The Brass Bound Box

Thus enabled to edge in a remark of her own, Madam replied, with some anxiety in her tones:

"The little Katharine has not been here. Not that I know. Has she, Alfaretta?"

"I – I hain't seen her," faltered the maid, shivering as a fresh gust of wind rattled the casement and a flash of lightning made everything visible without. But she had closed her eyes against whatever might be revealed and still delayed her mistress's direction:

"Go and look for Montgomery and see if he knows anything about Katharine;" then, turning to Susanna, she added: "I am so glad that they are going to be such friends. It's a good thing for a growing boy to be associated with a young lady of his own – his own position in life."

Susanna sniffed. She was democratic by profession and did not feel called upon to explain that as a matter of fact there was nobody living so appreciative as herself of "good family" – as represented in Marsden by the Sturtevants and Maitlands. She merely ignored the remark, starting from her seat as a terrible blast set the old Mansion trembling on its stout beams and an east side shutter blew from its hinges.

"My suz! We've never had such a storm sence I can remember, an' Katy in nothin' but ducks! Eunice has wrote right away, soon's she made up her mind to keep her, to that stepmother o' hers to take an' buy the child some good strong shoes an' dark warm dresses, fit for a girl to wear in a country village. She's goin' to begin school, soon's town meetin's over an' Moses'll have time to drive her there. Oh, I forget he's broke. Well, she'll go sometime, if the proper clothes come an' things turn out accordin'. But come she must now, an' to oncet, if she's anywhere's hereabout, 'cause I dassent stay a minute more. I shall be blowed off my feet, I 'low, an' I wish, I do wish, I hadn't wore my best bunnit."

"Take it off and leave it here, Susanna. I will lend you a scarf to tie over your hair, and Montgomery shall carry it home to you in the morning. I will go myself and see if the children are on the place. Though I doubt it, if Alfaretta hasn't seen them, or if they haven't come in here to be with us during the storm. Maybe it will soon pass. Wouldn't you better wait and see?"

"Not a minute longer 'an to look," answered the widow, really more alarmed for the comfort of her home folks than for herself. Laying her bonnet carefully upon the side table, she followed Madam into the kitchen, yet would not permit that lady to explore the barn as she set out to do.

"Come along with me, Alfy, but get a lantern. I hear the barn door swingin' an' old Whitey mooin' as if even she was scared. You or Monty must ha' been careless about shuttin' up to-night, which uther one of you done it, or didn't do it."

A lantern was procured and lighted, but there Alfaretta's assistance ended. Nothing would have induced her to visit that barn again that night, no matter how well protected by such a valiant woman as the Widow Sprigg. As the latter disappeared toward the outbuildings, carefully shielding the lantern with her shawl, Alfaretta's conscience drove her to say:

"It ain't no use. She won't find him. He – he ain't there."

"Isn't there? Then why, child, did you do such a rude thing as to let her go on a useless errand? I really don't understand what has come over you to-night. You are trying my patience severely."

"Yes'm," admitted the bond-maid, meekly.

Madam laid her hand upon the girl's shoulder and turned her face toward the light of the candle which she was herself holding behind the uncurtained kitchen window, the better to guide Susanna on her way.

"Tell me, child, what has frightened you so? Do you know where my dear grandson is? It terrifies me to think he may be somewhere out-of-doors, unprotected in this tempest. Did he go fishing? Nutting? To play ball? Do you know where he is?"

"Yes'm," again answered the little maid, but to which of these several inquiries was not disclosed. At that moment a blinding flash of lightning illumined the whole space between house and barn, showing Susanna wildly flinging her arms aloft, her lantern flying in one direction, herself in another, while distinctly silhouetted against the glare was another figure, so strange and uncouth that even Madam retreated a pace in sudden alarm.

They could hear Susanna still screaming as she fled, but a second flash showed the man who had alarmed her standing motionless on the spot where they had discovered him.

Whoever or whatever he might be, it wasn't a pleasant situation for these two, so isolated from their neighbors, and without even Montgomery's presence. Mere lad as he was, he was still something masculine, and at least his grandmother believed him to be a very hero for courage. But he was not there to "protect" them from the possible annoyance of this unknown creature, and now, gently leading the frightened maid, Madam went back to her untasted supper and sat down in her place. She also motioned the girl to take a chair close beside her own, and when she had done this, again asked:

"What frightened you so, just as Widow Sprigg arrived? Did you see this man – outside – then?"

