In Happy Valley
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IN HAPPY VALLEY
by
John Fox, Jr.
Illustrated By F. C. Yohn
New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1917
Copyright, 1916, 1917, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Published October, 1917
Copyright, 1905, 1906, By P. F. Collier & Son, Incorporated
To Hope,
Little Daughter of Richard Harding Davis.
CONTENTS
The Courtship of Allaphair
The Compact of Christopher
The Lord's Own Level
The Marquise of Queensberry
His Last Christmas Gift
The Angel from Viper
The Pope of the Big Sandy
The Goddess of Happy Valley
The Battle-Prayer of Parson Small
The Christmas Tree on Pigeon
ILLUSTRATIONS
"You stay hyeh with the baby," he said quietly, "an' I'll take yo'
meal home."
"You got him down!" she cried. "Jump on him an' stomp him!"
"Mammy," he said abruptly, "I'll stop drinkin' if you will."
"Let 'em loose!" he yelled. "Git at it, boys! Go fer him,
Ham--whoop-ee-ee!"
"Miss Hildy, Jeems Henery is the bigges' liar on Viper."
"I'm a-goin' to give it back to 'em. Churches, schools, libraries,
hospitals, good roads."
Night and day, and through wind and storm, she had travelled the hills,
healing the sick.
"O Lawd ... hyeh's another who meddles with thy servant and profanes
thy day."
THE COURTSHIP OF ALLAPHAIR
Preaching at the open-air meeting-house was just over and the citizens
of Happy Valley were pouring out of the benched enclosure within living
walls of rhododendron. Men, women, children, babes in arms mounted horse
or mule or strolled in family groups homeward up or down the dusty road.
Youths and maids paired off, dallying behind. Emerged last one rich,
dark, buxom girl alone. Twenty yards down the road two young
mountaineers were squatted in the shade whittling, and to one she
nodded. The other was a stranger--one Jay Dawn--and the stare he gave
her was not only bold but impudent.
"Who's goin' home with _that_ gal?" she heard him ask.
"Nobody," was the answer; "_that_ gal al'ays goes home _alone_." She heard
his snort of incredulity.
"Well, I'm goin' with her right now." The other man caught his arm.
"No, you ain't"--and she heard no more.
Athwart the wooded spur she strode like a man. Her full cheeks and lips
were red and her black, straight hair showed Indian blood, of which she
was not ashamed. On top of the spur a lank youth with yellow hair stood
in the path.
"How-dye, Allaphair!" he called uneasily, while she was yet some yards
away.
"How-dye!" she said unsmiling and striding on toward him with level eyes.
"Allaphair," he pleaded quickly, "lemme----"
"Git out o' my way, Jim Spurgill." The boy stepped quickly from the path
and she swept past him.
"Allaphair, lemme walk home with ye." The girl neither answered nor
turned her head, though she heard his footsteps behind her.
"Allaphair, uh, Allaphair, please lemme--" He broke off abruptly and
sprang behind a tree, for Allaphair's ungentle ways were widely known.
The girl had stooped for a stone and was wheeling with it in her hand.
Gingerly the boy poked his head out from behind the tree, prepared to
dodge.
"You're wuss'n a she-wolf in sucklin' time," he grumbled, and the girl
did not seem displeased. Indeed, there was a grim smile on her scarlet
lips when she dropped the stone and stalked on. It was almost an hour
before she crossed a foot-log and took the level sandy curve about a
little bluff, whence she could see the two-roomed log cabin that was
home. There were flowers in the little yard and morning-glories covered
the small porch, for, boyish as she was, she loved flowers and growing
things. A shrill cry of welcome greeted her at the gate, and she swept
the baby sister toddling toward her high above her head, fondled her
in her arms, and stopped on the threshold. Within was another man,
slight and pale and a stranger.
"This is the new school-teacher, Allaphair," said her mother. "He calls
hisself Iry Combs."
"How-dye!" said the girl, but the slight man rose and came forward to
shake hands. She flashed a frown at her mother a moment later, behind
the stranger's back; teachers boarded around and he might be there for
a week and perhaps more. The teacher was mountain born and bred, but he
had been to the Bluegrass to school, and he had brought back certain
little niceties of dress, bearing, and speech that irritated the girl.
He ate slowly and little, for he had what he called indigestion, whatever
that was. Distinctly he was shy, and his only vague appeal to her was in
his eyes, which were big, dark, and lonely.
