"I"m sorry," said Westerfelt, "but I don"t know where my uncle keeps his tobacco."
"Well, I reckon I"ll strike some chawin" man down at the meetin"-house." Lithic.u.m stood, awkwardly cutting the air with his whip. "Railly, thar is one thing more," he said, haltingly. "Lizzie "lowed, as thar was a" extra seat in our wagon, you might like to come on with us. She said she had some"n" particular to tell you."
"Tell her I am not going," said Westerfelt, sharply. "I am not going."
"Oh, you ain"t!" Lithic.u.m looked his surprise both at the decision and at the unaccountable coldness of the young man"s manner, which he had not noticed till now. "Well, so long, Mr. Westerfelt, I reckon you know yore own business, but I "lowed everybody would turn out, through respect to all concerned, if nothin" else."
"I am not going; it is impossible for me to go," answered Westerfelt, and he turned abruptly into the house.
Alone in his room, Westerfelt took Sally Dawson"s last letter from his pocket and read it again. Then he lighted a match and started to burn it, but some inward fear seemed to check him, and the match burned down to his rigid fingers and went out. "No," he said, "that would be cowardly. I shall keep it always, to remind me of my h.e.l.lish mistake.
Great G.o.d! the idea of my going to her funeral in a red wagon with Lizzie Lithic.u.m--Lizzie Lithic.u.m!"
The next morning, as he was returning from the post-office, Westerfelt met Peter Slogan riding to a field he had rented down the road, and which he was getting ready for cotton-planting. Slogan was astride of his bony horse, which was already clad in shuck collar and clanking harness, and carried on his shoulder a c.u.mbersome plough-stock.
"Well," he smiled, reining in as he caught Westerfelt"s eye, "I "lowed hard work in the sun would do more to git the kinks out"n me after all the trouble at my house than anything else."
"How is Mrs. Dawson?" ventured Westerfelt.
"You"d better ax me how she _ain"t_," retorted Slogan, shrugging his shoulders. "I could tell you a sight easier. She"s turned into a regular h.e.l.l-cat. I thought her an" my wife was bad enough "fore the trouble, but it"s wuss now. The ol" woman has left us."
"Left you?" repeated Westerfelt. "What do you mean?"
"Why, she says she won"t sleep an" eat in the same house with my wife, beca"se she give Sally advice, an"--an" one thing or nuther. The ol"
woman has bought "er some second-hand cookin" utensils--a oven an" a skillet an" a cup an" a plate or two, an" has moved "er bed an" cheer into the Hilgard cabin down below us. She slept thar last night. It looks powerful like she"s wrong in the upper-story. At fust she was all yells an" fury, but now she jest sulks an" hain"t got one word to say to n.o.body. I went down thar last night an" tried to call "er to the door, but she wouldn"t stir a peg. As soon as she heerd me at the fence she blowed out "er light an" wouldn"t let on no more"n ef I was a dog a-barkin". Now, I hold that she hain"t got no call to treat me that away. I never tuck no hand in "er disputes with my wife, an" ef hard things has been said about Sally, why they never come from me.
Lord, I"ve got plenty else to think about besides gals an" women. I think I"m on track o" the skunk "at stole my axe."
Westerfelt walked on. It was plain to him that none of the neighbors knew the secret of Sally Dawson"s death, but he was beginning to think that the mother of the girl might half suspect the truth, and that she was his enemy for life he did not doubt.
Chapter IV
The cornfields had grown to their full height and turned from green to yellow. The stalks, stripped of their tops and blades, were bent by the weight of their ears. There was a whispering of breezes in the sedge-fields, in the long rows of brown-bolled cotton plants, among the fodder-stacks, and in the forest that stretched from the main road up the mountain-side. It was the season in which the rugged landscape appeared most brilliant; when the kalmia bloomed, the gentian, the primrose, the yellow daisy, the woodbine, and the golden-disked aster still lingered in sunny spots. It was the season in which the leaves of the maple were as red as blood.
John Westerfelt was leaving home, to take up his abode in the adjoining county over the mountain. As he sat upon his horse and slowly rode along, one who had known him six months before would scarcely have recognized him, so great had been the change in his appearance. His face was thinner; at the temples his hair had turned slightly gray, and an ineffable expression of restless discontent lay about his eyes. A sum of money had come to him from his father"s estate, and with it he had purchased a livery-stable at the village of Cartwright. Ever since Sally Dawson"s death, he had wanted an excuse to get away from the spot where the tragedy had occurred, and his leaving his farm to the management of his uncle now caused no particular comment among his neighbors.
Reaching the highest point of the mountain, the village in question lay in the valley below. Here he paused and looked behind him.
"G.o.d being my helper, I"m going to try to begin a new life over here,"
he said, almost aloud. "Surely, I have repented sorely enough, and this is not shirking my just punishment. A man ought to make something of himself, and I never could, in my frame of mind, with that poor, silent old woman constantly before my eyes, and knowing that she will never forgive my offence, and is perhaps constantly praying for some calamity to strike me down."
