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 bra.s.s, 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 pa.s.sed 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. .h.i.therto 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. n.o.body 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 bra.s.s 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 a.s.sented to her companion's idea.

"No, Eunice, we couldn't do better. Let him be. Poor wretch, he won't trouble n.o.body 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. n.o.body ain't a constable here in Marsden. Ain't been none sence Isaac Brewster died, an' n.o.body 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 bra.s.s 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 n.o.body 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 pet.i.tioner?--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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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!"

CHAPTER XX.

UNINVITED GUESTS

Katharine escaped the chiding she deserved because, when she reentered the house, Miss Eunice was engaged with company and Susanna was preparing a tray of refreshments to be served the guests. Montgomery escaped because Madam supposed he had been at The Maples where so much of his time was now pa.s.sed. He went supperless to bed, but Katharine, most guilty of all delinquents, fared sumptuously upon a portion of the dainties from the housekeeper's "company tray." The Turner trio of culprits ate wedges of cold pumpkin pie, eaten standing by the kitchen sink, and went to bed to dream that all the world was made of pumpkins which it was their destiny to consume before a general illumination began. At least, that was what Martha dreamed, and, having roused the other pair to relate it to them, they were sleepy enough to believe they had dreamed it, too.

Other children--But why prolong the story? Many of the pumpkin artists had reason to remember that night for some time to come; yet not one ever admitted that they had not found their fun outweigh their punishment.

Some days previous Katharine had put a very mild request to Aunt Eunice, in the words:

"Aunty, would you mind if I had a little Hallowe'en party? Out in the barn, where it wouldn't be any trouble to anybody?"