"I know one on 'em. Any business wi' him?"
"Well, yes--a little. I was told he lived on this road. How far is his
house?"
"Well, I'll tell you"--Abe took off his hat and scratched his
head--"some folks mought take a notion hit wuz a long ways off, an'
then, ag'in, yuther folks mought take a notion that hit wuz lots nigher.
Hit's accordin' to the way you look at it."
"Is Mr. Hightower at home?" inquired the stranger, regarding Abe with
some curiosity.
"Well," said Abe cautiously, "I don't reckon he's right slam bang at
home, but I lay he ain't fur off."
"If you happen to see him, pray tell him there's a gentleman at his
house who would like very much to see him."
"Well, I tell you what, mister," said Abe, speaking very slowly. "You're
a mighty nice young feller--anybody kin shet the'r eyes and see
that--but folks 'roun' here is mighty kuse; they is that away. Ef I was
you, I'd thes turn right 'roun' in my tracks 'n' let that ar Mister
Hightower alone. I wouldn't pester wi' 'im. He hain't no fitten company
fer you."
"Oh, but I must see him," said the stranger. "I have business with him.
Why, they told me down in the valley that Hightower, in many respects,
is the best man in the county."
Abe smiled for the first time. It was the ghost of a smile.
"Shoo!" he exclaimed. "They don't know him down thar nigh as good as
he's know'd up here. An' that hain't all. Thish yer Mister Hightower you
er talkin' about is got a mighty bad case of measles at his house. You'd
be ableedze to ketch 'em ef you went thar."
"I've had the measles," said the stranger.
"But these here measles," persisted Abe, half shutting his eyes and
gazing at the young man steadily, "kin be cotched twicet. Thayer wuss 'n
the smallpox--lots wuss."
"My dear sir, what do you mean?" the young man inquired, observing the
significant emphasis of the mountaineer's language.
"Hit's thes like I tell you," said Abe. "Looks like folks has mighty bad
luck when they go a-rippitin' hether an' yan on the mounting. It hain't
been sech a monst'us long time sense one er them revenue fellers come
a-paradin' up thish yer same road, a-makin' inquirements fer Hightower.
_He_ cotch the measles; bless you, he took an' cotch 'em by the time he
got in hailin' distance of Hightower's, an' he had to be toted down. I
disremember his name, but he wuz a mighty nice-lookin' young feller,
peart an' soople, an' thes about your size an' weight."
"It was no doubt a great pity about the revenue chap," said the young
man sarcastically.
"Lor', yes!" exclaimed Abe seriously; "lots er nice folks must 'a' cried
about that man!"
"Well," said the other, smiling, "I must see Hightower. I guess he's a
nicer man than his neighbors think he is."
"Shoo!" said Abe, "he hain't a bit nicer'n what I am, an' I lay he
hain't no purtier. What mought be your name, mister?"
"My name is Chichester, and I'm buying land for some Boston people. I
want to buy some land right on this mountain if I can get it cheap
enough."
"Jesso," said Abe, "but wharbouts in thar do Hightower come in?"
"Oh, he knows all about the mountain, and I want to ask his advice and
get his opinions," said Chichester.
Something about Mr. Chichester seemed to attract Abe Hightower. Perhaps
it was the young fellow's fresh, handsome appearance; perhaps it was his
free-and-easy attitude, suggestive of the commercial tourist, that met
the approbation of the mountaineer. At any rate, Abe smiled upon the
young man in a fatherly way and said: "'Twixt you an' me an' yon pine,
you hain't got no furder to go fer to strike up wi' Hightower. I'm the
man you er atter."
Chichester regarded him with some degree of amazement.
"My dear sir," he exclaimed, "why should you desire to play the sphinx?"
"Spinks?" said Abe, with something like a grimace; "the Spinks famerly
lived furder up the mounting, but they er done bin weeded out by the
revenue men too long ago to talk about. The ole man's in jail in Atlanty
er some'rs else, the boys is done run'd off, an' the gal's a trollop. No
Spinks in mine, cap', _ef_ you please!"
