MRS. MASON'S welcome to Waitstill was unexpectedly hearty--much heartier
than it would have been Six months before, when she regarded Mrs.
Boynton as little less than a harmless lunatic, of no use as a neighbor;
and when she knew nothing more of Ivory than she could gather by his
occasional drive or walk past her door with a civil greeting. Rodman
had been until lately the only member of the family for whom she had a
friendly feeling; but all that had changed in the last few weeks, when
she had been allowed to take a hand in the Boyntons' affairs. As to this
newest development in the life of their household, she had once been
young herself, and the veriest block of stone would have become human
when the two lovers drove up to the door and told their exciting story.
Ivory made himself quickly at home, and helped the old lady to get a
room ready for Waitstill before he drove back for a look at his mother
and then on to carry out his impetuous and romantic scheme of routing
out the town clerk and announcing his intended marriage. 345
Waitstill slept like the shepherd boy in “The Pilgrim's Progress,” with
the “herb called Heart's Ease” in her bosom. She opened her eyes next
morning from the depths of Mrs. Mason's best feather bed, and looked
wonderingly about the room, with all its unaccustomed surroundings.
She heard the rattle of fire-irons and the flatter of dishes below; the
first time in all her woman's life that preparations for breakfast had
ever greeted her ears when she had not been an active participator in
them.
She lay quite still for a quarter of an hour, tired in body and mind,
but incredibly happy in spirit, marvelling at the changes wrought in
her during the day preceding, the most eventful one in her history. Only
yesterday her love had been a bud, so closely folded that she scarcely
recognized its beauty or color or fragrance; only yesterday, and now
she held in her hand a perfect flower. When and how had it grown, and by
what magic process?
The image of Ivory had been all through the night in the foreground of
her dreams and in her moments of wakefulness, both made blissful by the
heaven of anticipation that dawned upon her. Was ever man so wise,
so tender and gentle, so strong, so comprehending? What mattered the
absence of worldly goods, the presence of care and anxiety, when n woman
had a steady hand to hold, a steadfast heart to trust, a man who would
love her and stand by her, whate'er befell?
Then the face of Ivory's mother would swim into the mental picture; the
pale face, as white as the pillow it lay upon; the face with its aureole
of ashen hair, and the wistful blue eyes that begged of God and her
children some peace before they closed on life.
The vision of her sister was a joyful one, and her heart was at peace
about her, the plucky little princess who had blazed the way out of the
ogre's castle.
She saw Patty clearly as a future fine lady, in velvets and satins and
furs, bewitching every-body by her gay spirits, her piquant vivacity,
and the loving heart that lay underneath all the nonsense and gave it
warmth and color.
The remembrance of her father alone on the hilltop did indeed trouble
Waitstill. Self-reproach, in the true sense of the word, she did not,
could not, feel. Never since the day she was born had she been fathered,
and daughterly love was absent; but she suffered when she thought of
the fierce, self-willed old man, cutting himself off from all possible
friendships, while his vigor was being sapped daily and hourly by his
terrible greed of money.
True housewife that Waitstill was, her mind reverted to every separate
crock and canister in her cupboards, every article of her baking or
cooking that reposed on the swing-sheh in the cellar, thinking how long
her father could be comfortable without her ministrations, and so, how
long he would delay before engaging the u inevitable housekeeper. She
revolved the number of possible persons to whom the position would be
offered, and wished that Mrs. Mason, who so needed help, might be the
chosen one: but the fact of her having been friendly to the Boyntons
would strike her at once from the list.
When she was thankfully eating her breakfast with Mrs. Mason a little
later, and waiting for Ivory to call for them both and take them to the
Boynton farm, she little knew what was going on at her old home in these
very hours, when to tell the truth she would have liked to slip in, had
it been possible, wash the morning dishes, skim the cream, do the
week's churning, make her father's bed, and slip out again into the dear
shelter of love that awaited her.
