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.
[Illustration: “Put down that whip, Father, or I’ll take it from you.”]
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.”