IN ABSENCE
The mystery surrounding the copy of the will which had been extracted
from Parker’s box was solved the next week, and by no less person than
Jimmy O’Neill, who came in chuckling over the discovery. “When thieves
fa’ oot honest folk win back their ain,” he said, nodding wisely to
Mrs. Kennedy, and producing a paper from his pocket. “Hump Muirhead
overketched himsel’, as I’ll be tellin’ ye. It seems he offered what’s
most vallyble to a backwoodsman, a good rifle, to the one of his
comrades that ’ud fetch him the will, an’ a dozen av em was on the
lookout for it. Two av ’em kep’ their eyes on Park Willett from the
time he left the house here till he got acrost the river, an’ seein’
him give a paper to David, they turned their attention to Davy instead,
but they blundered in their plans an’ caught him comin’ home instead
o’ goin’. Ivery man o’ thim bein’ anxious to kape his own counsel,
they acted as saycrit as they could, an’ they all do be watchin’ their
chanst; so when Parker drops the box, one av ’em is ready to pick it
up, and gets out the copy, an’ seein’ no further use for the box, he
drops it again where he found it. Not bein’ quite sure av what he’s
found an’ not knowin’ the other two has seen Park give David the will,
he waits till he gits where he can examine it, an’ then he carries it
to Hump in full expectation of gittin’ the prize. But Hump see as soon
as he pops eyes on it that it’s but a copy, bein’ as it’s written on
the back av a letter addressed to Mr. Parker Willett, an’ he tells the
puir gawk it’s no good, an’ the two av ’em has words over it, an’ the
man, Bill Spear, brings it to me, thinkin’ he’ll get even with Hump
by tellin’ the whole tale, an’ maybe do himsel’ a good turn. An’--”
but Jimmy stopped short, considering that it would not be pleasant
information if he told Mrs. Kennedy that there were some determined
men in the neighborhood who were bent on ridding the place of Humphrey
Muirhead, and who were threatening to tar and feather him if he did not
leave within a given time. Jimmy himself was one of the party, and he
did not mean that the plans should miscarry.
Jimmy’s listeners gave him strict attention till he had finished. “An’
why did he come to ye?” Polly asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Jimmy answered first by a sly nod. “He knew which side his bread was
buttered on. I’ve not a forge for nothin’.” Polly understood. She had
talked the matter over with her husband, and knew without being told
that Bill Spear was aware that Jimmy was a leader in the plan to rid
the neighborhood of Hump Muirhead.
“Alack-a-day,” sighed Mrs. Kennedy. “We’re a deal of trouble to our
neighbors; I’d rather the will had never been found than to have
stirred up riots.”
Jimmy laughed. “Ye’ve no call to say that, ma’am; it stirs up the blood
to be havin’ a bit av adventure, an’ there’s no wan av us but’s glad to
sarve you. It puts naebody in a pother at all. We’ll have ye settled
in your own corner gin ye know it, Mrs. Kennedy. By the way, Nancy,”
he turned to the girl who was eagerly taking in all the talk, “I saw
Davy Campbell the morn; he was up for me to shoe his mare, an’ he says
Jeanie would like to see ye; she’s a bit av news for ye.”
“Then I’ll go over.” Agnes looked at her mother for approval.
“Certainly go,” said Mrs. Kennedy. And that afternoon Agnes set forth.
She had been eager to see Jeanie in her new establishment, and was not
surprised to find her singing blithely and looking as happy as possible.
She ran out to meet Agnes and drew her indoors. Everything was
spick-and-span about the little cabin, and David’s thought for his
bride was evidenced by the many useful little helps toward her
housekeeping that his busy hands had provided for her. “He is so good,
is Davy,” said Jeanie, showing off her various possessions with much
pride. “I wish ye had a man of your ain, Nancy.”
Agnes laughed. “’Tis always the way of those who’re married; they’re
soon ready to entice others into the trap into which they have fallen.”
