ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON
When Deacon Meakin found that a barn window had had to be broken because
of his forgetfulness to mention where he had put the keys, he insisted
upon paying for and inserting the new glass himself. This distressed
Miss Maitland and delighted Moses; but the new caretaker carried his
point, declaring:
"If I can't do that I'll throw up the job. My own hired men, 'fore I
moved in, had to pay for their breakin's, and sence I've turned myself
into a hired man, well, it's a poor rule that don't work both ways, as
the poet says, an' what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,
or visy versy. There'll be no foolin' done on these premises whilst I'm
in charge, an' the very first thing I'll tackle is--cleanin' up."
"Why, is that necessary? Beyond the work that comes with every day?
Surely, Moses is very neat," protested Eunice, on behalf of her old
disabled helper.
"Hm-m. There's neatness--an' neatness; an' my friend Jones, he's a
fisherman first, an' a farmer afterward;" returned the deacon, grimly.
The real truth was that the deacon had an idea of the wonderful casket's
being hidden somewhere in that barn. As he reasoned with himself: "A
barn's the least likely place for robbers to search for hid treasure,
whether it is a gold box or a gold mine. Eunice, she is long-headed. She
wouldn't want things in the house that might induce folks' breakin's in,
more particular sence Widow Sprigg seen that tramp. She was tellin' me
'bout it when I come on the place this mornin'; an' nobody needn't tell
me it was just to get a girl out the bay that that winder was stove in.
That's all cock-an'-bull yarn; to throw me an' others off the track. But
I'll find out, I'll find out."
Which shows how far one's imagination may lead in the wrong direction;
and also explains why the curious, but well-meaning, man put himself to
endless trouble, yet also did his own part in silencing the rumors of
the previous day. Though, of course, his labors occupied him for several
days, since the barn was big and his work so thorough. After emptying
and refilling every bin and box, after cleaning every set of harness
which had or had not been used for years, brushing the few cobwebs from
the rafters, sweeping the floors over and over, he repaired to the
hay-mow and industriously forked over the whole mass.
While he was engaged in this operation Susanna visited the barn and
asked if he had gone crazy. His answer was:
"No, not crazy, but come to common sense. Don't suppose I'd feel very
Christian-like, do ye, to loaf around doin' next to nothin' an' lettin'
a neighbor's hay heat? Might burn ye all up in your beds."
The widow reëntered the house laughing, but indignant. "Says your hay's
in danger o' heatin', Moses! As if you hadn't cured it till it was dry
as tinder 'fore you mowed it up. Well, 'twon't do no harm, an' will keep
him out of mischief. He's a reg'lar poke-noser, Deacon Meakin is. But
he's routed them hens so there won't be no more egg-layin' in high
places, breakin' a body's neck to hunt 'em. But, my suz! I wish you
could ha' seen that man's face when he handed me over your
fishin'-tackle. You'd ha' thought 'twas poison, the way he touched it."
Moses was both angry and amused, but contented himself with remarking:
"Si Meakin never could catch fish even when he was boy goin' to school.
He was always a gabbler, an' fish has got sense. They won't bite for
noisy folks. Slow an' gentle, bide your time an' keep your mouth
shut--that's fishin' for ye. Oh, shall I ever get to go again!"
"Sure. But it's time for your chicken broth. I've stewed it down rich
an' tasty, an' there's one good thing 'bout broken legs an' ribs: they
ain't broken stummicks. I'd ruther you'd have forty broken legs than the
dyspepsy, 'cause when I take the pains to cook good victuals, I like to
have 'em et. Now, turn your head a mite. Here's a nice new straw to
drink your broth through, an' a pile more for you to chew on, like
you're always doin'. Seems if a man must always have somethin' in his
mouth, an' if it ain't tobacco it's straws. Spriggs he--"
"Don't give me no 'Spriggs,' to-day; I couldn't stand him. You've told
more things 'at Spriggs done in his thirty years of life than would ha'
kept most men busy till they was a hundered!" cried Moses, petulantly.
"And if Kitty Keehoty, or Monty, ary one, comes 'round, do for pity's
sake send 'em up. Here I lie, ball-an'-chained to a bed and things--Oh,
dear!"
