FOXWELL BAXTER was ordinarily called “Old Foxy” by the boys of the
district, and also, it is to be feared, by the men gathered for evening
conference at the various taverns, or at one of the rival village
stores.
He had a small farm of fifteen or twenty acres, with a pasture, a wood
lot, and a hay-field, but the principal source of his income came
from trading. His sign bore the usual legend: “WEST INDIA GOODS AND
GROCERIES,” and probably the most profitable articles in his stock were
rum, molasses, sugar, and tobacco; but there were chests of rice, tea,
coffee, and spices, barrels of pork in brine, as well as piles of cotton
and woolen cloth on the shelves above the counters. His shop window,
seldom dusted or set in order, held a few clay pipes, some glass jars of
peppermint or sassafras lozenges, black licorice, stick-candy, and sugar
gooseberries. These dainties were seldom renewed, for it was only a very
bold child, or one with an ungovernable appetite for sweets, who would
have spent his penny at Foxy Baxter's store.
He was thought a sharp and shrewd trader, but his honesty was never
questioned; indeed, the only trait in his character that ever came up
for general discussion was his extraordinary, unbelievable, colossal
meanness. This so eclipsed every other passion in the man, and loomed
so bulkily and insistently in the foreground, that had he cherished a
second vice no one would have observed it, and if he really did possess
a casual virtue, it could scarcely have reared its head in such ugly
company.
It might be said, to defend the fair name of the Church, that Mr.
Baxter's deaconhood did not include very active service in the courts of
the Lord. He had “experienced religion” at fifteen and made profession
of his faith, but all well-brought-up boys and girls did the same
in those days; their parents saw to that! If change of conviction or
backsliding occurred later on, that was not their business! At the
ripe age of twenty-five he was selected to fill a vacancy and became a
deacon, thinking it might be good for trade, as it was, for some years.
He was very active at the time of the “Cochrane craze,” since any
defence of the creed that included lively detective work and incessant
spying on his neighbors was particularly in his line; but for many years
now, though he had been regular in attendance at church, he had never
officiated at communion, and his diaconal services had gradually lapsed
into the passing of the contribution-box, a task of which he never
wearied; it was such a keen pleasure to make other people yield their
pennies for a good cause, without adding any of his own!
Deacon Baxter had now been a widower for some years and the community
had almost relinquished the idea of his seeking a fourth wife. This was
a matter of some regret, for there was a general feeling that it would
be a good thing for the Baxter girls to have some one to help with the
housework and act as a buffer between them and their grim and irascible
parent. As for the women of the village, they were mortified that the
Deacon had been able to secure three wives, and refused to believe that
the universe held anywhere a creature benighted enough to become his
fourth.
The first, be it said, was a mere ignorant girl, and he a beardless
youth of twenty, who may not have shown his true qualities so early in
life. She bore him two sons, and it was a matter of comment at the
time that she called them, respectively, Job and Moses, hoping that the
endurance and meekness connected with these names might somehow help
them in their future relations with their father. Pneumonia, coupled
with profound discouragement, carried her off in a few years to make
room for the second wife, Waitstill's mother, who was of different fibre
and greatly his superior. She was a fine, handsome girl, the orphan
daughter of up-country gentle-folks, who had died when she was eighteen,
leaving her alone in the world and penniless.
Baxter, after a few days' acquaintance, drove into the dooryard of the
house where she was a visitor and, showing her his two curly-headed
boys, suddenly asked her to come and be their stepmother. She assented,
partly because she had nothing else to do with her existence, so far as
she could see, and also because she fell in love with the children at
first sight and forgot, as girls will, that it was their father whom she
was marrying.
She was as plucky and clever and spirited as she was handsome, and she
made a brave fight of it with Foxy; long enough to bring a daughter into
the world, to name her Waitstill, and start her a little way on her life
journey,--then she, too, gave up the struggle and died. Typhoid fever it
was, combined with complete loss of illusions, and a kind of despairing
rage at having made so complete a failure of her existence.
