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.
"Madam! May I speak?"
"Certainly, Alfaretta. I haven't been able to keep my thoughts on my
paper. I shall be glad to hear anything you have to say."
"Well, then! I'd hate to think it of any--any _good_ ghost, but there
was somethin' 'bout that _face_ 'at made me remember somebody I'd seen,
an' the somebody was--Squire Pettijohn!"
"Child, how absurd!"
"Yes'm, I s'pose it is. But there was them same big eyebrows standin'
out fur from this white _face_ as his'n does from his red one. There was
the same sort of bitter look in the eyes, only these ones was afire.
Ain't that queer?"
"Exceedingly queer. So queer that you must banish the notion at once
from your mind. I am convinced that it was some poor, homeless wanderer
estrayed into this quiet, and, I fear, inhospitable village, where
there is no provision for such as he. I'm sure I wish he were safely
housed in one of our own outbuildings rather than roaming the fields on
such a night. Even an old blanket thrown into one of the box-stalls
would have been comparative comfort."
"Y--es'm," assented Alfaretta, with small enthusiasm. But what she did
like to hear was Madam's talk of the old times when the now empty stable
was full of spirited horses, when guests filled the silent rooms, when
servants were many and the larder abundant, and life and laughter ruled
where now were only memories. It always sounded like make-believe; and,
humble poor-house child though she was, Alfy delighted in make-believe.
A hint was commonly sufficient to set the house-mistress reminiscent,
and once started upon such retrospections she was as contented to
continue as her little maid to listen; and now there followed for the
pair an hour of real enjoyment.
Once really past the threshold Montgomery's reluctance vanished. If he
had anything disagreeable to do he liked to get it over with at once.
The walk to The Maples in that storm was certainly disagreeable, as
would, doubtless, be his reception there. He wouldn't think about that
part of the affair till it faced him, and he wouldn't let any grass grow
under his feet for loitering upon his road. Then a thought of
Katharine, alone and in terror, roused all his real manliness, so that
he cared no further for anything save to set her free. He would now
promptly have knocked any other boy down for calling him the hard names
he called himself all the way from the Mansion to Aunt Eunice's, and he
disdained to think of tramps, thunder-claps, or broken tree-limbs, even
though he stumbled over some of these along the path. Despite the
obstructing wind, he had never run so swiftly, and the resounding whack
he gave the Maitland knocker startled all within the house.
Poor Aunt Eunice required but little now to set her nerves a-quiver, and
was anxiously pacing the sitting-room floor, wondering how and where to
begin that search for little Katharine, which must be deferred no
longer. But after the first shock of the summons she ran to answer it,
feeling sure that here was news at last; and there almost fell into the
hall a drenched, breathless lad, who could only stammer, feebly:
"H-h-hay--mow!"
Then he dropped upon the floor to catch his breath.
Miss Maitland stared at him, wondering if here was another storm-crazed
victim. Then she remembered that "H-h-h-hay--mow!" was the one and only
word the boy had uttered during that scene of the brass bound box. Now
again just "H-h-hay-mow!" She passed her hand wearily across her eyes
trying to understand.
Then said the last of the Sturtevants, recovering, and stammering but
slightly in his earnestness:
"F-fetch a lantern, quick! We went up h-h-hay-mow huntin' eggs--an' mine
are in the s-s-s-secret ch-amber--an' Squire c-come, an' I skipped
an'--forgot!"
The boy was himself so familiar with the premises that he knew exactly
where to find the lantern, and, having confessed his fault, he ran to
light it. He was also first at the barn, though Miss Maitland and
Susanna both followed promptly and unmindful of the rain.
But alas for Deacon Meakin's overcare! He had not only locked the doors,
but he had hidden the keys.
Susanna sped back to the house, seeking on the shelf where he had placed
the lantern for them, but failing to find them, while at Eunice's
direction Montgomery felt everywhere under the flat stone which served
as door-step to the main entrance. In the crannies of window casings, at
the tops and bottoms of all the doors, in the cattle-shed and
poultry-house, in any sort of place where a Marsdenite would naturally
deposit keys, they searched without avail.
Then Miss Maitland bethought herself that if Katharine were still within
the barn and heard all this attempt at forcing an entrance she would be
further frightened, and said:
"We must break the glass in that window behind the stalls, and you,
Montgomery, must climb through. As soon as you are within, call to the
poor child and tell her that we are outside and have come to get her.
Then you hand us out some heavy tools,--an axe, if you can find one,
would be best,--and we'll break down the door."
