CHAPTER IX
WHAT THE FRESHET BROUGHT
It was quite early in the spring before the willows that bordered the run at the foot of the garden had put on their first green, and long before the pawpaw bushes showed their tender shoots or their leathery-looking blossoms. Agnes was busy pounding at the hominy block. She was well wrapped up, for though a recent thaw had broken up the ice in the rivers, and had started the frost from out of the ground so that the red mud was thick everywhere, it was still cool out of doors. As the girl worked away, giving swift, deft, even strokes, she saw Parker Willett coming toward her. “The river is rising,” he said.
Agnes paused, and looked toward the run. The yellow mass of water in the river beyond was pitching and tossing, a turbulent tide. “I thought it had come to a standstill,” she said, “but I see it is rising fast.”
“Yes, very fast. I have been measuring, and it has risen a foot since I last looked. I hope it will not be such a big freshet as to wash us out.”
“It couldn’t do that, could it? I shouldn’t suppose it could ever reach this far.”
“No, but it might do damage to the garden.”
“I hope it won’t; we have such a good start.” Agnes looked out anxiously between the fringes of willows.
“We won’t borrow trouble, anyhow,” said Parker, cheerfully.
“Best not. Mother used to say that sometimes trouble is a blessing in disguise, and even if the freshet does harm in one direction, it may do good in another.”
“That is certainly a cheerful view to take of it,” said Parker, laughing. And he passed on.
“Two years since I have seen my mother,” thought Agnes, “and I am seventeen. Oh, when will she come? I wonder if the freshet will be a help or a hindrance to her coming. Ah, it is getting worse! I see the flood is bringing down all sorts of things. I must go down nearer when I have finished this.”
Higher and higher rose the flood, all day and all night, and by the next morning river and run were one sheet of tossing, plunging water. The house stood in a little hollow, but beyond it rose a hill which descended precipitously on the other side to the river. Around the foot of the hill wound the run whose farther bank rose again to the edge of the river; the bank, not so high as the opposite one, was now covered. It was sure to be safe on the higher hill. The house was a little above the level of the water, but the garden on the hillside was encroached upon.
“It is getting pretty close,” said Parker, as Agnes joined him; “just a little more and I am afraid we shall have to move out.”
“Maybe it will stop before that happens,” said Agnes, in reply. “What a lot of things are coming down!” She turned to Polly who had come out to see. “Oh, Polly, see, there is a shed and a lot of furniture, and oh, see, there is a queer-looking raft! There is a man on it. If he should get into that snarl of trees there, it would be bad for him. It is such a little raft. See, he is trying to steer out of the way of those snags! No, he isn’t! Oh, Polly, what is he trying to do?”
“Trying to make a fool of himsel’, as near as I can make out. Why doesn’t he try to pole himself out of the way of those stumps? He’s in danger, and if he gets into the middle of the current, he’s gone.”
“There’s something on the stump, and he’s trying to get it!” cried Agnes. “What can it be? O dear, dear! and we must stand here without being able to help him.” She looked around for Parker, but he was gone.
The snarl of stumps was drifting toward the current, and they could see that the man on the frail little raft was trying his best to keep raft and stumps from midstream. “If he only knew how near he was to the top of the river bank on the other side of the run, he might make it. It’s fair wonderful how he manages; one ’ud think nobody could live in such a rage of waters!” Polly exclaimed.
“Look there!” suddenly cried Agnes.
“For the land’s sake!” Polly ejaculated. “If there isn’t Park Willett in a boat! If he isn’t foolhardy, I wouldn’t say it. Now what is he going to do?”
“I see,” returned Agnes; “he is going to try to get across the run and reach the other bank. O dear! he’ll stick in the tree-tops and that will be the end of him. Oh, I don’t want to look! I can’t look! I wonder where father is; I hope he is safe.”
“He’s nowhere about here; he’s gone to the other clearing,” Polly told her.
“And we must stand here and see them drown!” Agnes began to wring her hands.
“We needn’t. You can go in,” returned Polly, sarcastically. “I’m willing to bet my Sunday dinner that Park’ll make it. There he goes!”
“No, he’s caught! Ah, he is clear of that. Now! Oh! will he make it? See, how carefully he sounds as he goes! Now what is he doing? I see, he is making his boat fast to the top of that tree so it can’t get away. Now—why, Polly, he’s throwing a line! Good lad! See, the man has caught it! I was afraid it would get tangled in the stump. What do you see?” For Polly had made a sudden exclamation.
“I’m no so sure, but I thought I saw the man there take something from that snarl of stumps. Could it be some wee bit animal?”
“Could it be a little child? Oh, Polly, could it?”
