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THE BRASS BOUND BOX
BY EVELYN RAYMOND
AUTHOR OF "THE DOINGS OF NANCY," "MIXED PICKLES," "MY LADY BAREFOOT"
ILLUSTRATED BY DIANTHA W. HORNE
[Illustration]
BOSTON DANA ESTES &
COMPANY PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1905_
BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
THE BRASS BOUND BOX
_COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U. S. A._
[Illustration: "AT LAST IT WAS OUT"]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LEGACY AND LEGATEE 11
II. MASTER MONTGOMERY STURTEVANT 25
III. WHY MONTY DID NOT GO A-FISHING 40
IV. FOXES' GULLY 50
V. CHESTNUTS AND GOLD MINES 64
VI. THE BRASS BOUND BOX 82
VII. THE GRIT OF MOSES JONES 95
VIII. HAY-LOFT DREAMS 110
IX. SQUIRE PETTIJOHN 126
X. ALFARETTA'S PERPLEXITY 142
XI. THE FACE IN THE DARKNESS 154
XII. A STURTEVANT--PERFORCE 168
XIII. BUT--STURTEVANT TO THE RESCUE 187
XIV. ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON 203
XV. BY THE OLD STONE BRIDGE 220
XVI. THE COTTAGE IN THE WOOD 234
XVII. A SELF-ELECTED CONSTABLE 248
XVIII. REUBEN SMITH, ACCESSORY 263
XIX. WHAT THE MOON SAW IN THE CORNFIELD 278
XX. UNINVITED GUESTS 292
XXI. A NEIGHBORLY TRICK OF THE WIND 310
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"AT LAST IT WAS OUT" (See page 81). Frontispiece
"He now lay stretched upon his owner's lap as she still sat on
the floor" 27
"'I feel so queer every little spell, an' I must get home'" 97
"There, all anxiety forgotten, they dreamed dreams and saw visions" 120
"Ma'am Puss extracted her own supper in advance of the family's" 148
"Already one pumpkin pie was half-devoured" 230
"But the late rising moon looked down upon a curious scene" 290
"Each armed with a grinning Jack and somebody driving Whitey
as a snowy guide" 324
THE BRASS BOUND BOX
CHAPTER I.
LEGACY AND LEGATEE
Marsden was one of the few villages of our populous country yet left
remote from any line of railway. The chief events of its quiet days were
the morning and evening arrivals and departures of the mail-coach, whose
driver still retained the almost obsolete custom of blowing a horn to
signal his approach.
All Marsden favored the horn, it was so convenient and so--so antique!
which word typified the spirit of the place. For if modest Marsden had
any pride, it was in its own unchanging attitude toward modern ways and
methods. So, whenever Reuben Smith's trumpet was heard, the villagers
knew it was time to leave their homes along the main street and repair
to the "general store and post-office" for the mail, which was their
strongest connecting link with the outside world.
Occasionally, too, the coach brought a visitor to the village; though
this was commonly in summer-time, when even its own stand-offishness
could not wholly repel the "city boarder." After the leaves changed
color, nobody went to and fro save those who "belonged," as the
storekeeper, the milliner, and Squire Pettijohn, the lawyer; and it had
been ten years, at least, since Reuben's four-in-hand was brought to a
halt before Miss Eunice Maitland's gate. Now, on a windy day of late
September, the two white horses and their two black companions were
reined up there, while the trumpet gave a blast which startled the
entire neighborhood.
"My heart was in my mouth the minute I heard it!" declared the Widow
Sprigg to a crony, later on; although this curious disarrangement of her
anatomy did not prevent the good woman from being foremost at the gate
to learn the cause of this salute, thus rudely anticipating her
mistress's rights in the case. Therefore, it was upon a time-damaged,
cap-frilled countenance that Katharine Maitland's dismayed glance fell
as she sprang from the stage and inquired:
"Are you my Aunt Eunice?"
"Your--Aunt--Eunice! Thank my stars, I ain't aunt to nobody!" returned
the widow, almost as much alarmed by the appearance of this strange
maiden as she had been by the coachman's blast.
"It is a matter of thankfulness," retorted the girl, pertly, and
surveying the other with amused and critical eyes, which made Susanna
Sprigg "squirm in her shoes."