It was Saturday and a busy time for the housekeeper. She had neither
leisure nor inclination to argue with a fretful patient, so went away
and left him to himself. But she found his desire for Katharine's
society an excellent thing. As she had said of Deacon Meakin, "it kep'
her out of mischief" to act as nurse to the injured farmer, and he now
delighted in her. The stories of her old life in the Southern city were
almost like the fairy-tales she retold from printed books; and her
little provincialisms of speech amused him as much as his country
dialect did her. She had soon dropped into the habit of taking his
meal-trays to him and strictly enforced his eating a "right smart" of
all the nourishments provided.
At noon of this Saturday she was perched upon the edge of his cot,
daintily feeding him with bits of food she had cut up, when there was a
clatter of feet upon the stairs, and, breathless as usual, Montgomery
rushed in, announcing, without even a nod to Moses:
"I-it-it's true! Mis' Turner's seen it in her w-w-wood-shed! Widow
Sprigg wasn't m-m-mis-took!"
"Say 'mistaken,' Montgomery Sturtevant, and say it slow," corrected
Katharine, severely, yet immediately turning an inquiring look toward
Uncle Moses. Thus far her efforts to improve her playmate's speech had
been a safe secret between the two. They hoped to keep it such until the
lad could speak a "whole piece" without stammering.
But the hired man had not observed her remark, or, if he had, probably
considered it but one of her naturally dictatorial sort.
"A reg'lar tramp, Monty?" he asked, eagerly.
"R-r-r-regular. Mis' Turner'd put her p-p-pies out to cool on the
wood-shed r-r-roof an' they was six seven of 'em, an', sir, w-w-w-when
she went t-t-t-to take 'em in one was g-one! Yes, sir! An' she seen
somethin' b-b-b-lack scooting cross lots, l-l-li-lic-lick--ety
c-c-c-ut!"
"Monty, if I were you, I wouldn't try to say 'lickety-cut,' till--"
again reproved the girl-teacher, still forgetful of secrecy. And again
Mr. Jones ignored her, asking the boy:
"Where was Bob, son of Mrs. Turner, about that time?"
"F-f-fudge! I don't know. Somewhere's r-r-round, m-maybe. But it wasn't
him. 'Twas a b-b-bigger, b-b-be-beard-d-er feller'n him."
"You said 'six seven' pies. If she didn't know how many she made how'd
she know she lost any?"
"Well, sir! An' there was old Mr. Witherspoon, d-dr-driv-in' down
mountain with a load o' c-c-carrots, he--he seen him cr-cr-cross--in'
Perkins's corn-field an' he t-thought 'twas a sc-sc-scarecrow, till it
walked. Sc-sc-sc-scarecrows couldn't do that he kn-kn-knew, an'--"
Although Eunice had done her utmost to keep the story of the brass bound
box a secret from even her own household, it was inevitable that
knowledge of it should come to the ears of the sick man, since it was
the chief interest of the many neighbors who called to see him. Yet all
he could gain from his callers was the vague suspicion each
entertained. He meant now to get at the facts of the case. Montgomery
had spread the tale, but had strangely kept silence with him, his old
chum. Montgomery should speak now, or Moses would know the reason why;
and if he still declined to explain matters he should be punished by
being left out of the next fishing-party Uncle Mose would organize--if
he ever fished again! He interrupted, saying:
"Never mind Witherspoon an' the carrots, Monty. Nor tramps, nuther.
Sence I ain't constable, to do it myself, I hope the poor creatur' won't
get 'rested. Don't know where'd he be stowed, anyway, in this benighted
Marsden, where there ain't neither a jail nor a touch to one. What I
want to know is: What did you find in Eunice's woods?"
Monty did some rapid thinking, the question had been a surprise, but he
answered, promptly:
"N-n-not-nothing."
"Montgomery Sturtevant! How dare you? An' I will say that's the first
lie I ever heard you tell. You're bad enough, oh, you're as bad as you
need to be, but--a liar! Whew!"
