A NEIGHBORLY TRICK OF THE WIND
THE silence which followed lasted for a long time, during which Whitey
stared mildly about upon her many acquaintances as if daring one of them
to accuse her of vagrancy. Nathan, newly clothed and decent of apparel,
but, as to unkempt hair and besmirched skin, still unmistakably the
tramp, let his wild, frightened eyes roam ceaselessly from one guest to
another till, finally, they fixed their gaze upon one face and rested
there.
The face was that of Squire Pettijohn, hitherto complacent,
self-satisfied village magnate. Now suddenly grown haggard and old,
confronting that other face so curiously like his own. His son! Whose
scant intelligence had always been a shame to him and because of which
he had given neglect where care should have been. Whom he had been
secretly thankful to lose and whom he had hoped would never again be
found.
But he had found himself, and for a time the misguided parent and most
unhappy child studied each other in mutual shrinking and dismay. All
the adult guests recognized poor Nathan, now restored to the outward
semblance of the decent citizen he had once been, and understood how it
was that in their fleeting glimpses of the recent "tramp" there had been
something puzzlingly familiar. The children gathered in knots, staring
and quiet, and more than half-afraid. Unconsciously they felt that here
was tragedy where but a moment since had been their merry comedy.
Then Katharine, as little lady of the feast, resolved to end this
dreadful silence which was spoiling all the fun; and, running to
Nathan's side, took his hand in hers and led him forward, saying:
"This is a friend of mine, people, and he's just in time for supper. I
know him very well. I spent an afternoon with him down by the river, and
you ought to know him, too, Uncle Moses, 'cause he's such a good
fisher."
Then she pushed Nathan's soiled hand toward the man on the cot, who
hesitated for one second, glancing toward the Squire's set face, then
grasped it cordially, exclaiming:
"Why, Nate, hello! When'd you come to town? Hain't never lost your vote,
have ye? 'Cause I 'low you'll have to cast it for me for constable next
Tuesday, sence I've just been nomernated for the office. Hey?"
The tramp's eyes left his father's person and looked down upon the
genial, helpless man beside him, and a slow smile stole into them.
"Hello, Uncle Mose. I've got here--eh?"
"Yes, you've got here, got home, all right. Better stay now. We're
all--I say we're _all_ glad to see ye. Marsden ain't such a big
community she can afford to lose anybody. Where'd ye hail from, anyway?"
The hired man had grasped the situation promptly. Recognizing Nathan, he
also recognized, as he supposed, the solution of the mysteries which had
surrounded him of late. Eunice and Susanna had found the vagrant out,
and had kept his identity secret, fearing the Squire. Now to Moses'
intense satisfaction in his nomination--irregular though it was--was
added the reflection that no harm could result, since at present there
was no constable in Marsden, nor would be one until he himself was
elected. He would be elected, of course. There was now no doubt of that.
Kitty Keehoty, bless her! had put her small hand to the wheel of fortune
and given it a whirl which was fast sending all good things his way.
Then, if he was so favored, should his first official act be the
punishment of a fellow townsman? A fishing townsman, at that? Not if he,
Moses Jones, knew himself; and though he was still a "bedrid block o'
wood," the block was fast repairing and would soon be as good as a
freshly growing tree.
"From--from him. From Planck. I--I come to bring the box. But--I lost
it. Oh, Madam! he sent it to you--he was dyin' then--and I've lost
it--I've lost it! Planck'll be mad. He'll scowl and talk--Has anybody
seen Planck's box?"
The forlorn fellow had left Moses' side and crossed to where Madam
Sturtevant sat rigidly upon her elevated throne. The memories this
returned wanderer had roused in her were so painful that they seemed to
strangle her. Her throat grew dry, her lips parched, and her gaze was
glued to the face of the vagrant who had been her lost son's chosen
companion, vassal, possible friend. Why, why had he come?
Eunice laid her hand on the gentlewoman's arm. She felt that this
tension must be loosed, even at the cost of fresh pain. "Elinor," said
she, "you have borne much. Can you endure a further shock? it may be of
fresh sorrow, but it may be of joy. Your brass bound box is found.
Nathan brought it, Katharine found it, I have it."
Squire Pettijohn coughed, and strode majestically forward. He was once
more the man of position who must see to it that his townsmen's
interests were protected. This woman had maligned him. He had heard that
she complained of his usuries, that he had taken advantage of her
misfortunes, that he was a hard and cruel man. Worst of all to him--had
said that he was not a gentleman! Conquering his disappointment at
Nathan's return, he improved his opportunity of punishing and humbling
her.