"I – I didn't see a man. I saw a face! I'd finished milkin' Whitey and a'ready 'twas gettin' dark awful fast an' early. I felt the wind blowin' and I knew the back shutters was loose. So I scuttled 'crost to pull 'em to, lest they got blowed clean away, an' there – there – right in the square of window by the old box-stalls was – was – the face! I got one look, 'cause first off I couldn't somehow move hand or foot, an' I saw how white it was, how its eyes blazed, how wild and stand-uppish its hair was, an' it smiled – Oh, what a dreadful smile! An' then I knew 'twas a ghost! It's just the night for 'em, such as I used to hear the old folks talk about out to the 'Farm,' An' which of us do you suppose, oh, which has got to die? 'Cause it's a 'call,' a 'warnin',' to somebody."

The little maid's terror was so real and her mental suffering so intense that the Madam pitied her profoundly, though she smiled as she answered:

"I wish it may prove nothing more troublesome than a 'ghost,' a creature of one's imagination. Ah, my child! When you reach my age you will know that the only 'ghosts' who can really trouble us are our unhappy memories. I suspect that it is one of those 'tramps,' for which Susanna is always looking, but who have thus far avoided peaceful Marsden. Unlucky woman! whose first meeting with her expected 'tramp' should be on such a night and alone. Wind or no wind, she'll make a short journey of the long road home."

Already, safe once more in the sheltered dining-room which was on the side of the house least exposed to the storm and that did not face the outbuildings, the housemistress's confidence returned. If only Montgomery were with her, so, that she knew him also safe, she would have been content. As it was, even, she began to think kindly and pityingly of whatever poor wretch had sought shelter at her door. If he didn't smoke, and so endanger the buildings, she wished he would seek cover with old Whitey till the storm was past.

Meanwhile, one crouching in the hay-strewn bay, hugging a squirming dog for company, and one lying upon a narrow stretcher beneath the eaves, – the missing Katharine and Montgomery listened to the roar of the tempest and believed that the very day of doom had arrived. Neither had ever heard anything like that wind. Indeed, none in Marsden ever had, and the morning was to reveal many ruined buildings and uprooted trees. But thus far the darkness hid all this, and Widow Sprigg raced homeward unharmed save by the rain, which now began to fall in torrents.

Miss Maitland was watching her arrival in great anxiety. She had early secured every door and shutter, save at this one window which commanded the path from the gate. Here she had placed a brightly burning lamp to act as beacon to the wanderers, and she had also set the fire to blazing brightly. Before the fire hung warm clothing for the pair, and, having done all that she could think of for their comfort, she had passed to and fro between the sitting-room and Moses' chamber. He was almost as uneasy as the storm itself; alternately berating himself for a "fool," and speculating upon the deacon's management of affairs at the barn.

"I'll bet – I'll bet a continental he never cut the fodder for the cattle but just give it to 'em hull! He was no 'count of a farmer, the deacon wasn't. Good man, yes. I ain't sayin' he ain't that; but did it ever strike you, Eunice, that most good folks is pesky stupid? Or 'clever' ones, uther? I call it plumb equal to tellin' you you're a reg'lar tomnoddy to say a fellar's uther 'clever' or 'good.' I 'low little stutterin' Monty Sturtevant could ha' done the chores well enough till I get 'round again, an' I could ha' bossed him." Then, after a moment: "But I can't boss the deacon."

"No, you poor old grumbler! I reckon he isn't that kind. And your judgment of your neighbors is a bit extreme. Never mind. It's such a good sign to hear you scold that I'm encouraged to think you'll soon be well again. Now I'll go down and be ready to open the door for Susanna and Katharine. It's terrible to have them exposed to this storm."

But there was nobody visible, and at length Miss Eunice felt assured that she should not see them till the tempest lulled. So she returned once more to the kitchen-chamber, to comfort its occupant and herself as well. She had just remarked, for the third time:

"No! I'm sure Elinor would never let them set out in such weather as this. She has kept them to supper, and I do hope Susanna will have forethought enough to decline the ham and bread she carried for Monty, and confine herself to whatever the family was to have had by itself. Susanna is very hearty, I'm glad to say – "

"Eats so much it makes her thin to carry it around!" growled Moses, interrupting. "As for Montgomery, that little shaver's never had – "

What he would have added is not known.

