Part 17 (1/2)
CHAPTER XIII.
BUT--STURTEVANT TO THE RESCUE
All the conflicting emotions which whirled through Montgomery's mind pictured themselves in his face as he confronted the stern old gentlewoman opposite. The silence in the room was unbroken save by the roar of the tempest, and it seemed an age before she asked, coldly:
”Are you afraid?”
But there was no hesitation as he hastily stammered:
”Y-y-yes, gr-gram'ma, I am afraid. So 'fraid I--I--can't hardly think nor feel nothin'. B-b-but--_I'm--going_!”
His ruddy cheeks were now colorless save where the freckles spotted them, and his great eyes seemed to have grown in size; but though there was piteous terror in their blue depths there was no flinching from the duty. It took him a long time to b.u.t.ton his jacket and adjust his cap.
He even inspected his shoe-laces with a hitherto unknown care, and thoughtfully placed a stick of wood upon the dying embers. He wished--oh, how devoutly he wished--that he had been born just a common boy, like Bob Turner, or any other village lad, and not a Sturtevant!
These hateful traditions about family and gentlemen--Cracky! How that wind did blow! That tramp--Well, he dared not think about the tramp, and there was nothing more he could find to delay the awful moment of departure. With a last imploring glance toward Madam, to see if there was no relenting, or if she would not suggest some easier way, ”'cause she knows all 'b-bout honor an' such p-pl-plag--uey things,”--yet finding none, he dragged himself to the side door, fumbled a moment with the latch, and went out.
Had he known it, Madam Sturtevant was suffering more than he. She would far rather have faced the elements and the darkness on that mile-long walk, unused to exposure though she was, than have sent this last darling of her heart out alone and unprotected. Indeed, she sat so still, and looked so anxious for a time after he had gone, that Alfaretta ventured to touch her hand, and to comfort, saying:
”Don't you worry, dear Madam. Nothin' 'll happen to Monty. Mr. Jones, he's well acquainted with him, an' he says 'at Monty's got as many lives as a cat. He's fell down-stairs, an' out of a cherry-tree, an' choked on fish-bones, an' had green-apple colic, an' been kicked by Squire Pettijohn's bull, an' tumbled into Foxes' Gully,--and that ain't but six things that might ha' killed him an' didn't. Besides, Monty's a good runner. Why, Madam, he's the fastest runner goes to school! True. He's more'n likely half-way there whilst we're just a-talkin'. Shall I fetch your specs an' the _Chronicle_ newspaper? Readin' might pa.s.s the time till he gets back, an' I guess--I guess I won't be too scared to wash the dishes in the kitchen, if--if you'll let me leave the door open between.”
Alfaretta had enumerated the various disasters which had befallen Montgomery upon finger after finger, and with such perfect gravity that the anxious grandmother was amused, in spite of her fear, and felt herself greatly cheered. With a kindly smile, she answered:
”Yes, Alfy, please do bring it; and, of course, you need not close the door. We are sadly late with the work to-night, but you may sit up till my son comes back. You are a dear, good child, Alfaretta, doing your duty faithfully in that state of life to which you were born, and you are a comfort to me.”
The happy girl fairly flew to bring the ”specs” and the last number of the religious weekly which Eunice regularly sent to her old friend.
Conscience was rather doubtful about that ever faithful performance of duty; but why worry? Praise was sweet, doubly sweet from one so fine a pattern of all the virtues as her mistress, and Alfaretta had found comfort for her own self in comforting another. Besides, now she was either getting used to it, or the storm was lulling, for the blinds did not rattle as they had, and that mournful soughing of the wind in the tall chimneys had nearly ceased.
The bond-maid had rarely ”done” her dishes so swiftly or so well, and, having set them in their places, she put out the kitchen candle, fetched her knitting, and sat down on her own stool beside the fireplace. For a wonder she was not sleepy. Too much had occurred that day to fill her imagination, and now that the ”face” which had terrified her was safely out of sight, she began to recall it with a sort of fascination. If it were a ghost, it must have been that of somebody she had once known, for it was oddly familiar. The heavy features had a ghastly resemblance to--Who could it be? Uncle Moses? Mr. Turner? The stage-driver? No, none of these; nor of any old pensioner at the ”Farm.” Then, suddenly, she thought of Squire Pettijohn, terrible man, who had used to visit that ”Farm,” inspect its workings, suggest further extreme economies, where, it seemed to the beneficiaries, that economy had already reached its limit, ask personal questions, such as even a pauper may resent, and make himself generally obnoxious. Alfaretta had frankly hated him, and had never been more thankful than when she was a.s.signed to Madam Sturtevant rather than to Mrs. Pettijohn--both ladies having entered application for a ”bound-out” servant at the very same time. Already ashamed of misfortunes which were not at all her own fault, she had resented his pinching of her ears, his facetious references to her worthless parents, his chuckings under the chin, and the other personal familiarities by which some elderly people fancy they are pleasing younger ones.
”Madam! May I speak?”
”Certainly, Alfaretta. I haven't been able to keep my thoughts on my paper. I shall be glad to hear anything you have to say.”
”Well, then! I'd hate to think it of any--any _good_ ghost, but there was somethin' 'bout that _face_ 'at made me remember somebody I'd seen, an' the somebody was--Squire Pettijohn!”
”Child, how absurd!”
”Yes'm, I s'pose it is. But there was them same big eyebrows standin'
out fur from this white _face_ as his'n does from his red one. There was the same sort of bitter look in the eyes, only these ones was afire.
Ain't that queer?”
”Exceedingly queer. So queer that you must banish the notion at once from your mind. I am convinced that it was some poor, homeless wanderer estrayed into this quiet, and, I fear, inhospitable village, where there is no provision for such as he. I'm sure I wish he were safely housed in one of our own outbuildings rather than roaming the fields on such a night. Even an old blanket thrown into one of the box-stalls would have been comparative comfort.”
”Y--es'm,” a.s.sented Alfaretta, with small enthusiasm. But what she did like to hear was Madam's talk of the old times when the now empty stable was full of spirited horses, when guests filled the silent rooms, when servants were many and the larder abundant, and life and laughter ruled where now were only memories. It always sounded like make-believe; and, humble poor-house child though she was, Alfy delighted in make-believe.
A hint was commonly sufficient to set the house-mistress reminiscent, and once started upon such retrospections she was as contented to continue as her little maid to listen; and now there followed for the pair an hour of real enjoyment.
Once really past the threshold Montgomery's reluctance vanished. If he had anything disagreeable to do he liked to get it over with at once.