SQUIRE PETTIJOHN
Katharine should have grown familiar, by this time, with Monty's
spasmodic disappearances, but this last was the most amazing of all. It
seemed that at the sound of "Pettijohn" the hay had opened and swallowed
him. There had been no other summons and she had heard only a faint
swish of something sliding, then found herself alone.
"But he'll come back, of course," she reflected, "after he's seen that
gentleman. Must have been somebody he liked or he wouldn't have hurried
so. Anyway, I don't mind being here a little while by myself to think
things out all clear, and a hay-mow is the loveliest place in the world
for dreaming."
It proved such in reality for Katharine, who, burrowing herself a fresh,
chair-like "nest" in the sweet-scented hay, laid her head back and fixed
her gaze upon the clouds floating above the slatted window. Soon her
lids dropped and she fell fast asleep.
When she awoke the loft was dusky in twilight and she was very cold. The
wind had risen, and little tufts of the hay about her blew here and
there, clinging to her clothing and lodging among her short curls.
Montgomery had not returned, and after lying still a moment longer, till
she was fully awake, she grew frightened, thinking:
"I never heard such a moaning and whistling as the wind does make up
here. I wonder if it is always so in a barn, and how I am to get down.
It was hard enough coming up, but in the dark, like this, and I not
remembering just where that ladder was; and if I don't find it--what
shall I do? Yet how silly to be afraid of things, a big girl like me;
and how impolite of that boy to go away and forget me. No matter how
much he likes Squire Pettijohn, he shouldn't forget his manners;
especially since it is I, not that gentleman, who is going to cure him
of stuttering. And what a stupid I am not to call him! If he's forgotten
I must remind him."
With that she crept as near the edge of the mow as she dared, and
shouted: "Montgomery! Monty Sturtevant! Boy! Come back and help me
down!"
While she listened for a reply she thought of the eggs she had collected
for Susanna, and crawled back to find her hat and them. The hat she
slipped over her head, its elastic band clasping her throat, and the
eggs she stored within her blouse. They were heavy and made it sag
inconveniently, but she could soon get rid of them if only that wretched
little Sturtevant boy would come back. She must try again!
"Mon-ty! _Mont--gom--ery!_"
Nothing save the wind soughing dismally among the rafters responded to
her call, uttered with her loudest voice, and a fresh shiver of fear
crept over her. Then she rallied, growing angry, which, under the
circumstances, was the best thing that could have happened. Her
indignation made her half-forget her terror so that she could plan her
descent with something like courage.
"Let me think. I noticed that the top of that straight little ladder
came high above the hay, almost to the roof in one place. I'd better get
on my stomach and just crawl along, ever so slowly and carefully, till I
find it. But--hark! Oh, joy!"
From somewhere in the darkness below a familiar yelp and whine sounded
faintly. The roaring of the wind almost drowned it, yet she recognized
that Punch had traced and followed her. She had always loved him, but
never had he been so adorable as at that moment. His unseen presence
comforted her so that she called back to him quite cheerfully:
"Yes, you precious, beautiful dog! Mistress is up here. She's coming!
Wait for her, darling, darling fellow!"
It is possible that the ugly-favored little animal appreciated this
flattery, or he may have had troubles of his own which needed
comforting. Since his arrival at Marsden, life had not been all
chop-bones for him any more than it had been all catnip for Sir Philip,
and the short, gay bark with which he now responded to his mistress' cry
proved their mutual satisfaction.
At last, Katharine's cautious passage came to a pause as her fingers
touched the ladder, but she realized that a misstep would send her over
that precipice of hay into the bay below, which now seemed a gulf of
unfathomable depth. Inch by inch, with greater prudence than she had
ever exercised, she moved onward in the gloom, now become almost
impenetrable, till she got one foot upon a round of the ladder.
"That's good. But I guess I'd see better if I closed my eyes, and I must
go down it backwards. Now I've both feet on and--dear me! How far it is
between steps. Why don't people put their rounds closer together, so
they wouldn't be so hard to climb? I was never on a ladder before except
a step one, and that not often, and--But I'll manage."
Manage she did and very well, until she had nearly reached the bottom.
Then, pushing her foot downward where one of the rounds had been broken
out, it found nothing to rest upon though she stretched it to her
utmost, and all at once everything seemed to give way and she fell
backwards. Fortunately, the distance was so slight and the bay so
carpeted with hay that no serious harm resulted; and when a cold wet
nose was thrust into her face she sprang to her feet, catching Punch in
her arms and in her great relief caressing him till he rebelled and
wriggled himself free.
