Freckles

G >> Gene Stratton Porter >> Freckles


On the street the Angel walked beside Freckles to the first crossing and
there she stopped. "Now, will you promise to ride fast enough to make up
for the five minutes that took?" she asked. "I am a little uneasy about
Mrs. Duncan."

Freckles turned his wheel into the street. It seemed to him he had
poured that delicious icy liquid into every vein in his body instead of
his stomach. It even went to his brain.

"Did you insist on fixing that drink because you knew how intoxicating
'twould be?" he asked.

There was subtlety in the compliment and it delighted the Angel. She
laughed gleefully.

"Next time, maybe you won't take so much coaxing," she teased.

"I wouldn't this, if I had known your father and been understanding you
better. Do you really think the Bird Woman will be coming again?"

The Angel jeered. "Wild horses couldn't drag her away," she cried. "She
will have hard work to wait the week out. I shouldn't be in the least
surprised to see her start any hour."

Freckles could not endure the suspense; it had to come.

"And you?" he questioned, but he dared not lift his eyes.

"Wild horses me, too," she laughed, "couldn't keep me away either! I
dearly love to come, and the next time I am going to bring my banjo,
and I'll play, and you sing for me some of the songs I like best; won't
you?"

"Yis," said Freckles, because it was all he was capable of saying just
then.

"It's beginning to act stormy," she said. "If you hurry you will just
about make it. Now, good-bye."



CHAPTER IX

Wherein the Limberlost Falls upon Mrs. Duncan and Freckles Comes to the
Rescue

Freckles was halfway to the Limberlost when he dismounted. He could ride
no farther, because he could not see the road. He sat under a tree, and,
leaning against it, sobs shook, twisted, and rent him. If they would
remind him of his position, speak condescendingly, or notice his hand,
he could endure it, but this--it surely would kill him! His hot, pulsing
Irish blood was stirred deeply. What did they mean? Why did they do it?
Were they like that to everyone? Was it pity?

It could not be, for he knew that the Bird Woman and the Angel's father
must know that he was not really McLean's son, and it did not matter
to them in the least. In spite of accident and poverty, they evidently
expected him to do something worth while in the world. That must be his
remedy. He must work on his education. He must get away. He must find
and do the great thing of which the Angel talked. For the first time,
his thoughts turned anxiously toward the city and the beginning of his
studies. McLean and the Duncans spoke of him as "the boy," but he was
a man. He must face life bravely and act a man's part. The Angel was a
mere child. He must not allow her to torture him past endurance with her
frank comradeship that meant to him high heaven, earth's richness, and
all that lay between, and NOTHING to her.

There was an ominous growl of thunder, and amazed at himself, Freckles
snatched up his wheel and raced toward the swamp. He was worried to find
his boots lying at the cabin door; the children playing on the woodpile
told him that "mither" said they were so heavy she couldn't walk in
them, and she had come back and taken them off. Thoroughly frightened,
he stopped only long enough to slip them on, and then sped with all his
strength for the Limberlost. To the west, the long, black, hard-beaten
trail lay clear; but far up the east side, straight across the path, he
could see what was certainly a limp, brown figure. Freckles spun with
all his might.

Face down, Sarah Duncan lay across the trail. When Freckles turned her
over, his blood chilled at the look of horror settled on her face. There
was a low humming and something spatted against him. Glancing around,
Freckles shivered in terror, for there was a swarm of wild bees settled
on a scrub-thorn only a few yards away. The air was filled with excited,
unsettled bees making ready to lead farther in search of a suitable
location. Then he thought he understood, and with a prayer of
thankfulness in his heart that she had escaped, even so narrowly, he
caught her up and hurried down the trail until they were well out of
danger. He laid her in the shade, and carrying water from the swamp
in the crown of his hat, he bathed her face and hands; but she lay in
unbroken stillness, without a sign of life.

She had found Freckles' boots so large and heavy that she had gone back
and taken them off, although she was mortally afraid to approach the
swamp without them. The thought of it made her nervous, and the fact
that she never had been there alone added to her fears. She had not
followed the trail many rods when her trouble began. She was not
Freckles, so not a bird of the line was going to be fooled into thinking
she was.

They began jumping from their nests and darting from unexpected places
around her head and feet, with quick whirs, that kept her starting and
dodging. Before Freckles was halfway to the town, poor Mrs. Duncan was
hysterical, and the Limberlost had neither sung nor performed for her.

