MILLY INQUIRES.
One day in the time of Reynolds' absence at General DeKay's, White
came down to Birmingham in his cart and Milly insisted so strenuously
on accompanying him, that she had her way. This led to an adventure
of a sort likely to impress itself deeply in the mind of an
unsophisticated girl of the mountains. She had given no especial
reason for wishing to visit the city, but White shrewdly guessed that
her desire to know something of the whereabouts of Reynolds was the
motive impelling her to so unusual an undertaking, for heretofore she
had always been very averse to going into Birmingham.
When they reached town White gave Milly a pittance of money and said:
"You go ter some store, Milly, an' buy ye some candy er a apple er
somethin' er other. When ye git tired er foolin' eround ye kin go
back ter the cyart an' stay ther' tell I come."
She took the small pieces of silver without a word and allowed her
father to desert her. She suspected that he meant to deceive her and
go off to some gambling den; but she did not care. Her desires all
centered in finding Reynolds or hearing something about him.
She strolled about from place to place in the street, innocently
staring into men's faces and quite as innocently receiving, without
shrinking, such brutal leers and winks as certain of the bejeweled
and over-dressed loafers bestowed in return. She went into a store
now and then, but, instead of asking for any article of merchandise,
she invariably propounded the question:
"I wanted ter ax ef ye hed seed any thing o' John Reynolds 'bout this
yer town?"
She spoke with such confiding earnestness of manner and with such an
appealing light in her eyes and such music in her voice, that she
attracted immediate attention from whomever she addressed. She
received respectful answers from the tradesmen. None of them knew
any thing about Reynolds, but some of them, touched in a sweet,
indefinite way by the inexpressible half-lisp of her childish voice,
and feeling the influence of her strange, yearning face and graceful
form, tried to draw her into conversation only to discover that she
became dumb so soon as she learned that they could not give her what
she sought. She turned solemnly away from each one and left him to
struggle out of the bewilderment she had unconsciously cast over his
mind.
With absolutely no knowledge of the difference between a reputable
business street and a row of dives, she drifted here and there until
finally she met a man whom she at once recognized as Moreton,
although in fact he was a drummer for a wholesale liquor house of
Atlanta. She placed herself resolutely in his way, as he was about
to pass her, and said:
"Air ye the feller 'at come to our house thet day?"
The man, a tall fellow, not unlike Moreton physically, looked down at
this pleasing apparition, and for want of better response, said:
"What day?"
"Thet air day 'at hit rained so, an' ye tuck dinner, an' staid all
day. Don't ye 'member?"
"Can't recollect you, sis: seems like I ought to though, by George.
What's your name?" He took hold of the brim of her coarse hat and
lifting it a little peeped under at her face, now suddenly pink with
blushing.
"Ye know--I'm Mr. White's girl, up ther' wher' ye fotch the turkeys
thet air rainy day."
"Oh, yes, I do recollect mighty well now, certainly. I fetched the
turkeys, yes. You are White's girl. I'm real glad to see you.
How's the folks?" said he, glibly.
"We're all well," responded Milly. "I wushed to ax ye ef ye've seed
John Reynolds lately."
"John Reynolds--John Reynolds, which John Reynolds do you mean?" he
inquired, with a show of having a dozen men of that name in his mind.
"Hit air Colonel Reynolds, es pap calls 'im, an' he lives at our
house, an' ye know ye said he wer' yer bes' frien' an' 'at he wer' a
grand feller. Don't ye 'member? Well, I wush to see him."
"Any thing of a furious rush about seeing him right off--eh?" He
stooped low enough to look into her strange beautiful eyes. "What do
you want to see him about?"
She shrank uneasily and made no answer. Her pink lips quivered
slightly, as a flower's petals do when one breathes upon them. The
man's breath was foul with the fumes of whisky.
"Oh, if it's private--if it's a secret between you," he resumed,
"why, of course, I don't intend to pry in; but as Reynolds and I are
chums, I don't see why you won't tell me."
"I wushed to see 'im, that's all," she responded in a plaintive,
hesitating voice, putting a finger in her mouth and scraping the toe
of one coarse shoe back and forth on the ground.
"Oh, I guess that he's rather keeping sort o' shady from you, just
now," said the man with a brutal smile. "He's got him another girl
now, he's not caring about seeing you very soon. I know what he's up
to."
She shot a quick, almost wild look into his face, stared at him a
moment and then slowly inquired:
"What air yer name?"
