CHAPTER XIV
JEANIE’S WEDDING-DAY
By the time they had reached the house, Parker was sufficiently aroused to be able to tell something of his adventure. He was waylaid in the woods on his way to Dod Hunter’s, and was overpowered by a body of men who appeared suddenly in his path. They told him if he would come peaceably with them, that no harm would come to him. He was bound and taken to a lonely spot where they gave him something to eat and drink. After that he remembered nothing. It was supposed that he was drugged and was then carried to Humphrey Muirhead’s where he was searched. The little box found by Mrs. Muirhead may or may not have been examined, and the parcel, which was brought away from his former home was left the next morning at Dod Hunter’s, being discovered on the doorstep by the first one astir.
“I remember meeting some one on the river bank just as I was about to start through the woods, and I have a dim recollection that I gave him the will, but, strange to say, I cannot remember who it was or why I gave itto him. I may not have done this, and Hump Muirhead may have it after all, but I do not know why I should be so impressed by a transaction that never occurred.”
“I think when he gets over the effects of the stuff they have given him, that he will be all right,” said Dr. Flint, “and I wouldn’t bother him now,” he told Agnes.
The girl refused to remain after they had returned to the Hunters’, but after taking something to eat, she started home, being escorted safely to the river’s brink by Jerry, who gave his opinion of Hump Muirhead in forcible language. “I hope to goodness he ain’t got that will,” he said, “for it would be purty hard work to prove its contents, and he knows it. I hope Park is right about givin’ it to somebody else, but who in the mischief could it have been? Park is cautious, and it would be a shaky thing to do unless you was right certain of yer man. I reckon it’ll come out all right—give us time; but it’s my opinion it’ll take force to git Hump outen that house, but I’ll be one to use that same force.”
“Ah me!” sighed Agnes, “if only people would be true and honest in this world, how much trouble it would save.”
“The millennium ain’t came yit,” said Jerry, “but I agree with you that we could have things a bit easier if some folks would only half try. I ain’t no saint, myself, but I’m open and above board, that nobody’ll deny.”
“I think that can safely be said of all your family,” returned Agnes, as she stepped into the little skiff. “Good-by, Jerry. I hope we shall soon be nearer neighbors.”
“I’ll give ye my hand on that,” Jerry answered, as he gave her boat a push off.
It was now late in the day, and as Agnes climbed the hilly steep, she felt the strain of the morning had told upon her, and when she came in looking fagged and pale, her mother took alarm.
“Why, my bairn,” she cried, “what ails you? Has it been so serious a thing?”
“It was serious, very,” Agnes responded, sinking down on the settle. “It has been an exciting day, mother. I told you the truth when I said I might be needed, for I was, but I did mislead you a little, though some one really was ill. I will tell you all about it and I think you will not blame me. I could not tell you at the time, for I had promised Uncle Dod I would not, but now, as it has come out, he thinks I should let you know.” And she poured forth her tale to her mother’s attentive ears.
When she had finished, her mother’s face wore a startled, pained expression. “It is terrible, Agnes,” she exclaimed. “What a lawless country that we have come to! I shall fear to go from the protection of Jimmy O’Neill’s big fist.”
“You needn’t be,” returned Agnes, lightly, “for thereis Uncle Dod Hunter and all his three big sons on one side and Parker Willett on the other. What chiefly concerns us now is the whereabouts of the will. I don’t believe Hump Muirhead has it, for he seemed really in earnest about his disappointment in not finding it. I believe in Mr. Willett’s impression that he gave it to some one, and I think he will remember who it is, so don’t let us trouble ourselves just yet to say anything about it to Jimmy or Polly.”
“Another thing that worries me,” Mrs. Kennedy went on, “is our obligation to Mr. Willett; in trying to do us a service he has suffered, and I do not feel comfortable over it.”
“Never mind, don’t fash yourself; he is safe, and let us hope the will is, too. Besides, now Hump will not want to do him any further harm because of Honey; so a blessing came out of that,” she added softly. “Now, mother, tell me what has been going on to-day since I left. Who has been here?”