But there was trouble brewing. It was quiet and intensely hot, with that
stifling stillness that precedes a summer storm, and feathers and
fur were tense and nervous. The birds were singing only a few broken
snatches, and flying around, seeking places of shelter. One moment
everything seemed devoid of life, the next there was an unexpected
whir, buzz, and sharp cry. Inside, a pandemonium of growling, spatting,
snarling, and grunting broke loose.

The swale bent flat before heavy gusts of wind, and the big black
chicken swept lower and lower above the swamp. Patches of clouds
gathered, shutting out the sun and making it very dark, and the next
moment were swept away. The sun poured with fierce, burning brightness,
and everything was quiet. It was at the first growl of thunder that
Freckles really had noticed the weather, and putting his own troubles
aside resolutely, raced for the swamp.

Sarah Duncan paused on the line. "Weel, I wouldna stay in this place for
a million a month," she said aloud, and the sound of her voice brought
no comfort, for it was so little like she had thought it that she
glanced hastily around to see if it had really been she that spoke. She
tremblingly wiped the perspiration from her face with the skirt of her
sunbonnet.

"Awfu' hot," she panted huskily. "B'lieve there's going to be a big
storm. I do hope Freckles will hurry."

Her chin was quivering as a terrified child's. She lifted her bonnet to
replace it and brushed against a bush beside her. WHIRR, almost into her
face, went a nighthawk stretched along a limb for its daytime nap. Mrs.
Duncan cried out and sprang down the trail, alighting on a frog that was
hopping across. The horrible croak it gave as she crushed it sickened
her. She screamed wildly and jumped to one side. That carried her into
the swale, where the grasses reached almost to her waist, and her horror
of snakes returning, she made a flying leap for an old log lying beside
the line. She alighted squarely, but it was so damp and rotten that she
sank straight through it to her knees. She caught at the wire as she
went down, and missing, raked her wrist across a barb until she tore a
bleeding gash. Her fingers closed convulsively around the second strand.
She was too frightened to scream now. Her tongue stiffened. She clung
frantically to the sagging wire, and finally managed to grasp it with
the other hand. Then she could reach the top wire, and so she drew
herself up and found solid footing. She picked up the club that she
had dropped in order to extricate herself. Leaning heavily on it,
she managed to return to the trail, but she was trembling so that she
scarcely could walk. Going a few steps farther, she came to the stump of
the first tree that had been taken out.

She sat bolt upright and very still, trying to collect her thoughts and
reason away her terror. A squirrel above her dropped a nut, and as it
came rattling down, bouncing from branch to branch, every nerve in her
tugged wildly. When the disgusted squirrel barked loudly, she sprang to
the trail.

The wind arose higher, the changes from light to darkness were more
abrupt, while the thunder came closer and louder at every peal. In
swarms the blackbirds arose from the swale and came flocking to the
interior, with a clamoring cry: "T'CHECK, T'CHECK." Grackles marshaled
to the tribal call: "TRALL-A-HEE, TRALL-A-HEE." Red-winged blackbirds
swept low, calling to belated mates: "FOL-LOW-ME, FOL-LOW-ME." Big,
jetty crows gathered close to her, crying, as if warning her to flee
before it was everlastingly too late. A heron, fishing the near-by pool
for Freckles' "find-out" frog, fell into trouble with a muskrat and
uttered a rasping note that sent Mrs. Duncan a rod down the line without
realizing that she had moved. She was too shaken to run far. She stopped
and looked around her fearfully.

Several bees struck her and were angrily buzzing before she noticed
them. Then the humming swelled on all sides. A convulsive sob shook her,
and she ran into the bushes, now into the swale, anywhere to avoid the
swarming bees, ducking, dodging, fighting for her very life. Presently
the humming seemed to become a little fainter. She found the trail
again, and ran with all her might from a few of her angry pursuers.

As she ran, straining every muscle, she suddenly became aware that,
crossing the trail before her, was a big, round, black body, with brown
markings on its back, like painted geometrical patterns. She tried to
stop, but the louder buzzing behind warned her she dared not. Gathering
her skirts higher, with hair flying around her face and her eyes almost
bursting from their sockets, she ran straight toward it. The sound of
her feet and the humming of the bees alarmed the rattler, so it stopped
across the trail, lifting its head above the grasses of the swale and
rattling inquiringly--rattled until the bees were outdone.

