A JOYFUL RETURN
"It is so good to get out among you all," Barbe Carrick said, as she
was pillowed up in a big high-backed chair and wrapped in a soft gray
blanket. Her hair was gathered in a pretty white cap with a ruffle of
lace about the edge, framing in her rather thin face. "So good! And
the good news! Why, I feel almost well."
It had been a slow autumnal fever, never very serious, but wearing.
Mrs. Bradin knew the use of many herbs and was considered as good as a
doctor by most of the settlers.
The room would have made a fine "Interior," if there had been a Dutch
artist at hand. It was of good dimensions, or the great fireplace
would have dwarfed it. Marc Bradin was a handy man, as not a few were
in those days when new settlers could not encumber themselves with
much furniture. There were some of the old French belongings, a sort
of escritoire that had drawers below and shelves above and was in two
pieces. But the tables and chairs and the corner cupboard were of his
fashioning. There was china, really beautiful pewter ware, some
pieces of hammered brass, candlesticks, and one curious lamp. The
rafters were dark with age and smoke, but they were not ornamented
with flitches of bacon, for there was a smoke-house out one side.
The chairs would pass for modern Mission furniture. A few had rockers,
notably that in which the little girl sat, with Judy on her lap, and
the cat almost covered her. Grandfather was in his accustomed place.
There was a small table beside him on which were his old French Bible,
a book of devotion, and a volume or two of poems, and a tall
candlestick with two branches. Gran'mere was doing some white
embroidery, a frock for the little girl's next summer's wear. Mrs.
Bradin had been settling her daughter and now stood undecided as to
her next duty.
"Has father gone out again?" Barbe asked.
"Yes, to the Fort--to see if he can't get one of the papers."
"It's wonderful news!" and the invalid drew a long breath of delight.
"But it isn't real peace yet."
"Oh, no, I do believe it is the beginning, though," said her mother.
"I wish the sun would shine. It ought to;" and Barbe gave a wan half
smile.
"But it isn't going to," announced Daffodil confidently. "And it _is_
going to rain."
Grandfather laughed.
"Why, Dilly?"
"Because." The child colored. "Oh, you will see."
There was a tap at the door and then it opened. Norah Carrick dropped
the shawl she had thrown over her head. A still pretty,
heartsome-looking woman, with a merry face bright with roses, laughing
blue eyes, and dark hair.
"It's good for sore eyes to see you up, Barbe. I hope we'll have some
fine weather to brace up one. An'--an' 'twas good news you heard the
morn." Then she gave a funny, rippling laugh.
"But he'll be glad to have Bernard come back," Barbe exclaimed
resentfully.
"Ah, that he will! Ye mustna mind him child, if he's cranky for a bit.
He's been that set about England winning the game that you'd take him
for wan of the high dukes that sit in state and tell what shall be
done. I've been for the country all along. It runs in my mind that
Ireland owes the king a gredge. She's been a cross-grained stepmother,
say your best. An' why couldn't she let us go on an' prosper! We'd
been willin' enough to work for her part of the time. An' it's not
such an easy thing to lave your own bit of a home and come over here
in these wilds, an' hew down trees for your houses and clear land for
the corn, an' fight Indians. So I'm wishin' the country to win. But
Sandy's carryin' the black cat round on his back to-day, an' it makes
me laugh, too. He's that smart when he gets a little riled up, and
he's husked corn to-day as if he was keepin' time with Nickey Nick's
fiddle."
"What makes the black cat stay on his back?" asked Daffodil, stroking
her own pussy softly.
"Ah, that's just a say so, Dilly darlin', for a spell of gettin' out
of temper when there's no need. But he made a good dinner. I had just
the stew he liked, an' a Donegal puddin' that come down from my
great-grandmother. An', Barbe, you begin to look like crawlin' about
again an' not so washed out. The good news should make a warm streak
all through you."
"Oh, I'm much better. If it will come off nice an' warm----"
"We'll have a storm first. And is there any more news?"
She had been taking some work out of a bag after she had nodded to
gran'mere and shaken hands with great-grandfather. Now she settled
herself and began to sew. She was never idle. Sandy Carrick had the
smartest wife anywhere about and few women would have minded his queer
quips so little.
Then the door opened and Marc Bradin entered, thrusting out a
newspaper.
"I've been waiting my turn and have promised to have it back in half
an hour, but I'll not count the coming and going," laughing. "And
it's news worth waiting for. It's all true and more, too. And if we
want a King or an Emperor, General Washington's the man. Now I'll
read, since that's the cheapest way, as you can all hear at once."
