THE OVERTHROW OF HUMPHREY
With the appearance of young Carter Ritchie, the neighbors arrived at
the decision that Parker Willett would not return, and that eventually
this cousin of his would take his clearing. Indeed, Carter himself
gave this impression, for it was not long before he knew the whole
country-side, and had taken his place as a resident. His first visit,
after seeking out Dod Hunter, was to the Kennedys, and though the
questions which Agnes put were few, Carter was not reticent, and being
always glad of listeners, he chatted on, revealing many things, and not
hesitating sometimes to draw somewhat upon his imagination so that his
stories might be the more effective. He was a bright, attractive young
fellow, nineteen or twenty years of age, with a fresh, boyish face,
pleasant manners, and a soft Southern voice. He was not slow in finding
out the prettiest girls in the neighborhood, and his gallantries were
soon the cause of many heartburnings.
He greeted the Kennedys as old friends. “Oh, I’ve heard about you all
from Park,” he said, “and I don’t feel a stranger at all. When is
Park coming back? I don’t know. Never, I reckon; there are too many
things to keep him at home. He is at Colonel Southall’s every day,
and the colonel has two pretty daughters. Blest if I don’t think Nell
is prettier than Alicia; she is not of your touch-me-not kind, like
Alicia, and is always ready for a good time. The colonel’s fond of
Park; he has no sons, you know, and I shouldn’t wonder if Park found it
a good thing to settle down right there; that is what everybody thinks
he will do.” The color which had dyed Agnes’s cheeks a crimson at the
hearing of Parker’s name now retreated, and she was very pale.
“Aunt Lucy seems a little better since Parker came,” Carter went on,
“but she can’t live very long, a year maybe at the longest; she’s in a
consumption, you know.” He talked on, answering questions and giving
information, till the listeners knew more of Parker’s family and his
affairs than they had learned in all their acquaintance with him. “Say,
Miss Agnes,” the lad said as he arose to go, “you and I will have real
good times. Park told me he had a boat, and I am in for rowing or any
kind of sport. Do you like to ride? Have you a saddle-horse? Never
mind, I can get one, I reckon.” And before she knew it, Agnes found
herself promising to go riding, boating, walking, or anything else of
the kind that Carter proposed.
“That young man’s not goin’ to wear out his sowl by greetin’ for his
home,” said Polly; “it’s aye grist ’at comes to his mill, an’ he’ll be
dancin’, whoever pipes.”
“He certainly seems to have a flow of spirits,” Mrs. Kennedy agreed.
“An’ pleasant manners, an’ he’s pleasant spoken. I’ll be tachin’ him a
rale Irish jig before the year’s out, ye’ll see. I foretell he’ll make
friends, but, to my mind, his cousin Park’s more the man. I’d be sorry
not to see him again.”
“I think you will,” returned Mrs. Kennedy.
The color came back to Agnes’s face, and she gave her mother a grateful
look, yet her poor little heart was very sore. Alicia! and he had not
forgotten; the old love was the strongest. If he had never gone back,
perhaps all would have been well, but now he believed her pledged
to Archie, and he would return to his first love. Why had she so
stubbornly allowed him to think her indifferent to him, and to believe
her heart was all Archie’s? She could scarce keep her thoughts from
straying at family prayers that evening, but when her father read the
parable of the foolish virgins, Agnes gave a deep sigh and applied it,
maiden-like, to her own case; it was too late and the door was shut.
But youth, though it is easily dispirited, is also elastic, and Agnes
could not be continually moping. She was ready to take such pleasures
as came to her, and really enjoyed life, though she had her pensive
moments when she had romantic dreams of dying young, of touching
the heart of her loved one by going into a decline, but she was too
healthily minded and too busy to allow these thoughts to recur very
often. She found Carter Ritchie good company; he was so full of fun,
so energetic and buoyant, and likewise so pleasure-loving that he was
ready at any time to leave his work for a frolic, and at last Archie
became possessed by the demon of jealousy, and glowered upon his
sweetheart till she brought him to account.
