WHO HAD THE WILL
It was, without doubt, David who was coming pounding along the path up
from the woods, and who, dusty and travel-stained, drew up his reeking
horse before the door. The men gathered closely about him, the women
craned their necks from the door. “What is the matter, Davy, lad? What
kept ye, Dave? Are ye ill, lad? Look at the hoss, he’s near spent,”
were some of the various remarks made, as David, elbowing his way
through the crowd, entered the house. He answered no questions, but
made straight for Mrs. M’Clean. “Where’s Jeanie?” he asked hurriedly,
and following her glance he went toward the door of the next room,
paused not to knock, but entered forthwith.
Jeanie, the tears still standing in her eyes, was waiting. David held
out his two hands. “Am I too late, lass? It’s not my fault. I beeta get
here long ago, but it’s a tale I must tell later. I am safe now, but am
I too late? Will ye turn me off for being behindhand? Do you doubt me?”
“Not I, David,” said Jeanie, giving him her hands. “I’m thankful you’ve
come to no mishap. I never doubted you, but I feared ill had befallen
you.”
“Will ye tak me as I am, dusty an’ worn with travel? I’ve come _forty
mile_ the morn. Will ye listen to me tale now, or will ye stand up wi’
me before the meenister so?” David was lapsing into the dialect of his
childhood, in his excitement.
“Ay, David, I will marry you first, and hear the tale after. It’s not
too late; the sun was at noon but half an hour ago, and the company
will be glad not to miss the wedding.”
He took her by the hand, and led her into the next room. The guests
fell back into their places, whispering, nudging, wondering. In
consideration of the feast awaiting, and in view of the curiosity which
pervaded the entire party, the minister’s harangue was not so lengthy
as usual, and the two standing before him were wedded in short order,
but in the prayer there were fewer allusions to the wife’s being in
obedience to her husband, and more expressions of thankfulness than
were commonly spoken; the good pastor evidently felt that the young man
had escaped disaster, and did not hesitate to say so.
The final blessing had hardly been pronounced when the curious friends
crowded around. “Yer story, David; ye promised it.”
“Tut, tut!” cried Polly O’Neill, “an’ where are yer good wishes? Ye’re
that ongracious, all o’ ye, that ye’d leave the bride an’ groom wid no
congratulaytions at all. Here’s good health to ye, Mr. an’ Mrs. David
Campbell, an’ may ye have thumpin’ luck.”
Then came a merry effort from each to outdo the others in getting a
hand-shake, a kiss from the bride, and a chance to offer good wishes,
the minister standing by in his blacks, a serious smile upon his kind,
weatherbeaten face. The girls laughing, pushing, exclaiming, exchanging
jokes with the young men, were first to throw themselves upon the
bride’s neck, after she had received the kisses of her father and
mother; and then the young men must kiss the bride, too; and the more
saucy damsels challenged the groom for a like exchange. So for a time
there was much merry-making and laughter.
When the last good wish had been spoken, the minister turned to the
company. “My friends,” he said, “I think David has something to say to
us, and if ye will all take orderly places, we shall hear it.”
David, blushing up to the roots of his hair, stood awkwardly facing the
guests. “My friends,” he began, “I owe my excuses to ye for keeping ye
waiting, but when I tell ye how it came about, I think ye’ll say it was
no because I lacked the wish to get here.” He paused and looked around
for encouragement.
“Ay, David,” said the minister, “nae one doubts the desire.”
David continued. “This morning at daybreak I was forty miles away
from here. I left Maxwell’s yesterday morn, expecting to get here
by sundown, but after I’d gone a mile I remembered something I had
forgotten and turned back. A quarter mile further on, from the bushes
sprang two men, one grabbed the bridle, the other covered me with his
pistol.
“‘Get off, peaceably,’ he says, ‘and ye’ll have no harm done ye.’
I felt for me knife, but it was yorked out of my hand, and knowing
I’d not time for many hours’ delay, down I got. ‘Ye’re on the way to
Maxwell’s,’ said one of the villyuns.
“‘What’s that to you?’ said I.
“‘It’s a good bit to me,’ he said, ‘if ye were coming away.’ He looked
at me threatening like, and I made haste to say, ‘I’m going there,’
though I was both going and coming, and had been before.
“‘We’re not too late, then,’ said the other fellow. ‘Hand over every
paper about ye, and we’ll let ye go.’”
A sharp exclamation came from Parker Willett standing near the door.
