The Witch of Blackbird Pond

"Just husking corn all the evening?" It sounded to Kit like an odd sort of party. Her arms still ached from wresting the heavy ears from the stalks, row after row, hour after hour.

  "Oh, it doesn't seem like work when everyone does it together. We all sing, and Jeb Whitney brings his fiddle, and there's cakes and apples and cider. Oh, I always think autumn is the very best time of the year!"

  "They say the crop is not too plentiful this year," Mercy put in slyly. "Could be there won't be as many red ears as usual."

  Judith tossed her head. "I'll find one, never you fear," she said blithely. "I have my own methods."

  "Red ears? Are they better than the others?" At Kit's innocent question her two cousins burst into peals of merriment.

  "You wait and see," advised Judith. "Come to think of it, I guess I'll make certain that William gets one, too. Then you'll find out!" At her own sudden suspicion, Kit blushed crimson.

  In a rare mood of intimacy Judith linked arms with Kit as they set out along High Street to gather the last of the corn in the meadow. It was more than the sparkling September air that accounted for her high spirits.

  "I just feel it in my bones," she confided, "that something wonderful is going to happen tonight at the corn husking."

  Judith's excitement was contagious. Kit began to feel a tingle of anticipation. Though she still couldn't see how anyone could make a festivity out of hard dusty work, it was the first party of any sort to which she had been invited in Wethersfield. The few young people she had come to know, the ones she had seen at Sabbath Meeting and Lecture Day, would all be there.

  "I never knew you could predict the future," she laughed, "but I hope you're right."

  "I know I am," said Judith, "because this time I'm going to see to it that something happens. I've made up my mind."

  "You mean—John Holbrook?"

  "Of course I mean John. You know how he is, Kit. So serious and shy. He'll never be able to find his tongue if I don't help him out."

  "But John is still a student—"

  "I know. He hasn't any property like William, or any way to support me yet. That's why he doesn't speak. But I know how John feels, and I know how I feel, and why should we wait forever without even making plans? And what could ever be a better time than a husking bee?"

  "Judith—" Kit ventured doubtfully, "do you really think—?"

  "You'd better be thinking about your own affairs," laughed Judith. "William isn't like John. He's like me. When he's made up his mind he isn't going to wait forever."

  Why did Judith have to remind her? Kit thought wryly. Ever since the day of William's house-raising, when the neighbors had gathered together and, working from dawn to sunset, had raised a fine imposing frame and nailed the sturdy new clapboards in place, Kit had known that William was only waiting a propitious time to speak. She had long since decided what her answer would be. As William's wife she could come and go as she pleased. There would be no more endless drudgery, and she could snap her fingers at a woman like Goodwife Cruff. Besides, William ad. mired her. In spite of the fact that he was often be wildered and scandalized, he was still as infatuated at he had been that first Sabbath morning. Then why did Judith's teasing always raise this cold little lump of foreboding?

  She glanced longingly toward the little house by Blackbird Pond and promised herself that she would steal a few moments on the way home. But work as fast as she could, when she and Judith finished their task there was time for only a flying visit. Prudence had been there, Hannah told her, but had not dared to wait for a lesson.

  "If only these old eyes of mine could make out the letters," Hannah regretted. "But actually the child doesn't seem to need much help. She's just hungry for more to read. Poor little mite. I keep hoping the goat's milk will put a little fat on her bones."

  Judith was out of sight when Kit started back along South Road. But to her surprise she glimpsed a familiar wide black hat in the distance and paused to wait as John Holbrook came loping along the road to catch up with her.

  "Dr. Bulkeley sent me to find some skunk cabbage," he explained, waving a bunch of green. "'Tis a rare cure for asthma, he says. How do you come to be walking alone?"

  "Judith went on ahead," she explained. Had he hoped to meet Judith on the road? "I stopped to see Hannah Tupper."

  She said the name deliberately and was rewarded by his startled eyes.

  "The Widow Tupper? Does your family know about that, Kit?"

  "Judith and Mercy know. Hannah is a good friend of mine."

  "She is a Quaker."

  "Does that matter?"

  "Yes, I think it does," he said thoughtfully. "Not that I hold anything against the Quakers. But this woman has no proper reputation. She's been accused twice of practicing witchcraft."

