"'What can wringing of the hands do,That which is ordained, to alter?'"
"'What can wringing of the hands do,That which is ordained, to alter?'"
he remarked coolly.
"Will," his mother exclaimed, "do stop quoting things till we see if we are alive!"
A consultation ensued, if so it could be called where the lady refused to consult. Mrs. Sanford was far too plump to walk, and could hardly be expected to mount, and ride on horseback. There seemed no alternative but for her to remain where she was while her son went to the nearest farmhouse, a mile away, for a carriage.
When Will returned from his search, which was somewhat prolonged by the necessity of going to several places, his mother had disappeared. The cushions were piled up in the broken carriage; so he concluded that the lady's taking-off had not been violent, and followed the homeward road himself.
His way lay by Mullen House, the home of Ease Apthorpe and her aunt, Miss Tabitha Mullen. The mansion stood at some distance from the street, a stone wall surrounding the grounds. The principal entrance was an imposing gateway, whose iron gates were religiously closed at night, but stood open by day. As Sanford rode near, his eyes were greeted by a strange spectacle. In the gateway he saw Peter Mixon defending the passage against an angry woman, who, half crazed with drink or drugs, was loudly insisting upon entering. The woman's dark hair fell in tangled masses over her shoulders, and her handsome throat was bared by the neglect of her dress.
"I tell you I will go in!" she screamed, just as Will rode within hearing. "I will go in and claim my own, in spite of them! Get out of my way, or I'll kill you!"
She looked equal to the execution of her threat as she ended with a terrible oath, her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving, and her hands clinched. Mixon made some reply inaudible to young Sanford, evidently intended to soothe or cow the woman; but liquor had carried her beyond restraint.
"Putnam!" she vociferated scornfully. "What do I care for him! I'll cut his throat too, if I get hold of him! Get out of my way, or"—
At this instant the sound of Sanford's horse's feet attracted her attention, and she turned towards him. Mixon took advantage of the diversion to seize her by the arm, and hurry her away.
"Come along!" he said, with every appearance of confusion. "Don't you see who is coming?"
The woman stared, evidently not comprehending in the least who the new-comer was; but she allowed herself to be led away, swearing and threatening as she went.
Will at this moment recognized the woman as the one whom he had met driving towards Samoset with Tom Putnam.
Mrs. Sanfordwas so round, so plump, so rosy, that, as she sat enthroned among the carriage-cushions, she might easily have been mistaken for an unusually fine specimen of Dutch cabbage, by the wand of some new Rübezahl endowed with life. The poor lady was much frightened, not at any thing in particular, but in a general way. She had a vague idea that something astounding and destructive might take place at any moment: she had a misty notion that lions and tigers came out of forests to devour people; and she distinctly recalled the fact that her grandfather had once shot a wolf in the neighborhood, perhaps in these very woods which rustled and murmured so ominously behind her.
An unusual situation, even the most trivial, which delivers shallow minds to reflection, is for them full of uneasiness. To be given up to self is the most frightful of catastrophes to him who finds self an utter stranger. If Mrs. Sanford had no great power of reasoning, she was not without a fancy which fear stirred into activity; and, by the time she had been alone five minutes, her terror had become ludicrously great. A squirrel scampering across theroad called from her a scream, which was quickly stifled by the thought that an outcry would be likely to attract beasts of prey. A crow flew overhead; and that presager of evil filled her with terror unutterable. The fact that she was alone on a road much travelled, and but three or four miles from her own home, seems an insufficient cause for such fear; but Mrs. Sanford could hardly have suffered more mental anguish if deposited with Daniel in the den of lions.
Suddenly she heard the sound of approaching wheels, and this sign of human proximity revived her drooping courage. As the moments had seemed hours to her, she thought her son had already returned; but a glimpse of the tossing manes of a span of grays told her that it was the Toxteth equipage which approached. Her mind yielded to an entirely new sensation, as a fluff of thistledown is lightly blown about.
"Mrs. Toxteth shall never see me in such a position as this," she said to herself. "I wouldn't demean myself by letting her know who it is."
So the foolish woman, who had, in common with the ostrich, the feeling, that, if her head was concealed, her entire person must be invisible, spread the corner of her shawl over her face, and sat motionless. The carriage drew nearer, and stopped, a man's voice asking who was there. As the veiled figure returned no answer, Clarence Toxteth, for he it was, jumped out, and approached the lady.
"Who is it?" he asked. "Do you want help?"
"No," she answered. "Go away!"
"Why, Mrs. Sanford!" he said, recognizing the voice. "What has happened? Are you hurt?"
Being recognized, the lady uncovered her face, and said with acerbity,—
"If I'm not killed, I'm sure it isn't my fault. I am so shaken, I doubt I shall ever get over it."
