Westerfelt | Page 6

agony, let this cup pass. Huh! I'd ruther have 'em stick a speer
through my side time an' time agin 'an have it go on with Sally like it is.
You'd better do what I ask, fer it's makin' a reg'lar devil out o' me. I feel
it comin' on, an' I won't be fit fer no place but hell fire. I jest cayn't see
no sense, jestice, nur reason in my pore little child lyin' in her bed an'
twistin' with sech trouble. You, or some power above or below, tuck
Jasper frum me an' left that yaller-haired sting fer me to brood over day
an' night, but the same ur wuss mustn't come to Sally, kase she don't
deserve it--she's helpless! Oh, Lord, have mercy--have
mercy--mercy--mercy!"
She rose to her feet, and without undressing threw herself on the bed.
She could hear Slogan and his wife, now barefooted, thumping about in
the next room. Far away against the mountain-side she heard a hunter
calling to his dogs and blowing a horn.
Chapter II
John Westerfelt lived on his own farm in the big two-storied frame
house which had been built by his grandfather, and which came to him
at the death of his father and mother. The place was managed for him
by a maternal uncle, whose wife and daughter kept the house in order.
But all three of them had gone away on a short visit, leaving only the
old negro woman, who was the cook and servant about the house, to
attend to his wants.
The morning following his meeting with Sally Dawson on the road
near her house, Westerfelt arose with a general feeling of
dissatisfaction with himself. He had not slept well. Several times
through the night he awoke from unpleasant dreams, in which he
always saw Sally Dawson's eyes raised to his through the darkness, and
heard her spiritless voice as she bade him good-bye, and with bowed
head moved away, after promising to return his letters the next day.
He was a handsome specimen of physical manhood. His face was dark
and of the poetic, sensitive type; his eyes were brown, his hair was
almost black, and thick, and long enough to touch his collar. His

shoulders were broad, and his limbs muscular and well shaped. He
wore tight-fitting top-boots, which he had drawn over his trousers to
the knee. His face was clean-shaven, and but for his tanned skin and
general air of the better-class planter, he might have passed for an actor,
poet, or artist. He was just the type of Southerner who, with a little
more ambition, and close application to books, might have become a
leading lawyer and risen finally to a seat in Congress. But John
Westerfelt had never been made to see the necessity of exertion on his
part. Things had come easily ever since he could remember, and his
wants were simple, and, in his own way, he enjoyed life, suffering
sharply at times, as he did this morning, over his mistakes, for at heart
he was not bad.
"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 Lithicum'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 Lithicum 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