Milly: at love's extremes; a romance of the Southland

Contents

PAGE.

CHAPTER i. MOUNTAIN DEW. . . i

CHAPTER n. MILLY. . . . . 15

CHAPTER HI. MR. HAWKINS NOBLE. . . 25

CHAPTER iv. WHITE PLAYS "SEVING UP". . 38

CHAPTER v. SOME LIGHT TALK. . . .48

CHAPTER vi. AT THE GATE. . . .64

CHAPTER vn. AN OLD PLANTATION HOUSE. . 77

CHAPTER vin. WITH DOG AND GUN. . -93

CHAPTER ix. LUNCHEON AL FRESCO. . .no

CHAPTER x. MILLY INQUIRES. . . . 123 CHAPTER xi. DALLYING. .... 134

CHAPTER xn. A BIT OF LOVE MAKING. . . 149

CHAPTER xin. AT THE RUIN. . . . 164

CHAPTER xiv. A WHISPER IN THE CABIN. . 180

CHAPTER xv. A DISCLOSURE. . .. .189

CHAPTER xvi. CONVALESCENT. . . 202

91645'

CHAPTER xvn. DREAMS AND PLANS. . .217

CHAPTER xvm. REALITIES. . . . 229

CHAPTER xix. WHITHER. .... 250 CHAPTER xx. AFTER ALL. . . . 260

CHAPTER I.

MOUNTAIN DEW.

A MAN stood on the jutting shoulder of a mountain overlooking a long, narrow valley, whose scatter ing houses and irregular farm-plats, seen through the clear air of that high region, appeared scarcely a gun shot distant, when in fact they were miles away. It was early morning ; the sun had barely cleared the highest peaks in the east, and the landscape, albeit a mid-winter one, was wonderfully rich in colors. On the oak trees the leaves still clung in heavy brown, green and russet masses ; the hickory forests, though leafless, made bits of tender gray along the lower valley-slopes, whilst high up toward the mountain tops, the billowy wilderness of pines, cedars and chest nut trees added their variegated patch-work that grad ually rose and shaded off into the blue of distance. In some places where storms, or the needs of man, had removed the oak woods, a dense, frondous mass of young pines had leaped up with a greenness full of a soft yellow glow. The sunshine and the wind of the South were flowing over this scene, and there were fra grant odors and balsamic pungency in every wave.

The man, a tall, shapely fellow, was a young English man who had lately come to the iron and coal region of Alabama to take charge of extensive manufacturing and mining interests belonging to his family. Just at present, with a true English faith in the value of out door sports, he was hunting wild turkeys, or, for that matter, whatever other wild game might chance to let him get within gun-shot of it. He had left his hotel at Birmingham with the first hint of dawn, and had steadily tramped over hills and mountain spurs and through wild ravines and beautiful glades, without a sight of fur or feather. Now he stood on this airy height, flushed with his healthful exercise, a little disappointed and annoyed. But the mountain air of the South has in it a tenderly exhilarating influence which affects the imagination and lulls one into pleas ant, though often rather vague dreams. No matter if Edward Moreton was an intensely practical-minded man of affairs, the kind of Englishman who is willing to come to America and superintend iron works and coal mines, he was, nevertheless, not wholly impervious to the poetry — the lulling magnetism of the climate and the scene. For a while he leaned on his gun, a long, heavy double-barreled piece ; then he took from his

MO UN TA IN DE IV. 3

pocket a cigarette and match, seated himself on an old gray stone and began smoking. In the midst of the valley below, ran a rivulet, winding through the woods with a silvery shimmer, and out across the farms and past one little mill, on into a deep gorge of the stony hills.

Moreton had not found his surroundings in Birming ham quite satisfactory, notwithstanding the fact that he had fallen in love, after the old time fervid fashion, with a fair young Northern girl living there. The little mining town, cramped between the hills, full of rough folk, raw and new, could not be very attractive to a man who, no matter how practical and matter of fact in his disposition, had studied art and who still nursed the artist's dreams. As he sat there with his blue-gray eyes slowly sweeping the valley, he was not as blithelooking as a model sportsman should be. His dog, a small brown spaniel, sat down at his feet and eyed him lazily. No sound, save the rustle of the wind in the trees and a dull distant tapping of a woodpecker, was disturbing the broad silence of the forest. The sky was intensely blue. Suddenly a short puff of damp ness came from the southwest, followed by a growl of thunder, a thing not usual in winter, even in that latitude. Moreton arose and saw a heavy line of black cloud overhanging some conical peaks far away on the southwestern horizon.