It was a disgrace for Allaphair to have reached her years of
one-and-twenty without marrying, and the disgrace was just then her
mother's favorite theme. Feeling rather poorly, the old woman began on
it that afternoon. Allaphair had gone out to the woodpile and was
picking up an armful of firewood, and the mother had followed her. Said
Allaphair:
"I tell you agin an' agin I hain't got no use fer 'em--a-totin' guns an'
knives an' a-drinkin' moonshine an' fightin' an' breakin' up meetin's
an' lazin' aroun' ginerally. An' when they ain't that way," she added
contemptuously, "they're like that un thar. Look at him!" She broke into
a loud laugh. Ira Combs had volunteered to milk, and the old cow had just
kicked him over in the mud. He rose red with shame and anger--she felt
more than she saw the flash of his eyes--and valiantly and silently he
went back to his task. Somehow the girl felt a pang of pity for him, for
already she saw in his eyes the telltale look that she knew so well in
the eyes of men. With his kind it would go hard; and right she was to
the detail.
She herself went to St. Hilda to work and learn, but one morning she
passed his little schoolhouse just as he was opening for the day. From
a gable the flag of her country waved, and she stopped mystified. And
then from the green, narrow little valley floated up to her wondering
ears a song. Abruptly it broke off and started again; he was teaching
the children the song of her own land, which she and they had never
heard before. It was almost sunset when she came back and the teacher
was starting for home. He was ahead of her--she knew he had seen her
coming--but he did not wait for her, nor did he look back while she was
following him all the way home. And next Sunday he too went to church,
and after meeting he started for home alone and she followed alone. He
had never made any effort to speak to her alone, nor did he venture the
courting pleasantries of other men. Only in his telltale eyes was his
silent story plain, and she knew it better than if he had put it into
words. In spite of her certainty, however, she was a little resentful
that Sunday morning, for his slender figure climbed doggedly ahead, and
suddenly she sat down that he might get entirely out of her sight.
She got down on her hands and knees to drink from the little rain-clear
brook that tinkled across the road at the bottom of the hill, and all
at once lifted her head like a wild thing. Some one was coming down the
hill--coming at a dog-trot. A moment later her name was called, and it
was the voice of a stranger. She knew it was Jay Dawn, for she had heard
of him--had heard of his boast that he would keep company with her--and
she kept swiftly on. Again and again he called, but she paid no heed.
She glared at him fiercely when he caught up with her--and stopped.
He stopped. She walked on and he walked on. He caught her by the arm
when she stopped again, and she threw off his hold with a force that
wheeled him half around, and started off on a run. She stooped when
she next heard him close to her and whirled, with a stone in her hand.
"Go 'way!" she panted. "I'll brain ye!" He laughed, but he came no nearer.
"All right," he said, as though giving up the chase, but when she turned
the next spur there Jay was waiting for her by the side of the road.
"How-dye," he grinned. Three times he cut across ledge and spur and gave
her a grinning how-dye. The third time she was ready for him and she let
fly. The first stone whistled past his head with astonishing speed. The
second he dodged and the third caught him between the shoulders as he
leaped for a tree with an oath and a yell. And there she left him,
swearing horribly and frankly at her.
Jay Dawn did not go back to logging that week. Report was that he had
gone to "courtin' an' throwin' rocks at woodpeckers." Both statements
were true, but Jay was courting at long range. He hung about her house
a great deal. Going to mill, looking for her cow, to and fro from the
mission, Allaphair never failed to see Jay Dawn. He always spoke and he
never got answer. He always grinned, but his eye was threatening. To the
school-teacher he soon began to give special notice, for that was what
Allaphair seemed to be doing herself. He saw them sitting in the porch
together alone, going out to milk or to the woodpile. Passing her gate
one flower-scented dusk, he heard the drone of their voices behind the
morning-glory vines and heard her laugh quite humanly. He snorted his
disgust, but once when he saw the girl walking home with the teacher
from school he seethed with rage and bided his time for both. He did
spend much time throwing at woodpeckers, ostensibly, but he was not
practising for a rock duel with Allaphair. He had picked out the level
stretch of sandy road not far from Allaphair's house, which was densely
lined with rhododendron and laurel, and was carefully denuding it of
stones. When any one came along he was playing David with the birds;
a moment later he was "a-workin' the public road," but not to make the
going easier for the none too dainty feet of Allaphair. Indeed, the girl
twice saw him at his peculiar diversion, but all suspicion was submerged
in scorn.
The following Sunday things happened. On the way from church the girl had
come to the level stretch of sand. Beyond the vine-clad bluff and "a whoop
and a holler" further on was home. Midway of the stretch Jay Dawn stepped
from the bushes and blocked her way, and with him were his grin and his
threatening eye.
