The Star in the Valley

HE first saw it in the twilight of a clear October evening. As the earliest planet sprang into the sky, an answering gleam shone red amid the glooms in the valley. A star too it seemed. And later, when the myriads of the fairer, whiter lights of a moonless night were all athrob in the great concave vault bending to the hills, there was something very impressive in that solitary star of earth, changeless and motionless beneath the ever-changing skies.

Chevis never tired of looking at it. Somehow it broke the spell that draws all eyes heavenward on starry nights. He often strolled with his cigar at dusk down to the verge of the crag, and sat for hours gazing at it and vaguely speculating about it. That spark seemed to have kindled all the soul and imagination within him, although he knew well enough its prosaic source, for he had once questioned the gawky mountaineer whose services he had secured as guide through the forest solitudes during this hunting expedition.

“That thar spark in the valley?” Hi Bates had replied, removing the pipe from his lips and emitting a cloud of strong tobacco smoke. “ ’T ain’t nothin’ but the light in Jerry Shaw’s house, ’bout haffen mile from the foot of the mounting. Yer pass that thar house when yer goes on the Christel road, what leads down the mounting off the Backbone. That’s Jerry Shaw’s house,— that’s what it is. He’s a blacksmith, an’ he kin shoe a horse toler’ble well when he ain’t drunk, ez he mos'ly is.”

“ Perhaps that is the light from the forge,” suggested Chevis.

“That thar forge ain’t run more’n half the day, let ’lone o’ nights. I hev never hearn tell on Jerry Shaw a-workin’ o’ nights, —nor in the daytime nuther, ef he kin git shet of it. No sech no’count critter ’twixt hyar an’ the Settlemint.”

So spake Chevis’s astronomer. Seeing the star even through the prosaic lens of stern reality did not detract from its poetic aspect. Chevis never failed to watch for it. The first faint glinting in the azure evening sky sent his eyes to that red reflection suddenly aglow in the valley; even when the mists rose above it and hid it from him, he gazed at the spot where it had disappeared, feeling a calm satisfaction to know that it was still shining beneath the cloudcurtain. He encouraged himself in this bit of sentimentality. These unique even-tide effects seemed a fitting sequel to the picturesque day, passed in flying, with horn and hounds, after the deer through the gorgeous autumnal forest; or silently stalking amid their hidden haunts; or lying deep in the odorous ferns, with rod and reel, beside the swirling mountain stream; or hunting the timid wild fowl with a thoroughly-trained dog; and coming back in the crimson sunset to a well-appointed tent and a smoking supper of venison, or grouse, or bass, —the trophies of his skill. The vague dreaminess of his cigar and the charm of that bright bit of color in the night-shrouded valley added a sort of romantic zest to these primitive enjoyments, and ministered to that keen susceptibility of impressions which Reginald Chevis considered eminently characteristic of a highly wrought mind and nature.

He said nothing of his fancies, however, to his fellow-sportsman, Ned Varney, nor to the mountaineer. Infinite as was the difference between these two in mind and cultivation, his observation of both had convinced him that they were alike incapable of appreciating and comprehending his delicate and dainty musings. Varney was essentially a man of this world; his mental and moral conclusions had been adopted in a calm, mercantile spirit, as giving the best return for the outlay, and the market was not liable to fluctuations. And the mountaineer could go no further than the prosaic fact of the light in Jerry Shaw’s house. Thus Reginald Chevis was wont to sit in contemplative silence on the crag until his cigar was burnt out, and afterward to lie awake deep in the night, listening to the majestic lyric welling up from the thousand nocturnal voices of these Alleghany wilds.

During the day, in place of the red light a gauzy little curl of smoke was barely visible, the only sign or suggestion of human habitation to be seen from the crag in all the many miles of long, narrow valley and parallel tiers of ranges. Sometimes Chevis and Varney caught sight of it from lower down on the mountain side, whence was faintly distinguishable the little log-house and certain vague lines marking a rectangular inclosure; near at hand, too, the forge, silent and smokeless. But it did not immediately occur to either of them to theorize concerning its inmates and their lives in this lonely place; for a time, not even to the speculative Chevis. As to Varney, he gave his whole mind to the matter in hand, — his breech-loader, his dog, his game, — and his note-book was as systematic and as romantic as the ledger at home.

It might be accounted an event in the history of that log-hut when Reginald Chevis, after riding past it eighty yards or so, chanced one day to meet a country girl walking toward the house. She did not look up, and he caught only an indistinct glimpse of her face. She spoke to him, however, as she went by, which is the invariable custom with the inhabitants of the sequestered nooks among the encompassing hills, whether meeting stranger or acquaintance. He lifted his hat in return, with that punctilious courtesy which he made a point of according to persons of low degree. In another moment she had passed down the narrow sandy road, overhung with gigantic trees, and, at a deft, even pace, hardly slackened as she traversed the great log extending across the rushing stream, she made her way up the opposite hill, and disappeared gradually over its brow.

