Kitabı oku: «The Story of Waitstill Baxter», sayfa 14
XXIX. WAITSTILL SPEAKS HER MIND
Patty had the most ardent love for her elder sister, and something that resembled reverence for her unselfishness, her loyalty, and her strength of character; but if the truth were told she had no great opinion of Waitstill’s ability to feel righteous wrath, nor of her power to avenge herself in the face of rank injustice. It was the conviction of her own superior finesse and audacity that had sustained patty all through her late escapade. She felt herself a lucky girl, indeed, to achieve liberty and happiness for herself, but doubly lucky if she had chanced to open a way of escape for her more docile and dutiful sister.
She would have been a trifle astonished had she surmised the existence of certain mysterious waves that had been sweeping along the coasts of Waitstill’s mind that afternoon, breaking down all sorts of defences and carrying her will along with them by sheer force: but it is a truism that two human beings can live beside each other for half a century and yet continue strangers.
Patty’s elopement with the youth of her choice, taking into account all its attendant risks, was Indeed an exhibition of courage and initiative not common to girls of seventeen; but Waitstill was meditating a mutiny more daring yet—a mutiny, too, involving a course of conduct most unusual in maidens of puritan descent.
She walked back into the kitchen to find her father sitting placidly in the rocking-chair by the window. He had lighted his corn-cob pipe, in which he always smoked a mixture of dried sweet-fern as being cheaper than tobacco, and his face wore something resembling a smile—a foxy smile—as he watched his youngest-born ploughing down the hill through the deep snow, while the more obedient Waitstill moved about the room, setting supper on the table.
Conversation was not the Deacon’s forte, but it seemed proper for some one to break the ice that seemed suddenly to be very thick in the immediate vicinity.
“That little Jill-go-over-the-ground will give the neighbors a pleasant evenin’ tellin’ ‘em ‘bout me,” he chuckled. “Aunt Abby Cole will run the streets o’ the three villages by sun-up to-morrer; but nobody pays any ‘tention to a woman whose tongue is hung in the middle and wags at both ends. I wa’n’t intending to use the whip on your sister, Waitstill,” continued the Deacon, with a crafty look at his silent daughter, “though a trouncin’ would ‘a’ done her a sight o’ good; but I was only tryin’ to frighten her a little mite an’ pay her up for bringin’ disgrace on us the way she’s done, makin’ us the talk o’ the town. Well, she’s gone, an’ good riddance to bad rubbish, say I! One less mouth to feed, an’ one less body to clothe. You’ll miss her jest at first, on account o’ there bein’ no other women-folks on the hill, but ‘t won’t last long. I’ll have Bill Morrill do some o’ your outside chores, so ‘t you can take on your sister’s work, if she ever done any.”
This was a most astoundingly generous proposition on the Deacon’s part, and to tell the truth he did not himself fully understand his mental processes when he made it; but it seemed to be drawn from him by a kind of instinct that he was not standing well in his elder daughter’s books. Though the two girls had never made any demonstration of their affection in his presence, he had a fair idea of their mutual dependence upon each other. Not that he placed the slightest value on Waitstill’s opinion of him, or cared in the smallest degree what she, or any one else in the universe, thought of his conduct; but she certainly did appear to advantage when contrasted with the pert little hussy who had just left the premises. Also, Waitstill loomed large in his household comforts and economies, having a clear head, a sure hand, and being one of the steady-going, reliable sort that can be counted on in emergencies, not, like Patty, going off at half-cock at the smallest provocation. Yes, Waitstill, as a product of his masterly training for the last seven years, had settled down, not without some trouble and friction, into a tolerably dependable pack-horse, and he intended in the future to use some care in making permanent so valuable an aid and ally. She did not pursue nor attract the opposite sex, as his younger daughter apparently did; so by continuing his policy of keeping all young men rigidly at a distance he could count confidently on having’, Waitstill serve his purposes for the next fifteen or twenty years, or as long as he, himself, should continue to ornament and enrich the earth. He would go to Saco the very next day, and cut Patty out of his will, arranging his property so that Waitstill should be the chief legatee as long as she continued to live obediently under his roof. He intended to make the last point clear if he had to consult every lawyer in York County; for he wouldn’t take risks on any woman alive.
