MOTHER
Polly’s face beamed a welcome on the travellers. The fact that the
little cabin contained but the living-room and the lean-to downstairs
and the two little loft chambers above, did not disturb her in the
least when the matter of accommodating five extra persons was to be
considered. “Let me see,” she said meditatively, “the two biggest lads
can sleep in one o’ the loft rooms, and Agnes can take Margret in
with her; then the other two little ones an’ my youngest can have the
trundle-bed, and the father an’ mother the big bed below, an’ Jimmy an’
mesel’ with the others can go to the barn.”
“Turn you out! I’d like to see us,” said Agnes. “I can take both my
sisters in with me, and the lads can go to the barn. They’re well off
to have no worse place, and they’ll not mind it in the least.” And
though Polly protested and brought Jimmy into the discussion, it was at
last managed as Agnes had suggested.
A new light came into Fergus Kennedy’s eyes as he beheld his wife and
children, but he seemed bewildered at seeing baby Fergus, and poor
Mrs. Kennedy could hardly restrain her tears. In these long months
letters had passed but seldom, and Agnes had written cautiously of her
father’s condition. She was always hoping that he would be quite like
his old self, or, at the least, very much better by the time her mother
came. He seemed quietly content, and followed his wife everywhere,
but there was no enthusiasm; and to the weary traveller, arrived in a
new country, happy though she was at the reunion, there came a little
heart-sinking as the night approached. After the younger children were
sleeping sweetly and Fergus had gone out with Jimmy to see that all was
safe at the barn, the mother sought her first-born, for whom her heart
had been yearning all these long months.
Agnes had not gone to bed, but she had seen that her little sisters
were comfortable, and then she had crouched down by her small window,
and sat there looking out into the starry heavens. Outside the forest
girdled the house, while beyond one could catch, here and there, the
gleam of the river through the trees. All was silent except for the cry
of some wild bird in the deep woods, or the barking of a fox in the
underbrush.
Mrs. Kennedy drew up a little stool, and Agnes, her arms around her
mother’s waist, sat on the floor by her side. “It is good, so good to
have you, mother,” said the girl.
Her mother stroked the soft auburn hair and drew her daughter closer,
but she said nothing.
“What are you thinking of, mother? Does it seem very strange to you
here?” Agnes asked.
“I am thinking of how lonely my little lamb must have been for many
a day in that first settlement where wolves attacked her and where
Indians threatened, and how, if I had realized it all, I think my heart
would have misgiven me when it came time to have her go.”
“It was lonely,” Agnes confessed, “but since we came here it has been
less so, and the Indians are not so troublesome now that the settlement
grows and thrives, and only those who stray too far need fear. You are
not afraid of them, mother?”
“No; yet, when I saw your father and felt what it was they had done to
him, a horror arose within me.”
“Yes, I miss father,” returned Agnes, “father as he was, but he might
have had a wound as bad in war, and he does grow a little better--he
really does; he was much worse at first. Oh, mother, I am glad for his
sake that I came with him, for they might never have found him that
dreadful day.”
“Yes, yes, I know, and I am thankful, so thankful that I have both my
brave daughter and my husband spared to me, though your father does
seem so strange. And there was my own poor father, too, a victim to the
savages.”
“Ah, yes. But, mother, you have not heard. Such a wonderful thing I
must tell you. There was a will, after all.” And Agnes told her the
whole story, her mother listening eagerly. “And now,” she said, as she
concluded, “Mr. Willett will take steps to see that we get our rights.”
“Thank God!” ejaculated her mother. “Ah, my dear lass, I was sore
hearted to know what we would do, for the space here is main small for
all of us.”
“Yes, but it is coming summer, and we need not mind. Ah, mother, I am
used now to this backwoods way of living, and you will be, too, soon.
I am afraid, it will be some time before we can get possession of the
house, for Humphrey Muirhead will stay till he is put out. Did you know
about him, mother?”
“Yes,” she answered slowly. “My father told me the last time that I saw
him alive. ‘He’s no credit to us, daughter,’ he said, ‘and will likely
never cross your path. I’d have more for you but for him, and it’s but
right that what is left should be yours, although he is the eldest and
bears my name. I have made my will,’ he said--”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He told me that.”
