On that same evening mentioned in our last chapter there was a social
gathering at Farmer Porter’s, in Sprucemont. It was a festival known
among the Green Mountain farmers as a “sugar-eat,” but it was held very
much out of season. Maple sugar is usually made during the months of
February or March. The sap drawn from the rock-maple, or sugar-maple
trees is boiled until it reaches a consistency which is called wax. Tin
pans are pressed full of snow, and the maple wax, dipped boiling from
the kettles, is poured upon the snow. The wax hardens upon the snow,
and is then esteemed the greatest delicacy of country epicures.
For many years Farmer Porter had treated his neighbors to an annual
sugar-eat; not in winter or spring, but in midsummer, the snow being
obtained from the cave on Twin Mountain, known as the “Bear’s Den.”
On this occasion, besides his country neighbors, there were present
some friends from Papyrus, Ford Hulbert and Lena Boardman, and John
Wycliff’s wife and child. Uncle Jerry Barnaby was a neighbor, and was
present with his wife and daughter.
The farmers, and their wives, daughters, mothers and sweethearts for
miles around, thronged the hospitable home of Daniel Porter. In the
old-fashioned fireplace in the kitchen, on a stout iron crane, hung
the ancient copper kettle filled with maple syrup. A crackling wood
fire kept the syrup leaping and dancing, until it was boiled down
thick enough to “stand,” or harden, upon the snow. A number of experts
decided this point, and when, according to their verdict, it was just
brittle enough, the boys brought in the pans of snow which they had
secured from the cave.
The guests were seated at long tables, each group of two or three
having a pan of snow, on which the maple wax had been poured in
fanciful figures, which were gathered off the snow and eaten with
forks. There was a moment’s hush, as the preacher arose and invoked
the Lord’s blessing upon the occasion. Then began a season of social
intercourse and merry-making.
An outburst of laughter from all occasionally testified to a fresh
triumph of Uncle Jerry’s wit and called attention anew to the pale
young woman beside him. There was circulated among a few near friends a
photograph of a young man, a Westerner apparently, and it was whispered
about that he was a prosperous ranchman and lumberman, and that he
would soon return to revisit the home of his youth. The picture, and
the neighborly remarks called forth by it, brought a momentary color to
the pale face by Uncle Jerry’s side.
Old neighbors and friends were no less interested in Miss Boardman,
whose girlhood had been spent among them, and who was here to-night,
accompanied by Ford Hulbert, the Papyrus real estate agent. If Lena
Boardman were at all observant, she must have noticed the respect
shown her companion by all present, and the slightest inquiry would
have revealed the fact that he was universally respected in the little
farming community.
It was a weird occasion, for the snows of winter and the sweets of
spring contrasted strangely with the warmth of the midsummer evening,
and it was soon over. The last sentiment expressed at the tables, as
the party broke up, was this of Uncle Jerry: “Our Berkshire women,--God
bless ’em,--the sweetest things of God’s creation.”
Lena Boardman and Ford Hulbert had come on horseback, a favorite method
of travel with them, and as soon as the party began to break up they
returned to Papyrus in the same way they had come. Down the long slopes
the riders cantered, sometimes through deep woods, sometimes in the
open. It was quite dark, but where the riders could not be sure of
their way the horses could be trusted to find it.
An owl shouted his greeting from the tall spire of a spruce tree.
The hurried whistle of a whippoorwill rang out from a thicket of wild
cherry bushes. Up from the deep aisles of a hemlock woods came the
snarl of a wildcat.
The roadside bushes had a spicy breath. A minty fragrance was wafted
from the brookside. From fields freshly cut came the scent of hay newly
mown.
Hulbert reined up his horse, and stopped his companion’s, also.
“Lena,” he said, “haven’t I been on probation long enough? You have
known for a long time that I love you. How long are you going to hold
me off at arm’s length?”
“A burnt child dreads the fire,” replied his companion. “I said yes
once, to my sorrow. I don’t want to be hasty again.”
“I don’t like to be compared to Clif Borden,” he replied. “If you made
a bad choice once, I don’t know who was to blame for it but yourself.
You knew the man, or you ought to have known him; you knew, or you
ought to have known, for your friends told you, that Borden had no
respect for any woman, and no respect for virtue. You went into the
fire, as you express it, with full knowledge of the risk you were
running. I have served a good long apprenticeship for your hand. You
ought to know, also, whether I am an honorable man. It is a long time
since I first asked you to be my wife. Don’t be in a hurry about
answering. I shall never ask you again.” And Hulbert’s horse resumed
its canter down the mountain road.
There was just the least bit of the coquette about Lena Boardman. She
had fully decided to accept Ford Hulbert, but she wanted to play him
for awhile yet.