" Come Nat," he said to his dog, " we must be going back; a nasty squall is coming. We shall get our jackets wet."

Nat answered with divers canine antics and the two turned away from the valley, the man walking with long firm strides and the dog trotting perfunctorily at his side. Their way led among the flanking spurs and foot-hills of the range, now over great fragmentary bowlders, now through yawning clefts and down wind ing defiles, sometimes on bare ridges of shale, anon under the dark odorous brushes of the pines. The cloud came after them, sending in advance its gusts of moist, fragrant air. A vast wing reached up to the zenith and a few big drops of rain pattered down. A morning shower in the mountains comes at race-horse speed. The swiftest birds are caught by it. A flock of noisy crows went flapping across the valley, striving in vain to outstrip the slanting flood that fell with a broad, washing roar from that rushing cloud.

" We are in for a soaking, Nat," grumbled Moreton, as he plucked up the collar of his shooting jacket ; " a deuced bad outcome for our first day's shooting in America ! "

Nat's tail was down and so were his ears. He rel ished the signs of the weather no more than did his stalwart master. A chilliness was creeping into the air, foretelling how disagreeable the rain was sure to be. The very trees shivered as the sunshine was shut off by the overlapping cloud.

MOUNTAIN DEW. 5

It was just as the storm was about to break that cer tain sharp cries peculiar to the wild turkey reached the quick ears of sportsman and dog. The man stopped short and cocked his gun, as the spaniel darted away to a short distance and then began creeping through the low underbrush, as a setter does when about to come to a point. In the next instant four large birds were flushed, breaking from cover at about forty yards, their wings making the woods resound with their loud flapping. Almost at the same moment, the " bang — pang ! " of Moreton's gun, fired right and left, went echoing across the valley and battling amongst the hills. A cock and hen were stopped short and fell heavily. The dog sprang forward to lead his master to the game, and then came a blinding downgush of rain with a roar like that of a cyclone.

Moreton with great difficulty got the birds, and, after tying them together by the feet, slung them across his shoulder. This additional load and the hindering force of the rain made his further progress quite laborious. Nat resumed his drooping, mechani cal jog-trot at his master's side. The young man leaned over and almost shut his eyes as he pressed on, catching quick breaths as the cold streams trickled down his back. His shooting jacket and trowsers were meant to be impervious to water, but the chilling liquid was dashed by the force of the wind against his neck and thence found its way down to his heels. He did not hesitate, under such stress of ill luck, to rush boldly against the door of a low, rambling mountain cabin and demand admission. His knock on the rough planks was heard by the inmates of the place, despite the heavy roar of the rain, and the response was immediate.

" Kem in, kem in," spoke a rather pleasing voice, in the peculiar accent and intonation of the mount aineers of the region, as the door was opened, letting the hunter and his dog in, along with a dash of slant ing rain. " Le' me take them birds, strenger, an' ye jest git ther' by the fire. Hit's purty outdacious rainy all of a suddent ; purty near drownd a feller." The speaker was a slender, almost slight, man, near fifty years old, flaxen-haired, thin-faced, with a sharp nose and a straggling beard, still lighter than his hair. He took the brace of birds off Moreton's shoulder and threw them aside on the clean white floor. "I'll jest put yer gun up fur ye," he continued, taking the weapon and leaning it against the wall in a corner of the room. Then he quickly fetched a chair. " Set down an' mek yerself at home, I'll punch up the fire, hit's got sorty low; I'll git some light'ood knots."