“But he did not sign it. I think that ruffian uncle of mine must have
known about it.”
“If he did not sign it, of course it was of no value. Your grandfather
had a housekeeper after my mother’s death; the woman was a half-breed,
but quite a good creature. I don’t know what has become of her. The
house is a good one, your grandfather said, and the farm was well
stocked.”
“I’m afraid, from all accounts, that it is going to be hard work to get
anything, but we shall see. It is a good thing to have friends, mother.”
“And this Mr. Willett, he is a good friend? You remember I haven’t seen
him.”
“He is a good friend,” Agnes answered slowly, “and so are the M’Cleans.
You saw Archie?”
“Yes, a fine lad.” She laid her hand gently on Agnes’s head. “What did
he tell me but that my little girl would have the chance of becoming a
meenister’s wife?”
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said, ‘My little lass is far too young.’”
“Am I so young? Seventeen, mother.”
“So you are. I did not count in the years you have been away from me,
but you will not leave me now, my lamb? Not yet?”
“Oh, mother, I have no thought of such a thing. Archie is a good laddie
and has been kinder than I can tell you, but I do not think of him in
that way. He will be away long enough to forget, I think.”
“Not forget, boyish though his love may be, but he may learn to care
for some other with whom he may be thrown. Yet, I would not object to
giving my little girl to a good man, and I might like the honor of
becoming mother-in-law to a meenister.”
“You’ll be no one’s mother-in-law yet awhile.” Agnes gave her mother a
fervent hug. “I shall help you to raise the children, and you know, you
have much to learn of me, for I am a pioneer this long time, while you
are quite new to it.”
“Saucy little child, to talk of teaching your mother. This Mr. Willett,
when shall we see him? I have many questions to ask him.”
“He comes quite often.”
“He is a young man?”
“Not very; he is twenty-five.”
“I call that quite young. Agnes, my lamb, is that why you are not ready
to be a meenister’s wife?”
Agnes’s head dropped against her mother’s shoulder, and she did not
answer for a moment. “He does not think of me,” she said after a
moment, and in hurried tones. “I--I--Polly says he has a sweetheart in
Virginia.”
“But you think of him?” The mother was quick to note the hesitation and
the evasion. “Ah, my baby, has it come to you then, womanhood’s dream?”
she said gently.
“Nothing has come to me,” Agnes broke out passionately. “I have been
motherless and well-nigh fatherless, and tears have been my portion.”
“My lamb! My lamb!” the mother murmured brokenly. “You are no longer
motherless, nor have ever been friendless; and, ah, my bairn, if you
but knew what a comfort it was to me to hear from Archie M’Clean how
brave and strong and helpful you have been.”
“I’ve not always been brave and strong, and I grew wild and naughty for
a time till--till--they said I was like Polly. Have I grown like Polly,
mother?”
“Only in some little gestures and tricks of speech, yet you might well
imitate her in many ways.”
“So I say. Dear Polly, she has been so good, so good to me, and I love
her and will not hear anything against her.”
“You are right to be loyal, but now, my lamb, it is late and you are
tired.”
“And how tired you must be, too. Go to bed, dearest of mothers. I shall
be so happy to know you are near me.”
“And yet a moment ago you were not happy, even with your mother.”
“I was very naughty. Please forget that wild talk.”
But the mother did not forget, and she looked with critical eyes upon
Parker Willett when he appeared a few days later. She saw a tall,
dignified young man, slim, dark eyed, dark haired, with resolute chin
and a mouth whose grave lines gave rather a severity to the face except
when the man smiled, and then one noticed both humor and sweetness.
He greeted Mrs. Kennedy with marked courtesy; here was a woman of his
own kind, and he was quick to recognize it. He was also quick to see
that Agnes had gained in her own manner since her mother’s arrival,
unconsciously imitating her quiet and gentle dignity, and almost
the first words he said to Mrs. Kennedy were, “It is well for your
daughter, Mrs. Kennedy, that you have at last come; she has missed you
sadly.”