“Your friend, Jean M’Clean, for one. She came to bid us all to her wedding. It will take place next week.”
“Why, that is a month sooner than she expected.”
“Yes; but Jeanie says David is persistent, and that he cannot see any reason for waiting, and as there is no real reason, they may as well be married at once.”
“Then you will see a true backwoods wedding, mother, and you may expect a roystering time. Davidwent to Marietta on Wednesday, and I know now what was his errand. I wonder when he is coming back. He is a good David, though rather an obstinate one sometimes.”
This new interest for the time being quite drove away the thought of the will. There really was nothing to be done about it for the present, and Agnes turned her attention to Jeanie.
“I must go over and see the bride that is to be,” she said the next day. “I promised her my help when the wedding-day should come. It seems, mother, that you have come to a spot where there are a great many exciting things going on, and I have no doubt you thought it would be very dull. I am sorry that all these things call me, but I am always so glad to think you are here for me to come back to.”
She found Jeanie going about her preparations in a most orderly manner; nothing in that household ever suggested confusion. Jeanie’s chest, filled with its store of linen, stood ready to be carried to her new home. A pretty young heifer, her father’s gift to her, lowed in the stable yard. Jeanie’s plain stuff gown had been woven and colored with more care than usual, and her neckerchief was snowy white from long bleaching; it was, too, of finer linen than had ever been made in the community, and it was edged with a bit of lace, part of her mother’s little hoard. There would be no veil and orange blossoms for this bride. She mighttuck a few spring blossoms in her dark hair, and wear a sprig at her breast, but her ornaments would be few and simple. She showed with great pride her shoes, ornamented with a pair of silver buckles, and took more pleasure in this bit of grandeur than in any other part of her wardrobe.
“They are true silver, Nancy, and the shoes we were able to get from Patty Hopkins. She brought them from home with her and her feet had outgrown them before she wore them at all. Was I not lucky to get them? Aren’t they fine?”
“They are, indeed,” returned Agnes, viewing the new shoes admiringly. “There are gay times ahead,” she went on, “with a wedding, a housewarming, and all that. When does David come back?”
“We expect him Saturday, but he may be detained over Sabbath. There is a deal to do yet, and it is well he is not here to take up my time.”
Agnes laughed. “What an unromantic speech; for my part I think I should rather have my lover’s presence than so big a feast.”
“Ah, but I shall have his company for the rest of my life, and a wedding-feast is but once prepared; besides, it is not for ourselves, but for our company.”
“That is true, too. Well, Jeanie, it is too early yet to cook the feast, but I will be here on Monday and give you all the help I can. I have left my mother so much of late that I must hurry back now.”
“Can’t you stay?” said Jeanie, wistfully. “I would like to have one more talk about our girlhood before I am made a wife. There is much I have to tell and much I want to hear.”
Agnes hesitated; it seemed unkind to refuse the request, yet her mother must be considered. “I promised I would not stay long,” she said.
“I will send one of the children over to say that you will stay,” said Jeanie, eagerly, and to this Agnes consented.
“If Archie were only here,” sighed Jeanie, “my happiness would be complete, and yours, too, wouldn’t it, Nancy?”
“I am very content as it is,” Agnes told her. “Pray, Jeanie, don’t think of Archie’s ever being nearer to me than a friend. He is a dear good lad, but he will bring you a sister more worthy of his calling than I could be.”
“He will bring me none that I would rather have,” returned Jeanie, stoutly, “and as for the worthiness, it is but experience you need, mother says. Ah, no, Nancy, I shall not give you up yet.”
But Agnes’s thoughts were drifting off to the hillside and the sunset, and she suddenly sprang to her feet. “I cannot stay, Jeanie, I really cannot. I forgot that little Fergus is ailing, and that Polly is all tired out with her soap-making. I ought to go home, but I will come again and spend a night with you. I will come to-morrow, and then we can go to meeting togetherand I will be here on Monday all ready to begin the day’s work with you, for I can stay over Sabbath as well as not.” And with this arrangement Jeanie was so well pleased that she let her friend go without further protest.