The next year, Mr. Baxter, being unusually busy, offered a man a good
young heifer if he would jog about the country a little and pick him
up a housekeeper; a likely woman who would, if she proved energetic,
economical, and amiable, be eventually raised to the proud position of
his wife. If she was young, healthy, smart, tidy, capable, and a good
manager, able to milk the cows, harness the horse, and make good butter,
he would give a dollar and a half a week. The woman was found, and,
incredible as it may seem, she said “yes” when the Deacon (whose ardor
was kindled at having paid three months' wages) proposed a speedy
marriage. The two boys by this time had reached the age of discretion,
and one of them evinced the fact by promptly running away to parts
unknown, never to be heard from afterwards; while the other, a reckless
and unhappy lad, was drowned while running on the logs in the river. Old
Foxy showed little outward sign of his loss, though he had brought the
boys into the world solely with the view of having one of them work on
the farm and the other in the store.
His third wife, the one originally secured for a housekeeper, bore him
a girl, very much to his disgust, a girl named Patience, and great was
Waitstill's delight at this addition to the dull household. The mother
was a timid, colorless, docile creature, but Patience nevertheless was a
sparkling, bright-eyed baby, who speedily became the very centre of the
universe to the older child. So the months and years wore on, drearily
enough, until, when Patience was nine, the third Mrs. Baxter succumbed
after the manner of her predecessors, and slipped away from a life that
had grown intolerable. The trouble was diagnosed as “liver complaint,”
but scarcity of proper food, no new frocks or kind words, hard work, and
continual bullying may possibly have been contributory causes. Dr. Perry
thought so, for he had witnessed three most contented deaths in
the Baxter house. The ladies were all members of the church and had
presumably made their peace with God, but the good doctor fancied that
their pleasure in joining the angels was mild compared with their relief
at parting with the Deacon.
“I know I hadn't ought to put the care on you, Waitstill, and you only
thirteen,” poor Mrs. Baxter sighed, as the young girl was watching with
her one night when the end seemed drawing near. “I've made out to live
till now when Patience is old enough to dress herself and help round,
but I'm all beat out and can't try any more.”
“Do you mean I'm to take your place, be a mother to Patience, and keep
house, and everything?” asked Waitstill quaveringly.
“I don't see but you'll have to, unless your father marries again. He'll
never hire help, you know that!”
“I won't have another mother in this house,” flashed the girl. “There's
been three here and that's enough! If he brings anybody home, I'll take
Patience and run away, as Job did; or if he leaves me alone, I'll wash
and iron and scrub and cook till Patience grows up, and then we'll go
off together and hide somewhere. I'm fourteen; oh, mother, how soon
could I be married and take Patience to live with me? Do you think
anybody will ever want me?”
“Don't marry for a home, Waitstill! Your own mother did that, and so did
I, and we were both punished for it! You've been a great help and I've
had a sight of comfort out of the baby, but I wouldn't go through it
again, not even for her! You're real smart and capable for your age and
you've done your full share of the work every day, even when you were at
school. You can get along all right.”
“I don't know how I'm going to do everything alone,” said the girl,
forcing back her tears. “You've always made the brown bread, and mine
will never suit father. I suppose I can wash, but don't know how to iron
starched clothes, nor make pickles, and oh! I can never kill a rooster,
mother, it's no use to ask me to! I'm not big enough to be the head of
the family.”
Mrs. Baxter turned her pale, tired face away from Waitstill's appealing
eyes.
“I know,” she said faintly. “I hate to leave you to bear the brunt
alone, but I must!... Take good care of Patience and don't let her get
into trouble.... You won't, will you?”
“I'll be careful,” promised Waitstill, sobbing quietly; “I'll do my
best.”
“You've got more courage than ever I had; don't you s'pose you can
stiffen up and defend yourself a little mite?... Your father'd ought to
be opposed, for his own good... but I've never seen anybody that dared
do it.” Then, after a pause, she said with a flash of spirit,--“Anyhow,
Waitstill, he's your father after all. He's no blood relation of mine,
and I can't stand him another day; that's the reason I'm willing to
die.”