“And has needed me?” Mrs. Kennedy smiled.
“Yes, I think that, too. Every girl needs a wise, good mother. I saw--”
he turned to Agnes--“I saw Humphrey Muirhead to-day.”
“Oh, did you tell him?”
“About the will? Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
Parker smiled. “I think it would hardly do to repeat his very
uncomplimentary remarks, but he vows you will never set foot on the
place.”
“What of your own land?”
“I have bought it.”
“You are not afraid of having such a disagreeable neighbor?”
Parker gave a little amused smile. “Whom do you mean, you or your
mother?”
Agnes smiled, too. “So you do count on our being your neighbors in
spite of what Hump Muirhead says?”
“I certainly do.”
“But you must not take any risks on our account,” Mrs. Kennedy was
quick to say.
“But he saved Honey’s life,” Agnes remarked.
“You mean Jimmy O’Neill saved Honey.”
“But you saved both. Doesn’t Hump Muirhead know that?”
“What a disrespectful way to speak of your uncle,” laughed Parker.
“What will your mother think?”
“That I’ve neither wish nor right to show him the respect he does not
command. But doesn’t he know about your saving Honey?” she persisted.
“No, if you call it that.”
“I do. Oh, mother--” she checked herself; she would not for the world
praise him for his bravery lest one or the other should suspect how
pleased she was to do it. “Did you see Honey, the dear baby?” she
asked, giving a turn to the subject.
“No, I saw only the man himself; I met him on the road.”
“Do you know, I have a baby brother, only a little younger than Honey,
and I had never seen him before mother came.”
“I am glad you have some one to fill Honey’s place, and some one from
whom you will not have to part. She was very loath to give up her
little cousin,” he told Mrs. Kennedy.
“Agnes always was a great hand for the little ones,” Mrs. Kennedy
replied.
“And you must have missed her sadly when she left you for this raw
country.”
“I missed her, yes.” The mother’s eyes rested fondly on the girl,
and Parker’s followed the look. He wondered if the mother noted how
becoming was that soft blue and how the plain little gown brought out
the color of the girl’s eyes.
“What did you say about the will?” Agnes asked, eager for more
information.
“I told him that the will would be entered for probate, and that your
mother would claim her own.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He insisted that he must see the will and that he would take no
man’s word for it. I promised him that I would bring it with me for
his satisfaction, and Jimmy has intrusted it to me. It will be all
right in time. I shall not show it to him except in the presence of
witnesses. There may be some trouble about getting possession, for
Muirhead, on account of his long residence out here, has been able to
gather about him rather a lawless set of followers, and they may try
to do something to prevent peaceable possession; but in the end there
must be enough of your friends to see justice done. You have not come
to a very law-abiding neighborhood, so far as these backwoodsmen are
concerned, Mrs. Kennedy, but the country is settling up very fast, and
there are enough men of good standing here now who will not allow any
irregularities.”
“Every one is very kind; I never knew such hospitality. We have had
offers of help from near and far, and a score of homes are open to
us. In time I know we shall be very happy here, though at first one
naturally misses some things.”
“Yes,” Parker nodded in response. “One misses a great many things; I
felt so; but it is a great country, after all, and there are better
chances here than at home; that is plain to be seen by the way the
people are flocking from the east and south. I should not be surprised
if we would soon become a state.”
“It certainly seems as if a lot of people were coming,” Agnes ventured
to say. “I hardly ever go to the M’Cleans’ but I hear of new arrivals,
and every day we see the broads go by on the river. Ah, yes, we were
wise to come, mother.”
Her mother wondered if it were so, as she saw the light that had
gathered in her girl’s eyes since this young man had come in. He was
a gentleman, surely, just such as might win the heart of a trusting
little lass, but she must be watchful lest the child should come to
have heartache.
“I have a bit of a cabin started, and will be at home very shortly,”
the young man told them in answer to their questions, “and in the
meantime I shall stay at Dod Hunter’s. Jerry and the other boys are
helping me, and I shall soon be having my own fireside.”
