HONEY
The next morning Parker started forth in search of his land. Agnes
watched him from her loft room; a new feeling of interest possessed
her. This man who had come to them first as an interloper, and next had
taken his place as a member of the household, was now become a person
of the greatest consideration to her. How strange it seemed! Was his
feeling for her only one of comradeship, or of pity for her loneliness?
She remembered his warm clasp of her hand, the look he gave her as they
turned their backs to the sunset. “Oh, I am happy,” she murmured, “and
I want my mother.” She was so long and so quiet up there in her little
room that Polly at last called to her, “Your baby is fretting for you.”
Then Agnes hurried down to take Honey in her arms and to carry him out
into the spring sunshine where her father was working. Honey chuckled
with glee at sight of Fergus Kennedy. He had taken a great fancy to
both father and daughter, and preferred to be with them rather than to
play with Polly’s children, who, it must be confessed, were inclined
to “put upon him,” as Polly herself declared.
Jimmy was bestirring himself and filling the place with his large,
cheerful presence. “How different, how different he is from Parker,”
Agnes thought. Polly was boisterous enough, but Polly, supplemented by
a being twice as big and noisy and loud-voiced, gave Agnes a sense of
being overpowered. She would not have admitted to any one that Polly
was not a joy, a delightful companion, but it was nevertheless a fact
that Polly and Jimmy were too much for her, in certain moods, and this
morning she was glad to escape from the house.
The news of Jimmy’s return brought many of the neighbors to see him
and to hear of his exploits; some came, too, to offer aid in whatever
direction he might require. “It’s but me forge I want,” he told them
all, “wanst I have that, I’ll make mesel’ useful to ye all.”
Parker Willett’s going to hunt up a claim was a subject that Agnes did
not care to hear discussed, though as she went out of the house she
heard Polly say: “It’s the dilicate way he’s been brought up, maybe;
but he’s been pinin’ for his own this manny a day, I’ll be bound, an’
belike he’s a lass at home that he’s thinking of goin’ back for. Faith!
he’d ought to be married; he’s old enough this long while.”
“Maybe he’s been waitin’ for you to serve your time o’ mournin’,” said
Jimmy, jocularly, and Polly laughed hilariously, giving him a sounding
slap on the back at the suggestion.
“A girl at home. Maybe that was it, and that was why he was thinking,
thinking, so long last night,” Agnes said to Honey. “Oh, Honey, Honey,
maybe after all he said no more because he is in honor bound. Oh,
Honey, Honey.” She sat down and gathered the child into her arms,
weaving back and forth sorrowfully. Honey put up his little hand and
patted her cheek. “Don’ ky, Nanny, Honey lubbs oo,” he said coaxingly.
Agnes kissed him. “Come,” she said, “we’ll go find daddy.” Honey
nodded. The plan suited him exactly. He had accepted his new
surroundings with equanimity after the first day when he had called
for mammy and daddy, but now he had Nanny and Daddy Kennedy, he seemed
quite content.
It was a weary day for Agnes; she longed for yet dreaded the return of
Parker, for she persuaded herself that it was as Polly had suggested,
and that he had left his heart down there in Virginia, and she was to
him but a little girl who had won his sympathy. “Yet, why? Why?” she
said more than once, as she remembered that last evening. “‘A man must
make his own home,’ he said. We have kept him from doing that, and now,
now he will go away and he should have done so before. Why didn’t he
go? Why didn’t he?” she asked passionately. “What was it he said about
some tie at home? some things that in honor he could not forget? I did
not think then what he meant, but I know now. He said he was older, so
much older; I am only a little girl to him.”
She did not run down to watch for his coming as she had at first
intended to do, but toward night her ears were alert for the slightest
sound, so that Polly chaffed her for her nervousness. “You’ve skeert
her with your tales of Injuns,” she said to Jimmy; “she’ll be lookin’
for them at ivery turn now. Law, Nancy, you all but skeered me! What is
it?” For at the sound of approaching hoof beats Agnes had started to
her feet.
“Nothing, at least I thought I heard something,” she stammered.
“Well, you are skeery to-night. That’s nothin’ but Park Willett comin’
back. You’ve heard his horse’s hoofs often enough not to jump out of
your skin when he’s comin’. Come, set him a place at the table; he’ll
be hungry. I hardly thought he’d be back to-night.”
Agnes was only too ready for an occupation which would take attention
from herself, and she disappeared into the lean-to just as Parker
entered the door. He greeted them all pleasantly, but seemed quiet and
preoccupied, eating his supper in silence. “Where’s Honey?” he asked,
as he pushed away his bowl and trencher.
