The Story of Waitstill Baxter

Waitstill’s heart melted, and she lifted Patty’s tear-stained face to hers and kissed it. “Well, dear, I would not have had you do this for the world, but it is done, and Mark seems to have been as wise as a man can be when he does an unwise thing. You are married, and you love each other. That’s the comforting thing to me.”

“We do,” sobbed Patty. “No two people ever loved each other better than we; but it’s been all spoiled for fear of father.”

“I must say I dread to have him hear the news”; and Waitstill knitted her brows anxiously. “I hope it may be soon, and I think I ought to be here when he is told. Mark will never under-stand or bear with him, and there may be trouble that I could avert.”

“I’ll be here, too, and I’m not afraid!” And Patty raised her head defiantly. “Father can unmarry us, that’s why we acted in this miserable, secret, underhanded way. Somehow, though I haven’t seen Mark since we went to Allentown, I am braver than I was last week, for now I’ve got somebody to take my part. I’ve a good mind to go upstairs and put on my gold beads and my wedding-ring, just to get used to them and to feel a little more married.—No: I can’t, after all, for there is father driving up the hill now, and he may come into the house. What brings him home at this hour?”

“I was expecting him every moment”; and Waitstill rose and stirred the fire. “He took the pung and went to the Mills for grain.”

“He hasn’t anything in the back of the pung—and, oh, Waity! he is standing up now and whipping the horse with all his might. I never saw him drive like that before: what can be the matter? He can’t have seen my wedding-ring, and only three people in all the world know about my being married.”

Waitstill turned from the window, her heart beating a little faster. “What three people know, three hundred are likely to know sooner or later. It may be a false alarm, but father is in a fury about something. He must not be told the news until he is in a better humor!”

XXVIII. PATTY IS SHOWN THE DOOR

DEACON BAXTER drove into the barn, and flinging a blanket over the wheezing horse, closed the door behind him and hurried into the house without even thinking to lay down his whip.

Opening the kitchen door and stopping outside long enough to kick the snow from his heavy boots, he strode into the kitchen and confronted the two girls. He looked at them sharply before he spoke, scanning their flushed faces and tear-stained eyes; then he broke out savagely:—

“Oh! you’re both here; that’s lucky. Now stan’ up and answer to me. What’s this I hear at the Mills about Patience,—common talk outside the store?”

The time had come, then, and by some strange fatality, when Mark was too far away to be of service.

“Tell me what you heard, father, and I can give you a better answer,” Patty replied, hedging to gain time, and shaking inwardly.

“Bill Morrill says his brother that works in New Hampshire reports you as ridin’ through the streets of Allentown last Monday with a young man.”

There seemed but one reply to this, so Patty answered tremblingly: “He says what’s true; I was there.”

“WHAT!” And it was plain from the Deacon’s voice that he had really disbelieved the rumor. A whirlwind of rage swept through him and shook him from head to foot.

“Do you mean to stan’ there an’ own up to me that you was thirty miles away from home with a young man?” he shouted.

“If you ask me a plain question, I’ve got to tell you the truth, father: I was.”

“How dare you carry on like that and drag my name into scandal, you worthless trollop, you? Who went along with you? I’ll skin the hide off him, whoever ‘t was!”

Patty remained mute at this threat, but Waitstill caught her hand and whispered: “Tell him all, dear; it’s got to come out. Be brave, and I’ll stand by you.”

“Why are you interferin’ and puttin’ in your meddlesome oar?” the Deacon said, turning to Waitstill. “The girl would never ‘a’ been there if you’d attended to your business. She’s nothin’ but a fool of a young filly, an’ you’re an old cart-horse. It was your job to look out for her as your mother told you to. Anybody might ‘a’ guessed she needed watchin’!”

“You shall not call my sister an old cart-horse! I’ll not permit it!” cried Patty, plucking up courage in her sister’s defence, and as usual comporting herself a trifle more like a spitfire than a true heroine of tragedy.

“Hush, Patty! Let him call me anything that he likes; it makes no difference at such a time.”

“Waitstill knew nothing of my going away till this afternoon,” continued Patty. “I kept it secret from her on purpose, because I was afraid she would not approve. I went with Mark Wilson, and—and—I married him in New Hampshire because we couldn’t do it at home without every-body’s knowledge. Now you know all.”

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve gone an’ married that reckless, wuthless, horse-trottin’, card-playin’ sneak of a Wilson boy that’s courted every girl in town? Married the son of a man that has quarrelled with me and insulted me in public? By the Lord Harry, I’ll crack this whip over your shoulders once before I’m done with you! If I’d used it years ago you might have been an honest woman to-day, instead of a—”

Foxwell Baxter had wholly lost control of himself, and the temper, that had never been governed or held in check, lashed itself into a fury that made him for the moment unaccountable for his words or actions.

Waitstill took a step forward in front of Patty. “Put down that whip, father, or I’ll take it from you and break it across my knee!” Her eyes blazed and she held her head high. “You’ve made me do the work of a man, and, thank God, I’ve got the muscle of one. Don’t lift a finger to Patty, or I’ll defend her, I promise you! The dinner-horn is in the side entry and two blasts will bring Uncle Bart up the hill, but I’d rather not call him unless you force me to.”

