IVORY BOYNTON drove home from the woods that same afternoon by way of
the bridge, in order to buy some provisions at the brick store. When he
was still a long distance from the bars that divided the lane from
the highroad, he espied a dark-clad little speck he knew to be
Rodman leaning over the fence, waiting and longing as usual for his
home-coming, and his heart warmed at the thought of the boyish welcome
that never failed.
The sleigh slipped quickly over the hard-packed, shining road, and the
bells rang merrily in the clear, cold air, giving out a joyous sound
that had no echo in Ivory's breast that day. He had just had a vision
of happiness through another man's eyes. Was he always to stand outside
the banqueting-table, he wondered, and see others feasting while he
hungered.
Now the little speck bounded from the fence, flew down the road to meet
the sleigh, and jumped in by the driver's side.
“I knew you'd come to-night,” Rodman cried eagerly. “I told Aunt Boynton
you'd come.”
“How is she, well as common?”
“No, not a bit well since yesterday morning, but Mrs. Mason says it's
nothing worse than a cold. Mrs. Mason has just gone home, and we've had
a grand house-cleaning to-day. She's washed and ironed and baked, and
we've put Aunt Boynton in clean sheets and pillow-cases, and her room's
nice and warm, and I carried the eat in and put it on her bed to keep
her company while I came to watch for you. Aunt Boynton let Mrs. Mason
braid her hair, and seemed to like her brushing it. It's been dreadful
lonesome, and oh! I am glad you came back, Ivory. Did you find any more
spruce gum where you went this time?”
“Pounds and pounds, Rod; enough to bring me in nearly a hundred dollars.
I chanced on the greatest place I've found yet. I followed the wake of
an old whirlwind that had left long furrows in the forest,--I've told
you how the thing works,--and I tracked its course by the gum that had
formed wherever the trees were wounded. It's hard, lonely work, Rod, but
it pays well.”
“If I could have been there, maybe we could have got more. I'm good at
shinning up trees.”
“Yes, sometime we'll go gum-picking together. We'll climb the trees like
a couple of cats, and take our knives and serape off the precious lumps
that are worth so much money to the druggists. You've let down the bars,
I see.”
“'Cause I knew you'd come to-night,” said Rodman. “I felt it in my
bones. We're going to have a splendid supper.”
“Are we? That's good news.” Ivory tried to make his tone bright and
interested, though his heart was like a lump of lead in his breast.
“It's the least I can do for the poor little chap,” he thought, “when
he stays as caretaker in this lonely spot.--I wonder if I hadn't better
drive into the barn, Rod, and leave the harness on Nick till I go in and
see mother? Guess I will.”
“She's hot, Aunt Boynton is, hot and restless, but Mrs. Mason thinks
that's all.”
Ivory found his mother feverish, and her eyes were unnaturally bright;
but she was clear in her mind and cheerful, too, sitting up in bed to
breathe the better, while the Maltese cat snuggled under her arm and
purred peacefully.
“The cat is Rod's idea,” she said smilingly but in a very weak voice.
“He is a great nurse I should never have thought of the cat myself but
she gives me more comfort than all the medicine.”
Ivory and Rodman drew up to the supper table, already set in the
kitchen, but before Ivory took his seat he softly closed the door that
led into the living-room. They ate their beans and brown bread and the
mince pie that had been the “splendid” feature of the meal, as reported
by the boy; and when they had finished, and Rodman was clearing the
table, Ivory walked to the window, lighting his pipe the while, and
stood soberly looking out on the snowy landscape. One could scarcely
tell it was twilight, with such sweeps of whiteness to catch every gleam
of the dying day.
“Drop work a minute and come here, Rod,” he said at length. “Can you
keep a secret?”
“'Course I can! I'm chock full of 'em now, and nobody could dig one of
'em out o' me with a pickaxe!”
“Oh, well! If you're full you naturally couldn't hold another!”
“I could try to squeeze it in, if it's a nice one,” coaxed the boy.
“I don't know whether you'll think it's a nice one, Rod, for it breaks
up one of your plans. I'm not sure myself how nice it is, but it's a
very big, unexpected, startling one. What do you think? Your favorite
Patty has gone and got married.”
“Patty! Married!” cried Rod, then hastily putting his hand over his
mouth to hush his too-loud speaking.
“Yes, she and Mark Wilson ran away last Monday, drove over to Allentown,
New Hampshire, and were married without telling a soul. Deacon Baxter
discovered everything this afternoon, like the old fox that he is, and
turned Patty out of the house.”
“Mean old skinflint!” exclaimed Rod excitedly, all the incipient
manhood rising in his ten-year-old breast. “Is she gone to live with the
Wilsons?”
“The Wilsons don't know yet that Mark is married to her, but I met him
driving like Jehu, just after I had left Patty, and told him everything
that had happened, and did my best to cool him down and keep him from
murdering his new father-in-law by showing him it would serve no real
purpose now.”
“Did he look married, and all different?” asked Rod curiously.