Chichester laughed at the other's earnestness. He mistook it for
drollery.
"I let you know, cap'," Abe went on, "you can't be boss er your own
doin's an' give ever' passin' man your name."
"Well, I'm very glad to meet you," said Chichester heartily; "I'll have
a good deal of business in this neighborhood first and last, and I'm
told there isn't anything worth knowing about the mountain that you
don't know."
"That kind er talk," Abe replied, "kin be run in the groun', yit I
hain't a-denyin' but what I've got a kind er speakin' acquaintance wi'
the neighborhood whar I'm a-livin' at. Ef you er huntin' my house, thes
drive right on. I'll be thar ag'in you git thar."
Chichester found a very cordial welcome awaiting him when he arrived at
Hightower's house. Even the dogs were friendly, and the big cat came out
from its hiding-place to rub against his legs as he sat on the little
porch.
"By the time you rest your face an' han's," said Abe, "I reckon
breakfast'll be ready."
Chichester, who was anxious to give no trouble, explained that he had
had a cup of coffee at Peevy's before starting up the mountain. He said,
moreover, that the mountain was so bracing that he felt as if he could
fast a week and still fatten.
"Well, sir," Abe remarked, "hit's mighty little we er got to offer, an'
that little's mighty common, but, sech as 'tis, you er more'n welcome.
Hit's diffunt wi' me when the mornin' air blows at me. Hit makes me
wanter nibble at somepin'. I dunner whar you come from, an' I ain't
makin' no inquirements, but down in these parts you can't spat a man
harder betwixt the eyes than to set back an' not break bread wi' 'im."
Mr. Chichester had been warned not to wound the hospitality of the
simple people among whom he was going, and he was quick to perceive that
his refusal to "break bread" with the Hightowers would be taken too
seriously. Whereupon, he made a most substantial apology--an apology
that took the shape of a ravenous appetite, and did more than justice to
Mrs. Hightower's fried chicken, crisp biscuits, and genuine coffee. Mr.
Chichester also made himself as agreeable as he knew how, and he was so
pleased with the impression he made that he, on his side, admitted to
himself that the Hightowers were charmingly quaint, especially the shy
girl of whom he caught a brief glimpse now and then as she handed her
mother fresh supplies of chicken and biscuits.
There was nothing mysterious connected with the visit of Mr. Chichester
to Lost Mountain. He was the agent of a company of Boston capitalists
who were anxious to invest money in Georgia marble quarries, and
Chichester was on Lost Mountain for the purpose of discovering the
marble beds that had been said by some to exist there. He had the
versatility of a modern young man, being something of a civil engineer
and something of a geologist; in fine, he was one of the many "general
utility" men that improved methods enable the high schools and colleges
to turn out. He was in the habit of making himself agreeable wherever he
went, but behind his levity and general good-humor there was a good deal
of seriousness and firmness of purpose.
He talked with great freedom to the Hightowers, giving a sort of
commercial coloring, so to speak, to the plans of his company with
respect to land investments on Lost Mountain; but he said nothing about
his quest for marble.
"The Lord send they won't be atter fetchin' the railroad kyars among
us," said Grandsir Hightower fervently.
"Well, sir," said Chichester, "there isn't much danger."
"Now, I dunno 'bout that," said the old man querulously, "I dunno 'bout
that. They're gittin' so these days they'll whirl in an' do e'enamost
anything what you don't want 'em to do. I kin stan' out thar in the
hoss-lot any cle'r day an' see the smoke er their ingines, an' sometimes
hit looks like I kin hear 'em snort an' cough. They er plenty nigh
enough. The Lord send they won't fetch 'em no nigher. Fum Giner'l
Jackson's time plump tell now, they ere bin a-fetchin' destruction to
the country. You'll see it. I mayn't see it myself, but you'll see it.