The expression of her face, half-seen though it was, had attracted his attention. He rode slowly along, meditating. “Did she go into Shaw’s house, just around the curve of the road ? ” he wondered. “Is she Shaw’s daughter, or some visiting neighbor?”

That night he looked with a new interest at the red star, set like a jewel in the floating mists of the valley.

“Do you know,” he asked of Hi Bates, when the three men were seated, after supper, around the camp-fire, which sent lurid tongues of flame and a thousand bright sparks leaping high in the darkness, and illumined the vistas of the woods on every side, save where the sudden crag jutted over the valley, — “ Do you know whether Jerry Shaw has a daughter, — a young girl? ”

“ Ye-es,” drawled Hi Bates, disparagingly, “ he hev. ”

A pause ensued. The star in the valley was blotted from sight; the rising mists had crept to the verge of the crag; nay, in the undergrowth fringing the mountain’s brink there were softly clinging white wreaths.

“ Is she pretty? ” asked Chevis.

“ Waal, no, she ain’t,” said Hi Bates, decisively. “ She’s a pore, no-’count critter.” Then he added, as if he were afraid of being misapprehended, “ Not ez thar is any harm in the gal, yer onderstand. She’s a mighty good, softspoken, quiet sort o’ gal, but she’s a pore, white-faced, slim little critter. She looks like she hain’t got no sort ’n grit in her. She makes me think o’ one o’ them slim little slips o’ willow every time nor I sees her. She hain’t got long ter live, I reckon,” concluded Hi Bates, dismally.

Reginald Chevis asked him no more questions about Jerry Shaw’s daughter.

Not long afterward, when Chevis was hunting through the deep woods about the base of the mountain near the Christel road, his horse happened to cast a shoe. He congratulated himself upon his proximity to the forge, for there was a possibility that the blacksmith might be at work; according to the account which Hi Bates had given of Jerry Shaw’s habits, there were half a dozen chances against it. But the shop was at no great distance, and he set out to find his way back to the Christel road, guided by sundry well-known landmarks on the mountain side: certain great crags hanging above the tree-tops, showing in grander sublimity through the thinning foliage, or beetling bare and grim; a dismantled and deserted hovel, the redberried vines twining amongst the rotting logs; the full flow of a tumultuous stream making its last leap down a precipice eighty feet high, with yeasty, maddening waves below and a rainbowcrowned crystal sheet above. And here again the curves of the woodland road. As the sound of the falling water grew softer and softer in the distance, till it was hardly more than a drowsy murmur, the faint vibrations of a far-off anvil rang upon the air. Welcome indeed to Chevis, for however enticing might be the long rambles through the redolent October woods with dog and gun, he had no mind to tramp up the mountain to his tent, five miles distant, leading the resisting horse all the way. The afternoon was so clear and so still that the metallic sound penetrated far through the quiet forest. At every curve of the road he expected to see the log-cabin with its rail fence, and beyond the lowhanging chestnut-tree, half its branches resting upon the roof of the little shanty of a blacksmith’s shop. After many windings a sharp turn brought him full upon the humble dwelling, with its background of primeval woods and the purpling splendors of the western hills. The chickens were going to roost in a stunted cedar-tree just without the door; an incredibly old man, feeble and bent, sat dozing in the lingering sunshine on the porch; a girl, with a pail on her head, was crossing the road and going down a declivity toward a spring which bubbled up in a cleft of the gigantic rocks that were piled one above another, rising to a great height. A mingled breath of cool, dripping water, sweetscented fern, and pungent mint greeted him as he passed it. He did not see the girl’s face, for she had left the road before he went by, but he recognized the slight figure, with that graceful poise acquired by the prosaic habit of carrying weights upon the head, and its lithe, swaying beauty reminded him of the mountaineer’s comparison, — a slip of willow.

And now, under the chestnut-tree, in anxious converse with Jerry Shaw, who came out hammer in hand from the anvil, concerning the shoe to be put on Strathspey’s near fore-foot, and the problematic damage sustained since the accident, Chevis’s own theory occupied some minutes in expounding, and so absorbed his attention that he did not observe, until the horse was fairly under the blacksmith’s hands, that, despite Jerry Shaw’s unaccustomed industry, this was by no means a white-letter day in his habitual dissipation. He trembled for Strathspey, but it was too late now to interfere. Jerry Shaw was in that stage of drunkenness which is greatly accented by an elaborate affectation of sobriety. His desire that Chevis should consider him perfectly sober was abundantly manifest in his rigidly steady gait, the preternatural gravity in his bloodshot eyes, his sparingness of speech, and the difficulty with which he enunciated the acquiescent formulæ which had constituted his share of the conversation. Now and then, controlling his faculties by a great effort, he looked hard at Chevis to discover what doubts might be expressed in his face concerning the genuineness of this staid deportment; and Chevis presently found it best to affect too. Believing that the blacksmith’s histrionic attempts in the rôle of sober artisan were occupying his attention more than the paring of Strathspey’s hoof, which he held between his knees on his leather apron, while the horse danced an animated measure on the other three feet, Chevis assumed an appearance of indifference, and strolled away into the shop. He looked about him, carelessly, at the horseshoes hanging on a rod in the rude aperture that served as window, at the wagon-tires, the plowshares, the glowing fire of the forge. The air within was unpleasantly close, and he soon found himself again in the door-way.