The young man, being fortunately alone, took the lady into his own carriage and drove on, leaving the wreck of the buggy to Will's care.
"I doubt but it's a forerunner of a bad sign," Mrs. Sanford said as they drove along. "I always heard it was unlucky to break down."
"It was lucky for me, at least," young Toxteth answered gallantly. "I am glad you were not hurt."
"But the shock to my mind, I being as fleshy as I am," she returned rather illogically, "was dreadful."
They drove smoothly along, Clarence secretly considering how he might best broach a subject of which his mind was full.
"I've wanted to see you for a long time," he began.
"Those that want to see me," Mrs. Sanford retorted, in a tone which showed that her temper had been a little shaken by her mishap, "usually come where I am."
"Oh, yes!" he said, somewhat confused. "But I wanted to see you without its being known."
"You don't mean to leave me anywhere on the road, do you?" she demanded in alarm. "I don't know as it'll hurt your reputation if folks do know you've seen me."
"Oh, dear, no! You misunderstand me entirely."
"Then, I wish you'd speak plainer."
"Why," he said, driven abruptly to the point, "it was about Patty I wanted to speak."
"Oh!"
Merely writing the interjection indicates but feebly the emotions filling the breast of Mrs. Sanford when she gave it utterance. Like Lady Geraldine's answer,—
"It lies there on the paper,A mere word without her accent."
"It lies there on the paper,A mere word without her accent."
Surprise, gratification, triumph, were commingled in her voice. She laid her plump hands together complacently. The doctor's wife loved her son best, as such women necessarily do; but she was proud of Patty, and particularly anxious that she should marry advantageously. Here, was a bridegroom who could deck her daughter in purple and scarlet, and fine-twined linen. Already in fancy the ladybug mother saw herself riding behind this handsome span of dappled grays, not as a stranger, but with all the rights of a mother-in-law. Hers was one of those vulgar natures which instinctively regarded marriage as a contract wherein a woman brought her charms to market to be disposed of to the highest bidder. She unconsciously rustled and plumed herself like a pigeon in the sun.
"I am well enough able to marry," Clarence said; "and my wife would have all her heart would wish."
Nature endows weak and sensuous minds with a species of protective instinct, which sometimes servesthem as well as the acutest reason. Young Toxteth used the argument which was best calculated to touch the fancy of Mrs. Sanford; and it was so good a choice as to be almost shrewdness, that he had selected that lady as his confidante. In her he found an eager listener, whereas no other member of Dr. Sanford's family would have heard him through his first purseproud remark.
"I have been fond of her for a long time," Toxteth continued. "I didn't pay her particular attentions until I was sure of myself, of course."
"Very honorable, I'm sure," chirruped Mrs. Sanford,—"very honorable, indeed."
"I think she likes me," the suitor continued, the admiring attitude of his listener betraying him into more and more frankness. "She's never said so; but I'm sure I don't see why she shouldn't like me, and she naturally wouldn't speak until I did."
"Oh, dear me, no!" acquiesced the gratified mother. "Naturally not."
"But girls are so queer," he said, hesitating a little, now that the real purpose of the interview was reached. "She doesn't consider how she hurts my feelings, and she might say she didn't care for me when she really did, you know. And if you would—why, if you would speak to her, and—and prepare her a little, you know, so that it shall not be so unexpected to her."
"I trust I know my duty," replied his companion, nodding her head with great complacency; "and you may certainly count on me. Patty can't help seeing the great advantages of being your wife, and it's verygood of you to ask her. Though, to be sure, she may pick and choose of the best in Montfield, and doesn't have to go begging for a husband, as some girls do. It isn't every man I'd say yes to, by any manner of means."
And at this moment the carriage stopped at the gate of the Sanford cottage.
A rehearsal was held that evening at Dessie Farnum's. Will's headache prevented his attendance; but his part was read, and things went as smoothly as is usual on such occasions. Flossy showed a desire to recite the whole of the scenes in which she took part; but as they chanced to be principally between herself and Burleigh Blood, who knew few of his lines, this was rather a help.
"If you were only a ventriloquist, Flossy," Patty said, "Burleigh need do nothing but act bashful, and you could do all the talking."
"I wonder if I couldn't learn," Flossy returned, beginning to repeat Burleigh's part in a deep voice, which made them all laugh.
"I'm afraid I shall have to learn myself," Blood said, "unless you can do better than that."
"Better than that! What base ingratitude!"
"Are these plates old-fashioned enough?" Dessie asked. "They were my grandmother's."
"Do!" exclaimed Flossy. "They are rapturous! Oh the things we shall have to eat off them!"
"What will you have? Brown-bread and beans, I suppose."