Moreton found himself in a place whose features at once interested him. Glancing around the room he saw two low beds, a few plain split-bottomed chairs, an old queer " bureau," or chest of drawers, with glass knobs, some rude shelves with ironstone dishes on

MO UN TAIN DE W. ^

them, a long flint-lock rifle, hanging in buck-horn forks over the door, one of which forks also held a coonskin bullet-pouch and curiously carved powder-horn. The fire-place before which he sat was broad and deep, roughly lined with jagged stones picturesquely black with fleecy accumulations of soot from pine smoke ; it was crossed by a heavy charred wooden crane and on its broad jambs rested a curious collection of cobpipes, clay-pipes, wooden pipes and soft-stone pipes, along with sundry ragged twists of brown home-raised tobacco. There was a low, wide window on one side of the room, and beside it Moreton's eyes rested for a moment on a slim girl's form in a half-cowering position. She was so turned from him that he could see no more of her face than a rounded line of one cheek. There was a heavy brush of long, bright, yel lowish flaxen hair, a very delicate ear and a glimpse of a brown throat and neck. One hand, rather large but shapely, lay along her lap, on the scant folds of a homespun cotton dress, the skirt of which could not quite hide her coarsely-shod feet. There was some thing curiously striking in this crumpled little figure that held Moreton's gaze for a time. Through an open door that gave into a smaller room, the intermit tent hum of a spinning-wheel made itself heard, dis tinct from the clash and swash of the storm, and a tall angular woman walked back and forth, drawing out and reeling up the coarse thread she was twisting.

The man had soon fetched wood and pine knots for the fire, and presently a liberal flame wavered up to the mouth of the great old chimney. He turned to Moreton and said :

" Lay off yer coat, strenger, an' git yer shirt dry ; hit's outdacious onagreeable fur to hev on a wet shirt."

Moreton smiled pleasantly.

" Thank you, I will," he said, rising and stripping off the stiff jacket. " You are very kind. I am cover ing your floor with water."

" Shaw, that's nothin'," replied the man, in a tone of gentle contempt ; " ef ye'd see hit sometimes when I come in ye mought talk. Them little puddles haint nothin' 'tall. The Colonel an' me jest floods the whole house when we gits wet."

"Wonder ef John haint a comin', Pap?"

This sudden inquiry came in a sweet, half-shy voice from the girl at the window.

" She calls him John, I calls him Colonel," explained the man. Then turning to answer the question :

" Oh, ther's no 'countin' fur him ; he's as like to stay out all day and night es any way ; hit don't make no differ'nce 'bout rain es to him. do it, Milly ?"

The girl had turned her face toward the man when she spoke, but now she averted it again, a little flush gathering on the brown cheek.

" He don't mind no weather, strenger, the Colonel

MO UN TAIN DE W. 9

don't, rain er sunshine hit's all the same to him, hain't hit, Milly?" continued the host.

" I wush he'd come on back home," exclaimed the girl, " that's what I wush." Moreton had turned his back to the fire. He was astride of the chair and the steam was rising vigorously from his wet garments. Out of the corners of his eyes he kept glancing at that lithe, plump little figure by the window. He had the taste of an artist, and here was a model for brush or chisel to imitate. He was a genuine man, too, and here was a bit of rare feminine beauty, no matter how coarsely clad or how hopelessly uncultured. She had the grace of outline common to wild things, and there was that half-pathetic, half-glad beam in her face that appeals to a man's love of the innocent and his pity of the weak. Her head was small and well-poised above plump shoulders, her bust was full, yet girlish, giving just a hint of that early ripeness so common in southern countries, and her waist and limbs were perfect. At rare intervals one sees such a girl among the hardy peasants of most mountain regions, but not so often in America as elsewhere.

" Do ye ever smoke a pipe, stranger ? " inquired the host, offering Moreton a cob pipe and a twist of tobacco.

" Thank you, yes, I will take some of your tobacco ; I have a pipe," said the young man, drawing from his vest pocket a small meerschaum, old and dark as mahogany. He had heard of the excellence of this mountain home-grown tobacco.

" Hit air purty good, ef I do say hit myself. Most of 'em roun' here's glad to git Tom White's 'backer to chaw an' smoke, hain't they, Milly ?" Mr. White thus introduced himself and his tobacco at the same time.

At this point Mrs. White quit her wheel and came into the room. She spoke to Moreton pleasantly, as if she had long known him, smiling cordially.

" Ef you menfolks don't care, I'll jest jine ye for a whiff er two," she said, going to the chimney-jamb and selecting a pipe.

