A WHISPER IN THE CABIN.
One day, while Reynolds was gone to General DeKay's, White came home
from Birmingham perfectly sober and with no gambling story to tell.
Milly met him at the gate, as usual, with the same pitiful look of
patient inquiry in her eyes. He chucked her under the chin and in an
uncommonly cheery voice said:
"He air comin' home right away soon, Milly, I hev hearn from 'im
straight. Go an' drive up the steer fer me, won't ye? I want er
haul er jag er pine-knots purty soon."
"I don't b'lieve he air a comin', no sich a thing. I dremp he wer'
married, an' thet's a sign o' death. How d'ye know he air a comin'?"
She spoke almost pettishly, looking fixedly at her father, whose pale
eyes wandered aimlessly from object to object.
"I seed Mr. Noble, thet banker down ther': he hev come back. He said
ter me, says he, 'The Colonel, he an' Mr. Moreting air comin' nex'
week,' thet's what he says ter me."
Milly let her eyes fall and began digging in the ground with the toe
of one of her shoes.
"Thet young lady, thet Miss Noble down ther', hes she kem back?" she
presently asked.
"La, yes, she hev," quickly replied White. "Bless yer life, yes, she
kem with 'er pap. Oh, yes, she kem too, she did."
"What meks John stay so long?"
"Oh, him? w'y he's a havin' a stavin' ole time er shootin' quails an'
a drinkin' er fine liquor an' er smokin' good seegairs. Don't yer go
to blamin' him fer stayin' awhile down ther': hit air a good place
ter be at, yer better think."
"Seems like he mought never come," she murmured, and there were tears
in her eyes as she started to go and fetch the ox.
White went into the house and shut the door.
"I hev a bad secret to tell ye," he said to his wife, "an' I don't
wan't yer ter let Milly know airy breath about it, nuther."
"Well, less yer what it air."
"Ye won't tell Milly?"
"Nairy word."
"Sarting an' sure?"
"Yes."
"Well, the Colonel he air shot."
"Shot?"
"He air."
"Shot?"
"He air, sarting."
"Goodness! an' who tole ye?"
"Thet banker, down ther' at town, Mr. Noble, he tole me. Hit wer' a
feller 'at broke jail 'at done hit, a outdacious murderer, down yer
at some other town, 'at wer a goin' ter be hung, an' some friend of
his'n helped 'im ter break jail an' give 'im a pistol, an' he put out
through the country. Hit seems, f'om what thet banker down yer says,
'at the Colonel were a galivantin' off to some lonesome ole house wi'
a widder 'oman, 'an thet feller he wer in ther an' jes' shot 'im
down."
"Goodness alive! Hit didn't kill 'im? The Colonel he hain't dead?"
"No, not dead, but he air bad off. He air laid up in bed. He hev
got a hole through 'im."
Mrs. White began filling her pipe with great energy, her husband
following her example. There was a space of silence, then he said:
"We hev got ter lie ter Milly fer all that's out. Hit'll never do
fer her ter know it 'at the Colonel's hurt. She'd go 'stracted."
"She mought jest as well. Hit air no use er foolin', he's not goin'
ter hev 'er."
"Hev her! Hev _her_! w'at upon the airth are ye talkin' 'bout?"
"She loves 'im."
"Milly? _She_ love? _She_ love _him_?"
"Ye-es, she-e lo-ove hi-im!" drawled Mrs. White in a high key,
wagging her head with each word.
White looked at her in utter consternation.
"Thet leetle silly gal love _him_? W'y she air no more'n a tom-tit
er a hominy-bird ter be a lovin' the Colonel. Shorely she hain't
gone an' been no sich a dang fool es thet!"
"She hev."
"How d'ye know?"
"Hain't I got no eyes, ner years?"
"Ye hev, sarting, an' a tongue."
"Now, smarty! Ye think ye've said somethin'!"
"Beg parding. But this yer stuff 'bout love, hit air a bad thing. I
commence ter see into some er Milly's cur'us notions, ef thet air's
the case. But dang ef I b'lieve sech a thing."
"Well, hit air the case, an' there's more ter come. Ye hain't hearn
the wo'st part."
"An' what d'ye mean by thet?"
"I mean a heap, thet's w'at I mean."
"A heap er what?"
"Ef ye'll promerse me on yer wordy honor ter keep still tell I say at
ye may go free, I'll tell yer w'at."
"I promerse, sarting."
"On yer wordy honor?"
"Yes."
"I'm erfeard ye'll go ter bein' a fool an' makin' a fuss 'fore I
whant ye to. 'Cause ye see, hit mayn't be es bad es it mought."
As Mrs. White said this, White looked searchingly into her face, and
what he saw there caused him to move uneasily and puff his tobacco
smoke nervously.
