JEANIE’S WEDDING-DAY
By the time they had reached the house, Parker was sufficiently aroused
to be able to tell something of his adventure. He was waylaid in the
woods on his way to Dod Hunter’s, and was overpowered by a body of
men who appeared suddenly in his path. They told him if he would come
peaceably with them, that no harm would come to him. He was bound and
taken to a lonely spot where they gave him something to eat and drink.
After that he remembered nothing. It was supposed that he was drugged
and was then carried to Humphrey Muirhead’s where he was searched. The
little box found by Mrs. Muirhead may or may not have been examined,
and the parcel, which was brought away from his former home was left
the next morning at Dod Hunter’s, being discovered on the doorstep by
the first one astir.
“I remember meeting some one on the river bank just as I was about to
start through the woods, and I have a dim recollection that I gave him
the will, but, strange to say, I cannot remember who it was or why I
gave it to him. I may not have done this, and Hump Muirhead may have
it after all, but I do not know why I should be so impressed by a
transaction that never occurred.”
“I think when he gets over the effects of the stuff they have given
him, that he will be all right,” said Dr. Flint, “and I wouldn’t bother
him now,” he told Agnes.
The girl refused to remain after they had returned to the Hunters’, but
after taking something to eat, she started home, being escorted safely
to the river’s brink by Jerry, who gave his opinion of Hump Muirhead
in forcible language. “I hope to goodness he ain’t got that will,”
he said, “for it would be purty hard work to prove its contents, and
he knows it. I hope Park is right about givin’ it to somebody else,
but who in the mischief could it have been? Park is cautious, and it
would be a shaky thing to do unless you was right certain of yer man.
I reckon it’ll come out all right--give us time; but it’s my opinion
it’ll take force to git Hump outen that house, but I’ll be one to use
that same force.”
“Ah me!” sighed Agnes, “if only people would be true and honest in this
world, how much trouble it would save.”
“The millennium ain’t came yit,” said Jerry, “but I agree with you that
we could have things a bit easier if some folks would only half try. I
ain’t no saint, myself, but I’m open and above board, that nobody’ll
deny.”
“I think that can safely be said of all your family,” returned Agnes,
as she stepped into the little skiff. “Good-by, Jerry. I hope we shall
soon be nearer neighbors.”
“I’ll give ye my hand on that,” Jerry answered, as he gave her boat a
push off.
It was now late in the day, and as Agnes climbed the hilly steep, she
felt the strain of the morning had told upon her, and when she came in
looking fagged and pale, her mother took alarm.
“Why, my bairn,” she cried, “what ails you? Has it been so serious a
thing?”
“It was serious, very,” Agnes responded, sinking down on the settle.
“It has been an exciting day, mother. I told you the truth when I said
I might be needed, for I was, but I did mislead you a little, though
some one really was ill. I will tell you all about it and I think you
will not blame me. I could not tell you at the time, for I had promised
Uncle Dod I would not, but now, as it has come out, he thinks I should
let you know.” And she poured forth her tale to her mother’s attentive
ears.
When she had finished, her mother’s face wore a startled, pained
expression. “It is terrible, Agnes,” she exclaimed. “What a lawless
country that we have come to! I shall fear to go from the protection of
Jimmy O’Neill’s big fist.”
“You needn’t be,” returned Agnes, lightly, “for there is Uncle Dod
Hunter and all his three big sons on one side and Parker Willett on the
other. What chiefly concerns us now is the whereabouts of the will. I
don’t believe Hump Muirhead has it, for he seemed really in earnest
about his disappointment in not finding it. I believe in Mr. Willett’s
impression that he gave it to some one, and I think he will remember
who it is, so don’t let us trouble ourselves just yet to say anything
about it to Jimmy or Polly.”
“Another thing that worries me,” Mrs. Kennedy went on, “is our
obligation to Mr. Willett; in trying to do us a service he has
suffered, and I do not feel comfortable over it.”
“Never mind, don’t fash yourself; he is safe, and let us hope the will
is, too. Besides, now Hump will not want to do him any further harm
because of Honey; so a blessing came out of that,” she added softly.
“Now, mother, tell me what has been going on to-day since I left. Who
has been here?”
