THE INFARE.
WHEN Callista's gaze could no longer distinguish Lance on Satan,
when the thick woods had swallowed up his moving figure at last,
she turned to make ready the house for the evening. He had lived
in the place, off and on, for several weeks, during the long
period of finishing up work. Every evidence of his occupancy
showed him a clever, neat-handed creature. Callista was
continually finding proof of his daintiness and tidiness. She
admired the bits of extra shelving--a little cupboard here or
there--a tiny table that let down from the wall by means of a
leathern hinge, to rest on its one stout leg--all sorts of
receptacles contrived from most unlikely material. Throughout
the forenoon, the girl worked, using the implements and utensils
that his hands had made ready for her, drawing upon the store of
girlish possessions which had come over in her trunk the day
before, for wherewithal to grace and beautify the place for the
evening's festivities.
Early in the afternoon Lance himself came riding slowly in. She had
not expected him much before dark, and she ran to meet him with eager
welcome. She watched him while he [125] unsaddled and fed his horse,
and then the two went gaily into their new home, their arms full of
the carefully wrapped purchases he had bought. The pretty slippers
were got out, displayed and tried on; the curtains for the front
windows were spread forth, and the bright table cover for the little
stand; the lamp with its wonderful gay shade was cautiously unpacked
and set up, the silverplated spoons counted, almost awesomely.
Lance had had no dinner, and Callista had been so engrossed in
her work about the cabin that she had cooked none for herself,
stopping only to snatch a bite of the cold food left from
breakfast. So now when all had been gone over again and again,
admired and delighted in, he put her in a chair and peremptorily
bade her, "rest right there whilst I make you some coffee and
cook some dinner for the both of us."
Lance cooked just as he played the banjo, or danced, or hunted
possums. Callista watched him with joy in the sure lightness of
his movements, the satisfactoriness and precision of his
results.
It was after three o'clock, and they were just finishing their
coffee and cornbread, when little Polly Griever came running in
at the door and announced,
"Cousin Lance, A' Roxy says tell you ef they's a-goin' to be
dancin' here to-night, ne'er a one of us shain't step foot in
the house." [126]
"You go tell yo' Aunt Roxy that they's sure goin' to be dancin'
in my place this night," Lance instructed her, throwing his head
back to laugh. "Say Polly, you tell her I aim to have her do the
callin' off--you hear? Don't you forget, now. Tell her I'm
dependin' on her to do the callin' off, and--"
"Now, Lance!" remonstrated Callista. Her face relaxed into lines
of amusement in spite of herself. Yet she resolutely assumed a
wifely air of reproof that Lance found irresistible. "You ought
to be ashamed of yourse'f. If you ain't, why, I'm ashamed _for_
you. Polly, you go tell Miz. Griever that they won't be a thing
in the world here in my house that she'd object to."
"Huh! _yo_' house!" interpolated Lance, and he made as though he
would have kissed her right before Polly, whereat her color
flamed beautifully and she hastily moved back a bit, in alarm.
"You tell yo' Aunt Roxy, please come on, Polly, and to come
early," she continued with native tact. "Tell her I'll expect
her to help me out. Why, I don't know how I'd get along without
Sis' Roxy and Pappy Cleaverage and Brother Sylvane."
Polly stood near the door, like a little hardy woods-creature,
and rolled her gaze slowly about the interior, noting all the
preparations that were on foot. She observed Lance shove back a
little from the table and reach for his banjo. While [127] Callista
lingered over her cup of coffee, Polly saw, with the tail of her
eye, that Lance drew a little parcel from his pocket and began
to put a new string on the instrument. That settled it; he had
spoken the truth: he was going to have dancing there that night.
The thin-shanked wiry little thing watched him continually till
she caught his eye. Then with the freemasonry there always was
between Lance and youngsters, she raised her brows in an
interrogatory grimace while Callista's eyes were in her cup.
Lance grinned and nodded his head vigorously. Still Polly looked
doubtful. Lance moved his foot wickedly to emphasize his
meaning. Polly was convinced. There would be no legitimate
coming to the infare--not if she took that word home to Aunt
Roxy.
But instead of turning to leave with her message, Polly slowly
edged into the room. Presently Lance and Callista together
cleared the table, making play of it like a pair of children.
