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); s he 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' t he 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 s aw 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 d on'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 l refuse to housekeep, whether I '11 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' t hinkin' 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 h aven't said 'No'; but my rent is small here, I'm my own mistress, and I don't feel like giving up my privileges."