“Your friend, Jean M’Clean, for one. She came to bid us all to her
wedding. It will take place next week.”
“Why, that is a month sooner than she expected.”
“Yes; but Jeanie says David is persistent, and that he cannot see any
reason for waiting, and as there is no real reason, they may as well be
married at once.”
“Then you will see a true backwoods wedding, mother, and you may expect
a roystering time. David went to Marietta on Wednesday, and I know
now what was his errand. I wonder when he is coming back. He is a good
David, though rather an obstinate one sometimes.”
This new interest for the time being quite drove away the thought of
the will. There really was nothing to be done about it for the present,
and Agnes turned her attention to Jeanie.
“I must go over and see the bride that is to be,” she said the next
day. “I promised her my help when the wedding-day should come. It
seems, mother, that you have come to a spot where there are a great
many exciting things going on, and I have no doubt you thought it would
be very dull. I am sorry that all these things call me, but I am always
so glad to think you are here for me to come back to.”
She found Jeanie going about her preparations in a most orderly manner;
nothing in that household ever suggested confusion. Jeanie’s chest,
filled with its store of linen, stood ready to be carried to her new
home. A pretty young heifer, her father’s gift to her, lowed in the
stable yard. Jeanie’s plain stuff gown had been woven and colored with
more care than usual, and her neckerchief was snowy white from long
bleaching; it was, too, of finer linen than had ever been made in the
community, and it was edged with a bit of lace, part of her mother’s
little hoard. There would be no veil and orange blossoms for this
bride. She might tuck a few spring blossoms in her dark hair, and wear
a sprig at her breast, but her ornaments would be few and simple. She
showed with great pride her shoes, ornamented with a pair of silver
buckles, and took more pleasure in this bit of grandeur than in any
other part of her wardrobe.
“They are true silver, Nancy, and the shoes we were able to get from
Patty Hopkins. She brought them from home with her and her feet had
outgrown them before she wore them at all. Was I not lucky to get them?
Aren’t they fine?”
“They are, indeed,” returned Agnes, viewing the new shoes admiringly.
“There are gay times ahead,” she went on, “with a wedding, a
housewarming, and all that. When does David come back?”
“We expect him Saturday, but he may be detained over Sabbath. There is
a deal to do yet, and it is well he is not here to take up my time.”
Agnes laughed. “What an unromantic speech; for my part I think I should
rather have my lover’s presence than so big a feast.”
“Ah, but I shall have his company for the rest of my life, and a
wedding-feast is but once prepared; besides, it is not for ourselves,
but for our company.”
“That is true, too. Well, Jeanie, it is too early yet to cook the
feast, but I will be here on Monday and give you all the help I can. I
have left my mother so much of late that I must hurry back now.”
“Can’t you stay?” said Jeanie, wistfully. “I would like to have one
more talk about our girlhood before I am made a wife. There is much I
have to tell and much I want to hear.”
Agnes hesitated; it seemed unkind to refuse the request, yet her mother
must be considered. “I promised I would not stay long,” she said.
“I will send one of the children over to say that you will stay,” said
Jeanie, eagerly, and to this Agnes consented.
“If Archie were only here,” sighed Jeanie, “my happiness would be
complete, and yours, too, wouldn’t it, Nancy?”
“I am very content as it is,” Agnes told her. “Pray, Jeanie, don’t
think of Archie’s ever being nearer to me than a friend. He is a dear
good lad, but he will bring you a sister more worthy of his calling
than I could be.”
“He will bring me none that I would rather have,” returned Jeanie,
stoutly, “and as for the worthiness, it is but experience you need,
mother says. Ah, no, Nancy, I shall not give you up yet.”
But Agnes’s thoughts were drifting off to the hillside and the sunset,
and she suddenly sprang to her feet. “I cannot stay, Jeanie, I really
cannot. I forgot that little Fergus is ailing, and that Polly is all
tired out with her soap-making. I ought to go home, but I will come
again and spend a night with you. I will come to-morrow, and then we
can go to meeting together and I will be here on Monday all ready to
begin the day’s work with you, for I can stay over Sabbath as well as
not.” And with this arrangement Jeanie was so well pleased that she let
her friend go without further protest.
