THE river was still running under the bridge, but the current of time
had swept Jacob Cochrane out of sight, though not out of mind, for he
had left here and there a disciple to preach his strange and uncertain
doctrine. Waitstill, the child who never spoke in her father's presence,
was a young woman now, the mistress of the house; the stepmother was
dead, and the baby a girl of seventeen.
The brick cottage on the hilltop had grown only a little shabbier.
Deacon Foxwell Baxter still slammed its door behind him every morning at
seven o'clock and, without any such cheerful conventions as good-byes to
his girls, walked down to the bridge to open his store.
The day, properly speaking, had opened when Waitstill and Patience had
left their beds at dawn, built the fire, fed the hens and turkeys, and
prepared the breakfast, while the Deacon was graining the horse and
milking the cows. Such minor “chores” as carrying water from the well,
splitting kindling, chopping pine, or bringing wood into the kitchen,
were left to Waitstill, who had a strong back, or, if she had not, had
never been unwise enough to mention the fact in her father's presence.
The almanac day, however, which opened with sunrise, had nothing to do
with the real human day, which always began when Mr. Baxter slammed
the door behind him, and reached its high noon of delight when he
disappeared from view.
“He's opening the store shutters!” chanted Patience from the heights of
a kitchen chair by the window. “Now he's taken his cane and beaten off
the Boynton puppy that was sitting on the steps as usual,--I don't mean
Ivory's dog” (here the girl gave a quick glance at her sister), “but
Rodman's little yellow cur. Rodman must have come down to the bridge
on some errand for Ivory. Isn't it odd, when that dog has all the other
store steps to sit upon, he should choose father's, when every bone
in his body must tell him how father hates him and the whole Boynton
family.”
“Father has no real cause that I ever heard of; but some dogs never
know when they've had enough beating, nor some people either.” said
Waitstill, speaking from the pantry.
“Don't be gloomy when it's my birthday, Sis!--Now he's opened the door
and kicked the cat! All is ready for business at the Baxter store.”
“I wish you weren't quite so free with your tongue, Patty.”
“Somebody must talk,” retorted the girl, jumping down from the chair
and shaking back her mop of red-gold curls. “I'll put this hateful,
childish, round comb in and out just once more, then it will disappear
forever. This very after-noon up goes my hair!”
“You know it will be of no use unless you braid it very plainly and
neatly. Father will take notice and make you smooth it down.”
“Father hasn't looked me square in the face for years; besides, my
hair won't braid, and nothing can make it quite plain and neat, thank
goodness! Let us be thankful for small mercies, as Jed Morrill said when
the lightning struck his mother-in-law and skipped his wife.”
“Patty, I will not permit you to repeat those tavern stories; they are
not seemly on the lips of a girl!” And Waitstill came out of the pantry
with a shadow of disapproval in her eyes and in her voice.
Patty flung her arms round her sister tempestuously, and pulled out the
waves of her hair so that it softened her face.--“I'll be good,” she
said, “and oh, Waity! let's invent some sort of cheap happiness for
to-day! I shall never be seventeen again and we have so many troubles!
Let's put one of the cows in the horse's stall and see what will happen!
Or let's spread up our beds with the head at the foot and put the chest
of drawers on the other side of the room, or let's make candy! Do you
think father would miss the molasses if we only use a cupful? Couldn't
we strain the milk, but leave the churning and the dishes for an hour or
two, just once? If you say 'yes' I can think of something wonderful to
do!”
“What is it?” asked Waitstill, relenting at the sight of the girl's
eager, roguish face.
“PIERCE MY EARS!” cried Patty. “Say you will!”
“Oh! Patty, Patty, I am afraid you are given over to vanity! I daren't
let you wear eardrops without father's permission.”
“Why not? Lots of church members wear them, so it can't be a mortal sin.
Father is against all adornments, but that's because he doesn't want to
buy them. You've always said I should have your mother's coral pendants
when I was old enough. Here I am, seventeen today, and Dr. Perry says I
am already a well-favored young woman. I can pull my hair over my ears
for a few days and when the holes are all made and healed, even father
cannot make me fill them up again. Besides, I'll never wear the earrings
at home!”
“Oh! my dear, my dear!” sighed Waitstill, with a half-sob in her voice.
“If only I was wise enough to know how we could keep from these little
deceits, yet have any liberty or comfort in life!”
“We can't! The Lord couldn't expect us to bear all that we bear,”
exclaimed Patty, “without our trying once in a while to have a good
time in our own way. We never do a thing that we are ashamed of, or that
other girls don't do every day in the week; only our pleasures always
have to be taken behind father's back. It's only me that's ever wrong,
anyway, for you are always an angel. It's a burning shame and you only
twenty-one yourself. I'll pierce your ears if you say so, and let you
wear your own coral drops!”