The two were now so excited that they could scarcely wait events, but there was nothing to do but to watch, and finally they rejoiced to see the raft slowly turned toward the boat in which Parker steadied himself, holding on to the branch of a tree which protruded from the water. It was a risky business, for all around surged the swift waters, flinging broken branches of trees, loose boards, and stumps in their way. But once out of the swift current they could hope to land safely. Crossing the run was no easy matter, for the tops of the trees along its submerged bank were continually menacing them, and at every moment it seemed likely that they would be upset. Breathlessly the two women watched, and finally, by the combined skill of the two men, the boat was safely piloted across to dry land. Then the two clasped each other’s hands in sign of relief to their overstrained feelings.
“It is a child they are carrying,” said Polly, “and the man’s head is as bald as my hand; not a hair on it. Come, let’s hurry in, Nancy, and have some hot water ready, for the child must be perished.” Agnes followed her into the house, and was bustling about making ready some warm food when she heard an exclamation of joy and amazement.
Then the door flew open, and she turned to see Polly fling herself into the arms of the bald-headed man, crying: “It’s me own Jimmy, and him with not a spear on his head, and nearly drownded before me eyes! Ah,Jimmy, Jimmy, me true lad! Ah, I knew ye’d never lave me foriver. I’ve mourned for ye, lad! Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy!” and she burst into a flood of tears. And Jimmy, with one arm around Polly, half ready to cry himself, was rubbing his bald head and looking around in a maze.
“Take this little fellow,” said Parker to Agnes; “he’s half dead with cold and fright, poor little chap. Let those two have it out, and we’ll look after the boy.”
Agnes took the little fellow in her arms; he was a pretty, chubby child, between two and three years of age; he had been crying forlornly, but at the sight of a bowl of warm mush and milk his tears ceased.
Polly had gathered her own brood about her, and they were shrilly calling, “Daddy, daddy!” while Polly herself had not taken her eyes off Jimmy’s face. “It’s me own lad, me own lad,” she crooned, rocking herself back and forth. “An’ where’s yer hair, Jimmy dear? An’ you with such a fine crop. An’ how did ye git here, an’ are ye hungry?”
“Hungry I am,” was the response, “as anybody’d be who’d not tasted bite nor sup since yesterday. I’d a little parched corn, but it gave out yesterday. Faith! I was not travellin’ heavy handed, an’ Polly, lass, lest I’d be burdened with too much to carry, I left me hair behind me.” He gave a chuckle and took the bowl which Agnes handed him, eating as a famished man would.
“An’ did ye know ye was coming this way, an’ that ye’d find me an’ the bairns?”
“Not a lick did I know where I’d be fetchin’ up. I took the coorse av the river an’ reckoned upon its bringing me out somewhere among daycint folks. It’s the freshet ye’ve to thank, Polly, for the sight av me. I’d not got away but for it. The watter riz so high the redskins concluded to move their camp, and in the kinfusion I slipped away, an’ bein’ a good swimmer, trusted mesel’ to the watter for a bit, and then I got ashore and made me bit av raft an’ consigned mesel’ to the river. I caught sight av the bairn there, as I passed the snags, and thinks I, Jimmy O’Neill, ye’ve niver yit been onwillin’ to risk yer life fur a weak little creetur, an’ suppose it was one o’ yer own bairnies; so says I, ‘I’ll save it or lose me own skin.’ He was settin’ there, the purtiest ye ever see, in the top av the stump, as snug as if it had been a cradle, the watter swirlin’ around him an’ tossin’ him about. But he was well balanced, somehow, an’ niver a fut did he wet.”
Agnes picked up the baby from where she had set him in the midst of Polly’s children. “What’s your name, baby?” she asked.
“Honey,” he replied. “I’se Honey, an’ dad put me in a big tree an’ it sailded.” And that was all they could get out of him, so Honey he remained.
“How his poor mother will mourn for him,” said Polly, hugging her own youngest close to her. “I wish wecould find out where he came from. I don’t believe it can be very far away, or he’d be in a worse plight.”
“If it isn’t far, maybe we can find out,” said Parker. “We’ll keep him for the present, will we, Polly?”
“Will we? Am I a brute to turn a baby out into the worruld? An’ on a day when he’s fetched home to me by me own man?”
“I’ll take care of him,” said Agnes, eagerly. “I’d love to, Polly. Just hand him over to me; you’ve enough of your own to look after.”
“But I’ve me man to help me now,” said Polly, joyously, looking triumphantly toward Jimmy.
“What I want to know is how your man got here, and all about his doings all this time,” said Agnes. “Tell us, Jimmy, where you have been all this time.”
