DEACON FOXWELL BAXTER was completely non-plussed for the first time in
his life. He had never allowed “argyfyin'” in his household, and there
had never been a clash of wills before this when he had not come off
swiftly and brutally triumphant. This situation was complicated by the
fact that he did not dare to apply the brakes as usual, since there
were more issues involved than ever before. He felt too stunned to deal
properly with this daughter, having emptied all the vials of his wrath
upon the other one, and being, in consequence, somewhat enfeebled. It
was always easy enough to cope with Patty, for her impertinence evoked
such rage that the argument took care of itself; but this grave young
woman was a different matter. There she sat composedly on the edge of
her wooden chair, her head lifted high, her color coming and going,
her eyes shining steadily, like fixed stars; there she sat, calmly
announcing her intention of leaving her father to shift for himself;
yet the skies seemed to have no thought of falling! He felt that he must
make another effort to assert his authority.
“Now, you take off your coat,” he said, the pipe in his hand trembling
as he stirred nervously in his chair. “You take your coat right off
an' set down to the supper-table, same as usual, do you hear? Eat
your victuals an' then go to your bed an' git over this crazy fit that
Patience has started workin' in you. No more nonsense, now; do as I tell
you!”
“I have made up my mind, father, and it's no use arguing. All who try to
live with you fail, sooner or later. You have had four children, father.
One boy ran away; the other did not mind being drowned, I fear, since
life was so hard at home. You have just turned the third child out for
a sin of deceit and disobedience she would never have committed--for her
nature is as clear as crystal--if you had ever loved her or considered
her happiness. So I have done with you, unless in your old age God
should bring you to such a pass that no one else will come to your
assistance; then I'd see somehow that you were cared for and nursed and
made comfortable. You are not an old man; you are strong and healthy,
and you have plenty of money to get a good house-keeper. I should decide
differently, perhaps, if all this were not true.”
“You lie! I haven't got plenty of money!” And the Deacon struck the
table a sudden blow that made the china in the cupboard rattle. “You've
no notion what this house costs me, an' the feed for the stock, an' you
two girls, an' labor at the store, an' the hay-field, an' the taxes an'
insurance! I've slaved from sunrise to sunset but I ain't hardly been
able to lay up a cent. I s'pose the neighbors have been fillin' you full
o' tales about my mis'able little savin's an' makin' 'em into a fortune.
Well, you won't git any of 'em, I promise you that!”
“You have plenty laid away; everybody knows, so what's the use of
denying it? Anyway, I don't want a penny of your money, father, so
good-bye. There's enough cooked to keep you for a couple of days”; and
Waitstill rose from her chair and drew on her mittens.
Father and daughter confronted each other, the secret fury of the man
met by the steady determination of the girl. The Deacon was baffled,
almost awed, by Waitstill's quiet self-control; but at the very moment
that he was half-uncomprehendingly glaring at her, it dawned upon him
that he was beaten, and that she was mistress of the situation.
Where would she go? What were her plans?--for definite plans she had,
or she could not meet his eye with so resolute a gaze. If she did leave
him, how could he contrive to get her back again, and so escape the
scorn of the village, the averted look, the lessened trade?
“Where are you goin' now?” he asked, and though he tried his best he
could not for the life of him keep back one final taunt. “I s'pose,
like your sister, you've got a man in your eye?” He chose this, to him,
impossible suggestion as being the most insulting one that he could
invent at the moment.
“I have,” replied Waitstill, “a man in my eye and in my heart. We should
have been husband and wife before this had we not been kept apart by
obstacles too stubborn for us to overcome. My way has chanced to open
first, though it was none of my contriving.”
Had the roof fallen in upon him, the Deacon could not have been more
dumbfounded. His tongue literally clove to the roof of his mouth; his
face fell, and his mean, piercing eyes blinked under his shaggy brows as
if seeking light.
