THE COTTAGE IN THE WOOD
After having cried herself to sleep in the sitting-room chamber, feeling
very lonely and forlorn because Aunt Eunice was not in her own adjoining
room, Katharine awoke to find another beautiful day gladdening the world
and herself as well. Who could be unhappy with such sunlight shining
through such golden maples, underneath a sky so blue?
"Every day is a fresh beginning,
Every morn is the world made new,"
sang the girl, springing from bed and running to her bath; a daily habit
which surprised and pleased both Miss Maitland and the housekeeper,
accustomed as they were to the rebellion of young Marsdenites to even a
weekly tubbing. A habit which had done much to win Eunice's favor toward
the "second Mrs. John," and between whom and herself now existed a
friendly and frequent correspondence. "She is a good woman, intensely
practical; and Katharine is a good child, intensely romantic; and not
all good people may live comfortably together. But there is no 'cruel
stepmother' in her, and I mean to invite her and the little Snowballs
out to visit us next summer. It shall not be my fault if there does not
yet grow the closest affection between Johnny's chosen wife and Johnny's
daughter," had remarked the mistress of The Maples, some time before.
To which Susanna had pertinently replied:
"Well, next summer ain't tetched yet, an' we may all be in our graves
before that time."
"Very true, my friend, though I don't expect to be in mine," answered
Eunice, cheerfully, and wisely changed the subject, though not her
intention.
Not only had Katharine forgotten her unhappiness of the night before,
but Susanna had also rested and recovered her good nature. She felt that
it would never do for an old lady like herself to apologize to a child
for the hard words spoken "in the way of discipline," but now that she
had had time to think it over she did not see how Katy had been so
greatly to blame. Besides, she was just wild to ask questions concerning
the tramp, and privately looked upon the little girl as a very heroine
for bravery, in that she had neither fainted nor been greatly afraid
during her interview with the wanderer.
Katy had been given a bread and milk supper and sent to her room,
feeling herself in disgrace. She had not even been allowed to visit
Moses and offer her apologies for her rudeness to him; so that if it had
not been a wholly "black" Saturday, it had been a very dark Saturday
evening.
But Saturday was past, a beautiful Lord's Day was blessing His earth,
and it was not for His children to keep offence with one another.
As her own overture to a Sabbath peace, Susanna went to the foot of the
stairs and called, in her cheerfullest voice:
"Time to get up, 'Kitty Keehoty'!"
"Oh, yes! Good morning, Susanna! I've been up ever so long--much as ten
minutes, I guess."
"Flannel cakes an' maple syrup for breakfast," returned the housekeeper,
as a parting salute, and really very happy to have all clouds blown free
of the domestic sky.
Moses had already breakfasted, and had by this time become so far
accustomed to his hard position on the cot that he had ceased to grumble
at it. That is, he had not grumbled on that morning, and had forgotten
his growls of yesterday. He was ready with a smile for his little nurse
when she came in with the new copy of the _Chronicle_, to read him a few
paragraphs while Susanna fried the cakes. Later, she brought a big bunch
of chrysanthemums and put them on his bureau; then tidied the room even
beyond its usual order, since on Sundays, when his neighbors had
leisure, the invalid was sure to have many visitors.
Indeed, as Susanna informed Katharine at breakfast, Deacon Meakin
himself was coming to sit the whole afternoon with his afflicted
predecessor. Kate, herself, was to go alone to church in the morning,
and remember that she was to behave exactly as if Eunice were beside
her. In the afternoon, during the deacon's temporary charge of the
house, Susanna would take Katharine on that long promised walk to "my
cottage."
"I've been terr'ble anxious 'bout it ever sence that tramp come to town,
an' now sence you've seen an' talked with him, an' I know that he's
runnin' 'round loose still, I must go take a look. That's the worst o'
prope'ty, it's a dreadful care."