"Madam Sturtevant, ah--er--hm-m--at the time your guilty son
disappeared, taking my son--whom his influence had ruined--with him, it
was said that a certain casket of valuables disappeared as well. In
behalf of the interest Marsden took in the case, and of my own--my own
personal interest, I demand that if that casket has been restored it
shall be opened here in the presence of your townsmen. I--er--my
accommodation in times of your necessities, the large amounts now due
me--I claim the right, the authority to say--Let the casket be
produced."
Madam said nothing. She fixed her large eyes, still guiltless of
spectacles (save in the privacy of home), and regarded him as she might
have regarded some reptile.
Nathan seemed struggling with words which fear of his father prevented
his speaking. But Miss Maitland stepped down, and, by a nod, summoned
others to her, so that the vagrant presently felt himself surrounded by
a group of kindly faces, which beamed upon him in protection. William,
Deacon Meakin, the chivalrous schoolmaster, Susanna, and Katharine,
quite unafraid to fling her small arm around his stooping shoulders and
to pat them encouragingly.
Then Aunt Eunice went out, but was back again so quickly she had hardly
been missed. She carried her hands quite high, so that all might see the
strange, glittering, brass bound box they held, and, going swiftly
forward, laid it on the Madam's lap, who recoiled from it, at first
shrinking back and letting her clasped hands drop limply to her sides,
yet rallied her courage and her pride as Eunice's tone of command
touched both.
"Open it, Elinor. It is right. It is just. Let the truth be known at
last."
Everybody crowded forward, the Squire among them, as with a simple
touch, known only to the initiated, the keyless casket was unbanded and
opened to the sight of all. Those who had anticipated the blaze of
jewels, or, at least, the bulk of valuable papers and bonds, fell back
disappointed. The box was absolutely empty save for a small folded sheet
which looked like an ordinary letter.
A sigh, like a great sob, swept over the multitude, and now the fear
which had troubled the tramp vanished, and, breaking free of the group
about him, he laid his hand on Madam's knee and cried, exultantly:
"I did it! I fetched it safe. I was sick--oh, I was sick!--I was in
jail--I was on an island--I was shipwrecked--I was in the water, with
big, big waves--I was--so long, so long. But I wore it on a strap around
my neck. Planck wrote it all and sealed it and put it in the box. Then
he died, and I had promised; so I had to come, else I would have died,
too. I wanted to, without Planck. But we'd told it to each other. We was
good friends. Planck never called me 'fool,' not once, not in all our
lives. When he went away with not a cent in his pocket, I couldn't stand
it. Old Squire was rough. Old Squire was rich. Planck should be rich,
too, just one little box full, anyway. But--He wrote it all down--read
it, read it. Read it out real plain, like he was saying it again. My
head aches. I can't think. Planck could think. But--Planck is dead."
In a dull despair the poor wretch who had journeyed so many leagues,
across so many lands, through so many weary years, dropped his face in
his hands, and wept like a child.
But with dry eyes, if tremulous hands, Elinor Sturtevant opened the
letter as she had been besought. It bore date of a day long past, and
address of Majomba, Africa, in the familiar script of her idolized son;
yet keeping nothing secret to herself, she did "read it out," and this
it was:
"MY DEAR MOTHER:--I send my farewell to you from this distant
corner of the earth, where I came seeking fortune and finding
death. Nathan has just got well of the fever from which I am
dying, and promises to carry this letter to you. I have no
money to send it by post even if I did not think it kindness to
entrust him with it. He has loved me, been faithful to me even
unto death, and it will be a last trust to comfort him. I
foresee that he will have many vicissitudes before he reaches
home--if ever he does; though it is my prayer that he may and
that dear old Marsden will receive him kindly.
"It is his wish, and it is but just, to explain that he stole
your brass bound box, in which I enclose this, and why. Simply
for my unworthy sake. He believed that it held money, and a
fear that I would be angry with him if I knew of the deed, made
him keep it secret for a long, long time. Then once, in dire
necessity, after Elizabeth was gone, he did confess and give it
to me, and we opened it together.
"It was absolutely empty. I tell you this, dying; when a man
speaks the truth. If ever it held valuables they had been
removed, and, presumably, by my father. I supposed you, also,
knew this, and so would not break the silence my angry pride
imposed for the sake of a mere empty box. Do not blame poor
Nate--he is scarce blameworthy, and he has loved me blindly all
his life. So would he have loved his austere father if he had
had a chance. And of all the lessons my life has brought me
this I hold the highest--that love is best.
"I think of Elizabeth, sweetly resting under the turf at home.
I think of my little son, and pray our Heavenly Father to be
kinder to him than his earthly one has been. I think of my
mother, whose heart I broke, and, dying, I cry--God bless her.
"VERPLANCK."
