_Asa Again_
The spring had fairly begun to show signs of its coming, when Marianne
was at last able to creep out into the sunshine and face the world
again. But that she viewed it with the eyes of buoyant youth, it would
have seemed a very sad world. She had heard nothing of her parents
except mere rumors. Jack had been ordered away, and Jules too. An old
Indian woman was Jerusha's only helper through the long winter's siege,
but both women were accustomed to a hardy life and knew how to make the
forest yield them the necessities for existence, and they had fared
better than might be imagined. Little news of the outside world reached
them in their quiet retreat, and Marianne, ready once more to take an
interest in affairs, began to question. She could gather but scant
news. The British were still in possession of Fort Niagara; the country
on both sides the river was almost a desolation, most families having
fled beyond the Genesee.
"But where are they all, mother and father and Royal? And grandmother,
is she still in her home? Is it burned, too? And what has become of Sue
and Kate?" These questions came crowding to Marianne's lips.
"Now look here, Mary Anne," said Jerusha, "do you think I've had
nawthin' better to do than to set down and write letters and go gadding
over the country a-hunting up your relations? Land sakes, child, it's
been as much as I could do to haul you back from the Valley of the
Shadder, without trying to edit a bulletin of war news."
"Well, tell me what you know," said Marianne, with the fretfulness of
an invalid.
Jerusha sat down and planted her big veined hands upon her knees.
"Mebbe you remember we sent word to your mother by Jooly. When he got
back to the garrison, she'd gone. Some folks had told her she could git
to your father by going with them, and she needed doctoring, and they
promised to see that she got to her kin-folks in Geneva. Then somehow
it got reported that I had gone off with Jooly to Canady agin, because
I had found out that you was dead and couldn't bear to tell her. I
don't know what fool started the story, but seeing me and him making
off together to hunt you up, I suppose it got out that way."
"Oh, poor mother, poor mother!" Marianne cried. "Does she know now?"
"I dunno as she does, and then I dunno as she doesn't. I made a fist
of writing to her, and told her to stay where she was if she was
comfortable; that we was safe and well enough off for the present.
I didn't feel I'd ought to write till you was out of danger, for if
she believed you wasn't counted among the living 'twa'n't no use to
undeceive her till we was certain about you. I got an Injun to git the
letter through the lines. I didn't rightly know her directions, but I
hope she got the letter. You'd been sick about a week, I guess, when
young Jack Silverthorn was ordered away. He'd done the best he could
to make us comfortable by gitting medicine and flour and what stuff
he could, and it was him got old Acsah to stay with me. While he was
here, I'll say it for both him and Jooly, they kept me in wittles and
fire-wood. After they went I had to make the best of it, but the old
squaw has been a human being to speak to, and she ain't so helpless.
"We made the best of it, as I said; and what with keeping bags of ice
on your head and finding kivers warm enough for you and us, and food
enough to keep body and soul together, we had about all we could do for
three months. But there! we've had a shelter, and the woods is full of
game of all kinds, so we did manage to git enough, though some days
it was slim pickings. We sewed the skins together for kivers,--the old
Injun is a master hand at that,--and she got a few blankets from her
people, so we ain't neither friz nor starved. Howsomever it's all over
now, and we'll move along pretty soon, I guess, though I dunno jest
where; they say they ain't skeerce a house left standing." She nursed
her knees thoughtfully.
"They say it was for revenge because the Americans burnt Newark;
pretty heavy revenge to destroy six villages, not to mention dozens of
farmhouses, and wuss than all, to murder scores of innocent people.
Somebody's got to pay a heavy debt when he goes to meet his jedgment. I
told Jooly I didn't know as I wanted he should come near me agin if he
come as an inimy of my country, but I dunno's he would come anyway. But
there, I've talked my throat dry. It's summer instid of winter coming,
and all you've got to do, Mary Anne, is to set still and git well."
There was nothing but hope to keep up Marianne's spirits. It was
dreary work to spend her time sitting alone in the woods with never a
visitor but an inquisitive squirrel or a bird tamer than his neighbors;
yet Marianne day by day grew stronger, though with her strength came
a deeper longing to get to her friends. She was sitting one day
under a huge tree, among whose roots she had discovered a comfortably
hollowed seat, when she saw coming up the checkered path a man whose
destination seemed to be the cabin. He was short and spare of figure,
with grizzled beard standing well out from under his chin. As soon
as Marianne caught sight of him, she sprang to her feet with less
listlessness than she had shown for months. "Asa!" she cried; "Asa
Peaslee!"
