Wherein Freckles Strives Mightily and the Swamp Angel Rewards Him
The Bird Woman and the Angel did not seem to count in the common run,
for they arrived on time for the third of the series and found McLean on
the line talking to Freckles. The Boss was filled with enthusiasm over a
marsh article of the Bird Woman's that he just had read. He begged to
be allowed to accompany her into the swamp and watch the method by which
she secured an illustration in such a location.
The Bird Woman explained to him that it was an easy matter with the
subject she then had in hand; and as Little Chicken was too small to
be frightened by him, and big enough to be growing troublesome, she was
glad for his company. They went to the chicken log together, leaving to
the happy Freckles the care of the Angel, who had brought her banjo and
a roll of songs that she wanted to hear him sing. The Bird Woman told
them that they might practice in Freckles' room until she finished with
Little Chicken, and then she and McLean would come to the concert.
It was almost three hours before they finished and came down the west
trail for their rest and lunch. McLean walked ahead, keeping sharp watch
on the trail and clearing it of fallen limbs from overhanging trees. He
sent a big piece of bark flying into the swale, and then stopped short
and stared at the trail.
The Bird Woman bent forward. Together they studied that imprint of
the Angel's foot. At last their eyes met, the Bird Woman's filled with
astonishment, and McLean's humid with pity. Neither said a word, but
they knew. McLean entered the swale and hunted up the bark. He replaced
it, and the Bird Woman carefully stepped over. As they reached the
bushes at the entrance, the voice of the Angel stopped them, for it was
commanding and filled with much impatience.
“Freckles James Ross McLean!” she was saying. “You fill me with
dark-blue despair! You're singing as if your voice were glass and might
break at any minute. Why don't you sing as you did a week ago? Answer me
that, please.”
Freckles smiled confusedly at the Angel, who sat on one of his fancy
seats, playing his accompaniment on her banjo.
“You are a fraud,” she said. “Here you went last week and led me to
think that there was the making of a great singer in you, and now you
are singing--do you know how badly you are singing?”
“Yis,” said Freckles meekly. “I'm thinking I'm too happy to be singing
well today. The music don't come right only when I'm lonesome and sad.
The world's for being all sunshine at prisint, for among you and Mr.
McLean and the Bird Woman I'm after being THAT happy that I can't keep
me thoughts on me notes. It's more than sorry I am to be disappointing
you. Play it over, and I'll be beginning again, and this time I'll hold
hard.”
“Well,” said the Angel disgustedly, “it seems to me that if I had all
the things to be proud of that you have, I'd lift up my head and sing!”
“And what is it I've to be proud of, ma'am?” politely inquired Freckles.
“Why, a whole worldful of things,” cried the Angel explosively. “For
one thing, you can be good and proud over the way you've kept the timber
thieves out of this lease, and the trust your father has in you. You can
be proud that you've never even once disappointed him or failed in what
he believed you could do. You can be proud over the way everyone speaks
of you with trust and honor, and about how brave of heart and strong of
body you are I heard a big man say a few days ago that the Limberlost
was full of disagreeable things--positive dangers, unhealthful as it
could be, and that since the memory of the first settlers it has been a
rendezvous for runaways, thieves, and murderers. This swamp is named for
a man that was lost here and wandered around 'til he starved. That man I
was talking with said he wouldn't take your job for a thousand dollars
a month--in fact, he said he wouldn't have it for any money, and you've
never missed a day or lost a tree. Proud! Why, I should think you would
just parade around about proper over that!
“And you can always be proud that you are born an Irishman. My father
is Irish, and if you want to see him get up and strut give him a teeny
opening to enlarge on his race. He says that if the Irish had decent
territory they'd lead the world. He says they've always been handicapped
by lack of space and of fertile soil. He says if Ireland had been as big
and fertile as Indiana, why, England wouldn't ever have had the upper
hand. She'd only be an appendage. Fancy England an appendage! He says
Ireland has the finest orators and the keenest statesmen in Europe
today, and when England wants to fight, with whom does she fill her
trenches? Irishmen, of course! Ireland has the greenest grass and trees,
the finest stones and lakes, and they've jaunting-cars. I don't know
just exactly what they are, but Ireland has all there are, anyway.
They've a lot of great actors, and a few singers, and there never was a
sweeter poet than one of theirs. You should hear my father recite 'Dear
Harp of My Country.' He does it this way.”
The Angel arose, made an elaborate old-time bow, and holding up the
banjo, recited in clipping feet and meter, with rhythmic swing and a
touch of brogue that was simply irresistible:
“Dear harp of my country” [The Angel ardently clasped the banjo],
“In darkness I found thee” [She held it to the light],
“The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long” [She muted the
strings with her rosy palm];
“Then proudly, my own Irish harp, I unbound thee” [She threw up her head
and swept a ringing harmony];
“And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song” [She crashed into
the notes of the accompaniment she had been playing for Freckles].
“That's what you want to be thinking of!” she cried. “Not darkness, and
lonesomeness, and sadness, but 'light, freedom, and song.' I can't begin
to think offhand of all the big, splendid things an Irishman has to be
proud of; but whatever they are, they are all yours, and you are a part
of them. I just despise that 'saddest-when-I-sing' business. You can
sing! Now you go over there and do it! Ireland has had her statesmen,
warriors, actors, and poets; now you be her voice! You stand right out
there before the cathedral door, and I'm going to come down the aisle
playing that accompaniment, and when I stop in front of you--you sing!”
