DR. FLINT
It was a few days later that Dr. Flint appeared again. In the meantime
Agnes had been aware of a midnight expedition, in which Jimmy O’Neill
had taken part, and from which he had returned the next morning in as
bad a humor as Jimmy could be in. Agnes heard his answer to a whisper
from Polly, “Cleared out,” he said, and the girl knew to whom he
referred.
After breakfast, Dr. Flint came riding up. He and Jimmy had a
conference down at the blacksmith shop, and after leaving his horse
there the doctor made his way up to the house where Agnes met him.
“Well, Miss Agnes, I think you’ll be moving across the river before
long,” was the doctor’s greeting.
A smile flashed across Agnes’s face. The doctor laughed. “Oh, you
little marplot,” he said, lowering his voice, “it was you who spoiled
our little game, I know, though nobody but myself suspects. Our bird
has flown, and I think I could put my finger on the one who gave the
warning. I think we have to thank Miss Agnes Kennedy for a part in that
transaction. Didn’t you tell?”
“Suppose I did; it was a better way to get rid of him than the other,
though but for knowing your intention I suppose he would have still
held out.”
“Well, he’s off for good and all. He must have skurried things together
in a hasty fashion, for the house is cleared of anything valuable, and
there’s not a head of live stock left on the place. He’d no right to
the cattle; but he’d not stand at that, and I suppose would have taken
the house if he could have carried it; it is a wonder he didn’t set
fire to it.”
“I suppose he thought if he did that it would bring discovery upon him,
and prevent his getting away as secretly as he wished.”
“You are right there; it is strange how a woman will instinctively
penetrate into a motive. What time were you there?”
“How do you know I was there at all?”
“Oh, I know, but never mind; it’s of no consequence now. How is your
father?”
“About as usual.”
“We’ll see to him when you get moved and settled. I would like to have
a word with your mother if she’s not busy.”
Agnes ushered him in, and went to call her mother, rejoicing in the
fact that there had been neither bloodshed nor cruelty necessary for
the overthrow of Humphrey Muirhead, and that they could take peaceable
possession of their own with no distressing associations to mar the
pleasure of the removal.
A few days after this she learned from Carter that Humphrey had loaded
several pack-horses, gathered his stock together, and had started
through the woods to a lonely spot where he encamped. He next looked
about for a flat-boat, and securing one from a newly arrived settler
farther up the river, he set out for Kentucky, where his wife’s family
lived, and so no more was heard of him.
“How did you find it all out?” Agnes asked.
“Oh, everybody knows now. The man he bought the flat-boat from told
Si Fulton, and Si told somebody else, and so it got around. I am just
waiting now, Agnes, for the day when you will be next-door neighbors.
When are you going to move in?”
“Oh, soon. Uncle Dod has been over to see us, and he says there will
be no difficulty in our taking possession as soon as we want to. Jimmy
O’Neill has always wanted to have this place, and it was settled long
ago that he would buy it when we gave it up. I am glad he and Polly
are going to keep on living here, for I love it.” She looked around
pensively, and her eyes lingered upon each homely detail.
“It’s a nice little place, but it doesn’t compare to the other. What’s
to be done before you can come over? Can’t I help so as to hurry up
things a little?”
“I think you have enough to do as it is.”
“Oh, no, I haven’t. I am simply holding on till Park comes back or
gives it up; I am not trying to do more than live there. What’s to be
done at your grandfather’s place?”
“The house is to be whitewashed and cleaned, and things straightened up
generally. I don’t know of anything in particular. I think we may go
next week; mother is anxious to get settled.” She gave a little sigh.
After all, this realization of her dream did not bring the pleasure of
anticipation; it would be strangely unfamiliar, and there would be no
happy associations connected with that house across the river. It would
be farther away from church, and from Jeanie; and Agnes realized as she
never did before that there would be a real tearing up of the roots
when it came time to go.