"But it must be just delightful to own such a cute little cottage as
yours, all vines and trees--"
"The chimbley smoked," interjected the widow, feeling free to disparage
her own "prope'ty," though she would have resented such a remark from
another.
"That could be fixed, I reckon. When I saw it from the stage, coming, I
thought it was just like a doll-house, or a child's playhouse."
"Huh! You did, did you? Well, let me tell you, Katharine Maitland, that
house is a good one. Spriggs, he had it built first-class, with a room
finished off in the roof--attic, he called it--three good rooms on the
ground floor, white-painted clapboards an' reg'lar blinds, green blinds
with slats turnin' easy as nothin'. Not like the old-fashioned wooden
shutters, so clumsy 't you can't see out to tell who's comin' along the
road without openin' the hull concern. And it has as good a system of
water as Squire Pettijohn's, only not so big. Sprigg, he bricked it all
up, hauled the bricks himself clean in from the county town, an' it's
got a manhole 'twill let ary man down it that wants to go. My house may
not be as big as the moon, but it's got as good a system of water as
Eunice's even."
Katharine's eyes twinkled. Until she came to Marsden she had never heard
of a cistern; all the water used in her city home had been piped into it
from a reservoir, which supplied all the other houses also; but she had
learned what Susanna meant by "system," because the Turners had had
theirs cleaned out only the week before.
"What's the 'manhole,' Susanna?"
"My suz! You do ask the ridicylousest questions. It's a hole left in the
top for folks to go down into it, if they want to."
"Well, I shouldn't think they'd ever want to. And the Turners' manhole
must be very small, smaller than yours, maybe; because they sent Bob
down to clean it, and he got stuck coming out. His mother was scared
almost into a fit, and the girls cried and Mr. Turner--said things. He
told Bob if he ever got him out alive he'd teach him to live on light
rations for awhile. Bob's so fat, you know. It was so funny, and yet I
was frightened, too. I suppose if he had stuck too tight they'd have had
to break the bricks away, but he squeezed through all right. He hasn't
spoken to me since, though. Just because I laughed."
"My suz, Kitty! if you ain't the greatest one for bein' everywhere 't
anything's goin' on. You hain't been here but a month, yet you know more
folks, been into more houses, seems if, than I have, who've lived here
all my life. An' the idee! Tearin' away good bricks just to get a
wuthless boy out, like that Bob. I cal'late his pa would ha' thought
twice 'fore it come to that. He'd have made the young one scrouge
himself up dreadful narrow an' wriggle himself free, somehow. But there.
No use worryin' about my system, 'cause I had the leader-pipe turned
t'other way so no rain could run into it. It's as dry as a floor now. My
suz! What a long walk it is, an' how warm it does keep. I never knowed
such a fall, no weather fit for killin' nor nothin', but just like
midsummer," bewailed Susanna, lagging on the long woodland path.
"I never knew such a fall, either. I never dreamed that the world could
be so lovely. I have only been in the country a fortnight at a time in
August, until I came to Marsden, but I love it, I love it! And I think
you're dressed too warm. What made you put on that heavy wool gown and
shawl? And a veil, too. I should think you'd roast, and your face is the
color of boiled lobster," said Katharine, with hapless frankness.
Their talk had been along the way, and their goal was already in sight
through the trees. Poor Susanna had scarcely breath to retort, but
managed to say:
"Ain't it the time o' year to put on thick clothes? an' am I to blame if
the weather don't know its own business?"
Then, for a peace-offering, Katharine handed her companion a beautiful
fern, which the widow tossed aside contemptuously, with:
"Huh! What do I want with a brake? Eunice, she litters the house with
'em bad enough. I ain't a-goin' to add to the muss. Well, here we be,
an' there's the key. I've come here alone time an' time again an' never
felt the creeps a-doin' it afore to-day. But--my suz! I wouldn't ha'
come now without you to keep me comp'ny, not for anything."
"That's flattering! Am I so brave, then?" asked the girl, giving the
housekeeper a sudden little hug.