"Oh, dear, no! Chicken-salad and Charlotte-Russes. I am glad I'm going to be Waitstill Eastman. I couldn't have stood it to see anybody else eating, and I left out. It must certainly be salad and Charlottes."
"Salads and Charlotte-Russes for an old-fashioned supper!" retorted Patty. "Indeed, miss, you'll have nothing of the kind. Pumpkin-pies and nut-cakes are the best you'll get."
"It is no matter," Flossy answered. "It is a great deal better to talk about things than it is to eat them, after all."
"Flossy never really eats much of any thing but pop-corn," her cousin explained. "You'd think, to hear her talk, that her life was one long feast."
"Oh, yes, I do! I eat enormously; but I don't think it is so good as reading about nice things. Now, I like to read Dickens's books, because they're always having something to eat or to drink in them. Think of the cold punch now, the lovely cold punch!"
"Flossy, I'm ashamed of you!" exclaimed Patty. "I do believe you are tipsy, just thinking about it; and you make me too thirsty for any thing."
"Your reproof convicts yourself," put in Frank Breck. "I am sorry you can't hear punch mentioned without being thirsty."
"I am glad if you can," she retorted.
The hit was a palpable one, for the young man had the reputation of walking in ways far removed from the paths of sobriety.
When the rehearsal was concluded, the rain fell in torrents. Burleigh, who had his buggy, offered to take Patty and Flossy home. The former declined the invitation, although insisting that her cousin should ride. For herself, Patty delighted in the rain. The excitement of the storm exhilarated her, filling her with a delightful animal joy in living. She was fond of taking long walks in rainy weather, greatly to the disturbance of her mother, who had neither sympathy nor patience with this side of her daughter's nature. Even grandmother, who usually found whatever Patty did perfect, felt called upon to remonstrate against these escapades. But to the girl the struggle with the storm was delightful: it was a keen pleasure to feel the rain beat upon her face, and her young blood tingled under the cold touch. So to-night she chose to walk home, and meant to escape alone. She was prevented by Hazard Breck, who forestalled young Toxteth in seeking the honor of escorting her. As they left the house, Patty's quick ear caught a word or two between Ease Apthorpe and Frank Breck.
"Thank you," she heard Ease say. "I will not trouble you."
"Your aunt charged me to see you safe home," he answered. "I shouldn't want to disobey her."
And as usual Ease yielded.
"Hazard," Patty asked, as they went splashing through the puddles, "is Frank in earnest with Ease? Does he really care for her?"
"I do not know," he answered slowly. "He never makes a confidant of me."
"He persecutes her," Patty continued. "I wish he'd let her alone. She's too meek to stand out against him. I ought not to say this to you, but it makes me angry. Why are you so sober lately? You are as solemn as Bathalina."
"Am I? I wasn't aware of it."
"But of course you know what is troubling you."
"It does little good to talk over such things," he said.
"Such things as what?" she asked.
"As—as being solemn."
"You've some sort of a deadly secret preying upon your mind, Hazard. That I am sure of. Now, I insist upon knowing what it is."
"I haven't any secret now," he answered rather mournfully.
Hazard was, after all, only a boy, though a very noble and manly one. He adored Patty with all theardor of a pure boy's first passion; a light which, if extinguished, leaves the very blackness of despair in the boyish heart; a dream from which the waking is very bitter. The lad whose first love is ill-starred refuses to believe that he can ever love again, that any sun will rise after this brilliant meteor-flash has faded.
Hazard had not for a moment entertained the possibility of contesting his uncle's right to Patty. He was too loyal, too devoted to the man who had unostentatiously made so many sacrifices to him and his. In the lonely walk he had taken Sunday afternoon, when aunt Pamela had spoken of Putnam's love, the young man had fought with himself, and conquered. When he met Patty on the bridge, she was to him as belonging to another. There was in the lad a high chivalry, which caused him to regard things in a noble if somewhat overstrained temper. Mr. Putnam to him was not merely the uncle to whom he was warmly attached, but also the generous benefactor who had not spared himself to save the name and the welfare of his nephews. Hazard was not ignorant, that, but for Putnam, his father might have been publicly branded as the felon he was; and he knew, too, that sacrifices made to shield him had crippled his uncle's fortune. That this had prevented Tom's seeking from Patty the love which his nephew felt to be richly his due, was an added reason why in this, most of all things, no obstacle should come between Mr. Putnam and his desire. The boy's self-renunciation was a little Quixotic; but who more sadly noble than the crazy knight of La Mancha?
There are, however, limits to all human endurance. To suffer and be strong is possible to many: to suffer and be silent is within the power of but few. Hazard had resolved never to speak of his love; but no one can judge the strength of a resolution until it has been tried by opportunity. There suddenly rushed over him a wave of boyish despair. One who voluntarily renounces pursuit, generally believes that he might have won; and to Hazard his act seemed the renunciation of a prize surely his.
