CHAPTER XIX
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 ofhim 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 todo 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 beatinghigh 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 entertainthe 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 dozentimes 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 heshould 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’ thoughI 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 wascommon 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 busyto 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 weretogether 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.”