“Asleep long ago,” Polly told him.
Parker sat looking thoughtfully at the empty bowl. “Where’s Agnes?” he
asked abruptly, pushing back his stool.
Polly looked around. “She was here a bit ago. She brought in your
supper. I think she’s in the lean-to. Agnes, Nancy, where are ye kapin’
yersel’? Don’t mope there in the dark, lass.”
As Agnes appeared Parker shot a swift glance at her, but she did not
look at him in return, instead she crept around to the settle where her
father was and cuddled down by his side.
“Well,” said Jimmy, “what luck, man? Have ye rid far to-day?”
“Not so far. I was across the river. I think I’ve found the land I
want.”
“That’s good. A likely piece?”
“It seems so.”
“Where is it?” asked Polly.
“Just beyond Muirhead’s. Dod Hunter told me of it.”
“Muirhead, Muirhead, I mind that name,” said Jimmy, thoughtfully.
Parker turned to Agnes. There was a grave look on his face. “I found
where Honey belongs,” he said without preliminary. “He is Hump
Muirhead’s son.”
“Oh!” Agnes started up, the color dying out of her face. Then she sat
down again, and, burying her face on her father’s shoulder, she burst
into tears.
“There, there, child, don’t greet so,” said Polly. “I suppose his
mother is as fond of him as you are, even if she is Hump Muirhead’s
wife.”
“She is very fond of him; so is the father, Dod Hunter told me,”
Parker went on to say. “They have been nearly distracted at the loss
of the child. It seems the old stump was one in which the boy was
often placed when his father was at work; he was fond of taking him
out with him, and the little rascal must have run off and climbed into
the stump himself one day when his father was away. Perhaps he fell
asleep waiting for his father to come, and meantime the stream rose and
loosened the stump, so off it sailed. It is a miracle that it didn’t
overturn and drown the boy. At all events, it’s Muirhead’s boy, and I
shall restore him to his parents to-morrow bright and early, or rather,
I’ll take him as far as Dod Hunter’s, and he will see that he gets home
all right.”
“I’m sorry to part with the little chap,” said Polly, “but I know what
the feelin’s of that mother must be. It’s a wonder we did not find out
before who he belonged to.”
“Muirhead doesn’t come over this side of the river very often, and
since the freshet most of the people over there have been kept away by
the high water and the bad roads. They never doubted but the child was
drowned, Dod says. I saw Jerry, Polly. He sent his respects to you, and
his congratulations upon Jimmy’s return.”
Polly laughed a little consciously. She knew quite well that the fact
of Jimmy’s return was rather a blow to Jerry.
Agnes had dried her tears and gone over to the trundle-bed where the
row of rosy children were sleeping. Honey was her little cousin, and
they were going to take him from her. His father was her enemy, and
she could not hope to see the child again. She sat watching the little
sleeper, feeling very sorrowful at the prospect of the morrow’s parting.
All at once Jimmy gave his knee a sounding slap. “I have it,” he cried.
“What a dunderhead I am! To be sure, I know the name o’ Muirhead. Who
better? I hope I’ve not lost it,” he muttered. Slipping his great hand
inside his hunting-shirt, he added, as he drew forth a packet, “An’
I hope it’s not sp’ilt by the wettin’ I got.” He slowly fumbled with
the thongs which tied the wrapping of deerskin. Polly watched him
curiously, and Parker drew near, hardly less curious. Having satisfied
himself that the contents of the packet were uninjured, Jimmy turned to
Parker. “This Muirhead,” he said, “what might his first name be?”
“Humphrey. They call him Hump Muirhead about here.”
Jimmy nodded assent. “That’s straight. Father of the young un?”
“Yes, the boy’s name is Humphrey, too; but he can get no nearer to it
than Honey, and so he is called.”
“Well, that’s not in the case,” said Jimmy, with an air of importance
which was rather funny. “He’d a father, I suppose, this Muirhead?”
Parker glanced quickly at Agnes, kneeling by the trundle-bed. “He had a
father who was captured and probably killed by the Indians.”
“Correct agin,” said Jimmy. “There was another child, a daughter, was
there? Why--faith! if this isn’t a purty how-de-do. Come here, Nancy,”
he called sharply. Agnes came over and sat down again by her father.
“What’s your mother’s name?” asked Jimmy.
“Margaret Kennedy.”
“And before she was married?”
“Margaret Muirhead.”
“Of Carlisle?”
“Yes, of Carlisle. She is the daughter of Humphrey Muirhead.”