"Life is so hard!" he burst out suddenly, with all the hopelessness of despairing twenty.
"Oh, no!" Patty returned lightly. "As Flossy says, 'life would be very pleasant, if it were not so much trouble to live.'"
"But to live is so much trouble," he answered. "See what a life I've had! I wasn't asked if I wanted it; and, when I had been made to live, I didn't have my choice about it, in any way. You know that my father was a constant trouble to us,—everybody knew that,—and we all had to endure to be pitied; and pity is always half contempt."
"O Hazard!"
"Of course I don't mean from you," he said illogically enough; "but it is the truth. Then, mother was just worn into her grave by grief and poverty; and we boys had to stand by helpless, and see it."
Patty was at a loss how to answer him, and wisely said little. Hazard was usually so bright, and seemed of so happy a disposition, that this outburst was the more bewildering. Ignorant of the cause which hadworked his old pains to the surface, Patty's only thought was of how deep must have been the sorrow of his boyhood to have left so much bitterness behind. She knew in a vague way that Mr. Breck had been a dissipated, unprincipled man, who had ill-treated his family, and been a scandal to the neighborhood until he moved out of it to take up his residence in Boston. She had no means of knowing how sad a childhood had been that of Hazard,—a life so shaded, that only an unusually fine temperament, and the noble disposition inherited from his mother, had prevented his becoming morbidly gloomy. Partly because she knew not what to say, and partly from an instinctive feeling that talking would relieve Hazard's overwrought mood, she let him continue.
"I have never had any good from life for myself," he went on with increasing vehemence, "and I am sure I have never helped my friends to any. I've been a dead weight on those I wanted most to help; and, if I am ever fond of anybody, we are either separated, or something happens to spoil our friendship. Frank and I never had any thing in common; and now he is all the time plaguing Ease Apthorpe, or travelling about with that vile Mixon."
"Who is Mixon?" asked Patty. "Not Bathalina's husband?"
"Yes: that's the one. The old scoundrel!"
"What has Frank to do with him?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think it's only fondness for low company, and then at others fancy he has some sort of a secret of Frank's. He was one offather's dogs; sometimes hostler, sometimes waiter, or footman, or whatever happened. Father had a strange liking for his company, and Mixon could manage him when nobody else could come near him. Why, I've seen father lay his pistols on the table, and dare one of us to stir, and then go on drinking, and flinging the dishes at one or another of us, till Peter heard the racket, and came, and took the revolvers away. Nobody else in the house dared dispute any thing father did. It is a pleasant childhood to remember, isn't it? And it is pleasant to think that Mixon may know some secret which would disgrace us all if it were told."
"Now, Hazard," Patty said soothingly, "you shouldn't talk of these things. You make them worse than they ever were, and at worst they are passed now. Then you have always your uncle to help you and to advise with."
"Uncle Tom? There's where it hurts worse than all. We have always been a drag on him. If it were not for us, he might have been married long ago."
"Oh, no!" his companion returned hastily, with a pang in her heart. "You don't know what you are saying."
"But I do. Even aunt Pamela sees it, and spoke to me of it."
"But"—
"But what?" he broke in fiercely, his passion and pain sweeping away all his reserve. "Oh, I know what you would say! You think you might have a voice in the matter. I tell you, Patty Sanford, if youtrifled with uncle Tom, I should hate you as much as I love you now."
"Hazard Breck, you are crazy!"
"I know I am crazy. I've been crazy all summer. I was crazy thinking I was coming to Montfield because I should see you; and since I came I've been wild night and day because you were alive in the same town, because"—
"Oh, hush! For pity's sake, hush!" she cried.
Then she laid her other hand upon his arm, which she already held.
"I have completely forgotten every word we have spoken to-night," she said.
The tone, the words, affected him like a sudden dash of ice-cold water. He strode on through the rain in silence, suddenly feeling now how his heart beat, and his blood rushed tingling through his veins. They had nearly reached Dr. Sanford's cottage when he spoke again.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "You were always too good to me. I think I have been out of my head to-night."
"Why shouldn't I be good to you?" she returned. "You have always been good to me. So old friends as we are don't need to apologize to each other. I dare say we all say foolish things sometimes."
He winced a little, but did not dissent. As they went up the path together between the dripping shrubs which glimmered in the light from the windows, they heard Will's voice.
"There is Will singing," Patty said. "He alwayssings when he has a headache. He insists that dying swans sing on account of the pain in their heads."
"That has been the trouble with me," Hazard answered, smiling faintly. "I've had my swan-song—unless you call it a hiss. But my pain was not in my head. Good-night."