“ Can I get some water here? ” he asked, as Jerry Shaw reëntered, and began hammering vigorously at the shoe destined for Strathspey.

The resonant music ceased for a moment. The solemn, drunken eyes were slowly turned upon the visitor, and the elaborate affectation of sobriety was again obtrusively apparent in the blacksmith’s manner. He rolled up more closely the blue-checked homespun sleeve from his corded hammer-arm, twitched nervously at the single suspender that supported his copper-colored jean trousers, readjusted his leather apron hanging about his neck, and, casting upon Chevis another glance, replete with a challenging gravity, fell to work upon the anvil, every heavy and well-directed blow telling with the precision of machinery.

The question had hardly been heard before forgotten. At the next interval, when he was going out to fit the horse, Chevis repeated his request.

“Water, did yer say ?” asked Jerry Shaw, looking at him with narrowing eyelids, as if to shut out all other contemplation that he might grapple with this problem. “ Thar ’s no fraish water hyar, but yer kin go yander ter the house and ax fur some; or,” he added, shading his eyes from the sunlight with his broad, blackened right hand, and looking at the huge broken wall of stone beyond the road, “yer kin go down yander ter the spring, an’ ax that thar gal fur a drink.”

Chevis took his way, in the last rays of sunshine, across the road and down the declivity in the direction indicated by the blacksmith. A cool gray shadow fell upon him from the heights of the great rocks, as he neared them; the narrow path leading from the road grew dank and moist, and presently his feet were sunk in the still green and odorous water-loving weeds, the clumps of fern, and the pungent mint. He did not notice the soft verdure; he did not even see the beautiful vines that hung from earth-filled niches among the rocks, and lent to their forbidding aspect something of a smiling grace; their picturesque grouping, where they had fallen apart to show this sparkling fountain of bright up-springing water, was all lost upon his artistic perceptions. His eyes were fixed on the girl standing beside the spring, her pail filled, but waiting, with a calm, expectant look on her face, as she saw him approaching.

No creature could have been more coarsely habited: a green cotton dress, faded to the faintest hue; rough shoes, just visible beneath her skirts; a dappled gray and brown calico sun-bonnet, thrown aside on a moss-grown bowlder near at hand. But it seemed as if the wild nature about her had been generous to this being toward whom life and fortune had played the niggard. There were opaline lights in her dreamy eyes which one sees nowhere save in sunset clouds that brood above dark hills; the golden sunbeams, all faded from the landscape, had left a perpetual reflection in her bronze hair; there was a subtle affinity between her and other pliant, swaying, graceful young things, waving in the mountain breezes, fed by the rain and the dew. She was hardly more human to Chevis than certain lissome little woodland flowers, the very names of which he did not know, — pure white, star - shaped, with a faint green line threading its way through each of the five delicate petals; he had seen them embellishing the banks of lonely pools, or growing in dank, marshy places in the middle of the unfrequented road, where perhaps it had been mended in a primitive way with a few rotting rails.

“ May I trouble you to give me some water? ” said Chevis, prosaically enough. She neither smiled nor replied. She took the gourd from the pail, dipped it into the lucent depths of the spring, handed it to him, and stood awaiting its return when he should have finished. The cool, delicious water was drained, and he gave the gourd back. “I am much obliged,” he said.

“ Ye ’re welcome,” she replied, in a slow, singing monotone. Had the autumn winds taught her voice that melancholy cadence?

Chevis would have liked to hear her speak again, but the gulf between his station and hers — so undreamed of by her (for the differences of caste are absolutely unknown to the independent mountaineers), so patent to him — could be bridged by few ideas. They had so little in common that for a moment he could think of nothing to say. His cogitation suggested only the inquiry, “Do you live here? ” indicating the little house on the other side of the road.

“ Yes,” she chanted in the same monotone, “ I lives hyar.”

She turned to lift the brimming pail. Chevis spoke again: “Do you always stay at home? Do you never go anywhere? ”

Her eyes rested upon him, with a slight surprise looking out from among their changing lights. “ No,” she said, after a pause; “ I hev no call to go nowhar ez I knows on.”

She placed the pail on her head, took the dappled sun-bonnet in her hand, and went along the path with the assured, steady gait and the graceful backward poise of the figure that precluded the possibility of spilling a drop from the vessel.

