WHAT THE FRESHET BROUGHT
It was quite early in the spring before the willows that bordered
the run at the foot of the garden had put on their first green, and
long before the pawpaw bushes showed their tender shoots or their
leathery-looking blossoms. Agnes was busy pounding at the hominy block.
She was well wrapped up, for though a recent thaw had broken up the ice
in the rivers, and had started the frost from out of the ground so that
the red mud was thick everywhere, it was still cool out of doors. As
the girl worked away, giving swift, deft, even strokes, she saw Parker
Willett coming toward her. “The river is rising,” he said.
Agnes paused, and looked toward the run. The yellow mass of water in
the river beyond was pitching and tossing, a turbulent tide. “I thought
it had come to a standstill,” she said, “but I see it is rising fast.”
“Yes, very fast. I have been measuring, and it has risen a foot since
I last looked. I hope it will not be such a big freshet as to wash us
out.”
“It couldn’t do that, could it? I shouldn’t suppose it could ever reach
this far.”
“No, but it might do damage to the garden.”
“I hope it won’t; we have such a good start.” Agnes looked out
anxiously between the fringes of willows.
“We won’t borrow trouble, anyhow,” said Parker, cheerfully.
“Best not. Mother used to say that sometimes trouble is a blessing in
disguise, and even if the freshet does harm in one direction, it may do
good in another.”
“That is certainly a cheerful view to take of it,” said Parker,
laughing. And he passed on.
“Two years since I have seen my mother,” thought Agnes, “and I am
seventeen. Oh, when will she come? I wonder if the freshet will be a
help or a hindrance to her coming. Ah, it is getting worse! I see the
flood is bringing down all sorts of things. I must go down nearer when
I have finished this.”
Higher and higher rose the flood, all day and all night, and by the
next morning river and run were one sheet of tossing, plunging water.
The house stood in a little hollow, but beyond it rose a hill which
descended precipitously on the other side to the river. Around the foot
of the hill wound the run whose farther bank rose again to the edge of
the river; the bank, not so high as the opposite one, was now covered.
It was sure to be safe on the higher hill. The house was a little above
the level of the water, but the garden on the hillside was encroached
upon.
“It is getting pretty close,” said Parker, as Agnes joined him; “just a
little more and I am afraid we shall have to move out.”
“Maybe it will stop before that happens,” said Agnes, in reply. “What a
lot of things are coming down!” She turned to Polly who had come out to
see. “Oh, Polly, see, there is a shed and a lot of furniture, and oh,
see, there is a queer-looking raft! There is a man on it. If he should
get into that snarl of trees there, it would be bad for him. It is
such a little raft. See, he is trying to steer out of the way of those
snags! No, he isn’t! Oh, Polly, what is he trying to do?”
“Trying to make a fool of himsel’, as near as I can make out. Why
doesn’t he try to pole himself out of the way of those stumps? He’s in
danger, and if he gets into the middle of the current, he’s gone.”
“There’s something on the stump, and he’s trying to get it!” cried
Agnes. “What can it be? O dear, dear! and we must stand here without
being able to help him.” She looked around for Parker, but he was gone.
The snarl of stumps was drifting toward the current, and they could see
that the man on the frail little raft was trying his best to keep raft
and stumps from midstream. “If he only knew how near he was to the top
of the river bank on the other side of the run, he might make it. It’s
fair wonderful how he manages; one ’ud think nobody could live in such
a rage of waters!” Polly exclaimed.
“Look there!” suddenly cried Agnes.
“For the land’s sake!” Polly ejaculated. “If there isn’t Park Willett
in a boat! If he isn’t foolhardy, I wouldn’t say it. Now what is he
going to do?”
“I see,” returned Agnes; “he is going to try to get across the run
and reach the other bank. O dear! he’ll stick in the tree-tops and
that will be the end of him. Oh, I don’t want to look! I can’t look! I
wonder where father is; I hope he is safe.”