“Are you going to have a housewarming?” asked Carter, eager for fun.
Agnes shook her head. “Not now; after a while, maybe.”
“But doesn’t every one have them when they first move in?”
“We will not, for it is neither a new house nor are we newcomers. We
are anxious to get settled and have everything as quiet as possible
for father, and when he is better we shall feel like having a
jollification.”
“I had a letter from Park yesterday,” said Carter, taking a folded
sheet from out his hunting-shirt.
“What does he say?” Agnes asked, her heart beating high at sight of
the familiar writing. “Is he coming back?”
“He doesn’t say anything about it. His mother is failing rapidly. He
gave me some directions about the place, and told me some home news; he
sent his respects to all. Oh, yes,” Carter’s eyes scanned the sheet,
“he wants to know if you are married yet.”
“What did you tell him?” Agnes asked eagerly.
Carter laughed. “I haven’t told him anything yet. You didn’t suppose
I’d write within twenty-four hours, did you?”
Agnes colored up. “Oh, no, of course not. I didn’t think.”
“But I know what I shall tell him,” said Carter, teasingly.
“What?”
“That you’re going to be.”
“Oh, you must not. Don’t you dare to, Carter Ritchie.--What is it,
Margret?”
“Mother wants you a moment,” answered the little girl.
“Then you’ll have to stay out here and talk to me, Margret,” said
Carter; “I’m not going to be left alone.”
Margret gave him a shy glance. She was a pretty little girl, now
about thirteen years of age, a demure quiet body, but possessed of a
steadiness and force that did not at first appear. No one could manage
and entertain the children as Margret did. Carter coaxed her to come
out and sit by him while Agnes went indoors, and when the latter
came out she found the two on the best of terms. Carter was telling
about the place across the river. “I’ll about live at your house,” he
announced to Agnes. “I wish you’d hurry up and come.”
There seemed to be a great deal to be crowded into the next few weeks,
for first Archie started for Canonsburg, and then came preparations
for the removing. Many a trip did Carter and Agnes make with coops of
chickens balanced on the little boat, or family stuffs of different
kinds stowed away as best they could be, and then came the day when
the last good-bys were said, and Polly running over with tears fell on
their necks and mourned the departure.
“I’ll be sore weary for ye, Nancy,” she said; “ye’ve been like me ain
sister, an’ we’ve been togither through thick an’ thin this manny’s the
long day now, an’ I’ll no have a song on me lips for a dale o’ morrows.
I beeta come over often, an’ no doubt I’ll be neglectin’ me work an’ me
bairns, I’ll be sae sore for a sight o’ ye.”
“Dear Polly,” Agnes returned, the tears in her own eyes. “I’ll miss
you, too, Polly, and I shall come over often. Ah, Polly, I’m no glad
to be going. As the song says, ‘Manny a canty day we’ve had wi’ ane
anither.’” The tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks, but Sandy and Jock
and Jessie, and even Margret, were eager for the change, and were back
and forth a dozen times before they crossed the river for good and
all. Agnes was the last to leave. She lingered around as if she could
not say farewell. The homely spot was crowded with associations, and
not till now did she know how much she loved it.
But at last she gave Polly and the children a parting hug, and sprang
into the boat which Sandy had brought over, having delivered his other
passengers, and the last sight of Polly showed the good woman standing
with her apron to her eyes.
It seemed quite palatial in their new home with its big rooms, now
fresh and clean. Here and there could be seen from the house reaches of
cleared land, and the forest seemed to recede to a great distance from
the house, though a few tall trees were left for shade; but after the
small cabin they had been living in, with its girdle of forest trees so
near, this gave the impression of much more room both outside and in.