Together they set out the provisions that Lance had brought, and
began to prepare the supper for the infare. And all the time
Polly's eyes were upon the good things to eat, the marvelous
lamp with its gay shade, the new curtains which they tacked up
at the windows, all the wonders and delights that were to be
exploited that evening. She had enjoyed herself hugely at the
wedding, in spite of the fact that the bridegroom, whom she [128]
especially delighted in and admired, left in so unceremonious
and theatric a manner early in the evening. If a wedding without
Lance was like that, what would the infare be in Lance's own
house? She grappled with the problem of how to escape Aunt Roxy
and get to this festivity. She could only think of one possible
method--that was to stay at Lance's now she was there. She looked
down covertly at her old homespun dress, soiled and torn, her whole
person unkempt and untidy. Well--she gulped a bit--better this
than nothing at all. She would rather appear thus among the guests
of the infare than not to be able to appear in any guise; but
when she considered her bare feet, she gave up in despair. If she
only had her shoes and stockings out of Aunt Roxy's house, the
joys of the infare were as good as hers--let come after what must.
Gaily Lance and Callista went forward with their preparations.
To their minds, they were the first who had ever felt that
pristine rapture of anticipation when two make ready a home.
Dear children! Did not Adam, when Eve called him to help her
with fresh roses for the bower she was decking, know the same?
It is as old as Paradise, that joy, and as legitimate an asset
of happiness to humanity as any left us. Suddenly, upon the quiet
murmur of their talk, came the sharp slam of the door, and they
heard [129] little Polly's bare feet go spatting down the trail.
"Well, hit's time she left," commented Callista gently, "if
she's goin' to take word to Sister Roxy."
But Polly had been stricken with an inspiration. Down the steep
cut-off which crossed the ravine with Lance's Laurel brawling in
its depth, and led to the Cleaverage place, she ran full pelt.
It was two miles by the wagon road around the bend; but it was
little over a mile down across the gulch, and Polly made quick
work of the descent, scarcely slacking on the steep climb up
again. She galloped like a frightened filly over that bit of
path on which the original owner of the Gap hundred had met
young Lance with his chip train nineteen years ago, and burst
headlong in upon Roxy Griever.
"A' Roxy!" she gasped, "Callisty's a-goin' to have preachers at
the infare--an'--an'--she wants yo' gospel quilt. Pleas'm git it
for me quick--Callisty's in a bi-i-g hurry."
Polly's instinct carried true; and the Widow Griever was borne
by the mere wind of her fictitious haste. Before she had stopped
to consider, Roxy found herself taking the gospel quilt out of
the chest where it was kept. Back in the room where she had been
sitting, little Polly dived under the bed and secured her shoes,
a convenient stocking thrust in the throat of each. With [130] the
swiftness and deftness of a squirrel or a possum, she concealed
these in her scanty skirts and stood apparently waiting when the
widow returned, bundle in hand. But now Roxy Griever's slow wits
had begun to stir.
"What preachers is a-comin'?" she inquired sharply. "Brother
Drumright, he's out preachin' on the White Oak Circuit--an' he
wouldn't be thar nohow--a body knows in reason. Young Shalliday,
he--What preachers did Callisty say was a-comin'?"
"I never hearn rightly jest what ones," stammered Polly, making
a grab for the quilt and missing it. "But thar's more'n a dozen
comin'," she gulped, as she saw her aunt's face darken with
incredulity.
"You Polly Griever," began the widow sternly, "you know mighty
well-an'-good thar ain't no twelve preachers in this whole
deestrick. I'll vow, I cain't think of a single one this side of
Hepzibah. I believe you're a-lyin' to me. Preachers at Lance
Cleaverage's house, and him apt to break out and dance anytime!
What did he say--you ain't never told me that yit--what did
Lance say 'bout the dancin' anyhow?"
Keen-visaged, alert Polly had possessed herself of the precious
bundle, and now she hopped discreetly backward, shaking the
ragged mane out of her eyes like a wild colt. [131]
"W'y, Lance, he says he's a-goin' to have dancin', and a plenty
of it," she announced with impish gusto--there would never be
any hanging for a lamb with Polly; she was somewhat of Lance's
kidney. She backed a pace or two outside the door, stepping as
warily as a wildcat might, before she concluded, "An' he 'lowed
to have you do the callin' off, A' Roxy! He said be shore an'
come--that he was a-dependin' on you to call off for 'em to
dance!"
The Widow Griever made a dive for the bundle gripped in Polly's
stringy little arm. But the girl, far too quick for her, backed
half way to the gate. She must make a virtue of necessity.
"Well, you can take that thar quilt over to Callisty," she
harangued. "I won't deny it to her, and I hope it may do good.
If tham men is a-goin' to git up a dance, you tell her she
needn't expect to see me nor mine; but the quilt I'll send. You
give it to her, and come right straight back to this house. You
hear me, you Polly Griever?--straight back!"
The last adjuration was shouted after Polly's thudding bare feet
as they went flying once more down the short cut into the gulch.
"Yes'm," came back the faint hail. "I will, A' Roxy."
