The Story of Waitstill Baxter

“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.

XXXII. THE HOUSE OF AARON

A FEELING that the day was to bring great things had dawned upon Waitstill when she woke that morning, and now it was coming true.

Climbing Saco Hill was like climbing the hill of her dreams; life and love beckoned to her across the snowy slopes.

At rest about Patty’s future, though troubled as to her sorry plight at the moment, she was conscious chiefly of her new-born freedom. She revelled in the keen air that tingled against her cheek, and drew in fresh hope with every breath. As she trod the shining pathway she was full of expectancy, her eyes dancing, her heart as buoyant as her step. Not a vestige of confusion or uncertainty vexed her mind. She knew Ivory for her true mate, and if the way to him took her through dark places it was lighted by a steadfast beacon of love.

At the top of the hill she turned the corner breathlessly, and faced the length of road that led to the Boynton farm. Mrs. Mason’s house was beyond, and oh, how she hoped that Ivory would be at home, and that she need not wait another day to tell him all, and claim the gift she knew was hers before she asked it. She might not have the same exaltation to-morrow, for now there were no levels in her heart and soul. She had a sense of mounting from height to height and lighting fires on every peak of her being. She took no heed of the road she was travelling; she was conscious only of a wonderful inward glow.

The house was now in sight, and a tall figure was issuing from the side door, putting on a fur cap as it came out on the steps and down the lane. Ivory was at home, then, and, best of all, he was unconsciously coming to meet her—although their hearts had been coming to meet each other, she thought, ever since they first began to beat.

As she neared the bars she called Ivory’s name. His hands were in the pockets of his great-coat, and his eyes were fixed on the ground. Sombre he was, distinctly sombre, in mien and gait; could she make him smile and flush and glow, as she was smiling and flushing and glowing? As he heard her voice he raised his head quickly and uncomprehendingly.

“Don’t come any nearer,” she said, “until I have told you something!” His mind had been so full of her that the sight of her in the flesh, standing twenty feet away, bewildered him.

She took a few steps nearer the gate, near enough now for him to see her rosy face framed in a blue hood, and to catch the brightness of her eyes under their lovely lashes. Ordinarily they were cool and limpid and grave, Waitstill’s eyes; now a sunbeam danced in each of them. And her lips, almost always tightly closed, as if she were holding back her natural speech,—her lips were red and parted, and the soul of her, free at last, shone through her face, making it luminous with a new beauty.

“I have left home for good and all,” she said. “I’ll tell you more of this later on, but I have left my father’s house with nothing to my name but the clothes I stand in. I am going to look for work in the mills to-morrow, but I stopped here to say that I’m ready to marry you whenever you want me—if you do want me.”

Ivory was bewildered, indeed, but not so much so that he failed to apprehend, and instantly, too, the real significance of this speech.

He took a couple of long strides, and before Waitstill had any idea of his intentions he vaulted over the bars and gathered her in his arms.

“Never shall you go to the mills, never shall you leave my sight for a single hour again, my one-woman-in-all-the-world! Come to me, to be loved and treasured all your life long! I’ve worshipped you ever since I was a boy; I’ve kept my heart swept and garnished for you and no other, hoping I might win you at last.”

How glorious to hear all this delicious poetry of love, and to feel Ivory’s arms about her, making the dream seem surer!

“Oh, how like you to shorten the time of my waiting!” he went on, his words fairly chasing one another in their eagerness to be spoken. “How like you to count on me, to guess my hunger for your love, to realize the chains that held me back, and break them yourself with your own dear, womanly hands! How like you, oh, wonderful Waitstill!”

Ivory went on murmuring phrases that had been lying in his heart unsaid for years, scarcely conscious of what he was saying, realizing only that the miracle of miracles had happened.

Waitstill, for her part, was almost dumb with joy to be lying so close to his heart that she could hear it beating; to feel the passionate tenderness of his embrace and his kiss falling upon her hair.

“I did not know a girl could be so happy!” she whispered. “I’ve dreamed of it, but it was nothing like this. I am all a-tremble with it.”

Ivory held her off at arm’s length for a moment, reluctantly, grudgingly. “You took me fairly off my feet, dearest,” he said, “and forgot everything but the one supreme fact you were telling me. Had I been on guard I should have told you that I am no worthy husband for you, Waitstill. I haven’t enough to offer such a girl as you.”

“You’re too late, Ivory! You showed me your heart first, and now you are searching your mind for bugbears to frighten me.”

“I am a poor man.”

“No girl could be poorer than I am.”

“After what you’ve endured, you ought to have rest and comfort.”

“I shall have both—in you!” This with eyes, all wet, lifted to Ivory’s.

“My mother is a great burden—a very dear and precious, but a grievous one.”

“She needs a daughter. It is in such things that I shall be your helpmate.”

“Will not the boy trouble you and add to your cares?”

“Rod? I love him; he shall be my little brother.”

“What if my father were not really dead?—I think of this sometimes in the night!—What if he should wander back, broken in spirit, feeble in body, empty in purse?”

“I do not come to you free of burdens. If my father is deserted by all, I must see that he is made comfortable. He never treated me like a daughter, but I acknowledge his claim.”

“Mine is such a gloomy house!”

“Will it be gloomy when I am in it?” and Waitstill, usually so grave, laughed at last like a care-free child.

Ivory felt himself hidden in the beautiful shelter of the girl’s love. It was dark now, or as dark as the night ever is that has moonlight and snow. He took Waitstill in his arms again reverently, and laid his cheek against her hair. “I worship God as well as I know how,” he whispered; “worship him as the maker of this big heaven and earth that surrounds us. But I worship you as the maker of my little heaven and earth, and my heart is saying its prayers to you at this very moment!”

“Hush, my dear! hush! and don’t value me too much, or I shall lose my head—I that have never known a sweet word in all my life save those that my sister has given me.—I must tell you all about Patty now.”

“I happen to know more than you, dear. I met her at the bridge when I was coming home from the woods, and I saw her safely to Uncle Bart’s door.—I don’t know why we speak of it as Uncle Bart’s when it is really Aunt Abby’s!—I next met Mark, who had fairly flown from Bridgton on the wings of love, arriving hours ahead of time. I managed to keep him from avenging the insults heaped upon his bride, and he has driven to the Mills to confide in his father and mother. By this time Patty is probably the centre of the family group, charming them all as is her custom.”

“Oh, I am so glad Mark is at home! Now I can be at rest about Patty. And I must not linger another moment, for I am going to ask Mrs. Mason to keep me overnight,” cried Waitstill, bethinking herself suddenly of time and place.

“I will take you there myself and explain everything. And the moment I’ve lighted a fire in Mrs. Mason’s best bedroom and settled you there, what do you think I am going to do? I shall drive to the town clerk’s house, and if he is in bed, rout him out and have the notice of our intended marriage posted in a public place according to law. Perhaps I shall save a day out of the fourteen I’ve got to wait for my wife. ‘Mills,’ indeed! I wonder at you, Waitstill! As if Mrs. Mason’s house was not far enough away, without your speaking of ‘mills.’”

“I only suggested mills in case you did not want to marry me,” said Waitstill.