“What do you mean, Archie M’Clean, by looking at me as if you’d cast an
evil eye upon me? What have I done that you should glower so?”
“You’re naught but a shallow coquette,” said Archie, blurting out his
grievance.
“Have you any claim upon me, Archie M’Clean? Did I not tell you that
I could not care for you as you chose I should? Have you any right to
call me to account?”
He confessed he had not, but she had encouraged him to believe she did
care for him in times past, and he had told her he would not give her
up.
“I know you said that, but I have never deceived you, and I said I
would marry you. I said that when I was but a slip of a girl; but even
then I told you it would be only in case I did not see some one I liked
better, and you were free to do likewise.”
Archie’s face fell. “Ay, then, if ye have seen some one, it’s all over,
and I’d as well take my way to Canonsburg as soon as I can, but it
will be fey with me when I think o’ ye an’ that light-headed Ritchie,
though I don’t want to part in anger, Agnes. We’re friends?”
“Oh, yes, friends.” She wondered suddenly if, after all, she could let
Archie go. If she should never see Parker again, if it was as Carter
had told her, that he would marry Alicia, what of herself? “I’d no like
to be an old maid,” she told that same self honestly, “and, after all,
who better than Archie?” As a minister’s wife she could give herself
up to doing good, and that would be a wise and consistent thing to
do. She might not be as happy as she had hoped, but she could make
others happy. She looked up wistfully. “Is it of young Carter Ritchie
you’re thinking?” she asked, twisting the ends of her handkerchief
abstractedly.
“Who else could it be? He is with ye morn, noon, and night.”
“It is not he more than yourself, Archie. We are friends as you and I
are, and he is content that way; we are nothing but comrades.” She did
not confess that half the charm of Carter’s society lay in the fact
that she liked to hear him talk of his Virginia home and of his cousins.
Archie’s face brightened. “Then ye’ll keep the same way o’ thinking and
ye’re no changed?”
“I’m not changed this last month if that’s what you mean. I feel the
same toward you, Archie, but if you are going to bring me to task every
time I go walking with another, I can’t answer for consequences.”
“I’ll try to be content,” said Archie, sighing, and they parted in
peace.
But just about this time came an experience which, for the time being,
put all else out of Agnes’s head. It was Dr. Flint who brought word
that matters were about to culminate in the affair with Hump Muirhead.
Agnes had seldom seen the doctor since the day of their search for
Parker, and she was surprised at his making his appearance one morning,
finding her housing a hen with a late brood of chickens.
“Ah, Miss Agnes, good morning,” he said as he doffed his cap. “You are
the very lady I wished to see.”
Agnes put the last chirping, fluffy ball of a chick under its mother’s
wings, and arose to her feet. “I am glad to see you, Dr. Flint. You
seldom come around this way.”
“No, my place is so far away from this, you know. I thought, however,
that I’d like to be the first to bring you the news that we’re likely
to be rid of Humphrey Muirhead by this time to-morrow.”
“Why, what do you mean? Has he decided that, after all, it’s best to go
peaceably?”
“Not a bit of it. The boys are going to help him get away, and he’ll
not have to walk either.”
Agnes began to understand. “They will not do anything cruel, I hope.”
“Well, I have heard that riding on a rail is not the most comfortable
way to travel.”
“Oh!” Agnes was horror-stricken, for even though she knew such
practices were not uncommon, she had never known any one who was so
treated.
“The boys concluded,” Dr. Flint continued, “that they had stood about
all they were going to from Hump Muirhead, and they have about settled
it that he’s got to go, and that right quick.”
“Is there anything new? Has he done anything else lately?”
“Well, no; but he declares there’ll be war if any one attempts to get
him off the place, and that it will take a few more to dislodge him
than the law is likely to send, and we’re about tired of hearing that
kind of talk.”