“Isn’t it big and fine?” said Jessie. “Oh, what a big fireplace, and
real steps, not a ladder to go upstairs,” and eager feet were soon
patting all over the house, Sandy and Jack meanwhile exploring the
whole place,--the comfortable barn, the cow-shed now housing two new
cows, the garden, the corn-field where pumpkins were yellowing, and the
truck patch where a few potatoes and turnips awaited gathering. It is
true that Humphrey had been careful to possess himself of all fruits of
his labor that time would allow him to get together, and had destroyed
some things which might have been of use, but his time was short, and
there were still apples reddening in the sun and a haymow untouched.
Mrs. Kennedy stood at the door looking out. Her face was very sad. From
this spot her father had gone forth to captivity and death; all this
fair homestead had been his, and he had hoped to live here to a good
old age. Agnes linked her arm within her mother’s. “How do you like it,
mother dear? Is it not a pleasant spot? It is home for the rest of our
lives.”
“For the rest of my life and for yours, too, perhaps. Does your father
seem satisfied? I have not seen him for the past hour; I have been so
busy setting things to rights.”
“He is with the boys and they are exploring every corner. Father
understands that this is home; in some way he connected it with East
Pennsborough and asks such funny questions: Who cut down the butternut
tree by the spring? and what has become of old Whitey? He is a little
bewildered yet, but he will be very content, I am sure.”
Her mother sighed. “He seems like a son rather than a husband. I miss
him, oh, I miss him as he was. Those old endearing words, those little
speeches of appreciation that a woman loves, never come to his lips
now. He was always such a loving husband.”
“But he loves you now.”
“As a child would. He likes to sit by my side, to have me minister
to him, to have me tell him what to do, to unravel the puzzles that
confront him so often, but that is all.”
Agnes understood. What her mother said was quite true. “But, mother,
listen,” she said cheerfully, “now Dr. Flint can come; you know he said
it would be best to wait till we could be where father could have more
quiet, and now we shall not have dear old noisy Polly, nor Jimmy, nor
the bairns. I will tell you how we will manage: Margret can help me,
and Jessie can look after Fergus, he is old enough now to know he must
not make a noise if he is told to keep still, and the boys can do the
outdoor work. I can do what needs to be done indoors, and that will
leave you to nurse father.”
Her mother gave a little convulsive shudder.
“I know,” Agnes went on, “I feel so too; but Dr. Flint says he can
assure us that the chances are very good, and oh, if it should be all
right, the joy of it!”
“Ay, the joy of it! That is what will bear us up. I hope we can have
confidence in Dr. Flint; he is looked on suspiciously by some of the
neighbors.”
“Yes, that is true, but I do not think for any good reason. There come
father and the boys.”
“Bid them come in to supper.”
It was in September that the family took possession of their new home,
and a couple of weeks later Dr. Flint came and took up his abode with
them till he should see Mr. Kennedy safely through the critical
ordeal. The dwellers in the settlement generally stood aloof from this
man, not because of his unfortunate record or because of the fatal
incident that came so near losing him his life, but these Scotch-Irish
were a God-fearing folk, and were fond of expressing their views upon
portions of the Scripture, and were wont to discuss religion upon every
occasion. Henry Flint never joined in these discussions; he never went
to church, and it was believed that he was sceptical of those things
which were as real to the sturdy believers of Presbyterian faith as
was the fact of their own existence. It was said that he read books
which at that time were spoken of only with bated breath. “He’s amaist
an atheist, I hear,” whispered one neighbor to another, and therefore
there were those who shook their heads when it was known that he would
try his skill upon Fergus Kennedy.
For days the children tiptoed about the house when they were allowed
in it at all. On pleasant days Jessie took Fergus out where Sandy and
Jock could watch over both little ones, and on rainy days the barn
was their shelter. Margret helped Agnes indoors, and over her husband
Mrs. Kennedy kept watch night and day, sharing her vigil, at first,
only with the doctor. Later on good neighbors were prompt to offer
their aid, Mrs. M’Clean, Jeanie, or Dod Hunter’s wife. Carter made his
appearance every day with proffers of help. Jerry Hunter and Jimmy
O’Neill directed the two lads, who were trying to do the work of men on
the farm, and many a good day’s work did this or that neighbor do for
them.
