The Brass Bound Box

"Not alone, Eunice Maitland, not alone!" cried the old housekeeper, who wouldn't have missed this business if all the jumbles she had made had burned themselves to a crisp. Fortunately, they were out of the way, and though she had mixed dough for raisin-cake she hadn't yet put in "the lightenin'." "If we start to oncet there ain't nothin' to harm, an' the childern's so busy they'll never notice. Moses is asleep. Let's go right away. My suz! Seems if I couldn't wait to make that poor feller into a decent man!"

As excited and eager over their own secret as the young folks over theirs, they seized bonnets and wraps, and, carrying the box between them, slipped unobserved from the house in the direction of the woods.

Thus it chanced that they did not see what an unusual thing the stage-driver did; how that, leaving Miss Maitland's parcel at the front of the house, he drove by a roundabout lane to the back door of the barn, and there set down, with William's help, two barrel-like tubs, weighty with broken ice and carefully covered with bits of old carpet. Similar tubs had sometimes been brought to Marsden by the same messenger, but only for such occasions as the Fourth of July or the Sunday-school picnic. Never before for any private function, and the news of the present arrival spread swiftly through the village, suggesting to interested parents that, though themselves uninvited, it might be as well to go along and see what the children were doing!

And it came at last! The delightful hour, the culmination of all this preparation. At last, at last, the wheezy clock in the church steeple announced that it was seven o'clock!

Then from out the many homes of Marsden and its by-ways issued the eager guests. Girls in white frocks; boys in Sunday suits; all uncomfortable in freshly donned winter flannels – since this was to be a sort of out-doors party and there must be no afterclaps of croup; and elders in their second-best attire, worn with an affected indifference of its just happening so.

Said Mrs. Turner to Mrs. Clackett: "Course we wasn't asked. It's just a children's party that Johnny Maitland's little girl is giving as a sort of youngsters' 'infair.' Pa and me thought 'twas better to come along and see the children got there safe, them not being used to going out evenings."

To which her neighbor replied: "Yes, we feel that way about our girls and boy. But I confess, we're sort of curious to know what the 'Corkis' part of the invitation means. Clackett, he says he guesses Katy meant 'caucus,' but that don't throw no more light on the matter, if it does. What on earth a lot of young ones want with a 'caucus,' beats me. But here we are, and – My! Isn't it pretty?"

Pretty it was, and far, far more than pretty. To these unused eyes such a scene as might have come from fairy-land. Even to Aunt Eunice, newly admitted, the old barn seemed an unknown spot; and she sat enthroned upon her seat of honor – an oat-bin transformed by cushions of straw and sheaves of corn – amazed but equally delighted. The whole great structure was ablaze with radiance. Susanna's clothes-line and Moses' grapevine wire supported grinning Jacks innumerable. The glowing yellow heads looked down from rafter and beam, peeped from the stalls, dangled from stanchions. Between them gleamed also oddly shaped Chinese lanterns, and these were a form of illumination wholly new to that inland village. There were sheaves and vines and branches everywhere, and those who observed could scarcely believe that the whole transformation, save and beyond the carving of the pumpkins, had been wrought by three pairs of young hands.

What cared happy Kitty Keehoty that of all her crisp ten dollars there remained but thirteen cents? Hadn't they paid for all these shining candles, those tubs of cream, the grotesque lanterns which her new friends so admired, and the heaps of candy on the table at the far end of the great floor? The table was improvised by a couple of planks laid upon barrels and covered by a cloth borrowed from the linen closet. It would have been covered with nothing else, save the candy and a pile of wooden plates for the cream, had not Susanna produced her own surprise – in such stores of cakes and sandwiches and toothsome dainties as made the small giver of the function open her own eyes in amazement.

Oh, how delightful it all was! And didn't the pleasure in so many faces more than pay for the ten dollars spent and the proudly weary widow's hours at an oven door?

But how they came! So fast, so eager, so cordially willing to be pleased! All the young guests who had been bidden by such a painful outlay of pen and ink, and all their fathers and their mothers, "their uncles and their aunts and their cousins!" All the merrier, all the better, all the surer of success! For the best was yet to come. The delicious, ambitious, loving secret scheme which had originated in the teeming brain of Kitty Keehoty, and, aided and abetted by Montgomery, her knight, was now to be divulged.

"My – suz!" quoth Susanna, dismayed by the vast proportions of Katharine's "little party," "however – shall I give such a multitude – even a bite apiece?"

"I'll help!" cried Mrs. Clackett, quite understanding "a bite apiece" meant no personal violence. "I've lots of stuff baked at home. I'll fetch a basket of it in a jiffy."

"I, too!" echoed Mrs. Turner, and the pair set briskly homeward in neighborly kindness. Other matrons, not to be outdone, also disappeared from the assembly for a brief time; and soon thereafter William was called upon to improvise another table, till both were groaning with the weight of good things.

"My! It's most like a Sunday-school picnic, ain't it?" exclaimed the village seamstress, who at seventy years still had the same innocent enjoyment in such affairs as she had had at seven. "But, hush! Somethin's a-doin'!"