When the clear old voice quavered into silence there was not a dry eye
left among the enrapt listeners. There was not a heart of man or woman
that did not feel a sting at its own unjust judgment of the past. Nor
was there one, either old or young, who did not pity rather than blame
the poor sinner who had "loved much."
Some one was seen to go softly away. It was Squire Pettijohn, forgetful
of his dire threat against any son of man who dared to "tramp" God's
earth, unwarranted. Squire Pettijohn, with head bowed, heart humbled,
who had always branded another man's son as "thief," only to find that
self-confessed offender the child of his own home. Nobody sought to
hinder him. In silence let him suffer his own shame--that would be
punishment sufficient.
Madam sat so long with the opened box and letter in her lap, and with
her eyes staring so at vacancy, that Katharine could not bear it. Nor
could she bear that Monty should cry, as he was doing in that dreadful,
quiet way. Boys shouldn't cry--it meant something terrible when they
did. Besides, why should he now, anyway? The knowledge of his father's
death was nothing new; and here was all the mystery explained, and the
suspicion which had clouded his name completely removed.
"Why, Monty, darling, splendid Monty! Don't! Don't! You ought to be the
gladdest boy who ever lived. See. Look at your grandmother. She isn't
saying anything, and there is sorrow in her face, but there's wonderful
pride in it, too. Why, think, boy, think! If for years and years you had
thought somebody you loved was bad and then suddenly found they were
good, after all, would you cry? No, indeed. Anyhow, I shouldn't. I
should just hip-hip-hurrah! Three cheers for your father, that all can
talk of and love now, and was, Uncle Moses says, one of the splendidest
boys ever grew up in Marsden. Only he didn't like to stay at home, and
that got him into trouble. That took away his chance of ever being
President. But you can be if you want to. Any boy who stays at home and
cures his own stuttering by just taking care and practising and going
slow--and being dreadful nice to his grandmother--or mothers and
fathers, like Ned's and Bob's--they can grow up to be Presidents or
constables, 'ary' one. Let's give them, the cheers! Three for Montgomery
Sturtevant, who's never going to do a wrong thing again, because he's
found a father to talk about and love, just as I do 'Johnny,' who was
mine! Three cheers for Nate Pettijohn, who brought the good news home!
Three cheers for the brass bound box, that tried to be a gold mine, but
turned out something ever and ever so much better! And three times three
cheers for Uncle Moses Jones, who is going to be constable, after all,
and looks this minute as if he wanted to arrest me, the first one,
because I don't fetch him his supper, and who knows as well as I do that
all that ice-cream is melting lickety-cut, while I stand here talking!
Hip! Hip! Hurr-a-ah! And a tiger! Hip--hip--hurrah!"
How the rafters rang! and how surprised was every one to hear a girl, a
mere little girl, deliver such an oration, and with such an entire
forgetfulness of self. Not knowing then how great her heart was nor how
she longed to make glad every single person in the world, even though
most of her schemes went so wide of the mark that her own father had
dubbed her his little "Quixote."
This brought all the company safely back from the realm of sentiment and
deep emotion to the commonplace level of hunger and good cheer awaiting
it. So Eunice Maitland herself led the way to table with Nathan
Pettijohn close beside her, and, since there were no chairs to sit upon,
took her stand at the end, and, bowing her graceful old head, gave
silent thanks to the Giver of a feast so glorious as this had proved.
Even Madam, who could not be persuaded to leave her lofty isolation upon
the oat-bin, nor to loose her hold of her brass bound box with its
precious enclosure--so much more valuable than the diamonds which had
once sparkled within it--even she did consent to taste of that rare
delicacy which had come to Marsden in ugly wooden tubs. Her portion,
though, was brought upon a china dish, because Susanna feared the
gentlewoman's fastidious palate would dislike the flavor of a wooden
plate. But then, intimate as she was through hearsay with the Mansion
household, Susanna had yet never heard about burnt suppawn, and how an
old-time gentlewoman can eat it without grimacing, even though she choke
in the event. And Alfaretta--Her happiness must be guessed at. There
isn't time to tell it; nor how many times her wooden plate was filled
and refilled. It seemed to Katharine, observant, as if the poor girl's
mouth opened and closed like a trap over every morsel presented to it,
and that there was no evidence of swallowing. But, then, Alfy had never
before attended a Hallowe'en Corkis, and probably never would again.
Still observant, Katharine saw Aunt Eunice's dear face grow more and
more thoughtful, yet with a thoughtfulness in no measure sad. Finally,
she left Nathan to Mrs. Clackett's care and hastily crossed the room to
Madam's side.
