Читать книгу The Story of Waitstill Baxter - Wiggin Kate Douglas Smith - Страница 9

THE waving signal, a little later on, showed that Rodman could go to the picnic, the fact being that he was having a holiday from eleven o’clock until two, and Ivory was going to drive to the bridge at noon, anyway, so his permission could then be asked.

Patty’s mind might have been thought entirely on her ugly task as she swept and dusted and scrubbed that morning, but the reverse was true. Mark Wilson had gone away without saying good-bye to her. This was not surprising, perhaps, as she was about as much sequestered in her hilltop prison as a Turkish beauty in a harem; neither was it astonishing that Mark did not write to her. He never had written to her, and as her father always brought home the very infrequent letters that came to the family, Mark knew that any sentimental correspondence would be fraught with danger. No, everything was probably just as it should be, and yet,—well, Patty had expected during the last three weeks that something would happen to break up the monotony of her former existence. She hardly knew what it would be, but the kiss dropped so lightly on her cheek by Mark Wilson still burned in remembrance, and made her sure that it would have a sequel, or an explanation.

Mark’s sister Ellen and Phil Perry were in the midst of some form of lover’s quarrel, and during its progress Phil was paying considerable attention to Patty at Sabbath School and prayer-meeting, occasions, it must be confessed, only provocative of very indirect and long-distance advances. Cephas Cole, to the amazement of every one but his (constitutionally) exasperated mother, was “toning down” the ell of the family mansion, mitigating the lively yellow, and putting another fresh coat of paint on it, for no conceivable reason save that of pleasing the eye of a certain capricious, ungrateful young hussy, who would probably say, when her verdict was asked, that she didn’t see any particular difference in it, one way or another.

Trade was not especially brisk at the Deacon’s emporium this sunny June Saturday morning. Cephas may have possibly lost a customer or two by leaving the store vacant while he toiled and sweated for Miss Patience Baxter in the stockroom at the back, overhanging the river, but no man alive could see his employer’s lovely daughter tugging at a keg of shingle nails without trying to save her from a broken back, although Cephas could have watched his mother move the house and barn without feeling the slightest anxiety in her behalf. If he could ever get the “heft” of the “doggoned” cleaning out of the way so that Patty’s mind could be free to entertain his proposition; could ever secure one precious moment of silence when she was not slatting and banging, pushing and pulling things about, her head and ears out of sight under a shelf, and an irritating air of absorption about her whole demeanor; if that moment of silence could ever, under Providence, be simultaneous with the absence of customers in the front shop, Cephas intended to offer himself to Patience Baxter that very morning.

Once, during a temporary lull in the rear, he started to meet his fate when Rodman Boynton followed him into the back room, and the boy was at once set to work by Patty, who was the most consummate slave-driver in the State of Maine. After half an hour there was another Heavensent chance, when Rodman went up to Uncle Bart’s shop with a message for Waitstill, but, just then, in came Bill Morrill, a boy of twelve, with a request for a gallon of molasses; and would Cephas lend him a stone jug over Sunday, for his mother had hers soakin’ out in soap-suds ‘cause ‘t wa’n’t smellin’ jest right. Bill’s message given, he hurried up the road on another errand, promising to call for the molasses later.

Cephas put the gallon measure under the spigot of the molasses hogshead and turned on the tap. The task was going to be a long one and he grew impatient, for the stream was only a slender trickle, scarcely more than the slow dripping of drops, so the molasses must be very never low, and with his mind full of weightier affairs he must make a note to tell the Deacon to broach a new hogshead. Cephas feared that he could never make out a full gallon, in which case Mrs. Morrill would be vexed, for she kept mill boarders and baked quantities of brown bread and gingerbread and molasses cookies for over Sunday. He did wish trade would languish altogether on this particular morning. The minutes dragged by and again there was perfect quiet in the stock-room. As the door opened, Cephas, taking his last chance, went forward to meet Patty, who was turning down the skirt of her dress, taking the cloth off her head, smoothing her hair, and tying on a clean white ruffed apron, in which she looked as pretty as a pink.

“Patty!” stammered Cephas, seizing his golden opportunity, “Patty, keep your mind on me for a minute. I’ve put a new coat o’ paint on the ell just to please you; won’t you get married and settle down with me? I love you so I can’t eat nor drink nor ‘tend store nor nothin’!”

“Oh, I—I—couldn’t, Cephas, thank you; I just couldn’t,—don’t ask me,” cried Patty, as nervous as Cephas himself now that her first offer had really come; “I’m only seventeen and I don’t feel like settling down, Cephas, and father wouldn’t think of letting me get married.”