If he must leave his money anywhere—and it was with a bitter pang that he faced the inexorable conviction that he could neither live forever, nor take his savings with him to the realms of bliss prepared for members of the Orthodox Church in good and regular standing—if he must leave his money behind him, he would dig a hole in the ground and bury it, rather than let it go to any one who had angered him in his lifetime.
These were the thoughts that caused him to relax his iron grip and smile as he sat by the window, smoking his corn-cob pipe and taking one of his very rare periods of rest.
Presently he glanced at the clock. “It’s only quarter-past four,” he said. “I thought ‘t was later, but the snow makes it so light you can’t jedge the time. The moon fulls to-night, don’t it? Yes; come to think of it, I know it does. Ain’t you settin’ out supper a little mite early, Waitstill?” This was a longer and more amiable speech than he had made in years, but Waitstill never glanced at him as she said: “It is a little early, but I want to get it ready before I leave.”
“Be you goin’ out? Mind, I won’t have you follerin’ Patience round; you’ll only upset what I’ve done, an’ anyhow I want you to keep away from the neighbors for a few days, till all this blows over.”
He spoke firmly, though for him mildly, for he still had the uneasy feeling that he stood on the brink of a volcano; and, as a matter of fact, he tumbled into it the very next moment.
The meagre supper was spread; a plate of cold; soda biscuits, a dried-apple pie, and the usual brown teapot were in evidence; and as her father ceased speaking Waitstill opened the door of the brick oven where the bean-pot reposed, set a chair by the table, and turning, took up her coat (her mother’s old riding-cloak, it was), and calmly put it on, reaching then for her hood and her squirrel tippet.
“You are goin’ out, then, spite o’ what I said?” the Deacon inquired sternly.
“Did you really think, father, that I would sleep under your roof after you had turned my sister out into the snow to lodge with whoever might take her in—my seventeen year-old-sister that your wife left to my care; my little sister, the very light of my life?”
Waitstill’s voice trembled a trifle, but other-wise she was quite calm and free from heroics of any sort.
The Deacon looked up in surprise. “I guess you’re kind o’ hystericky,” he said. “Set down—set down an’ talk things over. I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ you, an’ I mean to treat you right. Set down!”
The old man was decidedly nervous, and intended to keep his temper until there was a safer chance to let it fly.
Waitstill sat down. “There’s nothing to talk over,” she said. “I have done all that I promised my stepmother the night she died, and now I am going. If there’s a duty owed between daughter and father, it ought to work both ways. I consider that I have done my share, and now I intend to seek happiness for myself. I have never had any, and I am starving for it.”
“An’ you’d leave me to git on the best I can, after what I’ve done for you?” burst out the Deacon, still trying to hold down his growing passion.
“You gave me my life, and I’m thankful to you for that, but you’ve given me little since, father.”
“Hain’t I fed an’ clothed you?”
“No more than I have fed and clothed you. You’ve provided the raw food, and I’ve cooked and served it. You’ve bought and I have made shirts and overalls and coats for you, and knitted your socks and comforters and mittens. Not only have I toiled and saved and scrimped away my girlhood as you bade me, but I’ve earned for you. Who made the butter, and took care of the hens, and dried the apples, and ‘drew in’ the rugs? Who raised and ground the peppers for sale, and tended the geese that you might sell the feathers? No, father, I don’t consider that I’m in your debt!”
XXX. A CLASH OF WILLS
DEACON FOXWELL BAXTER was completely non-plussed for the first time in his life. He had never allowed “argyfyin’” in his household, and there had never been a clash of wills before this when he had not come off swiftly and brutally triumphant. This situation was complicated by the fact that he did not dare to apply the brakes as usual, since there were more issues involved than ever before. He felt too stunned to deal properly with this daughter, having emptied all the vials of his wrath upon the other one, and being, in consequence, somewhat enfeebled. It was always easy enough to cope with Patty, for her impertinence evoked such rage that the argument took care of itself; but this grave young woman was a different matter. There she sat composedly on the edge of her wooden chair, her head lifted high, her color coming and going, her eyes shining steadily, like fixed stars; there she sat, calmly announcing her intention of leaving her father to shift for himself; yet the skies seemed to have no thought of falling! He felt that he must make another effort to assert his authority.
