CHAPTER XVII
IN ABSENCE
The mystery surrounding the copy of the will which had been extracted from Parker’s box was solved the next week, and by no less person than Jimmy O’Neill, who came in chuckling over the discovery. “When thieves fa’ oot honest folk win back their ain,” he said, nodding wisely to Mrs. Kennedy, and producing a paper from his pocket. “Hump Muirhead overketched himsel’, as I’ll be tellin’ ye. It seems he offered what’s most vallyble to a backwoodsman, a good rifle, to the one of his comrades that ’ud fetch him the will, an’ a dozen av em was on the lookout for it. Two av ’em kep’ their eyes on Park Willett from the time he left the house here till he got acrost the river, an’ seein’ him give a paper to David, they turned their attention to Davy instead, but they blundered in their plans an’ caught him comin’ home instead o’ goin’. Ivery man o’ thim bein’ anxious to kape his own counsel, they acted as saycrit as they could, an’ they all do be watchin’ their chanst; so when Parker drops the box, one av ’em is ready to pick it up, and gets out the copy, an’ seein’ no further use for the box, he drops it again where hefound it. Not bein’ quite sure av what he’s found an’ not knowin’ the other two has seen Park give David the will, he waits till he gits where he can examine it, an’ then he carries it to Hump in full expectation of gittin’ the prize. But Hump see as soon as he pops eyes on it that it’s but a copy, bein’ as it’s written on the back av a letter addressed to Mr. Parker Willett, an’ he tells the puir gawk it’s no good, an’ the two av ’em has words over it, an’ the man, Bill Spear, brings it to me, thinkin’ he’ll get even with Hump by tellin’ the whole tale, an’ maybe do himsel’ a good turn. An’—” but Jimmy stopped short, considering that it would not be pleasant information if he told Mrs. Kennedy that there were some determined men in the neighborhood who were bent on ridding the place of Humphrey Muirhead, and who were threatening to tar and feather him if he did not leave within a given time. Jimmy himself was one of the party, and he did not mean that the plans should miscarry.
Jimmy’s listeners gave him strict attention till he had finished. “An’ why did he come to ye?” Polly asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Jimmy answered first by a sly nod. “He knew which side his bread was buttered on. I’ve not a forge for nothin’.” Polly understood. She had talked the matter over with her husband, and knew without being told that Bill Spear was aware that Jimmy was a leader in the plan to rid the neighborhood of Hump Muirhead.
“Alack-a-day,” sighed Mrs. Kennedy. “We’re a deal of trouble to our neighbors; I’d rather the will had never been found than to have stirred up riots.”
Jimmy laughed. “Ye’ve no call to say that, ma’am; it stirs up the blood to be havin’ a bit av adventure, an’ there’s no wan av us but’s glad to sarve you. It puts naebody in a pother at all. We’ll have ye settled in your own corner gin ye know it, Mrs. Kennedy. By the way, Nancy,” he turned to the girl who was eagerly taking in all the talk, “I saw Davy Campbell the morn; he was up for me to shoe his mare, an’ he says Jeanie would like to see ye; she’s a bit av news for ye.”
“Then I’ll go over.” Agnes looked at her mother for approval.
“Certainly go,” said Mrs. Kennedy. And that afternoon Agnes set forth. She had been eager to see Jeanie in her new establishment, and was not surprised to find her singing blithely and looking as happy as possible.
She ran out to meet Agnes and drew her indoors. Everything was spick-and-span about the little cabin, and David’s thought for his bride was evidenced by the many useful little helps toward her housekeeping that his busy hands had provided for her. “He is so good, is Davy,” said Jeanie, showing off her various possessions with much pride. “I wish ye had a man of your ain, Nancy.”
Agnes laughed. “’Tis always the way of those who’re married; they’re soon ready to entice others into the trap into which they have fallen.”
“Ah but, Nancy, that’s no way to speak of matrimony. See how happy I am, and is it strange that I should want a like happiness to come to you?”
“A girl might well envy you, Jeanie, for you’ve everything very comfortable,” Agnes confessed.
“David has even planted a flower garden for me,” the bride told her friend, “and he gets up bright and early to weed it. Did you ever hear of a man like that? Most think there’s more than enough to do, but there’s not a lazy bone in David’s body.”
“But what’s the news you have to tell me, Jeanie?”
“Ah, that’s the best yet; Archie is coming home for a spell, an’ he’ll study here with the meenister, and then go to the academy at Canonsburg, and that’ll be no so far from home. Are you not glad, Nancy?”
“I am very glad for Archie.”
“And you will be glad to see him?”
“Of course, Jeanie, why shouldn’t I be?” But she spoke without much enthusiasm, then realizing her spiritless speech, she added: “We’re old friends, Archie and I, and we’ve had many a good time together. I hope we’ll have many another.”