With that the lady herself took a stone from the barn-yard wall and
crashed the glass, but Susanna interposed:
"You go right back into the house, Eunice Maitland, and not stay out in
this damp to get your death of cold. And no need to break good doors.
Katy ain't no bigger'n Monty, nor so big, an' a hole he can get into she
can come out of. Trust her!"
Miss Maitland would not go indoors, but she did fold the shawl she had
caught up more closely about her and retreated to the shelter of the
cowshed, while Susanna stood listening beneath the window through which
Monty had swiftly disappeared. Fortunately, the storm had greatly abated
and there was less external noise to drown the sounds within, where
Montgomery was now shouting at the top of his voice:
"K-K-Kath-arine! Katy! K-Kitty-kee-hotee!"
"Yelp! Snip! Snap! Gr-r-rrr!" came in response, and Katharine waked
from the dreamless sleep into which exhaustion of grief and terror had
thrown her.
At first she could not comprehend what it all meant. She could only make
an effort to restrain the angry pug now escaping from her arms. Then she
saw Montgomery's face at the opening above the bay, brilliantly
illuminated by the lantern held close to his head as he peered inwards
preparatory to a leap. With a scream half of relief, half of dread lest
she should again be deserted, she ran toward the window and held her
arms up.
The light disappeared, but before she had time for a fresh fear, she
felt her hands clasped by Montgomery's sturdy ones, and she was bidden:
"Give a s-s-sp-spring--an' I'll haul you!"
She tried once, twice, and again, but there was no "spring" left in the
usually active limbs, and she sank back to the bay, sobbing:
"Oh, I can't! I can't! I've tried and tried and tried! But I shall never
get out. Never, never, never." And it was proof of the suffering she had
undergone that there was no indignation left against the boy who had
caused it, but only a hopeless acceptance of a terrible position.
This was too much for Monty. He would far rather have had her rail at
him than sob so heart-brokenly. He began to sob himself in sympathy, and
called back:
"D-d-don't! Qu-qu-quit it! See. Look up. I'll h-h-hang the lantern on
the sill. I d-d-dassent take it down there, might s-s-set fire to the
hay. I'm all r-r-right--I mean you're all r-r-right. Get out the way.
I'm c-c-c-comin'!"
In an instant he had leaped down beside her and put his arm around her
quivering shoulders. In all his life he had never been so sorry for
anybody or anything as now for her and for his own neglectful
selfishness, which had brought her to such a pass. Yet, heedless Monty
had had many causes for regret during his previous career!
"I thought I should die! Oh, it was so awful! I thought I should
certainly die here alone in this place. The wind would almost tear the
roof off, and Punchy howled--he thought he was dying, too, maybe. But it
was he kept me from it--quite. I never loved him so in all my life!
Can--is there a way--you've got in, too, but is there a way out? I was
hungry, I thought I would starve. Then I forgot that--listening. And the
lightning--I was sure it had struck again and again. I waited to see the
hay blaze up. Lightning always does strike barns, doesn't it?"
With a philosophy beyond his years Montgomery changed the subject.
"I shall have to boost you, i-i-if you c-c-can't climb without. P-p-put
your feet right th-th-there--I'm b-bo-boo-boostin' my best! Catch hold
the s-sill! Cracky! Up you g-g-go!"
Up she went, indeed, fear forgotten, every nerve strained, eager already
to attain and excel in this new feat of climbing. Folks who lived in the
country had to climb--or perish--it seemed. And once upon the sill she
rolled over it to the broad floor of the barn and felt herself at last
in safety.
But there still remained that other climb, to reach the broken window
and through it freedom and friends outside. However, this was a trifle.
Montgomery brought a short ladder, which he placed beneath the window
that he had had the forethought to unbolt from the outside, and when the
sash rolled back in its groove Katharine was already on the ledge,
Susanna's strong arms clasping her and Aunt Eunice standing near.
Such an hour as followed! Such indigestibly delightful foods as Susanna
brought from her storeroom--harbingers of holiday feasts to come--and of
which the children were permitted to partake without any harm or
restriction.
"Let the poor little creatur's get their stummicks full for once, sence
nary one hain't had a mouthful of victuals, scurce that, to-day," cried
Susanna, herself feasting her eyes upon the now joyous faces of the
youngsters.
