Nelson Lloyd - The Soldier of the Valley
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Nelson Lloyd >> The Soldier of the Valley
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"From what Tip says," I interjected.
"From what Tip says," she went on. "He was tellin' me about Earl and
Alice Eliza, and Pearl and Cevery and the rest of 'em. He says it's
jest a pickter to see 'em all in bed together--a perfect pickter."
"A perfect picture," said I sleepily.
"Tip must have a lovely home. Why, he tells me they have a
sewin'-machine."
"Lovely," said I. "And a spring-bed."
"And a double-heater stove," said she.
"And an accordion," said I.
"And a washin'-machine," said she.
"And two hogs."
"And he tells me he's going to git her a melodium."
"Indeed," said I. "Why, I thought he was never going back."
"To sech a lovely home?" The old woman held up her hands. "He's goin'
jest as soon as he gets that me-yule and you're able." She laid her
hand on my forehead. "There," she cried, "it's painin' you again, poor
thing--that terrible spot."
It was hurting, despite the Modern Miracle, and I closed my eyes to
bear it better. Over me, away off, as if from the heavens, I heard a
sonorous rumble of mystery words. I felt a hand softly stroking my
brow. But I didn't care. It was only Dutch, a foolish charm, a
heritage of barbarity and ignorance, but I was too weary to protest.
It entertained John Shadrack's widow, and I was going to sleep.
Tip was waiting for me to awake.
"I've got the mule," he said, when I opened my eyes, "and I thought you
was never goin' to quit sleepin'; I thought the widder was joshin' me
when she said you was all right; I thought mebbe she had drumpt it, she
sees so much in dreams."
"What day is this?" I asked.
"Sunday," Tip answered. "I 'low we'll start at daybreak to-morrow, and
by sundown we'll be in Six Stars."
"In Six Stars!" said I. "I thought you'd left Six Stars forever."
"That ain't here nor there," he snapped. "I've got to git you back."
"Then you won't go to-morrow," said I. "Look here--I can just lift my
hands to my head--that's all. It'll take a whole week's powwowing to
get me to sit up even."
"What did I tell you, Tip?" cried John Shadrack's widow. She handed me
a piece of gingerbread just to chew on till she got some breakfast for
me, and while I munched it, Tip and I argued it out.
"Nanny'll think I've left her," Tip said.
"You did, Tip," said I. "You ran away forever."
"She'll be gittin' married agin," pleaded Tip.
"Serves you right," said I. Then, to myself, "Not unless the other
man's an utter stranger."
"She hasn't enough wood chopped to last a week," said Tip.
"She chopped the last wood-pile herself," said I.
"There's Cevery," pleaded Tip. "Cevery never done me no harm, and
who'll dandle him?"
"The same good soul that dandled him the day you rode over the
mountain," I answered.
"But it's a good half mile from our house to the spring," Tip said,
"and who'll carry the water?"
"Earl and Pearl and Alice Eliza," I replied. "They've always done it;
why worry now?"
"Well, I don't care nohow," Tip cried, stamping the floor. "I want to
go back to Black Log."
"So do I, Tip," I said; "but--there's that bad spot on my head again."
"Now see what you've done with your argyin', Tip Pulsifer," cried the
old woman, running to me. "Poor thing--ain't the Miracle workin'?"
"I guess it is, but that's an awful bad spot--that's right, Widow,
powwow it."
* * * * * *
For ten long days more Mrs. Tip Pulsifer chopped her own wood, Cevery
went undandled, and Earl and Pearl and Alice Eliza carried the water
that half mile from the spring. For nine long days more John
Shadrack's widow entertained the two strangers who had sought a refuge
in Happy Valley, and found it. Rare pleasure did John Shadrack's widow
have from our visit. There seemed no way she could repay us. It did
her old heart good to have someone to whom she could recount the
manifold virtues of her John--and a wonderful man John was, I judge.
Had I not come, she might have lost the Heaven-given gift of powwowing,
for there is no sickness in Happy Valley--the people die without it.
It was a pleasure to have Mark settin' around the kitchen; it was
elevatin' to hear Tip tell of his home and his wife and children; and
as for cooking, it was no pleasure to cook for just one.
"You must come agin," she cried, on the morning of that ninth day, as
she stood in the doorway of her little log-house and waved her apron at
us. "It's been a treat to have you."
