REUBEN SMITH, ACCESSORY
The wheels belonged to Squire Pettijohn's buggy, in which were seated
Aunt Eunice and himself. This was a combination which, as Katy related
it from the window, greatly astonished Moses. Yet there was nothing
surprising in the fact, after all. The gentleman had chanced to be
up-mountain, calling at the same house where Miss Maitland was visiting,
and had offered to take her home, hearing her say that she was anxious
to be there early on the morrow.
She had not enjoyed her ride, yet blamed herself for her aversion to a
neighbor who, if not a gentleman, had learned sufficient good manners to
conduct himself as nearly such. The worst annoyance he had given her was
by continual and roundabout references to what had happened in the
forest. The more she evaded his questions the more direct they became,
till she was almost forced to tell everything or be imputed a liar.
As they turned into the village street he made a final effort for
enlightenment, saying:
"You must know, Miss Maitland,"--he did not call her "Eunice" to her
face as he had done behind her back to Susanna,--"you must know that in
keeping this treasure, or whatever was found in your woods, a secret
from others, you are injuring somebody. They say you are conniving at
the escape of a tramp, even. A tramp! One of those dangerous creatures
which infest our State, but have not before invaded Marsden. I flatter
myself that I--that I--have so far prevented their coming, and I am
certainly making it my business now to unearth this one who, I am told,
lurks principally in your forest. You are a large-hearted, generous
lady, Miss Maitland; one who is an honor to her township and whom I am
proud to call a neighbor--"
"Indeed? I thank you," said Aunt Eunice, stiffly.
Squire Pettijohn ignored the interruption. He meant to make the most of
this unlooked-for chance to satisfy his curiosity and his
self-importance, and continued as if she had not spoken:
"But who, I fear, sometimes lets her heart run away with her head. In
pitying the individual, namely, the tramp in present question, you
should also remember that you are endangering the community."
"Nonsense. But may I ask, in turn, from whom you gained your information
that I protected the tramp?"
"Hm-m--Er--Ah! I believe it was Mrs. Turner who said that you said you
'hoped if any poor hungry wretch strayed into this village of plenty he
would get enough to eat for once.' That you 'had always regretted we had
no really poor people in Marsden, where they could be cared for, and so
lessen the number of starving persons elsewhere.' Mrs. Turner made a
personal application of the remark, and suggested that if it had been
_your_ pies which had been purloined you might feel differently."
Eunice laughed as gaily as a girl, and exclaimed:
"So it has grown to be 'pies,' has it? The last time I heard the matter
mentioned it was one possible pie, and Robert, as well as a tramp, had
been in the locality where they were set to cool. Besides, it would be
an excellent thing if they had all been taken. Mrs. Turner is a nice
woman, but she can't make pastry fit to eat, as witness her husband's
dyspepsia. Monty says they have pie at the Turners three times a day,
and it's a paradise for hungry small visitors who can digest anything.
Indeed, I am surprised to learn I gave my neighbor offence on this same
pie subject. We talked for some time over it and she fell into my idea
that fruit for dessert would suit Mr. Turner far better than pastry, and
save her a world of trouble. It would also diminish the number of the
children's playmate 'droppers-in' at meal-times. Yes, I am surprised."
They had come within sight of The Maples, and Squire Pettijohn had, with
apparent carelessness, let back the top of the buggy so that any who
cared might observe him riding with the mistress of that fine old estate
and the present centre or heroine of so much mystery. This was an
unusual thing to do, for letting carriage-tops back is apt to crack the
leather, and "Jim" Pettijohn cracked nothing which could be preserved.
Eunice comprehended and smiled quietly in her corner of the seat,
talking at length as she had done to stave off any further prying into
her affairs.
Even yet she was not to be let free. Said the gentleman, with a
preliminary cough:
"I do hope and trust, dear Miss Maitland, that you will forego a
mistaken expression of sympathy, should an appeal be made to you, and
assist me as a magistrate to nip this evil in the bud. In other words,
to send this vagrant to the lockup at the earliest possible moment. As I
observed, you owe it to your community to protect it, not endanger it."