“Don’t play tricks on me, Patty, and keep shovin’ me off so, an’ givin’ wrong reasons,” pleaded Cephas. “What’s the trouble with me? I know mother’s temper’s onsartain, but we never need go into the main house daytimes and father’d allers stand up ag’in’ her if she didn’t treat you right. I’ve got a good trade and father has a hundred dollars o’ my savin’s that I can draw out to-morrer if you’ll have me.”

“I can’t, Cephas; don’t move; stay where you are; no, don’t come any nearer; I’m not fond of you that way, and, besides,—and, besides—”

Her blush and her evident embarrassment gave Cephas a new fear.

“You ain’t promised a’ready, be you?” he asked anxiously; “when there ain’t a feller anywheres around that’s ever stepped foot over your father’s doorsill but jest me?”

“I haven’t promised anything or anybody,”

Patty answered sedately, gaining her self-control by degrees, “but I won’t deny that I’m considering; that’s true!”

“Considerin’ who?” asked Cephas, turning pale.

“Oh,—SEVERAL, if you must know the truth”; and Patty’s tone was cruel in its jauntiness.

“SEVERAL!” The word did not sound like ordinary work-a-day Riverboro English in Cephas’s ears. He knew that “several” meant more than one, but he was too stunned to define the term properly in its present strange connection.

“Whoever ‘t is wouldn’t do any better by you’n I would. I’d take a lickin’ for you any day,” Cephas exclaimed abjectly, after a long pause.

“That wouldn’t make any difference, Cephas,” said Patty firmly, moving towards the front door as if to end the interview. “If I don’t love you UNlicked, I couldn’t love you any better licked, now, could I?—Goodness gracious, what am I stepping in? Cephas, quick! Something has been running all over the floor. My feet are sticking to it.”

“Good Gosh! It’s Mis’ Morrill’s molasses!” cried Cephas, brought to his senses suddenly.

It was too true! Whatever had been the small obstruction in the tap, it had disappeared. The gallon measure had been filled to the brim ten minutes before, and ever since, the treacly liquid had been overflowing the top and spreading in a brown flood, unnoticed, over the floor. Patty’s feet were glued to it, her buff calico skirts lifted high to escape harm.

“I can’t move,” she cried. “Oh! You stupid, stupid Cephas, how could you leave the molasses spigot turned on? See what you’ve done! You’ve wasted quarts and quarts! What will father say, and how will you ever clean up such a mess? You never can get the floor to look so that he won’t notice it, and he is sure to miss the molasses. You’ve ruined my shoes, and I simply can’t bear the sight of you!”

At this Cephas all but blubbered in the agony of his soul. It was bad enough to be told by Patty that she was “considering several,” but his first romance had ended in such complete disaster that he saw in a vision his life blasted; changed in one brief moment from that of a prosperous young painter to that of a blighted and despised bungler, whose week’s wages were likely to be expended in molasses to make good the Deacon’s loss.

“Find those cleaning-cloths I left in the hack room,” ordered Patty with a flashing eye. “Get some blocks, or bits of board, or stones, for me to walk on, so that I can get out of your nasty mess. Fill Bill Morrill’s jug, quick, and set it out on the steps for him to pick up. I don’t know what you’d do without me to plan for you! Lock the front door and hang father’s sign that he’s gone to dinner on the doorknob. Scoop up all the molasses you can with one of those new trowels on the counter. Scoop, and scrape, and scoop, and scrape; then put a cloth on your oldest broom, pour lots of water on, pail after pail, and swab! When you’ve swabbed till it won’t do any more good, then scrub! After that, I shouldn’t wonder if you had to fan the floor with a newspaper or it’ll never get dry before father comes home. I’ll sit on the flour barrel a little while and advise, but I can’t stay long because I’m going to a picnic. Hurry up and don’t look as if you were going to die any minute! It’s no use crying over spilt molasses. You don’t suppose I’m going to tell any tales after you’ve made me an offer of marriage, do you? I’m not so mean as all that, though I may have my faults.”

It was nearly two o’clock before the card announcing Deacon Baxter’s absence at dinner was removed from the front doorknob, and when the store was finally reopened for business it was a most dejected clerk who dealt out groceries to the public. The worst feature of the affair was that every one in the two villages suddenly and contemporaneously wanted molasses, so that Cephas spent the afternoon reviewing his misery by continually turning the tap and drawing off the fatal liquid. Then, too, every inquisitive boy in the neighborhood came to the back of the store to view the operation, exclaiming: “What makes the floor so wet? Hain’t been spillin’ molasses, have yer? Bet yer have! Good joke on Old Foxy!”