"Elinor, do you remember how hard the old Squire tried to tell us who
were watching his last hours of something that troubled him? And how we
failed to comprehend?"
"Surely, Eunice, I remember," answered the old wife, slightly aggrieved.
"Why should I not if you do?"
"Because one night when you had dropped asleep he roused, almost like
himself again, and saw me. Then he said: 'Eunice, I am very forgetful.
But I remember something now that I must tell Elinor.' I was so foolish,
I fancied some other time would do, and you were so tired. I couldn't
bear that you should be awakened, and nodded toward the sofa where you
lay. He seemed to understand, and murmured: 'Never mind. I'll tell you.
There is provision ample. He didn't take it. I accused him because I
missed it. I--I--secret chamber--Oh, my head!' Then he dropped away
again, and afterward came only those hopeless efforts which you saw as
well as I. Now, I believe I've had an inspiration. Verplanck's father,
sane, recalled the fact that he had wrongly accused his son while his
mind wandered. It was he who had emptied the brass bound box and
bestowed its contents in some place he felt was safer. In the secret
chamber, I believe. Let us go and search for them!"
"Eunice, how silly! As if I hadn't ransacked every inch of every room in
the old Mansion--all for nothing. Besides, what could one do at night?"
"What may we not do? What is one pair of eyes to many? What one tallow
dip to a hundred Jack-o'-lanterns, lighted with real 'store' candles?
May we try? Shall I give the word?"
Madam stood up. She was so happy in her letter that she cared not what
else might happen. Besides, it was impossible to avoid sharing the
enthusiasm shining in the face of her lifelong friend.
"Eunice, you are positively as childish as Katharine herself. But do as
you please, do as you please. All the world is welcome to the Mansion
now that it's honor has come home! And, servantless almost as I am, I
can comfortably feel that there is no room, nor closet even, in the old
place that is not fit for the inspection of every Marsden housewife.
Yes, thank God! I have never felt myself demeaned by any household task
that presented, and cleanliness is part of pure religion. Do as you
like, dear, do as you like."
This was glorious! All Marsden felt that the night held too much of
wonder to be true. After the party, after the restoration of the brass
bound box, after Nathan Pettijohn's rehabilitation, after the
establishment of Verplanck Sturtevant's innocence, after Moses'
nomination, after the fine feast, to be admitted, to visit and
examine--nay, more, authorized to pry into the famous but exclusive
Mansion--Well, words simply failed.
The elders in that astonishing procession conducted themselves more
hilariously than their children. Each armed with a grinning Jack, and
somebody driving Whitey as a snowy guide, they marched two abreast down
Marsden thoroughfare, into the Mansion grounds, through the wide
entrance hospitably thrown open, into and over the house as will or
curiosity dictated.
But everywhere with eager eyes, searching, hoping for the stately
impoverished mistress of the Mansion that her treasures might be found.
Only the most nimble followed Monty and Katharine up the queer stairs of
the "old part" into the chamber under the eaves where soldiers had once
lain hidden. But even they, with their gleaming Jacks, were sufficient
to set the whole low room aglow, yet was there no longer need for
search.
The wind, which had done such devastation in the town, which had blown a
welcome tramp back to his native haunts, had done even more. It had
revealed the secret of years. Part of the chimney lay heaped on the
floor, and among the fallen bricks and stones appeared a big tin box. A
most ordinary box, such as many people use for insignificant belongings.
Somebody dubiously suggested that "It might be _it_!"
[Illustration: "EACH ARMED WITH A GRINNING JACK, AND SOMEBODY DRIVING
WHITEY AS A SNOWY GUIDE"]
There was nothing dubious about Montgomery. Tossing his lantern to Bob
Turner, he seized the tin case and scampered down the ladder stairs with
a speed nothing but habit could have secured. Rushing into the ancient
drawing-room, so oddly lighted now, he flung himself headlong upon
Madam, stammering excitedly:
"Gr-gr-gram-ma! I've found i-i-i-it!"
Madam remembered the box, so valueless in itself. She had not seen it
for years. She had no faith that it held aught but trifles now. Let the
good neighbors see. A simple turn of the wrist, the commonplace key
clicked in the lock, the flat cover fell back and--the lost treasure was
revealed! All the missing jewels in their cases, all the bonds whose
value would more than lift the mortgages upon the fine old property, all
the gold in canvas sacks which would take Montgomery through college and
train him for that possible Presidency to which he aspired.
Was ever such a night? Was ever such honest neighborly rejoicing? And
were ever Marsden townsfolk so late out of their comfortable beds? For
the candles in the Jacks had long burned out before that procession of
happy people took their now darkened way homeward and Kitty Keehoty's
Hallowe'en Corkis came to its final end.
THE END.