"I'm goin' to kiss ye," he said. Right, left, and behind she looked for
a stone, and he laughed.
"Thar hain't a rock between that poplar back thar and that poplar thar
at the bluff; the woodpeckers done got 'em all." There was no use to
run--the girl knew she was trapped and her breast began to heave. Slowly
he neared her, with one hand outstretched, as though he were going to
halter a wild horse, but she did not give ground. When she slapped at
his hand he caught her by one wrist, and then with lightning quickness
by the other. Quickly she bent her head, caught one of his wrists with
her teeth, and bit it to the bone, so that with an open cry of pain he
threw her loose. Then she came at him with her fists like a man, and she
fought like a man. Blow after blow she rained on him, and one on the
chin made him stagger. He could not hit back, so he closed in, and then
it was cavewoman and caveman. He expected her to bite again and scratch,
but she did neither--nor did she cry for help. She kept on like a man,
and after one blow in his stomach which made him sick she grappled like
a wrestler, which she was, and but for his own quickness would have
thrown him over her left knee. Each was in the straining embrace of the
other now and her heaving breast was crushed against his, and for a
moment he stood still.
"This suits me exactly," he cackled, and that made her furious and
turned her woman again. To keep her now from biting him he thrust his
right forearm under her chin and bent her slowly backward. Her right
fist beat his muscular back harmlessly--she caught him by the hair,
but unmindful he bent her slowly on.
"I'll have ye killed," she said savagely--"I'll have ye killed"; and
then suddenly he felt her collapse, submissive, and his lips caught hers.
"Thar now," he said, letting her loose; "you need a leetle tamin',
you do," and he turned and walked slowly away. The girl dropped to
the ground, weeping. But there was an exultant look in her eyes
before she reached home.
The teacher was sitting in the porch.
"_He_ never would 'a' done it," she muttered, and she hardly spoke to him.
A message from Jay Dawn reached the school-teacher the morning after the
"running of a set" at the settlement school. Jay had infuriated Allaphair
by his attentions to Polly Stidham from Quicksand. Allaphair had flirted
outrageously with Ira Combs the teacher, and in turn Jay got angry, not
at her but at the man. So he sent word that he would come down the next
Saturday and knock "that mullet-headed, mealy-mouthed, spindle-shanked
rat into the middle of next week," and drive him from the hills.
"Whut you goin' to do about it?" asked Allaphair, secretly thrilled.
To her surprise the little man seemed neither worried nor frightened.
"Nothing," he said, adding the final _g_ with irritating precision;
"but I have never backed out of a fight in my life." Allaphair could
hardly hold back a hoot of contempt.
"Why, he'll break you to pieces with his hands."
"Perhaps--if he gets hold of me." The girl almost shrieked.
"You hain't going to run?"
"I'm _not_ going to run; it's no disgrace to get licked."
"But if he crows over ye atterwards--whut'll you do then?"
The teacher made no answer, nor did he answer Jay's message. He
merely went his way, which was neither to avoid nor seek; so Jay
sought him. Allaphair saw him the next Friday afternoon, waiting
by the roadside--waiting, no doubt, for Ira Combs. Her first impulse
was to cross over the spur and warn the teacher, but curiosity as
to just what the little man would do got the better of her, and she
slipped aside into the bushes and crept noiselessly to a spot whence
she could peer out and see and hear all that might happen. Soon she
saw the school-teacher coming, as was his wont, leisurely, looking at
the ground at his feet and with his hands clasped behind his back. He
did not see the threatening figure waiting until Jay rose.
"Stop thar, little Iry," he sneered, and he whipped out his revolver
and fired. The girl nearly screamed, but the bullet cut into the dust
near Ira's right foot.
"Yuh danced purty well t'other night, an' I want to see ye dance some more
by yo'self. Git at it!" He raised his gun again and the school-teacher
raised one hand. He had grown very red and as suddenly very pale, but he
did not look frightened.
"You can kill me," he drawled quietly, "but I'm not going to dance for
you. Suppose you whoop me instead--I heard that was your intention."
Jay laughed.
"Air ye goin' to fight me?" he asked incredulously.
"I'd rather be licked than dance."
"All right," said Jay. "I'll lam' ye aroun' a little an' spank ye good
an' mebbe make ye dance atterwards." He unbuckled his pistol and tossed
it into the grass by the roadside.