“I can echo that wish,” Jeanie responded heartily. “Sit down, now, Nancy, and tell me all that has been going on your way.”
Agnes drew her knitting from her pocket, and the two sat on the doorsill, their fingers busy with their clicking needles and their tongues going quite as fast. Agnes related Jimmy’s account of Bill Spear, and as this was a matter in which both Jeanie and David were greatly interested, her piece of news was received with much attention. “David will be glad to hear that it is all cleared up. How everything is smoothing out, Agnes! I am so glad for you all. Must you go?” for Agnes had risen, and was putting away her knitting.
“Yes, I must. I promised mother I’d not stay late, for she does not like me to go through the woods alone, and I thought I would stop at Patty Scott’s to see how the baby is. I heard she had been ill.”
“When Archie comes, you will not have to go through the woods alone. Ah, Nancy, there are good times in store for us. We four will have many a time together. I shall yet have you for my sister.”
Agnes turned to take her path toward Patty Scott’s, but there was no responsive echo in her heart to Jeanie’s anticipations. Archie’s coming would but complicate matters for her, and she felt a heart-sinking at thought of it. He would be taking up her spare moments and expecting attention from her. She must see Parker soon, and tell him of Archie’s coming, and if he would but give her the chance, she would assure him that no minister’s wife did she intend to be. “But,” she sighed, “he takes so much for granted, and does notseem to know that I was but flouting him that day.” She pressed her hands together and looked eagerly toward the hilltop as she approached it, but no one was there waiting for her. It seemed as if she went down into the shadow of a great disappointment as she descended the hill. But there was her mother coming to meet her—her dear mother. The girl’s heart outran her footsteps. “How kind of you to come to meet me, mother,” she said as she came up. “I like to have you do that.”
“Always?” returned her mother, smiling.
Agnes smiled consciously, then her face looked grave.
“Sit down for a moment under this tree,” said her mother. “I have something to tell you. Mr. Willett has been here. Did you meet him? He said he would try to find you.”
“No, I did not see him. I went around by Patty Scott’s to see how her baby was.”
“Then that is why he missed you. I am sorry. He left a little note for you in case he should not see you. Wait, my lamb,” for Agnes had turned and was holding out her hand eagerly. “He came to make his farewells; he is on his way to Marietta. He is called home by the illness of his mother.”
Agnes turned deathly pale, and whispered, “The note, the note, mother.”
Mrs. Kennedy took it from the bosom of her gown, and handed it to the girl who received it with shakingfingers. Her mother arose from the fallen log on which they were sitting and moved away for a short distance, while Agnes read:—
“I am sorry to miss you, little girl, but perhaps, after all, it is best. May you be happy in the love of that good youth, Archie. I am leaving some books which I hope you will enjoy reading. Good-by, and God bless you.“Your friend,“Parker Willett.”
“I am sorry to miss you, little girl, but perhaps, after all, it is best. May you be happy in the love of that good youth, Archie. I am leaving some books which I hope you will enjoy reading. Good-by, and God bless you.
“Your friend,
“Parker Willett.”
Over and over again Agnes read the note till the words seemed burnt into her brain. It meant more than an ordinary farewell. He would never understand now, and he was going back to Virginia and to Alicia. She gasped at the thought of all that the parting meant, and for a moment felt that no force could keep her from seeking to overtake him. She ran back to her mother. “When did he go? When? How long?”
“It was an hour after you left. Oh, my child, do not look so! He will come back.”
“Too late, too late,” moaned Agnes.
“Why do you say that? He will return as soon as his mother ceases to need him. She is very ill, and there is no hope of her recovery. She calls for him, and he will go to remain with her while she lives, be it a long or a short time. It should not be such a grievous thing to you, dear heart, when he will return.”
“Oh, mother, mother, you don’t know. There was a misunderstanding, and it was my fault, and now I can never set him right. Oh, no, I see that I never can. Oh, mother, mother, if I had but been at home, all might have been so different. Oh, why did I go?”
Her mother put her arms about her, and led her farther under the shadow of the trees. “Dear bairn, I wish I could bear this for you, but I think he loves you, and it may all be for the best; one never knows what the trials are sent for. Do not greet so, my lamb. I know that when troubles come to us when we are young they seem black indeed, and the day of peace and comfort a long way off; but don’t despair, my dear, remember who is a ‘very present help in trouble.’”
Agnes sighed, and her choking sobs ceased. “Tell me all he said, mother. It came so suddenly I was not prepared; I ought to be more brave. I am not always so cowardly when troubles come.”
“No, dear, you have been the bravest of the brave. There is not very much to tell. He was not here very long, for he was anxious to be on the way as soon as possible, and I think he hoped to be able to meet you. He wishes to reach home as soon as he can. There was a letter from his sister, he said. He thanked us all for our kindness.”
