git in his work. I never knowed a man called to preach could be so
mealy-mouthed. He begun--you see I was next to him an' could ketch
ev'ry word, although thar was jest a regular hullabaloo o' shoutin' an'
singin' goin' on all about--he begun by goin' over his own family
trouble, an' I wanted to laugh out, fer the Lord knows, while Brother
Tim's folks has had _some_ few ordinary reverses, an' _did_ lose a few
head o' stock in the war, an' one o' the gals married a no-'count
Yankee carpenter an' never would write back home, an' Brother
Mitchell's ma an' pa died uv ripe old age--but, as I say, nobody ever
thought they wus particular unfortunate. Howsomever, she thought they
wus from his tale an' his sad, mournful way o' talkin'. Job an' all he
went through, b'iles an' all, wasn't a circumstance, an' it was all the
Lord's doin's, Brother Tim said, to show him the true light. I seed
she was listenin' an' that he had hold uv 'er some, but I kinder
thought she wusn't as easy prey as he 'lowed, fer he broke down once in
awhile an' had a sort o' sickly, quivery look about the mouth. All at
once he turned to me as mad as a hornet. Sez he: 'It's that dern
bonnet,'--no, he didn't say that exactly. I heer Luke say them things
so much 'at his words slip in when I'm in a hurry--'it's that bonnet o'
her'n, Sister Bradley,' sez he. 'I'll never git 'er in a wearin' way
as long as that poke keeps bobbin' up an' down twixt me 'n her eyes.
Cayn't you manage to git it off?'
"Well, you kin imagine that wus a difficult thing to do, but I reckon
the Lord o' Hosts must 'a' been with us, fer all at once a idee come to
me an' I jest leaned over to her. 'Sister Dawson,' sez I, 'I beg yore
pardon, but the skirt o' yore bonnet is ripped, le'me see it a minute,'
an', la me! Brother Mitchell's eyes fairly danced in his head. I
heerd him laugh out sudden an' then he kivered his mouth 'ith his long,
bony hand an' coughed as I snatched the bonnet frum 'er head an' begun
to tear a seam open. She made a grab over his spindlin' legs fer it,
but I paid no attention to 'er, pretendin' to be fixin' it. Then the
fun begun. I seed 'im lay hold of 'er wrists an' look 'er spank, dab
in the eyes, an' 'en he begun to rant. Purty soon I seed her back
limberin' up an' I knowed, as the sayin' is, that she was our meat.
All at once, still a-hold o' 'er hands, he turned to me, an' sez he:
'Go ax Brother Quagmire to sing "How firm a foundation" three times,
with the second an' last verse left out, an' tell 'im to foller that up
with "Jesus, Lover." Git 'im to walk up an' down this aisle--this un,
remember. Tell 'im I've got a case heer wuth more 'n a whole bench
full o' them scrubs 'at'll backslide as soon as meetin' 's over; tell
'im to whoop 'em up. Sister Bradley, you are addin' more feathers to
yore wings right now 'an you ever sprouted in one day o' the Lord's
labor. But, for all you do, hold on to that blasted devil's
contraption.' He meant the bonnet.
"I slid out 'twixt the benches on one side, an' went round to the stand
an' spoke to Brother Quagmire, who wus leadin'; he's the big,
white-headed man they say looks like Moody an' has the scalps o' more
sinners in 'is belt than any man on the war-path. When I tol' 'im what
wus up, he giggled an' said, 'God bless 'im, Mitch is a wheel-hoss!'
an' with that he busted out singin' 'How firm a foundation, ye saints
o' the Lord,' an' he waved his hands up an' down like a buzzard's
wings, an' went up our aisle, a-clappin' an' singin' to beat the Dutch.
I never seed the like before. I wusn't cryin' fer the same reason 'at
the rest of 'em wus, but the tears wus jest a-streamin' down my face
like a leaky well-bucket, fer I believed the thing wus goin' to work,
an' I wus thinkin' how glad you'd be. She looked up an' seed my face
an' busted out cryin'. Then Brother Mitchell ketched 'er up in his
arms an' yelled: 'You little, ol', triflin' thing, I'm a-gwine to put
you in the arms o' yore Redeemer,' an' then I jest couldn't help
cryin'. Luke seed me give way an' sneeked off to water the hosses.