“He’s nowhere about here; he’s gone to the other clearing,” Polly told
her.
“And we must stand here and see them drown!” Agnes began to wring her
hands.
“We needn’t. You can go in,” returned Polly, sarcastically. “I’m
willing to bet my Sunday dinner that Park’ll make it. There he goes!”
“No, he’s caught! Ah, he is clear of that. Now! Oh! will he make it?
See, how carefully he sounds as he goes! Now what is he doing? I see,
he is making his boat fast to the top of that tree so it can’t get
away. Now--why, Polly, he’s throwing a line! Good lad! See, the man has
caught it! I was afraid it would get tangled in the stump. What do you
see?” For Polly had made a sudden exclamation.
“I’m no so sure, but I thought I saw the man there take something from
that snarl of stumps. Could it be some wee bit animal?”
“Could it be a little child? Oh, Polly, could it?”
The two were now so excited that they could scarcely wait events, but
there was nothing to do but to watch, and finally they rejoiced to
see the raft slowly turned toward the boat in which Parker steadied
himself, holding on to the branch of a tree which protruded from
the water. It was a risky business, for all around surged the swift
waters, flinging broken branches of trees, loose boards, and stumps in
their way. But once out of the swift current they could hope to land
safely. Crossing the run was no easy matter, for the tops of the trees
along its submerged bank were continually menacing them, and at every
moment it seemed likely that they would be upset. Breathlessly the two
women watched, and finally, by the combined skill of the two men, the
boat was safely piloted across to dry land. Then the two clasped each
other’s hands in sign of relief to their overstrained feelings.
“It is a child they are carrying,” said Polly, “and the man’s head is
as bald as my hand; not a hair on it. Come, let’s hurry in, Nancy,
and have some hot water ready, for the child must be perished.” Agnes
followed her into the house, and was bustling about making ready some
warm food when she heard an exclamation of joy and amazement.
Then the door flew open, and she turned to see Polly fling herself into
the arms of the bald-headed man, crying: “It’s me own Jimmy, and him
with not a spear on his head, and nearly drownded before me eyes! Ah,
Jimmy, Jimmy, me true lad! Ah, I knew ye’d never lave me foriver. I’ve
mourned for ye, lad! Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy!” and she burst into a flood of
tears. And Jimmy, with one arm around Polly, half ready to cry himself,
was rubbing his bald head and looking around in a maze.
“Take this little fellow,” said Parker to Agnes; “he’s half dead with
cold and fright, poor little chap. Let those two have it out, and we’ll
look after the boy.”
Agnes took the little fellow in her arms; he was a pretty, chubby
child, between two and three years of age; he had been crying
forlornly, but at the sight of a bowl of warm mush and milk his tears
ceased.
Polly had gathered her own brood about her, and they were shrilly
calling, “Daddy, daddy!” while Polly herself had not taken her eyes
off Jimmy’s face. “It’s me own lad, me own lad,” she crooned, rocking
herself back and forth. “An’ where’s yer hair, Jimmy dear? An’ you with
such a fine crop. An’ how did ye git here, an’ are ye hungry?”
“Hungry I am,” was the response, “as anybody’d be who’d not tasted bite
nor sup since yesterday. I’d a little parched corn, but it gave out
yesterday. Faith! I was not travellin’ heavy handed, an’ Polly, lass,
lest I’d be burdened with too much to carry, I left me hair behind me.”
He gave a chuckle and took the bowl which Agnes handed him, eating as a
famished man would.
“An’ did ye know ye was coming this way, an’ that ye’d find me an’ the
bairns?”
