Westerfelt went back to the stable and ordered Jake to get out his horse and buggy. Washburn watched him over the back of the mule he was hitching to a spring wagon and smiled. "Got it in the neck that pop!" he murmured. "I knowed Bates wusn't a-buyin' a new whip an' lap-robe fer nothin'. I'll bet my life Mr. Westerfelt 'll lose that gal, an', by George, he ort to! He don't seem to know his own mind."
Just then Bascom Bates whirled by on his way to the hotel. There was something glaringly incongruous between his glistening silk hat and the long-haired "plough horse" and rickety buggy he was driving. The silk hat was a sort of badge of office; lawyers wore them, as a rule, and he was the only lawyer at Cartwright. He had bought his silk hat on the day of his admission to the bar, and had worn it regularly on dry Sundays ever since. It would have suited anybody else better than it did him. He was not at all good-looking. His hair was stiff and rather red, his eyes were pale blue, his face was freckled, and the skin of his neck had a way of folding itself unattractively. He wore thick cow-leather shoes, which he never blacked, but greased frequently, and that made them catch and hold the dust. He never considered himself carefully dressed unless all the buttons of his vest were unfastened, except one at the top and one at the bottom. The gap between the two buttons was considered quite a touch of rural style. He held the reins, but a little negro boy sat on the seat beside him. He was taking the boy to hold his horse while he went into the hotel after Harriet. That, too, was considered quite the proper thing—a custom which had come down from slavery days—and as there was a scarcity of black boys in the village, Bates had brought his all the way from his father's plantation. The boy was expected to walk back home after the couple got started, but Bates intended to give him something for his trouble, and the distinction of holding Mr. Bates's horse in town was something the boy never expected to forget.
Bates had been a common farm-boy before he studied law, and the handles of ploughs, axes, and grubbing-hoes had enlarged the joints of his fingers and hardened his palms. He had studied at night, earned a reputation as an off-hand speaker hard to be downed in debating societies, made a few speeches on the stump for willing gubernatorial candidates, and was now looked upon as a possible Democratic nominee for the Legislature. Most young lawyers in that part of the State were called "Colonel," and Bates had been addressed by the title once or twice.
Westerfelt pretended not to see him as he passed, but he urged Jake to hurry up and get out his horse and buggy. He had a strange idea that it would humiliate him in Harriet's eyes to be seen by her as she passed with a man he now regarded as a rival. He would have given much to have had any sort of companion with him. Jake had some difficulty in backing the horse into the shafts, and before Westerfelt could get started, he saw Harriet come out on the veranda and follow Bates to his buggy. However, Westerfelt managed to get started before they did, and drove on without looking back. Knowing that Bates was fond of fast driving, and fearing that he might overtake him, Westerfelt drove rapidly. The fires of jealousy were raging within him. He told himself that it would be a long time before he would ask her again to go with him anywhere, and during that drive he almost convinced himself that he could give her up without much regret. He was sure Bates wanted to marry her. Such a stolid, matter-of-fact man would never visit a girl with less serious intentions. Bates, of course, was ignorant of the girl's early love for Wambush. He wondered if she would ever confess to the lawyer as she had to him. He thought it unlikely; for he had found it out and mentioned it to her first, and, besides, her experience with him had taught her discretion. Westerfelt would have been more generous in his estimation of her character had he been less jealous, and less angered by the disappointment of not being her escort. People driving slow teams looked at him curiously as he dashed past them. He had but one desire at that moment, and that was not to face Harriet and Bates together.
The road, near the camp-ground, went through a dense wood, and was so narrow that vehicles could not pass one another on it. In the narrowest part of this road Westerfelt was forced to stop. A wagon filled with women and children, and driven by old John Wambush, had halted in front of him.
"What's the matter?" Westerfelt called out to the old man, who had got down beside his horses and was peering at the motionless line of vehicles ahead.
"A hack's broke down," the old fellow replied. "Nobody hurt, it seems, but the banks on both sides is so steep that they cayn't cleer the road. We'll have to take our time. I'd jest about as soon set heer in my wagon as to listen to them long-winded preachers, anyway."
Westerfelt heard the beat of hoofs behind him. He was sure Bates and Harriet were approaching, but he dared not look around. Through the trees came the sound of singing from the camp-ground. The horse behind got nearer and nearer, till it stopped with its nose in the back part of Westerfelt's buggy, Westerfelt did not turn his head. He leaned over the dash-board and impatiently called out to old Wambush:
"How long are they going to keep us?"
