The Brass Bound Box

"Found it. But it isn't mine. It's Aunt Eunice's, and I think you are horrid mean. I didn't want a person should know anything about it till I could put it into her own hands, and then you went and came. Now the whole charm of it is gone. Oh, dear!"

Montgomery ignored her unflattering remarks, and, lifting the casket, exclaimed:

"H-h-h-heavy! H-h-heavier 'n lead. What you s-s-s-suppose is in it? Where'd you find it? W-w-w-when?"

Since secrecy was no longer possible, Kate was only too glad to tell everything, and now all desire for teasing had left the listener. He was even ashamed that he had forced the girl from the rock, though glad of the result, and in another instant both tongues were busy with speculation concerning the astonishing find.

"It's so queer. It has no opening that I can see, for this broad band around the middle looks perfectly smooth, as if it were all in one piece. The band won't slip down nor up. The corners, the brass tips, don't budge. It's a perfect cube – let's measure. Yes. Just as big one way as another. The wood is as fine as satin and looks as if it had been polished to the last degree. Do you suppose it is brass or gold that trims it? And where, where did it come from? The earth on it was so fresh I don't believe that it had been buried but a little while, and oh, I'm just wild to know all about it. Come on. Let's go home. You may carry it part of the time. But don't drop it. Don't, for your life!" chattered the girl, placing the box in Monty's outstretched palms and anxiously regarding his manner of holding it.

His face was a study. Boys, in general, are supposed to be intensely practical and less gifted with imagination than girls, but this is a mistake. Youth is the time for air-castle building, and whether it be lad or lass who "dreams" there is but little difference. Poor Monty! Unable to put his soaring thoughts into speech as his companion so readily could, he had to be content with just thinking them. But as he turned his beautiful eyes upon her she understood all that he would have said and clapped her hands, crying ecstatically:

"Oh, I'm so glad! You're one can make-believe everything lovely, too! I see it. What fun we'll have! Let's begin at once. We're in the enchanted forest. We've been enchanted ourselves. But the fairy king has come and shown us where to find the magic treasure that will unlock the whole world for us and make us back into the real prince and princess that we are all the time, though other people don't know it. He has given us the magic box with the key in it, only he has forgotten to tell us how to open it. We are on our way now to the Wise Woman. The Wise Woman lives in the stone castle beyond the forest, and she will show us how to open the box and to use the key. Because the box was hers once, before she gave it to the fairy king to keep for us. She knew that one day we should come into the forest and that all would happen that has happened. That's what makes her the Wise Woman. She has lived a long, long time. So long that her hair is quite gray and there are wrinkles around her eyes. But the eyes are still clear and gentle and there is a pretty pink color in her cheeks. She wears a soft gray gown with an old-fashioned kerchief crossed over her breast, and sometimes, most always, there is a flower thrust into the lace kerchief. Her hands are white and slender and blue veined, but they look old, and her voice is sweet and gentle like her eyes. Yet sometimes – sometimes, when other people who are not at all wise but very troublesome come before the Wise One and displease her, a little sharp fire gets into the eyes and a sour little tang into the voice, and then the Troublesome One wishes she hadn't come!"

They had been walking swiftly toward the village, for to Montgomery every step of the way was so familiar that he need not look for landmarks, and his eyes had remained fixed in fascination upon the girl's radiant face as she spun this fairy-tale without stop or hesitation. It had been as real to him as to her, but now there came over him a disappointment even more real. Pausing abruptly on the path, he burst forth, indignantly:

"Oh, f-f-f-fudge! That Wise Woman's nobody but Aunt Eu-Eu-Eu-nice!"

At the same moment something heavy crashed through the underbrush, and a man fell sprawling at their feet.

CHAPTER VII.

THE GRIT OF MOSES JONES

An axe flew gleaming through the air and Montgomery vanished, the brass bound box with him.

Katharine was too startled to move, and stood listening to the distressing, almost blood-curdling groans which issued from the man's lips, as, for a moment, he lay face downward before her. Then she recognized the apparel of Moses Jones and bent over him pityingly.

"Why, Uncle Mose! What is the matter?"