The Deacon had passed a good part of the night in scheming and
contriving, and when he drank his self-made cup of muddy coffee at
seven o'clock next morning he had formed several plans that were to
be immediately frustrated, had he known it, by the exasperating and
suspicious nature of the ladies involved in them.
At eight he had left the house, started Bill Morrill at the store,
and was on the road in search of vengeance and a housekeeper. Old Mrs.
Atkins of Deerwander sniffed at the wages offered. Miss Peters, of Union
Falls, an aged spinster with weak lungs, had the impertinence to tell
him that she feared she couldn't stand the cold in his house; she had
heard he was very particular about the amount of wood that was burned.
A four-mile drive brought him to the village poetically named the Brick
Kiln, where he offered to Mrs. Peter Upham an advance of twenty-five
cents a week over and above the salary with which he had sought to tempt
Mrs. Atkins. Far from being impressed, Mrs. Uphill, being of a high
temper and candid turn of mind, told him she'd prefer to starve at home.
There was not another free woman within eight miles, and the Deacon was
chafing under t e mortification of being continually obliged to state
the reason for his needing a housekeeper. The only hope, it seemed, lay
in going to Saco and hiring a stranger, a plan not at all to his liking,
as it was sure to involve him in extra expense.
Muttering threats against the universe in general, he drove home by way
of Milliken's Mills, thinking of the unfed hens, the unmilked cow, the
unwashed dishes, the unchurned cream and above all of his unchastened
daughters; his rage increasing with every step until it was nearly at
the white heat of the night before.
A long stretch of hill brought the tired old mare to a slow walk, and
enabled the Deacon to see the Widow Tillman clipping the geraniums that
stood in tin cans on the shelf of her kitchen window.
Now, Foxwell Baxter had never been a village Lothario at any age, nor
frequented the society of such. Of late years, indeed, he had frequented
no society of any kind, so that he had missed, for instance, Abel
Day's description of the Widow Tillman as a “reg'lar syreen,” though he
vaguely remembered that some of the Baptist sisters had questioned the
authenticity of her conversion by their young and attractive minister.
She made a pleasant picture at the window; she was a free woman (a
little too free, the neighbors would have said; but the Deacon didn't
know that); she was a comparative newcomer to the village, and her
mind had not been poisoned with feminine gossip--in a word, she was a
distinctly hopeful subject, and, acting on a blind and sudden impulse,
he turned into the yard, 'dung the reins over the mare's neck, and
knocked at the back door.
“Her character 's no worse than mine by now if Aunt Abby Cole's on the
road,” he thought grimly, “an' if the Wilsons see my sleigh inside of
widder's fence, so much the better; it'll give 'em a jog.--Good morning
Mis' Tillman,” he said to the smiling lady. “I'll come to the p'int at
once. My youngest daughter has married Mark Wilson against my will, an'
gone away from town, an' the older one's chosen a husband still less to
my likin'. Do you want to come and housekeep for me?”
“I surmised something was going on,” re-turned Mrs. Tillman. “I saw
Patty and Mark drive away early this morning, with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson
wrapping the girl up and putting a hot soapstone in the sleigh, and
consid'able kissing and hugging thrown in.”
This knowledge added fuel to the flame that was burning fiercely in the
Deacon's breast. “Well, how about the housekeeping he asked, trying
not to show his eagerness, and not recognizing himself at all in the
enterprise in which he found himself indulging.
“I 'm very comfortable here,” the lady responded artfully, “and I don't
know 's I care to make any change, thank you. I didn't like the village
much at first, after living in larger places, but now I'm acquainted, it
kind of gains on me.”