Fust hit was Giner'l Jackson an' the bank, an' now hit's the railroad
kyars. You'll see it!"
"And yet," said Chichester, turning toward the old man, as Hope might
beam benignantly on the Past, "everybody and everything seems to be
getting along very well. I think the only thing necessary now is to
invent something or other to keep the cinders out of a man's eyes when
he rides on the railroads."
"Don't let 'em fool you," said the old man earnestly. "Ever'thing's in a
tangle, an' ther hain't no Whig party for to ontangle it. Giner'l
Jackson an' the cussid bank is what done it."
Just then Miss Babe came out on the little porch, and seated herself on
the bench that ran across one end. "Cap'," said Abe, with some show of
embarrassment, as if not knowing how to get through a necessary
ceremony, "this is my gal, Babe. She's the oldest and the youngest. I'm
name' Abe an' she's name' Babe, sort er rimin' like."
The unaffected shyness of the young girl was pleasant to behold, and if
it did not heighten her beauty, it certainly did not detract from it. It
was a shyness in which there was not an awkward element, for Babe had
the grace of youth and beauty, and conscious independence animated all
her movements.
"'Ceppin' me an' the ole 'oman," said Abe, "Babe is the best-lookin' one
er the famerly."
The girl reddened a little, and laughed lightly with the air of one who
is accustomed to give and take jokes, but said nothing.
"I heard of Miss Babe last night," said Chichester, "and I've got a
message for her."
"Wait!" exclaimed Abe triumphantly; "I'll bet a hoss I kin call the name
'thout movin' out'n my cheer. Hold on!" he continued. "I'll bet another
hoss I kin relate the message word for word."
Babe blushed violently, but laughed good-humoredly. Chichester adjusted
himself at once to this unexpected informality, and allowed himself to
become involved in it.
"Come, now!" he cried, "I'll take the bet."
"I declare!" said Mrs. Hightower, laughing, "you all oughtn' to pester
Babe that away."
"Wait!" said Abe. "The name er the man what sont the word is Tuck Peevy,
an' when he know'd you was a-comin' here, he sort er sidled up an' ast
you for to please be so good as to tell Miss Babe he'd drap in nex'
Sunday, an' see what her mammy is a-gwine ter have for dinner."
"Well, I have won the bet," said Chichester. "Mr. Peevy simply asked me
to tell Miss Babe that there would be a singing at Philadelphia
camp-ground Sunday. I hardly know what to do with two horses."
"Maybe you'll feel better," said Abe, "when somebody tells you that my
hoss is a mule. Well, well, well!" he went on. "Tuck didn't say he was
comin', but I be boun' he comes, an' more'n that, I be boun' a whole
passel er gals an' boys'll foller Babe home."
"In giner'lly," said Grandsir Hightower, "I hate for to make remarks
'bout folks when they hain't settin' whar they kin hear me, but that ar
Tuck Peevy is got a mighty bad eye. I hearn 'im a-quollin' wi' one er
them Simmons boys las' Sunday gone wuz a week, an' I tell you he's got
the Ole Boy in 'im. An' his appetite's wuss'n his eye."
"Well," said Mrs. Hightower, "nobody 'roun' here don't begrudge him his
vittles, I reckon."
"Oh, by no means--by no manner er means," said the old man, suddenly
remembering the presence of Chichester. "Yit they oughter be reason in
all things; that's what I say--reason in all things, espeshually when
hit comes to gormandizin'."
The evident seriousness of the old man was very comical. He seemed to be
possessed by the unreasonable economy that not infrequently seizes on
old age.
"They hain't no begrudgin' 'roun' here," he went on. "Lord! ef I'd 'a'
bin a-begrudgin' I'd 'a' thes natchally bin e't up wi' begrudges. What
wer' the word the poor creetur sent to Babe?"
Chichester repeated the brief and apparently uninteresting message, and
Grandsir Hightower groaned dismally.
"I dunner what sot him so ag'in' Tuck Peevy," said Abe, laughing.