He actually reddened with confusion, and was at a loss what to
answer. He saw that she had discovered his deceit.
"I was just joking," he managed to say. "Never mind my jokes. If
you'll come with me I'll take you to Reynolds. He's just down here a
little ways. Come on, I'll show you."
"Ye'r' not thet man--ye'r'----"
"Oh, that's nothing: I was just fooling with you. Don't get mad. If
you get mad you'll not have any luck. Come on if you want to see
Reynolds."
Her eyes had assumed a vague, distressed look and her lips quivered
again.
"I wush ye'd go tell 'im 'at I wush he'd come on home," she said,
glancing uneasily around, as if afraid that some one would approach.
"Guess you'd better go see him and surprise him like. He won't be
expecting you. He's just down here a little piece. Come on, if you
are going, I can't fool around all day," the man urged, an ugly gleam
getting into his eyes and his face showing its coarsest lines.
"John wouldn't like hit ef I'd go ther' wher' he is," she responded.
"I hain't got no business a goin' down ther'. I'd be erbleeged ef
ye'd tell 'im----"
"Tell him nothing," gruffly rejoined the man. "Come along, it's not
far, he'll be all right; he's a good fellow and not going to make any
fuss--come on. I'll stand between you and all danger--come on."
"I don't wanter go, an' I haint er goin', an' ye mought as well quit
er talkin'," she almost doggedly replied, taking a step or two back
from him. He followed her with a devilish leer in his eyes.
The street was a disreputable one and there was a narrow alley near
where they stood.
"He's not caring any thing about you now; you needn't be so shy, I'm
not going to do you any harm. I'm the best friend you've got."
Her strange, troubled face brightened a little.
"Then, ef ye'r' my friend," she quickly said, "go an' tell 'im at I
wush he'd please kem home."
The man laughed, looked at her quizzically for a time, and then in a
tone, half of vexation and half of amusement, said:
"Well, if you aren't the dangedest curiosity I ever saw! You ought
to travel with Barnum."
He gazed at her intently from head to foot, his face softening.
"You've no business trotting around loose in these suburbs," he
muttered, more to himself than to her, then quite _solus_ he added:
"She's cracked: she's an idiot."
Her vague troubled look now appealed to the other side of the man's
nature. "Do you know where you are? This is no place for you; where
do you live?" He put his inquiries in a voice so different from that
half-wheedling, half brutal one hitherto used, that she instantly
looked up with a gleam of trust in her eyes.
"Where is your home?" he continued.
"Over to the tother side o' the mounting, at Mr. White's," she
frankly answered.
"Well, what are you doing down here among these saloons and dives?
Why don't you go home and stay with your mother? This is a bad place
for you."
"I hain't er feared," she said; "I er a goin' down yer ter pap's
cyart. Pap an' me we kem ter town tergether. I jist stopped ter ask
yer ef ye'd seed John, that wer' all I keered about ye. Ye needn't
er be a frettin' yerself 'bout me."
The man chuckled in a puzzled way and walked on, muttering to himself
something about the "dangedest prettiest idiot" that he ever saw. He
looked back a time or two to watch Milly as she carelessly strolled
along, her petite form showing its lithe, wild grace, with every
movement and her wisp of yellowish hair shining under her hat and
straying down over the back of her loose cotton gown. His eyes had
something of the wistful glare with which a cat gazes at an escaped
bird.
Milly found her father's cart under a tree in the outskirts of the
town, the one kind-eyed, long-horned little ox contentedly ruminating
between the rude shafts.
"W'y, ole Ben, air ye tired er waitin'?" she exclaimed, patting the
bony little fellow on the shoulder, "we'll be er goin' soon es pap
comes, won't we, Ben?"
[Illustration: "W'y, ole Ben, air ye tired er waiten'?" she
exclaimed. _Page 129_.]
She climbed into the shallow box of the cart and sat down on its
bottom with her head thrown back so that she could gaze up through
the tree-tops at the bright blue sky. A breeze, cool and sweet, was
stealing down from the mountains rustling the few dry leaves that
still clung to the branches overhead. She sang, in a thin childish
falsetto, snatches of the simple hymn-tunes she had caught from her
parents; but she got the words together in a meaningless confusion.
Her conception of a song of any sort rose no higher than a
consciousness of the pleasing sounds of the voice singing it.
For a long while she waited patiently, now and then glancing down the
unkempt street to see if her father had yet come in sight; then she
stood up in the cart and looked. It was growing late. The sun was
slipping down behind the mountains and a cooler breath crept through
the valley.