Agnes hurried along with a feeling that she must reach the hilltop before sundown, and true enough she was rewarded by a sight of a skiff drawn up on the sands, and she knew it to be Parker Willett’s. She hastened her steps and found that he had caught sight of her and that he was coming to meet her.
“I am fortunate,” he said as he came up, “for I might have missed you.”
“I came very near staying with Jeanie. You know she is to be married next week.”
“So soon? Yes, I believe I did hear something of it. Where did I hear it? There are still some things which confuse this foolish brain of mine. Well, little girl, I have still much to thank you for.” He took her hands and shook them warmly. “I am very grateful. To think you took that risk for me!”
“To think you took that risk for us! It was my grandfather’s will that made all the trouble; it had nothing to do with you personally.”
“Yes, the will, and do you know, I am not able yet to remember whom it was that I gave the will to. It will all come back to me, Henry Flint says, and I am more and more sure that there was some reason why itwas best to give it up. I am sure it will come to light, and that it was not stolen. My little box that held the miniatures, I regret that, for it is gone.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t. I have it safe and sound,” and she told of the circumstances by which it came into her possession.
“I am truly glad to hear that,” said Parker. “Will you keep the box for me, Agnes? I think it is safer in your hands than in mine, if I am so stupid about remembering what I do with things.”
“You are not to blame for forgetting, and, yes, I will keep it gladly, and may I look at the miniatures sometimes?”
“Would you like to? I am pleased that you should care to.”
“I needn’t be afraid of finding anything under the secret panel,” said Agnes, with a glad little laugh. Then more softly, “Are you sorry that the place is empty?”
“No, I am very glad, you sweet child.” He still held her hands and looked at her with so tender an expression that the girl’s eyes drooped. “Alicia, you know, Alicia,” he went on, “would never have joined a band of rough men and have scoured the country with them to find me. She would have been scandalized if any one had suggested such a thing.”
“Was it wrong? I never thought. You see Uncle Dod was there, and I could trust him. Besides I—I—thinkI would have done it, anyhow, to—to—save you.”
He gave her hands a sudden pressure, then dropped them. “Agnes Kennedy,” he said, “you dear, unspoiled child, you are certainly revealing a new and delightful side of your character. I don’t know what I shall do if you keep on showing these surprising traits.” He stepped back from her, and turned away his gaze to the river, now molten gold from the clouds overhead. “Talk of wealth,” he went on, “I am rich with a mine of pure gold so near me. Listen, Agnes, I have set myself a task. When I found that I was penniless, and when I decided that I would come to the West, it was my mother who insisted upon giving me her last dollar to start me in the world. She said it was her fault, the dear, unworldly woman who was so easily deceived by appearances, but I told her I would take it only as a loan, and I hold that I am not a free man till that is paid. It was not my mother’s fault that her second husband proved a visionary, unpractical man, and I should feel a mean-spirited wretch if I defrauded her of the little hoard she gave me so willingly. And that is why, in honor, I am not a free man, and why—and why, Agnes, little girl, I do not dare to see too much of you. But some day—” he turned and his eyes met hers, and each read the story revealed. Neither spoke a word till Agnes said faintly, “I must go home; mother will be expecting me.”
“May I go with you?”
“Oh, yes, you were going, weren’t you?”
“I didn’t know. I hadn’t thought of whether I wanted to see anybody but—There, Agnes, let’s talk of the weather—or—your mother or something.”
“I want to know if you feel quite well.”
“Yes, except for a buzzing in my head when I try to concentrate my thoughts, but that is passing away. How did you like Dr. Flint?”
“I thought him very interesting.”
“He said you were the bravest girl he ever saw.”
“Did he? He might have told me so.”
“I told him he might say that to me but not to you, and that if he kept on raving about you, I would punch his head. There, Agnes, we must talk of the weather, or I am lost. Did your mother scold you very severely for chasing about in the woods all day with the Hunters?”
“No, she looked very grave at first, but she said I did right, and she was more concerned about your having suffered on our account than about anything else.”
“Pshaw! I didn’t exactly suffer; you can hardly call it that. I must hasten to reassure her on that point. Dare I face her and Jimmy O’Neill without the will?”