The Angel's face wore an unusual flush. Her eyes were flashing and she
was palpitating with earnestness.
She parted the bushes and disappeared. Freckles, straight and tense,
stood waiting. Presently, before he saw she was there, she was coming
down the aisle toward him, playing compellingly, and rifts of light were
touching her with golden glory. Freckles stood as if transfixed.
The cathedral was majestically beautiful, from arched dome of frescoed
gold, green, and blue in never-ending shades and harmonies, to the
mosaic aisle she trod, richly inlaid in choicest colors, and gigantic
pillars that were God's handiwork fashioned and perfected through ages
of sunshine and rain. But the fair young face and divinely molded form
of the Angel were His most perfect work of all. Never had she appeared
so surpassingly beautiful. She was smiling encouragingly now, and as she
came toward him, she struck the chords full and strong.
The heart of poor Freckles almost burst with dull pain and his great
love for her. In his desire to fulfill her expectations he forgot
everything else, and when she reached his initial chord he was ready. He
literally burst forth:
“Three little leaves of Irish green,
United on one stem,
Love, truth, and valor do they mean,
They form a magic gem.”
The Angel's eyes widened curiously and her lips parted. A deep color
swept into her cheeks. She had intended to arouse him. She had more than
succeeded. She was too young to know that in the effort to rouse a man,
women frequently kindle fires that they neither can quench nor control.
Freckles was looking over her head now and singing that song, as it
never had been sung before, for her alone; and instead of her helping
him, as she had intended, he was carrying her with him on the waves
of his voice, away, away into another world. When he struck into the
chorus, wide-eyed and panting, she was swaying toward him and playing
with all her might.
“Oh, do you love? Oh, say you love
You love the shamrock green!”
At the last note, Freckles' voice ceased and he looked at the Angel. He
had given his best and his all. He fell on his knees and folded his arms
across his breast. The Angel, as if magnetized, walked straight down the
aisle to him, and running her fingers into the crisp masses of his red
hair, tilted his head back and laid her lips on his forehead.
Then she stepped back and faced him. “Good boy!” she said, in a voice
that wavered from the throbbing of her shaken heart. “Dear boy! I knew
you could do it! I knew it was in you! Freckles, when you go into the
world, if you can face a big audience and sing like that, just once, you
will be immortal, and anything you want will be yours.”
“Anything!” gasped Freckles.
“Anything,” said the Angel.
Freckles arose, muttered something, and catching up his old bucket,
plunged into the swamp blindly on a pretence of bringing water. The
Angel walked slowly across the study, sat on the rustic bench, and,
through narrowed lids, intently studied the tip of her shoe.
On the trail the Bird Woman wheeled to McLean with a dumbfounded look.
“God!” muttered he.
At last the Bird Woman spoke.
“Do you think the Angel knew she did that?” she asked softly.
“No,” said McLean; “I do not. But the poor boy knew it. Heaven help
him!”
The Bird Woman stared across the gently waving swale. “I don't see how I
am going to blame her,” she said at last. “It's so exactly what I would
have done myself.”
“Say the remainder,” demanded McLean hoarsely. “Do him justice.”
“He was born a gentleman,” conceded the Bird Woman. “He took no
advantage. He never even offered to touch her. Whatever that kiss meant
to him, he recognized that it was the loving impulse of a child under
stress of strong emotion. He was fine and manly as any man ever could
have been.”
McLean lifted his hat. “Thank you,” he said simply, and parted the
bushes for her to enter Freckles' room.
It was her first visit. Before she left she sent for her cameras and
made studies of each side of it and of the cathedral. She was entranced
with the delicate beauty of the place, while her eyes kept following
Freckles as if she could not believe that it could be his conception and
work.
That was a happy day. The Bird Woman had brought a lunch, and they
spread it, with Freckles' dinner, on the study floor and sat, resting
and enjoying themselves. But the Angel put her banjo into its case,
silently gathered her music, and no one mentioned the concert.
The Bird Woman left McLean and the Angel to clear away the lunch, and
with Freckles examined the walls of his room and told him all she knew
about his shrubs and flowers. She analyzed a cardinal-flower and
showed him what he had wanted to know all summer--why the bees
buzzed ineffectually around it while the humming-birds found in it
an ever-ready feast. Some of his specimens were so rare that she was
unfamiliar with them, and with the flower book between them they
knelt, studying the different varieties. She wandered the length of the
cathedral aisle with him, and it was at her suggestion that he lighted
his altar with a row of flaming foxfire.
As Freckles came to the cabin from his long day at the swamp he saw
Mrs. Chicken sweeping to the south and wondered where she was going. He
stepped into the bright, cosy little kitchen, and as he reached down the
wash-basin he asked Mrs. Duncan a question.
“Mother Duncan, do kisses wash off?”
So warm a wave swept her heart that a half-flush mantled her face. She
straightened her shoulders and glanced at her hands tenderly.
“Lord, na! Freckles,” she cried. “At least, the anes ye get from people
ye love dinna. They dinna stay on the outside. They strike in until they
find the center of your heart and make their stopping-place there, and
naething can take them from ye--I doubt if even death----Na, lad, ye can
be reet sure kisses dinna wash off!”
Freckles set the basin down and muttered as he plunged his hot, tired
face into the water, “I needn't be afraid to be washing, then, for that
one struck in.”