Patty had the most ardent love for her elder sister, and something that
resembled reverence for her unselfishness, her loyalty, and her strength
of character; but if the truth were told she had no great opinion of
Waitstill's ability to feel righteous wrath, nor of her power to avenge
herself in the face of rank injustice. It was the conviction of her own
superior finesse and audacity that had sustained patty all through her
late escapade. She felt herself a lucky girl, indeed, to achieve liberty
and happiness for herself, but doubly lucky if she had chanced to open a
way of escape for her more docile and dutiful sister.
She would have been a trifle astonished had she surmised the existence
of certain mysterious waves that had been sweeping along the coasts of
Waitstill's mind that afternoon, breaking down all sorts of defences
and carrying her will along with them by sheer force: but it is a truism
that two human beings can live beside each other for half a century and
yet continue strangers.
Patty's elopement with the youth of her choice, taking into account all
its attendant risks, was Indeed an exhibition of courage and initiative
not common to girls of seventeen; but Waitstill was meditating a mutiny
more daring yet--a mutiny, too, involving a course of conduct most
unusual in maidens of puritan descent.
She walked back into the kitchen to find her father sitting placidly in
the rocking-chair by the window. He had lighted his corn-cob pipe, in
which he always smoked a mixture of dried sweet-fern as being cheaper
than tobacco, and his face wore something resembling a smile--a foxy
smile--as he watched his youngest-born ploughing down the hill through
the deep snow, while the more obedient Waitstill moved about the room,
setting supper on the table.
Conversation was not the Deacon's forte, but it seemed proper for
some one to break the ice that seemed suddenly to be very thick in the
immediate vicinity.
“That little Jill-go-over-the-ground will give the neighbors a pleasant
evenin' tellin' 'em 'bout me,” he chuckled. “Aunt Abby Cole will run the
streets o' the three villages by sun-up to-morrer; but nobody pays any
'tention to a woman whose tongue is hung in the middle and wags at both
ends. I wa'n't intending to use the whip on your sister, Waitstill,”
continued the Deacon, with a crafty look at his silent daughter, “though
a trouncin' would 'a' done her a sight o' good; but I was only tryin'
to frighten her a little mite an' pay her up for bringin' disgrace on
us the way she's done, makin' us the talk o' the town. Well, she's gone,
an' good riddance to bad rubbish, say I! One less mouth to feed, an' one
less body to clothe. You'll miss her jest at first, on account o' there
bein' no other women-folks on the hill, but 't won't last long. I'll
have Bill Morrill do some o' your outside chores, so 't you can take on
your sister's work, if she ever done any.”
This was a most astoundingly generous proposition on the Deacon's part,
and to tell the truth he did not himself fully understand his mental
processes when he made it; but it seemed to be drawn from him by a kind
of instinct that he was not standing well in his elder daughter's books.
Though the two girls had never made any demonstration of their affection
in his presence, he had a fair idea of their mutual dependence upon each
other. Not that he placed the slightest value on Waitstill's opinion of
him, or cared in the smallest degree what she, or any one else in
the universe, thought of his conduct; but she certainly did appear to
advantage when contrasted with the pert little hussy who had just left
the premises. Also, Waitstill loomed large in his household comforts
and economies, having a clear head, a sure hand, and being one of the
steady-going, reliable sort that can be counted on in emergencies, not,
like Patty, going off at half-cock at the smallest provocation. Yes,
Waitstill, as a product of his masterly training for the last seven
years, had settled down, not without some trouble and friction, into a
tolerably dependable pack-horse, and he intended in the future to use
some care in making permanent so valuable an aid and ally. She did not
pursue nor attract the opposite sex, as his younger daughter apparently
did; so by continuing his policy of keeping all young men rigidly at
a distance he could count confidently on having', Waitstill serve
his purposes for the next fifteen or twenty years, or as long as he,
himself, should continue to ornament and enrich the earth. He would go
to Saco the very next day, and cut Patty out of his will, arranging his
property so that Waitstill should be the chief legatee as long as she
continued to live obediently under his roof. He intended to make the
last point clear if he had to consult every lawyer in York County; for
he wouldn't take risks on any woman alive.
If he must leave his money anywhere--and it was with a bitter pang that
he faced the inexorable conviction that he could neither live forever,
nor take his savings with him to the realms of bliss prepared for
members of the Orthodox Church in good and regular standing--if he must
leave his money behind him, he would dig a hole in the ground and
bury it, rather than let it go to any one who had angered him in his
lifetime.
These were the thoughts that caused him to relax his iron grip and smile
as he sat by the window, smoking his corn-cob pipe and taking one of his
very rare periods of rest.
Presently he glanced at the clock. “It's only quarter-past four,” he
said. “I thought 't was later, but the snow makes it so light you can't
jedge the time. The moon fulls to-night, don't it? Yes; come to think
of it, I know it does. Ain't you settin' out supper a little mite early,
Waitstill?” This was a longer and more amiable speech than he had
made in years, but Waitstill never glanced at him as she said: “It is a
little early, but I want to get it ready before I leave.”
“Be you goin' out? Mind, I won't have you follerin' Patience round;
you'll only upset what I've done, an' anyhow I want you to keep away
from the neighbors for a few days, till all this blows over.”
He spoke firmly, though for him mildly, for he still had the uneasy
feeling that he stood on the brink of a volcano; and, as a matter of
fact, he tumbled into it the very next moment.
The meagre supper was spread; a plate of cold; soda biscuits, a
dried-apple pie, and the usual brown teapot were in evidence; and as her
father ceased speaking Waitstill opened the door of the brick oven where
the bean-pot reposed, set a chair by the table, and turning, took up
her coat (her mother's old riding-cloak, it was), and calmly put it on,
reaching then for her hood and her squirrel tippet.
“You are goin' out, then, spite o' what I said?” the Deacon inquired
sternly.
“Did you really think, father, that I would sleep under your roof after
you had turned my sister out into the snow to lodge with whoever might
take her in--my seventeen year-old-sister that your wife left to my
care; my little sister, the very light of my life?”
Waitstill's voice trembled a trifle, but other-wise she was quite calm
and free from heroics of any sort.
The Deacon looked up in surprise. “I guess you're kind o' hystericky,”
he said. “Set down--set down an' talk things over. I ain't got nothin'
ag'in' you, an' I mean to treat you right. Set down!”
The old man was decidedly nervous, and intended to keep his temper until
there was a safer chance to let it fly.
Waitstill sat down. “There's nothing to talk over,” she said. “I have
done all that I promised my stepmother the night she died, and now I am
going. If there's a duty owed between daughter and father, it ought to
work both ways. I consider that I have done my share, and now I intend
to seek happiness for myself. I have never had any, and I am starving
for it.”
“An' you'd leave me to git on the best I can, after what I've done
for you?” burst out the Deacon, still trying to hold down his growing
passion.
“You gave me my life, and I'm thankful to you for that, but you've given
me little since, father.”
“Hain't I fed an' clothed you?”
“No more than I have fed and clothed you. You've provided the raw food,
and I've cooked and served it. You've bought and I have made shirts and
overalls and coats for you, and knitted your socks and comforters and
mittens. Not only have I toiled and saved and scrimped away my girlhood
as you bade me, but I've earned for you. Who made the butter, and took
care of the hens, and dried the apples, and 'drew in' the rugs? Who
raised and ground the peppers for sale, and tended the geese that you
might sell the feathers? No, father, I don't consider that I'm in your
debt!”