"Poor little girl," he said, as he went out on the front veranda to wait for his breakfast. "It was just blind thoughtlessness. I really never dreamt she was feeling that way. I"ve just got to make it lighter for her. To begin with, I"ll never put my foot inside of Lithic.u.m"s gate, and I"ll go over there this morning and try to make her see what a worthless scamp I really am. I wonder if I couldn"t marry her--but, no, that wouldn"t be right to her nor to me, for a man hasn"t the moral right to marry a woman he doesn"t really love, even if she thinks he is the only man on earth. I wonder if I really told her I loved her?" Here Westerfelt shuddered, and felt a flush of shame steal over his face. "Yes, I have--I have," he muttered, "and I reckon I really did fancy I cared for her at the time. Yes, I have been a contemptible coward; for my own idle enjoyment I have allowed her to go on counting on me until the thought of my going to see Lizzie Lithic.u.m nearly kills her. Well, by George! I can cut that off, and I shall, too."
Just then, in looking across the meadow lying between his house and the main road, he saw the short form of Peter Slogan approaching.
"He"s coming here," thought Westerfelt. "She has asked him to bring the letters, even before breakfast. That"s the little woman"s way of showing her pride. What a contemptible scoundrel I am!"
But as he continued to watch the approaching figure he was surprised to note that Slogan was displaying more energy than usual. The little, short man was taking long steps, and now and then jumping over an obstacle instead of going around it. And when he had reached the gate he leaned on it and stared straight at Westerfelt, as if he had lost his power of speech. Then it was that Westerfelt remarked that Slogan"s face looked troubled, and that a general air of agitation rested on him.
"I wish you"d step out, if you please, John," he said, after a moment, "I"ve been walkin" so blamed fast I"ve mighty nigh lost my breath. I"m blowin" like a stump-suckin" hoss."
Westerfelt went to him.
"What is the matter, Slogan?" he questioned, in a tone of concern.
"We"ve had big trouble over our way," panted Slogan. "Sally fell off"n the foot-log into the creek this mornin" an" was drowned."
"Drowned! You don"t mean that, Slogan!" cried Westerfelt, in horror; "surely there is some mistake!"
"No; she"s as dead as a mackerel," Slogan answered. "She wasn"t diskivered tell she"d been under water fer a good half-hour. She started, as usual, about daybreak, over to her cousin, Molly Dugan"s, fer a bucket o" fresh milk, an" we never missed "er until it was time she was back, an" then we went all the way to Dugan"s before we found out she hadn"t been thar at all. Then her ma tuck up a quar notion, an" helt to it like a leech fer a long time. My hoss had got out o"
the stable an" strayed off some"rs in the woods, an" Sally"s mother firmly believed the gal had run off. I don"t know why she "lowed Sally would do sech a thing, but she did, and jest paced up an" down the yard yellin" an" takin" on an" beggin" us to go fetch her back, so that none of us at the house thought o" draggin" the hole at the foot-log. But Bill Dugan did, an" soon come with the news whar she was at. Then her ma jest had a spasm. I railly believe on my soul she cussed G.o.d an"
all futurity. She raved till she was black in the face."
"Then there is--is no doubt about it?" gasped Westerfelt. "She is dead?"
"Of course she"s dead," answered Slogan; "an" bein" as my hoss ain"t to be had, I "lowed I"d try to borrow one o" yore"n to go order the coffin." Slogan here displayed a piece of twine which he had wound into a coil. "I"ve got the exact length o" the body. I "lowed that would be the best way. I reckon they kin tell me at the store how much play a corpse ort to have at each end. I"ve noticed that coffins always look longer, a sight, than the pusson ever did that was to occupy "em, but I thought ef I tuck the exact measure--"
"Here"s the stable key," interrupted Westerfelt, with a shudder. "Take any horse you want. You"ll find saddles and bridles in the shed."
Slogan turned away, and Westerfelt walked back to the veranda. "My G.o.d!" he groaned; "why don"t I _know_ it was accident? If it was not, then may the Lord have mercy on my soul!"
He went into his room and threw himself on his bed and stared fixedly at the ceiling, a thousand conflicting thoughts crowding upon him.
Presently he heard Slogan talking to the horse in the yard, and went out just as he was mounting.