Reuben now slowly climbed down from his high seat, and removed from the
rumble a great trunk, a suit-case, a parcel of books, and a dog-basket;
and the stranger at once occupied herself in releasing from his confined
quarters a pug so atrociously high-bred that Susanna instantly
exclaimed:
"My stars! That dog's so humbly he must ache!"
Katharine would have given a crisp reply had not her attention been
distracted by Reuben's movements, who was waiting to receive his fare,
yet in such terror of the pug's snapping jaws that he was stepping up
and down in a lively fashion, as he rescued one foot and then the other
from his enemy's attack.
"'Pears to blame _me_ for bein' shut up in that there basket, don't he?
When anybody knows 'twasn't my fault at all. I hain't enj'yed the trip
no more'n what he has, hearin' him yelp that continual, an' I must say I
didn't expect, at my time o' life, to commence drivin' stage for dogs.
Here, sis, is your change. Good day to ye, an' a good welcome, I hope."
"Humph! You don't speak as if you really 'hoped' it, but quite the
reverse!" returned Punch's mistress, more shrewdly than courteously.
"Dreadful smart, ain't ye?" said Reuben, and drove away, putting his
horn to his lips, and thereby drowning any further remarks which the
stranger might have addressed to him.
Lifting the ungainly brute in her arms, the girl now turned and surveyed
the house beyond the gate, her heart far heavier with homesickness than
seemed consistent with her outward, flippant bearing.
What she saw was a wide, rambling frame house; wherever they showed
between the clambering vines which encircled it, its clapboards
glistening white and its shutters vividly green. The few leaves still
left upon the vines were scarlet, while behind the low roof rose maples
in the full glory of their autumn reds and yellows. The long front yard
was green and well kept, and the borders beside the path were gay with
chrysanthemums, though between these showed the frost-blackened foliage
of tenderer plants. Upon the porch was a woman with a shawl over her
head, apparently shivering in the wind which tossed the maple boughs,
and awaiting an explanation of this arrival.
"A pretty picture!" admitted Katharine, who fancied herself artistic,
"but so lonesome it gives me the hypo! And that--that, I suppose, is my
Aunt Eunice. Well, Punch, come on! Let's get it over with!"
The Widow Sprigg had remained motionless, but keenly observant, and her
thoughts were:
"If that ain't a Maitland, I never knew the breed. And I reckon I do
know it, bein's me an' my fam'ly has lived cheek by jowl with them an'
their fam'ly since ever was. But which Maitland it is, or what in reason
she's come for, beats me."
Then, as the stranger walked coolly through the gateway, leaving her
luggage on the sidewalk outside, Susanna sniffed, and remarked--for
anybody to hear who chose:
"What's that mean? Expect me to fetch an' carry for such a strappin'
girl as that? Well, not if I know Susanna Sprigg, an' I think I do."
Whereupon, the widow, long time "assistant" to her more affluent
"neighbor," Miss Maitland, shrugged her shoulders at the wind and this
absurd notion, and followed Kate. She wouldn't have missed the interview
between that young person and her enforced hostess "for a farm," and yet
she was extremely anxious concerning the trunk and the parcels. But
curiosity prevailed over caution, and she was in time to hear the rather
nervous inquiry:
"Are you my Aunt Eunice--so called?"
"I am Eunice Maitland, and though I am not aunt in reality to any one, I
have been lovingly nicknamed 'aunt' by many of my kin. But no matter
what our relationship, you are a Maitland, I am sure, and I am very glad
to see you in Marsden. Come in, come in at once. The wind is chill, and
you have had a long ride," responded the precise old gentlewoman,
extending her hand to Katharine, and cordially attempting to draw the
girl within the shelter of the great hall.
But this hospitable attempt was rudely misunderstood by Punch, who
snapped at the hand, and caused its owner to withdraw it hastily,
saying: "It will be better to leave your dog outside."
"Leave my dog outside! Leave Punch, my--my--my darling! Oh! I can't do
that. He has been so tenderly brought up, and is so sensitive to the
cold. He has really suffered on that dreadful ride."
Miss Eunice frowned slightly, and merely remarking, "Very well, bring
him in, though I caution you against Sir Philip. He is old and
irritable," led the way through the wide hall into a sitting-room
beyond, where a wood fire was burning on the hearth, and the furnishings
were of the sort in vogue a hundred years ago. Even the disturbed young
visitor thought she had never seen anything so charming as that simple
interior, where everything was in keeping, and so spotlessly neat, and
over which fell the cheerful radiance of the blazing logs.