[Illustration: "_She had discovered a comfortably hollowed seat._"]
"Wal, I vum!" exclaimed the pedler, stopping short as he caught sight
of the girl. "I wouldn't skeerce hev knowed you, yer that pindlin';
'most starved, air ye?"
"No; but I have been ill. I am so glad to see you. How did you find us?"
"Who ye got in there?" asked the pedler, peering suspiciously at the
cabin.
"Only Jerusha and an old Indian woman."
"I didn't find ye; I jest stumbled on ye. I seen smoke, and thinks I,
where there's smoke there's fire, and I trotted in this direction. I
ain't takin' a very direct route, seein' as me and the Britishers ain't
on the best of terms. Where's your folks?"
"I don't know. I haven't heard from them in three or four months." And
she proceeded to tell her pitiful tale.
"I vum!" repeated Asa. "Wal, pop's prisoner up to Quebec, I guess, and
if the ijits that has the exchanges in hand don't git 'em fixed some
day soon, he'll stay there awhile, but I hear they treat 'em pretty
good up there. Young Lyle's all right; I see him a couple of weeks ago,
said his wife was in Geneva. As for the rest of the crew, I dunno as
I keer to run up agen 'em, seein' as me and them don't pull the same
direction. Ain't heerd nawthin' of your granny and them, hev ye?"
"No, and I wish I could. Ah, but I do so long to reach them. I don't
know whether their house has been destroyed or not."
Asa picked up a bit of a twig and chewed the end of it thoughtfully.
"Wouldn't keer to hev me go out and find out, I s'pose. I'm achin' to
do it; ye know my curiosity'll kill me yit. I'd like nawthin' better
than to slip over and find out how the land lays."
"Oh, would you? Could you without danger?"
"We ain't talkin' about danger; we're talkin' about findin' out what's
goin' on acrost the river. I guess I'll sneak over. I'll begin hitchin'
along to-night. You're right snug here. Nobody'd ever think of lookin
for a house in these here woods."
"It has been a good shelter; we had to take possession of it. Some day
I hope we shall be able to tell the owners what a godsend it has been
to us."
"You do look pindlin'," Asa repeated. "I guess the sooner ye git to
grandma's the better. Now I'll go along and speak to Jerushy. I'll
set round and chat with ye all till towards night, and then I must be
gittin' on."
"You are always on hand in time of need," Marianne told him.
"Wal, no, I can't say jest that, or I'd been here sooner. It jest seems
to be a time of need when I do happen along. They ain't much noos
stirrin'; some little skirmishes at sea; it's got to be a game of give
and take."
"I thought you were going to join the marines, Asa."
"Who says I didn't?"
"Did you really?"
Asa nodded. "J'int 'em there on the lakes; was along with Cap'n Perry."
"You were? Oh, how proud you must be."
"Dunno's I'm runnin' over with pride. I can't say as I take to
sailorin', so I left when my time was up, and I've been hangin' around
camp all winter watchin' 'em drill and gittin' ready for spring. I
guess they'll be better fighters when Gin'ral Scott's through with 'em.
But, as I was a-sayin', I got tired of standin' round doin' nawthin',
so I snuck off this way to watch my opportunity of bein' of use, and
here I be."
Jerusha greeted him with a jerk of the head and went on with her soap
making. She did not waste a scrap of grease, and had her kettle of
soft soap ready when it was needed. She listened attentively to Asa's
recital while she worked, and after a while set off her kettle and
invited him into the house. "You'll have a bite with us," she said. "I
can't offer you much chice of wittles; you'll have to take what you kin
git."
"I guess I kin give my thanks right purtily fur what's set before me,"
returned Asa. "And I dassay I kin furnish ye with a bite of somethin',
I see a likely spot as I came along. I keep a bit of line in my pocket,
and I guess I kin hook ye a fish." He was as good as his word, and half
an hour later a fine trout was sizzling over the fire. Asa made good
use of his afternoon, bringing in wood and water and setting traps for
game. Toward night he started off with a hearty good-by, and Marianne's
hopes arose.