“Then,”--Jimmy leaned back and carefully spread out upon his knee a bit
of paper, the worse for wear,--“it’s a quare thing I’ve here, an’ it’s
quarer still that I ’ud be bringin’ it at wanst to the right place, an’
that I come mesel’ fust off without so much as knowin’ where I was. But
the workin’s av Providence is mortial strange. This here bit o’ paper
on me knee here,”--he tapped it with his heavy finger,--“this here’s
nothin’ less than a will, yer gran’ther’s will, Nancy Kennedy.”
“A will!” Agnes started to her feet again.
Jimmy waved her back. “Jest wait a bit, an’ I’ll tell me tale; sure
it’s a good wan as ye’d find in a book. Yer gran’ther was took be
the Injuns an’ condemned to death some five or six year back as I
understand. The same band o’ marauders that took Jimmy O’Neill took
him, but he wa’n’t so lucky as Jimmy, havin’ been dead this manny a
day, pore soul. Well, faith, sirs, in that same camp o’ Injuns was the
same white man I was tellin’ ye about a while back, an’ when it come
that Muirhead knowed he’d have to die, he gits a chanst to have spache
with the paleface, who’d been adopted like into the tribe, an’ is given
some privileges. Says Muirhead, ‘I’ve got to die, an’ if yer a friend
an’ a brother, ye’ll do me a turn,’ says he. ‘I’ve made me will, but
not signed it, an’ it’s in me home,’ sez he, ‘an’ no good is it there
at all, since I can’t reach me hand so far to make me mark to it. Now
it’s poor the chanst is, but I’d like to take it, an’ I’ve a bit av
paper here, the back av a letter, that’ll do. I’ll make another will
an’ sign it in yer prisence an’ in the prisence o’ some o’ me comrades
that’s been took wid me, an’ if ye’ll skirmish ’round an’ fetch me the
paint pot the Injuns uses for their decraytin’, I’ll be obliged to ye.’”
The auditors were listening eagerly; it was surely a strange tale.
Jimmy sat looking into the fire for a moment before he went on. “The
white man, Brown be name, got him the paint, an’ Muirhead wrote, wid a
quill, what’s here. Will ye be kind enough to read it, Mr. Willett?”
He handed it to Parker who took it carefully and read:--
“I, Humphrey Muirhead, being of sound mind, and being at the point
of death at the hands of Indians, do hereby make my last will and
testament. To my daughter, Margaret Kennedy, of Carlisle, wife of
Fergus Kennedy, and her heirs, I will and bequeath all whereof I die
possessed whether real or personal estate, with the exception of one
shilling which I give to my son Humphrey Muirhead.
“(Signed) HUMPHREY MUIRHEAD.
“October 15, 1793.
{JOHN STARK,
“Witnesses {WILLIAM BROWN,
{HENRY FOSTER.”
“What’d I tell ye? Hear to that!” cried Polly, in ecstasy.
“Me tale’s not done,” said Jimmy, with a silencing nod. “He furthermore
says to Brown: ‘It’s a poor chanst fur me daughter to git her own, but
if be at any time ye see a chanst o’ gittin this to me friends, give
it to anny one that’ll take it,’ says he. ‘I’ll trust ye,’ he says,
‘bein’ as yer one o’ me own race.’ Well, Brown, he’d not then made up
his mind to tarry along with the redskins, an’ he says he’ll take it.
So the next day Muirhead, poor soul, is despatched, an’ Brown keeps
the bit o’ paper. He’s a quare fish, is Brown. The Injuns make him wan
o’ them, an’ he’ll not return to his own when he gits a chanst, but I
misdoubt it ain’t for a rayson, fur more’n wan o’ his own color has he
been able to git off to their friends. He didn’t put obstacles in my
way o’ goin’; in truth, he rayther encouraged it, an’ he trusted this
to me; ‘For,’ says he, ‘if anybody kin git away, it’s yersel’, Jimmy
O’Neill, who’s so strong. An’ if ye kin seek out the darter o’ this man
Muirhead, he’ll lie aisier in his grave if grave he had, poor soul.’”
“Oh, poor grandfather, poor grandfather!” sobbed Agnes.
“Now don’t greet, child,” said Polly. “He’s at rest this long while.”
But the tale had a silencing effect upon them all, and they sat for
some time, each pondering over it. It was Parker who broke the silence
by saying, “This will oust Humphrey Muirhead from his snug quarters,
and give your mother, Agnes, the house you want for her.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Agnes, in a subdued voice, “but ah me, how
strange it is that in this much desired thing there should be a sting,
for we must rob dear little Honey of his home.”