He dropped into a chair and threw his old cap on the floor. Bradin was
an excellent reader. Yes, it was glorious news. A big battle averted
and soldiers disabled by honor rather than wounds. A vivid description
of what had led up to the surrender and the conditions, the enthusiasm
and the predictions that at last victory was achieved for the
Colonies. And although numerous points were still held by the English,
it would be difficult to rouse enthusiasm after this crushing blow.
"Time's up," said the reader. "But you have all the real gist of the
matter. Norah, how's Sandy?"
Norah gave a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders.
"Oh, he'll come round. I can't see, with all the Scotch an' Irish in
him, why he must be shoutin' for King George just because he happened
to fight on that side years ago. An' it was under Washington, too, an'
people do say if Braddock hadn't been so high an' mighty, and taken
some of the young man's counsel, there wouldna have been such an awful
defeat."
"I'll come right back, jinky! It begins to rain."
Dilly looked up in triumph. "I told you so," she said, "and you just
laughed, grandfather. Now you see Judy knew."
She gave Judy an extra hug and squeezed a faint mew out of her.
"Judy is a wise cat," admitted grandfather.
"And I must run home an' get a supper that'll be a soothin' poultice
to the inside of the man," laughed Norah. "I'm glad I know about how
things stand, so my heart will be light. An' we will have Bernard home
safe and sound, never you fear, so, Barbe, get well to welcome him.
I'm cooking chicken to-morrow an' I'll send over broth an' a bit of
the breast. Run over to-morrow, little one. Grandad'll be all right."
Barbe was tired and went to bed. Dilly moved over by grandfather and
begged for a story. He and Norah had a packful of them. It grew darker
and rained, with a sort of rushing wind.
When Dilly grew older and began to understand what real living was, it
seemed as if this was her actual induction into it. She had run about
and played, listened to stories and songs, gravitated between the two
houses, ridden with grandad, who was always a little jealous that most
of her relatives should be on the French side. She could shut her eyes
and hear Kirsty's raucous voice and the two bells he was ringing and
see grandad's upturned nose and his derisive tone. She awoke to the
fact that she really had a father.
Grandad used to come over in the evening and play piquet with old
grandfather. It was a game two could enjoy, and the women folk were no
great hands at card-playing. Now and then, when Norah was not too
busy, they had a friendly, social game. It rained two days and then
cleared up in the glory of perfect autumn weather. Nothing came to
counteract the good tidings. Grandad came for Daffodil to take a ride
with him, and that evening he sauntered in and had a game of piquet
and beat. It always delighted him. It was fighting the French over
again.
Barbe improved rapidly now. People were quite apt to have what was
called a run of fever in the autumn at the change of the seasons, and
there were some excellent home-brewed remedies and tonics that
answered, if the case was not too severe.
Dilly and her mother talked a great deal about the return of the
husband and father.
"Is he like grandad?" she inquired with a little contraction of the
brows.
"Oh, not much. He was called a handsome young fellow. Your eyes are
like his, and he had such a brilliant color then," sighing a little
and wondering if the hardships had made him old before his time.
"And--and his nose?" hesitatingly.
Barbe laughed. "It isn't short like grandad's. His mother was a
handsome woman."
"It's queer," said the child reflectively, "that you can have so many
grand relatives and only one father. And only one gran'mere. For Norry
isn't _real_, is she, since she isn't father's mother. And how many
wives can one have?"
"Only one at a time. It's quite a puzzle to little folks. It was to
me."
Daffodil looked at her mother with wondering eyes and said
thoughtfully, "Were you truly little like me? And did you like
grandad? Did he take you out on his big horse?"
"We were living in Virginia then. Great-grandfather and
great-grandmother were living there--she was alive then. And when she
died gran'mere and gran came out here. I was about eight. And we
didn't like it here. The children were so different."
"It is all very queer," said Dilly. "You are little, and then you
grow, and--and you get married. Will I be married? Must you find some
one----"
"Oh, Dilly, I think some one will find you;" and her mother laughed.
"You will have to grow up and be--well, eighteen, I think, almost a
dozen years before you need to think about it."
"I'm very glad," she said soberly.
She did not like things that puzzled her. The war was another. What
had it been about? Grandad was sure the English were right, and
great-grandfather was glad they were going to be beaten.
