CHAPTER XVI
A SUPPER AT PARKER WILLETT’S
The summer had come upon them before Parker was ready to issue his invitation for his friends to come to take supper with him in his little shanty, for being very comfortable at Dod Hunter’s, and being in no hurry to exchange hearty, cheerful society for utter loneliness, the young man set to work to prepare his garden and plant his corn-field before he should occupy his cabin. Agnes had seen him but once or twice since the wedding, but she had little time to fret over it, for with so many little mouths to feed there was plenty for her to do, and she was too weary at night to lie awake long indulging in girlish dreams. Dod Hunter, as nearest neighbor and oldest friend of Mrs. Kennedy’s father, had been appointed executor, and probably no better choice could have been made. The disappearance of the copy of the will still remained a mystery over which all interested were puzzled.
It was June before Parker appeared to bid his friends to his modest attempt at a housewarming. “This is to be strictly a party for ladies,” he said, laughing, toJimmy O’Neill, “and when I set up for a householder and a benedict, I’ll have a real housewarming. My one room will hardly accommodate all my friends.”
“Fergus and me’ll stay at home and look after the young uns,” Jimmy agreed cheerfully, “an’ let the women folk have their frolic. But ye’ll be enlargin’ yer borders an’ takin’ a wife before a year,” he added with a sly smile. “Have ye heerd no more o’ Hump Muirhead?”
“Not I; he hasn’t troubled me and I haven’t troubled him. Dod assured me that he was able to attend to his business as executor, and I therefore gracefully retired from the case. Of course the court will give him a reasonable time to get out, and though he’s no coward in most directions, he’s well aware of the attitude of the neighbors toward him and he’ll not be swaggering around much. You and Mr. Kennedy will be coming over to my clearing, Jimmy, and I’ll promise you as fine a johnny-cake as you ever ate at home.”
“We’ll come,” Jimmy answered, “after the women folk have had their time. Ay lad, but it’s buildin’ up the country is since the Injuns have come to terms, and we’ve the treaty of Greenville. The Range is fillin’ up, the Reserve north av us is like to see good times, and the Ohio Company south is runnin’ ’em close. We are in the thick av the immigration. I heerd, the time I went up to Marietta, that nigh twenty thousand had come along in the past year, and it’s towns they’ll beshowin’ soon. Look at Marietta with her streets an’ her churches an’ a flock o’ people roamin’ about. We’ve got close to ceevilization, Mr. Willett. No more standin’ wid a musket in wan hand whilst ye plant yer corn wid the other.”
“That’s all very true, Jimmy; I am impressed by it every time I come this way. I realize that our own little township is growing by the number of new faces I meet on the road.”
“Thrue for ye. Weel, ‘it takes nae butter off my bannock’ to have them comin,’ for they open up the country, and the more the merrier.” He turned back to his forge, and Parker walked toward the house where he found Mrs. Kennedy busily sewing. Agnes was helping Polly at the dye-kettle; Margret, with the children around her, was playing school under the trees. Mr. Kennedy was at work in the garden, for, though this was considered the women’s province, since Jimmy’s arrival it had fallen to Fergus’s share.
It was a pleasant, busy scene and showed thrift and content and peace. In a sty back of the house grunted a sow and her young pigs; Agnes’s chickens crooned their sleepy song with much content among the dust-heaps which they sought out; a swarm of wild bees which Polly had hived, now quite at home, were droning about the garden beds. Two new rooms having been added, one above and one below, there was now sufficient space to house the two families comfortably.Jimmy had set up his forge and the place was frequented by those neighbors who had not a like convenience upon their own clearings, and it was quite a gathering-place for news-gatherers, though the clearings lay closer together around the little log church.
Mrs. Kennedy looked up with a smiling welcome, but she did not stop her swift stitches. “Good morning, stranger,” she said.
“I am something of a stranger,” the young man replied, coming in, “but it is not of choice that I am so, Mrs. Kennedy. I have come over to ask if you and Polly and Agnes will honor my little cabin this afternoon and take that long-promised supper with me. Jimmy says he and your husband will look after the children.”
“Yes? That is kind of Jimmy. They will be no trouble, however, for they are always good with Margret.”
“Where is Polly?”
“She and Agnes are at the dye-kettle. It seemed a fine day for the work. They are around at the back of the house.”
“I think I could find them without trouble,” said Parker, smiling, as Polly’s laugh smote his ear. Polly was always merry over the dye-kettle. “You’ll come this evening, Mrs. Kennedy?”