"I wisht you"d hand me a switch, John," he said. "I don"t want to be all day goin" an" comin". I"ll be blamed ef I ain"t afeerd them two ol" cats "ll be a-fightin" an" scratchin" "fore I get back. They had a time of it while the gal was alive, an" I reckon thar "ll be no peace at all now."
"Does Mrs. Dawson blame anybody--or--or--?" Westerfelt paused as if he hardly knew how to finish.
"Oh, I reckon the ol" woman does feel a leetle hard at us--my wife in particular, an"--an" some o" the rest, I reckon. You see, thar was a lot said at the quiltin" yesterday about Lizzie Lithic.u.m a-cuttin" of Sally out, an" one thing or other, an" a mother"s calculated to feel bitter about sech talk, especially when her only child is laid out as cold an" stiff as a poker."
Again Westerfelt shuddered; his face was ghastly; his mouth was drawn and his lips quivered; there was a desperate, appealing, shifting of his eyes.
"I reckon Mrs. Dawson feels hurt at me," he said, tentatively.
Slogan hesitated a moment before speaking.
"Well," he said, as if he felt some sort of apology should come from him, "maybe she does--a little, John, but the Lord knows you cayn"t expect much else at sech a time, an" when she"s under sech a strain."
"Did she mention any names?" questioned the young man, desperately; and while he waited for Slogan to speak a look of inexpressible agony lay in his eyes.
"I never was much of a hand to tote tales," said Slogan, "but I may as well give you a little bit of advice as to how you ort to act with the ol" woman while she is so wrought up. I wouldn"t run up agin "er right now ef I was you. She"s tuck a funny sort o" notion that she don"t want you at the funeral or the buryin". She told me three times, as I was startin" off, to tell you not to come to the church nur to the grave. She was clean out o" her senses, an" under ordinary circ.u.mstances I"d say not to pay a bit of attention to "er, but she"s so upset she might liter"ly pounce on you like a wild-cat at the meetin"-house."
"Tell her, for me, that I shall respect her wish," said Westerfelt. "I shall not be there, Slogan. If she will let you do so, tell her I am sorry her daughter is--dead."
"All right, John, I"ll do what I can to pacify "er," promised Peter, as he took the switch Westerfelt handed him and started away.
Chapter III
When Slogan had ridden off through the mild spring sunshine, Westerfelt saddled another horse and rode out of the gate towards the road leading away from the house containing Sally Dawson"s remains. He hardly had any definite idea of whither he was going. He had only a vague impression that the movement of a horse under him would to some degree a.s.suage the awful pain at his heart, but he was mistaken; the pangs of self-accusation were as sharp as if he were a justly condemned murderer. His way led past the cross-roads store, which contained the post-office. Two men, a woman, and a child stood huddled together at the door. They were talking about the accident; Westerfelt knew that by their att.i.tudes of awed attention and their occasional glances towards Mrs. Dawson"s. He was about to pa.s.s by when the storekeeper signalled to him and called out:
"Mail fer you, Mr. Westerfelt; want me to fetch it out?"
Westerfelt nodded, and reined in and waited till the storekeeper came out with a packet. "It must "a" been drapped in after I closed last night," he said. "Thar wasn"t a thing in the box "fore I went home, an" it was the only one thar when I unlocked this mornin". Mighty bad news down the creek, ain"t it?" he ended. "Powerful hard on the old woman. They say she"s mighty nigh distracted."
Making some unintelligible reply, Westerfelt rode on, the packet held tightly in his hand. It was addressed in Sally Dawson"s round, girlish handwriting, and he knew it contained his letters, and perhaps--he shuddered at the thought of what else it might contain.
He whipped his horse into a gallop. He wanted to reach a spot where he could open the package un.o.bserved. He met several wagons and a buggy.
They contained people who bowed and spoke to him, but he scarcely saw them. At the first path leading from the road into the wood he turned aside, and then opened his package. There were three or four letters and notes he had written the dead girl, and one blotted sheet from her.