"Will you fight fair?" asked Ira, still formal in speech. "No wrestling,
biting, or gouging."
"No wrasslin', no bitin', no gougin'," mimicked Jay, beginning to
revolve his huge fists around each other in country fashion. The
little man waited, his left arm outstretched and bent and his right
across and close to his chest, and the watching girl almost groaned.
Still his white, calm face, his steady eyes, and his lithe poise
fascinated her. She would not let Jay hurt him badly--she would come
out and take a hand herself. Jay opened one fist, and with his open
hand made a powerful, contemptuous sweep at Ira's head, and the girl
expected to see the little teacher fly off into the bushes and the fight
over. To her amazement Ira gave no ground at all. His feet never moved,
but like a blacksnake's head his own darted back; Jay's great hand fanned
the air, and as his own force whirled him half around, Allaphair had to
hold back a screech of laughter, for Ira had _slapped him_. Jay looked
puzzled, but with fists clinched, he rushed fiercely. Right and left
he swung, but the teacher was never there. Presently there was another
stinging smack on his cheek and another, as Ira danced about him like
the shadow of a magic lantern.
"He's a-tirin' him down," thought Allaphair, but she was wrong; Ira was
trying to make him mad, and that did not take much time or trouble. Jay
rushed him.
"No wrasslin'," called Ira quietly, at the same time stopping the rush
with a left-hand swing on Jay's chin that made the head wabble.
"I reckon he must be left-handed," thought the wondering Allaphair. There
are persons who literally do grind their teeth with rage and it is audible.
The girl heard Jay's now.
"He's goin' to kill him," she thought, and she got ready to do her part,
for with a terrible, hoarse grunt Jay had rushed. Like a greased rod of
steel the boy writhed loose from the big, crooked talons that reached for
his throat, and his right fist, knobbed on the end of another bar of steel,
came up under Jay's bent head with every ounce of the whole weight behind
it in the blow. It caught the big man on the point of the chin. Jay's head
snapped up and back violently, his feet left the ground, and his big body
thudded the road.
[Illustration]
"My God, he's knocked him down! My God, he's knocked him down!" muttered
the amazed girl. "You got him down!" she cried. "Jump on him an' stomp
him!" He turned one startled look toward her and--it is incredible--the
look even at that moment was shy; but he stood still, for Ira had picked
up the ethics as well as the skill of the art, of which nothing was known
in Happy Valley or elsewhere in the hills. So he stood still, his hands
open, and waited. For a while Jay did not move, and his eyes, when they
did open, looked dazed. He rose slowly, and as things came back to him his
face became suddenly distorted. Nothing alive could humiliate him that way
and still live; he meant to kill now.
"Look out!" screamed the girl. Jay rushed for the gun and Ira darted
after him; but there was a quicker flash from the bushes, and Jay found
his own gun pointed at his own breast and behind it Allaphair's black
eyes searing him.
"Huh!" she grunted contemptuously, and the silence was absolute while she
broke the pistol, emptied the cartridges into her hand, and threw them far
over into the bushes.
"Less go on home, Iry," she said, and a few steps away she turned and
tossed the gun at Jay's feet. He stooped, picked it up, and, twirling
it in his hand, looked foolishly after them. Presently he grinned, for
at bottom Jay was a man. And two hours later, amid much wonder and many
guffaws, he was telling the tale:
"The damned leetle spindle-shank licked me--licked _me_! An' I'll back
him agin anybody in Happy Valley or anywhar else--ef you leave out bitin',
gougin', and wrasslin'."
"Did ye lose yo' gal, too?" asked Pleasant Trouble.
"Huh!" said Jay, "I reckon _not_--she knows _her_ boss."
The two walked home slowly and in silence--Ira in front and Allaphair,
as does the woman in the hills, following close behind, in a spirit quite
foreign to her hitherto. The little school-teacher had turned shy again
and said never a word, but, as he opened the gate to let her pass through,
she saw the old, old telltale look in his sombre eyes. Her mother was
crooning in the porch.
"No ploughin' termorrer, mammy. Me an' Iry want the ole nag to go down
to the Couht House in the mornin'. Iry's axed me to marry him."
Perhaps every woman does not love a master--perhaps Allaphair had
found hers.
THE COMPACT OF CHRISTOPHER
The boy had come home for Sunday and must go back now to the Mission
school. He picked up his battered hat and there was no good-by.