“Gladly. I have never crossed the river, you know.”
“It is not much of a journey if one rows over fromthis side; sometimes, though, I find it easier to come by the ford. I think if you row over and I meet you with horses on the other side, it will be the best way. It will be bright moonlight coming back, and you need not be afraid even if you do hear uncanny noises.”
“I shall know what they are. I am getting quite used to the sound of wolves and wildcats.”
“I will go and make my request to Polly, then.”
Guided by the peals of laughter, Parker took his way toward the back of the house where Polly was chasing Agnes around with threatening blued hands. “Once I get me hands on that red poll, I’ll make it purple,” she was crying, and Agnes was laughingly defying her with the big stick she had been using to stir the dye.
“I will surely give you a taste of this, Polly, if you come a step nearer,” she was saying.
“You romping children,” cried Parker. “Will you cease your play for a moment and speak to me?”
Polly advanced holding out her blue-stained hand. “I’ll be glad to shake hands with ye, Mr. Willett,” she declared, and laughed with glee as he backed off.
“Polly is so reckless, and she calls my hair red, Mr. Willett,” Agnes complained.
“It’s nearer that than anything else; ye wouldn’t call it black, would ye?” Polly asked.
“No, but mother calls it auburn, and that has a nice sound.”
“Go ’long wid ye,” cried Polly, “wid yer fancy names. Weel, Mr. Willett, yer no fashin’ yersel’ about us, these days, it’s clear.”
“It’s not what one desires in this world, but what he finds time to do, Polly. To prove that I’ve been thinking of you I have come over to ask you all to sup with me.”
Polly looked at her stained hands. “They’re a pretty looking pair for a party,” she declared.
“It’s no party; it is only for a very select and chosen few—yourself, Mrs. Kennedy, and Agnes. Will the dyeing be finished in time for you to come over this afternoon?”
“Why will it not? I’ll stop now.” She lifted the boiling dye from the fire, and with two sticks raised the pieces of cloth from the hot liquid, flinging them into a tub near by. “They’re weel enow colored,” she decided, “and I’ll finish up gin dinner-time. I’ve no gloves, Mr. Willett, an’ I’ll not get back the color of me hands afore the week’s out. Gin Sabbath day they beeta look better. Will ye have me so? I can never do a bit of dyeing, but I must give me hands the color of me goods, be it butternut, blue, or yellow. Agnes, there, gets but the tips of her fingers in, and is nigh greetin’ at that, so I threatened to give her hair the same color.”
“Be done, Polly,” cried Agnes, as Polly advanced upon her again, “I’ll not help you with the dyeing ifyou treat me so. Do be quiet. If you stop now, when will I get my linen dyed?”
“You’ll get it gin Tibb’s eve,” returned Polly, “if ye fa’ out wi’ me now.”
“Ah, but Polly—”
“Go long into the house wid ye, ye two, an’ I’ll finish up. Ye might be gittin’ the vegetables for dinner, Nancy, an’ I’ll come make a puddin’. I beeta be makin’ one in honor of the stranger.”
“You’d better not be giving me too good a dinner,” said Parker, “or you’ll be putting my supper to shame.”
“No fear o’ that. In wid ye.” She brandished her stick, and the two departed to the garden to gather such early vegetables as they might find ready for use.
“It’s been a long time since I saw you,” said Parker, speaking his thought.
“Yes?” Agnes was well aware of it, and was disposed to be a little distant in consequence, though she well knew his reason for absenting himself. “I have been busy, too, and I have been two or three times to see Jeanie. The last mail brought good news from Archie; he is hard at work and hopes by diligence to complete his course in a less time than we at first thought he could. He wrote me quite a long letter; he really can write more freely than he can talk.” She looked serenely unconscious as Parker stole a glance at her.
“I suppose you were delighted to hear from him?”
“Oh, yes. Who wouldn’t be glad to hear from an old friend? You would be, wouldn’t you, to hear from Alicia, for example?”
PARKER WATCHED HER FOR A FEW MINUTES, NOT ATTEMPTING TO HELP.
PARKER WATCHED HER FOR A FEW MINUTES, NOT ATTEMPTING TO HELP.
“Agnes!” His voice was reproachful. “I didn’t think you were a coquette.”
The flush which dyed Agnes’s cheek was caused by both wrath and contrition. “I don’t see what cause you have to say that,” she replied lightly. “You know perfectly well how it is with Archie and me. I shall probably marry him if I find no one more likable before he returns.”
“More likable? No, I didn’t know that. You didn’t tell me before. And Archie is very likable?”
