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A Chilhowee Lily
by
“Mighty nigh all!” Crann exclaimed, triumphantly.
It was a moment of tense suspense. But it was not Crann’s policy to tantalize him further, however much the process might address itself to his peculiar interpretation of pleasure. “That thar pay agent o’ the mining company,” he explained, “he hed some sort’n comical name–oh, I remember now, Renfrow–Paul Renfrow–waal–ye know he war shot in the knee when the miners way-laid him.”
“I disremember now ef it war in the knee or the thigh,” Swofford interposed, heavily pondering.
Kinnicutt’s brow contracted angrily, and Crann broke into open wrath: “an’ I ain’t carin’, ye fool–what d’ ye interrupt fur like that?”
“Wall,” protested Swofford, indignantly, “ye said ‘ye know’ an’ I didn’t know.”
“An’ I ain’t carin’–the main p’int war that he could neither ride nor walk. So the critter crawled! Nobody knows how he gin the strikers the slip, but he got through ter old man Byars’s house. An’ thar he staid till Loralindy an’ the old ‘oman Byars nussed him up so ez he could bear the pain o’ bein’ moved. An’ he got old man Byars ter wagin him down ter Colb’ry, a-layin’ on two feather beds ‘count o’ the rocky roads, an’ thar he got on the steam kyars an’ he rid on them back ter whar he kem from.”
Kinnicutt seemed unable to longer restrain his impatience. He advanced a pace. “Ye appear ter ‘low ez ye air tellin’ news–I knowed all that whenst it happened a full year ago!”
“I reckon ye know, too, ez Loralindy hed no eyes nor ears fur ennybody else whilst he war hyar–but then he war good-lookin’ an’ saaft-spoken fur true! An’ now he hev writ a letter ter her!”
Crann grinned as Kinnicutt inadvertently gasped. “How do you uns know that!” the young man hoarsely demanded, with a challenging accent of doubt, yet prescient despair.
“‘Kase, bubby, that’s the way the story ’bout the lily got out. I was at the mill this actial day. The miller hed got the letter–hevin’ been ter the post-office at the Crossroads–an’ he read it ter her, bein’ ez Loralindy can’t read writin’. She warn’t expectin’ it. He writ of his own accord.”
A sense of shadows impended vaguely over all the illuminated world, and now and again a flicker of wings through the upper atmosphere betokened the flight of homing birds. Crann gazed about him absently while he permitted the statement he had made to sink deep into the jealous, shrinking heart of the young mountaineer, and he repeated it as he resumed.
“She warn’t expectin’ of the letter. She jes’ stood thar by the mill-door straight an’ slim an’ white an’ still, like she always be–ter my mind like she war some sort’n sperit, stiddier a sure enough gal–with her yaller hair slick an’ plain, an’ that old, faded, green cotton dress she mos’ always wears, an’ lookin’ quiet out at the water o’ the mill-dam ter one side, with the trees a-wavin’ behind her at the open door–jes’ like she always be! An’ arter awhile she speaks slow an’ saaft an axes the miller ter read it aloud ter her. An’ lo! old man Bates war rej’iced an’ glorified ter the bone ter be able ter git a peek inter that letter! He jes’ shet down the gates and stopped the mill from runnin’ in a jiffy, an’ tole all them loafers, ez hangs round thar mosly, ter quit thar noise. An’ then he propped hisself up on a pile o’ grist, an’ thar he read all the sayin’s ez war writ in that letter. An’ a power o’ time it tuk, an’ a power o’ spellin’ an’ bodaciously wrastlin’ with the alphabit.”
He laughed lazily, as he turned his quid of tobacco in his mouth, recollecting the turbulence of these linguistic turmoils.
“This hyar feller–this Renfrow–he called her in the letter ‘My dear friend’–he did–an’ lowed he hed a right ter the word, fur ef ever a man war befriended he hed been. He lowed ez he could never fur-get her. An’ Lord! how it tickled old man Bates ter read them sentiments–the pride-ful old peacock! He would jes’ stop an’ push his spectacles back on his slick bald head an’ say, ‘Ye hear me, Loralindy! he ‘lows he’ll never furget the keer ye tuk o’ him whenst he war shot an’ ailin’ an’ nigh ter death. An’ no mo’ he ought, nuther. But some do furget sech ez that, Loralindy–some do!'”