“Not a lick did I know where I’d be fetchin’ up. I took the coorse av
the river an’ reckoned upon its bringing me out somewhere among daycint
folks. It’s the freshet ye’ve to thank, Polly, for the sight av me. I’d
not got away but for it. The watter riz so high the redskins concluded
to move their camp, and in the kinfusion I slipped away, an’ bein’ a
good swimmer, trusted mesel’ to the watter for a bit, and then I got
ashore and made me bit av raft an’ consigned mesel’ to the river. I
caught sight av the bairn there, as I passed the snags, and thinks I,
Jimmy O’Neill, ye’ve niver yit been onwillin’ to risk yer life fur a
weak little creetur, an’ suppose it was one o’ yer own bairnies; so
says I, ‘I’ll save it or lose me own skin.’ He was settin’ there, the
purtiest ye ever see, in the top av the stump, as snug as if it had
been a cradle, the watter swirlin’ around him an’ tossin’ him about.
But he was well balanced, somehow, an’ niver a fut did he wet.”
Agnes picked up the baby from where she had set him in the midst of
Polly’s children. “What’s your name, baby?” she asked.
“Honey,” he replied. “I’se Honey, an’ dad put me in a big tree an’
it sailded.” And that was all they could get out of him, so Honey he
remained.
“How his poor mother will mourn for him,” said Polly, hugging her own
youngest close to her. “I wish we could find out where he came from. I
don’t believe it can be very far away, or he’d be in a worse plight.”
“If it isn’t far, maybe we can find out,” said Parker. “We’ll keep him
for the present, will we, Polly?”
“Will we? Am I a brute to turn a baby out into the worruld? An’ on a
day when he’s fetched home to me by me own man?”
“I’ll take care of him,” said Agnes, eagerly. “I’d love to, Polly. Just
hand him over to me; you’ve enough of your own to look after.”
“But I’ve me man to help me now,” said Polly, joyously, looking
triumphantly toward Jimmy.
“What I want to know is how your man got here, and all about his doings
all this time,” said Agnes. “Tell us, Jimmy, where you have been all
this time.”
“Faith, then, with the redskins. They borry’d me suit o’ hair in
the first place, an’ left me for dead, but dead I was not, though
uncomfortable from the loss av me chief adornmint, an’ after a bit one
av ’em comes along: ‘Ugh,’ says he; ‘Ugh, yersel’, say I; ‘I’m not
dead, though I look it.’ Well, he tows me along wid him to an Injun
village, and they beeta keep me to kindle their fire wid; an’ whin I
bursts me bonds that aisy, bein’ strong in me muscles an’ arrums, as
ye well know, Polly, they’re sort o’ pleased, an’ seein’ me advantage,
says I, ‘I’ll do ye a better turn than to be kindlin’ a fire fur ye,
fur a blacksmith I am be birth, an’ I’ll give ye me sarvice in exchange
fur me life.’ Well, they powwowed over it fur some time, some agreein’
an’ some disagreein’, but in the end they give me a chanst to live,
an’ I won the chanst. I was plannin’ to escape this long back, but the
freshet risin’ up so suddent gimme the opportunity I’d been lookin’
fur, an’ I comes in the manner I stated. I’d no time fur hat or wig,
Polly, an’ I’m lucky to be arrivin’ with nayther.”
“I hope they didn’t treat you very badly,” said Agnes.
“No so bad; there was another chap of me own color, paleface as they
say, an’ he had been with ’em this long while, so we two hobnobbed;
an’ though he was more content than me, we got along fairly well. He
said as all o’ his’n was kilt, he’d no call to leave, an’ he’d not
take the risk, so I kim off by me lone. I’d ha’ gone back to the ould
settlemint, but I’d ha’ had me journey for naught.”
“Indeed would ye,” said Polly. “What did I tell ye?” She turned to
Agnes. “Would I give up hope? Not I. I’ve looked for ye night an’ morn,
Jimmy dear, an’ I knew I’d see ye agin. Faith! it’s but the other day
I had me sign sure, an’ I was right in belavin’ in it.” She nodded
emphatically in Parker’s direction, and he was obliged to confess that
this time the sign had not failed.
“There’s wan thing I’ve learned, at any rate,” Jimmy remarked soberly,
passing his hand over his bare poll, “I’ll nivir agin be skeered av
the Injuns scalpin’ me.” At which all laughed, and Polly rapturously
embraced him. Jimmy, with all his old joking ways, was hers again, and
Polly was content.