"Tell kingdom come ur Gabriel blows his horn," laughed the old man, and all his family and the neighbors who were sharing the hospitality of his wagon joined in the laugh. It was a thing the old man would have said to anybody else and in the same tone, but it irritated Westerfelt. The silence of the couple behind convinced him that it was Bates and Harriet, for men in love do not talk much. Mrs. Wambush turned her head and took off her gingham bonnet to get a good look at the man her son had tried twice to kill. Her features were so much like Toot's that Westerfelt, who had never seen her before, thought he had discovered the fountain-head of the young outlaw's villany. He glanced aside, but she continued to stare at him fixedly.
"How are you comin' on?" she asked him, slapping a little girl in a blue homespun dress who was about to fall out of the wagon.
"Pretty well, thank you," replied Westerfelt, coldly. He had detected a suggestion of a sneer about the old woman's lips.
"Cutsisa bad thing," she went on. "I reckon yore doctor bill run up to some more'n you'd 'a' lost that day by jest lettin' my boy have some'n to ride out home in."
"Dry up!" thundered old Wambush. He climbed back into his chair and glared at her. "Ef you dare open yore mouth agin, I'll make you git right out an' make tracks fer home." The old woman jerked on her bonnet and turned her face towards the horses. Old Wambush looked over his shoulder at Westerfelt, a sheepish look on his face.
"Don't pay no 'tention to her," he apologized; "she's had the very old scratch in 'er ever since Toot was run off; I don't harbor no ill-will, but women ain't got no reason nohow. They never seem to know when peace is declared. It's the women that's keepin' up all the strife twixt North and South right now. Them that shouldered muskets an' fit an' lived on hard-tack don't want no more uv it."
Westerfelt said nothing.
"Hello thar!" The voice was from the buggy behind. Westerfelt turned. It was Frank Hansard with Jennie Wynn.
"Hello!" replied Westerfelt, greatly relieved,
"Whyn't you git down an' fight it out while we're waitin'?" jested Frank, in a low voice. "Anything 'u'd be better'n this; but I'll tell you, she's a regular wild-cat, if you don't know it."
Westerfelt smiled, but made no response. Beyond Hansard's buggy was another, and in it sat Harriet and Bates; there was no mistaking the old-fashioned silk hat and Harriet's gray dress. It seemed to Westerfelt that the blood in his veins stopped at the sight of the couple sitting so close together.
"Can you see who's behind us?" asked Jennie, mischievously. "It's undoubtedly a case; they've been connoodlin' all the way an' didn't even have the politeness to speak to us as we passed 'em in the big road."
Westerfelt pretended not to hear. Old Wambush's wagon had started. The camp-ground was soon reached. As Westerfelt was hitching his horse to a tree, he could not help seeing Bates and Harriet in the bushes not far away. Bates was taking his horse out of the shafts and looping up the traces, and she stood looking on. Westerfelt knew that Jake or Washburn would attend to his horse, so he walked on to the spot where the service was to be held.
The camp-ground was in a level grove of pine-trees, between two steep hills. A space had been cleared in the centre of the grove and a long shed built. It was open at the sides and at one end, and filled with benches without backs. Straw was strewn in the aisles and between the benches. There was a platform at the closed end of the shed, and on it sat a number of preachers and elders of the church.
The crowd was large. Westerfelt stood for a moment in the phalanx of men surrounding the shed, and surreptitiously eyed Bates and Harriet. Her back was towards him as she stood, her cloak on her arm, still politely watching her escort's movements. She looked so pretty, and there was such appealing grace in her posture. He saw Bates join her and take her arm, and then he watched them no longer. He knew they were coming, and he went in at the end of the shed and found a seat near the centre on the left. He saw Luke Bradley drive up and help his wife and Mrs. Dawson to alight, then Frank Hansard and Jennie Wynn came in and sat on the bench just behind him. Jennie was laughing in her handkerchief.
"There is old Mis' Henshaw," she whispered to Frank; "she's the'r regular stan'-by at shouting. When they begin to call up mourners she commences to clap 'er hands an' shout, then the rest get over their bashfulness an' the fun begins. We may see a lot of excitement if the town-people don't come and freeze 'em out with their finery an' stiff ways."
"You ort ter go up yorese'f, Jen," replied Frank; "you need it ef anybody does."
"I went up once," she laughed; "but Mary Trumbull pinched me an' tol' me to look at ol' Mis' Warlick's dress, right in front of us. It had split wide open between the shoulders an' all down the back. I thought I'd die laughin'. They all believed I was cryin', and I got hugged by a whole string of exhorters."