He had been touched in a highly romantic way by the sweet beauty of this little woodland flower. It seemed hard that so perfect a thing of its kind should be wasted here, unseen by more appreciative eyes than those of bird, or rabbit, or the equally uncultured human beings about her; and it gave him a baffling sense of the mysterious injustice of life to reflect upon the difference in her lot and that of others of her age in higher spheres. He went thoughtfully through the closing shadows to the shop, mounted the reshod Strathspey, and rode along the rugged ascent of the mountain, gravely pondering on worldly inequalities.

He saw her often afterward, although he never spoke to her but once again. He sometimes stopped as he came and went on the Christel road, and sat chatting with the old man, her grandfather, on the porch, sunshiny days, or lounged in the barn-like door of Jerry Shaw’s shop talking to the half-drunken blacksmith. He piqued himself upon the readiness with which he became interested in these people, entered into their thoughts and feelings, obtained a comprehensive idea of the machinery of life in this wilderness, — more complicated than one could readily believe, looking upon the changeless face of the wide, unpopulated expanse of mountain ranges stretching so far beneath that infinite sky. They appealed to him from the basis of their common humanity, he thought, and the pleasure of watching the development of the common human attributes in this peculiar and primitive state of society never palled upon him. He regarded with contempt Varney’s frivolous displeasure and annoyance because of Hi Bates’s utter insensibility to the difference in their social position, and the necessity of either acquiescing in the supposititious equality or dispensing with the invaluable services of the proud and independent mountaineer; because of the palois of the untutored people, to hear which, Varney was wont to declare, set his teeth on edge; because of their narrow prejudices, their mental poverty, their idle shiftlessness, their uncouth dress and appearance. Chevis flattered himself that he entertained a broader view. He had not even a subacute idea that he looked upon these people and their inner life only as picturesque bits of the mental and moral landscape; that it was an æsthetic and theoretical pleasure their contemplation afforded him; that he was as far as ever from the basis of common humanity.

Sometimes while he talked to the old man on the sun-lit porch the “ slip o' willow ” sat in the door-way, listening too, but never speaking. Sometimes he would find her with her father at the forge, her fair, ethereal face illumined with an alien and fluctuating brilliancy, shining and fading as the breath of the fire rose and fell. He came to remember that face so well that in a sorry sketch-book, where nothing else was finished, there were several laborious pages lighted up with a faint reflection of its beauty. But he was as much interested perhaps, though less poetically, in that massive figure, the idle blacksmith. He looked at it all from an ideal point of view. The star in the valley was only a brilliant set in the night landscape, and suggested a unique and pleasing experience.

How should he imagine what luminous and wistful eyes were turned upward to where another star burned, — the light of his camp-fire on the crag; what pathetic, beautiful eyes had learned to watch and wait for that red gleam high on the mountain’s brow, — hardly below the stars in heaven it seemed! How could he dream of the strange, vague, unreasoning trouble with which his idle comings and goings had clouded that young life, a trouble as strange, as vague, as vast, as the limitless sky above her.

She understood him as little. As she sat in the open door-way, with the flare of the fire behind her, and gazed at the red light shining on the crag, she had no idea of the heights of worldly differences that divided them, — more insurmountable than precipices and flying chutes of mountain torrents, and chasms and fissures of the wild ravine; she knew nothing of the life he had left, and of its rigorous artificialities and gradations of wealth and estimation. And with a heart full of pitiable unrealities she looked up at the glittering simulacrum of a star on the crag, while he gazed down on the ideal star in the valley.

The weeks had worn deep into November. Chevis and Varney were thinking of going home; indeed, they talked of breaking camp day after to-morrow, and saying a long adieu to wood and mountain and stream. They had had an abundance of good sport and a surfeit of roughing it. They would go back to town and town avocations invigorated by their holiday, and taking with them a fresh and exhilarating recollection of the forest life left so far behind.

It was near dusk, on a dull, cold evening, when Chevis dismounted before the door of the blacksmith’s little log-cabin.

The chestnut-tree hung desolate and bare on the eaves of the forge; the stream rushed by in swift gray whirlpools under a sullen gray sky; the gigantic wall of broken rocks loomed gloomy and sinister on the opposite side of the road, — not so much as a withered leaf of all their vines clung to their rugged surfaces. The mountains had changed color: the nearest ranges were black with the myriads of the grim black branches of the denuded forest; far away they stretched in parallel lines, rising tier above tier, and showing numberless gradations of a dreary, neutral tint, which grew ever fainter in the distance, till merged in the uniform tone of the sombre sky.