The wind did not roar so loudly down there, and, presently, she could
hear things; the sound of somebody moving about on the barn floor, the
opening and shutting of feed-boxes and stalls, the swish of fodder
forked to the cows in the shed beyond, and could also see the gleam of
lantern-light as it was carried to and fro.
"Hello!" cried Katharine, hurrying to the square window through which
she and Montgomery had leaped into the deep bay, but whose lower frame
even was so far above her head that she could only touch it by
stretching her arms to their utmost. She had thought it a big jump then
and had not considered how she was to return, but now the full
difficulty of the situation presented itself, and her heart sank.
"Oh, Punchy, dearest! I guess this is a good deal like Susanna's saying,
'out of the frying-pan into the fire.' Off the hay-mow into the bay. I
don't see why folks build barns such ways. Why don't they have just
regular straight floors and things? Wait, pet. Don't rub against my
ankles so hard, you nearly knock me over. The man'll come back in a
minute and help us up. I don't see how you ever got down here unless you
fell down. Hello! Man! _Man!_ Hel--lo! HELP!"
The lantern glimmer appeared once more, but at the extreme end of the
building, and seemed rapidly receding. Then there came the sound of a
heavy door slammed forcibly against the wind, the rasp of a bolt in its
lock, and Katharine knew that she had not been heard, and that she had
been shut up alone in the great, desolate place.
It was not liking for Squire Pettijohn which had caused Montgomery to
vanish when called to meet him. Quite the reverse. The name of that man
of mighty girth and stature struck terror into the soul of every young
Marsdenite. He was a person of fierce temper and a propensity for
managing his neighbors' affairs, especially the affairs of his youthful
neighbors. Report said that his wealth equalled his temper, and that the
two together made most of the villagers stand in awe of him is certain.
It was his boast that he represented the cause of law and order in his
native town, and he often wondered how it had gotten along before he was
born, or how it would manage when he was dead.
That day he had come home from attending court and found the community
in a ferment. It would have been excited even by the news of Moses'
accident and pluck, but the tidings of treasure-finding, scattered
broadcast by Montgomery during the morning's errands, had stirred its
profoundest depths.
When the lawyer tied his horse at the post-office, he was greeted by
statements as various as many. "Miss Maitland has discovered a gold mine
on her property;" "Monty Sturtevant has dug up buried treasure in
Eunice's woods;" "'Johnny' Maitland's girl has been sent home to fetch
Eunice a box of diamonds;" and "There's been gold found right here in
Marsden township."
These were but the beginnings of the garbled reports which a
gossip-loving lad had originated; yet all pointed to one and the same
thing,--Marsden would now become famous. So that more than ever Squire
Pettijohn felt it good to be a great man in the right place. In all the
newspaper notices which would follow, his name, also, would appear, and
notoriety was what he coveted.
Having listened to one and all versions with fierce attention, he
repaired to his dinner and consumed it in a silence which his observant
wife knew betokened affairs of unusual weight. But it was not until he
finished his dessert and pushed back from table that he informed her:
"I am going to Eunice's. Vast wealth has been found upon her premises,
and she needs me. Deny me to all smaller clients until further notice."
Then, assuming his Sunday attire and stiffest stock, he set pompously
forth down the tree-bordered street, caning a stray dog here, there
reprimanding a boy who might be playing "hookey,"--though was not,--and
shaking his fist at old Whitey, taking her accustomed stroll in and out
of inviting dooryards. Yet when he came to the wider yard before the
stone house something of his complaisance left him. "He and Eunice
Maitland had never hitched." She was always perfectly courteous, and
never failed to attend the sewing-meetings of the church when they were
held at his house, and she had even been heard to say that she had "a
great respect for Mrs. Pettijohn." She might have put a peculiar
emphasis upon the "Mrs.," but then, everybody has his or her tricks of
speech which mean nothing.
There was no door-bell at The Maples, but a polished brass knocker
announced the arrival of any visitor; and it seemed to the worried Widow
Sprigg as if that "plaguey knocker had done nothin' but whack the hull
endurin' time sence Moses got hurt. I wonder who 'tis this time!"
Consequently, the door was opened with more impatience than courtesy as
it now heralded the arrival of the Squire, who was for passing at once
into the hall had not something in Susanna's manner caused him to
hesitate.