The return of the captive was a matter of great interest in the
settlement, and, strange to say, to none more than to Fergus Kennedy
who asked his tale of adventure over and over again, and seemed more
brightened up by Jimmy’s presence than by any one’s.
Agnes rejoiced with the rest, but she was a little troubled lest Polly
should wish to leave her before the arrival of Mrs. Kennedy, this
being just the opposite of that which had been her dilemma a short
time before. How easy the matter would be settled if her mother would
but come at once, and they could all go to the home which the girl
still insisted to herself was rightfully theirs. She did not, however,
consider another point in the case till Parker Willett asked her one
day if she didn’t think that now Jimmy had come, it would be better
for him to take up a piece of land for himself, and leave them all in
Jimmy’s care.
Agnes, with Honey in her lap, toyed with the child’s flaxen locks
before she answered. Honey had attached himself with great decision to
Agnes, and she was beginning to love the little child very much. He
seemed to take the place of her own small brothers and sisters more
than Polly’s children had ever done, and now that Polly was so absorbed
in Jimmy, the girl was lonely at times. She answered Parker’s question
with another. “And is it on our account you have been staying here all
this time? You know I suspected it. And you risked your life for Jimmy
and Honey--and--should you go far?” she asked a little tremulously.
“Not farther than I needs must to find a good bit of land.”
“You will not leave the neighborhood?” She was suddenly conscious that
for her there would be a greater vacuum when Parker left than when
Archie went away.
“No.” He watched the girl’s downcast face, and he, too, was aware
that he did not want to go very far away. Yet--There were no other
words spoken for a moment, and then the girl raised her eyes. “Do you
remember how we said at the time of the freshet that it wasn’t worth
while to borrow trouble? And look what the freshet did for Polly,
though it did destroy a part of our garden.”
“And therefore you think my going away need not be an unalloyed
disaster? That is very pleasant to know. I was hardly conceited enough
to think it would cause any very great sorrow.”
Agnes’s fair face flushed. “I meant that it might be the means of
bringing you good fortune, and that would be a pleasure to your
friends, however much they might miss you.” She had grown much gentler
since the coming of Honey among them, Parker was quick to perceive.
“If you keep on being so sweetly philosophical, I’m afraid you will
soon be ready to be a minister’s wife,” he said with a half smile.
Agnes compressed her lips. “Oh, do you think so?” she returned coldly.
Then, after a pause, “Yes, I am quite sure that Jimmy will be ample
protection for us, and as it is for your pleasure and profit to go
away, I advise you to do it.”
There was a womanliness in her manner of speech that set him wondering.
Was it the reminder of the minister’s wife that so suddenly changed
her? Perhaps, after all, it was not Honey, but Archie who was the cause
of the new gentleness. She was trying to prepare herself for that new
life with Archie; that was it. “Well, little girl,” he said lightly,
“then I will go; but I shall keep track of you, and I shall see you
sometimes.”
Sometimes! He who had been a part of her daily life for all these
months would see her only sometimes, just as she was learning his worth
and her own dependence upon him. She laid her cheek against Honey’s
hair, and the touch gave her comfort. “Poor little baby,” she said, “I
wonder whether your mother is grieving for you. I almost hope he has no
mother.”
“Perhaps he has not. Would you like to know?”
“We ought to know.”
“We have tried to find out, you remember, but we can try again. I am
going up the river a short distance to-morrow,--now that the water has
subsided, it will be safe to go--and I’ll make inquiry of every one
along the way. Dod Hunter knows every one, and he may be able to tell.
I am going his way.”
“Oh!”
“I heard of some good land in that direction and I want to look it up.”
“Across the river?”
“Yes. Have you seen the M’Cleans lately?” he asked abruptly.
“I saw them Sabbath.”
“Have they heard from Archie?”