Her reply was carefully framed, for her mind worked with great rapidity,
and she was mistress of the situation almost as soon as she saw the
Deacon alighting from his sleigh. He was not the sort of man to be
a casual caller, and his manner bespoke an urgent errand. She had a
pension of six dollars a month, but over and above that sum her living
was precarious. She made coats, and she had never known want, for she
was a master hand at dealing with the opposite sex. Deacon Baxter,
according to common report, had ten or fifteen thousand dollars stowed
away in the banks, so the situation would be as simple as possible under
ordinary circumstances; it was as easy to turn out one man's pockets as
all-other's when he was a normal human being; but Deacon Baxter was a
different proposition.
“I wonder how long he's likely to live,” she thought, glancing at him
covertly, out of the tail of her eye. “His evil temper must have driven
more than one nail in his coffin. I wonder, if I refuse to housekeep,
whether I 'll get--a better offer. I wonder if I could manage him if
I got him! I'd rather like to sit in the Baxter pew at the Orthodox
meeting-house after the way some of the Baptist sisters have snubbed me
since I come here.”
Not a vestige of these incendiary thoughts showed in her comely
countenance, and her soul might have been as white as the high-bibbed
apron that covered it, to judge by her genial smile.
“I'd make the wages fair,” urged the Deacon, looking round the clean
kitchen, with the break-fast-table sitting near the sunny window and the
odor of corned beef and cabbage issuing temptingly from a boiling pot on
the fire. “I hope she ain't a great meat-eater,” he thought, “but it's
too soon to cross that bridge yet a while.”
“I've no doubt of it,” said the widow, wondering if her voice rang true;
“but I've got a pension, and why should I leave this cosy little home?
Would I better myself any, that's the question? I'm kind of lonesome
here, that's the only reason I'd consider a move.”
“No need o' bein' lonesome down to the Falls,” said the Deacon. “And I'm
in an' out all day, between the barn an' the store.”
This, indeed, was not a pleasant prospect, but Jane Tillman had faced
worse ones in her time.
“I'm no hand at any work outside the house,” she observed, as if
reflecting. “I can truthfully say I'm a good cook, and have a great
faculty for making a little go a long ways.” (She considered this a
master-stroke, and in fact it was; for the Deacon's mouth absolutely
watered at this apparently unconscious comprehension of his
disposition.) “But I'm no hand at any chores in the barn or shed,” she
continued. “My first husband would never allow me to do that kind of
work.”
“Perhaps I could git a boy to help out; I've been kind o' thinkin' o'
that lately. What wages would you expect if I paid a boy for the rough
work?” asked the Deacon tremulously. “Well, to tell the truth, I don't
quite fancy the idea of taking wages. Judge Dickinson wants me to go to
Alfred and housekeep for him, and I'd named twelve dollars a month. It's
good pay, and I haven't said 'No'; but my rent is small here, I'm my own
mistress, and I don't feel like giving up my privileges.”
“Twelve dollars a month!” He had never thought of approaching that sum;
and he saw the heap of unwashed dishes growing day by day, and the cream
souring on the milk-pans. Suddenly an idea sprang full-born into the
Deacon's mind (Jed Morrill's “Old Driver” must have been close at
hand!). Would Jane Tillman marry him? No woman in the three villages
would be more obnoxious to his daughters; that in itself was a distinct
gain. She was a fine, robust figure of a woman in her early forties,
and he thought, after all, that the hollow-chested, spindle-shanked kind
were more ex-pensive to feed, on the whole, than their better-padded
sisters. He had never had any difficulty in managing wives, and thought
himself quite equal to one more bout, even at sixty-five, though he
had just the faintest suspicion that the high color on Mrs. Tillman's
prominent cheek-bones, the vigor shown in the coarse black hair and
handsome eyebrows, might make this task a little more difficult than his
previous ones. But this fear vanished almost as quickly as it appeared,
for he kept saying to himself: “A judge of the County Court wants her at
twelve dollars a month; hadn't I better bid high an' git settled?
“If you'd like to have a home o' your own 'thout payin' rent, you've
only got to say the word an' I'll make you Mis' Baxter,” said the
Deacon. “There'll be nobody to interfere with you, an' a handsome legacy
if I die first; for none o' my few savin's is goin' to my daughters, I
can promise you that!”