In-doors it was certainly more cheerful. A hickory fire dispensed alike warmth and light. The musical whir of a spinning-wheel added its unique charm. From the rafters depended numberless strings of bright red pepper-pods and ears of pop-corn; hanks of woolen and cotton yarn; bunches of medicinal herbs; brown gourds and little bags of seeds. On rude shelves against the wall were ranged cooking utensils, drinking vessels, etc., all distinguished by that scrupulous cleanliness which is a marked feature of the poor hovels of these mountaineers, and in striking contrast to the poor hovels of lowlanders. The rushbottomed chairs, drawn in a semicircle before the rough, ill-adjusted stones which did duty as hearth, were occupied by several men, who seemed to be making the blacksmith a prolonged visit; various members of the family were humbly seated on sundry inverted domestic articles, such as wash-tubs, and split-baskets made of white oak. There was circulating among Jerry Shaw’s friends a flat bottle, facetiously denominated “ tickler,” readily emptied, but as readily replenished from a keg in the corner. Like the widow’s cruse of oil that keg was miraculously never empty. The fact of a still near by in the wild ravine might suggest a reason for its perennial flow. It was a good strong article of apple-brandy, and its effects were beginning to be distinctly visible.

Truly the ethereal woodland flower seemed strangely incongruous with these brutal and uncouth conditions of her life, as she stood at a little distance from this group, spinning at her wheel. Chevis felt a sudden sharp pang of pity for her when he glanced toward her; the next instant he had forgotten it in his interest in her work. It was altogether at variance with the ideas which he had hitherto entertained concerning that humble handicraft. There came across him a vague recollection from his city life that the peasant girls of art galleries and of the lyric stage were wont to sit at the wheel. “But perhaps they were spinning flax,” he reflected. This spinning was a matter of walking back and forth with smooth, measured steps and graceful, undulatory motion; a matter, too, of much pretty gesticulation, — the thread in one hand, the other regulating the whirl of the wheel. He thought he had never seen attitudes so charming.

Jerry Shaw hastened to abdicate and offer one of the rush-bottomed chairs with the eager hospitality characteristic of these mountaineers, — a hospitality that meets a stranger on the threshold of every hut, presses upon him, ungrudgingly, its best, and follows him on his departure with protestations of regret out to the rickety fence. Chevis was more or less known to all of the visitors, and after a little, under the sense of familiarity and the impetus of the applebrandy, the talk flowed on as freely as before his entrance. It was wilder and more antagonistic to his principles and prejudices than anything he had hitherto heard among these people, and he looked on and listened, interested in this new development of the phase of life which he had thought he had sounded from its lowest note to the top of its compass. He was glad to remain; the scene had impressed his cultivated perceptions as an interior by Teniers might have done, and the vehemence and lawlessness of the conversation and the threats of violence had little reality for him; if he thought about the subject under discussion at all, it was with a reassuring conviction that before the plans could be carried out the already intoxicated mountaineers would be helplessly drunk. Nevertheless, he glanced ever and anon at the young girl, loath that she should hear it, lest its virulent, angry bitterness should startle her. She was evidently listening, too, but her fair face was as calm and untroubled as one of the pure white faces of those flower-stars of his early stay in the mountains.

“Them Peels ought n’t ter be let live! ” exclaimed Elijah Burr, a gigantic fellow, arrayed in brown jeans, with the accompaniments of knife, powder-horn, etc., usual with the hunters of the range; his gun stood, with those of the other guests, against the wall in a corner of the room. “ They ought n’t ter be let live, an’ I’d top off all three of ’em fur the skin an’ horns of a deer.”

“That thar is a true word,” assented Jerry Shaw. “ They oughter be run down an’ kilt, — all three o’ them Peels.”

Chevis could not forbear a question. Always on the alert to add to his stock of knowledge of men and minds, always analyzing his own inner life and the inner life of those about him, he said, turning to his intoxicated host, “ Who are the Peels, Mr. Shaw, — if I may ask? ”

“ Who air the Peels? ” repeated Jerry Shaw, making a point of seizing the question. “ They air the meanest men in these hyar mountings. Yer might hunt from Copperhead Ridge ter Christel River, an’ the whole spread o’ the valley, an' never hear tell o’ no sech no’count critters.”

“They ought n’t ter be let live!” again urged Elijah Burr. “ No man ez treats his wife like that dad - burned scoundrel Ike Peel do oughter be let live. That thar woman is my sister an’ Jerry Shaw’s cousin, — an’ I shot him down in his own door year afore las’. I shot him ter kill; but somehow ’nother I war that shaky, an’ the cussed gun hung fire a-fust, an’ that thar pore wife o’ his’n screamed an’ hollered so, that I never done nothin’ arter all but lay him up for four month an’ better for that thar pore critter ter nuss. He ’ll see a mighty differ nex’ time I gits my chance. An' ’t ain’t fur off,” he added threateningly.

“Would n't it be better to persuade her to leave him? ” suggested Chevis pacifically, without, however, any wild idea of playing peace-maker between fire and tow.

Burr growled a fierce oath, and then was silent.

A slow fellow on the opposite side of the fireplace explained: “ Thar’s whar all the trouble kem from. She would n’t leave him, fur all he treated her awful. She said ez how he war mighty good ter her when he warn’t drunk. So ’Lijah shot him.”