He reappeared three or four days later as if it were nothing unusual
to come and go in this fashion. "Found 'em as easy as rolling off a
log," he called to Marianne, who went out to meet him. "'Most eat me up
when I told 'em I'd seen you. They were afeard you was dead, scalped
by the Injuns and all that. They've been kinder lucky, havin' friends
both sides. The Americans spared 'em because your pop happened to be
a capting, and the Britishers spared 'em because their friends and
neighbors was along to see that they did. So you see it's well to
have your bread buttered on both sides. They sent ye messages by the
cartload, but I couldn't find a vehicle for 'em all, so I'll jest give
ye the gist of 'em, and that is, that as soon as ever ye kin, yer to
come home to 'em. I told 'em ye was safe and in good hands, or the
young man, Victor, would have come along with me. I told him he'd ought
to stay there and look after his women folks, and I guessed you'd find
a way to git there."
"And you saw them all, grandmother and Victorine and Victor?"
"All three of them."
"Kate was not there, of course. Did they say anything about her and
Royal? I hope they are safe."
Asa did not reply quite so readily as before. "They said she was all
right," he told her, after a slight pause.
"And we will go--when will we go, Jerusha?" Marianne asked.
"Soon as convenient," was all the reply Jerusha would vouchsafe.
Asa, having satisfied his curiosity in more ways than one, did not seem
inclined to tarry, but went off with his usual little quip of being so
ready to poke his nose into the affairs of others.
"That man's nobody's fool," declared Jerusha, shaking her head
knowingly. "He gits around and finds out what he wants when nobody'd
ever suspect it, but I guess the spying ain't all of the most innercent
kind." And then it dawned on Marianne that there was method in Asa's
curiosity.
She fretted to get away, but Jerusha had one of her contrary moods
and would not humor her, saying that patience was a virtue, and that
it was good for folks not to get what they wanted at once; so poor
Marianne was more than usually irritable after Asa left. The days were
growing warmer, and she could spend more time in the open air, and one
afternoon went a little farther from the cabin than usual to hunt for
wild flowers. She was standing on tiptoe trying to reach a branch of
dogwood, when she heard a voice call out, "Don't fall into a bog!" And
then, running, leaping from tangled roots to tufted knoll, Jack came
hastening toward her. "Marianne, Marianne!" he cried; "did I startle
you? How glad I am to find you still here, and to know you are well
again. You are well?" He came up and held out both hands, into which
she put hers. She wondered at herself for being so glad to see him, a
Britisher, whom she ought to despise, even if he had saved her from a
dreadful fate. She ought to hate the fact of the obligation. Yet it was
Jack, and he had saved her life; she could not forget that. He stood
holding her hands and looking down at her critically. "How thin you
are," he said tenderly, "and your eyes have grown so big, but they are
as blue as ever. Did they have to cut your hair so short? It does not
look badly so, though it makes you look more like a little girl than
ever."
Marianne laughed. "Like the little girl you first thought I was. Was
that why you called to me not to fall into a bog?"
"Yes; it reminded me of that time when I first saw you in the woods. I
was so glad to see you alive and well. It nearly broke my heart to go
off and leave you lying there so ill in that poor little cabin."
"It was much better than many poor people had, and Jerusha was like a
mother to me. I should have died but for her."
"Yes, I know." Jack softly stroked one of her hands, which she allowed
to lie passively in his. Such a thin little hand it was. "I have
thought of you so constantly all winter," he went on.
Marianne looked down a little uneasily. "Have you seen your family?"
she asked. "Do you hear from Sue and Kate?"
"I have not seen either of them lately. I have been on special duty,
which has taken me out of the neighborhood. Sue, I believe, is with
friends in Geneva."
"I think my mother is there, too, though I have not heard a word from
her since we parted on that dreadful day." She shuddered and grew pale
at the remembrance. "Perhaps some day," she sighed, "all this dreadful
time will end, and we shall all be together again. My grandmother
wishes me to come to her. Asa was here, and he found out for me that
they are still at the old home. I was so glad to know; it seemed as if
something were still left to me. Asa brought me the very first news I
have had."
"Asa Peaslee, you mean?" Jack's brows came together thoughtfully, and
he shook his head as if he would say, this will not do; but he only
remarked, "It is well I did not come along at the same time."
"Why? Oh, yes, I see; you think he is too--curious." Marianne smiled.