She used to dream of her father, and watch out for him. For some of
the companies were furloughed, his among them. And now he was Captain
Carrick.
Christmas came. There was not much made of it here, as there had been
in Virginia, no gift-giving, but family dinners that often ended in a
regular carouse, sometimes a fight. For Pittsburg had not reached any
high point of refinement, and was such a conglomerate that they could
hardly be expected to agree on all points.
The little girl lost interest presently in watching for her father,
and half believed he was not coming. She was very fond of grandad, and
Norry, and the wonderful stories she heard about fairies and "little
folk," who came to your house at night, and did wonderful
things--sometimes spun the whole night long, and at others did bits of
mischief. This was when you had offended them some way.
She liked the Leprecawn so much. He was a fairy shoemaker, and when
all was still in the night you sometimes heard him. "Tip tap, rip rap,
Tick a tack too!" And the little Eily, who wished so for red shoes,
but her folks were too poor to buy them. So she was to find six
four-leaf clovers, and lay them on the doorstep, which she did.
"What a queer noise there was in the night," said the mother. "It was
like this, 'Tip tap, rip rap.'"
"Sho!" said the father, "it was the swallows in the chimney."
Eily held her peace, but she put four-leafed clovers again on the
doorstep, and tried to keep awake, so she could hear the little
shoemaker.
"I'll clear them swallows out of the chimney, they disturb me so,"
declared the father, and he got a long pole and scraped down several
nests. But the next night the sound came again, and the mother began
to feel afeared. But when Eily went downstairs there was a pair of
little red shoes standing in the corner, and Eily caught them up and
kissed them, she was so full of joy. Then her mother said, "The
Leprecawn has been here. And, Eily, you must never wear them out of
doors at the full of the moon, or you'll be carried off."
"Was she ever, do you think, Norry?"
"Oh, her mother'd be very careful. For if you go to fairyland, you'll
have to stay seven years."
"I shouldn't like that," subjoined Dilly. "But I _would_ like the red
shoes. And if I could find some four-leaf clovers----"
"You can't in winter."
"Well--next summer."
"Maybe grandad can find you some red leather, and lame Pete can make
them."
"But I rather have the fairy shoemaker, with his 'tip tap, rip rap';"
laughing.
"Don't minch about him. Here's a nice chunk of cake."
Dilly had cake enough to spoil a modern child's digestion. But no one
understood hygiene in those days, and kept well.
There were no schools for little girls to go to. But a queer old
fellow, who lived by himself, taught the boys, and tried to thrash
some knowledge in their brains. It was considered the best method.
Dilly's mother taught her to read English, and great-grandfather
inducted her into French. Gran'mere talked French to the old man.
Every morning she brushed his hair and tied it in a queue with a black
ribbon. He wore a ruffled shirt front, and lace ruffles at his wrist;
knee breeches, silk stockings, and low shoes with great buckles.
Dilly learned to sew a little as well. But early industry was not held
in as high esteem as in the Eastern Colonies. There was plenty of
spinning and knitting. Fashions did not change much in the way of
dress, so you could go on with your clothes until they were worn out.
The nicest goods were imported, but there was a kind of flannelly
cloth for winter wear, that was dyed various colors, mostly blue and
copperas, which made a kind of yellow.
So the winter went on, and in February there came a great thaw. Oh,
how the river swelled, and rushed on to the Ohio. It was very warm.
And one day Daffodil sat on the great stone doorstep, holding the
cat, and munching a piece of cake. Judy ate a few crumbs, but she did
not care much for it.
"There's a peddler," said Dilly to Judy. "He has a big pack on his
back, and he walks with a cane, as if he was tired. And there's
something hanging to his waist, and a queer cap. He seems
looking--why, he's coming here. Gran'mere wants some thread, but he
isn't our----Mother," she called.
He was thin, and pale, and travel-stained, and had not the brisk,
jaunty air of the peddlar.
But he came up the little path, and looked at her so sharply she
jumped up, hugging Judy tightly. "Some one, mother," she said, half
frightened.
Mrs. Carrick stepped to the door, and glanced. Then, with a cry, she
went to her husband's arms.
They both almost fell on the doorstep.
"Oh," she cried, "you are tired to death! And----"
"Never mind; I'm home. And I have all my limbs, and have never been
ill. It has been a desperate struggle, but it's ending grandly. And
everybody----"
"They are all alive and well. Oh, we've been watching, and hoping--it
doesn't matter now, you are here;" and she leaned down on his shoulder
and cried.