This way of cutting the Gordian knot of domestic difficulties might have proved efficacious but for the shakiness induced by the thrill of fraternal sentiment, the infusion of apple-brandy, the protest of the bone of contention, and the hanging fire of the treacherous gun. Elijah Burr could remember no other failure of aim for twenty years.

“ He won’t git shet of me that easy agin! ” Burr declared, with another pull at the flat tickler. “ But ef it hed n’t hev been fur what happened las’ week,

I mought hev let him off fur awhile,” he continued, evidently actuated by some curiously distorted sense of duty in the premises. “ I oughter hev kilt him afore. But now the cussed critter is a gone coon. Dad-burn the whole tribe! ”

Chevis was desirous of knowing what had happened last week. He did not, however, feel justified in asking more questions. But “ apple-jack ” is a potent tongue-loosener, and the unwonted communicativeness of the stolid and silent mountaineers attested its strength in this regard. Jerry Shaw, without inquiry, enlightened him.

“ Yer see,” he said, turning to Chevis, “’Lijah he thought ez how ef he could git that fool woman ter come ter his house, he could shoot Ike fur his meanness ’thout botherin’ of her, an’ things would all git easy agin. Waal, he went thar one day when all them Peels, the whole lay-out, war gone down ter the Settlement ter hear the rider preach, an’ he jes’ run away with two of the brats, — the littlest ones, yer onderstand, — a-thinkin’ he mought tole her off from Ike that thar way. We hearn ez how the pore critter war nigh on ter distracted ’bout ’em, but Ike never let her come arter ’em. Leastways, she never come. Las’ week Ike come fur ’em hisself, — him an' them two cussed brothers o’ his’n. All ’Lijah’s folks war out’n the way; him an’ his boys war off a-huntin’, an’ his wife hed gone down ter the spring, a haffen mile an’ better, a-washin’ clothes; nobody war ter the house ’ceptin’ them two chillen o’Ike’s. An’ Ike an’ his brothers jes’ tuk the chillen away, an’ set fire ter the house; an’ time ’Lijah’s wife got thar, ’t war nothin' but a pile o’ ashes. So we ’ve determinated ter go up yander ter Laurel Notch, twenty mile along the ridge of the mounting, ter-night, an’ wipe out them Peels,— ’kase they air a-going ter move away. That thar wife o’ Ike’s, what made all the trouble, hev fretted an’ fretted at Ike till he hev determinated ter break up an’ wagon across the range ter Kaintucky, whar his uncle lives in the hills thar. Ike hev gin his consent ter go jes’ ter pleasure her, ’kase she air mos’ crazed ter git Ike away whar ’Lijah can’t kill him. Ike’s brothers is a-goin’, too. I hearn ez how they ’ll make a start at noon ter-morrer.”

“ They’ll never start ter Kaintucky ter-morrer,” said Burr, grimly. “They ’ll git off, afore that, fur hell, stiddier Kaintucky. I hev been a-tryin’ ter make out ter shoot that thar man ever sence that thar gal war married ter him, seven year ago, — seven year an’ better. But what with her a-foolin’ round, an’ a-talkin’, an’ a-goin’ on like she war distracted — she run right ’twixt him an’ the muzzle of my gun wunst, or I would hev hed him that time fur sure — an’ somehow ’nother that critter makes me so shaky with her ways of goin’ on that I feel like I hain’t got good sense, an’ can’t git no good aim at nothin’. Nex’ time, though, thar ’ll be a differ. She ain’t a-goin’ ter Kaintucky along of him ter be beat fur nothin’ when he’s drunk.”

It was a pitiable picture presented to Chevis’s open-eyed imagination,— this woman standing for years between the two men she loved: bolding back her brother from his vengeance of ber wrongs by that subtle influence that shook his aim; and going into exile with her brute of a husband when that influence had waned and failed, and her wrongs were supplemented by deep and irreparable injuries to her brother. And the curious, moral attitude of the man: the strong fraternal feeling that alternately nerved and weakened his revengeful hand.

“ We air goin’ thar ’bout two o’clock ter-night,” said Jerry Shaw, “and wipe out all three o’ them Peels,—Ike an’ his two brothers.”

“ They ought n’t ter be let live,” reiterated Elijah Burr, moodily. Did he speak to his faintly stirring conscience, or to a wofud premonition of his sister’s grief ?

“ They ’ll all three be stiff an’ stark afore daybreak,” resumed Jerry Shaw. “ We air all kin ter ’Lijah, an’ we air goin’ ter help him top off them Peels. Thar’s ten of us an’ three of them, an’ we won’t hev no trouble ’bout it. An’ we ’ll bring that pore critter, Ike’s wife, an’ her chillen hyar ter stay. She’s welcome ter live along of us till ’Lijah kin fix some sort ’n place fur her an’ the little chillen. Thar won’t be no trouble a-gittin rid of the men folks, ez thar is ten of us an’ three o’ them, an’ we air goin’ ter take ’em in the night.”