“Yes, very; and so good and constant and thoughtful of pleasing me. He never neglected me in his life.”
“You have a very good opinion of him.”
“There is no one quite like Archie.” Agnes was picking her peas without proper regard to the fulness of their pods, her blue-tipped fingers slipping in and out among the vines swiftly. Parker watched her for a few minutes, not attempting to help. When he spoke again, it was in a constrained tone. “Shall you care to come over with your mother and Polly to sup with me?”
Agnes’s heart had leaped at the prospect, but she said indifferently: “Oh, yes, I’d enjoy going anywhere with mother. There, I think I have enough of these. I must take them in and shell them.” She picked up her rudely made basket, but Parker took it from her, asa matter of course. He was singularly silent, and the tears smarted in Agnes’s eyes. Why had she been so contrary? What had possessed her to mislead him? The beautiful bright summer day would be spoiled because of her unreasonableness. But she was too proud to alter the state of things by making advances, and they entered the house with no attempt on either side toward a better understanding, and neither one was in a very happy frame of mind.
Polly had left her dye-kettle and was deep in the mystery of the pudding she had promised to make. Agnes called on the children to shell the peas, and gave her own attention to some other things. Mrs. Kennedy, meanwhile, was preparing a pair of fowls, and Parker left them in the midst of their dinner-getting and strolled down to the forge. Agnes saw him depart. Why had things gone wrong? They might now have been sitting together over the basket of peas in happy converse. They had often shared such a piece of work. It did not add to her comfort to be aware that it was all her own fault. The unusually sumptuous dinner meant nothing to her, and she scarcely touched it.
“Nancy is saving up her appetite for this evening,” said Polly, laughing. “You’d better not be too sure of what you’ll get at a bachelor’s, Nancy.”
Parker smiled. “I can’t promise you such a feast as this, Polly, though you know you are pledged to do the cooking. I can make good corn-pone and hoe-cake,and I can cook a fish or a bit of bacon, but I am not very skilful, I warn you.”
“It seems like old times to see him settin’ there,” said Polly. “I declare, Park, I never knew how much I missed ye till I see ye back agen.”
“That is certainly complimentary, and I appreciate it. I am being treated with the fat of the land. I am afraid from the spread you have here that you have robbed the family of a week’s provender; you know I am very well acquainted with the resources of the place.”
“Ah but, ‘it’s nae loss what ye gie a freen’,’ as the old saying is, and ye need think nae more of it.” Polly was in high spirits. The prospect of any kind of frolic always put her in the best of humors.
The dinner over, Parker took his departure, and his invited guests set out in due time to meet him on the other side of the river. The days were now so long that there was no fear of their being belated in getting back, and a short stay was not to be thought of when one went out to supper; it meant the whole afternoon and the evening too, if possible. Polly was full of her quips and jokes, and pulled lustily across the stream, but she sobered down when she got across. “Ye’ll not be far from yer ain, Mrs. Kennedy,” she said, “for Parker’s got the land next yer father’s, an’ ye’ll be seein’ what it’s like. I’ll be bound Hump’ll look glum as a mustard-pot when he gets his summons to quit. I’llmiss ye all, but I’ll be glad when ye come to yer ain. Here we are and here’s Park.”
Parker came forward with two horses. “How shall we travel?” he asked. “Shall I take you, Mrs. Kennedy?”
But Polly spoke up. “I’ve bespoke her, and ye’ll be takin’ Agnes. Come, Mrs. Kennedy, up behind me,” and Agnes found herself starting off with Parker, her arm about his waist.
The way was not very long, and it should have been rarely pleasant to be riding through the leafy woods this summer afternoon, tall trees about them, and the air sweet with the smell of the grape blossoms, yet it was Polly who did most of the talking. Parker rarely spoke. Once his hand touched Agnes’s fingers, resting lightly upon his belt, but he withdrew from the contact as if it hurt him. It was of the most indifferent things that the two young persons spoke, when they spoke at all, and the girl felt that she would have been happier with Polly or her mother.
Before the door of the small cabin the horses at last stopped. The woods came close about the small dwelling, for it takes time to fell trees, and though the clearing for the corn-field and the garden had been made, the space seemed small in the midst of the limitless forest, and so small, so lonely seemed the little cabin set there in a wilderness, that one wondered how a man could be content to make it his abode.