Unceremoniously dropping Punch, she clasped her hands in admiration,
exclaiming:
"Oh, how quaint! How interesting! How unlike anything I expected to
see!"
Although Miss Eunice was gratified by this tribute to her familiar
surroundings, she fancied that its expression was overdone, and resented
its seemingly patronizing insincerity. Placing a chair directly in the
glow of the fire, she invited Katharine to take it, while she herself
sat down on a straight-backed settle beyond.
Sensitive to feel the lessening cordiality of her hostess's manner,
Katharine hid her feeling behind an added flippancy, as she tossed her
palms outward, in a manner wholly natural to herself, but which the
house-mistress again fancied an affectation, and exclaimed: "Well!"
"Well?" returned Miss Eunice, quietly but inquiringly.
"Well, I suppose you're the legatee and I'm the legacy. I hope you won't
be half as unwilling to accept me as I am to be left to you. If you are,
there'll be some high times in Marsden."
This mixture of frankness and bravado brought a second frown to Miss
Maitland's fine face, but she said, quite courteously:
"Kindly explain, my child, who you are, and to what I am indebted--"
"For the nuisance of your legacy," interrupted the girl, excitedly, and,
thrusting a sealed letter into the other's hand, drew back in her own
chair and covered her face with her hands. Under all her self-confident
manner her heart was throbbing painfully, and she felt as if she must
get up and run away. Somewhere in the great forest through which Reuben
had driven his coach lay an apparently deserted little cabin, which had
attracted her by its overgrowth of woodbine--that hereabout seemed to
envelop everything upon which it could clasp its tendrils--and whose
memory now returned to her invitingly. Exiled from her own home, an
alien here, such a spot as that would be a haven of refuge. She had not
known exactly what was in the letter she had tossed Miss Maitland, but
she had guessed sufficiently near to know its contents could not be
flattering to herself. Beneath her hiding hands her cheeks were flushing
with shame when she heard her name spoken with utmost gentleness and
affection.
"So you are John's only child! I should have known it without being
told, only it is so many, many years since he left me, a wild little lad
who found the old home too dull. He was not as close of kin as some
others I have reared here, and he was but fifteen when he went away. But
I have always loved him, and hoped for his return; and now--"
"Oh, my stars!" inadvertently exclaimed the Widow Sprigg, thus
disclosing the fact that she had been listening beyond the door.
"And now, Susanna, I smell your bread scorching," went on the mistress
as calmly as if the other had not betrayed herself. Then, when the
kitchen door had been slammed by the retreating hand-maiden, with an
emphasis that said as clearly as words that her mistress might go on and
talk, and things might happen enough to turn a body's head, for all she,
Susanna Sprigg, cared or noticed, so there! Miss Eunice left her own
seat, and, going around to Katharine's, gently drew the hiding hands
away from the troubled young face, and, putting the letter into them,
said: "There, my dear, read it."
"No, no! I can't! I won't! I hate it. I hate her, and
all--all--belonging to her! I never want to see or hear of her again.
And I won't stay. I see you don't want your legacy, and I'll go at once.
I have ten dollars, I can live--"
"Why, there's some mistake, little girl. This is from no 'her,' but--a
message from the dead."
The sudden break in the quiet old voice touched the listener more than
the words, and she mechanically took the letter as she repeated:
"A message from the dead? What can you mean?"
"Read it and see."
Then Katharine read what her idolized father had written many months
before, when the knowledge of his own approaching death had come to him;
and it seemed to her that it was his own voice saying:
"DEAR AUNT EUNICE:--For dear you are, notwithstanding all these
years of silence, during which your wild little lad has grown
into a busy, care-burdened man. That you heard of my first
marriage, and my wife's early death, leaving me with one little
girl--your legacy--I know; because that all happened before the
habit of our correspondence lapsed. But you may not know that
two years ago I married again, a widow with four little sons;
and though she has been the best of wives to me, she and my
darling Katharine have not been happy together. Kate is a
passionate, self-willed, but great-hearted child, so full of
romantically generous impulses that I long ago nicknamed her my
'Kitty Quixote.' Her stepmother's nature and temperament are of
quite another mold; and knowing what I have just learned
concerning my own health, I foresee nothing but misery for
these two, should they be left to live together without my
presence.