“Oh, but his poor wife and the children--Honey and the rest of them.”
“That’s so; it is hard on them, but the innocent must suffer with the
guilty sometimes. The wife will have to go with her children to her
father’s till Hump can get her another home. He’s no fool, and he can
get himself a place easy enough; no fear but that he’s feathered his
nest well since he’s had this place of your grandfather’s. You see,
Miss Agnes, in a country like this we must some times take the law in
our own hands and use force, for there are such a lot of outrageous
scoundrels that come into a new country, it’s hard waiting for the law
to take its course; half the time the whole facts can’t be known, and
justice would never be done. If Hump was given his way, and if you
took the case to the courts, it might be years before you get your
rights. I have known more than one settler driven from his own property
by some one that defied him to take it, and we don’t intend that shall
happen in this case.”
Agnes was lost in thought. She was busy forming a plan. She nodded her
head, for all at once it had come to her what she would do. She smiled
as Dr. Flint stopped speaking. “I am sure it is very kind of you, Dr.
Flint, to come and tell me. I am glad Mrs. Muirhead can go to her
father’s house. I suppose I know very little about such things, but I
have no doubt that you will do what is right in the matter.”
“Oh, it isn’t I you must look to, for I shall not be in it.”
“I’m rather glad of that.” She smiled again, and the doctor felt
flattered. “Won’t you come in, doctor?”
“Well, yes, I will. Miss Agnes, I’ve never met your father, and I have
a professional curiosity to see him. I have an idea that I might be
able to help him, but say nothing about it yet,” he added hastily, as
Agnes allowed an exclamation of joy to escape her.
“I will take you to him now. He is in the orchard, or what we call the
orchard, for our trees are young and are not bearing yet. This is the
way.” She led him by the path along the slope of the hill to where the
young trees were being tended by Fergus Kennedy. The man looked up
with his pleasant, childlike smile as he saw his daughter approaching.
“This is Dr. Flint, father,” said Agnes.
The doctor greeted him cordially, eyeing him keenly all the while,
“Tell me all you can about his hurt; you were there, I am told,”
he said in an aside to Agnes. She obeyed, answering his rapidly
put questions. At the close of the recital the doctor made a rapid
examination of the healed wound. “A slight pressure still,” he said.
“You say he gets better. The nervous shock was great, and as time has
gone on, and he has had peaceful and happy surroundings, it has done
much to overcome that condition. I think a very slight operation could
be performed with safety. We will speak of it later.”
“And could you do it? There would be no danger?”
“No more than we usually take in such cases, and I think we might
venture to assert there would be none at all.”
“Will you tell mother? She will be so happy; it is the one thing to
make her perfectly content; she misses father so much.”
“I know that. Parker told me; it was he who first interested me in the
case.”
Mr. Kennedy had returned to his work; he had submitted patiently to the
examination, answering the questions put him by the doctor, but he took
no part in the conversation that followed. It made him rather unhappy
to be an object of attention, for he was dimly conscious that all was
not right, and he whispered to Agnes, “What is he going to do?”
“Make you well and happy, dear dad, I hope,” Agnes returned, giving him
an affectionate pat.
After a long consultation with Mrs. Kennedy it was decided that an
operation should take place a little later, and the hope which the
promise of it brought gave a new light to Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes. The
doctor stayed to dinner, but shortly after he took his departure, and
then Agnes went to her mother. “I promised Carter I’d go rowing with
him this afternoon,” she said. “He wants to go up the river to one of
the islands and have a little picnic.”
Her mother smiled. “You and Carter seem to have a great many
expeditions. What does Archie say?”
“Archie doesn’t like it, but I told him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Carter and he were both on the same footing, both are friends and
good comrades, and nothing more.”
“I am not so sure of that,” returned her mother. “Take care, my child,
and do not trifle with the affections of a good man.”