“Now, you take off your coat,” he said, the pipe in his hand trembling as he stirred nervously in his chair. “You take your coat right off an’ set down to the supper-table, same as usual, do you hear? Eat your victuals an’ then go to your bed an’ git over this crazy fit that Patience has started workin’ in you. No more nonsense, now; do as I tell you!”
“I have made up my mind, father, and it’s no use arguing. All who try to live with you fail, sooner or later. You have had four children, father. One boy ran away; the other did not mind being drowned, I fear, since life was so hard at home. You have just turned the third child out for a sin of deceit and disobedience she would never have committed—for her nature is as clear as crystal—if you had ever loved her or considered her happiness. So I have done with you, unless in your old age God should bring you to such a pass that no one else will come to your assistance; then I’d see somehow that you were cared for and nursed and made comfortable. You are not an old man; you are strong and healthy, and you have plenty of money to get a good house-keeper. I should decide differently, perhaps, if all this were not true.”
“You lie! I haven’t got plenty of money!” And the Deacon struck the table a sudden blow that made the china in the cupboard rattle. “You’ve no notion what this house costs me, an’ the feed for the stock, an’ you two girls, an’ labor at the store, an’ the hay-field, an’ the taxes an’ insurance! I’ve slaved from sunrise to sunset but I ain’t hardly been able to lay up a cent. I s’pose the neighbors have been fillin’ you full o’ tales about my mis’able little savin’s an’ makin’ ‘em into a fortune. Well, you won’t git any of ‘em, I promise you that!”
“You have plenty laid away; everybody knows, so what’s the use of denying it? Anyway, I don’t want a penny of your money, father, so good-bye. There’s enough cooked to keep you for a couple of days”; and Waitstill rose from her chair and drew on her mittens.
Father and daughter confronted each other, the secret fury of the man met by the steady determination of the girl. The Deacon was baffled, almost awed, by Waitstill’s quiet self-control; but at the very moment that he was half-uncomprehendingly glaring at her, it dawned upon him that he was beaten, and that she was mistress of the situation.
Where would she go? What were her plans?—for definite plans she had, or she could not meet his eye with so resolute a gaze. If she did leave him, how could he contrive to get her back again, and so escape the scorn of the village, the averted look, the lessened trade?
“Where are you goin’ now?” he asked, and though he tried his best he could not for the life of him keep back one final taunt. “I s’pose, like your sister, you’ve got a man in your eye?” He chose this, to him, impossible suggestion as being the most insulting one that he could invent at the moment.
“I have,” replied Waitstill, “a man in my eye and in my heart. We should have been husband and wife before this had we not been kept apart by obstacles too stubborn for us to overcome. My way has chanced to open first, though it was none of my contriving.”
Had the roof fallen in upon him, the Deacon could not have been more dumbfounded. His tongue literally clove to the roof of his mouth; his face fell, and his mean, piercing eyes blinked under his shaggy brows as if seeking light.
Waitstill stirred the fire, closed the brick oven and put the teapot on the back of the stove, hung up the long-handled dipper on its accustomed nail over the sink, and went to the door.
Her father collected his scattered wits and pulled himself to his feet by the arms of the high-backed rocker. “You shan’t step outside this 306 room till you tell me where you’re goin’,” he said when he found his voice.
“I have no wish to keep it secret: I am going to see if Mrs. Mason will keep me to-night. To-morrow I shall walk down river and get work at the mills, but on my way I shall stop at the Boyntons’ to tell Ivory I am ready to marry him as soon as he’s ready to take me.”
This was enough to stir the blood of the Deacon into one last fury.
“I might have guessed it if I hadn’t been blind as a bat an’ deaf as an adder!” And he gave the table another ringing blow before he leaned on it to gather strength. “Of course, it would be one o’ that crazy Boynton crew you’d take up with,” he roared. “Nothin’ would suit either o’ you girls but choosin’ the biggest enemies I’ve got in the whole village!”
“You’ve never taken pains to make anything but enemies, so what could we do?”
“You might as well go to live on the poor-farm! Aaron Boynton was a disrep’table hound; Lois Boynton is as crazy as a loon; the boy is a no-body’s child, an’ Ivory’s no better than a common pauper.”
“Ivory’s a brave, strong, honorable man, and a scholar, too. I can work for him and help him earn and save, as I have you.”