“Jimmy doesn’t know but you have it still. I didn’t tell any one but mother, and she thought it was best not to mention it for a few days.”
“It is plain to see that you have profited by the example of a most extraordinarily considerate woman,Agnes. How fine that sky is! We shall have good weather to-morrow.”
“I am glad of that, for I promised Jeanie to spend the Sabbath with her. She has such a pretty fine neckerchief, and such fine silver buckles for her shoes, new shoes, too.” Agnes looked down at her own coarse shoepacks, and Parker’s eyes followed her glance. About the home place she was wont to go barefoot in mild weather, and he thought the shoepacks were scarce an improvement upon the fashion. “Would you like to have a pair of pretty shoes with silver buckles?” he asked.
“I would dearly like to have them. I suppose it isn’t right to be wishing for such vanities, but I believe I like vanities.”
“Almost all girls do, and if I had my way, they should all have them. I wish I were a cordwainer, Agnes, I’d then make you a pair of the daintiest shoes you ever saw.” He threw back his head and laughed joyously at the thought.
“What is so funny?”
“That I should envy a shoemaker his trade, and that in this delightful locality one doesn’t need money nor fine apparel to make him like other people, or to make him happy. I was suddenly impressed with the humor of it, and I laughed in sheer mockery of those misguided persons in that way-back, unenlightened land I came from, who have yet to learn that fine feathers donot make fine birds, for the rarest, sweetest little bird I know doesn’t have and doesn’t need any fine feathers. Speaking of birds, it must be pleasant work building a nest. Just suppose, Agnes, for the humor of it, that we were a pair of birds, and were thinking of nest-building, would the prospect please you? There, don’t answer me. I insist that it will be a fine day to-morrow. How does the garden come on? Are those beans up yet?”
Agnes laughed in reply. This nonsense was delightful. She understood it all, and could have wandered on the river’s bank forever listening to the merry chatter.
They went on in silence for a little time, then Parker asked abruptly, “Do you like books, Agnes?”
“I am very fond of them, but we never had many, and I have had no time to read since I came here, even if I had had anything to read. I picked up a book of yours one day, and I read a little. I liked it.”
“What was it?”
“One of the plays of Mr. Shakespeare.”
“I am glad you like to read,” he said thoughtfully; “we will have some pleasant times together, when the work is done, and in those long evenings—” He broke off with a start, a flush coming to his face. He laughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “I seem to forget that I am no longer a member of your household, don’t I? But I have a few books with me, and youcan read them and tell me afterward what you think of them.”
“I shall like that when the winter comes, and we have such long evenings, but then comes the spinning, and all that, but I shall get some time, I hope. We should be in our own home by that time, don’t you think so?”
“I think you should be there before then if there’s any justice in the land, but I am shirking my duty. I must go and tell your mother that I don’t know anything about that will. Come, Agnes, and give me countenance.”
The will was still unaccounted for on the morning of Jeanie’s wedding-day, and Mrs. Kennedy felt an anxiety that she did not express, though Agnes was so absorbed in the exciting prospect of the day’s pleasure that she gave no thought to it. It was the ordinary custom for the bridal procession to form at the home of the groom’s father and from thence to escort him to the home of the bride, but David’s parents were not living, and the lad had his own home, so thither the guests repaired, only to find the house closed and barred. The men stared, the girls nudged each other. What was wrong? Had the groom deserted his lady-love? Was he playing a trick? Was he so shy that he had stolen a march upon them, and was now in advance of them making his way to Jeanie’s house? All these conjectures were fairly discussed, but there seemed to be no satisfactory solution.
“There hasn’t ben no weddin’ sence Dave come among us,” at last Jerry Hunter remarked, “and maybe he didn’t exactly understand our ways. I say we go on without him, and like as not we’ll find him there. We ain’t goin’ to break up the weddin’ on his account; it’s likely he thought he’d make the trip alone. Who see him last?”
Each looked at the other. No one seemed able to say. David had not appeared at meeting on the previous Sabbath, and it was known that he had started for Marietta some days before that; further than this there seemed nothing definite to be learned.