John, she was the happiest creetur God ever made. She laid 'er old
bare head in my lap an' cried like a baby. I never railly loved 'er
before, but I did then. Somehow she seemed to be my own mother come
back to life ag'in. But she didn't shout an' take on like the rest.
She jest cried an' cried an' had the youngest look on 'er face I ever
seed on a ol' person. Once she said, sez she, 'I'm goin' back to put a
grave-rock over Jasper's remains,' an' then I remembered folks said she
wus too stingy to do that when Dawson died. She looked like she wanted
to talk about you, but I didn't feel called on to fetch up the subject.
After awhile she went out to the wagon whar her carpet-bag wus, an' got
up in one o' the cheers an' begun to stitch on some'n. I wus puzzled
right sharp, fer it wus a Sunday, an' it looked like a funny thing fer
a body to do, but atter awhile she come to me with some'n wrapped up in
a paper--I'll show it to you in a minute--an' give it to me. It was a
pair uv her best knit wool socks. You know some old women think it's a
mark o' great respect to give a pair o' socks to anybody that they've
knit the'rselves.
"'I want you to take the socks,' sez she, 'an' give 'em to the right
person,' sez she, awful bashful like. You know, John, I don't believe
all the religion this side o' the burnin' lake kin make some folks beg
a body's pardon, not ef they wanted to wuss than anything on earth.
She is one o' that sort. I 'lowed right off 'at the socks wus fer you
an' started to tell 'er how glad you'd be to git 'em when, all at once,
I noticed a letter M worked in red wool on 'em. It was a letter M as
plain as anything could be, a big letter M, 'an' that throwed me. Then
I thought about Brother Mitchell's name beginnin' with a M, an' so I
said, sez I, 'So you want me to give 'em to Brother Mitchell, do you?'
An' 'en she flared up. 'Who said a word about Brother Mitchell?' she
axed. I seed she wusn't pleased by my mistake, an' so I tried my level
best to think o' somebody else with a M to his name, but I couldn't to
save my neck, so at last I give it up. 'Yo're entirely too mysterious
fer me, Mis' Dawson,' sez I. 'I can't, fer the life o' me, think uv
one soul you know whose name begins with a M.' 'M,' sez she, 'who said
that was a letter M? Yo're jest a-puttin' on. You know that ain't no
M.'
"'That's what it is,' sez I. 'I haven't waited till I'm old enough to
have gran'children to l'arn my a b c's.'
"She snatched the socks frum me, an' I 'lowed she wus goin' to throw
'em away, but she turned 'em upside down an' helt 'em before my eyes.
'Do you call that a M?' sez she, an' shore 'nough it was as plain a W
as I ever laid eyes on.
"'Oh!' sez I, 'now I see. Do you want me to give 'em to John
Westerfelt?'
"But she wouldn't say narry a word. I seed how the land lay, fer I
knowed she'd ruther die, religion ur no religion, 'an come right out in
so many words an' say she wus sorry. You know I believe as I'm
a-settin' heer 'at thar'll be folks meetin' on the golden sands of
eternity, by the River of Life, 'at'll pass one another with the'r
noses in the air; but I'll take that back. I reckon thar won't be no
noses, nur no air, as fer that matter; folks that's read up on sech
matters says everything will be different. The Lord knows I hope it
will be. I want a change. But I am gettin' away frum Mis' Dawson.
Then I up an' told 'er p'int-blank I wus goin' to give the socks to you
with the compliments of the day, an' ef she objected she'd better put
in 'er complaint in time, but she jest walked back an' set down in
front o' the stand. John, she's that sorry fer all she's said and done
'at she can't talk about it. These heer socks is all the proof you
need. I don't think she wants to meet you face to face nuther. She's
goin' home in the mornin' in Sam Hambright's wagon. Lord! Peter
Slogan an' his wife never 'll know what to make uv 'er. I'd give a
purty to be thar when she comes, fer they won't know she's converted,
an' she'd be strung up by the toes ruther 'n tell 'em right out."