They formed a strange group around that cabin fire. Moreton felt the democratic force of the situation and enjoyed it to the full.

" Hain't ye goin' to have a hand in this here gineral smoke, Milly?" said Mr. White, chuckling jocosely and looking, under comically-drawn eyebrows, at the girl.

" Now, Pap, you know I don't smoke at all," she quickly answered, getting up and leaving the room. Her movement was as light and nimble as that of a hare.

" Course she don't smoke, ye know," said White to Moreton, confidentially lowering his voice ; " I wus jest a yankin' at her fur greens ; she knows when I'm a greenin' of her, an' she gits tiffy at me in a minute. She's es sharp es a darnin'-needle, Milly is."

"Thomas, ye ortn't ter plague Milly so much, ye'll

MO UN TAIN DEW. II

spile her temper. Milly's a mighty good gal," said Mrs. White in a tone half entreaty and half command. It was easy to see that Mrs. White ruled the cabin. After a moment of silence, " She's oneasy 'bout the Colonel, now, but then hit's no use, he's all right, rain er shine," responded the man.

Moreton, whose eyes furtively followed the girl as she left the room, saw that the apartment into which she passed was neatly carpeted and furnished with wellworn easy-chairs, a table and a desk. Between the opening and closing of the door he caught sight, also, of long shelves of books and some pictures. The room appeared quite large and arranged as if for a gentle man's study. The contrast between its almost elegant appointments and the arid blankness of the one in which Moreton sat was so pronounced that, despite his patri cian self-control, a wave of surprise passed over his face. The quick eyes of the mountaineer saw this.

" That there air the Colonel's part of the house," he hastily said, a trace of apology and disclaimer in his voice; "hit jest suits him. He's got a outdacious sight o' larnin' an' plenty o' money. He kin buy whatever he wants."

" Yes," said Mrs. White, rather sharply, " an' jest ers like es not he's right now a stan'in' under some tree er rock a waitin' fur the rain to quit an' a readin' of a book. Seems powerful quare to me."

Moreton was almost tempted to ask questions, so quick an interest had been generated by this gossip about the Colonel. Certainly this was a strange home for a man of wealth and education. Possibly the Colonel was some sport-loving gentleman from New Orleans, Mobile or Montgomery, who had taken these apart ments in the cabin as a sort of shooting-box, he thought, for he had heard much of the peculiarities and extravagances of rich Southerners. But his mental dis cussion of this subject was cut short by a sudden move ment on the part of White, who sprang to his feet and elevated his hands.

"Well, hit's jest too outdacious, Sarah," he cried, as if utterly chagrined ; " jest to think, the strenger kem in wet an' soaked an' haint hed no liquor ! "

"'Bout like sech as we'ns to furgit what we're 'bout," responded Mrs. White; "ye'll find the dim'jon under the tother bed behind the sack o' 'taters."

White dived under the bed in question and drew forth a large earthen bottle.

" Hit air peach liquor," he said, advancing upon Moreton ; " the best they air in these parts. Ye must parding us, strenger, fur we clean furgot hit."

Mrs. White fetched a large, heavy tumbler and handed it to Moreton.

" Le' me pour fur ye, stranger," said White, uncorking the bottle. " Ye'll find 'at hit air liquor wo'th a-drinkin'. Hit ain't pizened with no revenue postage, ye may set thet down solid."

M 0 UN TAIN DEW. 13

Moreton, with no light inward protest, submitted his lips to the proffered glass. His English taste for excellent drinks was never more deliciously surprised. What began as a formal, carefully guarded sip, crept on into a series of slow quaffs, ending in a final hearty gulp. White grinned delightedly.

" Haint hit good, strenger? Don't hit hev the outdaciousest way o' gittin' to the very marrer of a fel ler's neck, of any liquor ye ever tasted ? Ef hit don't git ther', none don't. The Colonel sez hit's the best liquor 'at he ever tasted ! an* hes traveled, he hes. Hes been in furren parts, Rome an' France an' them air places."

Moreton was quick to acknowledge that the brandy was surpassingly fine. It had the bouquet of old wine, the body of cognac and the mellow fire of Scotch whis ky, along with a faint trace of peach kernels. He thought of a certain London club in which he would like to introduce this Sand Mountain nectar.