"What is this yer what yer a hintin' at, anyhow?" he demanded, almost
fiercely.
"I hain't erbleeged ter tell ye, an' I'll jest never do hit er tall,
ef yer a goin' to be er fool an' high-rantin' aroun' like er eejet er
somethin'."
"Didn't I promerse ye? Hain't thet enough? Ef hit tain't, what d'ye
want me to do?"
"W'y I whant ye ter never say er word ter nobody 'bout w'at I tell
ye, tell I say so, not a single word, nor do a thing 'bout hit of any
kind. Do ye promerse?"
"Yes."
"On yer sacurd wordy honor?"
"Yes, dang it all, go on!"
"Now I'r a goin' ter tell ye somethin' at air orful, an' I don't know
w'at to do erbout hit. But 'member, yer promersed me."
"Yes."
"Ye'll keep right still, an' never say a word, er do a single thing
erbout hit?"
"Yes, I tole ye thet, long ago, 'bout a dozen times. Go on, an' say
what yer a goin' to."
They were looking at each other, as people do who are about to
experience some grave domestic crisis, Mrs. White's sallow face had
suddenly taken on a hot flush, and her eyes looked worried and hollow.
"I d'know hardly how ter say hit with my mouth," she falteringly
began. "I wush I never hed a been born'd, no how!"
Tears came into her eyes and her lips quivered.
White leaned over close to her, taking the pipe from his mouth, and
said in a low, hoarse voice:
"What air the matter, wife?"
"Oh, a heap, a heap air the matter!" she sobbed.
White put his hand on her shoulder and brought his ear close to her
lips.
"Tell me now, I want er know," he gently and gravely urged.
She whispered something in a rapid, sobbing way. Not more than a
dozen words, but White's face shriveled as if with a great heat. He
drew back from her and glared like a wild beast. Not a sound came
from his writhing lips. His thin jaws quivered.
"'Member yer sacurd wordy honor," said the woman. "Ye promersed me,
ye know."
He got up and tramped aimlessly around the room. Presently he took
down his long flint-lock rifle from its rack over the door, and blew
into its muzzle.
"Ye'll not brek yer wordy honor?" she insisted.
He put the gun back and came and sat down by her again. Just then
Milly opened the door and entered the room carrying her coarse
sun-bonnet in her hand. The exercise of fetching the ox down from
his browsing place on the mountain side had put a bright color in her
cheeks, and the wind had been tossing her pale, straw-gold hair so
that it hung in elfish tangles about her neck and shoulders. She
scarcely glanced at her father and mother.
"I hitched 'im out ther'," she said, referring to the ox, and passing
on into the kitchen, went by that round-about way into Reynolds'
room. She was very sly, but they heard her moving about, and knew
she was once more re-arranging his things.
They looked at each other with something of that hopeless, dazed
expression often observed in the eyes of the lower animals when hurt
to death. Milly had left the outer door open and the cool mountain
air poured in, rustling vaguely such loose articles as its current
could stir.
Little more was said between the man and his wife, for there seemed
nothing to say. A cloud had settled over their compressed, barren
lives. Nothing in their natures was ready or flexible. They stared
at fate, as they stared at each other, with the hopelessness of utter
bewilderment.
Days went by, days of that languid, cloudless weather which comes to
those mountains in early February, and the little household of the
cabin went through the dry, spiritless round of duties, as if some
spell had fallen upon them. True there was no marked visible change
in their way of life; that was impossible. The limitations of human
action nowhere else are set with such rigid immutability as they are,
and perhaps always will be, in those cramped, unfertile, almost
barren mountain regions of the South. No advance, no retrogression
(save where here and there a railroad brings its little whisky
centers), all is stagnant, dull, dry, hopeless poverty. Illiteracy,
sterility, and that stubborn conservatism which is born of them, rest
like an atmosphere around those poor people. They move and breathe
and are stolidly content.
When a month had passed and Reynolds had not come, Milly, who had
been kept in ignorance of the true state of affairs, began to show
stronger signs of disappointment. She was restless and anxious,
wandering about the house or leaning upon the gate, silent, sad-eyed,
expectant and hopeless by turns, a source of deep trouble to her
parents.
Now and then White attempted to cheer her up, but the words seemed to
come dead and meaningless from his dry lips when he would say:
"He air a havin' a outdacious good time down ther', he air, an' he
don't like ter quit off yet. Jest ye wait a day er two an' 'en ye'll
see 'm a comin' up yer, Milly, a comin' up yer----" his voice would
most usually fail him, but he would go on: "Yes, he air comin' back
purty soon, when he hev hed all the shootin' he ken git."
Such statements, reiterated so often, lost a large part of their
reassuring power, but Milly liked to hear them, and they were the
best that he could do.