Mrs. Bradley stood up, and then quickly sat down again. "I thought I'd
get them socks out'n the dinner-basket, but I heer Luke a-comin'. He's
like a fish out o' water. He seed me a-takin' on with Mis' Dawson, an'
he thinks I've got a fresh dose o' religion. I didn't let 'im know no
better, an' he wus grum all the way home. He can't put up with a
Christian of the excitable sort. Hush, don't say a word; watch me
devil him, but ef you don't keep a straight face I'll bust out
laughin'. Lordy, I feel good somehow--I reckon it's beca'se yo're shet
o' that old woman's persecutions."
Just then Bradley entered and laid his hat on the bed. Westerfelt now
noticed the unsettled expression of his face and smiled as he thought
of the innocent cause of it.
"Well," said Bradley, "are you through with John? It's high time we
wus havin' some'n t' eat."
"Yes," said his wife, with a doleful expression of countenance, "I
reckon I'm through with him. Set down in that cheer, Luke. I've been
talkin' to John about his speritual welfare, an' it's yore time now.
We've got to turn over a new leaf, Luke--me 'n' you has; we've jest
gone fur enough in iniquity--that is, you have; I've meant well enough
all along."
"I say!" Luke sat down uneasily and glanced at Westerfelt, who sat
staring at him with an assumed look of seriousness which threatened to
go to pieces at any instant.
"Yes, Luke," went on his wife, "you've been my mill-rock long enough,
an' now I'm goin' to take a new an' a firmer stand in my treatment uv
you. We used to hold family prayer an' ax the blessin', an' now our
house has got to be called the dancin'-door to perdition; we've got to
quit all that. I'm a-goin' to smash that jug o' bug-juice o' yo'r'n in
the closet, an' not another speck o' the vile truck shall come in my
house." (She caught Westerfelt's eye, drew down the side of her face
which was next to him, and winked slyly.)
"Oh, you are!" Bradley was a picture of absolute misery. He crossed
his legs and then put his feet side by side, only to cross and recross
his legs again.
"I've had a great awakenin' to-day, Luke," she went on, "an' now I see
nothin' ahead o' me but one solid blaze o' glory. John heer is
convicted, an' is goin' to do the right thing, but I reckon he won't
have as much to undo as you who are older in wrong livin'. That cow
you traded fer with Fred Wade has to go back early in the mornin'. You
knowed the one you swapped wus mighty nigh dry, an' 'at his'n come home
every night with 'er bag so loaded she could hardly take a step without
trippin' up--the fust thing in the mornin', mind you! I want you to
git the Book right now, too, an' read some, an' let's begin family
worship. Thar it is on the sewin'-machine; I'll bet you ain't looked
in it in a month o' Sundays."
Westerfelt was laboriously keeping a straight face, but it was waxing
red as blood and his eyes were protruding from their sockets and
twinkling with a merriment that was a delight to Mrs. Bradley, who kept
glancing at him as she talked.
"What in the dev--what do you mean, Marthy?" Bradley stammered. "The
cow kin go back, ef you say so, but blame--but I'll draw a line at home
prayin'. I ain't fittin', that's all; I ain't fittin'."
"I know that as well as you do"--Mrs. Bradley wiped a smile from her
face and winked at Westerfelt--"but this blessed Sabbath is a good time
to begin. Git the Book, Luke!"
"I'll not do it, Marthy; you may shout an' carry on as much as you
like, with yore sudden religious spurts, but I believe in regularity,
one way ur the other."
"Git that Book, Luke Bradley; git it, I say," and then Westerfelt's
laughter burst from him, and he laughed so heartily that an inkling of
the truth seemed forced on Bradley, who had witnessed his wife's
practical joking before.
"I believe, on my soul, it's a sell," he said, in a tone of vast
relief. "Lord, I 'lowed you'd gone plumb crazy."
And then he was sure it was a joke, for Mrs. Bradley had her head
between her fat knees, and was laughing as he had never heard her laugh
before.
"I paid you back, you ol' goose," she said, when she could master her
merriment. "You had no business thinkin' I'd lost my senses, jest
because I cried when 'at ol' woman got so happy. I was glad on John's
account, but you don't know a bit more now than you did. You couldn't
see a wart on yore nose ef you wus cross-eyed."