"Tuck's e'en about the peartest chap in the settlement, an' a mighty
handy man, put him whar you will."
"Why, Aberham!" exclaimed the old man, "you go on like a man what's done
gone an' took leave of his sev'm senses. You dunner what sot me ag'in'
the poor creetur? Why, time an' time ag'in I've tol' you it's his
ongodly hankerin' atter the flesh-pots. The Bible's ag'in' it, an' I'm
ag'in' it. Wharbouts is it put down that a man is ever foun' grace in
the cubberd?"
"Well, I lay a man that works is boun' ter eat," said Abe.
"Oh, _I_ hain't no 'count--_I_ can't work," said the old man, his wrath,
which had been wrought to a high pitch, suddenly taking the shape of
plaintive humility. "Yit 'tain't for long. _I'll_ soon be out'n the way,
Aberham."
"Shoo!" said Abe, placing his hand affectionately on the old man's
shoulder. "You er mighty nigh as spry as a kitten. Babe, honey, fill
your grandsir's pipe. He's a-missin' his mornin' smoke."
Soothed by his pipe, the old man seemed to forget the existence of Tuck
Peevy, and his name came up for discussion no more.
But Chichester, being a man of quick perceptions, gathered from the
animosity of the old man, and the rather uneasy attitude of Miss Babe,
that the discussion of Peevy's appetite had its origin in the lover-like
attentions which he had been paying to the girl. Certainly Peevy was
excusable, and if his attentions had been favorably received, he was to
be congratulated, Chichester thought; for in all that region it would
have been difficult to find a lovelier specimen of budding womanhood
than the young girl who had striven so unsuccessfully to hide her
embarrassment as her grandfather proceeded, with the merciless
recklessness of age, to criticize Peevy's strength and weakness as a
trencherman.
As Chichester had occasion to discover afterward, Peevy had his
peculiarities; but he did not seem to be greatly different from other
young men to be found in that region. One of his peculiarities was that
he never argued about anything. He had opinions on a great many
subjects, but his reasons for holding his opinions he kept to himself.
The arguments of those who held contrary views he would listen to with
great patience, even with interest; but his only reply would be a slow,
irritating smile and a shake of the head. Peevy was homely, but there
was nothing repulsive about his homeliness. He was tall and somewhat
angular; he was sallow; he had high cheek-bones, and small eyes that
seemed to be as alert and as watchful as those of a ferret; and he was
slow and deliberate in all his movements, taking time to digest and
consider his thoughts before replying to the simplest question, and even
then his reply was apt to be evasive. But he was good-humored and
obliging, and, consequently, was well thought of by his neighbors and
acquaintances.
There was one subject in regard to which he made no concealment, and
that was his admiration for Miss Babe Hightower. So far as Peevy was
concerned, she was the one woman in the world. His love for her was a
passion at once patient, hopeful, and innocent. He displayed his
devotion less in words than in his attitude; and so successful had he
been that it was generally understood that by camp-meeting time Miss
Babe Hightower would be Mrs. Tuck Peevy. That is to say, it was
understood by all except Grandsir Hightower, who was apt to chuckle
sarcastically when the subject was broached.
"They hain't arry livin' man," he would say, "what's ever seed anybody
wi' them kind er eyes settled down an' married. No, sirs! Hit's the
vittles Tuck Peevy's atter. Why, bless your soul an' body! he thes
natchally dribbles at the mouth when he gits a whiff from the
dinner-pot."
Certainly no one would have supposed that Tuck Peevy ever had a
sentimental emotion or a romantic notion, but Grandsir Hightower did him
great injustice. Behind his careless serenity he was exceedingly
sensitive. It is true he was a man difficult to arouse; but he was what
his friends called "a mighty tetchy man" on some subjects, and one of
these subjects was Babe. Another was the revenue men. It was generally
supposed by Peevy's acquaintances on Lost Mountain that he had a
moonshine apparatus over on Sweetwater; but this supposition was the
result, doubtless, of his well-known prejudice against the deputies sent
out to enforce the revenue laws.