Agnes hurried along with a feeling that she must reach the hilltop
before sundown, and true enough she was rewarded by a sight of a skiff
drawn up on the sands, and she knew it to be Parker Willett’s. She
hastened her steps and found that he had caught sight of her and that
he was coming to meet her.
“I am fortunate,” he said as he came up, “for I might have missed you.”
“I came very near staying with Jeanie. You know she is to be married
next week.”
“So soon? Yes, I believe I did hear something of it. Where did I hear
it? There are still some things which confuse this foolish brain of
mine. Well, little girl, I have still much to thank you for.” He took
her hands and shook them warmly. “I am very grateful. To think you took
that risk for me!”
“To think you took that risk for us! It was my grandfather’s will that
made all the trouble; it had nothing to do with you personally.”
“Yes, the will, and do you know, I am not able yet to remember whom it
was that I gave the will to. It will all come back to me, Henry Flint
says, and I am more and more sure that there was some reason why it
was best to give it up. I am sure it will come to light, and that it
was not stolen. My little box that held the miniatures, I regret that,
for it is gone.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t. I have it safe and sound,” and she told of the
circumstances by which it came into her possession.
“I am truly glad to hear that,” said Parker. “Will you keep the box for
me, Agnes? I think it is safer in your hands than in mine, if I am so
stupid about remembering what I do with things.”
“You are not to blame for forgetting, and, yes, I will keep it gladly,
and may I look at the miniatures sometimes?”
“Would you like to? I am pleased that you should care to.”
“I needn’t be afraid of finding anything under the secret panel,” said
Agnes, with a glad little laugh. Then more softly, “Are you sorry that
the place is empty?”
“No, I am very glad, you sweet child.” He still held her hands and
looked at her with so tender an expression that the girl’s eyes
drooped. “Alicia, you know, Alicia,” he went on, “would never have
joined a band of rough men and have scoured the country with them to
find me. She would have been scandalized if any one had suggested such
a thing.”
“Was it wrong? I never thought. You see Uncle Dod was there, and I
could trust him. Besides I--I--think I would have done it, anyhow,
to--to--save you.”
He gave her hands a sudden pressure, then dropped them. “Agnes
Kennedy,” he said, “you dear, unspoiled child, you are certainly
revealing a new and delightful side of your character. I don’t know
what I shall do if you keep on showing these surprising traits.” He
stepped back from her, and turned away his gaze to the river, now
molten gold from the clouds overhead. “Talk of wealth,” he went on,
“I am rich with a mine of pure gold so near me. Listen, Agnes, I have
set myself a task. When I found that I was penniless, and when I
decided that I would come to the West, it was my mother who insisted
upon giving me her last dollar to start me in the world. She said it
was her fault, the dear, unworldly woman who was so easily deceived
by appearances, but I told her I would take it only as a loan, and I
hold that I am not a free man till that is paid. It was not my mother’s
fault that her second husband proved a visionary, unpractical man, and
I should feel a mean-spirited wretch if I defrauded her of the little
hoard she gave me so willingly. And that is why, in honor, I am not a
free man, and why--and why, Agnes, little girl, I do not dare to see
too much of you. But some day--” he turned and his eyes met hers, and
each read the story revealed. Neither spoke a word till Agnes said
faintly, “I must go home; mother will be expecting me.”
“May I go with you?”
“Oh, yes, you were going, weren’t you?”
“I didn’t know. I hadn’t thought of whether I wanted to see anybody
but--There, Agnes, let’s talk of the weather--or--your mother or
something.”
“I want to know if you feel quite well.”
“Yes, except for a buzzing in my head when I try to concentrate my
thoughts, but that is passing away. How did you like Dr. Flint?”
“I thought him very interesting.”
“He said you were the bravest girl he ever saw.”
“Did he? He might have told me so.”
“I told him he might say that to me but not to you, and that if he kept
on raving about you, I would punch his head. There, Agnes, we must talk
of the weather, or I am lost. Did your mother scold you very severely
for chasing about in the woods all day with the Hunters?”
“No, she looked very grave at first, but she said I did right, and she
was more concerned about your having suffered on our account than about
anything else.”
“Pshaw! I didn’t exactly suffer; you can hardly call it that. I must
hasten to reassure her on that point. Dare I face her and Jimmy O’Neill
without the will?”