  "That's just cruel gossip."

  "Probably, but I'd hate to see it turned against you too. You know. Kit, there are a few people here in town who still haven't forgotten that day you jumped into the river. If they find out that you're acquainted with a witch—"

  "John, how can you pay attention to anything so silly?"

  "Witchcraft isn't silly, Kit. Dr. Bulkeley says—"

  "Oh, Dr. Bulkeley says!" retorted Kit. "I'm tired of hearing what Dr. Bulkeley says. Don't you ever think for yourself any more, John?"

  At the hurt in his blue eyes she was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry," she said, impulsively laying a hand on his sleeve. "I didn't mean that really. But since you've been studying with that man you seem to have changed somehow."

  At once he forgave her. "You don't know him as I do," he explained. "Every day I realize more how much I have to learn. But it's not just the studies. We do change, Kit, in spite of ourselves—at least some of us do," he added, with a flash of the humor she had missed in him lately. "I don't want to preach it you, Kit. It's just that the Quakers have a name for stirring up trouble, and it seems to me you manage to get into enough by yourself."

  "I know," Kit agreed cheerfully, "but it's Hannah who's helping me to change. If you only knew her—"

  John walked beside her, listening earnestly as she tried to make him understand the lonely woman in the meadow. Presently they reached the crossing at Broad Street where John would turn toward Dividend, and they stood for a moment, both unwilling to end this rare moment of comradeship. John took off his hat, leaned his elbows on the fencepost and stood gazing reflectively back at the Meadows, the wind stirring his fair hair. All at once he turned and smiled at Kit with the same unexpected sweetness that had warmed her heart that first day in Saybrook harbor.

  "Five months," he said, "since we came here together on the Dolphin. Such high hopes we had, you and I. It has turned out well for you, hasn't it, Kit? A fine big house going up, and a good dependable fellow like William. I hope you will be very happy."

  Kit colored and looked down at the browning grass. She did not want to talk about William. "And you, John?" she asked instead.

  "Perhaps," he answered, and the smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. "We shall see."

  Sooner than you think, maybe, thought Kit. "Are you going to the husking bee tonight?" she inquired mischievously.

  "I don't know," he considered. "Will Mercy be there?"

  "Mercy? Why no, I don't suppose she can be. It's more than a mile away."

  "Then I think I shall spend the evening at your house instead. I seldom have a chance to talk to her."

  "But they say a husking bee is such—" Slowly she began to realize what he had said.

  "John! Why should you want to talk to Mercy?"

  His eyes twinkled. "Why do you think I come so often?"

  "But I thought—we all thought—I mean—"

  "It has always been Mercy, from the very beginning. Didn't you guess that?"

  "Oh John!" In a burst of incredulous joy Kit flung both arms rapturously about his neck. With a startled glance up the road, John tactfully freed himself. His very ears were pink, but his eyes were shining down at her.

  "I'm glad you a
pprove," he said. "Do you think I have a chance, Kit?"

  "A chance! Just you try! Oh, John, I'm so happy I could dance a jig!"

  "I can't try yet," he reminded her soberly. "I have nothing to offer her, nothing at all."

  "You'll have a church of your own some day. Only—could Mercy—do you think she could manage a minister's household? There are so many things Mercy can't do, John."

  "Then I will do them for her," he said quietly. "I don't want a wife to wait on me. For Mercy just to be what she is—I could never do enough to make up for it."

  "Then tell her, tonight, John," she urged, remembering the longing in Mercy's eyes.

  "Perhaps," he answered again. "We shall see."

  Walking home past Meeting House Square Kit could hardly keep from dancing. She wanted to shout and sing. Mercy and John Holbrook! How right! How exactly, unbelievably right! How could she keep from telling someone? They must see that she was bursting with excitement. Judith would surely—

  Judith! Her jubilant feet came suddenly to a halt. How could she have forgotten? Ought she to have said something to John, warned him somehow? No, she could hardly have done that, in fairness to Judith. He was so completely unaware, so serious and shy, as Judith herself had said, so wrapped in his books and his dreams of Mercy that he had never even noticed that Judith had set her cap for him. What was this something that Judith was so sure was going to happen tonight? What sort of scheme did Judith have up her sleeve?