Straight toward it went the panic-stricken woman, running wildly and
uncontrollably. She took one leap, clearing its body on the path, then
flew ahead with winged feet. The snake, coiled to strike, missed Mrs.
Duncan and landed among the bees instead. They settled over and around
it, and realizing that it had found trouble, it sank among the grasses
and went threshing toward its den in the deep willow-fringed low ground.
The swale appeared as if a reaper were cutting a wide swath. The mass of
enraged bees darted angrily around, searching for it, and striking the
scrub-thorn, began a temporary settling there to discover whether it
were a suitable place. Completely exhausted, Mrs. Duncan staggered on a
few steps farther, fell facing the path, where Freckles found her, and
lay quietly.

Freckles worked over her until she drew a long, quivering breath and
opened her eyes.

When she saw him bending above her, she closed them tightly, and
gripping him, struggled to her feet. He helped her, and with his arm
around and half carrying her, they made their way to the clearing. She
clung to him with all her remaining strength, but open her eyes she
would not until her children came clustering around her. Then, brawny,
big Scotswoman though she was, she quietly keeled over again. The
children added their wailing to Freckles' panic.

This time he was so close the cabin that he could carry her into the
house and lay her on the bed. He sent the oldest boy scudding down the
corduroy for the nearest neighbor, and between them they undressed Mrs.
Duncan and discovered that she was not bitten. They bathed and bound the
bleeding wrist and coaxed her back to consciousness. She lay sobbing and
shuddering. The first intelligent word she said was: "Freckles, look at
that jar on the kitchen table and see if my yeast is no running ower."

Several days passed before she could give Duncan and Freckles any
detailed account of what had happened to her, even then she could not
do it without crying as the least of her babies. Freckles was almost
heartbroken, and nursed her as well as any woman could have done; while
big Duncan, with a heart full for them both, worked early and late to
chink every crack of the cabin and examine every spot that possibly
could harbor a snake. The effects of her morning on the trail kept her
shivering half the time. She could not rest until she sent for McLean
and begged him to save Freckles from further risk, in that place of
horrors. The Boss went to the swamp with his mind fully determined to do
so.

Freckles stood and laughed at him. "Why, Mr. McLean, don't you let a
woman's nervous system set you worrying about me," he said. "I'm not
denying how she felt, because I've been through it meself, but that's
all over and gone. It's the height of me glory to fight it out with the
old swamp, and all that's in it, or will be coming to it, and then
to turn it over to you as I promised you and meself I'd do, sir. You
couldn't break the heart of me entire quicker than to be taking it from
me now, when I'm just on the home-stretch. It won't be over three or
four weeks yet, and when I've gone it almost a year, why, what's that
to me, sir? You mustn't let a woman get mixed up with business, for I've
always heard about how it's bringing trouble."

McLean smiled. "What about that last tree?" he said.

Freckles blushed and grinned appreciatively.

"Angels and Bird Women don't count in the common run, sir," he affirmed
shamelessly.

McLean sat in the saddle and laughed.



CHAPTER X

Wherein Freckles Strives Mightily and the Swamp Angel Rewards Him

The Bird Woman and the Angel did not seem to count in the common run,
for they arrived on time for the third of the series and found McLean on
the line talking to Freckles. The Boss was filled with enthusiasm over a
marsh article of the Bird Woman's that he just had read. He begged to
be allowed to accompany her into the swamp and watch the method by which
she secured an illustration in such a location.

The Bird Woman explained to him that it was an easy matter with the
subject she then had in hand; and as Little Chicken was too small to
be frightened by him, and big enough to be growing troublesome, she was
glad for his company. They went to the chicken log together, leaving to
the happy Freckles the care of the Angel, who had brought her banjo and
a roll of songs that she wanted to hear him sing. The Bird Woman told
them that they might practice in Freckles' room until she finished with
Little Chicken, and then she and McLean would come to the concert.

It was almost three hours before they finished and came down the west
trail for their rest and lunch. McLean walked ahead, keeping sharp watch
on the trail and clearing it of fallen limbs from overhanging trees. He
sent a big piece of bark flying into the swale, and then stopped short
and stared at the trail.

