THE UNEXPECTED
The sharp bark of a dog announced the arrival of a stranger. One or
two tow-headed children peeped around the corner of the house and then
ran away. Agnes stood still for a moment and then knocked peremptorily
at the door. One of the children opened it shyly, and Agnes entered.
The house held four rooms and a lean-to. The principal room downstairs
was utilized as a living-room; from the adjoining apartment came odors
of cooking. “Say that Agnes Kennedy is here,” said the girl, with a
confidence of manner which showed that she did not mean to take a
rebuff.
There was a consultation in the back room and presently a tall muscular
man entered. “Who might you be, and what do you want?” he asked. There
was a resolute, uncompromising expression on his face which would have
intimidated a less courageous girl.
“I am Agnes Kennedy, the daughter of the owner of this place. My mother
sent a letter to the tenant,--I suppose you are he,--but perhaps you
never received it. I know it is not easy to get letters to such an
out-of-the-way place.”
The man eyed her sharply. “No letter came for me. Who says you own this
place?”
“My mother owns it because it was her father’s. I have the deed for it.
It was my grandfather’s property for years.”
“Who was your grandfather?”
“My mother is the only child of Humphrey Muirhead.”
“Who is your mother?”
“My mother was Margaret Muirhead of Carlisle; she married my father,
Fergus Kennedy. Her father was killed by the Indians. You have a right
to ask me all these questions, and I will tell you that after my
grandfather died, it was found that he did not leave anything of any
account except this place. My mother wrote to some one out here about
it, and I thought you were the one. After my grandfather Kennedy died,
my mother urged my father to come out here and take this place, and she
will come later. He is back in the settlement, but he is not well, and
I came to take possession myself in my mother’s name. I think we can be
very comfortable here,” Agnes went on, “though I am sorry the house is
not larger,” she added, beginning to recognize the unresponsiveness of
the man, “but of course you can stay here till you can build another.
It will not take long, you know.”
The man gave a mocking laugh. “It will take a longer time than you will
ever see, my young miss. You will have to travel back the way you came.
This place is more mine than yours. Possession is nine points of the
law. Here I am and here I mean to stay. You may have the deed, but I’ve
got the place, and it will take more than one slip of a girl to get it
from me.”
Agnes was speechless with amazement at what she considered the audacity
of the man. “You dare to say that?” she cried, recovering her courage.
“You have no right to live here at all. It is as much robbery for you
to do such a thing as to keep what belongs to another.”
The man’s face darkened. “Take care,” he said. “You’d better be more
civil. I’ll not be contradicted by a chit of a girl.”
“And I’ll not be threatened by you,” retorted Agnes, all her blood
up. “You have not the slightest right here except you were allowed by
mother to come. You surely have not been here long enough to claim the
place in any such way as that.”
“I don’t make my claim any such way. You haven’t a notion of who I am,
I suppose.”
“You are the man whom my mother allowed to live here till she should
come and take her own.”
“I am not the one who is allowed here; I am the one who belongs here,
and your grandfather knew it. It was a foolish move of yours, young
woman, to come out here. Better let sleeping dogs lie. Was there nobody
to give you better advice?”
“I didn’t ask any. I came because father couldn’t. We have travelled
away out here to get this place that my grandfather left, and we are
going to have it.”
The man regarded her gloomily. “I don’t doubt you’re who you say you
are,” he said at last. “Your mother was your grandfather’s only child,
I believe you told me. I suppose he always told her that.”
“There was no need. She was the first-born, and no sisters nor brothers
came to her.”
“Your grandfather’s papers were looked into, I suppose. There was no
will?”
“No; father said no doubt he meant to make one. He had spoken of it
several times, but as my mother was the only child, there seemed no
need, and father said the law would give everything to mother anyhow,
and it was all very plain. Grandfather left some papers in father’s
hands when he last came to Carlisle, and the deed was among them.”
The man smiled grimly. “Well, young woman, I have just this piece of
advice to give you. Go back where you came from. You will have to stay
here to-night, but to-morrow I’ll drive you to Mayo, and you and your
father can travel back east the best way you can get there. I don’t
often give away anything for nothing, but I’m going to give this advice
free, and you’d better take it if you know what is good for you.”