Out upon the kitchen stairs sounded the rush of sodden feet, which seemed to stumble from sheer weariness even in their maddened haste; and the next instant there burst into the room what looked like a wretched caricature of poor Susanna. Bonnetless and spectacle-less, her gray hair streaming in snake-like strands, her garments dripping pools, her fine black Sunday shawl trailing behind her like a splash of flowing ink, she dropped upon the floor gasping and sobbing, and, apparently, at her wits' end.

A second's hesitation at touching so draggled and dripping a creature held Eunice aloof; and then she was down beside her friend, wiping the rain-wet face and begging to be told what had befallen.

"Surely, something worse than a storm has brought you to this pass, my poor dear. You look frightened – you tremble – You – Oh, Susanna! Where is Katharine? Has harm happened her?"

"Her? 'Tain't her! It's me. It's come at last, an' I always – knew – it would. Oh, say! Am I alive or – or – dead?"

Then as the absurdity of her own question flashed upon her, she began to laugh hysterically, and soon to sob with equal fervor. She was wholly overdone and unnerved, and, realizing that nothing could be learned till she was calmer, her mistress put no further inquiries, but led her away down the stairs, still dripping moisture, – a fact that no stress of emotion could hide from the critical sight of two such housekeepers.

"Them stairs! An' I washin' 'em all up clean just afore sundown! Lucky I hadn't put down the carpet yet, though I'd laid out – Oh, my suz!"

This was the first coherent sentence, if such it can be called, which escaped the terrified woman, while she was being undressed and freshly clothed in the warm things Eunice had provided.

"Yes, dear heart. But never mind the stairs. Did you find Katharine?"

"Nuther hide nor hair of her. Likely she's gone visitin' some the village little girls. She's that friendly she's been into most every house a'ready. She's safe enough. She won't never come to harm, Katy won't. But, Eunice, he's come! I've seen him!"

"Who's come? What 'him,' dear?" asked the other, gently, and thinking that exposure and fright had made this usually clear-headed Susanna a little flighty. "Here, take a cup of tea. I made it fresh but a few minutes ago. It will refresh you and quiet you wonderfully."

Now, as a rule, the Widow Sprigg needed no urging to drink her favorite beverage, which, like many another countrywoman, – more's the pity! – she kept steeping on the stove all day long. But now, for an instant, she looked doubtfully upon the cup; then, as a sudden whim seized her, caught it up eagerly and again ascended the stairs to Moses' bedroom. He lay motionless, his leg kept taut by a ball and chain and his poor body encased in plaster, but he could use his arms and eyes, the one thrown restlessly here and there and the other glittering with impatient curiosity.

"Well, there, Moses Jones! How many times have you jeered an' gibed at me for believin' in 'tramps'? Wasn't 'none,' was there? Well, there is. I've seen him. He – he chased me! All the way from the Mansion till I got clean to the post-office – an' then – then – he – he cut for the woods! Oh, my suz! Be I dreamin' or awake?"

The recalling of her frightful experience again so unnerved her that she sat down trembling on the edge of Moses' cot, and would have spilled her tea had not Eunice caught the cup in time to prevent.

"You're crazy!" retorted Mr. Jones, unconvinced. "And there ain't no call, as I can see, for you to set down on my broke leg. That awful ball the doctor tied to it'll keep it straight enough, I 'low."

Susanna sprang up as if she had been tossed to her feet, her face quickly becoming normal and compassionate again.

"Oh, I didn't mean to do that! I hope I hain't hurt it none," she apologized, frankly distressed.

"Well, seein' 'at you didn't touch it, I 'low there ain't no great harm done. I was only providin' against futur' trouble. Now go on with your 'trampy' talk."

By this time Susanna was able to give an account of the man she had seen on Madam Sturtevant's premises, and who, when she ran, had soon followed in pursuit. According to her highly embellished version, his attire had been collected from somebody's rag-bag, his hair and beard had never known shears or razor, his eyes were as big as saucers and gleamed with an unholy light, and his color was like chalk. But fierce! There was no word could describe the ferocity of the terrible creature's pallid countenance! and, as for speed – Well, Susanna herself had made the record of her life, yet he, with several minutes' disadvantage, had actually overtaken her and grabbed at her shawl. Witness! said shawl dragging behind her when she entered.