David paid no heed to it but went on. “I’d no mind to do that, and I
refused. With that the two fell on me, and we’d a fight of it, but
being two against one, at last they got me down and tied me hand and
foot; then they went through my pockets, my pouch, my saddlebags,
and even took the shoes from my feet; but they didn’t find what they
wanted.
“‘May I ask,’ says I, ‘what ye’re looking for; and maybe I can help ye,
for I’ve no time to lose.’
“‘We’re looking for a will, a forged will,’ said one.
“‘I’ve no forged will,’ said I, ‘nor ever did have, and if ye’re
looking for the will of old man Muirhead, ye can spare yerself the
trouble, for you’re too late by three days. It’s in the magistrate’s
hands by this time, and I’m glad of it.’ Then one of them hit me a
lick, and told me not to be so free with my opinions. ‘Ye said ye were
going to Maxwell’s,’ he said.
“‘I did,’ said I.
“‘Then how can ye have placed it in the hands of the law?’ says he.
‘Because,’ I gave him answer, ‘I’ve already come from Maxwell’s this
morning, and had but turned to go back for a bit of something I
forgot.’ The man gave a kick. ‘You’re a deceitful, lyin’ fool,’ said he.
“I reminded him what the Bible says of them that call others fools,
but he glowered at me and says, ‘I don’t half believe ye. We know ye
did have the will, for Park Willett was seen to give it to ye down by
Locke’s ford.’
“‘Whatever Park Willett’s given me,’ I said, ‘I’ve not now, and I’ll
never have again, so you’ll let me up and I’ll go on.’ With that the
one that did the most talking gave me another kick, and if I ever get
my two hands on him, the lambastin’ I’ll give him--”
There were growls of approval from David’s friends, but the minister’s
voice came in: “Go on, David. ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith
the Lord!’”
David composed himself, and went on with his story. “‘To-morrow is my
wedding-day, men,’ said I, ‘and you’ll let me up or the country won’t
be big enough for ye when I’m free,’ but they only laughed at me, and
first thing I knew I was alone, not able to move hand or foot, and
they’d gone from sight.”
A dozen hands sought their hunting-knives in their excitement. “Who
were the men? Did ye ever see them before?” said one. “We’ll settle
their hash once we find them.”
“I never saw them before, and I want to see them just once again,”
returned David.
“But how did you get away?” came the question from half a dozen.
“I lay there till nearly dawn this morning, working at the straps that
bound me; finally I managed to get the leg straps loose and got to my
feet. My horse was willing enough to be caught and to follow me to
Maxwell’s, for I was that stiff I could not mount him.” He did not say
with what effort the walk was made after the long restraint. “There I
got my hands freed, had some breakfast, fed my horse, and started for
home as hard as I could gallop. If Donald had dropped, I would have
footed it, but he held out, and here I am.”
It was the longest speech David had ever made, and it made its
impression, following so closely as it did upon Parker’s adventure.
The indignation of the men was roused to the uttermost. “We’ll h’ist
Hump; he’s got to get out of here; it’s all his doings,” they cried.
“It’ll be too hot for him, he’ll find. Those men wanted to get a chance
to make tracks was why they left ye there alone, David; they didn’t
want ye to trace ’em.”
Parker made his way over to Agnes. “It was David I gave the will to, I
remember all about it; it all came back to me as soon as he began his
story. I remember that, as I was passing Locke’s ford, he came by and
told me he was going to Marietta; it struck me that here was a chance
to send the will, and that I could not have a safer messenger. So I
concluded that I would make a copy and show that to Hump Muirhead. I
had a bit of paper with me that I could use, and the writing of it did
not take a moment. I put it in the sliding panel of the little box for
safe-keeping. Have you looked to see if there is anything there?”
“No,” Agnes replied; “I supposed it was empty. I am so sorry for poor
David; he has had a deal of worriment. What a lot of trouble that will
has made!”
“So much the better, for it will prove its genuineness. Nobody would
make such a fuss over a worthless piece of paper, and it is evident
that Hump Muirhead considers it important. I am glad that it is
in proper hands and that your interests are secure. Hump Muirhead
could not have chosen a surer way to rid the settlement of his very
undesirable self, for not one of these men will stand such outrages,
and we will hunt him out of the neighborhood.”
“He deserves it,” Agnes replied. “Poor Jeanie! it was so dreadful to
have her wedding-day so nearly a day of grief and sorrow. If David had
not been able to free himself, he might still have been lying there,
and have died of cold and hunger; that is terrible to think of.”