"Miss Maitland. Is she at home? Will you present my card to her and say
that I have called in person--in person--"
"Don't see how you could have called any other way," answered the
greatly tried housekeeper, remembering him rather as "little Jimmy
Pettijohn," whom her own mother had used to feed and befriend, than as
the important personage he had since become.
"Ah, Susanna, my good woman, you were always facetious! I would like to
see your mistress. Please announce me to her and conduct me to the
drawing-room."
It was a mistaken tone and the widow hesitated at no rudeness which
would protect the beloved "friend" with whom she dwelt, and whom it was
her privilege to openly call by the familiar title of "Eunice," which
this "Jimmy" dared not do save behind the lady's back.
"We hain't got no drawin'-room here, an' Eunice ain't seein' no more
folks to-day, not if I can help it. I'm sure she won't see no men folks,
anyway. We've been overrun with them, a'ready, just 'cause Moses has
broke his leg and a few his ribs. Accidents happen to anybody if they're
keerless, an' he admits he was. But he's as comfortable as can be
expected, thank ye, and good day."
"But, Susanna, not so fast. I came to offer my services in regard to
this--er--gold mine which the little Baltimore girl has discovered."
"W-h-a-t?" gasped the widow in utter amazement. Had the man taken leave
of his senses?
"The gold mine, or--or hidden treasure--or casket of diamonds,--reports
vary; yet all agree in the fact that extraordinary wealth has been
unearthed in the old Maitland woods. Of course, Eunice being unused to
the management of large affairs and only a woman--a woman--she would
appreciate the help of an experienced man. I trust my advice may prove
of benefit to her."
The Widow Sprigg listened with an attention that would have been
flattering had not her face evinced her incredulity. As it was, she
stood for a brief time, staring over her spectacles at the big man, as
if gazing at some curiosity, then she laughed, scornfully:
"Why, Squire, upon my word I'm sorry for ye! Though I don't know who
'twas 'at made a fool of ye, but fool you have been made, and no
mistake. Such a balderdash as that! Why, man alive, don't you s'pose if
anything worth findin' had been found on Eunice's property she'd ha'
told me the first one? An' me an' her livin' like sisters, so to speak,
even sence I growed up, savin' the spell whilst Mr. Sprigg, he was
alive. Two years I spent in my own house 't Mr. Sprigg he built, on his
own piece of woodland 'j'inin' hers, and she buyin' it off me soon's he
departed. The prettiest little house in the hull township, 'tis, too,
an' where I 'xpect to end my days if I outlive her, which I hope I
won't. An' her needin' business 'advice,' indeed! When there ain't a man
in Marsden, let alone all the women, can hold a candle to her for
gumption an' clear-headedness. An' her sayin' to me then, 'Susanna, it
will do you more good to sell to me an' put your money out to int'rest
'an to have a lot of wuthless land on your hands, an' you shall keep the
little cottage for your own as long as you live.' So we done it, an' she
paid me more'n the market price; an' has left me the house all
untouched, with my own furniture in it, an' me goin' out there twicet a
year for spring an' fall cleanin,' an' even leavin' the kitchen-bedroom
bed made up, case I get the hypo an' feel like bein' by myself a spell."
"I know, I know, Susanna. I've heard of Eunice's generosity to you, and
of your whimsical retention of an empty house. You ought to let it to
some decent tenant and get some benefit of it. Upon second thoughts, I
would advise you to sell it. Now that this treasure has been found you
might realize well on it. I--Why, I don't know but I might be induced to
take it off your hands myself, just to do a friendly deed to an old
schoolmate."
Squire Pettijohn had managed to stem the tide of her garrulity long
enough to interpose this speech of his own, and to act upon an idea
which had just occurred to him. The value of the old Maitland forest
would leap to fabulous height if the rumor that gold had been discovered
there proved true. But he did not intend to offer much for the "deserted
cabin," convenient though it might be to the possible mine, upon the
strength of a mere rumor, and even though the chance existed of the same
vein of wealth extending even so far. He would first get confirmation of
the story from Miss Maitland's own lips and would then act with his eyes
open.
He was not succeeding very well in his errand of "neighborly kindness,"
for Susanna still held the door so nearly closed that he could not force
an entrance, even though he kept his foot firmly in the aperture. The
woman still regarded him with a pitying amusement; yet gradually
curiosity got the better of her common sense, which told her that he was
the victim of some hoax, and she inquired:
"Who told you such a yarn, Squire?"