So we went away, Tip and I, with Harmon Shadrack's mule and the
battered buggy. Our backs were turned to the Sunset Land. Our faces
were toward the East and the red glow of the early morning. When we
saw Thunder Knob again, Happy Valley was far below us, and only the
thin spire of smoke drifting through the pines marked the Shadrack
clearing. I kissed my hand in farewell salute to it. Perhaps John's
widow saw me--she sees so much in her dreams.
"There's no place like Black Log," said Tip, as we turned the crest of
Thunder Knob. "Mind how pretty it is--mind the shadders on the ridge
yon--and them white barns. Mind the big creek--there by the kivered
bridge--ain't it gleamin' cheerful? There's no place like our walley."
XIX
It was dark when I reached home. Opening the door, I groped my way
across the room till I found the lamp and lighted it. Then I sat down
a minute to think. Two weeks is a very short time, but when you have
been over the mountains and back, when you have hovered for days close
to the banks of the Styx, when you have huddled for days close to the
Shadrack stove, listening to the widow's stories of her John and Tip's
praise of his wife, then a fortnight seems an age. But everything was
as I had left it. Even the pen leaned against the inkwell and the
scraps of paper littered the floor where I had tossed them that
morning, when Tip and I started over the mountain. Those scraps were
part of the letter I did not send to Mary. They flashed to me the
thought of the one I had sent, and of the answer I never expected. It
was foolish to look, but I had told her to slip her note under the
door, if she did send it, and I was taking no chances. Seizing the
lamp, I hobbled to the kitchen, and laughing to myself at the whole
absurd proceeding, leaned over and swept the floor with the light.
Right on the sill it lay, a small white envelope! I did not waste time
hobbling back to my chair and the table. I sat right down on the floor
with the lamp at my side, and tore open the note and read it.
"Dear Mark. Please come to me."
That was all she said. It was enough. It was all I wanted in the
world.
Once I had been disappointed, but now there was no mistaking it.
Upside down, backward and forward I read it, right side up and
criss-cross, rubbing my eyes a half a hundred times, but there was her
appeal--no question of it. After all, all was well. And when Mary
calls I must go, even if I have crossed two mountains and am
supperless. All the bitterness had gone. All those days of brooding
were forgotten, for I could go again up the road, my white road, to the
hill, and the light there would burn for me.
Then Tim came!
[Illustration: Then Tim came.]
I was still sitting on the floor when he came, reading the note over
and over, with the lamp beside me.
With Captain and Colonel at his heels he burst in upon me.
"Well, Mark, you scoundrel," he cried, laughing, as he caught me by the
arm and lifted me up. "Where have you been?"
"Travelling," I answered grimly. "And you--what are you doing here?"
"I came to find you," he said. "Do you suppose you can disappear off
the face of the earth for two weeks and that I will not be worried?
Why, I came from New York to hunt you up--just got here this afternoon
and was over at Bolum's when we saw the light. Now give an account of
yourself."
"It isn't necessary," said I, smiling complacently. I put the lamp on
the table and picked up my hat. "I'll be back in a while," I said.
"I'm going up to see Mary."
"To see Mary?" Tim cried.
"Yes, to see Mary," I answered.
Then, with a little flourish of triumph, I handed him her note.
Tim read it. His face became very grave, and he looked from it to me,
and then turned and, with an elbow resting on the mantel, stood gazing
down into the empty fireplace.
"Well?" I exclaimed, angered by his mood.
"This is two weeks old, Mark," he said, handing me the paper.
"What of it?" I cried querulously, putting on my hat and moving to the
door.
My hand was on the knob turning it, when Tim said, "Mary has left the
valley."
It did not bother me much when he said that. I was getting so used to
being knocked about that a blow or two more made little difference.
The knob was not turned though. It shot back with a click, and I
leaned against the door, staring at my brother.
"And when did she go?" I asked. "And where--back to Kansas?"
"To New York," Tim answered, "and with Weston--she has married Weston."
I was glad the door was there, for that trip over the mountain, with
the creek, and the powwowing and all that, had left me still a little
wobbly. Tim's announcement was not adding to my spirit. Long I gazed
at his quiet face; and I knew well enough that he was speaking the
truth. And, perhaps, after all, the truth was best. It was all over,
anyway, and we were just where we started before she came to the valley.
I was just where I was before I found that note lying on the door-sill.