White partook sparingly of the precious beverage, and then carefully replaced the bottle in its hidingplace under the bed.

Meantime the heavy throbs of wind and rain shook the cabin to its foundation.

When the mountaineer returned to his chair by the fire, Moreton inquired of him where the brandy was made.

" Oh, I dunno jest wher' hit air made, nohow. We calls hit the mounting jew," said White, glancing fur tively at his wife. By "jew "he meant dew. The peach brandy made in the sly little stills, scattered among the mountains from North Carolina to Alabama, is sometimes locally called mountain dew, or rather, " mounting jew." It is not the drink of drunkards. In fact the mountaineers, with now and then an excep tion, are remarkably temperate in the matter of tip pling; but the jug of "jew " is the special implement of their hospitality.

Chapter II. Milly

was a rain long to be remembered by the X dwellers in the Sand Mountain country. The thunder with which the storm had been heralded soon ceased, and the masses of black clouds spread them selves wide, softening into a smooth, leaden-colored sheet from horizon to horizon, whilst the rain, driven by a throbbing wind, trailed in a wavering flood over the rugged landscape. Every ravine and rocky gully became a torrent of muddy water. The noises of the storm united into a wide bellowing that throbbed heavily around the house whose friendly shelter Moreton was but too glad to retain.

The inmates of the place were not over-talkative, sitting for most of the time listening with rather solemn attention to the heavy beating of the wind and rain.

After an hour had passed and Moreton's clothes had dried somewhat, he was glad to accept his host's invi tation to go into the Colonel's part of the house. The glimpse he had caught of this sumptuous-looking room — sumptuous as compared with the rest of the uncouth, scantily furnished house — had set him to wondering what it could mean. As he passed through the low door-way the girl sprang up from a stool in front of an easel that stood near the middle of the floor. Her face was burning with the flush of one surprised in an act of the most furtive nature. Moreton paused, feel ing with quick certainty how deeply he was embar rassing her. She turned her large eyes on him with a startled, momentary stare, and letting fall a charcoal pencil, fairly ran out of the room, carrying with her what appeared to be a small block of drawing paper. On the easel was an unfinished but powerful sketch of a large pointer dog. The room was littered with evi dences of artistic and literary labor and recreation. The walls were lined with books. In the corners stood guns, fishing rods and other implements of sport by flood and field. On a table was a fine microscope, a tiny crucible and a blow-pipe. A pair of slippers sat on the broad hearth, and a sober-looking dressing-gown lay across a chair. Evidently the Colonel was a man who knew how to take his ease in his inn.

Moreton passed along by the book-shelves, glancing at the titles of the books, finding side by side the works of Stuart Mill and the poems of Andre Chenier, the novels of George Eliot and the rhymes of Jasmin the Troubadour, volumes of La Place, Goethe and Newton set among the stories of Thomas Hardy and William Black, whilst the poems of Longfellow and Tennyson and Keats were shoulder to shoulder with the latest fictions of Zola and Daudet. Copies of magazines and weekly literary and art journals were scattered promiscuously about in the room.

"The Colonel he air a outdacious quare man," said White, who had followed Moreton into the room, " but what he don't know hit ain't wo'th a knowin', though I can't jest see what good hit's a doin' of him. S'pose hit's fun for 'im, mebbe, to set here a drawin* of picters an' a writin' an' a paintin' an' all that air sort o' doin's. But then ef he wants to, an' he pays me for the use o' my house, hit's all proper I s'pect. Then he's all over a gentleman, the Colonel air, a perfect gen tleman, with a heart es big es a fodder-stack."

" Does the Colonel make this his permanent home ?" inquired Moreton, taking up a volume bound in old black leather, and glancing at its title page, on a space of which was written in a rather small but decidedly masculine hand, the name : John Mercer Reynolds.

" Fur more'n six years he's been right here constant, 'ceptin' when he'd go off for a while seein' to 'is busi ness an' sich. Thet's 'is name ther' wher'yer a readin' in the book. I can't read no writin', but I know 'at hit's 'is name, though ; Colonel John M. Reynolds, haint hit ? "

Moreton made no reply ; he was looking at the name in a musing way, his brows slightly contracted. Pres ently he turned to White and said :

"Where is Mr. Reynolds?"