“Ah but, Nancy, that’s no way to speak of matrimony. See how happy I
am, and is it strange that I should want a like happiness to come to
you?”
“A girl might well envy you, Jeanie, for you’ve everything very
comfortable,” Agnes confessed.
“David has even planted a flower garden for me,” the bride told her
friend, “and he gets up bright and early to weed it. Did you ever hear
of a man like that? Most think there’s more than enough to do, but
there’s not a lazy bone in David’s body.”
“But what’s the news you have to tell me, Jeanie?”
“Ah, that’s the best yet; Archie is coming home for a spell, an’
he’ll study here with the meenister, and then go to the academy at
Canonsburg, and that’ll be no so far from home. Are you not glad,
Nancy?”
“I am very glad for Archie.”
“And you will be glad to see him?”
“Of course, Jeanie, why shouldn’t I be?” But she spoke without much
enthusiasm, then realizing her spiritless speech, she added: “We’re old
friends, Archie and I, and we’ve had many a good time together. I hope
we’ll have many another.”
“I can echo that wish,” Jeanie responded heartily. “Sit down, now,
Nancy, and tell me all that has been going on your way.”
Agnes drew her knitting from her pocket, and the two sat on the
doorsill, their fingers busy with their clicking needles and their
tongues going quite as fast. Agnes related Jimmy’s account of Bill
Spear, and as this was a matter in which both Jeanie and David were
greatly interested, her piece of news was received with much attention.
“David will be glad to hear that it is all cleared up. How everything
is smoothing out, Agnes! I am so glad for you all. Must you go?” for
Agnes had risen, and was putting away her knitting.
“Yes, I must. I promised mother I’d not stay late, for she does not
like me to go through the woods alone, and I thought I would stop at
Patty Scott’s to see how the baby is. I heard she had been ill.”
“When Archie comes, you will not have to go through the woods alone.
Ah, Nancy, there are good times in store for us. We four will have many
a time together. I shall yet have you for my sister.”
Agnes turned to take her path toward Patty Scott’s, but there was no
responsive echo in her heart to Jeanie’s anticipations. Archie’s coming
would but complicate matters for her, and she felt a heart-sinking at
thought of it. He would be taking up her spare moments and expecting
attention from her. She must see Parker soon, and tell him of Archie’s
coming, and if he would but give her the chance, she would assure him
that no minister’s wife did she intend to be. “But,” she sighed, “he
takes so much for granted, and does not seem to know that I was but
flouting him that day.” She pressed her hands together and looked
eagerly toward the hilltop as she approached it, but no one was there
waiting for her. It seemed as if she went down into the shadow of a
great disappointment as she descended the hill. But there was her
mother coming to meet her--her dear mother. The girl’s heart outran her
footsteps. “How kind of you to come to meet me, mother,” she said as
she came up. “I like to have you do that.”
“Always?” returned her mother, smiling.
Agnes smiled consciously, then her face looked grave.
“Sit down for a moment under this tree,” said her mother. “I have
something to tell you. Mr. Willett has been here. Did you meet him? He
said he would try to find you.”
“No, I did not see him. I went around by Patty Scott’s to see how her
baby was.”
“Then that is why he missed you. I am sorry. He left a little note for
you in case he should not see you. Wait, my lamb,” for Agnes had turned
and was holding out her hand eagerly. “He came to make his farewells;
he is on his way to Marietta. He is called home by the illness of his
mother.”
Agnes turned deathly pale, and whispered, “The note, the note, mother.”
Mrs. Kennedy took it from the bosom of her gown, and handed it to the
girl who received it with shaking fingers. Her mother arose from
the fallen log on which they were sitting and moved away for a short
distance, while Agnes read:--
“I am sorry to miss you, little girl, but perhaps, after all, it is
best. May you be happy in the love of that good youth, Archie. I am
leaving some books which I hope you will enjoy reading. Good-by, and
God bless you.