  Well, if he doesn't go to the husking bee, nothing can happen, she thought practically. And who knows, if he's there with Mercy—Oh dear, Judith is going to mind terribly. But she is so proud. She'll put her nose in the air and pretend she never had such an idea in her head. And she'll get over it, I know, because John isn't really suitable for Judith. If only he will speak tonight!

  Judith lingered exasperatingly in front of the little mirror that evening. She was wearing the new blue wool dress for the first time, with a snowy white collar and deep cuffs, and she had never looked lovelier. Her eyes were a deep blue in the candlelight, the clear white of her skin flushed with a secret excitement. Kit fidgeted impatiently. It didn't matter how she looked. William was waiting already, and they must all get away quickly before John arrived. If only Aunt Rachel and Uncle Matthew could find something to do, and Mercy could be sitting alone in the firelight!

  They were too late, however. John Holbrook stepped inside the door just as the two girls rustled down the stairs, and his eyes were lively with admiration as he waited, with a courtly bow, to let them go ahead of him into the kitchen. Judith tipped back her head and smiled up at him provocatively. Rachel put aside her work, and even Matthew came to the door to see the young folks off.

  "I'm so glad you've come," Judith dimpled. "Now we can all walk together."

  "I'm not going to the husking," John told her, smiling. "I think I shall stay here and visit with Mercy instead."

  "But they're all expecting you. Mercy doesn't mind, do you, Mercy?"

  John shook his head, still smiling. There was a reflection of Judith's excitement in his own pale face.

  "I think I shall stay here," he insisted. "There is something I want to speak to your father about."

  His words had a breath-taking effect. Judith took a step backward, one hand at her throat, and a wave of scarlet spread from the white collar to her black curls.

  "Tonight?" she whispered in unbelief. Then suddenly joy came flooding past every doubt and restraint.

  "Oh, Father!" she cried impetuously. "He doesn't need to miss the husking, does he? You know what he wants to ask! Say yes, now, so we can go to the party together!"

  Matthew Wood was bewildered. "Why, daughter," he rebuked her, "what sort of talk is this?"

  "Shameless talk, and I don't care!" laughed Judith, tossing her black curls. "Oh Father, you must have guessed. John doesn't need to tell you."

  Such radiance was irresistible. Matthew Wood's stern features softened, and when he turned to John he was actually smiling.

  "If you will come courting such a headstrong, brazen girl," he said indulgently, "then I can only give you both my blessing. Perhaps you can teach her some meekness."

  John stood dumfounded, his pale face shocked completely colorless. He seemed totally unable to collect his wits.

  Tell them! urged Kit, silently and desperately. You've got to say something, John, right away!

  As if he had heard her, John opened his white lips and made a hoarse sound. "Sir—I—"he attempted. Then, still incredulous, he looked back at Judith. Every trace of pride and haughtiness was wiped from her face. Such utter happiness and trust shone from those blue eyes that John faltered, and in that moment of hesitation he was lost.

  William's heavy hand descended on his shoulder. Aunt Rachel held out both hands to him, with tears in her eyes. Then Mercy came slowly from the hearth, her head up, her great eyes clear and lustrous. "I am so glad for you both," she said warmly. Only Kit could say nothing.

  Perhaps I dreamed it, she thought, watching Mercy. But she knew she had not dreamed the love in Mercy's eyes that summer evening. Now no one but herself would ever know. She had counted on Judith's pride. But Mercy did not have Judith's pride; it was something much stronger than pride that upheld her.

  Presently the four set out together into the still, frosty twilight. Judith took John's arm confidingly, still carried quite beyond constraint on her wave of happiness.

  "You'll never know," she chattered. "You saved me from being the most outrageous hussy, John. I had a scheme. I'm not sure I would have dared, actually. But now—"

  Now what? Kit asked, walking behind them. She ached with her own stifled protests. He can't do this! she told herself over and over. But she knew that he could. John understood Mercy. He knew that she had never in her life reached her hand for so much as a crust of bread that Judith might want. If he should hurt Judith now. Kit knew, Mercy would never forgive either him or herself.

  Lost in her own thoughts, Kit barely noticed that William's dignified pace was even more deliberate than usual. They had dropped some distance behind the others when a purposeful hand grasped her own elbow.