There was a protest from an unexpected quarter. The whir of the spinning-wheel was abruptly silenced. “ I don’t see no sense,” said Celia Shaw, her singing monotone vibrating in the sudden lull, — “I don’t see no sense in shoot in’ folks down like they war nothin’ better nor bear, nor deer, nor suthin wild. I don’t see no sense in it. An’ I never did see none.”

There was an astonished pause.

“Shet up, Cely! Shet up!” exclaimed Jerry Shaw, in mingled anger and surprise. “ Them folks ain’t no better nor bear, nor sech. They hain’t got no right ter live, — them Peels.”

“ No, that they hain’t! ” said Burr.

“ They is powerful no-’count critters,

I know,” replied the little woodland flower, the firelight bright in her opaline eyes and on the flakes of burnished gold gleaming in the dark masses of her hair.

“ They is always a-hangin’ round the still an’ a-gittin’ drunk; but I don’t see no sense in a-huntin ’em down an’ a-killin’ ’em off. ’Pears ter me like they air better nor the dumb ones. I don’t see no sense in shootin’ ’em.”

“ Shet up, Cely! Shet up! ” reiterated Shaw.

Celia said no more. Reginald Chevis was pleased with this indication of her sensibility; the other women — her mother and grandmother — had heard the whole recital with the utmost indifference, as they sat by the fire monotonously carding cotton. She was beyond her station in sentiment, he thought. However, be was disposed to recant this favorable estimate of her higher nature when, twice afterward, she stopped her work, and, filling the bottle from the keg, pressed it upon her father, despite her unfavorable criticism of the hangers-on of stills. Nay, she insisted. “ Drink some more,” she said. “ Yer hain’t got half enough yit. ” Had the girl no pity for the already drunken creature? She seemed systematically trying to make him even more helpless than he was.

He had fallen into a deep sleep before Chevis left the house, and the bottle was circulating among the other men with a rapidity that boded little harm to the unconscious Ike Peel and his brothers at Laurel Notch, twenty miles away. As Chevis mounted Strathspey he saw the horses of Jerry Shaw’s friends standing partly within and partly without the blacksmith’s shop. They would stand there all night, he thought. It was darker when he commenced the ascent of the mountain than he had anticipated. And what was this driving against his face, — rain? No, it was snow. He had not started a moment too soon. But Strathspey, by reason of frequent travel, knew every foot of the way, and perhaps there would only be a flurry. And so he went on steadily up and up the wild, winding road among the great, bare, black trees and the grim heights and chasms. The snow fell fast, — so fast and so silently; before he was half-way to the summit he had lost the vague companionship of the sound of his horse’s hoofs, now muffled in the thick carpet so suddenly flung upon the ground. Still the snow fell, and when he had reached the mountain’s brow the ground was deeply covered, and the whole aspect of the scene was strange. But though obscured by the fast-flying flakes, he knew that down in the bosom of the white valley there glittered still that changeless star.

“Still spinning, I suppose,” he said to himself, as he looked toward it and thought of the interior of the log-cabin below. And then he turned into the tent to enjoy his cigar, his æsthetic reveries, and a bottle of wine.

But the wheel was no longer awhirl. Both music and musician were gone. Toiling along the snow-filled mountain ways; struggling with the fierce gusts of wind as they buffeted and hindered her, and fluttered derisively among her thin, worn, old garments; shivering as the driving flakes came full into the pale, calm face, and fell in heavier and heavier wreaths upon the dappled calico sunbonnet; threading her way through unfrequented woodland paths, that she might shorten the distance; now deftly on the verge of a precipice, whence a false step of those coarse, rough shoes would fling her into the unimaginable abysses below ; now on the sides of steep ravines, falling sometimes with the treacherous, sliding snow, but never faltering; tearing her hands on the shrubs and vines she clutched to help her forward, and bruised and bleeding, but still going on; trembling more than with the cold, but never turning back, when a sudden noise in the terrible loneliness of the sheeted woods suggested the proximity of a wild beast, or perhaps, to her ignorant, superstitious mind, a supernatural presence, — thus she journeyed on her errand of deliverance.

Her fluttering breath came and went in quick gasps; her failing limbs wearily dragged through the deep drifts; the cruel winds untiringly lashed her; the snow soaked through the faded green cotton dress to the chilled white skin, — it seemed even to the dull blood coursing feebly through her freezing veins. But she had small thought for herself during these long, slow hours of endurance and painful effort. Her pale lips moved now and then with muttered speculations: how the time went by; whether they had discovered her absence at home; and whether the fleeter horsemen were even now plowing their way through the longer, winding mountain road. Her only hope was to outstrip their speed. Her prayer — this untaught being! she had no prayer, except perhaps her life; the life she was so ready to imperil. She had no high, cultured sensibilities to sustain her. There was no instinct stirring within her that might have nerved her to save her father’s, or her brother’s, or a benefactor’s life. She held the creatures that she would have died to warn in low estimation, and spoke of them with reprobation and contempt. She had known no religious training, holding up forever the sublimest ideal. The measureless mountain wilds were not more infinite to her than that great mystery. Perhaps, without any philosophy, she stood upon the basis of a common humanity.