"Hm-m! What puzzles me is that any tramp – any tramp in his senses – should take after an old woman like you, Susanna. An' how in reason did you get a chance to investigate the cut of his features an' the state of his wardrobe in the dark, as it is?" inquired Moses, humorously.

But there was no humor in Susanna's grim countenance, as she contemptuously replied:

"How but by the lightnin'? Playin' all around everything every minute, makin' more'n daylight to see by. An', though I was scared nigh to death, for the soul of me, I couldn't help lookin' 'round every now an' again to see what he was like. I'd never had a chance to see a tramp afore, an' I never expect to again, so I had to improve my opportunity, hadn't I? Scared or no scared."

This view of the situation made both her hearers laugh; but in Moses' mind was slowly growing a desperate regret, which finally expressed itself in the exclamation:

"An' to think I hadn't even been elected constable, an' hadn't no chance to arrest the first tramp an' vagrant ever set foot in this village of Marsden!"

Back at the Mansion there was no further disturbance. Madam Sturtevant comforted herself with the supposition that her grandson was at the home of some boyish chum or other; and she even ate a considerable portion of the now cold porridge, steadfastly refusing Alfy's entreaty to take some of the good things which Susanna had brought for him.

"You may eat your supper in here to-night, Alfaretta, at the little table; but that basket was for Montgomery, and we will leave it to him to open. We shall get our share of its contents, never fear."

With more faith in the lad's generosity, where appetite was concerned, than Alfaretta had, the grandmother set the basket aside in the closet, and took up her knitting of stockings for her boy's winter wear.

And then, as if he had felt himself under discussion, or more likely – as Alfy surmised – had smelled the odor of good things even through many partitions, the door softly opened, and there appeared a tumbled head, a frightened face, and a pair of beseeching eyes. Whatever reproof was in store for him, he meant those eyes should do their part toward modifying it.

And for a time all went well. Madam was so full of the incident of the tramp and the horror of the storm that she forgot to ask him where he had so long delayed, and how it chanced that he was so perfectly dry. However, this all came out of itself. While she was describing the gust which had blown the shutter free, he burst forth:

"I-I-I heard that! Yes, siree! An' I thought the whole r-r-r-roof was goin'. An' then I w-w-went to sleep a s-s-s-sp-ell. When I woke up, 'twas so p-p-pit-chy dark I dassent stay no l-l-longer."

With which he coolly sliced himself a portion of the ham which his grandmother had promptly produced. She watched him in silence for a moment, then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, demanded:

"Montgomery, have you been in the secret chamber again? Was Katharine with you?"

With his mouth full, he stammered: "Y-y-yes, I've been. You never said not. But K-K-Katharine she w-w-wasn't with me."

"Montgomery, where is she? It was for her Susanna came. Eunice does not know, nobody has seen her, can you tell where she is? You were at The Maples all day – you played with her —where is she?"

Even in her sternest moods, "Gram'ma" had never been like this. And all at once a horrible chill ran down poor Monty's back. Memory returned; all his treachery; his unchivalrous desertion of a helpless girl in a dangerous place; and, to his honor be it said, did for a moment turn him deadly sick. But his natural temperament soon rallied. Of course she would have found a way to get down and out. Yet, – and again he felt faint, – what if she had not? What if she had had to pass the hours of this dreadful storm on the top of a hay-mow under a barn roof, where, even on mild days, a strong breeze blew through.

Madam leaned forward, austere, intent. "My son, tell me everything."

Under the spell of those piercing eyes, he did tell. Indeed, he was glad to tell. He felt she would find a word of comfort for his remorseful conscience. Alas! the word she did find was simply this:

"Montgomery, put on your jacket and go to Aunt Eunice's at once."

"Gr-gr-gram'ma! In this awful s-s-storm? An' that t-t-tramp?"

There was no relenting. The gentlewoman's glance was now not only stern but scornful, as she returned:

"Are you a Sturtevant, and ask me for delay?"

CHAPTER XIII.

BUT – STURTEVANT TO THE RESCUE

All the conflicting emotions which whirled through Montgomery's mind pictured themselves in his face as he confronted the stern old gentlewoman opposite. The silence in the room was unbroken save by the roar of the tempest, and it seemed an age before she asked, coldly:

"Are you afraid?"

But there was no hesitation as he hastily stammered:

"Y-y-yes, gr-gram'ma, I am afraid. So 'fraid I – I – can't hardly think nor feel nothin'. B-b-but —I'm – going!"