Eunice turned her glowing eyes upon him. "And I owe to the Great Father,
who has given us this day, to be good to every child of His, however
humble. If the tramp comes to my door he shall be fed. If he needs
shelter I will shelter him. If he needs clothing I will clothe him.
Why, look, man, look!" spreading her hand wide to point out the lovely
surroundings: "Should anybody come into all this and go away not the
better for it? How do we know what chance has brought this stranger
hither? Or what and where his life began? Maybe, in just some such
favored country village; and once, at least, he was--somebody's son."
The tenderness of her compassionate tone but hardened the other's
purpose.
"Huh! If he were my _own_ son, even, I would have the law on him to the
fullest extremity!" he answered, harshly; and Eunice shivered,
remembering, as he seemed to have forgotten, that poor son of his who
had gone astray and might be roaming the world then, as was this unknown
who had so stirred the lawyer's wrath.
Baffled yet persistent, as he helped her alight at her own threshold,
the Squire put one more sudden question:
"But, after all, there was something--_something_--found in your woods
that day, wasn't there?"
It was not even in Eunice's patience to endure thus much. Caught
unawares, she burst out, indignantly:
"Yes, there was something found, but it does not concern anybody to know
what. Thank you for your courtesy, and--good evening."
The lawyer drove homeward satisfied. She had admitted "the find." He
would now proceed to unearth it. Incidentally, he would unearth the
tramp, but that was, in his estimation, a secondary matter.
Eunice reëntered her home, glad to be there, but as Susanna saw at first
greeting, "all stirred up and upsot." She would not allow herself to
talk till she had recovered her composure. She even promptly, though
affectionately, dismissed Katharine to her bed, reminding her that the
morrow brought school again and she must be awake early.
The little girl was disappointed. She had longed for a long, cosy talk
with her guardian over so many, many things. Not least of all concerning
the brilliant scheme which had occurred to her and Monty that day on the
hay. Nor did it please her any too well to lie and listen to the voices
of Eunice and Susanna, murmuring on and on indefinitely, in the
sitting-room below. Commonly the housekeeper went early to sleep on
Sunday nights, for it was her habit to rise before daybreak and set
about her Monday washing. To-night the great clock struck eleven,
actually eleven, before this conference broke up; only to be resumed at
intervals during the next morning, whenever the pair were alone.
However, Katharine had other matters on hand so absorbing that even the
mysteries of tramp and brass bound box sank out of mind. She was off to
school a half-hour before time, and strangely enough Montgomery was
equally prompt. Together they repaired to the wooden bench under the
beech-tree, and while the lad suggested things to be written down, Kate
wrote them rapidly on little slips of paper, which suspiciously
resembled a leaf from a copy-book.
Other scholars came along and stared, wondering what had sent this
usually tardy boy so far in advance of the bell. Little girls tittered.
Phrony Walker tossed her braid flippantly over her shoulder, casually
displaying a new hair ribbon with which she meant to impress the city
girl who wore and needed none. Sophronia's hair did not kink and curl as
Katharine's did, but it was "a hunderd times as long and a great deal
prettier colored." Kate had said so herself, yet here was she who was so
generously admiring, almost covetous, calmly unobservant of braid,
ribbon, and all.
Martha and Mary Turner came, swinging their lunch-basket between them,
delightfully conscious that in its depths were stored three apple
turnovers, one for each of them and one for Kitty Keehoty, who was never
allowed to carry pie to school. With a child's fondness for the
indigestible, she had once declared that Mrs. Turner's turnovers were
"sim-ply de-lic-ious," and they had teased their mother ever since to
make one for their new friend. But they stopped short at sight of the
light and dark head so close together over something they did not know
about, and when Martha drew nearer and informed the dark-haired
scribbler that she had "brought it," Kate merely nodded her head and
continued scribbling.
Bob and Ned arrived, tackle over shoulder, intent upon playing hookey at
afternoon session, and disgusted that Monty was so little excited by
their grimacing pantomime, as they demonstrated how they would escape to
the woods and invited his company. Then they tried ridicule, calling
"girl-boy, girl-boy," as loudly as they dared, with Katharine's scornful
glances upon them. Monty grew fiery red and tossed his blond head as if
shaking an obnoxious insect from it, but did not cease to scratch it for
ideas, which he whispered to his companion as fast as he dug them out.