“Yes, he did, and more like a man than ever he looked before in his
life. We talked everything over together, and he went home at once
to break the news to his family, without even going to take a peep at
Patty. I couldn't bear to have them meet till he had something cheerful
to say to the poor little soul. When I met her by Uncle Bart's shop,
she was trudging along in the snow like a draggled butterfly, and crying
like a baby.”
Sympathetic tears dimmed Rodman's eyes. “I can't bear to see girls cry,
Ivory. I just can't bear it, especially Patty.”
“Neither can I, Rod. I came pretty near wiping her eyes, but pulled up,
remembering she wasn't a child but a married lady. Well, now we come to
the point.”
“Isn't Patty's being married the point?”
“No, only part of it. Patty's being sent away from home leaves Waitstill
alone with the Deacon, do you see? And if Patty is your favorite,
Waitstill is mine--I might as well own up to that.”
“She's mine, too,” cried Rod. “They're both my favorites, but I always
thought Patty was the suitablest for me to marry if she'd wait for me.
Waitstill is too grand for a boy!”
“She's too grand for anybody, Rod. There isn't a man alive that's worthy
to strap on her skates.”
“Well, she's too grand for anybody except--” and here Rod's shy, wistful
voice trailed off into discreet silence.
“Now I had some talk with Patty, and she thinks Waitstill will have no
trouble with her father just at present. She says he lavished so much
rage upon her that there'll be none left for anybody else for a day
or two. And, moreover, that he will never dare to go too far with
Waitstill, because she's so useful to him. I'm not afraid of his beating
or injuring her so long as he keeps his sober senses, if he's ever
rightly had any; but I don't like to think of his upbraiding her and
breaking her heart with his cruel talk just after she's lost the sister
that's been her only companion.” And Ivory's hand trembled as he
filled his pipe. He had no confidant but this quaint, tender-hearted,
old-fashioned little lad, to whom he had grown to speak his mind as if
he were a man of his own age; and Rod, in the same way, had gradually
learned to understand and sympathize.
“It's dreadful lonesome on Town-House Hill,” said the boy in a hushed
tone.
“Dreadful lonesome,” echoed Ivory with a sigh; “and I don't dare leave
mother until her fever dies down a bit and she sleeps. Now do you
remember the night that she was taken ill, and we shared the watch?”
Rodman held his breath. “Do you mean you 're going to let me help just
as if I was big?” he asked, speaking through a great lump in his throat.
“There are only two of us, Rod. You're rather young for this piece of
work, but you're trusty--you 're trusty!”
“Am I to keep watch on the Deacon?”
“That's it, and this is my plan: Nick will have had his feed; you 're
to drive to the bridge when it gets a little darker and hitch in Uncle
Bart's horse-shed, covering Nick well. You're to go into the brick
store, and while you're getting some groceries wrapped up, listen to
anything the men say, to see if they know what's happened. When you've
hung about as long as you dare, leave your bundle and say you'll call
in again for it. Then see if Baxter's store is open. I don't believe it
will be, and if it Isn't, look for a light in his kitchen window, and
prowl about till you know that Waitstill and the Deacon have gone up to
their bedrooms. Then go to Uncle Bart's and find out if Patty is there.”
Rod's eyes grew bigger and bigger: “Shall I talk to her?” he asked; “and
what'll I say?”
“No, just ask if she's there. If she's gone, Mark has made it right with
his family and taken her home. If she hasn't, why, God knows how that
matter will be straightened out. Anyhow, she has a husband now, and he
seems to value her; and Waitstill is alone on the top of that wind-swept
hill!”
“I'll go. I'll remember everything,” cried Rodman, in the seventh heaven
of delight at the responsibilities Ivory was heaping upon him.
“Don't stay beyond eight o'clock; but come back and tell me everything
you've learned. Then, if mother grows no worse, I'll walk back to Uncle
Bart's shop and spend the night there, just--just to be near, that's
all.”
“You couldn't hear Waitstill, even if she called,” Rod said.
“Couldn't I? A man's ears are very sharp under certain circumstances. I
believe if Waitstill needed help I could hear her--breathe! Besides,
I shall be up and down the hill till I know all's well; and at sunrise
I'll go up and hide behind some of Baxter's buildings till I see him
get his breakfast and go to the store. Now wash your dishes”; and Ivory
caught up his cap from a hook behind the door.
“Are you going to the barn?” asked Rodman.
“No, only down to the gate for a minute. Mark said that if he had a
good chance he'd send a boy with a note, and get him to put it under the
stone gate-post. It's too soon to expect it, perhaps, but I can't seem
to keep still.”
Rodman tied a gingham apron round his waist, carried the tea-kettle to
the sink, and poured the dishpan full of boiling water; then dipped the
cups and plates in and out, wiped them and replaced them on the table'
gave the bean-platter a special polish, and set the half mince pie and
the butter-dish in the cellar-way.
“A boy has to do most everything in this family!” He sighed to himself.
“I don't mind washing dishes, except the nasty frying-pan and the sticky
bean-pot; but what I'm going to do to-night is different.” Here he
glowed and tingled with anticipation. “I know what they call it in the
story-books--it's sentry duty; and that's braver work for a boy than
dish-washing!”
Which, however, depends a good deal upon circumstances, and somewhat on
the point of view.