"Ah!" Patty said to herself, looking after him, "the pain in your heart isn't sharper than in mine."
"Thismust be the liner," Mrs. Sanford declared upon the following morning, looking out at the pouring rain. "I doubt Bathalina will not come to-day."
The event proved her mistaken; for Mrs. Mixon walked over from Samoset, despite the storm, her bundles hanging about her until she looked like one of the seven wives of the man met upon the road to St. Ives. Flossy saw her coming up the walk which led to the kitchen-door, the water streaming from every fold and end of her garments and belongings.
"Behold a water-nymph!" she said. "She's so fond of washing, I suppose she feels as if she were in her native element."
"She looks a good deal like an angel dragged through a brush-fence into a world of bitterness and woe," commented Will.
"There are marriages of convenience," Patty said; "but Bathalina certainly made a marriage of inconvenience."
"Let's go and see her," proposed Flossy.
To the kitchen they all trooped. Mrs. Sanford wasthere before them, alternately scolding the returned prodigal, and pitying herself.
"The trials I've been through since you left," she said, "are beyond mortal belief. How you could have the heart to leave me in the lurch so, Bathalina, is more than I know. 'Light come, light go,' as the old saying is; and I doubt you've proved it by this time with that husband of yours."
"But it is too bad you've left him, Bathalina!" Flossy put in. "You've no idea how becoming a husband was to you. You ought never to go without one."
"Where is your other half?" Will asked. "You and he are only one between you, you know."
"In courtin'," answered Bathalina sententiously, rising to the height of the occasion,—"in courtin' there may be only one, but in marriage there's two."
"Hurrah!" he laughed. "You've learned something. That's worthy of Emerson. Allow me to add," he continued with mock solemnity, "that it is a truth as old as the universe, that one plus one is two."
"I'm glad you've come," said Flossy; "for you do make such good things to eat. The last girl we had, made bread so sour that I couldn't eat it without feeling as if angle-worms were crawling down my back. So you don't like being married, Bathalina?"
"It was all for my sinful pride," the servant answered lugubriously, "that I was left to be Peter Mixon's wife. And, if ever you come to be that, you'll repent with your harps hanged on the willows, as the tune says."
"For my part," said Patty, "I think Mr. Mixon willbe a widower, if you don't get off those wet clothes soon."
"I doubt he will," assented Mrs. Sanford. "Why she came over in them is more than I can see."
"There, mother," Will said, "I fear your head has been turned by the Irish girls you've sent away."
"It's a mercy I'm spared to come back at all," Mrs. Mixon said. "We all have more mercies than we deserve."
"I'm not so sure of that," her mistress retorted. "Speak for yourself. I don't know as I have any more than I'm entitled to."
It was not in accordance with Bathalina's principles to exhibit any satisfaction at being once more in her old home; but, as she indulged in the most sad of her minors, it was inferred that she was well pleased. She continually bolted into the sitting-room to ask some question, apparently for the sake of feasting her eyes upon the mistress of the house.
"What do you put in squash-pies for seasoning?" she inquired, interrupting an earnest conversation between Mrs. Sanford and Mrs. Brown; the latter having, in these stormy autumn days, just got to her spring calls.
"Why, Bathalina, you know as well as I!" was the answer.
"Well, supposin' I do. Can't I have the satisfaction of askin' when I've been living in tumbledown Irishy places over to Samoset?"
"The girl must have been wandering in her mind when she went off to be married," remarked grandmother Sanford, smiling serenely.
"She was wandering in her body, at least," replied Patty.
"Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Brown. "And, now I think of it, I don't know how I shall get home. My girl's gone too. She says she gave me a week's warning, but I'm sure I haven't begun to get ready for her to go yet. I must try to get things picked up so we can wash to-morrow or next day, and it rains worse than ever."
The caller had ridden over with Dr. Sanford, whom she had hailed as he passed her door.
"'They that wash on Friday.'"
"'They that wash on Friday.'"
quoted Flossy under her breath to Patty—
"'Wash for need.'"
"'Wash for need.'"
"'They that wash on Saturday,Oh, they are sluts indeed!'"
"'They that wash on Saturday,Oh, they are sluts indeed!'"
retorted her cousin. "They won't get at it before that time."
"I shall be ready after dinner," Mrs. Brown continued. "I guess Selina can pick up a pie or something for Joe.—Did I tell you, Mrs. Sanford, that we've heard from my cousin over to Samoset? He ain't really my cousin, only for marrying Eliza. But I feel for Eliza, I'm sure. He's run off with another woman, and Eliza's left to bring up her three boys. It's a mercy they ain't girls."
"I declare it's awful!" her hostess said. "Who was the woman?"
"She was the daughter of that Smithers woman that—you know."