The lad sprang to his feet, furious. His hands clenched, and it was well
that his accuser was a disabled old man, else the "hot blood of the
Sturtevants" might have driven their young descendant to do desperate
deeds. As it was, he choked, glared, and finally stammered:
"I-if you was a boy, an' not old l-li-like you are, I'd make you
t-t-take that back, or--k-k-kill you! It's the tr-tr-truth! I don't lie!
Do I, K-K-Katharine?"
The girl had never seen anybody so angry. Her own temper was quick
enough, but its outbursts short-lived, and she certainly had never had
the least desire to "kill" anybody. Montgomery looked as if he meant it,
and in distress she threw herself upon him forcibly, unclasped his
clenched fingers, and begged:
"Don't say that, Monty! Oh, don't say such dreadful things!" Then faced
around toward the cot, declaring: "He didn't 'lie,' Uncle Moses. It's
true. He didn't find--"
Oh, she had almost betrayed herself in her eagerness to defend her
friend.
"Didn't find what, 'Kitty Keehoty'? An' if you didn't yourself, lad,
why, you was along at the time. How else--But I'm sorry I used that
hateful word. I don't blame you for your spunk. I'd knock a feller down
'at called me 'liar' to my face, even now, old an' bedrid' as I be. I
take it back an' call it square--if you will. But tell the hull business
now, to your poor old fishin' teacher, an' let's be done with mysteries.
Eunice, she's as mum as an oyster; an' Susanna, she talks a lot of
explaining yet don't explain nothin'. What's all about, anyway, that's
set Marsden crazy? Why, one man come to see me, was tellin' of
searchin'-parties ransackin' our woods, prospectin', or somethin'. D'ye
ever hear such impudence? Why, if I was constable, I'd arrest every
man-jack of 'em that's dared to put pickaxe or spade in our ground! I'd
have the law on 'em, neighbor or no neighbor. Well, they won't find a
thing. 'Cept maybe a few chestnuts or such. As for gold--Hm-m! But
somethin' was found--what was it, Monty?"
The lad's anger was ebbing, but he was still in an unfriendly mood.
Besides, he remembered the promise he had made to Aunt Eunice,--broken
beforehand,--and resolved that he would keep silence now, even if the
harm were already done. So he closed his lips very tightly, and looked
steadily out of the window. Katharine followed this good example, and
the pair seemed wholly absorbed--in nothing at all.
"Can't you speak? Are you both struck dumb all to oncet? Is that the
manners you think's polite?" demanded Mr. Jones, testily.
Then Monty spoke. "Gr-gram-ma sent me to ask how you w-w-were. I'll go
an' tell her."
"Won't you stay and play? And, oh, let me tell you. Mr. Deacon Meakin is
cleaning up the barn just splendidly, and it will be all ready for--you
know what!" cried Katy, excitedly, and forgetful of the keen ears of the
man on the cot. She was reminded of them, however, when he again
demanded:
"What's that? What'll the barn be ready for? I want you young ones to
understand there's to be no monkey shines of any sort whilst I'm laid
up. An' you're a sassy pair, the two of ye!"
"I don't mean to be saucy, but you make me. And I guess you must be
getting well very fast, 'cause widow says that being cross is a good
sign--and I'm sure you're perfectly horrid, so there!" cried Kate,
pertly, and seizing Monty's hand hurried him down the stairs.
She had no sooner reached the bottom of them than she regretted her
impertinence, and would have returned to apologize, had not Aunt Eunice
just then appeared in the doorway, wearing her street things, while
Deacon Meakin was also bringing the top-buggy around from the
carriage-house. Katharine loved driving, of which luxury she had had
very little; and the few times she had been out with Miss Maitland since
her arrival at The Maples had been her happiest hours. The whole
countryside was rich in autumn coloring, and through her artist father
the child had learned to "see things." She was continually surprising
all around her by finding such a store of beauty in every simple thing.