“Your friend,
“PARKER WILLETT.”
Over and over again Agnes read the note till the words seemed burnt
into her brain. It meant more than an ordinary farewell. He would never
understand now, and he was going back to Virginia and to Alicia. She
gasped at the thought of all that the parting meant, and for a moment
felt that no force could keep her from seeking to overtake him. She ran
back to her mother. “When did he go? When? How long?”
“It was an hour after you left. Oh, my child, do not look so! He will
come back.”
“Too late, too late,” moaned Agnes.
“Why do you say that? He will return as soon as his mother ceases to
need him. She is very ill, and there is no hope of her recovery. She
calls for him, and he will go to remain with her while she lives, be it
a long or a short time. It should not be such a grievous thing to you,
dear heart, when he will return.”
“Oh, mother, mother, you don’t know. There was a misunderstanding, and
it was my fault, and now I can never set him right. Oh, no, I see that
I never can. Oh, mother, mother, if I had but been at home, all might
have been so different. Oh, why did I go?”
Her mother put her arms about her, and led her farther under the shadow
of the trees. “Dear bairn, I wish I could bear this for you, but I
think he loves you, and it may all be for the best; one never knows
what the trials are sent for. Do not greet so, my lamb. I know that
when troubles come to us when we are young they seem black indeed, and
the day of peace and comfort a long way off; but don’t despair, my
dear, remember who is a ‘very present help in trouble.’”
Agnes sighed, and her choking sobs ceased. “Tell me all he said,
mother. It came so suddenly I was not prepared; I ought to be more
brave. I am not always so cowardly when troubles come.”
“No, dear, you have been the bravest of the brave. There is not very
much to tell. He was not here very long, for he was anxious to be on
the way as soon as possible, and I think he hoped to be able to meet
you. He wishes to reach home as soon as he can. There was a letter from
his sister, he said. He thanked us all for our kindness.”
“And it is he who has been kind.”
“So I told him. He asked for the little box of miniatures. I found it
and gave it to him, but he left some books, quite a number which he
said he had promised to lend you.”
Agnes was quite calm now. “Mother,” she said, “I will trust and wait.
You are right, we should not give way to fears. I am glad of the books;
they will be a great comfort. Mother, you know--you know how I feel. I
am not ashamed that I do care so much, and you said--oh, mother, you
said you thought he was not indifferent to me, so I will trust and
wait, but oh, mother, comfort me.”
“My bairn, my lamb!” The mother’s arms were again about her. “What more
can I say? Be patient and endure and all will be well. It may be only
a short time before he is here again, and you may be all the happier
because of this parting.”
Agnes lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder. “Ah, yes, mother,
that is comforting. I remember, too, that sometimes out of a sorrow
comes joy, and I have you, mother dear, and that is so much.”
But the days that followed were very weary ones; the world seemed to
have lost its beauty. The thought of that empty little cabin in the
wilderness would bring a pang to the girl’s heart, and each evening
she would climb the hill at the sunset hour to live over the happy
moments with which the spot was associated. The small store of books
she carried to her room to be pored over, touched lingeringly, and
treasured--for had not his hands held them? Had not his eyes dwelt on
every page? Had he not followed the thought therein expressed? There
was nothing that could have expressed so much or have brought such
enduring association as these, and in time Agnes became so familiar
with them that she could have repeated pages of Shakespeare’s plays,
Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Addison’s essays, or Spenser’s “Faerie
Queene.” And when Archie came she quite astonished and pleased him by
her learning.
This young man’s coming was not delayed very long, for by midsummer
he was in their midst, looking very much improved by his stay in a
more civilized community. He made no delay in going to see Agnes, and
eagerly asked at his first opportunity: “Are ye still heart-free,
Agnes? Is there no one sitting up wi’ ye?”
“No one, Archie,” she replied.