When the silent horsemen, sobered by the chill night air and the cold snow, made their cautious approach to the little porch of Ike Peel’s log-hut at Laurel Notch, there was a thrill of dismayed surprise among them to discover the door standing half open, the house empty of its scanty furniture and goods, its owners fled, the very dogs disappeared; only, on the rough stones before the dying fire, Celia Shaw, falling asleep and waking by fitful starts.

“ Jerry Shaw swore ez how he would hev shot that thar gal o’ his’n, — that thar Cely,” Hi Bates said to Chevis and Varney the next day, when he recounted the incident, “ only he did n’t think she hed her right mind; a-walkin’ through this hyar deep snow full fifteen mile,—it’s fifteen mile by the short cut ter Laurel Notch,—ter git Ike Peel’s folks off ’fore ’ Lijah an’ her father could come up an’ settle Ike an’ his brothers. Leastways, ’Lijah an’ the t'others, fur Jerry hed got so drunk he could n’t go; he war dead asleep till terday, when they come back a-fotching the gal with ’em. That thar Cely Shaw never did look ter me like she hed good sense, nohow. Always looked like she war queer an’ tetched in the head.”

There was a furtive gleam of speculation on the dull face of the mountaineer when his two listeners broke into enthusiastic commendation of the girl’s high heroism and courage. The man of ledgers swore that he had never heard of anything so fine, and that he himself would walk through fifteen miles of snow and midnight wilderness for the honor of shaking hands with her. There was that keen thrill about their hearts sometimes felt in crowded theatres, responsive to the cleverly simulated heroism of the boards; or in listening to a poet’s mid-air song; or in looking upon some grand and ennobling phase of life translated on a great painter’s canvas.

Hi Bates thought that perhaps they too were a little “tetched in the head.”

There had fallen upon Chevis a sense of deep humiliation. Celia Shaw had heard no more of that momentous conversation than he; a wide contrast was suggested. He began to have a glimmering perception that despite all his culture, his sensibility, his yearnings toward humanity, he was not so high a thing in the scale of being; that he had placed a false estimate upon himself. He had looked down on her with a mingled pity for her dense ignorance, her coarse surroundings, her low station, and a dilettante’s delight in picturesque effects, and with no recognition of the moral splendors of that star in the valley. A realization, too, was upon him that fine feelings are of most avail as the motive power of fine deeds.

He and his friend went down together to the little log-cabin. There had been only jeers and taunts and reproaches for Celia Shaw from her own people. These she had expected, and she had stolidly borne them. But she listened to the fine speeches of the city-bred men with a vague wonderment on her flower-like face, — whiter than ever to-day.

“ It was a splendid — a noble thing to do,” said Varney, warmly.

“I shall never forget it,” said Chevis. “ It will always be like a sermon to me.”

There was something more that Reginald Chevis never forgot: the look on her face as he turned and left her forever; for he was on his way back to his former life, so far removed from her and all her ideas and imaginings. He pondered long upon that look in her inscrutable eyes, — was it suffering, some keen pang of despair? — as he rode down and down the valley, all unconscious of the heart-break he left behind him. He thought of it often afterward; he never penetrated its mystery.

He heard of her only once again. On the eve of a famous day, when visiting the outposts of a gallant corps, Reginald Chevis chanced to recognize in a sentinel the gawky mountaineer who had been his guide through those autumnal woods so far away. Hi Bates was afterward sought out and honored with an interview in the general’s tent; for the accidental encounter had evoked many pleasant reminiscences in Chevis’s mind, and among other questions he wished to ask was what had become of Jerry Shaw’s daughter.

“ She ’s dead, —long ago,” answered Hi Bates. “ She died afore the winter war over the year ez yer war a-huntin’ thar. She never hed good sense ter my way o’ thinkin’, nohow, an’ one night she run away an’ walked ’bout fifteen mile through a big snow-storm. Some say it settled on her chist. Anyhow, she jes sorter fell away like afterward, an’ never held up her head good no more. She always war a slim little critter, an’ looked like she war tetched in the head.”

There are many things that suffer unheeded in those mountains: the birds that freeze on the trees; the wounded deer that leaves its cruel kind to die alone; the despairing, flying fox with its pursuing train of savage dogs and men. And the jutting crag whence had shone the camp-fire she had so often watched — her star set forever — looked far over the valley beneath, where in one of those sad little rural grave-yards she had been laid so long ago.

But Reginald Chevis has never forgotten her. Whenever he sees the earliest star spring into the evening sky, he remembers the answering red gleam of that star in the valley.

Charles Egbert Craddock.