“Not yet; they expect to any day now. I miss Archie,” she said simply.
“I should think you would; he was by far the best of the lads around
here. But some day, you know--”
“What?”
“Did I not say just now that you were fast becoming fitted to be a
minister’s wife?”
“Thank you.” The voice was very low. They were both silent for a time,
and then Parker left her with the evening’s sunshine in her hair. Why,
now that he must leave her, had the girl suddenly appeared so fair to
him? This new sweetness sat well upon her. How deeply blue were her
eyes, and what tender lights came into them when she spoke of little
Honey. Yes, it was better that he should go now--at once; later it
might be harder. A minister’s wife she would be, and as the years
passed by and she had learned her lessons of patience and unselfish
devotion, how lovable she would become to those of her husband’s
congregation. “I am a middle-aged man in her eyes,” he said aloud, “and
it would be cruel to disturb her little tender heart now when all is
settled for her, and yet--and yet--” He stood so long leaning on the
fence that Agnes, watching him, wondered a little.
“He is thinking of home, maybe, and of his sister. He will be so lonely
off by himself and--oh, I shall be lonely, too. Oh, Honey, I, too.
Polly has her Jimmy, and poor father does not know, and if they take
you,--oh, Honey, if they take you,--how can I stand it? But there is
mother,” she said presently; “she will be coming soon.”
“Mammy,” said Honey. “Dad put Honey in a tree, an’ it sailded away. I
lubs Nanny an’ I ’ants my supper.”
“Honey shall have his supper,” Agnes told him, and she carried him
into the house to have his mush and milk with the other children. Then
she crept to her loft room. From the window she could see that Parker
was still leaning on the fence. Behind the hills the sun was setting
in a gorgeous sky. The willows emerging from the late waste of waters
showed their first tender green; the hylos piped shrilly. Agnes’s heart
throbbed painfully. A beautiful world, and out of troubles sometimes
arise blessings. She heard Jimmy’s cheerful voice below relating
adventures to her father whose pleased smile she fancied she could see.
“I am lonely, lonely,” cried the girl. She arose from her little stool
by the window and, with a sudden resolve, clambered down the ladder.
Polly had stowed all the babies away in the trundle-bed, and the four
were fast asleep. “Where are you going, Nancy?” Polly asked.
“Out to smell the spring,” was the answer, as the girl shut the door
behind her. She followed the path uphill to the top. Before she reached
the figure standing there she paused. The glory of the sky was to be
seen more plainly here. From the hollow below one might imagine the day
to be done, but here one could see that rosy clouds swept across the
sky and the yellow light along the horizon still shone clearly.
Conscious of her presence, Parker turned suddenly. She came and stood
by his side. “One sees things more distinctly from a height,” he said
musingly.
“Yes, it is quite dark indoors. I was so lonely and I--I saw you here
by yourself. You will be lonely, too, so often now, for you are going
away--you are going away.” There was a little catch in her voice,
and the man at her side put forth his hand and took hers, cold and
trembling, in his. Agnes looked up. His touch brought comfort. “I’m not
going to be a minister’s wife,” she said, her lips quivering. “I could
never be.”
“Oh, little girl, little girl,” he said softly, “how did you know so
well what to come and tell me? I was lonely, too, as lonely as you
were, but I am older, much older, and one must bear those things. It is
harder than you know for me to go away, but it is best. A man must make
his own home.”
“Yes,” faltered Agnes, “I know.”
“But I’ll come back.”
“You said sometimes, only sometimes.”
“I mean very often.” He looked down at her but checked the word that
rose to his lips. “It would not be fair,” he told himself. “I have my
way to make,” he said aloud, “and there are some things, some ties
there at home, you know, some things that in honor I cannot forget.”
“Yes.” It was all that Agnes could say, but she was comforted beyond
words, and the glory of the west was reflected on the face of each as
they turned from the hilltop toward the little cabin nestled in the
shadows at the foot of the hill.