A STURTEVANT--PERFORCE
"Alfaretta!" cried Madam Sturtevant, "what does this mean?" Something of
the girl's panic had seized her, also, though she tried to hide her own
agitation by sternness.
"My suz, Alfy Brown! What ails ye? You nigh knocked me down, slammin'
the door right in my face, that way!" exclaimed Susanna, who had,
fortunately, stepped within before this strange thing had happened. She
was herself in an excited mood, having passed through what she had
during the past day, and having had her mind further disturbed by the
tales she had gathered during her progress. Now here at the Mansion,
where was always dignified composure and serene hospitality, to find
such tardy admission and such hysterical welcome--it was too much! Her
reflections were swift and angry, and while all still stood in the dark,
as yet too surprised to move, she demanded, crisply: "I want
Katharine."
"Come this way, Mrs. Sprigg. Let me take your hand and lead you. I'll
soon get a light, and please excuse Alfaretta. I don't understand what
has happened to her. Don't cling to me like that, child. You hinder me."
"Oh, didn't you see--It?" whispered the unhappy little maid, paying no
heed to her mistress's words, but clinging all the closer to her in a
fresh access of terror as she heard, or fancied that she did, footsteps
on the piazza without.
Susanna's anger cooled in a new curiosity, and she said:
"You needn't bother to lead me, Madam Sturtevant, I know the ins an'
outs of this old house pretty well, even if I don't come to it often.
You go right on ahead an' strike a match; an' Alfy Brown, let go her
skirt. Your manners this night ain't none your mistress's teachin', I
know that. They must be some left over from the 'Farm.'"
Now Susanna must have been sorely tried to have reminded the girl of her
unfortunate start in life, and Madam hastened to cover the remark by
saying: "There, that's better!" and rising from the open fireplace where
she had relighted the candle from the carefully covered embers. It had
been so mild until now that only a fragment of fire had been kept upon
the hearth, where, however, it was never permitted to wholly die "from
equinox to equinox." Fortunately for the comfort of the household, there
was woodland sufficient still belonging to the estate to supply all
necessary fuel, and in cold weather this impoverished gentlewoman
enjoyed her blazing wood fires--a luxury which even wealthy people
cannot always command. Miss Maitland made it Moses' business to see that
the Mansion wood-piles were high and broad, long before the autumn came,
and the hardship of splitting smaller sticks for kitchen and kindling
fell upon the reluctant Montgomery.
Susanna watched the candle-lighting with real admiration. Neat as she
was herself, she had never yet attained to that exquisite daintiness
with which Madam Sturtevant did all things; and she now exclaimed, with
keen appreciation:
"My suz! You do beat all! Why, most anybody tryin' to light a taller
candle by wood coals would ha' melted the candle--but you hain't dripped
a drip. Where's the children? I've come for Katy. She's a terr'ble hand
for runnin' away, or, ruther, for not bein' where she should be when
wanted. The wind has riz awful. It don't rain none yet, but's goin' to
right off. I didn't think to fetch an umberell an' couldn't have used it
if I had. Not again' this blow. Alfy, you call Katharine, and we'll
start back prompt. No, thank ye, Madam, I won't stop to set down, not
this time. Eunice, she's alone with Moses so helpless, an' I don't
believe half the shutters is tight nor nothin'. Seems if a body had
more on their hands than they could 'tend to times like these. Why
don't you move, Alfy? An' not stand stock starin' still, like an idjut?
If the wind sounds that way indoors, what you s'pose it is outside? An'
that child hain't got a thing on but that white ducky dress and maybe a
hat. She wasn't fixed proper for livin' in the country, though she does
become her clothes real likely. She's clear Maitland, Katy is, an' as
like Johnny was as two peas in a pod. I can't help lovin' her, try as I
will," concluded the widow, so exhausted by her own volubility that she
unconsciously sat down to rest herself, even though she had earlier
declined her hostess's offer of the spring-rocker by the sewing-table.
"A chair 'at looks comf'table enough to take a nap in its own self," as
she had once observed concerning it.
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?"