Deep in the hollow where the waters of Laurel gurgled about
the roots of the black twisted bushes that gave it its name,
where ordinarily a body [132] would be fearfully afraid at such
a time--blind man's holiday, and neither dark nor light in the open,
while here the shadows lay like pools of ink--Polly Griever sat
herself down in great content to put on her shoes and stockings.
She was puffing a little, but the success of her enterprise had
so fired her that all thoughts of ha'nts and such-like were
banished. She hauled up the home-knit hose over her slim shanks
and knobby knees, girding them in place with a gingham string,
and hastily laced on her cowhide shoes. Being then in full
evening dress, she made a more leisurely way up the steep to
Lance's cabin, prepared to take in and enjoy all the festivities
of the occasion.
She found the house alight and humming. Octavia Gentry and old
Ajax had arrived, and the latter was throned in state as usual
by the chimney-side--the evening was cool for September, and the
flickering blaze that danced up the broad throat was welcome for
its heat as well as for light. The mother-in-law was everywhere,
looking at the contrivances for housekeeping, full of fond pride
in what she saw, anxious to convince the young people that she
did not resent their unceremonious behavior of the night before.
She pinched the new window curtains between her fingers, and
advised Callista to pin newspapers behind them in ordinary times
lest the sun fade their colors. She helped at the lighting of
the [133] new lamp, and finally settled down in the kitchen among
the supper preparations.
"Looks right funny to be here to an infare this night, when we-all
helt the weddin' without you last night," Octavia commented
amiably. "I did wish the both o' you could have been thar to see
the fun. The gals and boys got to playin' games, and sorter
turned it into a play-party. Look like they hardly could stop
theirselves for supper. Big as our house is, hit ain't so suited
to sech as yourn." Again she looked commendingly about her. "I
tell you, Callista," she said over and over again, "I think yo'
Lance has showed the most good sense in his building and fixing
up of any young man I ever knew."
But she need not have troubled greatly; Lance had no
consciousness of offense in him; and he was busy welcoming
guests, going out to help the men unhitch, showing those who had
ridden where they might tether their horses; or, if they liked,
unsaddle and turn them loose in his brush-fenced horse lot,
which was later to be a truck-patch; greeting his father and
Sylvane, and grinning over the fact that Roxy was not with them,
while Mary Ann Martha was.
"Roxana had got it into her head someway that you-all aimed to
dance, and come she would not," Kimbro said plaintively.
"She was bound an' determined that Ma'-Ann-Marth' shouldn't
neither," Sylvane took up the [134] story. "But the chap helt her
breath--didn't ye, Pretty?--an' looked like she'd never ketch it
again; so Sis' Roxy give in."
"Hey, Unc' Lance's gal!" the bridegroom hailed her, as the fat
little bundle was passed down to him from the old buckboard, and
instantly caught around his neck, hugging hard, and rooting a
delighted face against his cheek.
It was nearly eight o'clock when Ola Derf rode up alone and came
in. Mountain people are so courteous to each other as to make
those who do not understand call them deceitful. Ola was
received as amiably as such an invader might have been in the
best of urban society. She looked with round, avid eyes at
everything about her, and finally at the bride, her hostess.
"An' you a-wearin' them slippers," she commented. "I told Lance
I knowed in reason you would." The remark was made in the
further room, where the girls were laying off their things and
putting them down on that bed where Callista, a little
bewildered by the unsolicited loan, had spread forth the
wonderful gospel quilt.
"Did you he'p Lance to choose Callisty's slippers?" asked Ellen
Hands.
Rilly Trigg and Little Liza stopped in the door to listen.
Octavia Gentry turned from the shelves she was examining. Even
Polly ceased to stare across the open entry into the other room
where most of the men were. [135]
"Yes," said Ola, composedly, seating herself on the floor to
adjust her own footwear. "He was at our house a-wantin' to buy
dancin' slippers for Callisty, and 'course he knowed I would
understand what was needed. I reckon Callisty couldn't tell him,
so he brought one of her shoes in his pocket, and axed me. Do
they fit ye, Callisty?"
A curious change had come over the bride's face, yet it was calm
and even fairly smiling, as she answered indifferently,
"No. I wasn't aimin' to wear 'em. I just tried them on. They' too
big for me." And she closed the door and went resolutely to a
chest in the corner, from which she took her heavy, country-made
shoes to replace the slippers Lance's love had provided.
The Derf girl regarded her askance.
"Ain't you afeared you'll make him mad ef you take 'em off?" she
asked finally. "I know he aims to have you dance befo' he's done
with it, and you cain't noways dance in them thar things,"
looking with disfavor at the clumsy shoes.
"Callista doesn't dance, and she ain't a-goin' to," Octavia
Gentry was beginning with some heat, when her daughter
interrupted.