It had been the intention of Chichester to remain only a few days in
that neighborhood; but the Hightowers were so hospitably inclined, and
the outcroppings of minerals so interesting, that his stay was somewhat
prolonged. Naturally, he saw a good deal of Peevy, who knew all about
the mountain, and who was frequently able to go with him on his little
excursions when Abe Hightower was otherwise engaged. Naturally enough,
too, Chichester saw a great deal of Babe. He was interested in her
because she was young and beautiful, and because of her quaint
individuality. She was not only unconventional, but charmingly so. Her
crudeness and her ignorance seemed to be merely phases of originality.
Chichester's interest in Babe was that of a studiously courteous and
deferent observer, but it was jealously noted and resented by Tuck
Peevy. The result of this was not at first apparent. For a time Peevy
kept his jealous suggestions to himself, but he found it impossible to
conceal their effect. Gradually, he held himself aloof, and finally made
it a point to avoid Chichester altogether. For a time Babe made the most
of her lover's jealousy. After the manner of her sex, she was secretly
delighted to discover that he was furious at the thought that she might
inadvertently have cast a little bit of a smile at Mr. Chichester; and
on several occasions she heartily enjoyed Peevy's angry suspicions. But
after a while she grew tired of such inconsistent and foolish
manifestations. They made her unhappy, and she was too vigorous and too
practical to submit to unhappiness with that degree of humility which
her more cultivated sisters sometimes exhibit. One Sunday afternoon,
knowing Chichester to be away, Tuck Peevy sauntered carelessly into
Hightower's yard, and seated himself on the steps of the little porch.
It was his first visit for several days, and Babe received him with an
air of subdued coolness and indifference that did credit to her sex.
"Wharbouts is your fine gent this mornin'?" inquired Peevy, after a
while.
"Wharbouts is who?"
"Your fine gent wi' the sto'-clo'es on."
"I reckon you mean Cap'n Chichester, don't you?" inquired Babe
innocently.
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Peevy; "he's the chap I'm a-making my inquirements
atter."
"He's over on Sweetwater, I reckon. Leastways thar's whar he started to
go."
"On Sweetwater. Oh, yes!" Peevy paused and ran his long slim fingers
through his thin straight hair. "I'm mighty much afeard," he went on
after a pause, "that that fine gent o' yourn is a-gwine ter turn out for
to be a snake. That's what I'm afeard un."
"Well," said Babe, with irritating coolness, "he don't do any of his
sneakin' aroun' here. Ef he sneaks, he goes some'ers else to sneak. He
don't hang aroun' an' watch his chance to drap in an' pay his calls. I
reckon he'd walk right in at the gate thar ef he know'd the Gov'ner er
the State wuz a-settin' here. I'm mighty glad I hain't saw none er his
sneakin'."
Peevy writhed under this comment on his own actions, but said nothing in
reply.
"You don't come to see folks like you useter," said Babe, softening a
little. "I reckon you er mighty busy down thar wi' your craps."
Peevy smiled until he showed his yellow teeth. It was not intended to be
a pleasant smile.
"I reckon I come lots more'n I'm wanted," he replied. "I hain't got much
sense," he went on, "but I got a leetle bit, an' I know when my room's
wuth more'n my comp'ny."
"Your hints has got more wings'n stings," said Babe. "But ef I had in my
min' what you er got in yourn--"
"Don't say the word, Babe!" exclaimed Peevy, for the first time fixing
his restless eyes on her face. "Don't!"
"Yes, I'll say it," said Babe solemnly. "I oughter 'a' said it a long
time ago when you wuz a-cuttin' up your capers bekaze Phli Varnadoe wuz
a-comin' here to see Pap. I oughter 'a' said it then, but I'll say it
now, right pine-blank. Ef I had in my min' what you er got in yourn, I
wouldn't never darken this door no more."