In a few minutes the dinner was ready and a mighty feast it was. The
plain table of hewn boards bore no fine damask, but it held a plentiful
supply of roast pork, venison, and wild turkey; game pies were flanked
by plenty of potatoes and hominy, and there were puddings, pies, and
preserves to end up with, so that the company arose well satisfied,
keen as their appetites were.
There followed a boisterous scene, when every one seemed to make
an effort to be as noisy as possible and to outdo his neighbor in
merry-making. In the lively games Polly was usually leader, and her
jokes and quips evoked the heartiest laughter. She seemed determined
that the discomfort of the early part of the day should be lost in
rollicking fun, and that the wedding should be remembered as the gayest
in the neighborhood. When the fun became too fast and furious, Agnes
sought her mother’s side, and after a while Parker Willett made his way
over to where the two were sitting. “It is a lively scene,” he remarked
to Mrs. Kennedy. “I don’t suppose you ever saw anything just like it
before.”
“Not just like it, although we have had some noisy times at weddings in
our own neighborhood, but there is a mixture here of our own customs
and of those of the backwoodsmen.”
It was about ten o’clock that Polly came up and whispered to Mrs.
Kennedy, “Where has Agnes gone?”
Mrs. Kennedy smiled. “She has slipped off to join the girls who are
stealing the bride away to her room. Did you want her specially, Polly?”
“Oh, no; I did but think to ask her to have an eye on the babies when
she has a chance.”
“I looked in upon them not long ago and they were all asleep, sound
enough, in spite of the noise. I suppose,” she turned to Park Willett
as Polly walked away satisfied, “that we shall have a repetition of
this at the housewarming.”
“Yes, it is much the same thing at all the festivities. It was a
curious thing about the will, Mrs. Kennedy. I suppose the court
will appoint an executor, but it will be some time before you gain
possession of your property, unless the friends of David succeed in
running the present occupant off.”
“I am sorry for his wife and children,” Mrs. Kennedy returned
sorrowfully.
“They are the only ones to be pitied, but the children will not be
long in adopting a new home, and Mrs. Muirhead could not be much
lonelier or much harder worked than she is now.”
“I should like to see her and the children.”
“I will tell her; she seems greatly pleased by any notice taken of her
or the children. Your husband tells me that you are putting up two more
rooms.”
“Yes, he and Jimmy are working hard over the addition. It will be much
more comfortable; the space is too small for two families.”
“Your husband improves. Your coming did him good.”
“Do you think so?” Mrs. Kennedy was wistful. “I have hoped against
hope, yet I do think there is a little change for the better. He seems
to notice little things more than he did, and has become very fond of
the baby whom he at last accepts as our own. I think it is good for him
to have youth and brightness about him. The children do not seem to
trouble him, and I see him and the boys carrying on long conversations
together.”
“I am glad to hear that; it promises well.” He suddenly stopped
speaking, and Mrs. Kennedy saw that he had caught sight of Agnes, who
had just reappeared with a bevy of girls. She noticed that Agnes met
his glance and that a soft flush flew to the girl’s cheek.
“One wedding often follows another. Example is a great thing,” said a
voice at her side. “I suppose, Mrs. Kennedy, that your little lass will
soon be leaving you.”
“Scarcely yet,” replied the mother. “I hope I shall keep her by me for
many a day, Mrs. Scott.”
“It’s Archie M’Clean, they say,” ventured Mrs. Scott, “though for my
part, I think it will be some one else.” She gave a comprehensive nod
toward the young man standing near Mrs. Kennedy.
“Marriage is not in the mind of my lassie,” Mrs. Kennedy returned with
some dignity. “She has been away from her mother for so long that she
is content to bide at home with her now.” Agnes now rejoined her mother
who shared her stool with her. Seats were scarce, and many of the lads
thought it no discourtesy to offer their laps for the convenience
of the lassies, and the offer was taken in good part and generally
accepted. Agnes preferred to share her mother’s three-legged stool, and
sat there contentedly.
“Are you dull, dear mother?” she whispered.
“No, I am vastly entertained. This exhibit of backwoods manners amuses
me greatly; it is quite beyond my comprehension, yet they are all good
people. I thought we at home were far removed from city ways, but
this is surprising.” She found herself turning to Parker Willett. “It
is strange what a press of necessity will bring about, and how soon
one becomes used to things which at first seem shocking. I doubt not
another generation will forget gentle ways entirely.”