“He’s too young to know the difference,” said Polly, sharply, “and his
father’s well able to make him another. He’s no worse off, an’ not so
bad as my bairns were when they were driven out with no one but their
mother to do for them.”
Jimmy patted Polly’s plump hand. “It’s the good mother ye were, Polly,
an’ the bairns do ye credit. Well, this is a strange piece of news all
around; it’s more of a tangle than ye’ll unsnarl in one evening, I’m
thinking. Now, what’s yer tale? I don’t git quite the rights av it.”
Polly told him of Agnes’s quest and of the surly reception she had
received; of Dod Hunter’s account of Humphrey Muirhead’s first wife and
of his son, and at last the situation was clear to Jimmy. “Then who’ll
show the gintleman the will?” he asked. “I’ll wager he’ll drop his
feathers when he sees it. I’m ready to vouch for my part of the tale.”
“I am going over again soon,” said Parker, “and if you will trust the
will to me, I’ll face Mr. Humphrey Muirhead and learn what he has
to say. I am very sure that I should much prefer Mr. Kennedy for a
neighbor to Hump Muirhead; it is mainly on his account that I have
hesitated about the land; they say he can be an ugly neighbor if he
takes a dislike to any one.”
Jimmy replaced the bit of paper in its deerskin covering. “I reckon
it’s as well to keep this out of sight till ye see how the land lays,”
he said. “If so be he wants to see it, ye can take it to him or he
kin come here an’ have a look at it. Meantime we’ll keep quiet an’
wait till he shows fight. That’s best, ain’t it, Fergus?” He addressed
Agnes’s father who nodded assent. He had not taken in the gist of the
matter, but was quite willing to agree with Jimmy O’Neill, who somehow
appeared to be able to arouse him from his apathy more than any one
else.
In the morning Parker bore Honey away, Agnes shedding many tears over
the child, to the baby’s amazement and Parker’s distress. “Don’t,
little girl,” he said softly, as he leaned down from his saddle and
touched her hand. “Think of that will, and of how everything will come
out finely for you.” But Agnes did not respond; instead, she turned and
went into the house while Parker galloped off, holding Honey snugly in
front of him, the little fellow delighted enough to be taking the ride.
It was a lonely day for the girl, in spite of the fact that she
now could look forward to possessing that longed-for home of her
grandfather’s. Yet, though she tried to picture all her family gathered
together under one roof, and the happy reunion that now could not be
very far away, she felt an undercurrent of sadness that accompanied all
her thoughts. “He said he would like to be our neighbor,” she said to
herself, “and he will be that, but if he brings home a wife, I would
rather he would be far away.” She went about her work so listlessly
that Polly was quite concerned. “I didn’t suppose that baby ’ud take
such a holt on ye,” she said. “I tell ye what ye better do, Nancy; just
go over to Jeanie M’Clean’s. Ye’ve been so clost at home with that
young un that ye’ve skeerce been off the clearin’. Ye beeta have some
change. Ye kin git the news they’ll be havin’, an’ if they want ye to
stay awhile, there’s nothin’ to hinder. So be it’ll break up the habit
ye have o’ living with the child.”
Agnes agreed with Polly that this would be a good plan. She had not
seen Jeanie for some time, their last meeting being the Sabbath before
at church, and then they had not had the opportunity for much of a
chat, for David was in attendance and Agnes had purposely kept out of
the way. She began pensively to wonder how David’s courtship came on,
and if he had overcome his shyness, and then she sighed. “Jeanie shall
not see that I am out of spirits,” she said to herself, as she started
forth, “for she will not understand how there could be any reason for
it when everything is going so well, and I do not know myself why it
is. I am a silly little goose, that is all, and I must try to put on a
cheerful countenance and stop dreaming silly dreams.”
And, indeed, as she ran along her spirits rose, for spring was in
the air, and there is hope in the spring, even though it does awaken
all the longings of one’s nature; and as Agnes took her way through
the sweet-smelling woods, she gradually put away sorrowful thoughts,
remembering only that she would see her mother soon, and that it was
Parker himself who agreed with her that out of evil might come good.
Moreover, she told herself, it was only a notion of Polly’s about his
having a sweetheart in Virginia. Why need she believe it? There was
nothing to prove it to be so. Having taken this view of the question,
she was soon in a happy frame of mind. The birds were beginning to
be heard in the trees overhead; at her feet the wild flowers were
springing up, and tender shoots of green were appearing to make a
misty distance. The world was throbbing with expectant life, and it
was foolish to suppose that a youthful heart could long despair. And
therefore Jeanie’s visitor appeared before her blithe and smiling.