The Bird Woman bent forward. Together they studied that imprint of
the Angel's foot. At last their eyes met, the Bird Woman's filled with
astonishment, and McLean's humid with pity. Neither said a word, but
they knew. McLean entered the swale and hunted up the bark. He replaced
it, and the Bird Woman carefully stepped over. As they reached the
bushes at the entrance, the voice of the Angel stopped them, for it was
commanding and filled with much impatience.

"Freckles James Ross McLean!" she was saying. "You fill me with
dark-blue despair! You're singing as if your voice were glass and might
break at any minute. Why don't you sing as you did a week ago? Answer me
that, please."

Freckles smiled confusedly at the Angel, who sat on one of his fancy
seats, playing his accompaniment on her banjo.

"You are a fraud," she said. "Here you went last week and led me to
think that there was the making of a great singer in you, and now you
are singing--do you know how badly you are singing?"

"Yis," said Freckles meekly. "I'm thinking I'm too happy to be singing
well today. The music don't come right only when I'm lonesome and sad.
The world's for being all sunshine at prisint, for among you and Mr.
McLean and the Bird Woman I'm after being THAT happy that I can't keep
me thoughts on me notes. It's more than sorry I am to be disappointing
you. Play it over, and I'll be beginning again, and this time I'll hold
hard."

"Well," said the Angel disgustedly, "it seems to me that if I had all
the things to be proud of that you have, I'd lift up my head and sing!"

"And what is it I've to be proud of, ma'am?" politely inquired Freckles.

"Why, a whole worldful of things," cried the Angel explosively. "For
one thing, you can be good and proud over the way you've kept the timber
thieves out of this lease, and the trust your father has in you. You can
be proud that you've never even once disappointed him or failed in what
he believed you could do. You can be proud over the way everyone speaks
of you with trust and honor, and about how brave of heart and strong of
body you are I heard a big man say a few days ago that the Limberlost
was full of disagreeable things--positive dangers, unhealthful as it
could be, and that since the memory of the first settlers it has been a
rendezvous for runaways, thieves, and murderers. This swamp is named for
a man that was lost here and wandered around 'til he starved. That man I
was talking with said he wouldn't take your job for a thousand dollars
a month--in fact, he said he wouldn't have it for any money, and you've
never missed a day or lost a tree. Proud! Why, I should think you would
just parade around about proper over that!

"And you can always be proud that you are born an Irishman. My father
is Irish, and if you want to see him get up and strut give him a teeny
opening to enlarge on his race. He says that if the Irish had decent
territory they'd lead the world. He says they've always been handicapped
by lack of space and of fertile soil. He says if Ireland had been as big
and fertile as Indiana, why, England wouldn't ever have had the upper
hand. She'd only be an appendage. Fancy England an appendage! He says
Ireland has the finest orators and the keenest statesmen in Europe
today, and when England wants to fight, with whom does she fill her
trenches? Irishmen, of course! Ireland has the greenest grass and trees,
the finest stones and lakes, and they've jaunting-cars. I don't know
just exactly what they are, but Ireland has all there are, anyway.
They've a lot of great actors, and a few singers, and there never was a
sweeter poet than one of theirs. You should hear my father recite 'Dear
Harp of My Country.' He does it this way."

The Angel arose, made an elaborate old-time bow, and holding up the
banjo, recited in clipping feet and meter, with rhythmic swing and a
touch of brogue that was simply irresistible:

"Dear harp of my country" [The Angel ardently clasped the banjo],

"In darkness I found thee" [She held it to the light],

"The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long" [She muted the
strings with her rosy palm];

"Then proudly, my own Irish harp, I unbound thee" [She threw up her head
and swept a ringing harmony];

"And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song" [She crashed into
the notes of the accompaniment she had been playing for Freckles].

"That's what you want to be thinking of!" she cried. "Not darkness, and
lonesomeness, and sadness, but 'light, freedom, and song.' I can't begin
to think offhand of all the big, splendid things an Irishman has to be
proud of; but whatever they are, they are all yours, and you are a part
of them. I just despise that 'saddest-when-I-sing' business. You can
sing! Now you go over there and do it! Ireland has had her statesmen,
warriors, actors, and poets; now you be her voice! You stand right out
there before the cathedral door, and I'm going to come down the aisle
playing that accompaniment, and when I stop in front of you--you sing!"

The Angel's face wore an unusual flush. Her eyes were flashing and she
was palpitating with earnestness.