The Deacon threw out this tempting bait advisedly, for at this moment he
would have poured his hoard into the lap of any woman who would help him
to avenge his fancied wrongs.
This was information, indeed! The “few savings” alluded to amounted to
some thousands, Jane Tillman knew. Had she not better burn her ships
behind her, take the risks, and have faith in her own powers? She was
getting along in ears, and her charms of person were lessening with
every day that passed over her head. If the Deacon's queer ways grew
too queer, she thought an appeal to the doctor and the minister might
provide a way of escape and a neat little income to boot; so, on the
whole, the marriage, though much against her natural inclinations,
seemed to be providentially arranged.
The interview that succeeded, had it been reported verbatim, deserved
to be recorded in local history. Deacon Baxter had met in Jane Tillman a
foeman more than worthy of his steel. She was just as crafty as he, and
in generalship as much superior to him as Napoleon Bonaparte to Cephas
Cole. Her knowledge of and her experiences with men, all very humble, it
is true, but decidedly varied, enabled her to play on every weakness of
this particular one she had in hand, and at the same time skilfully to
avoided alarming him.
Heretofore, the women with whom the Deacon had come in contact had
timidly steered away from the rocks and reefs in his nature, and had
been too ignorant or too proud to look among them for certain softer
places that were likely to be there--since man is man, after all, even
when he is made on a very small pattern.
If Jane Tillman became Mrs. Baxter, she intended to get the whip hand
and keep it; but nothing was further from her intention than to make the
Deacon miserable if she could help it. That was not her disposition; and
so, when the deluded man left her house, he had made more concessions in
a single hour than in all the former years of his life.
His future spouse was to write out a little paper for his signature;
just a friendly little paper to be kept quite private and confidential
between themselves, stating that she was to do no work outside of the
house; that her pension was to be her own; that she was to have five
dollars in cash on the first of every month in lieu of wages; and that
in ease of his death occurring first she was to have a third of his
estate, and the whole of it if at the time of his decease he was still
pleased with his bargain. The only points in this contract that the
Deacon really understood were that he was paying only five dollars a
month for a housekeeper to whom a judge had offered twelve; that, as he
had expected to pay at least eight, he could get a boy for the remaining
three, and so be none the worse in pocket; also, that if he could keep
his daughters from getting his money, he didn't care a hang who had
it, as he hated the whole human race with entire impartiality. If Jane
Tillman didn't behave herself, he had pleasing visions of converting
most of his fortune into cash and having it dropped off the bridge
some dark night, when the doctor had given him up and proved to his
satisfaction that death would occur in the near future.
All this being harmoniously settled, the Deacon drove away, and caused
the announcement of his immediate marriage to be posted directly below
that of Waitstill and Ivory Boynton.
“Might as well have all the fat in the fire to once,” he chuckled.
“There won't be any house-work done in this part of the county for a
week to come. If we should have more snow, nobody'll have to do any
shovellin', for the women-folks'll keep all the paths in the village
trod down from door to door, travellin' round with the news.”
A “spite match,” the community in general called the Deacon's marriage;
and many a man, and many a woman, too, regarding the amazing publishing
notice in the frame up at the meeting-house, felt that in Jane Tillman
Deacon Baxter had met his Waterloo.
“She's plenty good enough for him,” said Aunt Abby Cole, “though I know
that's a terrible poor compliment. If she thinks she'll ever break into
s'ciety here at the Falls, she'll find herself mistaken! It's a mystery
to me why the poor deluded man ever done it; but ain't it wonderful the
ingenuity the Lord shows in punishin' sinners? I couldn't 'a' thought
out such a good comeuppance myself for Deacon Baxter, as marryin' Jane
Tillman! The thing that troubles me most, is thinkin' how tickled the
Baptists'll be to git her out o' their meetin' an' into ourn!”