Polly, striving desperately to moderate her tones, came very often,
and stealthily carried off piles of thread to be woven, or rolls of
cloth to be dyed. She would do her part even though a place by the
bedside was denied her. She was a good nurse, and Agnes was afraid she
might feel hurt at their refusal of her offers of assistance, but that
was not like Polly; she was quite as honest to herself as she was to
others. “It’s the wife’s right,” she acknowledged, “an’ I’ve a heavy
tread, an’ am no so soft-voiced as some, an’ it’s quiet he’s wantin’,
they say. I mind it’s aye that way when there’s aught wrong with the
head.” She spoke to Agnes.
“That is the important thing; absolute quiet,” the girl replied, half
apologetically. “We have to walk on tiptoe, and Margret and I scarce
speak above a whisper when we’re working about.”
“An’ will he have his wits agin?”
“We hope so, oh, we hope so.”
“Yer mother’s growin’ pale wid the watchin’, an’ ye’re thin yersel’,
Nancy, wi’ the hard wark ye’ve had.”
“Never mind me. I am well, but it’s hard for mother, who is not used to
being housed.”
Polly gave a sigh. “I miss ye all, Nancy, an’ though I don’t begrutch
ye comin’ to yer ain, I’m wishful fur ye ivery morn that comes. Do ye
mind how I used to stir ye up wi a stick o’ mornin’s when ye would
overslape? Ah,” Polly shook her head, “them was good times we had
togither. Ye’ve not set fut on the place sin’ ye lef’ it.”
“How could I, Polly, with so much to do?”
“Ye could not, fur a fact; it’s the truth ye’re tellin’, fur ye don’t
get to meetin’ o’ Sabbaths.”
“No, but the minister has been here several times, and every one is so
kind.”
“Why wouldn’t they be? Was ye iver anythin’ else but kind yersel’? I
tell ye, though, the men were all cross-eyed wid mad, an’ grumpy as
bears whin they come back from huntin’ Hump Muirhead. They beeta say
that ye was a blessed lass fur returnin’ good fur evil, an’ they says,
Jimmy tells me, that ye put them all to shame by gettin’ him to go,
along o’ yer gentle coaxin’s an’ pleadin’s.”
“How could they know that?”
“Can ye see through a millstone wid a hole in it? They beeta know, fur
they puts this and that together, an’ gets a holt o’ it.”
“It was Carter that told, I do believe.”
“If he did, it was no till the settlemint was shet o’ Hump, an’ then he
couldn’t houd his blather. He said ye’d made him give a promise not to
tell, but that it was no saycret an’ why should he thry to kape what
was common property? He’s a great wan to talk, is Carter, an’ he sang
yer praises to the tune av half an hour at the shop, that I know. So
be, Nancy, as ye know it’s no saycret anny longer, jist tell me the
rights av it.” And Agnes gave an account of her interview with her
uncle, Polly making her comments freely.
“Carter’s a gintleman,” she declared, “an’ I’ll give him a good thwack
whin I see him, for he niver told me his part. He was fair achin’ fur a
fight, I can see.” Polly spoke in tones of admiration. “Nothin’ would
ha’ plazed me better than to know he gave Hump a good lambastin’.”
“Imagine Carter trying to whip Hump Muirhead.”
“It’s not always the big dog that wins the fight.”
“Yes, but I am very glad it did not come out so. I think the best part
was that Carter would do nothing belligerent on my account. Well,
Polly, it is all done with now, and we are safely here under our own
roof.”
“Have ye heerd from Archie?”
“Not a line.”
Polly laughed. “I’ve a notion ye’ll not.”
“And why?” Agnes was a little offended.