At the first house in the outskirts of the village he dismounted. A woman hearing his approach announced by a couple of lean dogs, which sprang from under the porch, came to the door. She smiled and spoke, but her voice was drowned in the yelping of the dogs, which were trying to climb over the fence to get at the stranger.
There was something admirable, if slightly discourteous, in the fearless manner in which Westerfelt leaned over the fence and, with the b.u.t.t of his riding-whip, struck the animals squarely in the face, coolly laughing as he did so.
"You, Tige! you, Pomp!" cried the woman, running to them and picking up sticks and stones and hurling them at the animals, "down thar, I say!"
"They have forgotten me," said Westerfelt, with a laugh, as the dogs retreated behind the house, and he reached over the ramshackle gate to shake hands.
"But I hain"t, John," she replied, cordially. "I wasn"t lookin" fer you quite so soon, though. I reckon you must "a" rid purty peert."
"Generally do," he made answer, "though I started early this morning, and lost half an hour at Long"s shop, where I got my horse shod."
"Put up yore animal," she said. "That"s the stable thar, an" you know better how to feed "im "an I do. Luke"s gone down to the livery-stable to look atter things fer you, but he"ll be back "fore supper-time."
Westerfelt led his horse into the yard, and to the well near the door.
He pushed the bucket into the opening, and allowed the wooden windla.s.s to fly round of its own accord till the bucket struck the water.
"Thirsty?" she asked. "I"ll git the gourd."
He nodded. "And I want to water my horse; every branch and creek is bridged for the last ten miles."
While she was in the house he wound up the bucket, swearing at the horse for continually touching an inquisitive nose to his moving elbow.
She returned with a great gourd dipper. He rinsed it out, and, filling it, drank long and deeply. Then he refilled the gourd and offered it to her.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I forgot my politeness."
"I ain"t dry," she said. "I was jest a-lookin" at you, John; you look so much older an" different-like."
"Oh, I reckon I"m all right," he said. "How"s Luke?" emptying the bucket into the trough and watching the horse drink.
"As well as common; me an" him wus both bound fer you to git the livery-stable, an" we are glad the trade"s closed. It will seem like ol" times to have a body from Fannin over heer. As soon as you writ the price you wus willin" to give in a lumpin" sum, Luke set to scheming. He ain"t no fool, if I do say it. Horton an" Webb had the"r eyes on the stable, an" Luke thinks they"d a-raised his bid, but they "lowed he wus biddin" fur himself, an" knowed he couldn"t raise the money. Mis" Thorp wus in heer this mornin", an" she said Jasper Webb swore like rips when the administrator tol" "im the trade wus closed with Luke as yore agent. You orter do well with the investment; you got it cheap; you know how to keep up stock, an" the hack-line will pay with the mail it carries an" the pa.s.senger travel twixt heer an"
Darley."
"I"m satisfied," he said, and he took the saddle and bridle from his horse and turned the animal into the little log stable.
"Hain"t you goin" to feed "im?" she asked, hospitably, as he was closing the door; "the"s some fodder overhead, an" the corn is in re"ch through the crack above the trough."
"Not yet," he returned; "I fed him some sh.e.l.led corn at the shop. I"ll give him a few ears at supper-time."
The slanting rays of the sun streamed from a saffron sky in the west and blazed in the red, yellow, and pink foliage on the mountain-side.
The light brought into clearer outline the brown peaks and beetling crags that rose bleak and bare above the wealth of color, beyond the dark, evergreen stretches of pines and mountain cedars. The gorgeous tail of a peac.o.c.k spread and gleamed under the cherry-trees in the back yard. A sleek calf was running back and forth in a little lot, and a brindled cow was bellowing mellowly, her head thrown up as she cantered down the road, her heavy bag swinging under her.
At the sight of the woman a flock of ducks, chickens, and geese gathered round her. She shooed the fowls away with her ap.r.o.n. "They want the"r supper," she said, as she led her guest back to the front yard. She went to the gate and looked down the road. "I see Luke at the branch," she added, coming back to him; "he"d be on faster ef he knowed you wus heer."
Luke Bradley was about fifty years of age. He had blue eyes, a long body, long arms, and long legs. His hair was reddish brown and his face florid and freckled. He walked with a shambling gait, stooped considerably, and swung his arms. He seldom wore a coat, and on days as mild as this his shirt-sleeves were always rolled up. He presented a striking contrast to John Westerfelt, who, by the people of that remote section, might have been considered something of a swell.
"How are you, ol" hoss?" Bradley laughed, as he swung the sagging gate open and grasped his friend"s hand. "Glad to see you; I"ve done nothin" but fight tongue battles fer you all day. Webb has been cussin" me black an" blue fer biddin" agin "im fer a stranger, but thar"s one consolation--we"ve got "im on the hip."
Westerfelt laughed pleasantly as he followed his host into the sitting-room. "Much obliged to you, Luke. I"m glad I took your advice about the investment."
"Me"n Marthy wus both dead set on gettin" you over heer," Luke said, as he placed a chair for Westerfelt in front of the fire. "Both of us "low a change will do you good."
Mrs. Bradley sat down in a corner and spread out her ample homespun skirt and began to run the hem of her ap.r.o.n through her fat, red fingers.