For only answer more groans, which presently began to thrill her with an unspeakable terror. What made him do that? What had befallen him? Was he dying, and she alone with him, there in the strange forest? The thought was torture, and, nerving herself to the task, she laid her hand upon him, though her repugnance to the act was a fresh torment. It had always been one of the girl's peculiarities that she could not bear to touch any ailing thing. She would wait upon people who were ill most cheerfully, even eagerly, but she hated to come in personal contact with them. It had been so even in the case of her father whom she idolized, and had been one of the small items in stepmother's list against her. But she had heard so much upon the subject then, and of its enormity, that she had set herself to overcome the failing, since failing it was. And had poor Moses known it, she would almost rather have borne his pain herself than to have helped him turn upon his back as she did. To do more for him than this was impossible, and again she besought him to say how he was hurt.

Finally, he opened his eyes and glanced about him, then angrily shook his fist toward a projecting tree-root which had been hidden from his sight by a group of ferns and over which he had stumbled.

"That's it! That's the mis'able thing 'at done it!" he cried, then groaned again, but weakly. The pain had suddenly become so severe as to turn him faint while the brilliant branches overhead began to dance and sway before his dizzy sight as no wind could make them do. "I – I'm gettin' light-headed. Help me up, Keehoty. I'm broke. I'm broke all to smash. My leg – my side – oh, oh, ouch!"

His increasing pallor frightened Katharine till pity overcame repugnance, and with a strength unknown before she clasped her arms about his neck and struggled to lift him to his feet, all the while protesting: "You mustn't be broken! You can't be. Just a little crooked root like that and a big man like you. Not quite so hard, please! Not quite so tight! 'Cause you're pulling me down instead of me you up. There, that's better!"

Susanna had often declared that Moses was "just like ary other man, scared to death if even his little toe ached," and it was true that he was so unused to illness that his few attacks of it had always frightened him. Yet now he realized that something far worse than ordinary had befallen, and that he must rally his grit and his strength together. With an heroic effort he got upon his feet – or foot, for one was useless, and braced himself against the tree-trunk beside them.

"Now, sissy, go find an' fetch my axe that got flung off my shoulder when I stumbled. I didn't think when I brought it to chop with 'twould prove a crutch for broken bones. Oh, I wish we wasn't so far from home. I wish you'd kep' in the right road an' not come flarrickin' clear off here out the beaten track."

"Why – isn't this the right, the shortest way back?" asked Katharine, surprised.

"No, 'tain't. I s'pose all trees look alike to city gals, but don't stop to gabble. Find the axe. Pick up your basket. I feel so queer every little spell, an' I must get home. That shin-bone's broke, true as preachin', an' six seven my ribs, by the feel of 'em, for my foot wobbles 'round as if it was hung on a string, an' my side! The axe, Keehoty, the axe!"

She found and brought it, weeping bitterly. She had never felt so sorry for anybody as for this brave old fellow who was now forcing himself to overcome his own misery for the sake of others. For when she begged him to stay still where he was and let her run to the village and bring somebody to help he vigorously refused.

"Scare the hull community just 'cause I was fool enough to tumble down and crack my leg? Me, an old woodman, that'd ought to have some sense. An' Eunice! Why, 'twould scare Eunice out of a year's growth to see me fetched home 'stead of walkin' there on my own pins. Half a loaf's better'n no loaf, an' one leg's better'n none. As for my plaguey old ribs – they can take care themselves. But once we get there you just clip it to the doctor's an' have him come 'round an' patch me up. He'll have to do it so's I can be workin' reg'lar, 'cause I'm the only man there is. Besides, town meetin's comin' on, an' – My sake! I'm beat!"

Beaten he was into the silence which he had dreaded, wherein he realized his own agony. He had kept talking to prevent thinking, but had now passed beyond that. By nods and glances he directed Kate along the shortest way, but it seemed to the sufferer as if the familiar big stone house grew steadily more distant rather than nearer.

Katharine never forgot that walk. To her, also, the distance seemed interminable, and the firm clutch of his hand upon her shoulder for its support almost to break her own bones. His face, when she now and then glanced toward it, was pallid with suffering, but his lips were grimly shut, defying his own misery. As he shaved only once a week, on Sunday morning, his half-grown stubble of beard enhanced his pallor, but did not add to his beauty; and Katharine, reared among city folks who made such "Sunday habits" their every-day ones, felt something like disgust.

"I'm awful sorry for him, but – but he looks horrid. And he hurts me, too. Oh, I wish we had never come into this dreadful forest, pretty as it is; but, joy! there's a house. We'll be in the village soon and at home. What will Aunt Eunice say? And where did that mean boy go?"