The hostess gave an emphatic nod of the head, as if to indicate that she was aware of some mysterious wickedness connected with the female in question.
"But where did she come from?" she asked. "I thought she went off when Mr. Mullen died."
"Yes, she did," Mrs. Brown assented. "But such folks always turn up again. And the strangest thing about it is,"—and here her voice sank to a confidential whisper,—"that they say Mr. Putnam"—
The entrance of Patty, who had been to make arrangements for the transfer of Mrs. Brown to her own home, put an abrupt end to the conversation. But the hint conveyed had not dropped upon barren soil. Mrs. Brown knew merely that Mrs. Smithers, in her first surprise and dismay at the flight of her daughter, had driven over to Montfield for Mr. Putnam. But before she slept that night, the doctor's wife had conveyed to Patty an impression that the most dreadful stories were told of the relations between the lawyer and this castaway. Patty treated the scandal with contempt; yet she could not but remember that Flossy had met her lover on the road to Samoset, and that Will had heard his name at the gates of Mullen House.
"Will will take you home when he carries Floss to rehearsal," Patty said as she entered. "We are going to Mrs. Shankland's."
Inthis way it came about that Patty started alone for the afternoon rehearsal. The rain was still falling, although less heavily than in the earlier part of the day. The wet leaves which the wind had torn from the trees lay thick upon the walks, crushing soddenly under her feet. The dreariness of autumn seemed suddenly to have fallen upon the land, and nature to have yielded to it without a struggle. The weeds by the roadside were beaten down and broken; the streets were full of pools of turbid water, which reflected dismally the dark sky. The bright glow of the autumnal foliage had been apparently washed away by the torrents of rain, leaving the landscape gray and drear.
Patty was out of sorts, and even the walk in the rain failed to restore her spirits. She did not at all understand the way in which Tom Putnam kept himself aloof. That a man should make a declaration of love, and then treat its object with quiet neglect, was incomprehensible enough. She recalled that night when he had found her on the doorstep, and contrasted it with his manner on Sunday afternoon in the Castle in the Air. She was unable to understand how Tom, ifindeed he loved her, could meet her with calmness; and it was but a step further to conclude that she did not possess his heart. She secretly resolved to meet the lawyer with an indifference to which his should be as nothing; to be colder than ice, as unconcerned as a statue, and as firm as the Pyramids. Raising her eyes at this point of her revery, she saw her lover coming towards her down the village street. She felt a glow of pleasure in spite of herself. With a girl like Patty, no method of wooing could have been more effectual than that which circumstances had forced upon the lawyer, although he had felt keenly the loss of her society.
"I am so glad I have met you!" he said. "I was going to your house, but now I will walk on with you."
Patty was steadying her nerves, and sending back the rebellious blood, which would bound at sight of his tall figure, as he turned and walked at her side.
"I have been so occupied!" he continued. "The executors of Mrs. Sutcliff's estate have been at me night and day. First it is a telegram, and then a letter; and, as I've had Judge Hopcroft's business on my hands since he has been ill, it has kept me very much occupied. I am glad it is about done with. I think I have earned all the money I shall get twice over."
"You are very grateful," Patty said, with an exasperating desire to say something disagreeable.
"Grateful! Of course, I am; but I do not like to be kept always away from you."
"Indeed! You have always yourself for company; and, being a man, according to your theory that ought to suffice."
"But I pity you," he returned lightly. "The other half of my theory is, that you need company."
"Thank you, I've had all I wanted."
He made no reply. He perceived easily that something vexed her, but he could not understand her annoyance. He had been desirous of being near Patty, but, deeply occupied, had not been unhappy away from her. Desire and hope will make a man happy, though separated from the object of his passion, where a woman will pine painfully for his presence. A man may be, for a time, content with love; while woman is happy only with the lover.
Tom Putnam did not doubt that Patty loved him; and he was unable to understand why the knowledge of his love did not make her content, as this assurance did him. He was too old and too stable to follow the changes of her mental atmosphere, or to appreciate the hungry longing which made her desire to annihilate her being in his, to have him utterly her own. His love was as yet half impersonal, almost dormant from the effect of long years of self-repression. A man, too, must learn those secrets of affection which the other sex know by instinct; and, if the knowledge be not gained before the flush of youth is passed, even a passionate nature may prove a slow pupil.
The two friends walked on without speaking forseveral moments, until, for Patty, the silence became intolerable.
"You have been too much taken up with your own affairs, I suppose," she said, "to trouble yourself about grandmother's pension."
"No," he answered. "I was coming to see about that this afternoon."
"Then it wasn't to see me at all," she returned.
"Come," he said, smiling. "That is better. You really do care, then, whether I come to see you, or not."
"I do not care a straw," she retorted, vexed more and more, both with herself and him. "Only I do not like to have people sail under false colors."