A yellow or scarlet leaf was far more than that to her; it was a picture
of varying tints and shades, which she would study with keenest
interest. She had pointed out to Aunt Eunice, upon that last drive
up-mountain, at least twenty-five tones of green, and had seized the
reins suddenly to stop old Dobbin that she might gaze her full upon a
decrepit cedar-tree robed and garlanded with scarlet woodbine. Marsden
village might seem dull to her after her city life, but nature more than
compensated; so that now her fear was not that she must stay, but that
her guardian--perforce--would tire of her.
"Oh, aunty! May I go?"
"No, Katharine, not to-day. I am going to visit an old friend, who is
very ill. I do not know when I shall be back, but be a good girl and do
whatever Susanna tells you. Good-by. Good-by, Montgomery. Please give my
love to your grandmother, and thank her for sending to inquire after
Moses."
Then the lady stepped into the buggy, the deacon chirruped to Dobbin,
and they rode away. At the same moment came a shrill whistle from the
street, and Monty ran to the gate. Bob Turner and a lot of boys were
waiting near, rods over their shoulders and fish-hooks in their pockets,
intent upon a Saturday half-holiday at their favorite sport. Besides
their tackle they had great sacks of burlap, or canvas, because when
they had caught all the fish in the river they expected to gather all
the chestnuts in the woods. In any case, they were bound for a good
time, and Montgomery did not hesitate in joining them. He delayed just
long enough to go into the house and secure Moses' oldest line and rod,
catch up a basket for nuts, and was off, leaving a very lonely girl
standing on the path and wishing most earnestly that she had been born a
boy so she, too, might do things worth while. She had already heard so
much about the delightful art of angling that she longed to try it for
herself; but with Uncle Moses helpless, and Monty--so mean!--He might
have taken her. He might have stayed and talked over their secret
scheme, which Deacon Meakin was unconsciously furthering by his ultra
tidiness. He might, at least, have promised to bring her some chestnuts.
But he had done none of these thoughtful things. He had been just
plain--boy! Girls? Were there any she might visit uninvited? Aunt Eunice
was very particular about that. She had explained that the Turner girls,
Sophronia Walker, and even the Clackett sisters, Mercy and Lucinda, had
many household duties to perform. Especially on Saturdays were their
services in demand, since at this time of year there was pickling and
preserving, soap-making and carpet-weaving; even among the more thrifty
households "butchering and packing." Most families deferred the latter
operation until much colder weather, but, as Susanna expressed it,
"there's some in Marsden township 'at if they knowed they was to be
hung 'd want it done the day afore, they're so forehanded." Even the
widow herself, Katharine fancied, leaned a little toward this
"forehandedness," since she made fruit-cake six months before it was to
be eaten; and on that memorable night of the storm had actually produced
for each child a piece of the same sort of cake, meltingly luscious and
moist in one's mouth, with the statement that it had been baked just
seven years before. And when Katharine had exclaimed in amazement, had
replied:
"My suz! That's nothin' to what some keeps it. Mis' Turner, she's got
part her weddin' loaf yet, an' she's been married more years 'an I can
exactly recollect; while her own mother has some 'at's twenty-five years
old. Fact. Hers is gettin' ruther dry, but it's always been kep' in a
stone crock in a tin case an' only opened a-Thanksgiving time, when
everybody in the hull connection is to dinner, and is give a tiny bit
for remembrance' sake."
Thinking over her guardian's information, there seemed to be no house
where the young folks would have leisure for company, and the home
prospect was rather lonely.
"Oh, for even a little Snowball to play with! Uncle Moses--I was rude to
him, but he's so cross I can't go back and be shut up with him this
beautiful afternoon. If I go just to say that I'm sorry he'll make me
tell him a lot of stories to prove my sorrow. That's one of his ways.
The Widow Sprigg is sufficient unto herself and her scrubbing--of a
Saturday. I've found that out. Deacon Meakin isn't at the barn and I
might go there, but he's spoiled the barn for me. I feel just as if I
was in somebody's parlor, some Marsden body's parlor, that's so much in
order it makes everybody who goes into it as stiff as itself. I've found
that out, too, going calling with Aunt Eunice. I wish--"
Susanna suddenly called out to the girl sitting upon the porch step and
thus ruefully communing with herself:
"Ka-ty! Katharine!"