  "Wait a moment. Kit," said William. "Let them go ahead. I want to talk to you."

  The quiet resolution in his voice penetrated her racing thoughts. Reluctantly she gave him a corner of her attention. The intent look in his eyes, even in the waning light, warned her of what was coming.

  Oh, no! Not after all that had happened! She was tempted to run for the shelter of the fireside and Mercy.

  "I didn't mean to speak tonight," William was saying. "But watching those two—don't you envy them their happiness, Kit?"

  I can't bear it, she thought in panic. "Not tonight!" The last two words escaped into a half-whisper. William took them literally.

  "Tomorrow then. Let me speak to your uncle. You won't need to help me out," he added with unwonted humor. "I am quite capable of speaking for myself."

  Kit stood shivering in the damp twilight. This silk dress is not warm enough for New England, she thought irrelevantly. Then she made an effort to gather her forces. William's question was not unexpected after all. She had thought that her answer was all ready.

  "Please, William," she whispered. "Don't speak to him yet."

  William looked down at her, perplexed.

  "Why not? Don't you want to marry me, Kit?"

  She hesitated. "I had not thought of getting married so soon."

  "Judith is just sixteen," he reminded her.

  "I know. But I'm still a stranger, William. There are so many things I have to learn."

  "That's true," he agreed. He was silent a moment. "I won't hurry you, Kit," he said reasonably. "The house can't be finished before spring, anyway. I'll wait for your answer."

  What her answer would be he seemed to have not the slightest doubt. As they walked on, his hand remained on her elbow with a new possessiveness.

  Laughter spilled from the open door. The great barn was g
lowing with lanterns swinging from the hand-hewn timbers. There was a fragrance of new hay and the warm reassuring smell of cattle. The gaily dressed young people sat in a circle around a vast mound of silk-tasseled corn, and already the husking had begun. Shouts of welcome greeted the newcomers, and the circle shifted to make room for them. To Kit's surprise the husking was fun, enlivened by singing and wagers and jokes that seemed uproariously funny. She was astonished. Wethersfield was not always a dull solemn place! Had her uncle ever been to a husking? she wondered.

  All at once a new shout went up. Judith sat with a half-shucked ear of corn in her lap, and from the ruffled silk peeped bright orange-red kernels. Judith laughed and tossed back her head with all her old arrogance.

  "I haven't any need for a thing like that!" she said triumphantly. "What am I offered for it?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she tossed it straight across the circle into William's hands. There were a few quick giggles, a hush of curiosity. Kit sat helpless, her cheeks on fire, and then the laughter and the cheering left her giddy as William stepped resolutely forward to claim his forfeit.

  CHAPTER 14

  AFTER THE KEEN still days of September, the October sun filled the world with mellow warmth. Before Kit's eyes a miracle took place, for which she was totally unprepared. She stood in the doorway of her uncle's house and held her breath with wonder. The maple tree in front of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her. The dried brown leaves crackled beneath her feet and gave off a delicious smoky fragrance. No one had ever told her about autumn in New England. The excitement of it beat in her blood. Every morning she woke with a new confidence and buoyancy she could not explain. In October any wonderful unexpected thing might be possible.

  As the days grew shorter and colder, this new sense of expectancy increased and her heightened awareness seemed to give new significance to every common thing around her. Otherwise she might have overlooked a small scene that, once noticed, she would never entirely forget. Going through the shed door one morning, with her arms full of linens to spread on the grass. Kit halted, wary as always, at the sight of her uncle. He was standing not far from the house, looking out toward the river, his face half turned from her. He did not notice her. He simply stood, idle for one rare moment, staring at the golden fields. The flaming color was dimmed now. Great masses of curled brown leaves lay tangled in the dried grass, and the branches that thrust against the graying sky were almost bare. As Kit watched, her uncle bent slowly and scooped up a handful of brown dirt from the garden patch at his feet, and stood holding it with a curious reverence, as though it were some priceless substance As it crumbled through his fingers his hand convulsed in a sudden passionate gesture. Kit backed through the door and closed it softly. She felt as though she had eavesdropped. When she had hated and feared her uncle for so long, why did it suddenly hurt to think of that lonely defiant figure in the garden?