WHAT THE MOON SAW IN THE CORN-FIELD
October had now nearly gone, and there was a chill in the air which
would, under ordinary circumstances, have made both Eunice and Susanna
pause before setting off into the woods at that hour in the afternoon.
Certainly they would not have gone without wraps and shawls galore, but
neither paused now. As swiftly, almost as secretly, as two guilty
schoolgirls would have started upon some surreptitious adventure, they
left the house by the back door and passed through the back garden. From
thence they struck into the path to the woodland and hurried forward.
Between strides the widow managed to interject a few explanatory
sentences.
"I got the wash off the line." Pause. "An' I got oneasy." Another pause.
Resuming: "I felt druv to go out there, alone even, an' see. What you
said about starvin' him worked on me, dreadful. I took a basket o'
victuals. Bad as he is--Oh, my suz!"
"Walk slower, Susanna. We shall be overdone if we keep this pace. What
then?" asked Miss Maitland.
"Well, I went. I run 'most all the way. I got there--an' he wasn't. He
wasn't at all!"
"Do you mean that he had left the cottage?"
"My suz! I should think he has. He's left, an' my log-cabin quilt's
left, an' my best feather tick, an' pillows, an' a pair blankets--that
kitchen-bedroom bedstead's stripped as clean as 'twas the day it was
born--I mean, sot up. Now--what do you think of that?"
"I think--Oh, what a miserable business it all is! I am so worried I
cannot sleep. Right and wrong, right and wrong, like the pendulum of the
clock the two sides of the matter swing in my mind till I'm
half-distracted. I hardly know what I am doing or saying, I am so
anxious to do the best for everybody, yet what is best? I have a fear
that those children asked me something absurd a few minutes ago, and I
said 'yes' to them without comprehending. I think they said 'a field of
pumpkins.' What could they want with a field--_a field_--of pumpkins?"
"Didn't want 'em, of course. Some their silliness. Don't worry. What's
punkins, anyhow, compared with that log-cabin quilt?"
"Little, to be sure. And I hope it isn't really lost. Are you certain
that the poor wretch is he you said?"
"As sure as I draw my breath," averred Susanna, solemnly.
"Then Squire Pettijohn must never know," said Eunice, with equal
solemnity.
After that they hurried silently onward again, reckless of the fact that
they had left a bedridden man alone in the house, for although the
deacon was still about his evening chores, such kept him wholly outside.
As for Katharine, she might or might not be on hand if Moses summoned
her. Evidently she and her boy-chum had some fine scheme on hand and
were away to put it in train, since they had both been more than
commonly excited and eager.
Never mind. There are times in life when its commonplace affairs must
yield to the extraordinary. These two quiet householders had come to
such a time on that late October day.
They had walked almost as far as Susanna's cottage when Eunice paused,
and held her companion also back, as she pointed through the darkening
wood to a wild-looking creature prowling among the trees. He was
evidently looking for something. His search so earnest and troubled that
the caution he had heretofore displayed had deserted him. Stooping,
poking among the leaves and bracken, rising, moving toward another tree,
stooping again--repeating endlessly this same proceeding, the watchers
soon tired of simply observing him.
"Stay here, Susanna. You were right. It is he. I will go and speak to
him."
"Alone? Oh, Eunice, don't! Let the old quilt go! I wish I hadn't told
ye. Besides, who'd ever want to sleep under it after he'd touched it?"
But though she caught at her mistress's hand to prevent such
foolhardiness, Susanna could not stop her. She was walking swiftly
toward the searcher and almost noiselessly, and had come up to him
before he was aware. When she was close at his side, so close that her
firm fingers rested on his ragged shoulder, he discovered her and
started away. But she held him quiet, more by her will than her grasp,
while, looking steadily into his eyes, she spoke his name, gently,
kindly, as one who welcomes a long absent friend:
"Nathan! Why, Nathan! How glad I am to see you!"
The tramp no longer struggled to free himself, but as if spellbound by
her gaze returned it in silence. Gradually there stole over his haggard
features the light of recognition, and, instead of remembering later
events, his mind reverted to his boyhood.
"Be you Miss Eunice? But--I hain't got my lesson."
Again he would have slunk away expecting a reprimand; yet none came.
Quite to the contrary, Miss Maitland's own face brightened and she
laughed, answering:
"Never mind the lesson, laddie. We're not little boy and young woman
to-day, Sunday scholar and Sunday teacher. We're just two old friends
well met, with other things to learn besides printed lessons. What have
you lost? Can I help you find it?"
"A box. His'n. I fetched it safe so fur--an' now--now--I can't see it
nowhere. Planck'll frown an' make me feel mean. I promised--"
There a pitiful stupidity took the place of the intelligent recognition
he had momentarily displayed, and he resumed that fruitless search under
the trees.
"Wait, Nathan. Maybe I know. Maybe I can help you. The box was an old,
old box. It was of mahogany, heavy, bound with brass, with neither key
nor keyhole, and only those who had been shown how could open it. Is
that the one, Nathan?"