"Three years and four months. I couldn't get word very well, and
thought I'd rather come on. You see, my horse gave out, and I've had
a ten-mile walk. And--the baby?"
"Oh, she's a big girl. She was sitting here----"
"Not that child!" in surprise.
"Daffodil," called her mother.
The child came shyly, hesitatingly.
"Dilly, it's father. We've talked of him so much, you know. And you
have watched out for him many a time."
Somehow he didn't seem the father of her imagination. He took her in
his arms, and dragged her over in his lap.
"Oh, I forgot you could grow," in a tone broken with emotion. "But her
blue eyes, and her yellow hair. Oh, my little darling! We shall have
to get acquainted over again;" and he kissed the reluctant lips. "Oh,
it is all like a dream! Many and many a time I thought I should never
see you again;" and he wiped the tears from his eyes.
"If you are glad, what makes you cry?" asked the child, in a curious
sort of way.
Barbe put her arms around Dilly. Of course, no child could understand.
"And the others," began Bernard Carrick.
"Oh, let us go in." There was a tremble of joy in her voice. "Mother,
grandfather, he has come!"
Mrs. Bradin greeted her son-in-law with fond affection, and a great
thanksgiving that he had been spared to return to them. They talked
and cried, and Daffodil looked on wonderingly. Great-grandfather
Duvernay, who had been taking his afternoon rest, came out of his
room, and laid his hand tremblingly in the younger one, that had not
lost its strength. Yes, he was here again, in the old home, amid them
all, after many hardships.
"Oh, sit down," said Mother Bradin. "You look fit to drop. And you
must have something to eat, and a cup of tea. Or, will it be a man's
tipple? There's some good home-brewed beer--or a sup of whiskey."
"I'll take the tea. It's long since I've had any. And if I could wash
some of the dust off--it must be an inch thick."
Ah, that was something like the old smile, only there was a hollow in
the cheek, that used to be so round and so pink. She took him into her
room, and, filling a basin with warm water, set it on the cedar chest,
spreading a cloth over it, that he might splash in comfort.
"It's been a long journey," he said. "But the poor horse gave out
first. Boyle, and Truart, and Lowy were with me, but not to come quite
so far. Some of the young fellows remained, though the feeling is that
there won't be much more fighting. The impression is that England's
about as tired of the war as we."
"But you wouldn't have to go back again?" Barbe protested, in a sort
of terror.
"Well--no;" yet the tone was not altogether reassuring.
She took his coat out by the door and brushed it, but it was very
shabby. Still, he looked much improved when he re-entered the room,
where Mrs. Bradin had set a tempting lunch at the corner of the table.
But he could hardly eat for talking. Barbe sat beside him--she could
scarce believe he was there in the flesh.
Daffodil went out in the sunshine again. She started to run over to
grandad's. Norry would be so glad. Well, grandad too, she supposed.
Had he really believed father would never come home? Somehow, it was
different. In Norry's stories the soldiers were strong, and handsome,
and glittering with gold lace, and full of laughter. She couldn't
recall whether they had any little girls or not. And there was her
mother hanging over the strange man--yes, he _was_ strange to her. And
her mother would care for him, and stay beside him, and she somehow
would be left out. Her little heart swelled. She did not understand
about jealousy, she had had all the attention, and it was not pleasant
to be pushed one side. Oh, how long he was eating, and drinking, and
talking, and--yes, they laughed. Grandad was coming up to the house
with a great two-handled basket--she knew it was full of ears of
corn, and she did so like to see him shell it, and hear the rattle as
it fell down in the tub. He sat on a board across the tub, and had a
queer sort of affair, made by two blades, and as he drew the ears of
corn through it, scraped off both sides.
No, she wouldn't even go and see grandad, for he would say, "Well,
yellow-top, your father hasna come home yet;" and, she--well, she
could not tell a wrong story, and she would not tell the true one.
Grandad wouldn't go back on her, but he could wait.
"Oh, Dilly, here you are!" said her mother, coming out of the door,
with her husband's arm around her. "We're going over to grandad's;
come;" and she held out her hand.
The soldier looked more attractive. His faded cap had been thrown
aside, and his short dark hair was a mass of curls. He looked sharply
at the little girl, and she turned away her face. Still, she took her
mother's hand.
Norry had been sitting by the window. Now she rushed out with a shriek
of joy.