"I don't see the application."
"No matter. What is it about the pension?"
"There is a little trouble."
"Of course. I knew you'd be too much taken up with your own affairs. The money's a trifle; but grandmother is an old lady, and will be so disappointed."
"I think the matter may be arranged," he said gravely, ignoring her taunt. "I am very sorry for the delay."
"What is the trouble?"
"I find it hard to prove your grandmother's marriage."
"What!" she cried.
"I have not been able to find proof of your grandmother's marriage."
"Tom Putnam!"
"I have examined the town-records in vain," he continued; "and she told me in the first place that she had no certificate."
"And you dare to think she was never married!"
"Who said I thought that?" he returned, smiling at her vehemence. "I have to look at things in a legal light; and for this business she is to be considered single until there's proof of her marriage produced."
"You insult her and all the family," Patty said hotly, all her Sanford blood rising in wrath. "I had, at least, believed you a gentleman."
They had reached the Shanklands's gate; and she left him without a word further, entering the house with her head carried like that of an offended goddess. As she came into the parlor, she encountered a perfect whirlwind of voices in question, exclamation, and remonstrance.
"Where have you been?"
"What made you so late?"
"O Patty! do you think we ought to have green lights for the death-scene? It makes everybody look so horridly ghastly."
"We've been waiting an age for you."
"There, there!" exclaimed Patty. "Please don't all speak at once. I'm as cross as an Arab," she added, forcing a smile; "and my name is a misnomer."
"I hope you haven't been quarrelling with Mr. Putnam," Miss Sturtevant said maliciously from her seat by the window. "I thought you left him rather unceremoniously."
"At least I've not been prying into other people's affairs," Patty retorted sweetly. "Come, let's begin."
Every thing went wrong that afternoon. Patty could not prevent her mind's dwelling on her interview with the lawyer, instead of upon the work in hand. The direction of the rehearsals had been put into her care as a matter of course; and her experience in amateur theatricals was large enough to enable her to get through her work half mechanically. She was usually very careful; but to-day every one felt that her mind was elsewhere, and each did what was right in his own eyes.
They rehearsed first "The Faithful Jewess," a remarkable tragedy selected by Miss Sturtevant, who played in it the part of a weird prophetess, and got herself up to look like the Witch of Endor. In choosing the play, Miss Flora had had in mind the including of Mr. Putnam in the cast,—a hope which had been doomed to disappointment. That Miss Flora has been absent so long from these pages results from no want of activity upon the part of that energetic young lady. She had waged constant warfare against the heart of Tom Putnam; but so entirely fruitless had thus far been her efforts, that they scarcely seemed worth chronicling. The lawyer was too entirely engrossed by his passion for Patty Sanford to amuse himself, even had he been given to gallant trifling; and never was sweetness more utterly wasted than that which Flora lavished upon the unresponsive bachelor.
Nor had she been more successful in her attempts to obtain possession of the papers which both JacobWentworth and Frank Breck desired. She had indeed made some efforts in that direction, being fully alive to the advantages of herself holding so valuable documents, and thus being in a position to dictate terms, or dispose of her booty to the highest bidder. On the whole, her unscrupulousness, her quick wit and practised skill, had brought her nothing in her summer's campaign but the now valuable bonds of the Samoset and Brookfield Railroad.
"I tookcold leaving off my apron," Mrs. Sanford remarked. "I always do."
"That is a slight cause, daughter Britann," said grandmother. "Do'st thee feel sure there was no other?"
"I suppose I know when I take cold," she retorted. "I always take cold if I leave off my apron; and, if I go to a tea-party, I always wear my apron under my dress."
"I declare!" exclaimed Patty, rushing in like a whirlwind. "I'll never speak to that horrid Tom Putnam again to the longest day I live!"
"Softly, softly," said the old lady. "Thee do'st not wish to make promises and break them. What disturbs thee?"
"It's about you, grandmother. He dared to say you were not married."
"Not married?"
"Not married!" echoed Mrs. Sanford. "And your family always held out to be so much better than ours, and so leading me to marry into it, and help bear the disgrace!"
"Hush, mother!" Patty said impatiently. "Thereisn't any disgrace. It is only a blunder of Mr. Putnam's."
"Then, your father ought to sue him for libel. I always told you I didn't approve of your dawdling about with that lawyer, with Clarence Toxteth at your beck and call. But you always would have your own way, and disgrace us all by keeping company with the man that slanders your family."
"Slanders our family!" Patty returned, her eyes blazing. "Who said he slandered the family? If he isn't disgraced by my company, I'm sure I am not by his. I shouldn't be ashamed to sweep the streets for him to walk on!"
"You'd demean yourself, I dare say, when you might have the streets swept for you."