“Jimmy doesn’t know but you have it still. I didn’t tell any one but
mother, and she thought it was best not to mention it for a few days.”
“It is plain to see that you have profited by the example of a most
extraordinarily considerate woman, Agnes. How fine that sky is! We
shall have good weather to-morrow.”
“I am glad of that, for I promised Jeanie to spend the Sabbath with
her. She has such a pretty fine neckerchief, and such fine silver
buckles for her shoes, new shoes, too.” Agnes looked down at her own
coarse shoepacks, and Parker’s eyes followed her glance. About the home
place she was wont to go barefoot in mild weather, and he thought the
shoepacks were scarce an improvement upon the fashion. “Would you like
to have a pair of pretty shoes with silver buckles?” he asked.
“I would dearly like to have them. I suppose it isn’t right to be
wishing for such vanities, but I believe I like vanities.”
“Almost all girls do, and if I had my way, they should all have them.
I wish I were a cordwainer, Agnes, I’d then make you a pair of the
daintiest shoes you ever saw.” He threw back his head and laughed
joyously at the thought.
“What is so funny?”
“That I should envy a shoemaker his trade, and that in this delightful
locality one doesn’t need money nor fine apparel to make him like other
people, or to make him happy. I was suddenly impressed with the humor
of it, and I laughed in sheer mockery of those misguided persons in
that way-back, unenlightened land I came from, who have yet to learn
that fine feathers do not make fine birds, for the rarest, sweetest
little bird I know doesn’t have and doesn’t need any fine feathers.
Speaking of birds, it must be pleasant work building a nest. Just
suppose, Agnes, for the humor of it, that we were a pair of birds, and
were thinking of nest-building, would the prospect please you? There,
don’t answer me. I insist that it will be a fine day to-morrow. How
does the garden come on? Are those beans up yet?”
Agnes laughed in reply. This nonsense was delightful. She understood it
all, and could have wandered on the river’s bank forever listening to
the merry chatter.
They went on in silence for a little time, then Parker asked abruptly,
“Do you like books, Agnes?”
“I am very fond of them, but we never had many, and I have had no time
to read since I came here, even if I had had anything to read. I picked
up a book of yours one day, and I read a little. I liked it.”
“What was it?”
“One of the plays of Mr. Shakespeare.”
“I am glad you like to read,” he said thoughtfully; “we will have some
pleasant times together, when the work is done, and in those long
evenings--” He broke off with a start, a flush coming to his face. He
laughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “I seem to forget that I am no
longer a member of your household, don’t I? But I have a few books with
me, and you can read them and tell me afterward what you think of
them.”
“I shall like that when the winter comes, and we have such long
evenings, but then comes the spinning, and all that, but I shall get
some time, I hope. We should be in our own home by that time, don’t you
think so?”
“I think you should be there before then if there’s any justice in
the land, but I am shirking my duty. I must go and tell your mother
that I don’t know anything about that will. Come, Agnes, and give me
countenance.”
The will was still unaccounted for on the morning of Jeanie’s
wedding-day, and Mrs. Kennedy felt an anxiety that she did not express,
though Agnes was so absorbed in the exciting prospect of the day’s
pleasure that she gave no thought to it. It was the ordinary custom for
the bridal procession to form at the home of the groom’s father and
from thence to escort him to the home of the bride, but David’s parents
were not living, and the lad had his own home, so thither the guests
repaired, only to find the house closed and barred. The men stared, the
girls nudged each other. What was wrong? Had the groom deserted his
lady-love? Was he playing a trick? Was he so shy that he had stolen
a march upon them, and was now in advance of them making his way to
Jeanie’s house? All these conjectures were fairly discussed, but there
seemed to be no satisfactory solution.
“There hasn’t ben no weddin’ sence Dave come among us,” at last Jerry
Hunter remarked, “and maybe he didn’t exactly understand our ways. I
say we go on without him, and like as not we’ll find him there. We
ain’t goin’ to break up the weddin’ on his account; it’s likely he
thought he’d make the trip alone. Who see him last?”
Each looked at the other. No one seemed able to say. David had not
appeared at meeting on the previous Sabbath, and it was known that he
had started for Marietta some days before that; further than this there
seemed nothing definite to be learned.