“An’ you’ll be invitin’ us over to sup,” said Polly, who had joined
them.
“Yes, if you will cook the supper, I’ll provide anything you say, and
we can have a little housewarming that will suit the size of the house.”
“Deed, an’ I’ll cook annything, an’ we’ll show Mrs. Kennedy how a
clearin’ looks before it’s cleared. Will ye be takin’ yer belongin’s
this trip?”
“I may as well; I’ve not much of a bundle, but I’ve trespassed upon
your space long enough.”
“Run get the little box up aloft, Agnes,” said Polly. “I’ve kept that
by itsel’ knowin’ ye valued it, an’ the rest, a little fardle o’
things, I’ve in the lean-to.”
“No, don’t trouble yourself, Agnes,” Parker hastened to say, but she
was already halfway up the ladder. It was pleasant to be able to do him
even this slight service.
The little box was where Polly had put it, high on a shelf; it was a
small, flat affair, neatly made of two or three different kinds of
wood. It lay under Polly’s Bible, and, as Agnes stood on tiptoe to
reach it, she knocked down both box and Bible, and, in trying to save
the latter, the box fell on the floor. It was strong, and was not
injured; but in the fall a spring struck the floor, and a sliding panel
flew out; then two or three bits of paper fell from their hiding-place.
Agnes picked them up one by one,--two or three letters and a carefully
made pencil-sketch of a girl’s head. Beneath it was written “Alicia.”
Agnes felt the blood surging to her face as she stood with trembling
fingers holding the picture. It was then as Polly had surmised. “For
I know it is not his sister,” she whispered; “he told me her name,
and it is Elizabeth. I could not forget that.” She noted the haughty,
high-bred air about the pose of the head, the curve of the perfect
lips, the pile of hair carefully arranged, the filmy lace kerchief.
She slipped the papers and portrait back into their place and hurried
downstairs, but she was very pale as she handed the box to Parker. “I
dropped it,” she said truthfully, “but I hope nothing is hurt.”
“I am sure everything is quite safe,” he assured her. “It is not a very
large, strong box, but it holds most of my dearest possessions.” He
opened the lid and drew forth three miniatures. “See,” he said,“these
are my treasures. This is my mother;”--he showed it to Mrs. Kennedy;
“this my sister Elizabeth, whom we call Betty,” and he handed Agnes
the second case, “this my father,” and into Polly’s hands he gave the
third. “There are, too, some of my father’s last letters, and one or
two other little things which I prize.”
“You look like your father,” Polly said, scrutinizing the miniature she
held.
“He died when I was ten years old, so I remember him perfectly. My
mother married a second time,” he informed Mrs. Kennedy.
“Therefore, unless your stepfather is a very unusual man, you must miss
your own father very much.”
“I did, and because of this second marriage I left home after my sister
was married.”
Agnes was gazing at Betty’s pictured face; it was bright, piquant, very
fair, very young. She handed it back without a word, and her heart was
troubled, for her thoughts were with that hidden portrait.
She was very quiet the rest of the day, but toward evening she climbed
the hill and stood looking off across the river. Presently Parker would
come that way, for he used a little skiff more frequently; it saved
him the long ride to the ford farther above, and when the river was
not high, it was a pleasanter method of travel. After a little waiting
she saw him coming. How straight he was, and tall! She shook her head
impatiently and looked away. In another moment he was at her side.
“Come, go out on the river with me for a little while,” he said as he
came up. “The days are getting so much longer that it will be light for
a great while yet, and this evening is the warmest we have had.”
Agnes hesitated. “I must tell mother.”
“I asked her, and she consented to my taking you, so long as I did not
keep you out too late.”
He held open the little gate for her to pass out, and they followed the
zigzag path down to the river’s brim. A little skiff was drawn up on
the sands; they stepped into it, and Parker took the oars. “How silent
you are to-day,” he said after a while. “Has your mother’s coming made
you so?”
“No, not that. I--I--have something to tell you. I didn’t want to
before every one.” She paused a minute and then went on. “When I let
the box fall, something fell out from the back of it, some letters
and--and--a picture. I picked them up and put them back again, but I
wanted to tell you that I couldn’t help seeing the picture.”