"Yes, you be. But, my suz! You needn't knock my bunnit off with your
foolishness. Seems if this key's gettin' rusty, or else--can't be the
door's unlocked, can it?"
"I'm sure I don't know. I was never here before." Then, as the door
opened, sniffing a little at the musty odor incident to a tightly closed
apartment: "Whew! It needs airing, anyway. Let's throw up all the sashes
and set the blinds wide, then it will be the sweetest little cottage in
the world."
"Well, you may. And when you've done these down here, you might--you
might go up attic and open that winder, too. It's there I've got my
things stored that I've been layin' out to show you, soon's I could. Me
an' Moses an' Eunice is all a-gettin' old. It's time somebody younger
an' likelier to live longer should know. This walk to-day tells me 'at I
ain't so spry as I used to be. No tellin', no tellin'. We're here now,
an' there some other time, an' life's a shadder, a shadder," ruminated
the widow, sitting down on the door-step, and not anxious, apparently,
to enter the cottage first.
Which fact Katharine was quick to observe and comment upon, with a
laugh: "Oh, you blessed old coward! You're afraid that tramp has shut
himself up in your 'prope'ty,' and you'll come upon him unawares. You'd
'risk' me, just as Monty 'risked' Ned Clackett to climb the schoolhouse
roof after a ball, not daring to go himself. Well, here goes! You keep
watch without while I search within."
Susanna laughed. She was afraid, and owned it frankly; but after
Katharine had ransacked the few rooms thoroughly, peeped under the bed
in the kitchen-bedroom, opened the few closet doors, and even examined
the wall cupboard, she gathered courage to enter, and promptly led the
way up-stairs.
The little home was plainly furnished, but represented the romance of
her life to old Susanna. Memories of her youth came back and softened
the asperity of age, her wrinkled face taking on gentler lines and her
harsh voice a tenderer tone. But to-day she was in haste. She felt
herself needed at The Maples, even with the capable Deacon Meakin left
to "hold the fort," as he expressed it. Going to a chest of drawers she
opened the top one and displayed a store of blankets, different from
those Katharine had seen. They looked like very coarse and heavy
flannel, and were yellow with age. "Them was part of my fittin' out. I
spun an' wove 'em myself, whilst Sprigg an' me was walkin' out
together," she explained, carefully peering into the folds of the cloth,
in search of any vagrant moth.
"Why, how in the world could you do that? I thought when one spun and
wove they had to have wheels and looms and things. How could you carry
such about with you, even with Sprigg, I mean Mr. Sprigg, to help?"
Susanna looked over her spectacles more hurt than angry. But she saw
only honest surprise on the girl's face, and, after a pause, explained:
"'Walkin' out together' means keepin' comp'ny; as men an' women do
who've promised to marry each other."
"Oh, an engagement! I remember quite well, too well, when papa and Mrs.
Snowball 'walked out together.' It quite did away with the delightful
'walkin' out' I had always had with him before that time."
"Well, Katy, be sure if Johnny picked her out she was the right one, an'
me an' Eunice hopes to see the pair of ye good friends yet. We're layin'
out to have all them little Snowballs down here, or up here, next
summer, if we live to see another summer, an' make up our own minds as
to how things is. We've settled that."
Which shows that even strong-minded women like Susanna may sometimes
change their minds; also lay claim to ideas not originally their own.
But the effect upon Katharine was to sober her completely, and, oddly
enough, make her a bit homesick for the old life and the noisy little
brothers. She fell to thinking about them so earnestly that she scarcely
heard what else the widow was saying, until she was touched upon the
arm, and bidden:
"Now, look sharp an' remember. Here 'tis, my shroud an' all goes with
it."
"Your--w-h-a-t?" gasped Katharine.
Susanna again looked her surprise, but she was perfectly calm, even
cheerfully interested; and, to enlighten the other's ignorance,
patiently explained.