“How long’s this been goin’ on?” The Deacon was choking, but he meant to get to the bottom of things while he had the chance.
“It has not gone on at all. He has never said a word to me, and I have always obeyed your will in these matters; but you can’t hide love, any more than you can hide hate. I know Ivory loves me, so I’m going to tell him that my duty is done here and I am ready to help him.”
“Goin’ to throw yourself at his head, be you?” sneered the Deacon. “By the Lord, I don’ know where you two girls got these loose ways o’ think-in’ an’ acting mebbe he won’t take you, an’ then where’ll you be? You won’t git under my roof again when you’ve once left it, you can make up your mind to that!”
“If you have any doubts about Ivory’s being willing to take me, you’d better drive along behind me and listen while I ask him.”
Waitstill’s tone had an exultant thrill of certainty in it. She threw up her head, glorying in what she was about to do. If she laid aside her usual reserve and voiced her thoughts openly, it was not in the hope of convincing her father, but for the bliss of putting them into words and intoxicating herself by the sound of them.
“Come after me if you will, father, and watch the welcome I shall get. Oh! I have no fear of being turned out by Ivory Boynton. I can hardly wait to give him the joy I shall be bringing! It ‘s selfish to rob him of the chance to speak first, but I’ll do it!” And before Deacon Baxter could cross the room, Waitstill was out of the kitchen door into the shed, and flying down Town-House Hill like an arrow shot free from the bow.
The Deacon followed close behind, hardly knowing why, but he was no match for the girl, and at last he stood helpless on the steps of the shed, shaking his fist and hurling terrible words after her, words that it was fortunate for her peace of mind she could not hear.
“A curse upon you both!” he cried savagely. “Not satisfied with disobeyin’ an’ defyin’ me, you’ve put me to shame, an’ now you’ll be settin’ the neighbors ag’in’ me an’ ruinin’ my trade. If you was freezin’ in the snow I wouldn’t heave a blanket to you! If you was starvin’ I wouldn’t fling either of you a crust! Never shall you darken my doors again, an’ never shall you git a penny o’ my money, not if I have to throw it into the river to spite you!”
Here his breath failed, and he stumbled out into the barn whimpering between his broken sentences like a whipped child.
“Here I am with nobody to milk, nor feed the hens; nobody to churn to-morrow, nor do the chores; a poor, mis’able creeter, deserted by my children, with nobody to do a hand’s turn ‘thout bein’ paid for every step they take! I’ll give ‘em what they deserve; I don’ know what, but I’ll be even with ‘em yet.” And the Deacon set his Baxter jaw in a way that meant his determination to stop at nothing.
XXXI. SENTRY DUTY
IVORY BOYNTON drove home from the woods that same afternoon by way of the bridge, in order to buy some provisions at the brick store. When he was still a long distance from the bars that divided the lane from the highroad, he espied a dark-clad little speck he knew to be Rodman leaning over the fence, waiting and longing as usual for his home-coming, and his heart warmed at the thought of the boyish welcome that never failed.
The sleigh slipped quickly over the hard-packed, shining road, and the bells rang merrily in the clear, cold air, giving out a joyous sound that had no echo in Ivory’s breast that day. He had just had a vision of happiness through another man’s eyes. Was he always to stand outside the banqueting-table, he wondered, and see others feasting while he hungered.
Now the little speck bounded from the fence, flew down the road to meet the sleigh, and jumped in by the driver’s side.
“I knew you’d come to-night,” Rodman cried eagerly. “I told Aunt Boynton you’d come.”
“How is she, well as common?”
“No, not a bit well since yesterday morning, but Mrs. Mason says it’s nothing worse than a cold. Mrs. Mason has just gone home, and we’ve had a grand house-cleaning to-day. She’s washed and ironed and baked, and we’ve put Aunt Boynton in clean sheets and pillow-cases, and her room’s nice and warm, and I carried the eat in and put it on her bed to keep her company while I came to watch for you. Aunt Boynton let Mrs. Mason braid her hair, and seemed to like her brushing it. It’s been dreadful lonesome, and oh! I am glad you came back, Ivory. Did you find any more spruce gum where you went this time?”