Something was certainly "a-doing!" There was a great bustle and stir at the double doors and in came Deacon Meakin, William, Mr. Clackett, and the schoolmaster, carrying a cot between them on which lay Moses Jones, at last minus his ball and chain, and feeling as if he didn't know himself – so utterly amazed was he. Amid a sudden outringing cheer the cot was carefully deposited in an open space that had been kept for it, close beside that throne where Eunice still sat smiling in gracious hospitality.

The fresh excitement incident to this arrival had scarcely died, when Madam Sturtevant appeared, with her small handmaid in train. The lady had been somewhat doubtful about accepting the invitation for herself, having been informed by her grandson that, outside The Maples' family, she was the only grown-up so favored except the schoolmaster; and she was more than doubtful for Alfaretta. For a time the anxious girl's fate hung in the balance. It did not strike Madam as just the correct thing to take a servant – Alfy was really that, of course – to a Maitland party. Yet the child had just as good blood in her veins as many others who would attend, even if her lot in life were less fortunate. Besides, was it right to disturb her quiet habits by such frivolity? While the matter was pending, Alfaretta could only calm her perturbed mind by gathering every belated daisy she could find and testing her fortune upon its white petals. "Shall I be let to go? Shall I not?" Mostly, the daisies said: "I shall!" Yet it was old Whitey who, after all, decided the question.

That mild-eyed bovine had the spirit of an Arab steed. Had she been born a colt and not a calf she would have "pricked it o'er the plain" with the best of her race; but being merely a somewhat venerable cow, she could only wander. In the wide fields still surrounding the Mansion there was sufficient pasturage for many cows, and certainly too much for one; so there was not the slightest reason why she should trespass upon village dooryards except the fact that she delighted to do so. Broken gates, which there was nobody to repair, made wandering easy; and it may be that she had, in part, acquired the habit in the days of her youth, when Verplanck Sturtevant had 'tended her as his son did now. Both masters were far better content elsewhere than at home, and Whitey fully shared their preferences. She had wandered again, some two days since, and had not returned at nightfall, as was her habit. Therefore, remembering that at the "Hallowe'en Corkis" there would be many children assembled, and that children "know everything" of village happenings, Madam had come, meaning to ask for news.

So the daisies had it, truly; and to the young bond-maid the longed-for happiness had been given.

When Madam had been assigned a place beside Miss Eunice, and the murmur of voices had recommenced, somebody struck a bell and every ear and eye became attentive. Katharine did not know whether this were the approved method of bringing a "Corkis" to silence, but it was one that served in school and proved to do so here. While the silence lasted and the crowding guests craned their necks forward, she was seen to lead, push, or in some manner propel a reluctant boy toward a ladder resting against the hay-mow and in full sight of most.

The boy was Montgomery, of course, and he was positively shaking with fright; but the girl whispered something in his ear – "For Uncle Mose!" and he rallied to his duty. Tossing off her guiding hand, he ran to the ladder, mounted it half-way, and faced about upon the multitude. He had been well tutored. He fixed his eyes not upon the faces below but at an exalted roof-beam, and addressing that began:

"Girls and boys, gentlemen and ladies: You have been invited here to-night to enjoy yourselves and to make somebody else enjoy himself. That somebody is Uncle Moses Jones, whom we all love, and who has had lots of trouble and broken bones lately. Next Tuesday is going to be election when our fathers and mothers vote, or – or – fathers do, anyway. If we ask our folks to do things they generally do them. What I ask now is that every one of you shall ask your father to vote for Uncle Mose to be constable, and I now nomernate him to be a constable. All in favor of his being constable – say 'aye!'"

Amid the uproar of "ayes" that followed Monty jumped headlong from his rostrum and would have run straight to his grandmother, had not Kitty Keehoty caught him midway and hugged him her stoutest, crying: "Oh, you splendidest brave boy! You did it, you did it! You never tripped once. You never stuttered a single stutter from beginning to end! Who says you sha'n't be President some day, an' be nomernated in a grown-up corkis? But – my sake, Montgomery Sturtevant! You forgot the most important part. I'll have to say that myself, 'cause it's that will count. That will be the promise."

Another stroke of Aunt Eunice's table-bell and a white-clad little figure was in Monty's place upon the ladder, holding up her hand for close attention. Without preliminary she informed the audience that there was one thing had been forgotten, and that was "the cranberries."

"Right by the head of the table is a basket of cranberries. A cranberry is a promise. There's another empty basket beside the full one. Everybody, girl or boy, who wants Uncle Moses to be constable must take a cranberry out one basket and drop it into the other; and —those who don't drop cranberries can't have – ice-cream!"

Squire Pettijohn had come – in a case of general town interest as this seemed to be it was important the great man should be present – and it was he who cried so loudly: "Hear! Hear!" and it was he, also, who started the laughter which followed, and pinched Kate's cheek as she passed him, saying something about "intimidation" and "lobbying," at which there was more laughter – Katy wondering why.

But the laughter did not continue long, since it was surely now time for supper; and, having swiftly decided that however little she might like him, yet the Squire's influence might be a powerful factor in carrying out this secretly designed plan of the children's, Miss Eunice was just descending from her oat-bin throne to ask him to open the feast, when another slight commotion occurred near the door. A woman screamed, and every eye turned upon two tardy and uninvited guests, who, leading each other as it were, now entered the scene.

Whitey, the cow, and Nate Pettijohn – tramp!

CHAPTER XXI.

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."