“We hear enough,” was Polly’s reply, given with an air of mystery. She
put her hand over her mouth to check the laugh that would come, and
at the same time she cast an anxious glance at the windows of Mrs.
Kennedy’s room.
“Now, Polly, tell me what you mean.”
“Go ’long wid ye; I’ll have me saycrits, too; ye’ve had yours, an’ have
no call to expect me to tell ye.”
With this Agnes had to be satisfied. She parted with Polly at the gate
where they had been standing, and promised, as soon as she could, that
she would certainly come over to see her old friend.
“I’ve said the thing that’ll fetch her,” said Polly, chuckling to
herself as she went on toward home.
In truth, Polly had succeeded in arousing the girl’s curiosity, for the
first question that she asked Jeanie when the two met was, “Have you
heard from Archie lately?”
“Yes,” said Jeanie, hesitatingly and with a quick, embarrassed glance
at Agnes.
“And is he doing well? Does he like Canonsburg?”
“Yes;” then after a pause, “you haven’t heard from him, Agnes?”
“Not a line.”
Jeanie looked thoughtful. “You still insist that you do not care for
Archie except as a friend? Is that so, Nancy? Did you keep to that when
Archie left?”
“Yes, and I still say so.”
“Do you like Carter Ritchie?”
“Oh, very much. We are good friends, too.”
“He is very fond of gallanting around with the girls.”
“Yes, and I think it is perfectly natural. There is safety in numbers,
I tell him.”
“Then you don’t mind?”
“Oh, no.”
“Would you mind if Archie did?”
“Did what? Gallanted around with the girls? It isn’t his way, but if
he did I should think--I mean if he were attentive to any one lass, I
should think it meant something serious.”
Jeanie laughed a little consciously. “It is strange what gossiping
nonsense one hears. I don’t listen to it all, do you, Nancy?”
“Why, I suppose I listen, but I don’t heed it always. What tale have
you been hearing, Jeanie?”
“Oh, nothing of any consequence. Tell me of your father, Nancy.”
“He is steadily improving; the bandages are to be taken off to-morrow.
There is no fever now, and the doctor thinks there is no further cause
for anxiety; but he will not let father talk, and we cannot tell how
far the trial has been successful.”
“That is very good as far as it goes. Would you like me to stay and
help to-night?”
“No, thank you; there is no need. He sleeps well now, and Mrs. Hunter
will be here.”
“Then I will go back to my man. Come and see me as soon as you can.
Every one is rejoicing that you are so well settled.”
Agnes puzzled over the mystery which seemed to have arisen in Archie’s
quarter; but she was too busy to think very long upon it, and told
herself that she could afford to wait till some one should tell her
what it all meant.
The next day the bandages were removed, and for some days after the
patient was kept very quiet and not allowed to talk much, but his
eyes followed his wife as she moved about the room. There was a new
expression of intelligence in them which the doctor was quick to note.
It was one morning at early dawn that he said weakly, “Margaret.”
Mrs. Kennedy came to the bedside and looked lovingly into the pale
face. “Fergus, my man,” she said softly.
“Margaret, Margaret, my ain han’s morrow, my ain han’s morrow,” he
said weakly, putting out his fingers to seek her hand. And then the
wife sank on her knees and brokenly sobbed out her full heart in a
psalm of praise, “I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise
shall continually be in my mouth.” The sick man took up the words and
followed her faintly, “This poor man cried and the Lord heard him, and
saved him out of his troubles.”
Dr. Flint stood with bowed head listening. There was something that
touched him to the very core of his being in this renewed union of
husband and wife. There was a look of exaltation on the woman’s face,
and the man clasping her hand bent on her eyes full of trustful love.
They seemed to forget him; they were together in the presence of a
higher power, which at that moment it seemed impossible to ignore or to
distrust, and he, the man who doubted, who had told himself that there
was no all-guiding hand, followed the words of the faithful as they
poured them forth in the Presence, and at the end he said devoutly,
“Amen.”