"We'd better lie low," cautioned Frank; "last year, these camp-ground folks had some town-people indicted for disturbin' public worship, an' they had a lots o' trouble at court. They say they've determined to break up the fun that goes on here."
Westerfelt saw Luke Bradley and his party come in and sit down near the centre of the shed. He caught Mrs. Dawson's glance, but she quickly looked away. She had not forgiven him; that fact lay embedded in the sallow hardness of her face.
A moment later he forgot that Mrs. Dawson was in existence, for Harriet and Bates were coming in. Bates still clutched her arm and carried her cloak thrown over his shoulder. Westerfelt looked straight ahead at the platform, but he heard their feet rustling in the straw, and knew that they had sat down on the bench behind Hansard and Jennie. He overheard Bates, who could not possibly speak in a whisper, ask her in a mumbling bass voice if she wanted her cloak, and he saw the shadows of the couple on the ground as she stood up and allowed him to help her put it on.
Gradually the shed had filled to overflowing. A white-haired preacher raised the tune of a familiar hymn, and the principal service of the day began.
After the sermon was over, the congregation rose to get their lunch-baskets, which had been left in their vehicles.
"Mighty poky business so far," Westerfelt heard Jennie Wynn say, as she and Hansard went out ahead of him; "wait until after dinner, they'll get limbered up by that time."
Westerfelt hoped Harriet and Bates would leave as soon as the others did, but he saw them standing between the benches as if waiting for some one. He looked straight ahead of him as he approached them, and was about to pass without looking in the direction, when Bates caught his arm and detained him.
"Miss Harriet wants to see you," he said, with a grin; "you wouldn't be in such a hurry if you knew what for."
"I want you to come to dinner with us," Harriet said, tremulously, leaning forward. "Jennie Wynn and I are going to put our baskets together, and Hyram Longtree and Sue Kirby are coming."
"I thank you," he said, "but I reckon I'll have to eat with Mrs. Bradley." He might have accepted the invitation if Bates had not been grinning so complacently and looking at Harriet with such a large air of ownership.
"Oh, come on," urged Bates. "You get Bradley hash every day; there is some'n good in our basket; I could smell it all the way out here."
"I wish youwouldcome," urged Harriet. "Mrs. Bradley will let you off."
There was something in her look and tone that convinced him that she had detected his jealousy and was sympathizing with him, and that in itself angered him.
"No, I thank you, not to-day," he said, coldly; "how did you like the preacher?"
"Very well," she replied, her face falling. "I have heard him before."
He had brought it on himself, but he was stung to the quick when she touched Bates's arm, smiled indifferently, and said: "I see Sue and Hyram out there waiting for us; we'd better go."
As Westerfelt walked on, overwhelmed with jealous rage, he heard her in the same tone ask Jennie Wynn to send Frank after her basket. Westerfelt edged his way through the crowd to Mrs. Bradley and Mrs. Dawson.
"Why," said Mrs. Bradley, "I 'lowed you'd go off an' eat with some o' yore young friends. But we are glad you come."
"I never go back on home folks," he said, making an effort to speak lightly.
"Well, I fetched enough fer a dozen field-hands," laughed Mrs. Bradley. "Two young preachers have promised to eat with me; that's all I've axed. Luke, you go bring Brother Jones an' his friend, an' wait fer us out at the wagon."
"Why cayn't we fetch the dinner in heer an' not have to sit on the damp ground?" suggested Bradley.
"Beca'se, gumption! they won't have us greasin' up the benches that folks set on in the'r best duds," she retorted. "Besides, the pine straw will keep us off'n the ground, ef you ain't too lazy to rake it up."
Just then Harriet and her friends passed, and Westerfelt saw the girl looking inquiringly at Mrs. Dawson. He heard the old woman grunt contemptuously, and saw her toss her head and fiercely eye Harriet from head to foot as she went down the aisle.
Westerfelt shuddered. He wondered if the old woman could possibly know of Harriet's past connection with Wambush and her girlish infatuation. He turned away with Luke to get the basket. Bradley was saying something about a suitable place to spread the lunch, but Westerfelt did not listen. He could think of nothing but the strange, defiant look in Mrs. Dawson's eyes as they fell on the girl he loved.
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, youdolove 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 sheyours? 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 withyou?"
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 Iknow? 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.
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'tdevil 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 'ersoul,' 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 'erthinkshe'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 hadsomefew ordinary reverses, an'didlose 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."