"Yes, yes! It's all safe inside. He put it there--just when--just--"
With a sudden outburst of grief he began to weep. The great tears ran
down his dirty cheeks and streaked them. His breath came in great
blubbering sobs which he made no effort to check.
Eunice Maitland also went back in spirit many years and saw before her
now, not the repellent vagrant, but a forlorn child who must be
comforted. Without shrinking she clasped his vile hand in her dainty one
and turned him back toward Susanna's cottage. That good soul had now
drawn near and was herself crying bitterly. Why--she could hardly have
explained. Surely, not from any affection for Nathan Pettijohn, returned
rascal, nor from any sentimental memory of bygone years, such as her
mistress's; but just naturally, in sympathy with two other tear-wet
faces. She found the tears a relief. Indeed, they all appeared to do so,
and began to retrace the way to the woodland cottage with swifter steps.
The two women, because they were feeling the cold and now realizing what
a foolish thing they had done in coming out unprotected from it. The
vagrant, because it was his nature to follow rather than lead. Arrived
there, they found the door wide open and the furnishing sadly
disordered. Evidently, Nathan had rummaged the place thoroughly.
The Widow Sprigg had long since dried her unaccountable tears, and was
freshly indignant at the state of affairs. So soon as they were within
doors she turned upon the intruder, and demanded:
"What did you mean by such doin's as these, Nate Pettijohn? Ain't you
ashamed to destroy folkses prope'ty this way? Where's my log-cabin
quilt? My pillows? All my things?"
The man paid no heed to her, but fixed a hungry gaze upon the basket she
had brought earlier in the afternoon, and Eunice interposed:
"Wait, Susanna. Let us feed him first, and hear his story afterward."
With that she opened the basket and set fresh food before him, while,
with that thoughtfulness which was so constantly belying her sharp
tongue, the cottage mistress went to the well and brought in a fresh
pail of water. Though not as ravenous as he had been that afternoon by
the riverside, he even now devoured, rather than ate, the sandwiches and
cakes, swallowing them noisily and so rapidly that what the housekeeper
had supposed would be sufficient to last any one for at least
twenty-four hours disappeared in less than as many minutes.
"Well, my suz! If that don't beat the Dutch! I shouldn't think, if I
hadn't knowed better, 'at you'd seen a mouthful o' victuals sence you
scooted out o' Marsden a dozen years ago! An' as for manners--why, our
pigs is better behaved. Water? Drink your fill, an' then, Nate
Pettijohn, you walk right straight out to that wash-dish in the lean-to
an' scrub yourself well. Of all the dirty creatur's--Why, what?"
The vagrant had been seized by a violent fit of coughing, so fierce that
it threatened hemorrhage; and Susanna's wrath died.
"Consumption!" she whispered to Eunice, and shivered. It was of
consumption "Spriggs, he" had died.
The paroxysm passed and left its victim exhausted. With a longing for
rest, he tottered out of the kitchen into the lean-to, but not to wash
as its owner had suggested. He went directly to the now uncovered
manhole of the cistern and slowly descended a short ladder which
protruded from it and had always hitherto hung upon the wall. The women
watched him in astonishment, then Susanna hastily procured a candle,
and, lighting it, held it above the opening.
As she had herself once said, the cistern was as dry as possible, and
was in reality like a low-ceilinged little room, with the manhole for
sky-light. Into this place the vagrant had tossed the missing bedding,
and with his habit of hiding had bestowed himself upon it. In all
probability, he had rarely occupied so snug and comfortable, though
peculiar, a bedchamber.
"My--s-u-z!" gasped the widow, and sat down on a wash-bench to recover
from her amazement.
Miss Maitland said nothing, yet an expression of great satisfaction
settled upon her countenance, and, motioning her friend back into the
kitchen, explained its cause.
"Nathan himself has decided what should best be done with him. He is
perfectly safe and comfortable in that cistern. It is warm and
sufficiently aired. He will not be apt to build a fire, as you feared,
especially if we see to it that he has enough to eat. Nobody will think
of looking for him in such a place, even though, as he declared he
should, his father organizes a search for him. Unhappy father, if he
does, and--poor, unhappy son. He looks very ill, and he certainly is no
more intelligent than when he went away. But he is evidently faithful to
Verplanck Sturtevant, as he always was. It is he that has brought back
and for safe-keeping, presumably, hidden the brass bound box that
Katharine found, and that has led to so many wild rumors. Do you not
think we would better leave him undisturbed for the present, until I can
secure better clothing for him? Also, can decide that awful
question--whether or not to tell Elinor the stolen box is found. It will
be like deliberately trying to break her heart over again if I give it
to her and it is empty. Yet, it is not mine, and it rests on my
conscience like an actual weight. Do advise me, Susanna."
From which it appears that the widow's curiosity had already been
satisfied concerning the fabulous "find" in the Maitland forest, and she
readily assented to her companion's idea.