Two by two the cavalcade set forth through the woods, now beginning to show a sparse leafage brought suddenly out by a day of warmth. Gay was the little company, for fun was the leading purpose of the hour. Some tricksters having started on ahead, an unexpected volley of musketry from an ambuscade gave cause for much plunging of horses, many shrieks from the lasses, and much uproarious laughter after the smoke had cleared away. There was no road save the bridle-path, and that none too good, but the roughly dressed company cared little for that, and, indeed, the more obstacles in the way of fallen trees or ragged grape-vines the better the fun. Clad in leathern breeches, stout leggings, linsey hunting-shirts, the men were a picturesque crew, while the lasses in their linsey-woolsey gowns rarely boasted an ornament unless it might be such as a fewcould show in the way of heirlooms like buckles or lace ruffles.
Arrived at last the riders tied up their horses, and all trooped into the house where the bride and her friends awaited the coming of the groom.
Jerry Hunter as leader entered first, and gave a sharp glance around the room. “Where’s Davy?” he blurted out.
Mrs. M’Clean’s cheek turned suddenly pale, and her husband cast a keen glance toward the door. “None o’ yer joking,” he said sternly.
“I’m not jokin’, as I’m a sinner,” returned Jerry. “Am I, boys? Isn’t Dave here?”
“No.” The word came sharp from the father’s lips.
His wife gave him an appealing look. “I hope nothing has happened to the lad,” she said in a troubled voice. “Ye’ve not seen him the morn, Jerry?”
“No, nor have any of us.”
“He was no at meeting on Sabbath day,” said the minister, gravely, as he came forward, “and he was sure to be home by then, he told me.”
“And not later than yesterday,” said Mrs. M’Clean. She slipped from the room to where Jeanie, surrounded by her girl friends, was waiting. At the pitying look on her mother’s face she sprang to her feet. “Mother, what’s happened to David?” she cried.
“Naught that we know of, lass, but he’s not come.”
Agnes pressed close and sought Jeanie’s hand. “Hewill come, Jeanie,” she whispered. The other girls looked at one another, one or two with a faintly significant smile. Agnes was quick to see them. “He will come,” she said with assurance; “something has happened to detain him a little. David was always one to keep his word.” She nodded her head decidedly at those who had smiled. “Don’t fret, Jean,” said one of the other girls.
“Fret? Why should I fret?” she asked, holding up her head. “I know that David is as true as steel, and if mishap has overtaken him, it is no fault of his. We can wait awhile, mother. Tell the company we will wait awhile.”
Mrs. M’Clean returned to the front room. The gossips were whispering together; most of the men had strolled out and were standing in knots outside, looking stern disapprobation, for a man to be behindhand on his wedding-day did not augur well. Time sped on. It would be an unprecedented thing if the wedding were not to take place before noon, and the waiting company watched the sun as it mounted high in the heavens, and still no David appeared.
“Puir lass,” sighed one good wife to another, “widdowed before she’s a wife.”
“Or worse, deserted at the very altar. She’ll not hold her head up after this; she’s a proud lass, is Jean M’Clean.”
In the back room Jean sat. She, too, was watchingthe sun climbing so surely and steadily toward the zenith. At the noontide hour she arose to her feet, her face white and drawn. “Leave me, friends,” she said. “There’ll be no wedding to-day. I am sorry to disappoint you. Leave me, please.”
They all filed out, casting compassionate looks upon her. Agnes alone refused to leave. “Oh, Jeanie dear,” she whispered, “out of evils sometimes comes a blessing. I have known it so. Don’t give up, dear heart.”
Jeanie turned from her and clasped her hands, then with groping steps strove to reach the door; at the threshold she stopped. “I can’t—I can’t face them all,” she cried. “Tell my mother.”
“Hark!” exclaimed Agnes. There was the sound of flying hoofs—beat, beat,—along the road. With one spring Jeanie reached the window and pulled back the curtain. “It’s David!” she cried. “It’s David, my lad!” and then all trembling she sank down, sobbing out her joy.