" The Colonel he went out a huntin' this mornin* an* he haint come back yet. He'll be in 'fore long, a drippin' like a ash-hopper an' es wet es a swamp," answered White. Then, after a moment's pause he looked quizzically at Moreton and added :

" Ye don't hev any 'quaintance of the Colonel, hev ye?"

" I am not sure. The name is that of a friend of mine whom I have not seen for years. Is he tall and dark with deep gray eyes and — "

" Yes, sir, he air that kind of a man, an' he air finelookin* an' handsome an' hes ben all over ever' wher' an' knows all about most ever* thing an* ever* body. Yes, sir, that air Colonel he air a outdacious fine man."

"Yes, yes, he is, no doubt," Moreton responded absently, really quite unaware of what he was saying. His memory was busy with things of the past. Was it possible that he had thus again accidentally stumbled upon Reynolds? Of all the men he ever had met he liked Reynolds best. The very name had its fascina tion, just as something in the man himself had its mys terious charm, disconnected from any social, moral or intellectual attractiveness.

"Where did Mr. Reynolds come from when he came here ? " he demanded, coming suddenly and wholly back to himself and looking at White who had begun to move away.

*' The Colonel he kem f'm — kem f 'm — f'm — I couldn't say e'zactly wher' the Colonel kem f'm ; but som'ers in furren parts, I'm sartaing of thet."

" Six years ago, I think you told me."

" Yes, a leetle the rise of six. The Colonel he kem yer in Septem'er."

"Sings well, the Colonel, does he? "

" Sing ! dern, but ye orter heer 'im, strenger. He ken beat a meth'dis' nigger all to striffins. He air a singer for ter mek yer hair stan', the Colonel air."

" Plays superbly on the guitar?"

" On the git-tar ? Yer may say he does, strenger. When he plays onto the git-tar, I calls hit a pickin* onto the git ther', and the Colonel he ken git ther' with the bes' chunes 'at ever split the wind, dead sartaing."

White's sallow face betrayed, as he finished speaking, a perfect faith in the legitimacy of his humor, and Moreton felt bound to laugh.

At this point the girl came shyly to the door and said :

" Pap, dinner air ready."

Moreton could not refrain from looking boldly, even searchingly, into that sweet, innocent, half-vacant face. He felt an obscure pang enter his breast, as if in some way her pathetic, hopeless prettiness accused him. She was probably sixteen, and, though rather slight, remarkably well-formed and graceful. Her scant, coarse drapery served to indicate more than to hide her body's curves and the outlines of her supple limbs. It was her face, however, that had in it the power of leaving in Moreton's memory a haunting, elusive impression that would not go out. She did not take a seat with her parents and their guest at the table, but filled the place of serving maid, passing silently behind their chairs, offering the dishes of ill-cooked coarse food and anticipating with swift movements the needs of each.

" Ef the Colonel wus here now," said White, poising a piece of fried bacon between his plate and his mouth, " ye'd never git him to eat this yere kind er victuals. Nary time, sir. He'd hev br'iled chicken, er squir'l, an' white bread an' milk an' I don't know what all. The Colonel he air high tony dinktom 'bout what he chaws, le' me tell ye. He keeps a lot o' wine in 'is closet, 'an hit air outdacious fine liquor, too."

Moreton, whose eyes followed Milly at every fair opportunity, saw her lean over White's chair and heard her say in a low, earnest tone :

" Hush, Pap, John he wudn' like hit ef ye said so much 'bout his doin's. I wush ye'd keep still 'bout him anyhow."

It was little more than a pretense of eating with Moreton. The corn bread, collards, sweet potatoes and fat fried bacon, which were to be washed down with bitter coffee, did not suit his English appetite. Then, too, he was so busy with the thought of Reynolds and so troubled by the wistful face of this strangely beau tiful mountain girl, that even the choicest dinner might not have tempted him.

The rain held on steadily until far along in the after noon. Reynolds did not come, and when Moreton saw the clouds breaking away in the west, and heard the swash of the shower slowly sinking into a desultory pattering on the cabin roof, he sat down at the Colonel's desk and wrote a short note as follows :