I had been foolish, sitting there on the floor reading that message of
hers that she had belied. But that was only for a minute, and I would
never be foolish again. Trust me for that.
"She has married Weston," I said. "Well, the little flirt!"
Tim got down on the hearth and began piling paper and kindling and logs
in the fireplace. He started the blaze, and when it was going cheerily
he looked up to find me in my old chair by the table, with Captain
beside me, his head on my knee as I stroked it.
"The little flirt!" I said again, bound that he should hear me.
He heard. He took his old chair, and resting his elbows on the table,
resting his chin in his hands, a favorite attitude of his, he sat there
eying me quietly.
"The little what, Mark?" he said at last.
"Flirt," I snapped.
It was simply a braggart's way. I knew it. Tim knew it, too. He
seemed to look right through me. I was angry with him, I was jealous
of him, because she had cared for him. I knew she had. I knew why she
had. Tim and I were far apart. But he had made the breach. All the
wrong wrought was his, and yet he sat there, calmly eying me, as though
he were a righteous judge and I the culprit.
"Why did you say flirt?" he asked quietly.
"She promised to marry me," I said.
"Yes."
"She loved you, Tim."
"Yes--and how did you know it?"
"Perry Thomas saw you that night when you went to stay a minute."
The color left Tim's face and he leaned back in his chair, away from
the light into the shadow, and whistled softly.
"You knew it, then," he said, after a long while. "I didn't intend you
should, Mark. I didn't intend you ever should."
"Naturally," said I in an icy tone.
"Naturally," said he. His face came into the light again, and he
leaned there on the table, watching me as earnestly as ever.
"Naturally," he said again. "I was going away, Mark, never to bother
you nor her. Did I know then that you loved her? Had you ever told
me? Was I to blame for that moment when I knew I loved the girl and
that she loved me?"
"No. I never told you--that's true," I said.
"And yet I knew you cared for her, Mark. I could see that. I saw it
all those nights when you would leave me to go plodding up the hill.
That's why I went away."
"Why did you go away?" I cried. "You went to see the world and make
money----"
"I went because I loved the girl and you did, too," said Tim. And
looking into those quiet eyes, I knew that he spoke the truth and I had
been blind all this time. "Weston knew it," he went on. "He saw it
from the first. That's why he helped me."
"You are not at all an egotist," I sneered, trying to bear up against
him.
"Entirely so," he said calmly. "I even thought that I might win, Mark.
But then I had so much and you so little chance, I went away to forget.
Weston knew that. He knew, too, that there was no Edith Parker."
"And what has Edith Parker to do with all this?" I asked more gently,
for he was breaking down my barriers.
"She might have done much for you had I not come back when Weston was
shot. Couldn't you see, Mark, how angry Mary was with me for
forgetting her? But Weston knew it. And that night--that minute--I
only wanted to explain to Mary, and she saw it all, Mark, and I saw it
all--and we forgot. Then she told me of you."
"She told you rather late," said I.
"But she would have kept her promise. Couldn't you forgive her, Mark,
for that one moment of forgetting? It was just one moment, and I left
her then forever. We thought you'd never know."
"And thinking that, you came whistling down the road that night," I
sneered. "You came whistling like a man mightily pleased with his
conquest--or, perhaps you sang so gayly from sheer joy in your own
goodness. It seems to me at times like that a man would----"
"A man would whistle a bit for courage," Tim interrupted. "Couldn't he
do that, Mark? Couldn't he go away with his head up and face set, or
must he totter along and wail simply because he is doing a fair thing
that any man would do?"
"Why, in Heaven's name, couldn't you keep her for yourself?" I cried,
pounding the floor with my crutch.
Then, in my anger I arose and went stamping up and down the room, while
Tim sat there staring at me blankly. At last I halted by the fireplace
and stood there looking down at him very hard. I looked right into his
heart and read it. He winced and turned his face from me. I was the
righteous judge now and he the culprit.
"You left her, Tim," I said hotly. "You might have known the girl
could never marry me after that minute. You might have known she was
not the girl to deceive me--she would have told me; and then, Tim, do
you think that I would have kept her to her promise? Why didn't you
come to me and tell me?"
"For your sake, Mark, I didn't," Tim answered, looking up.
"And for my sake you left the girl there--you turned your back on her
and went away. Then in her perplexity she looked to me again, and I
had gone. I didn't know. I went away for her sake, and when she sent
for me I had forsaken her, too. That's a shabby way to treat a woman.