“And there’s none o’ the lads hereabouts you like better than me? Ye’ve
not forgotten, and ye still have the sixpence?”
“I have it still, yes.” She ignored the first part of his speech.
“Ah, weel, then.” Archie gave a sigh of satisfaction. He felt surer
of his ground. He had been somewhat disturbed on Parker Willett’s
account, but Jeanie had reassured him by telling him that Parker had
left the neighborhood. “Jist persevere, Archie,” she said. “It’s slow
and steady wins the race.” Nevertheless, he felt that somehow there
was a change in Agnes; she was more thoughtful and gentle, and less
free with him than she had been. He approved of the thoughtfulness and
gentleness, and attributed the fact of her diffidence to her feeling
more conscious in his presence now that she was older. Archie was quite
a self-satisfied person, and was not disposed to underrate himself,
especially since he had been at his grandfather’s. He had observed
the deference paid to the “meenister,” and felt himself quite in the
position to accept all the consideration due to the cloth. “It’s not to
be wondered at that she is impressed by the knowledge I’m gainin’,” he
told himself, “and she’s beginning to see that it’s a high position in
the world she’ll be having.”
But one fatal day Agnes undeceived him, and he groped for some time in
a pit of humility which he had digged for himself.
It was as the two were coming home from Jeanie’s one summer evening.
Jeanie always did her best to show off Archie’s learning, and to let
Agnes know that he was becoming a person of importance. And on this
particular occasion Archie was feeling specially pleased with himself,
the more so that Agnes was very quiet, and he felt that she was quite
impressed. He was more than usually voluble, having gained much in the
art of conversation in his absence.
“I am thinking,” he said, “of those days when I was in such awe of our
good meenister. To be sure, Agnes, there is much dignity in the office,
but it is not you that need feel abashed by my little learning. ‘_Quod
ignotum pro magnifico est._’” He rolled the Latin words off his tongue
with a relish.
Agnes’s temper had been rising all the evening. She was not slow to
notice Archie’s self-complacence and she turned on him. “Speak in plain
English, Archie M’Clean. You needn’t try to air your knowledge before
me. I abashed by you? Stand in awe of your little pickings of learning?
I’ll venture to say that I know more this minute about some things than
you do. Can you recite me the play of Hamlet? Can you tell me when King
Henry Fifth of England entered France? or who it was that wrote the
‘Faerie Queene’?”
Archie looked at her in amazement. “Are ye daft, Agnes? Why should you
be knowing all those things?”
“I do know them, and many other things of the same kind. There is a
man, more modest than you, who has been to a great university, and yet
who does not all the time be speaking in Latin, and yet I have no doubt
but that he has forgotten more than you will ever know. I will answer
your Latin speech with another: ‘_Laus propria sordet_,’ and I hope
you like it.” She was as proud in her mouthing of the words as Archie
had been. It was Parker who had taught her the saying, “Self-praise
defiles,” and she had repeated the Latin rendering till she remembered
it, and now flung it at Archie with a scorn which completely crushed
him. He had not a word to say for some minutes, and then he remarked
meekly, “I didn’t know you knew Latin, Agnes.”
“I don’t, but I know that, and it fits the case. I’ve no pleasure in a
man who blows his own trumpet.”
“Do I do that?”
“I should think you would be well aware of it when it is your chief
occupation. You bluster around here as if the universe belonged to you,
and you are so puffed up with importance that there is no comfort to
be had in you. Ah, but you’re sadly changed, Archie, and not for the
better.” And Archie’s humiliation was complete. Agnes, having begun
to give vent to her feelings, went on. “I used to think you were as
nice and modest a lad as ever I knew, but if being a minister means
disobeying Paul’s injunction not to be puffed up, then I’ll forswear
ministers, though they are the heralds of the gospel.”