The man looked at her with an inscrutable smile. He rested his oars,
and drew from his hunting-shirt the flat box. Pressing the spring he
slid back the panel and drew forth the picture and letters; the last he
tore into bits and tossed out upon the waves; the picture he looked at
with a little scornful smile, and then that, too, he tore across and
tossed overboard. Then he gave a deep sigh, picked up his oars, and
pulled steadily. Agnes watched him wonderingly, but she said not a word.
“Honest little girl,” he spoke at last, “it was like you to tell me
that, and now it will be my turn to confess. I have told you of our old
plantation life, of the father whom I so well remember, of my little
sister, of my mother whose marriage robbed us of all our heritage,
but I have not told you of Alicia, my neighbor and playmate. From the
time I was a small chap, I always said I would marry Alicia, then when
I grew big enough to go away to school and Alicia, too, was sent to
boarding-school, when I thought of what vacations would bring me, I
thought of Alicia. Her father and mine fought side by side in the
Revolution, and their interests were the same. Then my father died,
and after a while my mother married again. When I was twenty-one, I
found that in lieu of falling heir to a good estate I was practically
penniless. My first thought was to take advice from Alicia’s father,
and his advice I followed. I came west to carve out my fortune.” He
stopped a moment and then went on. “Yet Alicia’s father, to this day,
does not know that I followed his advice because I could not hope to
win his daughter. Agnes, little brave girl, you would not turn a man,
your lifelong companion, away from you because he was poor, would you?”
“I? No, oh, no; not if I loved him, and if I knew him to be good and
true.”
The man pulled up-stream steadily for some time before he spoke again.
His thoughts were far away. He saw the fine old plantation, Alicia’s
home, its host of slaves, its wide veranda where dainty ladies sipped
their tea, its lordly dining hall upon the table of which glittered
old silver and cut glass. He saw Alicia herself, stately, fastidious,
luxuriously clad, and he looked opposite him at the little pioneer
lass, barefooted, bare-headed, her linsey-woolsey petticoat the worse
for wear, her kerchief of coarse linen knotted at the throat, her
hands sunburnt, but in her eyes the light of truth and innocence, and
he smiled a sudden bright and tender smile. “And so, Alicia, I am done
with you,” he said aloud. “Forever and aye I am done with you. Float
down the stream of time in another current than mine. I wish you no
ill, but for me I care no more for exotics. Now, Agnes, you know my
story, and you are sole witness of how Alicia and I have at last parted
company. I tell you, Agnes, her mother is no more gracious lady than
yours; but if ill-fortune befell her, would she throw back her head,
as I have seen some one do, and go forth to meet fate face to face,
saying, do your worst, I will defy you? She couldn’t do it, Agnes, and
even if she could--well, by this time the water has washed her image
quite away. So there’s an end of it, Agnes Kennedy, and for the rest of
time I am Parker Willett, pioneer, and not Parker Willett, gentleman.
Now, Agnes, I will take you home to your mother. This is good-by for a
time, too.”
The color had come back to Agnes’s cheeks and the light to her eyes.
“Thank you for telling me that,” she said, as the boat’s landing was
made. “No, don’t come back with me; it is early still, the sky is quite
light, but you have to go across, and you will have quite a distance to
ride before you reach Dod Hunter’s.”
“I feel singularly free and happy,” said Parker, holding her hands. “It
is a good thing sometimes to throw one’s troubles overboard. But for
you, Agnes Kennedy, I should not have done it. I’ve not exactly burnt
my ships behind me, but I’ve thrown care to the winds, and I mean to be
as happy as you will let me.”
“As I will let you?” Agnes’s blue eyes opened wide.
“As you will let me; I repeat it. Good night, good night, little girl.
Run home quickly. I shall stand here and wait till I know you must be
safe.”
Agnes ran up the steep path, and having gained the top of the hill she
looked back. He was still there. He waved his hand to her, and then she
disappeared over the brow of the hill.