Peevy rose, and walked up and down the porch. He was deeply moved, but
his face showed his emotion only by a slight increase of sallowness.
Finally he paused, looking at Babe.
"I lay you'd be mighty glad ef I didn't come no more," he said, with a
half smile. "I reckon it kinder rankles you for to see old Tuck Peevy
a-hangin' roun' when the t'other feller's in sight." Babe's only reply
was a scornful toss of the head.
"Oh, yes!" Peevy went on, "hit rankles you might'ly; yit I lay it won't
rankle you so much atter your daddy is took an' jerked off to Atlanty. I
tell you, Babe, that ar man is one er the revenues--they hain't no two
ways about that."
Babe regarded her angry lover seriously.
"Hit ain't no wonder you make up your min' ag'in' him when you er done
made it up ag'in' me. I know in reason they must be somep'n 'nother
wrong when a great big grown man kin work hisself up to holdin' spite.
Goodness knows, I wish you wuz like you useter be when I fust know'd
you."
Peevy's sallow face flushed a little at the remembrance of those
pleasant, peaceful days; but, somehow, the memory of them had the effect
of intensifying his jealous mood.
"'Tain't me that's changed aroun'," he exclaimed passionately, "an'
'tain't the days nuther. Hit's you--you! An' that fine gent that's a
hanging roun' here is the 'casion of it. Ever'whar I go, hit's the talk.
Babe, you know you er lovin' that man!"
Peevy was wide of the mark, but the accusation was so suddenly and so
bluntly made that it brought the blood to Babe's face--a tremulous
flush that made her fairly radiant for a moment. Undoubtedly Mr.
Chichester had played a very pleasing part in her youthful imagination,
but never for an instant had he superseded the homely figure of Tuck
Peevy. The knowledge that she was blushing gave Babe an excuse for
indignation that women are quick to take advantage of. She was so angry,
indeed, that she made another mistake.
"Why, Tuck Peevy!" she cried, "you shorely must be crazy. He wouldn't
wipe his feet on sech as me!"
"No," said Peevy, "I 'lowed he wouldn't, an' I 'lowed as how you
wouldn't wipe your feet on me." He paused a moment, still smiling his
peculiar smile. "Hit's a long ways down to Peevy, ain't it?"
"You er doin' all the belittlin'," said Babe.
"Oh, no, Babe! Ever'thing's changed. Why, even them dogs barks atter me.
Ever'thing's turned wrong-sud-outerds. An' you er changed wuss'n all."
"Well, you don't reckon I'm a-gwine ter run out'n the gate thar an'
fling myself at you, do you?" exclaimed Babe.
"No, I don't. I've thes come to-day for to git a cle'r understan'in'."
He hesitated a moment and then went on: "Babe, will you marry me
to-morrow?" He asked the question with more eagerness than he had yet
displayed.
"No, I won't!" exclaimed Babe, "ner the nex' day nuther. The man I
marry'll have a lots better opinion of me than what you er got."
Babe was very indignant, but she paused to see what effect her words
would have. Peevy rubbed his hands nervously together, but he made no
response. His serenity was more puzzling than that of the mountain. He
still smiled vaguely, but it was not a pleasing smile. He looked hard at
Babe for a moment, and then down at his clumsy feet. His agitation was
manifest, but it did not take the shape of words. In the trees overhead
two jays were quarreling with a catbird, and in the upper air a
bee-martin was fiercely pursuing a sparrow-hawk.
"Well," he said, after a while, "I reckon I better be gwine."
"Wait till your hurry's over," said Babe, in a gentler tone.
Peevy made no reply, but passed out into the road and disappeared down
the mountain. Babe followed him to the gate, and stood looking after
him; but he turned his head neither to the right nor to the left, and in
a little while she went into the house with her head bent upon her
bosom. She was weeping. Grandsir Hightower, who had shuffled out on the
porch to sun himself, stared at the girl with amazement.