MRS. ABEL DAY had come to spend the afternoon with Aunt Abby Cole and
they were seated at the two sitting-room windows, sweeping the landscape
with eagle eyes in the intervals of making patchwork.
“The foliage has been a little mite too rich this season,” remarked Aunt
Abby. “I b'lieve I'm glad to see it thinin' out some, so 't we can have
some kind of an idee of what's goin' on in the village.”
“There's plenty goin' on,” Mrs. Day answered unctuously; “some of it
aboveboard an' some underneath it.”
“An' that's jest where it's aggravatin' to have the leaves so thick and
the trees so high between you and other folks' houses. Trees are good
for shade, it's true, but there's a limit to all things. There was a
time when I could see 'bout every-thing that went on up to Baxters',
and down to Bart's shop, and, by goin' up attic, consid'able many things
that happened on the bridge. Bart vows he never planted that plum tree
at the back door of his shop; says the children must have hove out plum
stones when they was settin' on the steps and the tree come up of its
own accord. He says he didn't take any notice of it till it got quite a
start and then 't was such a healthy young bush he couldn't bear to root
it out. I tell him it's kind O' queer it should happen to come up jest
where it spoils my view of his premises. Men folks are so exasperatin'
that sometimes I wish there was somebody different for us to marry, but
there ain't,--so there we be!”
“They are an awful trial,” admitted Mrs. Day. “Abel never sympathizes
with my head-aches. I told him a-Sunday I didn't believe he'd mind if I
died the next day, an' all he said was: 'Why don't you try it an' see,
Lyddy?' He thinks that's humorous.”
“I know; that's the way Bartholomew talks; I guess they all do. You can
see the bridge better 'n I can, Lyddy; has Mark Wilson drove over sence
you've been settin' there? He's like one o' them ostriches that hides
their heads in the sand when the bird-catchers are comin' along,
thinkin' 'cause they can't see anything they'll never BE seen! He knows
folks would never tell tales to Deacon Baxter, whatever the girls done;
they hate him too bad. Lawyer Wilson lives so far away, he can't keep
any watch o' Mark, an' Mis' Wilson's so cityfied an' purse-proud nobody
ever goes to her with any news, bad or good; so them that's the most
concerned is as blind as bats. Mark's consid'able stiddier'n he used to
be, but you needn't tell me he has any notion of bringin' one o' that
Baxter tribe into his family. He's only amusin' himself.”
“Patty'll be Mrs. Wilson or nothin',” was Mrs. Day's response. “Both o'
them girls is silk purses an' you can't make sows' ears of 'em. We
ain't neither of us hardly fair to Patty, an' I s'pose it 's because she
didn't set any proper value on Cephas.”
“Oh, she's good enough for Mark, I guess, though I ain't so sure of his
intentions as you be. She's nobody's fool, Patty ain't, I allow that,
though she did treat Cephas like the dirt in the road. I'm thankful he's
come to his senses an' found out the diff'rence between dross an' gold.”
“It's very good of you to put it that way, Abby,” Mrs. Day responded
gratefully, for it was Phoebe, her own offspring, who was alluded to as
the most precious of metals. “I suppose we'd better have the publishing
notice put up in the frame before Sunday? There'll be a great crowd out
that day and at Thanksgiving service the next Thursday too!”
“Cephas says he don't care how soon folks hears the news, now all's
settled,” said his mother. “I guess he's kind of anxious that the
village should know jest how little truth there is in the gossip 'bout
him bein' all upset over Patience Baxter. He said they took consid'able
notice of him an' Phoebe settin' together at the Harvest Festival last
evenin'. He thought the Baxter girls would be there for certain, but I
s'pose Old Foxy wouldn't let 'em go up to the Mills in the evenin', nor
spend a quarter on their tickets.”
“Mark could have invited Patty an' paid for her ticket, I should think;
or passed her in free, for that matter, when the Wilsons got up the
entertainment; but, of course, the Deacon never allows his girls to go
anywheres with men-folks.”
“Not in public; so they meet 'em side o' the river or round the corner
of Bart's shop, or anywhere they can, when the Deacon's back's turned.