"So, since my motherless daughter is my most precious
possession and you have been my most devoted friend, I find it
the most natural thing in the world to bequeath my treasure to
my friend. If, for any reason unknown to me, you cannot accept
my legacy I have made other arrangements for Katharine's
future, which you can learn by applying to my lawyers, Messrs.
Brown and Brown, Blank Street, New York.
"My wife knows of this letter, and we have arranged that after
my death, should it occur, Kate is to remain with her for six
months, as a final test of their ability to live happily
together, and for the benefit of the schools in this city. At
the end of that time, if these two well-meaning but uncongenial
people decide that it is wisest to part, 'Kitty Quixote' will
be sent to you, to do with as you see fit. In any case, she
will be no pecuniary charge to any one; her own mother's little
fortune, with such a portion of mine as is justly hers, being
all-sufficient for ordinary needs.
"In loving remembrance of my boyhood, made happy by your care,
and in firm reliance upon your friendship, your troublesome
John bids you farewell."
Katharine had expected to find the sealed letter she had been
commissioned to deliver to Miss Maitland but a complaining missive from
her stepmother, setting forth the girl's faults and failures with that
accuracy of detail so characteristic of the "second Mrs. John." That
lady's handwriting upon the envelope had helped her to this impression,
yet so honest was she that she had not once thought of protesting or
refusing to deliver it. The revulsion of feeling was now so strong that
she could not restrain her tears, nor the impulse to throw herself
headlong upon Aunt Eunice, crying wildly:
"Oh, it's all true! But he loved me, my father loved me, bad as I am!
And for his sake I wish--I wish I could be good. So folks, his folks,
or--or anybody could stand it to live with me! But I can't. I've tried.
I've tried ever so hard, yet the goodness gets down below and the
badness stays on top, and then things go--smash!"
Aunt Eunice waited a moment, then replaced Katharine in her chair,
thinking what a child she still seemed, despite her fourteen years and
her city training. Also, recalling with a thrill of pride that she
herself, at fourteen years, had been the head of her own father's
widowed home and a woman, by contrast. "Though I was reared in Marsden,"
she complacently reflected, as she said:
"I should be glad to hear whatever you choose to tell me, my dear, of
your life. Especially, what caused the final break between you and Mrs.
Maitland."
"Why, it wasn't badness at all, that time! It was meant in kindness.
Some other girls and I had fixed up a sort of house-picnic for
washer-woman Biddy's children, who were all down with the measles, and
just to amuse them I took stepmother's boys, the four young
Snowballs--haven't they the absurdest name?--along; and she--she didn't
like it. She said things. That I'd wilfully exposed them to danger,
though I ought to be as careful of them as if they were my real
brothers. And there I was trying to be, only she didn't understand.
Then, another day, not long before, I coaxed some big boys who have a
naphtha-launch to give the 'Balls a sail on it down the bay. The thing
happened to explode, and, though nobody was hurt, she went on just
terrible because I'd taken the children without asking her. How could I
ask her when she was off shopping, or somewhere, just at the very moment
the idea popped into my head? And nothing befell the little fellows
except getting their clothes wet, and they always needed washing,
anyway. The nice part of it was that they were scared into behaving
themselves as they should for a whole week afterward, and she might have
been pleased. But it was always like that. I'd have perfectly lovely
plans for making everybody happy, all around, and they'd all end just
the other way. So here I am. Mrs. John has cast me off; do you accept
me?"
"First, let me ask if you were accustomed to speak of your father's wife
in that manner?"
The girl was surprised by the other's tone, yet promptly answered:
"Certainly. Everybody amongst father's artist friends called her either
'the second Mrs. John,' or 'Stepmother.' Either one it happened. Why?"
"It was most disrespectful."
At this uncompromising reply, Kate stared, exclaiming: "Why, you're a
truth-teller yourself, aren't you?"
"I am. Did you not suppose so?" returned Miss Maitland, amused.
"Well, you see, I've been told you were very agreeable, and most of the
really agreeable people I know lie like the mischief."
"Katharine!"
"Fact. And I've got into more scrapes for telling the truth than for any
other thing I've done, except being kind to the little Snowballs.
But--hark! What's that? Punch--_Punch_--You flippety-cap woman! Stop!
Stop! Stop!"
An eruptive, agonized bark from the hall sent the girl thither at a
bound, while Miss Eunice hastily followed, anxiously crying: "Philip!
Sir _Philip Sidney_!"