"Please admit me. I am not accustomed to being kept on people's
thresholds when I take time out of my busy life to call upon them; and
no one person in especial told me. The talk is in everybody's mouth, and
the whole village has gone wild over the matter."
"But it must have had some sort o' beginnin'. Wild goose gabble like
that don't spring full-fledged out the ground, I know. Who--started the
ridic'lous business?" persisted the housekeeper, almost unconsciously
opening the door somewhat wider.
Squire Pettijohn improved this opportunity and made his way into the
hall before she remembered that she had not intended to admit him. In
any case, she instantly reflected he shouldn't see her mistress, whom he
had had the impertinence to speak of as "Eunice."
But her reflection came too late. Miss Maitland was already descending
the wide stairs, and had paused at the half-way landing, to observe who
was this latest visitor of the many who had called to ask for Moses.
Called, also, it may be, to learn something further concerning the
interesting "treasure."
But none save this gentleman had ventured to speak to her of what was,
in reality, her own affair, and she had not encouraged inquirers to
remain. Privacy had never seemed so desirable to her as on that fateful
morning nor so difficult to maintain; and though there was no rudeness,
her neighbors went away with the feeling that:
"Eunice Maitland's just as proud and reserved as ever. Moses' trouble
and her own great fortune don't make a bit of difference, and she makes
you feel, without saying a word, that your room is better than your
company; and that she'll keep her own counsel in this matter as she has
always done in smaller ones."
"Good afternoon, Miss Eunice! Accept my hearty congratulations!" cried
Squire Pettijohn, pushing eagerly forward to the foot of the stairs, and
bowing to her descending.
"Good afternoon, Squire Pettijohn. You are very kind to come and inquire
for my poor friend, Mr. Jones. I am glad to tell you that the doctor
says he will do very well, but sorry to add that he will be a prisoner
indoors for a long time. Is Mrs. Pettijohn quite well?"
So speaking, and with the manner of one who has expected but one kind of
interest in affairs at The Maples, yet knowing perfectly well that the
Squire would never have troubled himself about a "hired man's"
misfortunes, Aunt Eunice walked with her visitor toward the door. She
was puzzled by his presence, but did not enjoy it, and was herself going
just then to read the _Weekly Journal_ to her injured helper. She did
not take the hint given by the Squire's pause beside the sitting-room
door, and moved gently forward to the outer entrance, as if to terminate
the interview.
"Make my regards to your good wife, Squire, and thank her for sending to
inquire. Moses is much touched and gratified by the good-will of his
neighbors, and has had many calls already. But doctor says he should
see nobody except ourselves for the present. Good afternoon."
They had now reached the doorway and Susanna stood at one side, keenly
observant of the other two, and suddenly breaking into their talk with
the exclamation:
"Well, Eunice! What do you think's sent Jimmy Pettijohn a-visitin' _us_?
Not none of Moses' troubles, but to hear about the 'gold mine' was found
in the big woods this mornin'! Did you ever hear the beat?"
"A gold mine? Surely, he knows how absurd such an idea would be,"
answered Aunt Eunice, quietly bowing and turning away.
As she disappeared in the hall beyond the stair-way the Squire coughed
and started to follow, then apparently thought better of it, for he
merely reproved Susanna with his most judicial sternness, saying:
"If you women would be careful to repeat things as you hear them you
would save much confusion. It is true I did mention 'gold mine,' but I
also mentioned a hidden box of treasure. The majority of the villagers
claimed the latter was what was really found, and--"
"Who started such a cock-an'-bull story? Must have had a beginnin' in
somebody's mouth."
Susanna had now become not only indignant but profoundly curious. She
would find out who was responsible for this strange rumor, then she
would promptly interview that person and cross-examine him as only a
woman could. But the reply which she received astonished her more than
the story had done.
"It was that stammering little grandson of the Madam's. He and the
little girl who's staying here were the discoverers. So I was told,"
answered the Squire, making ready to depart.
"Well, I declare! If 'twas ary one o' them we can soon settle their
hash. Come with me, Squire, I saw the pair goin' into the barn a little
spell ago, an' I hain't seen 'em come out. Katy, she don't know you--an'
so ain't afraid of ye. She ain't afraid of anything I've seen yet; but
Monty--Hm-m. I can leave Monty to you to deal with. My suz! If this
ain't been the greatest day that ever I saw!"
With which remark she led the way to the foot of the hay-mow and sent up
the summons which had caused Montgomery's sudden disappearance.