“And if I don’t take it?”
“Then you’ll have to take the consequences, which will not be pleasant.”
Agnes shook her head, but stood considering before she spoke again.
“There is not a thing to be afraid of,” she told herself. “I don’t
know why this man is trying to scare me, but one thing I do know, and
that is that there is no reason why we should give up our rights.
I should think my father ought to know what belongs to us and what
doesn’t.”--“Now,” turning to the man, “who are you, that you insist
upon staying on this place which you know does not belong to you?”
The man drew himself up to his full height. He towered above the girl
and looked down at her with an expression of bitter resentment. “My
name is Humphrey Muirhead,” he said. “I am your grandfather’s eldest
child.”
Agnes started back as this announcement was made, her first feeling
being one of sharp indignation. “No, no,” she cried, “I cannot believe
you.”
The man smiled sardonically but gave no reply. “No,” continued Agnes,
excitedly; “it is not true. You may have fooled your neighbors and
have pretended to them that you are a son of Humphrey Muirhead, but I
surely should know. Why, I have seen the family Bible with my own eyes
and have read the records--my grandfather’s marriage and my mother’s
birth. It is out of the question for you to be my mother’s brother.
You are assuming my grandfather’s name for the purpose of holding this
property. I say you are not Humphrey Muirhead.”
“It ain’t worth while to get so worked up,” said the man, slowly, “and
it ain’t worth while to call names. I’m no impostor. People around here
know that. Ask Dod Hunter; he knew your grandfather; he knew, too, when
he came out here, and that he married my mother straight and honest. I
am the first-born, not your mother.”
Agnes paled before this statement. “No, no,” she still protested.
“Yes,” emphatically declared the man. “I won’t go into particulars;
they’re not pleasant. Both of ’em are dead now. Anyhow, he was a
young fellow, not more than eighteen, and she was the daughter of a
backwoodsman, pretty fiery, wouldn’t stand being driven, didn’t like
your grandfather’s perticuler ways, and at last she run off and left
him. I was a couple of years old then. Your grandfather saw me just
once after thet. I found him out, but we didn’t hit it off. I’ve got a
temper like my mother’s and I did some big talking, so he ordered me
out of the house and--” The man paused and clenched his fist, “I’m his
son for all that, and I’ll have my rights.”
Agnes’s eyes were fixed on the speaker. She scanned his countenance
slowly, and detected a slight resemblance to her mother about the eyes
and brow, though she was reluctant to admit it even to herself. “Show
me your proofs,” she whispered. “I will believe when I see them.”
The man left the room, and the girl stood with bowed head and hands
tightly clasped, her whole attitude one of rigid self-control. She
remained thus till the man returned and handed her two papers. One was
a certificate of marriage between Humphrey Muirhead and Ellen Doyle;
the other was a letter in her grandfather’s own handwriting and bearing
his signature. This letter asked his young wife to return to him with
the child.
“Then it wasn’t grandfather’s fault,” exclaimed Agnes.
“That’s neither here nor there,” the man said, frowning. “I’m who I say
I am.”
“I see that, but even if you are, the half of this place is my
mother’s, isn’t it? I claim our share of the property.” Two bright
spots were burning in the girl’s cheeks. She was herself again, ready
for defiance, for action.
“Your share!” The words broke forth in an angry growl. “Haven’t you
been living in comfort all these years? Haven’t you had my father’s
money spent on you all? This place is mine. You have had your share,
and I will fight for my own.”
“So will I,” replied the girl. “I shall have to stay here awhile, I
suppose, but to-morrow I will go back to my father and my friends, and
if there is any justice in the land, I will have it.”
“I’m a right pleasant neighbor at times, I am told,” returned Humphrey
Muirhead, sarcastically. “You’ll enjoy having an uncle near at hand.
Uncles can be pretty worrisome, you’ll find out before you get through.”
Agnes made no reply, but thoughts of the tales she had heard of
wicked uncles flashed into her mind. She remembered the Babes in the
Woods and the little princes in the Tower. It was plain that she had
gained nothing by defiance, and she half wished that she had been more
conciliatory. After all, it was hard that her grandfather’s own son
must be her enemy. She looked up half wistfully, but Humphrey Muirhead
bent a hard, steely glance upon her. “I mean fight,” he said.