“And it is he who has been kind.”
“So I told him. He asked for the little box of miniatures. I found it and gave it to him, but he left somebooks, quite a number which he said he had promised to lend you.”
Agnes was quite calm now. “Mother,” she said, “I will trust and wait. You are right, we should not give way to fears. I am glad of the books; they will be a great comfort. Mother, you know—you know how I feel. I am not ashamed that I do care so much, and you said—oh, mother, you said you thought he was not indifferent to me, so I will trust and wait, but oh, mother, comfort me.”
“My bairn, my lamb!” The mother’s arms were again about her. “What more can I say? Be patient and endure and all will be well. It may be only a short time before he is here again, and you may be all the happier because of this parting.”
Agnes lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder. “Ah, yes, mother, that is comforting. I remember, too, that sometimes out of a sorrow comes joy, and I have you, mother dear, and that is so much.”
But the days that followed were very weary ones; the world seemed to have lost its beauty. The thought of that empty little cabin in the wilderness would bring a pang to the girl’s heart, and each evening she would climb the hill at the sunset hour to live over the happy moments with which the spot was associated. The small store of books she carried to her room to be pored over, touched lingeringly, and treasured—for had not his hands held them? Had not his eyes dwelton every page? Had he not followed the thought therein expressed? There was nothing that could have expressed so much or have brought such enduring association as these, and in time Agnes became so familiar with them that she could have repeated pages of Shakespeare’s plays, Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Addison’s essays, or Spenser’s “Faerie Queene.” And when Archie came she quite astonished and pleased him by her learning.
This young man’s coming was not delayed very long, for by midsummer he was in their midst, looking very much improved by his stay in a more civilized community. He made no delay in going to see Agnes, and eagerly asked at his first opportunity: “Are ye still heart-free, Agnes? Is there no one sitting up wi’ ye?”
“No one, Archie,” she replied.
“And there’s none o’ the lads hereabouts you like better than me? Ye’ve not forgotten, and ye still have the sixpence?”
“I have it still, yes.” She ignored the first part of his speech.
“Ah, weel, then.” Archie gave a sigh of satisfaction. He felt surer of his ground. He had been somewhat disturbed on Parker Willett’s account, but Jeanie had reassured him by telling him that Parker had left the neighborhood. “Jist persevere, Archie,” she said. “It’s slow and steady wins the race.” Nevertheless, he felt that somehow there was a change in Agnes; shewas more thoughtful and gentle, and less free with him than she had been. He approved of the thoughtfulness and gentleness, and attributed the fact of her diffidence to her feeling more conscious in his presence now that she was older. Archie was quite a self-satisfied person, and was not disposed to underrate himself, especially since he had been at his grandfather’s. He had observed the deference paid to the “meenister,” and felt himself quite in the position to accept all the consideration due to the cloth. “It’s not to be wondered at that she is impressed by the knowledge I’m gainin’,” he told himself, “and she’s beginning to see that it’s a high position in the world she’ll be having.”
But one fatal day Agnes undeceived him, and he groped for some time in a pit of humility which he had digged for himself.
It was as the two were coming home from Jeanie’s one summer evening. Jeanie always did her best to show off Archie’s learning, and to let Agnes know that he was becoming a person of importance. And on this particular occasion Archie was feeling specially pleased with himself, the more so that Agnes was very quiet, and he felt that she was quite impressed. He was more than usually voluble, having gained much in the art of conversation in his absence.
“I am thinking,” he said, “of those days when I was in such awe of our good meenister. To be sure, Agnes, there is much dignity in the office, but it is not you thatneed feel abashed by my little learning. ‘Quod ignotum pro magnifico est.’” He rolled the Latin words off his tongue with a relish.
Agnes’s temper had been rising all the evening. She was not slow to notice Archie’s self-complacence and she turned on him. “Speak in plain English, Archie M’Clean. You needn’t try to air your knowledge before me. I abashed by you? Stand in awe of your little pickings of learning? I’ll venture to say that I know more this minute about some things than you do. Can you recite me the play of Hamlet? Can you tell me when King Henry Fifth of England entered France? or who it was that wrote the ‘Faerie Queene’?”
Archie looked at her in amazement. “Are ye daft, Agnes? Why should you be knowing all those things?”
“I do know them, and many other things of the same kind. There is a man, more modest than you, who has been to a great university, and yet who does not all the time be speaking in Latin, and yet I have no doubt but that he has forgotten more than you will ever know. I will answer your Latin speech with another: ‘Laus propria sordet,’ and I hope you like it.” She was as proud in her mouthing of the words as Archie had been. It was Parker who had taught her the saying, “Self-praise defiles,” and she had repeated the Latin rendering till she remembered it, and now flung it at Archie with a scorn which completelycrushed him. He had not a word to say for some minutes, and then he remarked meekly, “I didn’t know you knew Latin, Agnes.”