“I am not trifling, mother. Do you think I am wrong to see so much of
Carter? He is not in danger of heartbreak, I can assure you, though
sometimes he plays at making love. Do you think I am wrong?”
“Not if, in the end, it makes neither him nor Archie unhappy. Run along
now, and take your outing.”
Agnes was eager in her greeting of Carter when he met her on the river
bank. “See here, Carter,” she said, “I’m going to tell you a secret,
because I want your help. Will you promise on your honor as a gentleman
not to divulge it to a living soul?”
“I promise,” he returned, his hand on his heart, “if thereby I can
serve a lady.”
“Well, it is this,” and she told him of the plan regarding Humphrey
Muirhead. “Now, then, what I mean to do is to go and warn him. No, wait
a minute; I don’t mean to say he doesn’t deserve it, and that he is not
a hard, bad man, but then there is his poor little wife, who, I think,
really loves him, and I want to spare her.”
Carter considered the subject. “Yes, I think she ought to be spared, if
possible,” he decided.
“And so I am going to ask you to go there with me; it is not very far,
once we are across the river, and we can easily walk it. You know the
place is between Dod Hunter’s and where you live.”
“I know well enough where it is.”
“And you’ll go with me?”
“Most certainly.”
“We’ll have to give up our trip to the island, but we can go another
time. I didn’t tell mother for I didn’t have a chance, and besides it
is better that she should not know just yet. I knew I could trust you,
Carter. I don’t believe any one else would have the same chivalric
spirit.”
Carter’s face beamed. “Well, you know where ladies are concerned--”
“Of course that’s it; any one else would have said, ‘Don’t fash yersel’
aboot the women folk.’”
Carter laughed. Agnes never spoke so broadly as the others in the
neighborhood, for her mother did not, though of Scotch descent, but
her imitation was perfect. He helped her into the boat and they rowed
swiftly across stream. They immediately set out for the Muirhead place,
and were not very long in reaching it. Mrs. Muirhead met them with her
usual frightened manner, but she smiled shyly as she saw who it was.
Yes, Hump was over in the far clearing; he had Honey with him; she’d
send one of the children after him.
Agnes looked at Carter. “I think maybe we’d better go and find him.
We’ll come back this way, Mrs. Muirhead.”
They followed her directions, and found Humphrey busy at work digging
out the stumps from a bit of ground, Honey established near him and
chattering away in his baby fashion.
Agnes walked straight up to her uncle. “You didn’t expect to see me,
Mr. Muirhead, I know,” she began.
He turned a scornful look upon her. “And what do you want?” he growled.
“I want to tell you that I have come into possession of a piece of
information which directly concerns you, and that I have come to warn
you. A number of men are coming here to-night to tar and feather you
and ride you on a rail out of the settlement, and if they do not find
you to-night, it will be some other night; they are in earnest, and
there are too many of them for you to defy.”
“And you’re here to tell me this so that I can git out?” He laughed
mockingly. “That’s a fine scheme of yours, but it won’t work.”
“But it is true.” Agnes was discouraged by this way of treating her
facts.
“So _you_ say. I’ve had folks try to skeer me before, but it don’t do.
Here I stop and there’s nobody can budge me.”
“Ah, but--oh, tell him Carter.”
“I assure you, sir,” said Carter, in a rage that any one should dare
to doubt a lady’s word, “I assure you that what Miss Kennedy says is
strictly true. I can vouch for her word.”
“And who are you that I should believe you either?”
Carter’s hand flew to his pistols. “I am a Virginian, and a gentleman.
You shall answer to me for your insults, sir. Miss Kennedy, I insist
that you retire. No further speech is necessary with this--”
“Stop a minute, Carter,” Agnes interrupted him. “I did not expect to be
met with courtesy. I told you that. It is not for your sake, Humphrey
Muirhead, that I tell you this; I have taken the trouble to come here
for Honey’s sake and for your wife’s.” She laid her hand on the child’s
head, “And I swear to you by the affection I have for this dear,
innocent child, that what I say is absolutely true. I know that we will
profit by your going, but you will have to go sometime if not to-morrow
or a week from now--you know that.”