“Faith, then, with the redskins. They borry’d me suit o’ hair in the first place, an’ left me for dead, but dead I was not, though uncomfortable from the loss av me chief adornmint, an’ after a bit one av ’em comes along: ‘Ugh,’ says he; ‘Ugh, yersel’, say I; ‘I’m not dead, though I look it.’ Well, he tows me along wid him to an Injun village, and they beeta keep me to kindle their fire wid; an’ whin I bursts me bonds that aisy, bein’ strong in me muscles an’ arrums, as ye well know, Polly, they’re sort o’ pleased, an’ seein’ me advantage, says I, ‘I’ll do ye a better turn than to be kindlin’ a fire fur ye, fur a blacksmith I am be birth, an’ I’ll give ye me sarvice in exchange fur me life.’ Well, they powwowedover it fur some time, some agreein’ an’ some disagreein’, but in the end they give me a chanst to live, an’ I won the chanst. I was plannin’ to escape this long back, but the freshet risin’ up so suddent gimme the opportunity I’d been lookin’ fur, an’ I comes in the manner I stated. I’d no time fur hat or wig, Polly, an’ I’m lucky to be arrivin’ with nayther.”
“I hope they didn’t treat you very badly,” said Agnes.
“No so bad; there was another chap of me own color, paleface as they say, an’ he had been with ’em this long while, so we two hobnobbed; an’ though he was more content than me, we got along fairly well. He said as all o’ his’n was kilt, he’d no call to leave, an’ he’d not take the risk, so I kim off by me lone. I’d ha’ gone back to the ould settlemint, but I’d ha’ had me journey for naught.”
“Indeed would ye,” said Polly. “What did I tell ye?” She turned to Agnes. “Would I give up hope? Not I. I’ve looked for ye night an’ morn, Jimmy dear, an’ I knew I’d see ye agin. Faith! it’s but the other day I had me sign sure, an’ I was right in belavin’ in it.” She nodded emphatically in Parker’s direction, and he was obliged to confess that this time the sign had not failed.
“There’s wan thing I’ve learned, at any rate,” Jimmy remarked soberly, passing his hand over his bare poll, “I’ll nivir agin be skeered av the Injuns scalpin’ me.”At which all laughed, and Polly rapturously embraced him. Jimmy, with all his old joking ways, was hers again, and Polly was content.
The return of the captive was a matter of great interest in the settlement, and, strange to say, to none more than to Fergus Kennedy who asked his tale of adventure over and over again, and seemed more brightened up by Jimmy’s presence than by any one’s.
Agnes rejoiced with the rest, but she was a little troubled lest Polly should wish to leave her before the arrival of Mrs. Kennedy, this being just the opposite of that which had been her dilemma a short time before. How easy the matter would be settled if her mother would but come at once, and they could all go to the home which the girl still insisted to herself was rightfully theirs. She did not, however, consider another point in the case till Parker Willett asked her one day if she didn’t think that now Jimmy had come, it would be better for him to take up a piece of land for himself, and leave them all in Jimmy’s care.
Agnes, with Honey in her lap, toyed with the child’s flaxen locks before she answered. Honey had attached himself with great decision to Agnes, and she was beginning to love the little child very much. He seemed to take the place of her own small brothers and sisters more than Polly’s children had ever done, and now that Polly was so absorbed in Jimmy, the girl was lonely at times. She answered Parker’s question withanother. “And is it on our account you have been staying here all this time? You know I suspected it. And you risked your life for Jimmy and Honey—and—should you go far?” she asked a little tremulously.
“Not farther than I needs must to find a good bit of land.”
“You will not leave the neighborhood?” She was suddenly conscious that for her there would be a greater vacuum when Parker left than when Archie went away.
“No.” He watched the girl’s downcast face, and he, too, was aware that he did not want to go very far away. Yet—There were no other words spoken for a moment, and then the girl raised her eyes. “Do you remember how we said at the time of the freshet that it wasn’t worth while to borrow trouble? And look what the freshet did for Polly, though it did destroy a part of our garden.”
“And therefore you think my going away need not be an unalloyed disaster? That is very pleasant to know. I was hardly conceited enough to think it would cause any very great sorrow.”
Agnes’s fair face flushed. “I meant that it might be the means of bringing you good fortune, and that would be a pleasure to your friends, however much they might miss you.” She had grown much gentler since the coming of Honey among them, Parker was quick to perceive.
“If you keep on being so sweetly philosophical, I’m afraid you will soon be ready to be a minister’s wife,” he said with a half smile.
Agnes compressed her lips. “Oh, do you think so?” she returned coldly. Then, after a pause, “Yes, I am quite sure that Jimmy will be ample protection for us, and as it is for your pleasure and profit to go away, I advise you to do it.”
There was a womanliness in her manner of speech that set him wondering. Was it the reminder of the minister’s wife that so suddenly changed her? Perhaps, after all, it was not Honey, but Archie who was the cause of the new gentleness. She was trying to prepare herself for that new life with Archie; that was it. “Well, little girl,” he said lightly, “then I will go; but I shall keep track of you, and I shall see you sometimes.”