Two by two the cavalcade set forth through the woods, now beginning
to show a sparse leafage brought suddenly out by a day of warmth.
Gay was the little company, for fun was the leading purpose of the
hour. Some tricksters having started on ahead, an unexpected volley
of musketry from an ambuscade gave cause for much plunging of horses,
many shrieks from the lasses, and much uproarious laughter after the
smoke had cleared away. There was no road save the bridle-path, and
that none too good, but the roughly dressed company cared little for
that, and, indeed, the more obstacles in the way of fallen trees or
ragged grape-vines the better the fun. Clad in leathern breeches, stout
leggings, linsey hunting-shirts, the men were a picturesque crew, while
the lasses in their linsey-woolsey gowns rarely boasted an ornament
unless it might be such as a few could show in the way of heirlooms
like buckles or lace ruffles.
Arrived at last the riders tied up their horses, and all trooped into
the house where the bride and her friends awaited the coming of the
groom.
Jerry Hunter as leader entered first, and gave a sharp glance around
the room. “Where’s Davy?” he blurted out.
Mrs. M’Clean’s cheek turned suddenly pale, and her husband cast a keen
glance toward the door. “None o’ yer joking,” he said sternly.
“I’m not jokin’, as I’m a sinner,” returned Jerry. “Am I, boys? Isn’t
Dave here?”
“No.” The word came sharp from the father’s lips.
His wife gave him an appealing look. “I hope nothing has happened to
the lad,” she said in a troubled voice. “Ye’ve not seen him the morn,
Jerry?”
“No, nor have any of us.”
“He was no at meeting on Sabbath day,” said the minister, gravely, as
he came forward, “and he was sure to be home by then, he told me.”
“And not later than yesterday,” said Mrs. M’Clean. She slipped from the
room to where Jeanie, surrounded by her girl friends, was waiting. At
the pitying look on her mother’s face she sprang to her feet. “Mother,
what’s happened to David?” she cried.
“Naught that we know of, lass, but he’s not come.”
Agnes pressed close and sought Jeanie’s hand. “He will come, Jeanie,”
she whispered. The other girls looked at one another, one or two with
a faintly significant smile. Agnes was quick to see them. “He will
come,” she said with assurance; “something has happened to detain him
a little. David was always one to keep his word.” She nodded her head
decidedly at those who had smiled. “Don’t fret, Jean,” said one of the
other girls.
“Fret? Why should I fret?” she asked, holding up her head. “I know that
David is as true as steel, and if mishap has overtaken him, it is no
fault of his. We can wait awhile, mother. Tell the company we will wait
awhile.”
Mrs. M’Clean returned to the front room. The gossips were whispering
together; most of the men had strolled out and were standing in knots
outside, looking stern disapprobation, for a man to be behindhand
on his wedding-day did not augur well. Time sped on. It would be an
unprecedented thing if the wedding were not to take place before noon,
and the waiting company watched the sun as it mounted high in the
heavens, and still no David appeared.
“Puir lass,” sighed one good wife to another, “widdowed before she’s a
wife.”
“Or worse, deserted at the very altar. She’ll not hold her head up
after this; she’s a proud lass, is Jean M’Clean.”
In the back room Jean sat. She, too, was watching the sun climbing so
surely and steadily toward the zenith. At the noontide hour she arose
to her feet, her face white and drawn. “Leave me, friends,” she said.
“There’ll be no wedding to-day. I am sorry to disappoint you. Leave me,
please.”
They all filed out, casting compassionate looks upon her. Agnes alone
refused to leave. “Oh, Jeanie dear,” she whispered, “out of evils
sometimes comes a blessing. I have known it so. Don’t give up, dear
heart.”
Jeanie turned from her and clasped her hands, then with groping steps
strove to reach the door; at the threshold she stopped. “I can’t--I
can’t face them all,” she cried. “Tell my mother.”
“Hark!” exclaimed Agnes. There was the sound of flying hoofs--beat,
beat,--along the road. With one spring Jeanie reached the window and
pulled back the curtain. “It’s David!” she cried. “It’s David, my lad!”
and then all trembling she sank down, sobbing out her joy.