Agnes drew herself up haughtily, regretting her softer feeling. “Then
we will not talk about it,” she made answer. “I shall have to wait here
till I am sent for, but I can wait outside.”
Humphrey Muirhead stepped to the door and called his wife. “Here,
Judy,” he said, “this is my niece. You never knew I had one, did ye?
Well, I have, and we’re terrible fond of each other since we discovered
we are related. She’s going to stay here till some one comes for her.
You kin give her something to eat.” And he left the room.
Agnes stood looking helplessly at the woman before her, a meek,
broken-spirited creature. “I am sorry I have to stay,” Agnes began.
“I didn’t understand when I came. I will not trouble you but a little
while.”
“Oh, ’tain’t no trouble,” Mrs. Muirhead replied. “I’m real glad to see
you. We never had none o’ his folks to see us before. He never would
talk about them. I guess you favor the Muirheads, for you ain’t much
like him, an’ they say he’s his mother over again. Won’t you come and
set in the other room by the fire?”
Agnes acquiesced silently, and for the next hour she gave herself to
the task of entertaining the poor little woman, who did her best to
make her guest comfortable, and who evidently was greatly pleased at
receiving a visit from so interesting a person.
The children were too shy to be in the way, and Agnes felt too
perturbed to do more than try to keep up her conversation with her
hostess.
Humphrey Muirhead did not again make his appearance, a consideration
which Agnes had not expected would be shown her. “He’s in one of his
tempers,” Mrs. Muirhead told her. “I’m glad enough when he keeps away
at such times. Some one from the Hunters’ will come over for you, did
you say? I can’t see, even if he is mad, why he didn’t make you stay
here with us. I don’t see many women folks,” she added wistfully.
Agnes shook her head. “There will be no more visiting, Mrs. Muirhead. I
made a mistake in coming at all.”
Mrs. Muirhead looked disappointed, but she had long ago given up
protests, and took the matter meekly. She stood watching, a dispirited,
bent, little figure, as Agnes set out for Dod Hunter’s under the
protection of the young man who came for her in due course of time.
It was about three miles to this next place, and Dod Hunter appeared
at the gate to welcome the girl. “I did not dream I should have such a
set-back,” began Agnes, “and I didn’t think I should have to ask you to
take me in. I thought of course I could stay at--at the other place.”
“You are more than welcome, my lass,” returned Dod, “and I am at your
service any time you like.”
“Can you spare me a little time now?”
“As well as not.” He motioned her to a seat on a fallen log.
“This is good,” said Agnes. “I would rather talk out here. I love to
be out of doors. This is a beautiful country, and I don’t wonder that
my grandfather settled here. It is about my grandfather that I want to
talk, Uncle Dod. You knew him?”
“So he was your grandfather? Yes, I knew him well. We were good friends
when he came out here nigh to forty year ago. If you think it’s wild
now, what would you have thought it then? You oughter hev seen it, not
a path but what the Injuns made, and skeerce a neighbor for twenty
mile. Them was real pioneer times. These ain’t shucks to ’em, though
the folks at come out from the east think they’re gittin’ into the
heart of the forest. They’re too many comin’ to call it wild now.”
“I can’t imagine it much wilder,” said Agnes, “though it is much more
settled here than off yonder, where we first went. You knew of my
grandfather’s first marriage?”
Dod Hunter looked at her askance before he proceeded. “Yes, I knew.”
“Tell me, please. Do you know, we never dreamed of such a thing. If
mother knew, she never told me.”
“She didn’t know. He didn’t mean she should.”
“She always thought she was grandfather’s only child. Please tell me
all you know about it. I have heard Humphrey Muirhead’s story, and I
would like to hear yours.”
“Well, it was this way. Your grandfather came out here in the airly
days, as I told you. Wanted adventure, I suppose. He got it, plenty
of it. One day when he was out hunting, he got hurt and was carried
to Doyle’s. Ellen nursed him. She was a pretty girl, wild as a hawk,
high tempered, independent, and--well, she did about as she pleased
always; and she got tired of Humphrey Muirhead after a while--liked her
father’s home better, and left her husband because it pleased her to.
