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.
As Freckles came to the cabin from his long day at the swamp he
saw Mrs. Chicken sweeping to the south and wondered where she was
going. He stepped into the bright, cosy little kitchen, and as he
reached down the wash-basin he asked Mrs. Duncan a question.
"Mother Duncan, do kisses wash off?"
So warm a wave swept her heart that a half-flush mantled her face.
She straightened her shoulders and glanced at her hands tenderly.
"Lord, na! Freckles," she cried. "At least, the anes
ye get from people ye love dinna. They dinna stay on the outside.
They strike in until they find the center of your heart and make
their stopping-place there, and naething can take them from ye--I
doubt if even death----Na, lad, ye can be reet sure kisses dinna
wash off!"
Freckles set the basin down and muttered as he plunged his hot,
tired face into the water, "I needn't be afraid to be washing,
then, for that one struck in."