“I don’t, but I know that, and it fits the case. I’ve no pleasure in a man who blows his own trumpet.”
“Do I do that?”
“I should think you would be well aware of it when it is your chief occupation. You bluster around here as if the universe belonged to you, and you are so puffed up with importance that there is no comfort to be had in you. Ah, but you’re sadly changed, Archie, and not for the better.” And Archie’s humiliation was complete. Agnes, having begun to give vent to her feelings, went on. “I used to think you were as nice and modest a lad as ever I knew, but if being a minister means disobeying Paul’s injunction not to be puffed up, then I’ll forswear ministers, though they are the heralds of the gospel.”
“Ah, but, Agnes!” Archie’s voice was shocked, but he made no further protest. She had sent her shafts home with a vengeance and he smarted under the wounds. He was conscious that there was truth in what she said, and after a silence he said: “I have been puffed up, I acknowledge with shame and humility,—I, who am but the least in the sight of heaven. Perhaps, after all, Agnes, I am not fit to think of filling the holy office. I am magnifying the station and dishonoring the cause I should guard with care.I’m forgetting that it was said that the last shall be first. Ah, Agnes, perhaps I’d better not go on.”
“‘He that putteth his hand to the plough,’” quoted Agnes, sternly. “You’d best go on, Archie, and you’ll learn; it’s your inexperience. I’ve no doubt but that you’ll make a good, conscientious minister of the gospel.” She was turning the tables on him with a vengeance. “When you’re older you’ll know less, my mother says, and she says you will have occasion to learn meekness and lowliness. If you want my friendship, you will certainly have to become less of a braggart, and that right quickly.” And Archie’s rags of pride all fell from him.
“I’ll remember, Agnes,” he said unsteadily, “and I’ll try not to be boastful. If I’d known ye were displeased, and that it was that has been keeping ye at your distance—”
Agnes interrupted him. “It’s not that altogether for I—I—must be honest with you. I know I can never care for you as you want me to; there’s no use in my pretending.”
“Ah, but,” Archie’s voice was eager enough now, “I know why, Agnes; it’s my foolish boasting that has turned you from me. I thought to win ye by self-praise, and I see that it is no way, for what a man is that shall he appear without words of his. Try me again, Agnes, and I’ll try and conquer the pride and vainglory that should have no place in my heart. No,I’ll not give ye up. I’ve said that once and for all; not till ye marry another man.”
Agnes sighed. “Then I think we’ll neither of us ever marry, Archie.”
“I’m no’ so sure o’ that,” he returned with more of his old confidence.
“We shall see,” said Agnes, bound to have the last word.
Yet, though Archie’s companionship after this was more as Agnes would have had it, and he seemed much as he had been in the old days, Agnes herself did not change her attitude, and the lad missed something that he in vain tried to renew in their relationship. True to his word, he did not speak of his affection for her, and if the girl’s heart had not been steadfast in its devotion to the young Virginian, it is quite probable that Archie, by his unfailing tenderness and thoughtfulness, would have won her over. He certainly made her summer days pass more pleasantly, and the two spent many an hour together on the river, rowing, or under the trees, with a book. Many a walk they had through the woods to Jeanie’s, and many a ride they took to church, so that every one said there was no doubt but that it was a sure thing that the M’Cleans would have Agnes Kennedy for a daughter in good time.
Mrs. Kennedy was a little troubled by these reports, and told Agnes of them. “I know, mother, that people will talk. I have told Archie how I feel toward him,and that I am willing to be his friend, but nothing more, yet he will persist, and says he does not care what the neighbors say; that they know more about it than I do. You would like to see me a minister’s wife, wouldn’t you, mother?” she asked wistfully.
“I do not want my lass to waste her youth in waiting for one who may never return to her.”
“But you bade me trust and be patient.”
“Yes, but I had not then had this.” She drew forth a letter and handed it to Agnes. It was from Parker Willett. After telling of his safe arrival he said that his mother grew weaker, but the doctors gave hope that she might live a year. “In view of my protracted absence,” he wrote, “I am sending to my little clearing a young cousin, whom I commend to your friendly interest. He is a boy of good character, and desires much to go to the Western Reserve; this seems an opportunity which he is very ready to take, and he will set forth at once.” After sending polite messages to the family he signed himself “Your grateful friend, Parker Willett.” The only mention of Agnes was in a message which conveyed his remembrances, and the hope that she was enjoying the books he had left.
Agnes refolded the letter thoughtfully and handed it back to her mother without a word, but it gave her the heartache for many a day after.