“No, Patty; I've outgrown those longings years ago. When your mother
died and left father and you and the house to me, my girlhood died, too,
though I was only thirteen.”
“It was only your inside girlhood that died,” insisted Patty stoutly,
“The outside is as fresh as the paint on Uncle Barty's new ell. You've
got the loveliest eyes and hair in Riverboro, and you know it; besides,
Ivory Boynton would tell you so if you didn't. Come and bore my ears,
there's a darling!”
“Ivory Boynton never speaks a word of my looks, nor a word that father
and all the world mightn't hear.” And Waitstill flushed.
“Then it's because he's shy and silent and has so many troubles of his
own that he doesn't dare say anything. When my hair is once up and the
coral pendants are swinging in my ears, I shall expect to hear something
about MY looks, I can tell you. Waity, after all, though we never have
what we want to eat, and never a decent dress to our backs, nor a young
man to cross the threshold, I wouldn't change places with Ivory Boynton,
would you?” Here Patty swept the hearth vigorously with a turkey wing
and added a few corncobs to the fire.
Waitstill paused a moment in her task of bread-kneading. “Well,” she
answered critically, “at least we know where our father is.”
“We do, indeed! We also know that he is thoroughly alive!”
“And though people do talk about him, they can't say the things they say
of Master Aaron Boynton. I don't believe father would ever run away and
desert us.”
“I fear not,” said Patty. “I wish the angels would put the idea into his
head, though, of course, it wouldn't be the angels; they'd be above it.
It would have to be the 'Old Driver,' as Jed Morrill calls the Evil One;
but whoever did it, the result would be the same: we should be deserted,
and live happily ever after. Oh! to be deserted, and left with you alone
on this hilltop, what joy it would be!”
Waitstill frowned, but did not interfere further with Patty's
intemperate speech. She knew that she was simply serving as an
escape-valve, and that after the steam was “let off” she would be more
rational.
“Of course, we are motherless,” continued Patty wistfully, “but poor
Ivory is worse than motherless.”
“No, not worse, Patty,” said Waitstill, taking the bread-board and
moving towards the closet. “Ivory loves his mother and she loves him,
with all the mind she has left! She has the best blood of New England
flowing in her veins, and I suppose it was a great come down for her to
marry Aaron Boynton, clever and gifted though he was. Now Ivory has to
protect her, poor, daft, innocent creature, and hide her away from the
gossip of the village. He is surely the best of sons, Ivory Boynton!”
“She is a terrible care for him, and like to spoil his life,” said
Patty.
“There are cares that swell the heart and make it bigger and warmer,
Patty, just as there are cares that shrivel it and leave it tired and
cold. Love lightens Ivory's afflictions but that is something you and I
have to do without, so it seems.”
“I suppose little Rodman is some comfort to the Boyntons, even if he is
only ten.” Patty suggested.
“No doubt. He's a good little fellow, and though it's rather hard for
Ivory to be burdened for these last five years with the support of a
child who's no nearer kin than a cousin, still he's of use, minding Mrs.
Boynton and the house when Ivory's away. The school-teacher says he is
wonderful at his books and likely to be a great credit to the Boyntons
some day or other.”
“You've forgot to name our one great blessing, Waity, and I believe,
anyway, you're talking to keep my mind off the earrings!”
“You mean we've each other? No, Patty, I never forget that, day or
night. 'Tis that makes me willing to bear any burden father chooses
to put upon us.--Now the bread is set, but I don't believe I have the
courage to put a needle into your tender flesh, Patty; I really don't.”
“Nonsense! I've got the waxed silk all ready and chosen the right-sized
needle and I'll promise not to jump or screech more than I can help.
We'll make a tiny lead-pencil dot right in the middle of the lobe, then
you place the needle on it, shut your eyes, and JAB HARD! I expect to
faint, but when I 'come to,' we can decide which of us will pull the
needle through to the other side. Probably it will be you, I'm such a
coward. If it hurts dreadfully, I'll have only one pierced to-day and
take the other to-morrow; and if it hurts very dreadfully, perhaps I'll
go through life with one ear-ring. Aunt Abby Cole will say it's just odd
enough to suit me!”
“You'll never go through life with one tongue at the rate you use it
now,” chided Waitstill, “for it will never last you. Come, we'll take
the work-basket and go out in the barn where no one will see or hear
us.”
“Goody, goody! Come along!” and Patty clapped her hands in triumph.
“Have you got the pencil and the needle and the waxed silk? Then bring
the camphor bottle to revive me, and the coral pendants, too, just to
give me courage. Hurry up! It's ten o'clock. I was born at sun-rise, so
I'm 'going on' eighteen and can't waste any time!”