“I don’t know it,” returned Humphrey, grimly.
“You’ll be put out if you don’t get out,” put in Carter, hastily.
“There are enough men about here to accomplish it without much trouble.”
“Some of ’em will never try it agin,” persisted Humphrey. “I’ve held
out against the Injuns, and I guess I kin hold out against white men by
force of arms.”
“O dear! he is hopeless,” cried Agnes. “What can I do to make him see
his danger?”
“Don’t try,” said Carter, curtly.
“But I must. He may defy the law, and he may commit murder, but it
will be worse for him in the end. Can’t you see that? Oh, you foolish,
foolish man, can’t you see that it will be worse for you if you stay?
What if you do succeed for a time in keeping away these men, you
cannot do it for long, and your days will be miserable, for you will
be watched and hunted till you have to give up at last. And if you
commit murder in trying to prevent attack, you will have to suffer a
double penalty, that which they intend for you now and that which the
law metes out to a murderer. Oh, can’t you see?” Agnes spoke in an
imploring voice, but seemed to make no impression upon Humphrey. She
clasped Honey in her arms. “Honey, Honey, oh, dear little lad, tell
your father that it is all true! Ask him for your sake--say it Honey,
say, ‘Dad, for Honey’s sake.’”
“Dad, for Honey’s sake,” obediently repeated the child, in his little
persuasive voice.
The man’s eyes sought the face of his little son, and he stood looking
gloomily toward the pair, Agnes kneeling there with her arms around
Honey.
A long silence ensued, at last broken by Humphrey. “I believe ye, girl.
I don’t see why ye did it, unless because of the young un there, but I
reckon you’re right, and it’s all up with me. Maybe I ought to thank
ye, but I feel more like--” he paused really abashed by the expression
on Carter’s face, for the boy was glaring at him like a tiger. “This is
the last ye’ll see of Honey,” he added half maliciously.
Agnes gathered the little one close to her. “Good-by, and God bless
you, dear little lad. I hope you will grow up to be a good man, Honey.
You will forget all about your Nanny, but she will never forget you.
Come, Carter.” She made no further appeal to the man standing there,
and but once looked back after she and Carter turned to go. She saw
that he had gathered the child into his arms and his head was bent
upon that of his little son. A real compassion for him filled Agnes’s
heart. “I can’t help feeling sorry,” she murmured.
“Sorry for that brute? I’d like to have called the coward out,” cried
Carter. “The idea of his daring to address a lady in such fashion. If
you had not restrained me, Agnes--”
“You would have fought him then and there. Yes, I know, and have given
your mother cause to mourn the loss of a son more chivalrous than
discreet. I thank you for your knightly intention, Sir Carter, but I
think, in this instance, discretion was the better part of valor, don’t
you?”
“Agnes, if any one were to present you to my mother, and tell her that
you were a backwoods girl, she would scarce believe it.”
“She would not, and why?”
“Not because there are not some here worthy of being called gentle,
but it isn’t the usual type; you are more like my own people, like
gentlefolk.”
“And are there, then, no gentlefolk among the Scotch-Irish?”
“Many, no doubt, but they lose their manners when they are let loose
in the wilderness. I do not know what they have been at home, but they
certainly are a rough lot out here.”
“Not all, I hope.”
“Surely not all, for look at your mother; but on the other hand, look
at Polly O’Neill, and Tibby McKnight, and Mydie McShane.”
“Oh, if you take them for examples, it may be true that there is an
excuse for you to criticise, yet we’re all one out here, and you’ll be
counted in with Humphrey Muirhead and Jimmy O’Neill yourself one of
these days,” she told him, teasingly. She was happy now that she had
succeeded in her errand, and could afford to joke.