"I said my shroud, that I am to be wropped in when I'm buried. I made it
years ago, an' styles has changed some, I hear. But this is good, an'
'll be easy for 'em that does it to put on me. It's keepin' real well,
nice an' white. Here's the suit of underclothes goes with it, all new,
white stockin's--loose an' roomy, an' pins an' needles an' thread--not a
thing wantin', so fur as I know. Why, child, what ails you? You look as
if you had seen a ghost."
Poor Katharine was so shocked by this revelation which the other made so
calmly, that she had turned quite white, and found some difficulty to
control her voice, as she returned:
"It's so--so horrible, so ghastly! Right here in all this glory of life
to be anticipating the grave! Give the dreadful things to me. I hate to
touch them, but I'll make myself. I'll carry them right down into the
kitchen and make a fire in the stove and burn them up, up, up! Oh,
Susanna! how could you?"
The old housekeeper was in her own turn as genuinely surprised. In many
a household she knew just such provision for a sad day had been made.
She had even once assisted at a "bee," where several women had assembled
to prepare a burial garment for an old, bedridden neighbor, who, less
"forehanded" than Marsdenites in general, had neglected to provide one
for herself. The careless creature was living yet, and likely to outlive
many a stronger woman, but that didn't matter. However, such ignorance
as Katharine's did not surprise her so much as it would have done had
the child's "raising" been in the more favored environment she had
herself enjoyed. Of course, she did not yield her treasures to the
destruction suggested. She merely closed that drawer and opened another;
and here, indeed, her whole bearing changed. Uncovering a big
paste-board box, she showed a quantity of little garments, oddly
fashioned, but beautifully preserved, the very folds in which they had
been laid away still crisp and fresh.
Over and over the time-yellowed muslin her work-knotted fingers passed
and repassed. Her touch was the touch of a mother upon her first-born,
and the years that had been between the day of his coming and this were
forgotten.
Katharine watching, understood. Her sympathy brought a moisture to her
own eyes, which now regarded the childless old woman in a new and
reverent light. Never again would Susanna be just the same to her young
housemate that she had been. The girl was learning life. Yesterday her
lesson--that not all of God's vagrants are vile; to-day--that all
sharp-tongued women are not viragoes.
After a time, said the widow, simply: "Them was my baby's," and softly
closed the drawer.
They were well on the way home when Susanna suddenly exclaimed:
"My suz! Ever see such a simpleton? I clean forgot to lock the door; an'
that kitchen-bedroom winder, I doubt that you went near it."
"No, I didn't. I forgot, too. Never mind, you sit here and rest. I'll
run back and fasten the whole house, and won't be long. Or you go on
toward home and I'll overtake you."
"Sure you just as lief? Well, I don't s'pose you would be afraid now,
after I've been there with ye to show you there wasn't nothin' nor
nobody there, an' I 'low I'd ought to be back soon's I can," responded
the housekeeper.
"Afraid? Why, it was you yourself was afraid, you dear old make-believe!
But go on, just the same. I'll make haste," cried Kate, laughing at the
other's altered mind, and immediately darting backward through the
forest toward the cottage.
The Widow Sprigg walked forward, slowly; pausing here to pick up a nut,
or there to examine a tree which she would tell Eunice might better be
felled. As she walked she became uneasy, feeling that she had really
imposed an unpleasant, possibly perilous, task upon the girl she scolded
so freely yet already loved so dearly. Gathering a sprig of wintergreen
she chewed it thoughtfully, and scarcely knew when she turned back to
retrace her own steps to the cottage and learn what had befallen
Katharine, who surely should have been in sight long before.
She came, at last, breathless and excited, catching the widow's arm and
dragging her farther into the wood, but saying nothing save that
imperative: "Come! Oh, come quick! Quick! We may be too late!"
Perforce the other "came," and there, on her kitchen-bedroom bed, lay
Marsden's "tramp," seemingly sick unto death.