The Soldier of the Valley | Page 4

home and these were home
people. My heart was open then and warm, and I took the seven little
Pulsifers to it. I took old Mrs. Bolum to it, too, for she tumbled the
clamoring infants aside and in her joy forgot the ruffles in the sleeves
of her wonderful purple silk. At her elbow hovered the tall, spare figure
of Aaron Kallaberger. Mindful of the military nature of the occasion he
appeared in his old army overcoat, in spite of the heat. Rare honor, this!
And better still, he hailed me as "Comrade," and enfolding my hand in
his long horny fingers, cried "All's well, Mark!"
The mill ceased its rumbling. Already the valley was rocking itself to
sleep. Out of the darkening sky rang the twanging call of a night-hawk,
and the cluck of a dozing hen sounded from the foliage overhead. A
flock of weary sheep pattered along the road, barnward bound, heavy
eyed and bleating softly. The blue gate was opened wide. My hand was
on Tim's shoulder and Tim's arm was my support.

"All's well!" I cried. For I was hobbling home.

II
Perry Thomas still had his speech to deliver. He hovered around the
rocking-chair in which they had enthroned me, and with one hand he
kept clutching violently at his throat as though he were suppressing his
eloquence by muscular effort. His repeated coughing seemed a constant
warning that at any moment he might be vanquished in the struggle for
becoming silence. There was a longing light in his eyes and a look of
appeal whenever our glances met. My position was embarrassing. He
knew that I realized his predicament, but how could I interrupt the
kindly demonstrations of the old friends who pressed about me, to
announce that the local orator had a formal address of welcome that
was as yet unspoken? And an opportunity like this might never again
occur in Perry's life! Here were gathered not only the people of the
village, but of the valley. His words would fall not alone on the ears of
a few choice spirits of the store forum, or the scoffing pedants of the
literary society, for crowded into that little room were old men whose
years would give weight to the declaration that it was the greatest
talking they had ever heard; were young children, who in after years,
when a neglected gravestone was toppling over all that was left of the
orator, would still speak of the wonders of his eloquence; were comely
women to whom the household was the world and the household task
the life's work, but who could now for the moment lift their bent forms
and have their dulled eyes turned to higher and better things. Moreover,
there were in that room a score of deep eyes that could not but quicken
at the sight of a slender, manly figure, clad in scholastic black, of a thin,
earnest face, with beetled brows and a classic forehead from which
swept waves of black hair. Little wonder Perry was restless under
restraint! Little wonder he grew more melancholy and coughed louder
and louder, as the light without faded away, and the faces within were
dimmed in the shadow!
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and pans and a babel of
women's voices, the shrill commands of old Mrs. Bolum rising above

them. The feast was preparing. Its hour was at hand. Apollo never was
a match for Bacchus, and Perry Thomas could not command attention
once Mrs. Bolum appeared on the scene. He realized this. Her cries
came as an inspiration to action. In the twilight I lost him, but the
lamp-light disclosed him standing over Henry Holmes, who had been
driven into a corner and was held prisoner there by a threatening finger.
There was a whispered parley that ended only when the old man
surrendered and, stepping to the centre of the room, rapped long and
loud on the floor with his cane.
Henry is always blunt. He has a way of getting right at the heart of
things with everyone except Bolum. For Isaac, he regards
circumlocution as necessary, taking the ground that with him the
quantity and not the quality of the words counts. So when he had
silenced the company, and with a sweep of his cane had driven them
into close order about the walls, he said: "Mr. Thomas is anxious to
make an address."
At this moment Mr. Thomas was about to step into the zone of fire of a
hundred eyes. There was a very audible titter in the corner where three
thoughtless young girls had squeezed themselves into one rocking-chair.
The orator heard it and brought his heels together with a click.
"Mind what I told you, Henery," he whispered