“Pounds and pounds, Rod; enough to bring me in nearly a hundred dollars. I chanced on the greatest place I’ve found yet. I followed the wake of an old whirlwind that had left long furrows in the forest,—I’ve told you how the thing works,—and I tracked its course by the gum that had formed wherever the trees were wounded. It’s hard, lonely work, Rod, but it pays well.”
“If I could have been there, maybe we could have got more. I’m good at shinning up trees.”
“Yes, sometime we’ll go gum-picking together. We’ll climb the trees like a couple of cats, and take our knives and serape off the precious lumps that are worth so much money to the druggists. You’ve let down the bars, I see.”
“‘Cause I knew you’d come to-night,” said Rodman. “I felt it in my bones. We’re going to have a splendid supper.”
“Are we? That’s good news.” Ivory tried to make his tone bright and interested, though his heart was like a lump of lead in his breast. “It’s the least I can do for the poor little chap,” he thought, “when he stays as caretaker in this lonely spot.—I wonder if I hadn’t better drive into the barn, Rod, and leave the harness on Nick till I go in and see mother? Guess I will.”
“She’s hot, Aunt Boynton is, hot and restless, but Mrs. Mason thinks that’s all.”
Ivory found his mother feverish, and her eyes were unnaturally bright; but she was clear in her mind and cheerful, too, sitting up in bed to breathe the better, while the Maltese cat snuggled under her arm and purred peacefully.
“The cat is Rod’s idea,” she said smilingly but in a very weak voice. “He is a great nurse I should never have thought of the cat myself but she gives me more comfort than all the medicine.”
Ivory and Rodman drew up to the supper table, already set in the kitchen, but before Ivory took his seat he softly closed the door that led into the living-room. They ate their beans and brown bread and the mince pie that had been the “splendid” feature of the meal, as reported by the boy; and when they had finished, and Rodman was clearing the table, Ivory walked to the window, lighting his pipe the while, and stood soberly looking out on the snowy landscape. One could scarcely tell it was twilight, with such sweeps of whiteness to catch every gleam of the dying day.
“Drop work a minute and come here, Rod,” he said at length. “Can you keep a secret?”
“‘Course I can! I’m chock full of ‘em now, and nobody could dig one of ‘em out o’ me with a pickaxe!”
“Oh, well! If you’re full you naturally couldn’t hold another!”
“I could try to squeeze it in, if it’s a nice one,” coaxed the boy.
“I don’t know whether you’ll think it’s a nice one, Rod, for it breaks up one of your plans. I’m not sure myself how nice it is, but it’s a very big, unexpected, startling one. What do you think? Your favorite Patty has gone and got married.”
“Patty! Married!” cried Rod, then hastily putting his hand over his mouth to hush his too-loud speaking.
“Yes, she and Mark Wilson ran away last Monday, drove over to Allentown, New Hampshire, and were married without telling a soul. Deacon Baxter discovered everything this afternoon, like the old fox that he is, and turned Patty out of the house.”
“Mean old skinflint!” exclaimed Rod excitedly, all the incipient manhood rising in his ten-year-old breast. “Is she gone to live with the Wilsons?”
“The Wilsons don’t know yet that Mark is married to her, but I met him driving like Jehu, just after I had left Patty, and told him everything that had happened, and did my best to cool him down and keep him from murdering his new father-in-law by showing him it would serve no real purpose now.”
“Did he look married, and all different?” asked Rod curiously.
“Yes, he did, and more like a man than ever he looked before in his life. We talked everything over together, and he went home at once to break the news to his family, without even going to take a peep at Patty. I couldn’t bear to have them meet till he had something cheerful to say to the poor little soul. When I met her by Uncle Bart’s shop, she was trudging along in the snow like a draggled butterfly, and crying like a baby.”
Sympathetic tears dimmed Rodman’s eyes. “I can’t bear to see girls cry, Ivory. I just can’t bear it, especially Patty.”
“Neither can I, Rod. I came pretty near wiping her eyes, but pulled up, remembering she wasn’t a child but a married lady. Well, now we come to the point.”
“Isn’t Patty’s being married the point?”
“No, only part of it. Patty’s being sent away from home leaves Waitstill alone with the Deacon, do you see? And if Patty is your favorite, Waitstill is mine—I might as well own up to that.”
“She’s mine, too,” cried Rod. “They’re both my favorites, but I always thought Patty was the suitablest for me to marry if she’d wait for me. Waitstill is too grand for a boy!”