"Yes, Widow Sprigg! Here I am--coming. What is it? Something to do?"
"Well, I should say 'twas somethin' to do! Here's that wild-headed Monty
took an' scampered off just as I was takin' this batch of punkin pies
out the oven. Eunice wants me to send a couple of 'em to Madam, an' this
currant-jell-roll. I laid out to add a loaf of brown bread an' a pat of
butter, 'cause, say what they will, an' let Madam Sturtevant be as good
butter maker as they claim, I 'low old Whitey's milk can't hold to
richness alongside our young Alderneys; an' besides, can't be much milk
left for butter after Monty an' Alfy's drunk their fill. 'Tain't much
besides milk they do get, nuther, 'cept what we send 'em. Well, it's
most like two families bein' one the way Eunice she feels. I wonder,
could you be trusted to carry the things to the Mansion?"
"Could I not?" cried Katharine, gaily, skipping about the kitchen in her
fanciful way at this prospect of a change. "And I'd go that cross-fields
road Monty showed me. Over the meadows amongst the goldenrod, past the
stone walls where the woodbine and clematis run over each other trying
to make the old gray rocks beautiful. There's a corn-field down beside
the river so like a picture papa painted that I can almost see his dear
hand holding the brush. And the forest is like a great palette set full
of reds and blues and greens and yellows, out of God's own color-box.
Oh, it's such a glorious old world, Susanna, and I'm so glad, so glad to
be alive!"
The widow put her arms akimbo and looked at Katharine over her
spectacles, as she might have studied some new and rather formidable
insect. Then she remarked:
"My suz! you didn't look none too peart when I first called ye. If I'd
had an opinion to give I should ha' give it that you was down in the
mouth. Well, never mind. You're a funny child, but I guess you'll make
some kind of woman if you live long enough. Hand me down that basket
from the second pantry shelf, whilst I wrop that jell-roll in a napkin.
Take notice of the basket. Eunice, she had it made to the
basket-maker's up-mountain. She's dreadful good to the basket-makers,
Eunice is."
"Widow Sprigg, I think she's 'dreadful good' to everybody--to everybody
lives. Yet she looks so sort of stern and dignified sometimes I feel
afraid of her. But it is a curious basket, truly. What--"
"Watch an' see, an' don't ask so many questions. Girls' eyes ought to
save their tongues."
The basket was beautifully woven of finest willow, and was like a tiny
cupboard in the matter of shelves, each shelf fitted with a little rim
to keep whatever might be placed upon it from slipping off. There were
six of these shelves, all removable at will, and Susanna now took out
all but two. Upon these she placed the pies, and in the larger spaces
left bestowed a monster loaf of brown bread, the jell-roll and the
butter. As there was still a small part unfilled she added a tumbler of
strained honey, covered the whole with a napkin, hooked down the lid,
and said:
"Now get your hat and jacket. See 't your shoes is tied; them silk
strings is too fancy for use. Got a handkerchief? All your buttons
fastened? Feel just comf'table everyways?"
"Yes, you dear old caretaker! I'm what Uncle Moses calls as 'right as a
trivet,' whatever that may be."
Katharine sped away for her jacket, and in passing a hall shelf noticed
lying upon it a pile of Uncle Moses' "tackle," including a wonderful
jointed rod that he had always thought too fine for use, but one which
her own father had sent as a gift years before she was born. It had been
brought forth and exhibited to her, and had since reposed among less
valuable belongings in this conspicuous place. Her father was much in
her mind that day, and the rod seemed to bring him even nearer. A whim
seized her. Since there was nobody to teach her about fishing she would
even teach herself. What her father had done as a little boy must be
right for her, his child. So, when she left the house a few minutes
later, the rod was in her hand, line and fish-hooks in her pocket. Nor
had she thought it necessary to mention this fact to Susanna when she
appeared before the housekeeper to receive her basket.
"Take dreadful care of it, Katy. I know it's heavy, but 'twon't be only
one way. It'll be empty comin' back, and I do hope the victuals will eat
well!"
They were destined to "eat" uncommonly "well;" but, alas! not by the
mouths for which they were intended.