“Another and some succeeding ones, but as the population increases more
gentleness will leaven society out here. Ceremonies come to be useless
things where one must battle with the conditions which exist in a new
settlement; there is not time for them. Yet when one considers that
we are not the real pioneers and what risks were run by those first
intrepid leaders, and what privations they endured, ours of fifty years
later seems a great gain. We have escaped those bloody wars that the
advance-guard fought for us, and feel that we have been outdone in
courage by those who first dared to cross the mountains to open up this
Western Range.”
“My father was one of them,” said Mrs. Kennedy, sadly.
“Yes, and we should be proud of him. You should hold up your head at
being the daughter of so brave a pioneer. Putnam’s colony--those sturdy
New Englanders--seems to be doing well; they put a deal of energy into
what they do, and are developing the country wonderfully; the Muskingum
colony thrives and we shall soon be no longer in a wilderness, Mrs.
Kennedy.”
“You say that for encouragement.”
“No, I say it from my own conviction. Are you tired of all this? Would
you like to slip off into a quieter place? We can’t go home till
morning, you know, and they will keep this up till daybreak. I will
make way for you, if you care to go somewhere else.” He shouldered his
way past the merrymakers, and Agnes followed. They passed out into
the lean-to, and from thence into one of the outbuildings where stood
the loom, and which was known as the weaving room. “I discovered this
safe retreat some time ago,” said Parker. “I know where there is a pile
of sheepskins; I will get some, and you two can lie down and take a
rest.” He disappeared and soon returned with the skins which he threw
on the floor. There was no light in the room save such as came from
the moonlight which shone through the small window, but it was not
needed by the mother and daughter who lay down side by side, glad of an
opportunity of taking a longed-for rest, while Parker locked the door
on them.
Sandy and the other boys of his size had taken refuge in the stable;
the smaller children were huddled together in one of the rooms indoors,
for their mothers were obliged to bring them or to stay at home from
the wedding, a thing not to be thought of.
Up and down in the moonlight paced Parker, keeping watch while Agnes
and her mother slept. It was against all custom to allow any one to
escape for the purpose of taking a nap, and he knew that the two would
be hunted up as soon as they were missed, but he determined that they
should not be disturbed if he could help it, and when a mischievous
searcher came prowling around, he succeeded in eluding detection till
they had tried the door and, finding it fast, had returned to the
house.
At early dawn the sound of the boisterous fun was still to be heard,
but with the daylight, the procession was ready to form again, and the
revellers returned to their several homes. David’s prolonged absence
had prevented the putting of his cabin in complete order for his bride,
but the housewarming was soon to be, and the day after it Jeanie would
move to her new home.
Polly, jaded and fagged out, could do nothing but sleep the day after
the wedding, and, indeed, there were few in the community who felt
like attending with much spirit to their accustomed duties, and only
the older people, who had been excused from sitting up all night, were
feeling bright and fresh.
“We are lucky in not having two or three days of it,” said Parker, as
he parted with Agnes and her mother; “we’re let off well this time,
because of the M’Cleans’ desire in the matter, but if you ever go to
Jerry Hunter’s wedding, for instance, I promise you that the frolic
will keep up for nearly a week. We don’t often get a chance to do this
sort of thing, and when we do, it seems as if we didn’t know when to
stop. You will not forget, all of you, that you are to come over and
have supper with me as soon as my place is in order, so hold yourselves
in readiness.”
“Don’t go till you have looked at the little box,” said Agnes, as he
was departing.
“I will wait for you under the sycamore,” he said, as she ran in to get
it.
The girl was not slow in returning and in giving the box into Parker’s
hands. He touched the spring and the panel slid back; the compartment
was empty. “Humph!” exclaimed Parker. “I wonder what that means! What
will Hump Muirhead be up to next?” He shut the slide thoughtfully and
handed the box back to Agnes, but there was a puzzled look on his face.
“Some one found that copy of the will. I wonder who. We must find out,
though it is really of no consequence now, since the true one is safe.
Now that they are both out of our possession, we ought to expect no
more trouble. I think I’ll hunt up Hump and hear what he has to say. He
evidently set those men on David’s track, although I don’t see why he
thought David had the will if I had it. The plot thickens. I’ll talk to
Dod about it, but don’t bother your head over it, little girl, for all
you have to do is to wait till you are free to move into your own home.
If I learn anything of importance, I’ll let you know.” He mounted his
horse and rode off, a thoughtful look upon his face.