Then what a tap-tap-tapping sounded on the floor of the kitchen
chamber! Aunt Eunice interpreting the same to mean:
"Poor Moses is feeling left out of all our rejoicing and feels
aggrieved. He wants us all to come up and tell him the whole story,
since he cannot himself come to us. But alas for Deacon Meakin! I don't
envy him his forthcoming interview with my hired man to-morrow morning.
It is Moses' right to still direct matters, even if he cannot work. Both
men are what Mrs. Meakin calls 'sot,' and I foresee some jarring of
wheels, so to speak, before they run smooth. But let us go up at once,
and then Monty must be starting home."
The boy sighed. This was all delightful. Badly as he had behaved, he had
received no reproof. Instead of that, there was such rejoicing over
Katharine's safety that his sins had, apparently, been forgotten. Yet it
must end--there still remained the long and desolate road home!
Monty talked as fast as ever a boy could, nor did Katharine's tongue lag
far behind, and for a time Moses listened eagerly. Then there came pangs
of physical suffering which banished interest in all else, and while he
was meditating how now best to rid himself of his guests, the hall clock
struck nine.
"Nine o'clock! My suz! I didn't know it was half so late!" cried
Susanna, honestly surprised. "Time you was home and abed, Montgomery
Sturtevant, keepin' your poor grandmother up all hours like this, just
account your pranks. My suz! and such a day. May I never see another
like it!"
"Amen!" echoed poor Mr. Jones, so devoutly and in a voice of such
suffering that they all silently withdrew.
"Only nine o'clock? Does nobody ever sit up till a respectable hour,
here in Marsden? Why, at home, our evenings never began till after this
time," remarked Katharine, now so wide-awake, and, it must be confessed,
having had her nerves freshly excited by the recital of her woes to the
sympathizing ear of Uncle Moses.
"Pooh! N-n-nine o'clock's n-n-nothing," assented Monty, who had never
been out so late before in all his life.
"Isn't it?" asked Aunt Eunice, smiling. "Well, all the same, though it
is rude to dispatch a guest, I'm sure it is full time for you to be with
your grandmother, as Susanna justly remarked. She is doubtless anxious
about you; and as for you, Katy dear, you are living in quiet Marsden
now and not your city home."
The storm was fully over when they opened the great front door, and the
moonlight set all the rain-drenched shrubs and trees a-glitter, so that
Katharine exclaimed:
"Oh, look! It seems as if the world was just laughing at itself for
having been so naughty a little while ago!"
Aunt Eunice gave the child a little squeeze, thinking how "Johnny" would
have had just such a fancy, and Monty, wondering if all girls had queer
ideas, bade them good night and started whistling down the path.
"We'll stand here till you get beyond the first big tree, my lad, and
we'll follow you in our minds all the way," said Miss Maitland, kindly.
Then to Katharine she added, softly: "He's doing that to keep his
courage up."
"All the same he whistles beautifully," answered the girl, loyally. "If
he could only speak as well as he whistles it would be splendid. Why, up
there on the hay-mow to-day, some sort of bird--I think he said it was a
meadow-lark, or skylark, or something--anyhow, it sang ex-quis-ite-ly!
And he mimicked it so well I almost thought another bird had come
through the window into the barn. He's a real nice boy, Monty is,
but--but he needs some 'retouching,' as papa darling used to say of his
pictures."
"God bless him--and his own 'Kitty Quixote,'" murmured the old guardian,
touched to a tender softness by--ah, many things! and promptly
marshalling her latest charge to bed.
Lights were out all along the street as Montgomery's passing whistle
disturbed the early naps of these quiet folk, who had been so greatly
interested and wearied by that day's unusual events. But the clear,
birdlike tones were comfort to one harassed wanderer.
Shivering in his wet rags, he crept out from the shelter of a porch to
hearken, as those boyish lips sent forth in flute-like tones the melody
of "Home, Sweet Home." Hearkening, he followed, fearing he should lose
the music which impressed him, all unknowing why; and as the whistler
left the last village house behind him and set out to run over the long
stretch of lonely road, which lay between that and the Mansion, the
follower also ran.
Had Montgomery known this his pace would have been even swifter than it
was, and the mere fear he now felt would have become abject terror.
But he did not know; and the unknown tramp soon lagged far behind. He
had neither strength nor desire left to overtake the fleeing lad, since
the whistling had ceased, and consciousness of his own misery returned
upon him. So, presently he left the highway and limped across the fields
toward the woods where instinct told him was safe hiding; and Montgomery
reached the stately home of his forefathers in good time. Between the
man and the boy there seemed no possible connection, yet circumstances
were already linking their lives together as with a chain.