His ruddy cheeks were now colorless save where the freckles spotted them, and his great eyes seemed to have grown in size; but though there was piteous terror in their blue depths there was no flinching from the duty. It took him a long time to button his jacket and adjust his cap. He even inspected his shoe-laces with a hitherto unknown care, and thoughtfully placed a stick of wood upon the dying embers. He wished – oh, how devoutly he wished – that he had been born just a common boy, like Bob Turner, or any other village lad, and not a Sturtevant! These hateful traditions about family and gentlemen – Cracky! How that wind did blow! That tramp – Well, he dared not think about the tramp, and there was nothing more he could find to delay the awful moment of departure. With a last imploring glance toward Madam, to see if there was no relenting, or if she would not suggest some easier way, "'cause she knows all 'b-bout honor an' such p-pl-plag – uey things," – yet finding none, he dragged himself to the side door, fumbled a moment with the latch, and went out.

Had he known it, Madam Sturtevant was suffering more than he. She would far rather have faced the elements and the darkness on that mile-long walk, unused to exposure though she was, than have sent this last darling of her heart out alone and unprotected. Indeed, she sat so still, and looked so anxious for a time after he had gone, that Alfaretta ventured to touch her hand, and to comfort, saying:

"Don't you worry, dear Madam. Nothin' 'll happen to Monty. Mr. Jones, he's well acquainted with him, an' he says 'at Monty's got as many lives as a cat. He's fell down-stairs, an' out of a cherry-tree, an' choked on fish-bones, an' had green-apple colic, an' been kicked by Squire Pettijohn's bull, an' tumbled into Foxes' Gully, – and that ain't but six things that might ha' killed him an' didn't. Besides, Monty's a good runner. Why, Madam, he's the fastest runner goes to school! True. He's more'n likely half-way there whilst we're just a-talkin'. Shall I fetch your specs an' the Chronicle newspaper? Readin' might pass the time till he gets back, an' I guess – I guess I won't be too scared to wash the dishes in the kitchen, if – if you'll let me leave the door open between."

Alfaretta had enumerated the various disasters which had befallen Montgomery upon finger after finger, and with such perfect gravity that the anxious grandmother was amused, in spite of her fear, and felt herself greatly cheered. With a kindly smile, she answered:

"Yes, Alfy, please do bring it; and, of course, you need not close the door. We are sadly late with the work to-night, but you may sit up till my son comes back. You are a dear, good child, Alfaretta, doing your duty faithfully in that state of life to which you were born, and you are a comfort to me."

The happy girl fairly flew to bring the "specs" and the last number of the religious weekly which Eunice regularly sent to her old friend. Conscience was rather doubtful about that ever faithful performance of duty; but why worry? Praise was sweet, doubly sweet from one so fine a pattern of all the virtues as her mistress, and Alfaretta had found comfort for her own self in comforting another. Besides, now she was either getting used to it, or the storm was lulling, for the blinds did not rattle as they had, and that mournful soughing of the wind in the tall chimneys had nearly ceased.

The bond-maid had rarely "done" her dishes so swiftly or so well, and, having set them in their places, she put out the kitchen candle, fetched her knitting, and sat down on her own stool beside the fireplace. For a wonder she was not sleepy. Too much had occurred that day to fill her imagination, and now that the "face" which had terrified her was safely out of sight, she began to recall it with a sort of fascination. If it were a ghost, it must have been that of somebody she had once known, for it was oddly familiar. The heavy features had a ghastly resemblance to – Who could it be? Uncle Moses? Mr. Turner? The stage-driver? No, none of these; nor of any old pensioner at the "Farm." Then, suddenly, she thought of Squire Pettijohn, terrible man, who had used to visit that "Farm," inspect its workings, suggest further extreme economies, where, it seemed to the beneficiaries, that economy had already reached its limit, ask personal questions, such as even a pauper may resent, and make himself generally obnoxious. Alfaretta had frankly hated him, and had never been more thankful than when she was assigned to Madam Sturtevant rather than to Mrs. Pettijohn – both ladies having entered application for a "bound-out" servant at the very same time. Already ashamed of misfortunes which were not at all her own fault, she had resented his pinching of her ears, his facetious references to her worthless parents, his chuckings under the chin, and the other personal familiarities by which some elderly people fancy they are pleasing younger ones.