Sometimes! He who had been a part of her daily life for all these months would see her only sometimes, just as she was learning his worth and her own dependence upon him. She laid her cheek against Honey’s hair, and the touch gave her comfort. “Poor little baby,” she said, “I wonder whether your mother is grieving for you. I almost hope he has no mother.”
“Perhaps he has not. Would you like to know?”
“We ought to know.”
“We have tried to find out, you remember, but we can try again. I am going up the river a short distanceto-morrow,—now that the water has subsided, it will be safe to go—and I’ll make inquiry of every one along the way. Dod Hunter knows every one, and he may be able to tell. I am going his way.”
“Oh!”
“I heard of some good land in that direction and I want to look it up.”
“Across the river?”
“Yes. Have you seen the M’Cleans lately?” he asked abruptly.
“I saw them Sabbath.”
“Have they heard from Archie?”
“Not yet; they expect to any day now. I miss Archie,” she said simply.
“I should think you would; he was by far the best of the lads around here. But some day, you know—”
“What?”
“Did I not say just now that you were fast becoming fitted to be a minister’s wife?”
“Thank you.” The voice was very low. They were both silent for a time, and then Parker left her with the evening’s sunshine in her hair. Why, now that he must leave her, had the girl suddenly appeared so fair to him? This new sweetness sat well upon her. How deeply blue were her eyes, and what tender lights came into them when she spoke of little Honey. Yes, it was better that he should go now—at once; later it might be harder. A minister’s wife she would be, and as theyears passed by and she had learned her lessons of patience and unselfish devotion, how lovable she would become to those of her husband’s congregation. “I am a middle-aged man in her eyes,” he said aloud, “and it would be cruel to disturb her little tender heart now when all is settled for her, and yet—and yet—” He stood so long leaning on the fence that Agnes, watching him, wondered a little.
“He is thinking of home, maybe, and of his sister. He will be so lonely off by himself and—oh, I shall be lonely, too. Oh, Honey, I, too. Polly has her Jimmy, and poor father does not know, and if they take you,—oh, Honey, if they take you,—how can I stand it? But there is mother,” she said presently; “she will be coming soon.”
“Mammy,” said Honey. “Dad put Honey in a tree, an’ it sailded away. I lubs Nanny an’ I ’ants my supper.”
“Honey shall have his supper,” Agnes told him, and she carried him into the house to have his mush and milk with the other children. Then she crept to her loft room. From the window she could see that Parker was still leaning on the fence. Behind the hills the sun was setting in a gorgeous sky. The willows emerging from the late waste of waters showed their first tender green; the hylos piped shrilly. Agnes’s heart throbbed painfully. A beautiful world, and out of troubles sometimes arise blessings. She heard Jimmy’s cheerfulvoice below relating adventures to her father whose pleased smile she fancied she could see. “I am lonely, lonely,” cried the girl. She arose from her little stool by the window and, with a sudden resolve, clambered down the ladder. Polly had stowed all the babies away in the trundle-bed, and the four were fast asleep. “Where are you going, Nancy?” Polly asked.
“Out to smell the spring,” was the answer, as the girl shut the door behind her. She followed the path uphill to the top. Before she reached the figure standing there she paused. The glory of the sky was to be seen more plainly here. From the hollow below one might imagine the day to be done, but here one could see that rosy clouds swept across the sky and the yellow light along the horizon still shone clearly.
Conscious of her presence, Parker turned suddenly. She came and stood by his side. “One sees things more distinctly from a height,” he said musingly.
“Yes, it is quite dark indoors. I was so lonely and I—I saw you here by yourself. You will be lonely, too, so often now, for you are going away—you are going away.” There was a little catch in her voice, and the man at her side put forth his hand and took hers, cold and trembling, in his. Agnes looked up. His touch brought comfort. “I’m not going to be a minister’s wife,” she said, her lips quivering. “I could never be.”
“Oh, little girl, little girl,” he said softly, “how didyou know so well what to come and tell me? I was lonely, too, as lonely as you were, but I am older, much older, and one must bear those things. It is harder than you know for me to go away, but it is best. A man must make his own home.”
“Yes,” faltered Agnes, “I know.”
“But I’ll come back.”
“You said sometimes, only sometimes.”
“I mean very often.” He looked down at her but checked the word that rose to his lips. “It would not be fair,” he told himself. “I have my way to make,” he said aloud, “and there are some things, some ties there at home, you know, some things that in honor I cannot forget.”
“Yes.” It was all that Agnes could say, but she was comforted beyond words, and the glory of the west was reflected on the face of each as they turned from the hilltop toward the little cabin nestled in the shadows at the foot of the hill.