The Deacon’s grasp on the whip relaxed, and he fell back a little in sheer astonishment at the bravado of the girl, ordinarily so quiet and self-contained. He was speechless for a second, and then recovered breath enough to shout to the terrified Patty: “I won’t use the whip till I hear whether you’ve got any excuse for your scandalous behavior. Hear me tell you one thing: this little pleasure-trip o’ yourn won’t do you no good, for I’ll break the marriage! I won’t have a Wilson in my family if I have to empty a shot-gun into him; but your lies and your low streets are so beyond reason I can’t believe my ears. What’s your excuse, I say?”

“Stop a minute, Patty, before you answer, and let me say a few things that ought to have been said before now,” interposed Waitstill. “If Patty has done wrong, father, you’ve no one but yourself to thank for it, and it’s only by God’s grace that nothing worse has happened to her. What could you expect from a young thing like that, with her merry heart turned into a lump in her breast every day by your cruelty? Did she deceive you? Well, you’ve made her afraid of you ever since she was a baby in the cradle, drawing the covers over her little head when she heard your step. Whatever crop you sow is bound to come up, father; that’s Nature’s law, and God’s, as well.”

“You hold your tongue, you,—readin’ the law to your elders an’ betters,” said the old man, choking with wrath. “My business is with this wuthless sister o’ yourn, not with you!—You’ve got your coat and hood on, miss, so you jest clear out o’ the house; an’ if you’re too slow about it, I’ll help you along. I’ve no kind of an idea you’re rightly married, for that young Wilson sneak couldn’t pay so high for you as all that; but if it amuses you to call him your husband, go an’ find him an’ stay with him. This is an honest house, an’ no place for such as you!”

Patty had a good share of the Baxter temper, not under such control as Waitstill’s, and the blood mounted into her face.

“You shall not speak to me so!” she said intrepidly, while keeping a discreet eye on the whip. “I’m not a—a—caterpillar to be stepped on, I’m a married woman, as right as a New Hampshire justice can make me, with a wedding-ring and a certificate to show, if need be. And you shall not call my husband names! Time will tell what he is going to be, and that’s a son-in-law any true father would be proud to own!”

“Why are you set against this match, father?” argued Waitstill, striving to make him hear reason. “Patty has married into one of the best families in the village. Mark is gay and thought-less, but never has he been seen the worse for liquor, and never has he done a thing for which a wife need hang her head. It is something for a young fellow of four-and-twenty to be able to provide for a wife and keep her in comfort; and when all is said and done, it is a true love-match.”

Patty seized this inopportune moment to forget her father’s presence, and the tragic nature of the occasion, and, in her usual impetuous fashion, flung her arms around Waitstill’s neck and gave her the hug of a young bear.

“My own dear sister,” she said. “I don’t mind anything, so long as you stand up for us.”

“Don’t make her go to-night, father,” pleaded Waitstill. “Don’t send your own child out into the cold. Remember her husband is away from home.”

“She can find another up at the Mills as good as he is, or better. Off with you, I say, you trumpery little baggage, you!”

“Go, then, dear, it is better so; Uncle Bart will keep you overnight; run up and get your things”; and Waitstill sank into a chair, realizing the hopelessness of the situation.

“She’ll not take anything from my house. It’s her husband’s business to find her in clothes.”

“They’ll be better ones than ever you found me,” was Patty’s response.

No heroics for her; no fainting fits at being disowned; no hysterics at being turned out of house and home; no prayers for mercy, but a quick retort for every gibe from her father; and her defiant attitude enraged the Deacon the more.

“I won’t speak again,” he said, in a tone that could not be mistaken. “Into the street you go, with the clothes you stand up in, or I’ll do what I said I’d do.”

“Go, Patty, it’s the only thing to be done. Don’t tremble, for nobody shall touch a hair of your head. I can trust you to find shelter to-night, and Mark will take care of you to-morrow.”

Patty buttoned her shabby coat and tied on her hood as she walked from the kitchen through the sitting-room towards the side door, her heart heaving with shame and anger, and above all with a child’s sense of helplessness at being parted from her sister.

“Don’t tell the neighbors any more lies than you can help,” called her father after her retreating form; “an’ if any of ‘em dare to come up here an’ give me any of their imperdence, they’ll be treated same as you. Come back here, Waitstill, and don’t go to slobberin’ any good-byes over her. She ain’t likely to get out o’ the village for some time if she’s expectin’ Mark Wilson to take her away.”

“I shall certainly go to the door with my sister,” said Waitstill coldly, suiting the action to the word, and following Patty out on the steps. “Shall you tell Uncle Bart everything, dear, and ask him to let you sleep at his house?”

Both girls were trembling with excitement; Waitstill pale as a ghost, Patty flushed and tearful, with defiant eyes and lips that quivered rebelliously.

“I s’pose so,” she answered dolefully; “though Aunt Abby hates me, on account of Cephas. I’d rather go to Dr. Perry’s, but I don’t like to meet Phil. There doesn’t seem to be any good place for me, but it ‘s only for a night. And you’ll not let father prevent your seeing Mark and me to-morrow, will you? Are you afraid to stay alone? I’ll sit on the steps all night if you say the word.”

“No, no, run along. Father has vented his rage upon you, and I shall not have any more trouble. God bless and keep you, darling. Run along!”

“And you’re not angry with me now, Waity? You still love me? And you’ll forgive Mark and come to stay with us soon, soon, soon?”

“We’ll see, dear, when all this unhappy business is settled, and you are safe and happy in your own home. I shall have much to tell you when we meet to-morrow.”

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?