As Katharine's thoughts ran on this wise they were steadily though slowly passing over the rough ground of the wood to the smoother fields beyond; and as they came in sight of the Maitland barns, there was Montgomery peeping around a corner and on the lookout for somebody. His release from confinement at home had been the result of Aunt Eunice's call, he having been permitted to walk home with her, and to spend the day with Katharine. Alfaretta was recovered and able to do her own dish-washing, and on the Monday the boy must return to school. So Madam had made him array himself once more in his best attire and had duly instructed him how young gentlemen of the Sturtevant race should conduct themselves toward young ladies of the Maitland family.

Arrived at the stone mansion, Susanna had promptly sent the boy to the woods to hunt up his playmate, if he desired her, and in any case to remind Moses that he had gone off without killing the chicken for dinner.

"You tell him to come right straight back here an' do it now, if he wants a bite to eat. I ain't never wrung a fowl's neck nor chopped off her head, nor Eunice hain't, nuther, an' we ain't a-goin' to begin at our time o' life. Killin' poultry or pigs, ary one, is man's work an' not woman's, an' so say to him 't if he wants his dinner he can come kill it. He's gettin' so forgetful lately 't he can't remember nothin' 'cept fishin', an' though he took his axe along I 'low he'll do more threshin' nut-trees for that young one than choppin'; an' you remember, Montgomery Sturtevant, that you've got on your Sunday clothes; and no matter if your rich city relations do give 'em to you without no trouble to you nor your grandma, 'at you ought to take care of 'em and keep 'em clean. Don't go climbin' trees with 'em on, but just pick up what's on the ground an' you'll eat enough then, fat white worms an' all, to make you sick. Katy, she can give you part her cookies, but don't you get carryin' on with her little basket, 'cause it was her pa's, an' she's goin' to set great store by it. Tell him it's half-past nine if it's a minute, an' them old fowls what we're killin' off first is ruther tough. I ought to have her in the pot right now, an' there she ain't caught yet, runnin' 'round the hen-yard at loose ends, an' I'll try to catch her an' that'll help, an – My suz! if that boy ain't half 'crost the pastur' an' me not done talkin' to him. The sassy thing! If I'd had my way makin' this world there wouldn't have been nobody in it 'cept girls, an' them grown up and come to their gumption. But that hen – I'll try catch her or she'll never be caught."

Which was very true; as also the fact that before the garrulous housekeeper had more than suggested "chicken" and "chestnuts," Montgomery had vanished to set them in train. After all, there might be compensations, he thought, for a day wasted upon a girl's society. There still seemed to linger upon his palate the flavor of Aunt Eunice's pullets, from which he had been despoiled by his first enforced call upon her ward, and though he had regretfully heard Susanna say "chicken" without the plural "s," he knew that, being himself "company," he would get his full share of the fowl, which he trusted might be a large one.

Which explains his presence in the wood and his lingering in the barn-yard now, where he could command a first view of any person issuing from the forest on the shortest way home. He had retreated here after what he had supposed was a robber had fallen at his feet, and at the cost of a breathless run had preserved the mysterious brass bound box from theft. He had now safely hidden it in the hay-mow, and awaited Kate's return to tell her where. It had been almost beyond his power to keep the secret from Miss Maitland, even thus long, but loyalty to the discoverer had restrained him. And at last there she was coming across the pasture, Uncle Moses with her; and what was most astonishing, the pair were leaning upon one another in an intimacy which made Montgomery feel rather jealous.

"F-f-f-fudge! I didn't know he liked g-g-girls! He's got his hand on her s-s-shoulder, an' my, how they do just c-c-cr-creep! Even the pug dog just bare w-w-waddles, like he's tuckered out," remarked the watching lad to Sir Philip, who had taken advantage of the day's warmth to visit the mouse-infested barn and now lay sunning himself on its southern threshold.

But at the name of dog the Angora sniffed the air and withdrew with dignity to his throne indoors. He had already learned that Punch knew a good cushion when he saw it; and, though early provided with one for himself, preferred the satin couch of Sir Philip to the carpet-covered one which Susanna declared "plenty good enough for ary dog humbly as that one." If Punch secured the cushion first he was not easily dislodged, and since his one great battle the Angora shrank from contest. Evidently Sir Philip judged discretion better than valor, and the behavior of the two animals afforded the family much amusement.