They wa’n’t nothing but children, the pair of ’em, at best. He would
have taken her back, but she wouldn’t go and raised Cain generally. She
died when the boy was about five year old. He was well rid of her, and
after a year he married your grandmother. Ellen’s people kept the boy,
but your grandfather supported him and would have done well by him if
he’d been let.”
“Thank you,” said Agnes, softly, when the tale was finished. “It is
good to know grandfather was not to blame.”
“No, he wa’n’t; he was took in. Some folks might think he ought not
to have given up the boy, but what’s a young fellow with no special
home to do with a baby, I’d like to know. Then when he did have a home
the grandmother made such a racket that he let her keep him. Besides,
it was a long ways off where his folks was, and travellin’ in them
days wa’n’t as easy as it is now, and you can’t say it’s any too easy
gettin’ here as it is.”
“No, grandfather wasn’t to blame,” Agnes repeated. “And so this
man--Humphrey Muirhead,”--Agnes hesitated before she spoke the
name,--“he has a right to be where he is, and we can claim only half.”
“Humphrey Muirhead’s an ugly enemy. If you can get along without any of
it, you would do well.”
“I don’t see how we can. Father is so--so helpless, and I don’t see how
we can get along without just this. The man Muirhead thinks we have had
our share because of all that has been done for mother these years; it
hasn’t been very much, I am sure.”
Dod Hunter wheeled around sharply. “The rascal! He said that, did he? I
suppose nothing has been done for him. The reason your grandfather left
so little is because a good pile of his money went to help his son out
of his scrapes. By rights you ought to have everything.”
“Oh, is it that way? I am glad to know about that. Now, Uncle Dod, it
will be some time before the business is settled, but I mean to live
in this country. I want to learn how best to manage, so we can be
comfortable when mother comes, and I want to send for her as soon as
possible. I shall ask Mr. M’Clean what he thinks it is best to do, but
I do not want to go back now, for we’ve really nothing to go back to,
and there’s plenty of land to be had for very little. Couldn’t we get a
little spot somewhere, and live on that till we can get this Muirhead
place settled? I did so hope we could send for mother and the children
right away.” She gave a little sigh, for it seemed as if this dear hope
were now farther away than ever.
Dod Hunter watched her for a moment. She was so young and, it seemed,
so helpless. He shook his head. “I don’t think you’d better go anywhere
alone with your father. We’re not quite as far in the backwoods as we
used to be, but it is a pretty hard place, after all, and it needs
strong men and strong women. Better go back to your father’s kin.”
“Oh, no, no; that is not to be thought of. You don’t know, but it would
never do. Some way can be managed, I think. You need not tell any one,
but I’m going to have our share of that place before I get through.”
Dod Hunter laughed. “You’re spunky, but you don’t know Hump Muirhead.”
“Oh! if father were only himself, it would be all right. I wish I knew
what was to be done.”
“First thing you do is to go back to Joe M’Clean’s. He’s not going to
begrutch ye a place to sleep and a bit to eat. Both you and yer father
airn it. Ye work hard, an’ we’ve a right to help each other in this
country; if we didn’t, some of us would have a poor show.” So Agnes
agreed to accept this advice and wait for time to bring about some plan
for the future. She remained with the Hunters that night, and the next
day saw her back again with the M’Cleans to whom she told her story.
But to her father she said nothing. He would be bewildered in trying to
puzzle out the facts and could do nothing to help her.
“I think ye’ll juist have to let the matter go, Agnes,” Joseph M’Clean
told her. “I’m no so sure but the eldest son doesn’t get the estate by
right of the law of primogeniture, and there’s no use fightin’ when
it’s not necessary. If your grandfather had made a will, leavin’ his
property to your mother, that would be another thing. Juist let it
rest, lass, and bide here till we can think out what is best for ye.”
So Agnes submitted, and though she chafed under the long delay, she was
very grateful to these good friends who were so anxious for her welfare
and that of her father. It was quite true that she earned her board,
for she worked with the others and gave a hand wherever there was a
need, indoors or out, and her father did likewise, so that the M’Clean
clearing soon became a very habitable place.