“She’s too grand for anybody, Rod. There isn’t a man alive that’s worthy to strap on her skates.”
“Well, she’s too grand for anybody except—” and here Rod’s shy, wistful voice trailed off into discreet silence.
“Now I had some talk with Patty, and she thinks Waitstill will have no trouble with her father just at present. She says he lavished so much rage upon her that there’ll be none left for anybody else for a day or two. And, moreover, that he will never dare to go too far with Waitstill, because she’s so useful to him. I’m not afraid of his beating or injuring her so long as he keeps his sober senses, if he’s ever rightly had any; but I don’t like to think of his upbraiding her and breaking her heart with his cruel talk just after she’s lost the sister that’s been her only companion.” And Ivory’s hand trembled as he filled his pipe. He had no confidant but this quaint, tender-hearted, old-fashioned little lad, to whom he had grown to speak his mind as if he were a man of his own age; and Rod, in the same way, had gradually learned to understand and sympathize.
“It’s dreadful lonesome on Town-House Hill,” said the boy in a hushed tone.
“Dreadful lonesome,” echoed Ivory with a sigh; “and I don’t dare leave mother until her fever dies down a bit and she sleeps. Now do you remember the night that she was taken ill, and we shared the watch?”
Rodman held his breath. “Do you mean you ‘re going to let me help just as if I was big?” he asked, speaking through a great lump in his throat.
“There are only two of us, Rod. You’re rather young for this piece of work, but you’re trusty—you ‘re trusty!”
“Am I to keep watch on the Deacon?”
“That’s it, and this is my plan: Nick will have had his feed; you ‘re to drive to the bridge when it gets a little darker and hitch in Uncle Bart’s horse-shed, covering Nick well. You’re to go into the brick store, and while you’re getting some groceries wrapped up, listen to anything the men say, to see if they know what’s happened. When you’ve hung about as long as you dare, leave your bundle and say you’ll call in again for it. Then see if Baxter’s store is open. I don’t believe it will be, and if it Isn’t, look for a light in his kitchen window, and prowl about till you know that Waitstill and the Deacon have gone up to their bedrooms. Then go to Uncle Bart’s and find out if Patty is there.”
Rod’s eyes grew bigger and bigger: “Shall I talk to her?” he asked; “and what’ll I say?”
“No, just ask if she’s there. If she’s gone, Mark has made it right with his family and taken her home. If she hasn’t, why, God knows how that matter will be straightened out. Anyhow, she has a husband now, and he seems to value her; and Waitstill is alone on the top of that wind-swept hill!”
“I’ll go. I’ll remember everything,” cried Rodman, in the seventh heaven of delight at the responsibilities Ivory was heaping upon him.
“Don’t stay beyond eight o’clock; but come back and tell me everything you’ve learned. Then, if mother grows no worse, I’ll walk back to Uncle Bart’s shop and spend the night there, just—just to be near, that’s all.”
“You couldn’t hear Waitstill, even if she called,” Rod said.
“Couldn’t I? A man’s ears are very sharp under certain circumstances. I believe if Waitstill needed help I could hear her—breathe! Besides, I shall be up and down the hill till I know all’s well; and at sunrise I’ll go up and hide behind some of Baxter’s buildings till I see him get his breakfast and go to the store. Now wash your dishes”; and Ivory caught up his cap from a hook behind the door.
“Are you going to the barn?” asked Rodman.
“No, only down to the gate for a minute. Mark said that if he had a good chance he’d send a boy with a note, and get him to put it under the stone gate-post. It’s too soon to expect it, perhaps, but I can’t seem to keep still.”
Rodman tied a gingham apron round his waist, carried the tea-kettle to the sink, and poured the dishpan full of boiling water; then dipped the cups and plates in and out, wiped them and replaced them on the table’ gave the bean-platter a special polish, and set the half mince pie and the butter-dish in the cellar-way.
“A boy has to do most everything in this family!” He sighed to himself. “I don’t mind washing dishes, except the nasty frying-pan and the sticky bean-pot; but what I’m going to do to-night is different.” Here he glowed and tingled with anticipation. “I know what they call it in the story-books—it’s sentry duty; and that’s braver work for a boy than dish-washing!”
Which, however, depends a good deal upon circumstances, and somewhat on the point of view.