Thus deserted of all society save his own thoughts, Monty fixed a keener attention upon the slowly advancing pair, and presently exclaimed:

"F-f-fudge! Somethin's happened. Uncle Mose's leanin' on her; she's a h-h-helpin' him! She's a w-w-w-wav-in' to me like blazes! That's no 'how-de-do' salute, that's a 'come r-r-right here' one! He's got his axe, looks like, an's l-l-leanin' on it. F-fudge! I bet he's chopped his foot 'stead of a t-t-tree!"

Monty's legs flew up and down like the rapidly revolving spokes of a wheel as he hurried toward the man and girl. But after one hasty glance at the feet of Mr. Jones, and seeing no blood on either, he knew that whatever was amiss it was not what he had fancied. Without a word he seized the axe from its owner's trembling hand and placed his own sturdy little shoulder in its place. Katharine was not crying now, but her anxiety altered her appearance strangely, and Moses was wholly past speech. Every nerve of his tortured body was strained to reach a spot where he could sink down and yield to the dreadful weakness which assailed him. Even the hard floor of the barn seemed a paradise of rest, and he fixed his eyes upon the wide doorway with a last effort of his will.

He did reach it, but there both will and consciousness gave way to the strain of the last hour, though the story of his pluck and endurance was to make him more highly respected in his native town than he had ever been before.

When he sank down fainting the children loosed their hold on either side, Montgomery standing still in a frightened wonder, but Kate hastening indoors for help. Rushing breathlessly into the sitting-room where Miss Eunice was quietly arranging some yellow 'mums in a quaint glass jar, she caught the lady's hand with a vehemence which sent the flowers in one direction, the pretty jar in another.

"Oh, Aunt Eunice! Come quick, 'cause now he truly must be dead, after all. Quick, quick!"

"Katharine – my dear! Why will you do such startling things? My precious jar that has held flowers for us these generations just rescued from destruction! And the poor flowers themselves – "

"Oh, don't bother! Please, please come. There's only Monty out there, and I – I did what I could, but he's dead, anyway."

"Dead, child? Sir Philip dead?" asked Miss Maitland, her thoughts instantly reverting to the only ailing member of the household.

"No, Aunt Eunice, but a person, a man – Uncle Moses."

Then, indeed, did Eunice's own hand tremble so that she set the jar she had just preserved back on the mantel while her face paled in distress. But she caught the girl's guiding hand firmly in her own, called to Susanna in the kitchen, and on the brief journey to the "further barn" learned the main facts of the affair.

Two hours later Katharine and Montgomery sat down in the kitchen to a dinner of bread and milk, while over the rest of the house hung a strange silence which made even its former quietude seem noisy by contrast. Aunt Eunice had gone to lie down, being greatly shaken by the sad accident, which, while being much less tragic than the death Katharine had reported, was trouble sufficiently serious. In the kitchen chamber above, Moses' own room, they could hear Susanna softly stepping about in list slippers, only the jar of the floor beams betraying her movements, and occasionally a muffled voice, strangely unlike the gruff tones of the hired man, would float down to them. Sir Philip lay purring himself to sleep, after a strenuous season of unrest, during which nobody had had time to protect him from mischievous Punch. As for the latter, he had been fatigued by his trip to and from the forest, as well as his man[oe]uvres with the Angora, and now took his own rest by sleeping with one eye open.

The children themselves were weary. Katharine from the excitement of the morning, and Montgomery from physical exercise. He had never done so many useful things in his life as he had crowded into the space of two short hours. It was he who had summoned the doctor, run back and forth between that gentleman's office and Miss Maitland's house, carried a plain statement of facts to Madam Sturtevant, as well as a highly furbished one to every householder between the two mansions, and had manfully attended to Mr. Jones's noon "chores." He had, indeed, already a wild ambition to be engaged in the hired man's place, since the doctor said that that sufferer would be laid up in bed for at least three months.

"I'd r-r-rather do chores any day than go to s-s-school," he announced to his companion, swallowing a large bit of bread at the same time, and thereby causing that young person to tilt her nose upwards, disdainfully.

"You ought to be as nice in your manners out here alone with me as you would be in the real dining-room with Aunt Eunice and grown-up company," she reproved, daintily balancing her own spoon with an ease which the other would scarcely admit to himself that he admired.