"No, Eunice, we couldn't do better. Let him be. Poor wretch, he won't
trouble nobody long, by the sound o' that cough. An' if Squire Pettijohn
is mean enough an' onfeelin' enough to treat him like he vowed he would
ary tramp, 'even his own son,' I guess we can let the Lord 'tend to
_him_. He wouldn't know another day's peace, not if he's human; 'cause
once that mis'able creatur', no matter what he is now, was a baby--a
baby in arms. But--my suz, Eunice! I've just figured it out! How can the
Squire 'rest anybody? He ain't no constable. Nobody ain't a constable
here in Marsden. Ain't been none sence Isaac Brewster died, an' nobody
would take his place. 'Less I'm one, myself, as Moses said."
At which she laughed heartily, then hastily added:
"But we must be gettin' home to oncet. I'll step up attic an' get a
couple o' shawls to wrop 'round us, heads an' all. I do hope we shall be
pervented from takin' cold temptin' Providence the way we have, at our
time o' life. Nate, he won't stir no more to-night. He's too tuckered
out an' too well fed. Sleep's the best medicine for him, so we'll shut
up quiet like an' start. But where in the world'll you get clothes, as
you said? Man's clothes, you an' me, old women without a man betwixt us,
except Moses, an' it bein' kep' secret from him still. If you tell him
he'll tell the deacon, an' what the deacon knows belongs to the hull
community."
"I'll find them, Susanna; I'll send an order for all he needs by the
morning stage."
"Tell Reub Smith! My suz! Might as well proclaim it from the church
steeple!"
"No, indeed. I shall not tell him, but simply send an order by him when
he goes to town in the morning."
Then they hurried home, and Miss Maitland rested better that night than
she had done since the children brought her the brass bound box from out
the forest.
* * * * *
Next morning Monty "hooked school." Not that this was an extraordinary
thing to happen, although its purpose was mysterious. He did not seek
either woods or river, for nuts or fishes, but hung about the
post-office till Reuben Smith drove tooting down South Hill into the
village street on his way outward toward the county town. The stage drew
up with a jerk, Reuben stepped down with unusual liveliness, and behold!
there were two patrons ready with orders to be executed.
Miss Eunice and Montgomery Sturtevant. They faced each other in mutual
surprise. Each held a sealed letter in hand and each was in haste. The
lady spoke first: "Why, Monty! Is your grandmother trusting you to take
care of her business matters already? That's fine."
"N-n-no, Aunt Eu-Eu-Eunice. I-I-I-I--" The afflicted lad had never
stammered worse nor seemed so uncomfortable.
Puzzled, but too well-bred to pry into other people's affairs, Miss
Maitland finished her directions to the stage-driver and general
express agent for the village, and went home. Montgomery's relief at
her departure made Reuben laugh, but he liked the lad and listened very
patiently to the almost endless details stammered at him. Then he most
carefully, with an exaggerated caution indeed, bestowed the fat envelope
which contained ten whole crisp new dollars where nobody but himself
would be apt to look for it--not in the wallet with his other
commissions, but in his boot! This gave the whole transaction a touch of
the romantic, and suggested possible "hold-ups" in a way to set Monty's
eyes a-bulge. Then the stage rattled away to the north, and the day's
monotony settled upon Marsden village.
There was much whispering that day in school, and a prompt departure
from the building at close of the afternoon's session. It had been
noticeable, also, that at "nooning" every scholar, old or young, had
repaired to the rear of the play-ground, out of hearing of the teacher.
There they had grouped themselves about Katharine Maitland, with
Montgomery Sturtevant as her supporter, and had listened breathlessly to
some matter she divulged. Only one sentence had reached the master's
ears, as he tapped the bell for them to come in again to later lessons:
"Everybody don't forget a knife. And everybody'll get an invitation
to-morrow. Then everybody will understand, and if everybody isn't
perfectly delighted, I shall be surprised. Teacher will have his, too;
I'm workin' on it with nice red ink."
That some exciting affair was on foot, and that he was to be included in
it was evident; and being himself not many years older than his "big
boys," he was patiently indulgent over the many blunders at recitations
which followed.
Never had Marsden school children arrived at their respective homes so
early, nor so promptly availed themselves of parents' satisfaction in
this promptness. Books were bestowed in tidiness, lunch-baskets hung in
place, and in every house in the village there was simultaneously
preferred the request:
"May I go out to play?"
Consent obtained--and what mother could refuse it to so deserving a
petitioner?--there followed a stampede of youngsters toward Eunice
Maitland's south corn-field.
Late October brings early nightfall, and even playtime seems over with
the dusk, but that night there were many, many empty places at waiting
supper-tables, and many mothers' ears grew anxious listening for the
clatter of young feet which came not.
[Illustration: "BUT THE LATE RISING MOON LOOKED DOWN UPON A CURIOUS
SCENE"]
But the late rising moon looked down upon a curious scene. Throughout
that same south corn-field had been scattered hundreds of golden
pumpkins ripe for the harvest; and all among them, each with his or her
allotted pile of the great fruit, was every truant youngster. Corn
shocks had been overturned for the more comfortable seating of the
toilers, and knives gleamed in the moon-rays as the diligent fingers
fashioned Jack-o'-lanterns sufficient in number, as Monty declared, to
"l-l-light the w-w-wh-whole world!"