"Oh, Barney! Barney! Sure, I've been afraid we'd never set eyes on you
again! The saints be praised! Sandy!"
Sandy Carrick came and put his arms around his son. Both were rather
tall men. For some moments neither spoke. Then the father said,
"Cross the threshold, Barney. An' here's a silver shilling--kiss it
for good luck an' a long stay."
Bernard did as his father bade him, and the two crossed the threshold
together.
"Now, you must have something to eat and drink," began hospitable
Norah. "Deed an' true, the crows would hardly make a meal of you."
"But I've been stuffed already," he protested.
"No matter. There's always room intil you're laid on your back for the
last time. An' you're that thin, 't would take two of you to make a
shadow."
She set out cold chicken, and boiled bacon, and bread that would tempt
one on a fast day, with a great loaf of cake, and Bernard and Barbe
sat down. Sandy brought out the whiskey bottle. No one thought of
objecting in those days.
"Oh, where's the colleen?" and Norah stepped to the door.
"Has she gone back home? She takes it a little strange," said Barbe.
"She can't remember well. But she'll come to it presently." Then Barbe
raised her eyes and met her husband's, that were so full of adoration;
she blushed like a girl.
"And the war is over," declared Norah. "Did they all have leave to go
home?"
"Oh, no. We can't say it's over, though the thought is there'll be no
more hard fighting. And we've some good friends on the other side to
argue the case for us."
"No, no," snorted Sandy. "It's not over by a long shot. An' then
they'll get to fightin' atween theirselves, and split here an' there.
Weel, Mr. Captain, are we to have a King or a great Emperor, like him
of France, with a court an' all that?"
Bernard laughed. "We'll have neither. We've gotten rid of kings for
all time."
"Don't do your skreeking until you're well out o' the woods. But I
hope you'll be wise enough next time to let t'other fellow take his
chance. An' it beats me to think a great Lord an' a great soldier,
too, should be put about, and captured by a crowd of ignoramuses
without training."
"Oh, you learn a good deal in five or six years," said the son
good-naturedly. "There have been the Indians and the French."
"And I can't abide turn-coats. First we fight for th' old country,
then turn around and fight forninst it. We lick the French, an' then
ask their aid. A fine country we'll have, when no one knows his own
mind!"
"You'll see the sort of country we'll make when we get about it. And
we have no end of brave fine men who'll plan it out for us. Here's to
your health and luck. And now tell me what Pittsburg has been doing."
He raised his glass and barely touched it to his lips. Sandy drained
his.
"There's not much doin'--how could there be, with no money?" he
answered shortly.
"But you've the place for a fine town. New York and Philadelphia may
have the start, but it's up to us to come out fair in the race. You
have the key to the great West. Some day we'll clear the French out of
that."
"Oh, don't talk war," interposed Norah. "Tell us if you're glad to get
home. And should you have known Dilly? She'll be the one to set hearts
aching with those eyes of hers, when she gets a bit grown up."
"We must go back," said Barbe. "And, Bernard, you must be stiff with
your long tramp. They rode mostly all night, and when the horses gave
out, walked. You must go to bed with the chickens."
Sandy gave a snort.
"I'll be over in the morn, ready for a talk or a fight," laughed
Bernard. "God be praised that He has cared for us all these years, and
let us meet again."
Sandy looked after his son, who had the fine air of a trained soldier.
"An' when we get him fatted up," said Norah, "he will be main
good-looking."
Daffodil had sauntered slowly homeward. She looked for some one to
call after her, but there was no sound. Oh, her mother did not care
for her now, and Norry had not so much as coaxed her in and offered
her a piece of cake. She entered the house rather sadly. Gran'mere was
concocting some treat for supper. She just turned and said, "Were they
glad to see your father?"
"I don't know. I didn't go in." Then she crept up alongside of
grandfather, and leaned her face down on his breast and cried softly.
"Dear, what has hurt my little girl?" pushing aside the mop of hair.
"Mother won't want me any more. Nor grandad, nor Norry, nor--nor any
one;" and Daffodil seemed very lonesome in a great cold world, colder
than any winter day.
"Yes, I want you. Oh, they'll all want you after a day or two. And
it's a great thing for your father to come home safe."
"I don't believe I am going to like him. He isn't like what I
thought."
Grandfather smiled. "Wait and see what he is like to-morrow. It's
almost night now, and things look different, cloudy-like. There, dear,
don't cry when we are all full of joy."