"Never mind, Mother," she said with dignity. "I ain't aimin' to
dance, and I reckon you're not. Maybe Ola's mistaken in regards
to Lance." [136]
The Derf girl laughed shortly, deep in her throat. Before she
could speak, the closed door jarred open, revealing Roxy
Griever, with a stout switch in her hand.
"Whar's Polly," the newcomer inquired wrathfully.
"Mighty glad to see you, Sis' Roxy," cried Callista, welcoming
the diversion, but looking with surprise at her sister-in-law's
draggled gingham on which the night dews of Laurel Gulch lay
thick, her grim visage, and her switch. "Polly--she was here a
minute ago."
But Polly, wise with the wisdom of her sex, had flown to Lance,
and now she hid behind him, clinging like a limpet.
"Come in, Sis' Roxy. We're proud to see you here," shouted
Lance, with an impudent disregard of anything amiss, and a new
householder's enthusiastic hospitality.
"Did you send me word that you was a-goin' to have me call off
the dances?" the widow demanded in an awful voice.
Her scrapegrace brother laughed in her face.
"That was jest a mighty pore joke, Sis' Roxy," he explained.
"We-all was goin' to play some games, and I know you' a powerful
good hand to get us started. Come on; fix the boys and gals like
they ought to be for that"--he hesitated a little, frowning--"that
play we used to have sometimes where they all stand up in couples,
and--Wait, [137] I'll get my banjo and play a tune and you'll
see what I mean."
Lance had not lived his twenty-three years with his sister Roxy
to fail now in finding her weak side. She loved lights, a crowd,
as he did. True, she wished to harangue the crowd, and the
lights must be to reveal her, playing the pictorially pious
part; yet a Virginia Reel, disguised as a game, answered well to
give her executive powers scope and swing, and they were in the
thick of the fun when the women came from the other room.
In the moments of her detention in that room, Ola had begun to
find whether being bidden to a festivity really made one a
guest. Rilly Trigg whispered apart to Callista, and looked out
of the corners of her eyes at the newcomer. Lance's wife
evidently reproved her for doing so, but a smile went with the
words. Octavia Gentry spoke solemnly to the Derf girl, asking
after the health of her parents in a tone so chilly that the
outsider felt herself indefinitely accused.
"I don't keer," she muttered to herself rebelliously, "hit's
Lance's house. Lance ain't a-goin to th'ow off on old friends
just becaze he's wedded."
On the instant she entered the other room, and had sight of her
host, flushed, laughing-eyed, his brown curls rumpled, the banjo
in his lap, swaying to the rhythm of "Greenbacks," as Roxy
Griever struggled to keep the boys and girls in an orderly [138]
line while she showed them how to "Shake hands acrost-like."
The dull little face lighted up. Here was something at which Ola
felt she could help, a ground upon which she was equal to the
best of them.
"Hit's a reel!" she exclaimed joyously. "I'll call off for ye,
Lance."
As though her words had been some sort of evil incantation, the
pretty group dissolved instantly. The girls fled giggling and
exclaiming; the boys shouldered sheepishly away; only the Widow
Griever remained to confront the spoil-sport with acid visage
and swift reproof. Roxy wound up the hostilities that ensued by
declaring,
"You can dance, and Brother Lance kin, ef them's yo' ruthers;
but ye cain't mix me in. That thar was a game I played when I
went to the old field hollerin' school. Call hit a reel ef ye
want to--oh, call hit a reel--shore! But ye cain't put yo'
wickedness on me."
"Yes," returned Ola hardily, "I played it at school, too. But
it's the Virginia Reel, and Lance said he was goin' to have
dancin' here to-night. Ain't ye. Lance? I brung my slippers."
Roxy Griever turned and flounced out. Lance smiled indulgently
at Ola. His sister's warlike demonstrations amused him mightily
and put him in a good humor.
"Sure," he agreed largely. "You and me will have 'em all dancin'
before we're done. I [139] wish't we had Preacher Drumright here to
pat for us."
The sedate guests, though they laughed a little, fell away from
these two, leaving them standing alone in the centre of the
floor, while some of the boys and girls lingered, staring and
giggling, wondering what they would do or say next.
"'Pears like they ain't nobody but you and me to do the
dancin'," Ola began doubtfully, "an' if you have to play--"
She broke off. In the doorway that led to the little back room
appeared the solemn countenance of the Widow Griever. This
worthy woman fixed a cold eye upon her brother and beckoned him
silently with ghostly finger.
"I'll be back in a minute, Ola," he told his unwelcome addition
to the company, the wedge he had driven into their ranks, and
which seemed about to split them asunder. [140]