"Well, perhaps he is too much so for his own good, but--"
"Your people don't think so? All's fair in love and war, and I have no
right to question his behavior. He is a good friend to you, and that
should be enough for me to know. So you will go to your grandmother,
Marianne?"
"Yes; as soon as convenient, Jerusha says."
"I suppose that means as soon as you can get safe passage over. She
does not want to run any risks, and she is right."
"Ah me, if only this dreadful war were over. Is there any prospect of
peace?"
"One can hardly say. I wish it were over, for then we might be placed
on a different footing, and you might not feel as if you ought to hate
me."
"I don't--hate you--but--"
"You don't love me. I know that--I could not expect that you would, and
I have no right to ask you to. All I ask is that you sometimes give me
a kind thought. Do you ever?"
"I don't think I ought to hate you, for you saved my life. I can never
forget how good you were to me that day." Her lip trembled like a hurt
child's, and Jack drew a long sigh at sight of it.
"Heaven knows I would never take advantage of that to force you to
think kindly of me," he said. "This winter, many times, when I have
not known whether you were dead or alive, when it seemed as if I might
expect my own death at any moment, I have wished that I had told you
how much I loved you. No, you need not answer. I only want to tell
you, so you will know that I love you, love you, love you, not as
a boy loves,--that was at first; now it is a man's devotion I give
you. I don't let myself hope I can ever win from you more than a kind
tolerance; but if you were my enemy ten times over; if you, by your own
act, handed me over to your own people to be shot or hung, or sent to
languish my life away in prison, I should still love you, love you.
Ah, how good you are to let me say it, and not forbid me. I have felt
sometimes as if I must tell you or die. Marianne, Marianne, how much I
thank you. You have let me tell you that I love you." The words poured
out with passionate fire, not indeed as a boy would say them, yet it
was not two years since they had met, and he had hardly reached man's
estate.
Marianne was thrilled to the very core of her being. She felt that
this was true love; that he had given her the best he would ever have
to give, and she stood silent and awed in the presence of this great
affection. "I don't see how you can feel so," she said, after a moment.
She drew her hand gently away from his clasp. "You know it would be
impossible. I ought to feel more than grateful, because you stood
between me and death at the risk of your own life."
He lifted his hand, and she understood that it hurt him for her to
refer again to that, but she went on: "Ever since then--and--yes,
before, I wanted to like you, but I felt that I couldn't; I should not,
when you were my country's enemy--my father's enemy and mine--but I
have--I do think kindly of you. I can't help that, and I don't believe
it is disloyal--when--when--that is all I do. But you see--you know,
it could only be a friendship at the best."
"I know," he said gently. "It makes me very happy to hear you say that
it can be that; and if I fall before the war is over, you will have
known that if I could give my life for you it would not be too much,
but that to have told you of my love will bring me peace in my last
hour."
Again Marianne's lip trembled. "Don't talk that way, please, and--and I
am not worthy of all that. I don't see how you can feel so when I--"
"When you don't care for me? Jerusha might tell you that you have yet
to learn that it is more blessed to give than to receive," he said,
smiling; for, seeing that she was white and shaken by this interview,
he reproached himself for having been so insistent. "Forgive me,
Marianne," he said. "I didn't realize that you are not as strong as you
might be, and I am afraid I have been inconsiderate in talking."
"No, no," she smiled, "don't mind. I am a little easily made nervous,
but I am getting stronger every day; and please don't blame yourself if
I seem silly and babyish. I cry so easily nowadays that Jerusha has no
patience with me. I intend to get strong and well; you know it's only a
question of time." She was very gentle and quiet, quite different from
the Marianne of old; but her very gentleness appealed to him all the
more.
They walked slowly toward the cabin, and though Jerusha was not very
cordial in her greeting, she was not ill-pleased to see the young man
again. "There is a stir in the armies," he told them, "and one does
not know just where it is safe. We hold Fort Niagara, it is true,
but the Americans say that they are determined to relieve us of that
responsibility, if what the spies and deserters tell us be true. I
think the longer we delay in making our way to your grandmother's,
Marianne, the worse for your safety."
So then it was that with a sort of grim regret Jerusha bade farewell to
her leach pits, her soap kettle, her small stores and belongings which
had made the little cabin a real home to her, and after seeing Acsah
returned to her people, she started out with Marianne into what new
trials neither could foresee.