"I reckon I better be goin'," he said, and out he walked. The mother
barely raised her eyes, but after he was gone she rose and from the low
doorway looked after his sturdy figure trudging up the road. His whistle,
as clear as the call of a quail, filled her ears for a while and then
was buried beyond the hill. A smaller lad clutched her black skirt,
whimpering:
"Wisht I c'd go to the Mission school."
"Thar hain't room," she said shortly.
"The teacher says thar hain't room. I wish to God thar was."
Still whistling, the boy trudged on. Now and then he would lift his
shrill voice and the snatch of an old hymn or a folk-song would float
through the forest and echo among the crags above him. It was a good
three hours' walk whither he was bound, but in less than an hour he
stopped where a brook tumbled noisily from a steep ravine and across
the road--stopped and looked up the thick shadows whence it came.
Hesitant, he stood on one foot and then on the other, with a wary
look down the road and up the ravine.
"I said I'd _try_ to git back," he said aloud. "I said I'd _try_."
And with this self-excusing sophistry he darted up the brook. The banks
were steep and thickly meshed with rhododendron, from which hemlock shot
like black arrows upward, but the boy threaded through them like a snake.
His breast was hardly heaving when he reached a small plateau hundreds of
feet above the road, where two branches of the stream met from narrower
ravines right and left. To the right he climbed, not up the bed of the
stream, but to the top of a little spur, along which he went slowly and
noiselessly, stooping low. A little farther on he dropped on his knees
and crawled to the edge of a cliff, where he lay flat on his belly and
peeked over. Below him one Jeb Mullins, a stooping, gray old man, was
stirring something in a great brass kettle. A tin cup was going the
round of three men squatting near. On a log two men were playing with
greasy cards, and near them another lay in drunken sleep. The boy
grinned, slid down through the bushes, and, deepening his voice all
he could, shouted:
"Throw up yo' hands!"
The old man flattened behind the big kettle with his pistol out. One
of the four men leaped for a tree--the others shot up their hands. The
card-players rolled over the bank near them, with no thought of where
they would land, and the drunken man slept on. The boy laughed loudly.
"Don't shoot!" he cried, and he came through the bushes jeering. The men
at the still dropped their hands and looked sheepish and then angry, as
did the card-players, whose faces reappeared over the edge of the bank.
But the old man and the young one behind the tree, who alone had got
ready to fight, joined in with the boy, and the others had to look
sheepish again.
"Come on, Chris!" said the old moonshiner, dipping the cup into the
white liquor and handing it forth full, "Hit's on me."
Christmas is "new Christmas" in Happy Valley. The women give scant heed
to it, and to the men it means "a jug of liquor, a pistol in each hand,
and a galloping nag." There had been target-shooting at Uncle Jerry's
mill to see who should drink old Jeb Mullins's moonshine and who should
smell, and so good was the marksmanship that nobody went without his
dram. The carousing, dancing, and fighting were about all over, and now,
twelve days later, it was the dawn of "old Christmas," and St. Hilda sat
on the porch of her Mission school alone. The old folks of Happy Valley
pay puritan heed to "old Christmas." They eat cold food and preserve a
solemn demeanor on that day, and they have the pretty legend that at
midnight the elders bloom and the beasts of the field and the cattle
in the barn kneel, lowing and moaning. The sun was just rising and the
day was mild, for a curious warm spell, not uncommon in the hills, had
come to Happy Valley. Already singing little workers were "toting rocks"
from St. Hilda's garden, corn-field, and vineyard, for it was Monday,
and every Monday they gathered--boys and girls--from creek and hillside,
to help her as volunteers. Far up the road she heard among them taunting
laughter and jeers, and she rose quickly. A loud oath shocked the air,
and she saw a boy chasing one of the workers up the vineyard hill. She
saw the pursuer raise his hand and fall, just as he was about to hurl a
stone. Then there were more laughter and jeers, and the fallen boy picked
himself up heavily and started down the road toward her--staggering. On
he came staggering, and when he stood swaying before her there was no
shocked horror in her face--only pity and sorrow.
"Oh, Chris, Chris!" she said sadly. The boy neither spoke nor lifted
his eyes, and she led him up-stairs and put him to bed. All day he
slept in a stupor, and it was near sunset when he came down, pale,
shamed, and silent. There were several children in the porch.
"Come, Chris!" St. Hilda said, and he followed her down to the edge of
the creek, where she sat down on a log and he stood with hanging head
before her.
"Chris," she said, "we'll have a plain talk now. This is the fourth
time you've been"--the word came with difficulty--"drunk."
"Yes'm."
"I've sent you away three times, and three times I've let you come
back. I let you come back after new Christmas, only twelve days ago."
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