If you tied a handkerchief over Waitstill's eyes she could find her way
blindfold to Ivory Boynton's house, but she's good as gold, Waitstill
is; she'll stay where her duty calls her, every time! If any misfortune
or scandal should come near them two girls, the Deacon will have no-body
but himself to thank for it, that's one sure thing!”
“Young folks can't be young but once,” sighed Mrs. Day. “I thought we
had as handsome a turn-out at the entertainment last evenin' as any
village on the Saco River could 'a' furnished: an' my Phoebe an' your
Cephas, if I do say so as shouldn't, was about the best-dressed an'
best-appearin' couple there was present. Also, I guess likely, they're
startin' out with as good prospects as any bride an' groom that's walked
up the middle aisle o' the meetin'-house for many a year.... How'd you
like that Boston singer that the Wilsons brought here, Abby?--Wait a
minute, is Cephas, or the Deacon, tendin' store this after-noon?”
“The Deacon; Cephas is paintin' up to the Mills.”
“Well, Mark Wilson's horse an' buggy is meanderin' slowly down Aunt
Betty-Jack's hill, an' Mark is studyin' the road as if he was lookin'
for a four-leafed clover.”
“He'll hitch at the tavern, or the Edgewood store, an' wait his chance
to get a word with Patience,” said Aunt Abby. “He knows when she takes
milk to the Morrills', or butter to the parsonage; also when she eats
an' drinks an' winks her eye an' ketches her breath an' lifts her
foot. Now he's disappeared an' we'll wait.. .. Why, as to that Boston
singer,--an' by the way, they say Ellen Wilson's goin' to take lessons
of her this winter,--she kind o' bewildered me, Lyddy! Of course, I
ain't never been to any cities, so I don't feel altogether free to
criticise; but what did you think of her, when she run up so high there,
one time? I don't know how high she went, but I guess there wa'n't no
higher to go!”
“It made me kind o' nervous,” allowed Mrs. Day.
“Nervous! Bart' an' I broke out in a cold sweat! He said she couldn't
hold a candle to Waitstill Baxter. But it's that little fly-away Wilson
girl that'll get the lessons, an' Waitstill will have to use her voice
callin' the Deacon home to dinner. Things ain't divided any too well in
this world, Lyddy.”
“Waitstill's got the voice, but she lacks the trainin'. The Boston
singer knows her business, I'll say that for her,” said Mrs. Day.
“She's got good stayin' power,” agreed Aunt Abby. “Did you notice how
she held on to that high note when she'd clumb where she wanted to git?
She's got breath enough to run a gristmill, that girl has! And how'd she
come down, when she got good and ready to start? Why, she zig-zagged an'
saw-toothed the whole way! It kind o' made my flesh creep!”
“I guess part o' the trouble's with us country folks,” Mrs. Day
responded, “for folks said she sung runs and trills better'n any woman
up to Boston.”
“Runs an' trills,” ejaculated Abby scornfully. “I was talkin' 'bout
singin' not runnin'. My niece Ella up to Parsonfield has taken three
terms on the pianner an' I've heerd her practise. Scales has got to be
done, no doubt, but they'd ought to be done to home, where they belong;
a concert ain't no place for 'em... . There, what did I tell yer?
Patience Baxter's crossin' the bridge with a pail in her hand. She's got
that everlastin' yeller-brown, linsey-woolsey on, an' a white 'cloud'
wrapped around her head with con'sid'able red hair showin' as usual. You
can always see her fur's you can a sunrise! And there goes Rod Boynton,
chasin' behind as usual. Those Baxter girls make a perfect fool o' that
boy, but I don't s'pose Lois Boynton's got wit enough to make much fuss
over the poor little creeter!”
Mark Wilson could certainly see Patty Baxter as far as he could a
sunrise, although he was not intimately acquainted with that natural
phenomenon. He took a circuitous route from his watch-tower, and,
knowing well the point from which there could be no espionage from
Deacon Baxter's store windows, joined Patty in the road, took the pail
from her hand, and walked up the hill beside her. Of course, the village
could see them, but, as Aunt Abby had intimated, there wasn't a man,
woman, or child on either side of the river who wouldn't have taken the
part of the Baxter girls against their father.