Even when the teacher came and Kate sprang to her feet to bid him her
always courteously ready "Good morning," also dragging Montgomery to his
own feet as a reminder of what was correct, that excited, exalted
expression left neither young face.
Matters continued thus all through school. Monty was worse than ordinary
in the matter of lessons, and that was saying much. Katharine, having
had better advantages, stood far in advance of her class, so had no need
to study, and kept her slips of paper in her book all the time she sat
at her desk. She was not a rapid writer and she certainly had a deal of
writing to do. At recess the before-school performance was repeated; and
when the truants, Bob and Ned, disappeared in the direction of the
"Eddy" after "noonin'," Monty failed to send one regretful glance
thither. He was more occupied in watching the face of the clock than
anything else, and as soon as dismissal-bell rang, darted from the
schoolroom as if propelled by a gun. Just then, too, the first warning
notes of Reuben Smith's horn came floating through the trees and down
the street, and thereafter all that was seen of the boy was a pair of
heels vanishing in air.
"Why, what in the world ails Monty? And say, Katy, didn't you like your
turnover?" asked Martha Turner, drawing near to her heroine and showing
that she felt somewhat aggrieved.
"Oh, Monty's all right. He--Don't you worry. You'll all know sometime.
And didn't I eat it?"
"Yes. You ate it fast enough, but you didn't say whether you liked it or
not. I think ma, she--"
"Oh, you dear thing! Of course I liked it; and please make my regards to
your mother and tell her that I thank her very much. It was the nicest
turnover I ever had, and--and it was the first one."
To an older mind this might not have been so convincing an argument, but
it satisfied Martha. She considered that Katharine Maitland had the
"perfectly sweetest manner of any girl in the world," and was daily
trying to improve her own by the pattern set. "Make my regards." She had
never heard that phrase before, but it impressed her as very stately and
"Miss Eunicey," so put it away in her memory for future use. She was
further delighted by Katharine's begging her and Mary to walk home with
her, as far as they went her way, for she had something to talk over
with them.
But when she revealed this "something" it proved not so much after all.
She merely inquired exactly how many boys and girls there were in their
school and out of it. "I want to get the name of every single child that
isn't more than sixteen years old. As much younger as you please, but
older than that would be grown-ups. At least, they would be in
Baltimore."
That settled it. Whatever was done "in Baltimore" seemed to these young
provincials as the acme of correctness; little knowing that to a wider
world even "Baltimore" was also provincial.
But it was easy enough to "count noses," as Mary phrased it, and the
list of names Katharine had already prepared swelled considerably. She
wrote as she walked, the cover of her book her desk, and with such
haste that the writing was almost illegible. However, a trifle of that
sort could be overcome.
"No, Mattie, I know it isn't very plain, but I guess I'll make it out.
Let's hurry. Reuben Smith's blowing his go-away horn, and I want to
see--Oh, yes! There he is! The stage-driver keeps blowing every little
while, yet he keeps talking, too, so I know it's all right! Oh, just
fancy! It's going to be perfectly, perfectly splendid! Oh, you dear,
dear things!"
Katharine's playmates were accustomed to being caught up and hugged
whenever anything pleased her more than common, and she was usually as
free in explaining her delight as in expressing it physically. But she
explained nothing now. She merely squeezed their hands, and stared at
Mr. Smith still arguing with Montgomery, till suddenly looking around
she saw their puzzled faces.
"Never mind me, girls. I can't tell yet, not just yet, because it's a
beautiful secret. But you'll all know right soon. You're going to be in
it, too; we're all going to be in it! Oh, the happy old man! Oh, the
fun! Oh, the queer crazy decorations! I believe _I'm_ just too happy to
live! But the stage is going and I must run to Monty. Good-by. Be sure
to be at school to-morrow. Then you'll know."
Reuben Smith mounted to his high seat, blew a farewell blast on his
ancient horn, and drove away out of the village, while Montgomery fairly
tumbled over himself in his haste to meet Katharine, who greeted him
with the question:
"Well, will he do it?"