With a quaking soul he read it. It confirmed him in the fear which had taken hold of him at the first news of the tragedy. The letter ran:
"DEAR JOHN,--I simply cannot stand it any longer. It is now about three in the morning. Some people contend that such acts are done only by crazy folks, but I don"t believe I ever was more sensible than I am right now. I am not ashamed to own that I had my heart and soul set on being your wife and making you happy, but now that I know you didn"t feel a bit like I did, an" love Lizzie, I jest can"t stand it. The pain is awful--awful. I could not meet folks face to face, now that they know the truth. I"d rather die a hundred deaths than see you an"
her even once together. I couldn"t live long anyway. I"m simply too weak and sick at heart. The hardest thing of all is to remember that you never did care for me all the time I was making such a little fool of myself. I know you never did. Folks said you was changeable, but I never once believed it till last night on the road. I have fixed it so everybody will think my death was accidental. I"ve been warned time and again about that foot-log, and n.o.body will suspicion the truth.
You must never mention it to a soul. It is my last and only request.
It would go harder with mother if she knew that. Good-bye, John. I love you more right now than I ever did, and I don"t know as I blame you much or harbor much resentment. I thought I would not say anything more, but I cannot help it. John, Lizzie is not the woman for you.
She never will love you deep, or very long. Good-bye.
"SALLY."
Westerfelt put the letter in his pocket and turned his horse into an unfrequented road leading to the mountain and along its side. The air was filled with the subtle fragrance of growing and blooming things.
He was as near insanity as a man can well be who still retains his mental equipoise. In this slow manner, his horse picking his way over fallen trees and mountain streams, he traversed several miles, and then, in utter desolation, turned homeward.
It was noon when he came in sight of his house. Peter Slogan had returned the horse, and, with a parcel under his arm, was trudging homeward. All that night Westerfelt lay awake, and the next morning he did not leave his room, ordering the wondering servant not to prepare any breakfast for him. He did not want to show himself on the veranda or in the front yard, thinking some neighbor might stop and want to talk over the tragedy. There were moments during this solitary morning that he wished others knew the secret of Sally Dawson"s death. It seemed impossible for him to keep the grewsome truth locked in his breast--it made the happening seem more of a crime. And then an awful thought dawned upon him. Was it not a way G.o.d had of punishing him, and would there ever be any end to it?
From his window he had a clear view of Mrs. Dawson"s house. There was a group of people in their best clothes on the porch, and considerable activity about the front yard, to the fence of which a goodly number of horses and mules were hitched. The little church, with its gray, weather-beaten spire, could also be seen farther away, on a slight elevation. It had a fence around it, and blended with the whiteness of the fence were a few gravestones.
About eleven o"clock Westerfelt saw a negro boy climb a ladder leaning against the side of the church and creep along the edge of the roof to the open cupola and grasp the clapper of the cast-iron bell. Then it began to toll. The boy was an unpractised hand, and the strokes were irregular, sometimes too slow and sometimes too rapid.
It was a signal for the procession to leave the house. Westerfelt"s eyes were glued to the one-horse wagon at the gate, for it contained the coffin, and was moving like a thing alive. Behind it walked six men, swinging their hats in their hands. Next followed Slogan"s rickety buggy with its threatening wheels, driven by Peter. The bent figure of the widow in black sat beside him. Other vehicles fell in behind, and men, women, and children on foot, carrying wild flowers, dogwood blossoms, pink and white honeysuckle, and bunches of violets, brought up the rear.
Westerfelt was just turning from the window, unable to stand the sight longer, when he saw Abner Lithic.u.m"s new road-wagon, with its red wheels and high green bed, in which sat the five women of his family, pause at his gate. Going out on the veranda, Westerfelt saw Abner coming up the walk, cracking his wagon-whip at the stunted rose-bushes.
"h.e.l.lo!" he cried out; "I "lowed mebby you hadn"t left yet. It "ll be a good half-hour "fore they all get thar an" settled. The preacher promised me this mornin" he"d wait on me an" my folks. It takes my gals sech a" eternity to fix up when they go anywhar."
"Won"t you come in?" asked Westerfelt, coldly, seeing that Lithic.u.m did not seem to be in any hurry to announce the object of his visit.
"Oh no, thanky"," said Lithic.u.m, with a broad grin; "the truth is, I clean forgot my tobacco. I knowed you wasn"t a chawin" man, but yore uncle is, an" he mought have left a piece of a plug lyin" round. My old woman tried to git me to use her snuff as a make-shift, but lawsy me! the blamed powdery truck jest washes down my throat like leaves in a mill-race. I never could see how women kin set an" rub an" rub the"r gums with it like they do. I reckon it"s jest a sort o" habit."