A thunder-shower was coming up rapidly in the south, and the blackness
there was crossed by zig-zag chains of light.
The hoof-beats were out of harmony with the music of the mountain
brook. Lena thought of the little spring near Phillips Porter’s, where
the brook started. The little stream seemed uncertain, at first, which
way to go. Soon it left the level meadow of its parent spring, and came
to the steep hillside. It rippled and sparkled and tumbled alongside
the mountain road for miles. Then another brook tumbled into it. Then
the larger stream splashed noisily down the mountain till it joined the
river. The river knew where to go. It took a strong dam to stop it and
make it turn the mill-wheel.
Lena thought of the time when she had first met Hulbert. She remembered
that spring of admiration for the big, handsome, courteous fellow, whom
everybody respected, and who ought not to be dishonored by mention at
the same time with the libertine whom she had married. She knew that he
loved her, and she knew that her own love had grown, like the mountain
brook, till it was too strong to be turned aside.
During the remainder of the ride Lena was considering how she might
most easily surrender. They reached her own door, where Ford helped her
to alight. Just then a number of pistol-shots rang out at a little
distance down the street, but he paid little attention to them, for her
arms were reached out toward him. She spoke but one word,--“Ford,”--but
it was enough.
A few minutes later, when Hulbert remounted his horse, a
lightning-flash made the street below brighter than noonday, and
showed to Hulbert and his companion Jehu Baldwin hurrying past, pistol
in hand. Perhaps they would have thought more of this, had they not
noticed by another flash, illuminating a verandah across the street,
the parting of Eva Baldwin and Ralph Cutter.
Riding his own horse, and leading the one his companion had ridden,
Hulbert hurried away to escape the shower. His home was a large farm,
quite away from the village.
Next morning, upon taking up a daily paper, he was quite surprised
at the headlines reproduced on the following page from the Elmfield
_Star_:--
_SHOTS FIRED AT DAVID BALDWIN_
_John Wycliff the Man Who Committed the Assault._
_WYCLIFF’S DWELLING DESTROYED_
_By a Papyrus Mob--He Gives Himself Up to Sheriff Coggswell._
He did not stop to read further, but mounted his horse, and was soon at
Congressman Baldwin’s office.
“I guess we are rid of John Wycliff for awhile,” remarked the
Congressman.
“See here, Dave Baldwin, your nephew, Jehu, fired those shots, and I’ll
give you just ten minutes in which to call your dogs off from Wycliff.
If you don’t do it in that time I’ll telegraph the truth about this
affair to a New York paper which you cannot command.”
“How do you know that Jehu did it?” asked the Congressman.
“Because I saw him coming from this direction, the pistol still in his
hand, shortly after I heard the shots.”
“Why have you waited until now before saying a word?”
“I did not suspect anything wrong until I saw this morning’s paper.
There is at least one crisis in a man’s life when he is too full of
satisfaction himself to suspect anyone of wrong-doing.”
Just then the telephone bell rang.
“Is this David Baldwin?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Ralph Cutter at Springdale. I am sorry for you in your
experience of last night. If you will excuse an old-fashioned country
expression, you are barking up the wrong tree. You are entirely wrong
in your charge against Wycliff. Your nephew, Jehu, is the real culprit.
I heard the shots, and was just taking leave of your sister, when a
flash of lightning showed Jehu distinctly, in the middle of the street,
and the weapon still in his hand. Probably it was very dull of me,
but I never thought anything was wrong. When a man has just found the
greatest blessing of his life he may be forgiven for being dull to
common things.”
“It seems to me that Cupid was working overtime last night,” remarked
the Congressman to himself.
“I do not wish to make public what I know about Jehu Baldwin,”
continued the voice from Springdale, “because I think that some older
person put up the job, and has used Jehu merely as a tool; but unless
you shall promptly withdraw your charge against Wycliff, justice will
compel me to make a public announcement.”
“The charge will be withdrawn at once,” replied the Congressman.
Baldwin then rang up the jail at Elmfield.
“Is this Sheriff Coggswell?”
“It is.”
“This is David Baldwin. Is Wycliff under arrest?”
“He is not. He is my guest. I shall not arrest him unless the law
compels me to do so, as I have full proof of his innocence, and of Jehu
Baldwin’s guilt. I have a witness who can’t be bribed or brow-beaten,
and whose testimony would stand against all the Baldwins that ever
lived.”
[Congressman Baldwin and Sheriff Coggswell were political enemies.]
“A pretty good witness that. Who is he?”
“I have no right to tell. You’ll know soon enough.”
“I withdraw my charge against Wycliff,” concluded Baldwin. And Ford
Hulbert withdrew.