She parted the bushes and disappeared. Freckles, straight and tense,
stood waiting. Presently, before he saw she was there, she was coming
down the aisle toward him, playing compellingly, and rifts of light were
touching her with golden glory. Freckles stood as if transfixed.

The cathedral was majestically beautiful, from arched dome of frescoed
gold, green, and blue in never-ending shades and harmonies, to the
mosaic aisle she trod, richly inlaid in choicest colors, and gigantic
pillars that were God's handiwork fashioned and perfected through ages
of sunshine and rain. But the fair young face and divinely molded form
of the Angel were His most perfect work of all. Never had she appeared
so surpassingly beautiful. She was smiling encouragingly now, and as she
came toward him, she struck the chords full and strong.

The heart of poor Freckles almost burst with dull pain and his great
love for her. In his desire to fulfill her expectations he forgot
everything else, and when she reached his initial chord he was ready. He
literally burst forth:

"Three little leaves of Irish green,
United on one stem,
Love, truth, and valor do they mean,
They form a magic gem."

The Angel's eyes widened curiously and her lips parted. A deep color
swept into her cheeks. She had intended to arouse him. She had more than
succeeded. She was too young to know that in the effort to rouse a man,
women frequently kindle fires that they neither can quench nor control.
Freckles was looking over her head now and singing that song, as it
never had been sung before, for her alone; and instead of her helping
him, as she had intended, he was carrying her with him on the waves
of his voice, away, away into another world. When he struck into the
chorus, wide-eyed and panting, she was swaying toward him and playing
with all her might.

"Oh, do you love? Oh, say you love
You love the shamrock green!"

At the last note, Freckles' voice ceased and he looked at the Angel. He
had given his best and his all. He fell on his knees and folded his arms
across his breast. The Angel, as if magnetized, walked straight down the
aisle to him, and running her fingers into the crisp masses of his red
hair, tilted his head back and laid her lips on his forehead.

Then she stepped back and faced him. "Good boy!" she said, in a voice
that wavered from the throbbing of her shaken heart. "Dear boy! I knew
you could do it! I knew it was in you! Freckles, when you go into the
world, if you can face a big audience and sing like that, just once, you
will be immortal, and anything you want will be yours."

"Anything!" gasped Freckles.

"Anything," said the Angel.

Freckles arose, muttered something, and catching up his old bucket,
plunged into the swamp blindly on a pretence of bringing water. The
Angel walked slowly across the study, sat on the rustic bench, and,
through narrowed lids, intently studied the tip of her shoe.

On the trail the Bird Woman wheeled to McLean with a dumbfounded look.

"God!" muttered he.

At last the Bird Woman spoke.

"Do you think the Angel knew she did that?" she asked softly.

"No," said McLean; "I do not. But the poor boy knew it. Heaven help
him!"

The Bird Woman stared across the gently waving swale. "I don't see how I
am going to blame her," she said at last. "It's so exactly what I would
have done myself."

"Say the remainder," demanded McLean hoarsely. "Do him justice."

"He was born a gentleman," conceded the Bird Woman. "He took no
advantage. He never even offered to touch her. Whatever that kiss meant
to him, he recognized that it was the loving impulse of a child under
stress of strong emotion. He was fine and manly as any man ever could
have been."

McLean lifted his hat. "Thank you," he said simply, and parted the
bushes for her to enter Freckles' room.

It was her first visit. Before she left she sent for her cameras and
made studies of each side of it and of the cathedral. She was entranced
with the delicate beauty of the place, while her eyes kept following
Freckles as if she could not believe that it could be his conception and
work.

That was a happy day. The Bird Woman had brought a lunch, and they
spread it, with Freckles' dinner, on the study floor and sat, resting
and enjoying themselves. But the Angel put her banjo into its case,
silently gathered her music, and no one mentioned the concert.

The Bird Woman left McLean and the Angel to clear away the lunch, and
with Freckles examined the walls of his room and told him all she knew
about his shrubs and flowers. She analyzed a cardinal-flower and
showed him what he had wanted to know all summer--why the bees
buzzed ineffectually around it while the humming-birds found in it
an ever-ready feast. Some of his specimens were so rare that she was
unfamiliar with them, and with the flower book between them they
knelt, studying the different varieties. She wandered the length of the
cathedral aisle with him, and it was at her suggestion that he lighted
his altar with a row of flaming foxfire.