Waitstill stirred the fire, closed the brick oven and put the teapot on
the back of the stove, hung up the long-handled dipper on its accustomed
nail over the sink, and went to the door.
Her father collected his scattered wits and pulled himself to his feet
by the arms of the high-backed rocker. “You shan't step outside this
306 room till you tell me where you're goin',” he said when he found his
voice.
“I have no wish to keep it secret: I am going to see if Mrs. Mason will
keep me to-night. To-morrow I shall walk down river and get work at the
mills, but on my way I shall stop at the Boyntons' to tell Ivory I am
ready to marry him as soon as he's ready to take me.”
This was enough to stir the blood of the Deacon into one last fury.
“I might have guessed it if I hadn't been blind as a bat an' deaf as an
adder!” And he gave the table another ringing blow before he leaned on
it to gather strength. “Of course, it would be one o' that crazy Boynton
crew you'd take up with,” he roared. “Nothin' would suit either o' you
girls but choosin' the biggest enemies I've got in the whole village!”
“You've never taken pains to make anything but enemies, so what could we
do?”
“You might as well go to live on the poor-farm! Aaron Boynton was a
disrep'table hound; Lois Boynton is as crazy as a loon; the boy is a
no-body's child, an' Ivory's no better than a common pauper.”
“Ivory's a brave, strong, honorable man, and a scholar, too. I can work
for him and help him earn and save, as I have you.”
“How long's this been goin' on?” The Deacon was choking, but he meant to
get to the bottom of things while he had the chance.
“It has not gone on at all. He has never said a word to me, and I have
always obeyed your will in these matters; but you can't hide love, any
more than you can hide hate. I know Ivory loves me, so I'm going to tell
him that my duty is done here and I am ready to help him.”
“Goin' to throw yourself at his head, be you?” sneered the Deacon.
“By the Lord, I don' know where you two girls got these loose ways o'
think-in' an' acting mebbe he won't take you, an' then where'll you be?
You won't git under my roof again when you've once left it, you can make
up your mind to that!”
“If you have any doubts about Ivory's being willing to take me, you'd
better drive along behind me and listen while I ask him.”
Waitstill's tone had an exultant thrill of certainty in it. She threw
up her head, glorying in what she was about to do. If she laid aside her
usual reserve and voiced her thoughts openly, it was not in the hope of
convincing her father, but for the bliss of putting them into words and
intoxicating herself by the sound of them.
“Come after me if you will, father, and watch the welcome I shall get.
Oh! I have no fear of being turned out by Ivory Boynton. I can hardly
wait to give him the joy I shall be bringing! It 's selfish to rob him
of the chance to speak first, but I'll do it!” And before Deacon Baxter
could cross the room, Waitstill was out of the kitchen door into the
shed, and flying down Town-House Hill like an arrow shot free from the
bow.
The Deacon followed close behind, hardly knowing why, but he was no
match for the girl, and at last he stood helpless on the steps of the
shed, shaking his fist and hurling terrible words after her, words that
it was fortunate for her peace of mind she could not hear.
“A curse upon you both!” he cried savagely. “Not satisfied with
disobeyin' an' defyin' me, you've put me to shame, an' now you'll
be settin' the neighbors ag'in' me an' ruinin' my trade. If you was
freezin' in the snow I wouldn't heave a blanket to you! If you was
starvin' I wouldn't fling either of you a crust! Never shall you darken
my doors again, an' never shall you git a penny o' my money, not if I
have to throw it into the river to spite you!”
Here his breath failed, and he stumbled out into the barn whimpering
between his broken sentences like a whipped child.
“Here I am with nobody to milk, nor feed the hens; nobody to churn
to-morrow, nor do the chores; a poor, mis'able creeter, deserted by my
children, with nobody to do a hand's turn 'thout bein' paid for every
step they take! I'll give 'em what they deserve; I don' know what, but
I'll be even with 'em yet.” And the Deacon set his Baxter jaw in a way
that meant his determination to stop at nothing.