Do you wonder she turned to Weston?"
"No," Tim said, "for Weston is a man of men, he is--and he cared for
her--that's why he stayed in the valley."
"I knew that," said I, "for I saw it that day when he went away from me
to the charcoal clearing."
"Then think of the lonely girl up there on the hill, Mark," Tim said.
He joined me at the fireplace, and we stood side by side, as often we
had stood in the old days, warming our hands, and watching the
crackling flames. "Do you blame her? I had gone, vowing never to come
back again till she kept her promise to you; you had fled from her--she
wrote, and no word came. And Weston is a wise man and a kind man, and
when she turned to him she found comfort. Do you blame her?"
"No," I said, half hesitating.
"After all, it's better, too," Tim went on. "What could you have given
her, Mark--or I, compared to what his wealth means to a woman like
Mary?"
Wealth was not happiness. Money was not peace. Etches were a
delusion. Now she had them. That was what Weston would give her, and
I wished her joy. True, he loved the girl. True, he offered her just
what I did, and with it he gave those fleeting joys that wealth brings.
She should be happy--just as much so as if she had made herself a
fellow-prisoner with me here in the little valley. For what had I to
offer her? The love of a crippled veteran; the wealth of a petty
farmer; the companionship of a crotchety pedagogue. What joy it would
give her ambitious soul as the years went on to watch her husband
develop; to see him growing in the learning of the store; to have him
ranking first among the worthies of the bench; to greet him as he
hobbled home at night after a busy day at nothing! It was better as it
was--aye--a thousand times.
But there was Tim. What a man Tim was, and how blind I had been and
selfish! He stood before me tall and strong, watching me with his
quiet eyes, and as I looked at him I thought of Weston, the lanky
cynic, with his thin, homely face and loose-jointed, shambling walk.
Then I wondered at it all. Then I said to myself, "Is it best?"
"What makes you so quiet, Mark?" asked Tim.
"I was wishing, Tim," I answered, laying a hand on each of his broad
shoulders, "I was wishing you had kept her when you had her."
Tim laughed. It was his clear, honest laugh.
"It is best as it is," he said. "It's best for her and best for us,
for she'll be happy. But supposing one of us had won--would it have
been the same--the same as it was before she came--the same as it is
now?"
"No," I answered.
"No," he cried. "Now for supper--then our pipes--all of us
together--you in your chair and I in mine--and Captain and
Colonel--just as it used to be."
XX
Tim has gone back to the city after his first long vacation and here I
am alone again. He wants me to be with him and live down there in a
brick and mortar gulch where the sun rises from a maze of tall chimneys
and sets on oil refineries. I said no. Some day I may, but that day
is a long way off. In the fall I am to go for a week and we are to
have a fine time, Tim and I, but Captain and Colonel will have to be
content to hear about it when I get back. Surely it will give us much
to talk of in the winter nights, when we three sit by the fire
again--Captain and Colonel and I.
[Illustration: Old Captain.]
Tim says it is lonely for me here. Lonely? Pshaw! I know the ways of
the valley, and there is not a lonely spot in it from the bald top of
Thunder Knob to the tall pine on the Gander's head. I would have Tim
stay here with me, but he says no. He wants to win a marble mausoleum.
I shall be content to lie beneath a tree. Tim is ambitious.
Just a few nights ago, we sat smoking in the evening, warming our
hearts at the great hearth-stone. Thunder Knob was all aglow, and the
cloud coals were piled heaven-high above it, burning gold and red.
Down in the meadow Captain and Colonel raced from shock to shock on the
trail of a rabbit, and a flock of sheep, barnward bound, came bleating
along the road.
[Illustration: When we three sit by the fire.]
Tim began to suppose. He was supposing me a great lawyer and himself a
great merchant and all that. I lost all patience with him.
Suppose it all, Tim, I said. Suppose that you, the great tea-king, and
I, the statesman, sat here smoking. Would the cloud coals over there
on Thunder Knob blaze up higher in our honor? And the quail, perched
on the fence-stake, would she address herself to us or to Mr. Robert
White down in the meadow? Would the night-hawk, circling in the
clouds, strike one note to our glory? Could the bleating of the sheep
swing in sweeter to the music of the valley as she is rocked to sleep?
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