“Ah, but, Agnes!” Archie’s voice was shocked, but he made no further
protest. She had sent her shafts home with a vengeance and he smarted
under the wounds. He was conscious that there was truth in what
she said, and after a silence he said: “I have been puffed up, I
acknowledge with shame and humility,--I, who am but the least in the
sight of heaven. Perhaps, after all, Agnes, I am not fit to think of
filling the holy office. I am magnifying the station and dishonoring
the cause I should guard with care. I’m forgetting that it was said
that the last shall be first. Ah, Agnes, perhaps I’d better not go on.”
“‘He that putteth his hand to the plough,’” quoted Agnes, sternly.
“You’d best go on, Archie, and you’ll learn; it’s your inexperience.
I’ve no doubt but that you’ll make a good, conscientious minister
of the gospel.” She was turning the tables on him with a vengeance.
“When you’re older you’ll know less, my mother says, and she says you
will have occasion to learn meekness and lowliness. If you want my
friendship, you will certainly have to become less of a braggart, and
that right quickly.” And Archie’s rags of pride all fell from him.
“I’ll remember, Agnes,” he said unsteadily, “and I’ll try not to be
boastful. If I’d known ye were displeased, and that it was that has
been keeping ye at your distance--”
Agnes interrupted him. “It’s not that altogether for I--I--must be
honest with you. I know I can never care for you as you want me to;
there’s no use in my pretending.”
“Ah, but,” Archie’s voice was eager enough now, “I know why, Agnes;
it’s my foolish boasting that has turned you from me. I thought to win
ye by self-praise, and I see that it is no way, for what a man is that
shall he appear without words of his. Try me again, Agnes, and I’ll try
and conquer the pride and vainglory that should have no place in my
heart. No, I’ll not give ye up. I’ve said that once and for all; not
till ye marry another man.”
Agnes sighed. “Then I think we’ll neither of us ever marry, Archie.”
“I’m no’ so sure o’ that,” he returned with more of his old confidence.
“We shall see,” said Agnes, bound to have the last word.
Yet, though Archie’s companionship after this was more as Agnes would
have had it, and he seemed much as he had been in the old days, Agnes
herself did not change her attitude, and the lad missed something that
he in vain tried to renew in their relationship. True to his word, he
did not speak of his affection for her, and if the girl’s heart had
not been steadfast in its devotion to the young Virginian, it is quite
probable that Archie, by his unfailing tenderness and thoughtfulness,
would have won her over. He certainly made her summer days pass more
pleasantly, and the two spent many an hour together on the river,
rowing, or under the trees, with a book. Many a walk they had through
the woods to Jeanie’s, and many a ride they took to church, so that
every one said there was no doubt but that it was a sure thing that the
M’Cleans would have Agnes Kennedy for a daughter in good time.
Mrs. Kennedy was a little troubled by these reports, and told Agnes of
them. “I know, mother, that people will talk. I have told Archie how I
feel toward him, and that I am willing to be his friend, but nothing
more, yet he will persist, and says he does not care what the neighbors
say; that they know more about it than I do. You would like to see me a
minister’s wife, wouldn’t you, mother?” she asked wistfully.
“I do not want my lass to waste her youth in waiting for one who may
never return to her.”
“But you bade me trust and be patient.”
“Yes, but I had not then had this.” She drew forth a letter and handed
it to Agnes. It was from Parker Willett. After telling of his safe
arrival he said that his mother grew weaker, but the doctors gave
hope that she might live a year. “In view of my protracted absence,”
he wrote, “I am sending to my little clearing a young cousin, whom I
commend to your friendly interest. He is a boy of good character, and
desires much to go to the Western Reserve; this seems an opportunity
which he is very ready to take, and he will set forth at once.” After
sending polite messages to the family he signed himself “Your grateful
friend, Parker Willett.” The only mention of Agnes was in a message
which conveyed his remembrances, and the hope that she was enjoying the
books he had left.
Agnes refolded the letter thoughtfully and handed it back to her mother
without a word, but it gave her the heartache for many a day after.