“Welcome to my hut,” said Parker, bowing Mrs. Kennedy in. Polly followed and Agnes came last. The girl gave an exclamation of surprise and pleasure as she entered the room. It showed only the barest necessities in the way of furnishings, but the walls were festooned with vines, and upon the table stood a huge bowl of swamp magnolias. Heaped high at one end upon large leaves were ripe strawberries, and at the other were cherries as brightly red. Around the table was twisted a grape-vine, and each rough stool was covered with a piece of fringed deerskin.
Polly looked about her in surprise. “Who’d ha’ thought a man would ha’ done all this; it looks like a woman’s work, an’ a kind that we don’t see about here. I’ve niver seen the beat, even at a weddin’. How’d you get a holt o’ them cherries?”
“They came from Dod Hunter’s, and the strawberries, too,” Parker told her.
“It surely is very tasteful,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “You are very poetical I should think, Mr. Willett. You have honored us very much by taking all this trouble, yet I know it was a pleasure, too. How sweet those magnolias are! There is not any perfume equal to theirs.”
Fresh fish and venison were considered enough in the way of meats, and Polly proceeded to make some of her famous bannocks to match Parker’s corn-pone, and the two waxed very merry over their competition.
Once in a while Agnes stole a look at her host, but though he was courteously polite, there was no answering glance to hers. It thrilled the girl to be beneath this roof that must now shelter the man who had grown so dear to her; to see there his rifle and shot pouch hanging on two buck horns, his hunting-shirts on pegs by the ladder which led aloft, the little row of his precious books upon a shelf on the rough wall, his silver drinking-cup full of wild flowers on the high mantel-shelf; all these things so distinctly personal, so associated with his daily life. She bit her lip, and her eyes filled with tears as she realized that by her own wilfulness she had lost half the delight of this June day. What could she say to make him understand her girlish pettishness? How could she undo the impression she had given him? There was no excuse she could offer that would seem adequate. She could not tell him that in a fit of mere foolish annoyance at his prolonged absence she had chosen to deceive him with regard to her relations with Archie. How courteous he was; with what deference he waited on her mother; how anxious he was for the comfort of his guests—he had planned this for their pleasure and she had made it but a bitter trial for herself.
“Shall you put a good crop in?” said the practical Polly, looking interestedly toward the corn-field, and addressing Parker.
“I hope to have enough; it does not take much tofeed one man and his horse. I do not know all I ought about farming, but I am willing to learn, and I think I shall get along.”
“It’s well enough to have yer manger full,” Polly returned. “Ah, these are aisy times, Nancy, to those we had when no man durst go out alone to plant or hoe, and when working parties had to have their sentries armed and watchful of the Injuns. Manny a time their men have scuttled in from the fields, and manny a time has my Jimmy gone out with half a dozen others to guard some foolhardy man back to the fort who had trusted to his own two legs to get away, and would have been scalped in sight of his own house if it hadn’t been for his more cautious neighbors.”
“And I suppose those same men were ready to fly in the face of Providence again at the first chance, and would go out by themselves to their fields, trusting to luck to get back safe.”
“Yes, an’ if they didn’t happen to get ketched, they’d boast of how much bigger crops they had than anybody else. I never felt in peace mesel’ till Wayne’s treaty.”
“Yet you wouldn’t leave the first settlement till you had to,” Agnes reminded her.
“We all have our follies,” Polly replied calmly. “Yer no done bein’ foolish yersel’, Nancy.” A remark which Agnes at that moment silently indorsed.
The supper over and the table cleared, Parker took from the shelf his flute, and played for them manyplaintive airs, so that Agnes’s heartache was made worse instead of better. She sat by her mother on the doorsill, Parker leaning against a tree near by. It seemed as if his melancholy strains were a reproach to her, and she could have wept. Polly, too, felt the spell of the plaintive melodies, and furtively wiped her eyes. Then her strong voice demanded something lively. “We’ll all have the doldrums; it’s worse ‘an a banshee’s wailin’,” she remarked vehemently, and to please her Parker struck up “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” which broke the spell and set Polly’s foot to tapping time.
Then came the ride to the river which they desired to reach before dark, and this time Agnes sprang up before Polly, taking her mother’s place and declaring that it was but fair that they should change partners, and when they reached the river, though Parker would have rowed them across, they saw Jimmy waiting on the other side, and so their host left them to glide out into the moonlight, and all Agnes had for comfort was a remembrance that to her was given his last hand-clasp as he helped her into the boat, and that she so sat that her back was toward her home, and she could behold him standing there watching, till his figure, a silhouette in the moonlight, was hidden behind the trees. At the hilltop she turned to look once more, but he had gone, and what was silver moonlight or June weather to her?