CHAPTER XIV.

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.