The Brass Bound Box Part 21

He left none of them. The honey followed the bread and b.u.t.ter, and the jell-roll followed the honey. Then he returned to his first delight and finished the second pie. By this time satiety. Full fed and rested he crawled back among the alders and lay down to sleep. Crawled so far and so deep among them that even the watching girl could scarcely see him.

But she had no desire left for further observation. He had proved himself a harmless bugaboo, and she would not be afraid of him, meet him where she might--so she felt then.

Yet there remained some ugly facts to be dealt with. One, the empty cupboard at the Mansion, always so faithfully replenished for the Sabbath by the untiring care of Aunt Eunice. One, the cherished rod that had snapped asunder as she forced it from the tramp's grasp. And one--the well-deserved anger of the Widow Susanna Sprigg.

She gathered what comfort she could, hoping against hope that for once Madam Sturtevant had made provision for her own Sabbath feasts; and that, though the rod might be broken, and because of its a.s.sociation not to be replaced, she could buy another even better. She had ten dollars of her own, her very own. It was as yet unbroken even if in her intention she had already expended it on many, many things. But there remained that other formidable fact--the Widow Sprigg.

How meet her inquiring glances? How convince her that she was still worthy of trust who had proved herself unworthy? How endure the torrent of indignation, certain to be let loose upon her when she reappeared at the kitchen door?

Well, she had the basket! That was yet another and comforting fact. She hugged it close as she entered the back yard where the housekeeper was was.h.i.+ng the stone path with a vigor as great as if it were the beginning and not the end of the day. As the gate-latch clicked Susanna looked up, and Katharine saw that she was "just as cross as she always is on Sat.u.r.day afternoon."

"My suz! You back a'ready?"

"Yes, Susanna."

"Well, what you so mealy-mouthed about? You ain't nigh so peart and hop-skippin' as you was when you started. Didn't you get a good welcome to the Mansion? Wasn't Madam to home? Don't squeeze that basket so tight. Eunice won't admire to have it smashed."

"I won't smash it, Susanna."

Katharine wondered why she should be so afraid of this sharp-tongued woman when she hadn't been really afraid of the disreputable tramp. She wondered why she couldn't burst forth with her story, which certainly was a strange one, as sure of sympathy here as she would have been with Aunt Eunice. Perhaps that dear, if dignified, old lady had returned, and if so she would go straight to her.

"Has aunty come, Widow Sprigg?"

"No. She hain't. Nor likely to. Word's come, though, that we needn't look for her till we see her. That sick woman is so glad to have her she's goin' to keep her over Sabbath, an' I warn you, what with Moses on my hands an' the hull house to look after, I want no monkey-s.h.i.+nes from you. Well, what did Madam say? Didn't she think my b.u.t.ter was as good as hers? Hey? What?"

Hope died in Katharine's breast. At first she had loved Susanna best, better than Miss Maitland. Now, for just one look into Eunice's face!

But she wouldn't be a coward. Feeling that she had done something very wrong, yet not knowing how she could have helped it, she looked straight into Susanna's eyes, and answered:

"I haven't seen Madam Sturtevant. I didn't go there."

Over the rest of that interview it is well to draw a veil.

CHAPTER XVI.

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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s...o...b..a.l.l.s 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" Sat.u.r.day, it had been a very dark Sat.u.r.day evening.

But Sat.u.r.day 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-cla.s.s, 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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?"