"Well, Ben, hit air no use er stayin' yer any longer, I 'spec' at pap
he air drunk. Git erp ther', Ben!"
She had gathered up the rope guiding line and the gad that lay in the
box, and as she finished speaking she tapped the ox and drove away,
heading for the road that led homeward. The thought that her father
was drunk seemed not to affect her in any way. She soon resumed her
singing, and her aimless, wistful gazing at the splendid Southern sky.
It was long after night-fall, but the moon was shining brightly, when
Milly drove up to the little front gate at home, and freeing Ben from
his yoke and shafts, turned him loose to browse on the mountain-side.
Her mother met her at the door.
"Wher' air yer pap?" was the laconic inquiry.
"Drunk, I 'spec'," was the answer.
"An' er playin' of keerds," suggested Mrs. White.
"Yes, I 'spec'."
"Well, ef hit air seving up 'at he air a playin' ther' air sense to
hit, fer he gin'rally wa'ms their low down gam'lin' hides fer 'em,
w'en hit air seving up 'at he plays; but ef he goes in on ter any er
them tother games, he'll come home 'ithout ary cent inter his
pockets, mind what I tell ye."
"I wush John 'd come home, that's what I wush," murmured Milly,
opening the door of Reynolds' room and going in to wander listlessly
about among his things. She touched his books, his pencils, his
brushes, his pen, and lingered about the easel upon which the dog
sketch still rested unfinished.
It was nearly midnight when White came in good-humoredly drunk,
boasting of another victory at "seving up with them air gam'lers."
His wife had gone to bed, but Milly met him with her usual quiet
welcome and the formula expressing her predominant "wush."
"Ye needn't er be 'spectin' the Colonel home for a week, Milly," he
said, as he lighted his pipe for a sobering smoke before retiring;
"fer he's gone away down on the Al'bam' River to Gen'l DeKay's to a
huntin' frolic with banker Noble an' his darter."
Nothing save the very unusual amount of whisky he had been taking
could have induced White to say that and in such a tone. Milly
looked at him in a dazed, stupid way, her cherry underlip falling as
if from the weight of the information she had received.
"Do he go wuth them air fine folks?" she presently inquired, in a
dry, doleful voice.
"Ye'd think so ef ye'd see 'im," he answered. "He air high dinky
davy along of the best of 'em, I tell ye. Him an' that feller
Moreting what wer' here that rainy day do scoot aroun' with them air
silks an' ribbons an' jew'lry alarmin' to the saints."
Milly put her hands together and rested them on her head with their
fingers intertwined. She appeared to be considering some troublesome
proposition.
"Do ye s'pose them folks'll make fun of we-uns to 'im?"
White chuckled.
"I don't keer airy dam ef they do," he said, contemptuously snapping
his thumb and finger. "Let 'em sail in."
"Well I wush 'at they wouldn't. 'Tain't none er the'r business 'bout
how we-uns looks, no how," she quickly replied. She looked over her
faded cotton dress as she spoke, with a hurried, dissatisfied glance.
She had seen some wonderful dresses in Birmingham.
"No, hit tain't the'r business, thet's a fac', Milly," he responded,
ramming his pipe with his finger and wagging his head. "'Tain't
store clo's, an' jew'ls an' sich 'at meks folks honest an'
'spectable, hits in yer, Milly, in yer," tapping his breast. "We'r'
jest as good as any body, hain't we, Milly?"
"Spec' so; dunno," she said, looking dully at him. "I wush he had er
staid yer an' kep' away f'om down ther'."
"Hit air p'int blank no use er wushin' thet, Milly," he slowly and
firmly declared, "fur he air dead sot onto 'em an' he air a goin' wi'
'em. In fac', he air them sort er folks his own self, he air, Milly."
The girl's eyes slowly brimmed with big tears, and without further
words she crept off to bed. White sat and smoked in a gloomy way for
a long while, his face showing more than usually gaunt and wrinkled
in the dim light of the flickering pine knots on the hearth. He
shook his head from time to time, as if dissatisfied with such
results as his thoughts produced. Once he spoke out rather fiercely.
"Hit air a dern shame!" he exclaimed, in a voice so fierce and bitter
that it awoke his wife. And yet he was too simple-minded to dream of
the worst. With the queer pride of the mountaineer, he was viewing
the predicament simply from a social standpoint.