"Y-y-y-ye-es!" gasped the breathless lad, and sat down on the edge of
the path to recover.
For once careless of dust, Kate dropped down beside him and counted
questions off upon her fingers so fast that Monty could only nod his
head in acquiescence. Then she drew a small chain purse from her blouse
pocket, where it had been carefully pinned ever since she left home in
the morning. From this she took a pile of new one-dollar bills--ten in
all--and laid them one by one on Montgomery's outstretched palms. It was
the largest amount of money Kate had ever owned, it was almost the
largest the boy had ever seen. A feeling like awe stole upon him and he
whispered,--without a stutter,--"S'pose he should lose it!"
"That's a good boy. Monty, you're improving so fast, you'll beat the
time I set for you to conquer in. Have you said your piece to-day? And,
of course he won't lose it. Men don't lose things. Except Uncle Moses
his 'specs' and the deacon his two-pronged fork, that's never in the
hay-mow when he wants it there. Stage-drivers don't lose, anyway, and
I'm glad it's you, not I, who have to deal with him. He doesn't like me
much. I _was_ saucy when I came. I don't think I am quite, not quite so
saucy spoken as I was when I came. Do you, Monty?"
"O-o-oh, not n-n-nigh!" he easily replied, never having thought at all
about it. He was still entranced with the possession, even temporary, of
such vast wealth as he was now bestowing in an old and hitherto useless
purse. The crisp new bills. How fat they made it! How utterly and
entirely delightful was this girl from the outside world who had such
wonderful ideas and the ability to carry them out!
Then the purse was put away in the innermost of all his many inner
pockets, and around his blouse, beneath his jacket, Monty fastened a
leather strap. Buckling this so tight he could hardly breathe, and
fastening the coat over all, he slapped his chest admiringly, and
valiantly declared:
"A-a-anybody get that a-a-away from me'll have to k-k-kill me
f-f-first!"
Katy jumped up. "Let's go ask Aunt Eunice about the pumpkins!"
In an instant they were off down the street, and some, looking out of
window as they raced past, remarked:
"There they go again, Sturtevant and Maitland, each generation as close
friends as the other. But chummy as they've been ever since Johnny's
girl came to Marsden, there's something more than common on the carpet
now."
There certainly was. They burst in upon Miss Maitland's solitude,
forgetful to tap at door as they both knew they should, and
simultaneously besought the startled lady:
"Please, Aunt Eunice, may we have all the pumpkins in the south
corn-field?"
At least, that was what Katharine said. Monty's request was proffered
stammeringly but not less earnestly, and he said "punkins" with no
attempt at correctness of speech.
"Children! What a pair of noisy creatures you are! Where have you come
from? You are late if just from school. And, Montgomery, does your
grandmother know that you are here?"
"N-n-no, Aunt E-E-E-Eunice. Nev' mind her. She w-w-won't care. C-c-c-can
we?"
"I--don't think I quite understand. Did you ask me for a pumpkin? Please
repeat."
"'A pumpkin'--that's one; no, indeed!" said Katy, scornfully. "We want
the whole field full of them. We sha'n't hurt them any, Monty says, and
he knows 'bout country things better than I do." Here she bestowed such
an approving smile upon her comrade that he flushed and smiled
beatifically. There were so few, so very few, things in which he could
really excel this superior city creature, yet she was so generous as to
perceive them even before he did himself.
Just then Susanna came in greatly flurried, and, catching Eunice's arm,
tried to draw her hastily out of the room. Miss Maitland herself had
swiftly caught her housemate's perturbation. Indeed, she had already
been perturbed when the children intruded upon her, and had, apparently,
now forgotten them.
Katharine saw their opportunity slipping from them, and opportunity was
something that girl never wasted for want of readiness to seize it.
Running after the departing lady, she clasped her skirt and stayed her
long enough to put her question once more:
"May we, aunty? Oh, please, before you go, say--yes!"
"Yes. Why, of course, yes, yes," returned the lady, all unheeding unto
what she had given her consent.
But she was to learn. Ah, yes! She was to learn in good time.