"I"—began her daughter.
"Daughter Patience," interposed her grandmother, laying her hand upon the girl's arm, "thee had best not say it."
By a strong effort Patty repressed the retort which had sprung to her lips.
"What does it mean, grandmother?" she asked, when a moment's silence had given her more composure. "Tom Putnam says he can find no proof of your marriage."
"I told thy father to tell him to go to the town-records."
"He says he has, and it is not there."
"Then, the man that married us neglected his duty," the old lady said with gentle severity. "He was a Methodist preacher at Quinnebasset; for we had onlyone preacher here, and he was away; and that, as thee knows, was before I received light to become a Friend."
"But didn't you have a certificate?" asked Mrs. Sanford.
"No. The man promised us one; but, though he was a man of God, he kept his word no better than one of the world's people, and we never got it."
"What are you talking about?" demanded Flossy, entering. "I told Will I didn't think this play would be very intelligible to the audience; and he said they would have the advantage of the actors, if it were. Was that what you were talking about?"
"Flossy," her aunt said disdainfully, "don't be so silly!"
"Thank you, aunt Britann. I prefer to be silly." So saying, she made her aunt a graceful courtesy, and then sat down. "What were you talking about?"
Patty explained; and her cousin flourished her bowl of pop-corn wildly about with excitement.
"Yes, of course," Flossy burst out. "I knew there was something sure to come of it when I ran away; and there it was in the binding of this book, and the pew was so hard I thought I should die. This cover, you know, is almost torn off, and there's where Linda Thaxter married William French; I mean Edward French, no, Edward Sanford—at least you know what I mean."
Flossy always became less and less intelligible as she became excited; and Patty, knowing this by frequent experience, seized her by both shoulders.
"Wait!" she said. "Stop short there. Now, what are you trying to say?"
By degrees they elicited from her the story of the psalmody in the Presbyterian Church at Samoset; and Dr. Sanford, when he came home, declared that this might prove a decisive piece of evidence. He laughed at Patty's anger, and requested her to write a note to the lawyer, informing him of Flossy's story.
It amused him to see his daughter nibbling her pen over the epistle she had vainly tried to avoid writing.
She wrote and tore up a dozen notes before she would send one. There sat the doctor in his easy-chair, apparently reading, but with his peculiar faint smile curling the corners of his lips sufficiently to show that he appreciated her difficulty. The note when completed read as follows:—
Tuesday Evening.Flossy saw in the binding of a hymn-book at Samoset a notice of grandmother's wedding. She will tell you about it, if you will call on her.Patience Sanford.P.S.—I have to beg your pardon for my rudeness this afternoon.
Tuesday Evening.
Flossy saw in the binding of a hymn-book at Samoset a notice of grandmother's wedding. She will tell you about it, if you will call on her.
Patience Sanford.
P.S.—I have to beg your pardon for my rudeness this afternoon.
The effect of this note was to bring the lawyer to the cottage the next morning. As mischievous fortune chose to have it, Patty was on the piazza, selecting for pressing the brightest of the scarlet and russet woodbine-leaves which had been spared by the storm. She knew his step upon the walk; and, although she would not turn, she was prepared to meet him with a kindness which should atone for yesterday's harshness.But she defeated her own intention. Meaning to be gracious, she yet was not willing to give the first sign of abandoning hostilities, expecting her lover to know instinctively the state of her mind, and to approach her in a corresponding temper.
The lover's eyes shone with a wistful tenderness as he regarded the slender figure upon which the bright leaves fell in showers of gold and green and scarlet. His relations with Patty troubled him, and yet he knew not how they might be improved. He knew women from books rather than from nature, and his knowledge profited him little in his own dilemma. The sudden changes in Patty were incomprehensible to him. He had accepted her apology as a necessary consequence of the fact that she was a lady: what it had cost her, or how she had passed from anger to tenderness, he did not suspect.
She, on her side, interpreted him no better. His self-restraint she called coldness; and, when he failed to respond to a softened mood, she felt that her affection found no response in his heart. This morning she was unconsciously in a frame of mind which would render her dissatisfied, whatever his attitude: had he divined her relenting, she would have thought him presuming, as now she called him cold. The only comfort Tom might extract from such a situation was the fact, hardly likely to occur to him, that she was a thousand times more displeased with herself than with him.
"Good-morning," the gentleman said, stepping upon the piazza.
"Good-morning," she returned, keeping her face from him.
"It is a right royal day after the storm," he said, rather for the sake of saying something than from any active interest in the weather.
"Yes," she assented laconically.
"How do your theatricals come on?" asked he.
"'As the man went to be hung,—very slowly,' to use Will's slang, or figure of speech as Flossy calls it."
"This world," the lawyer said rather irrelevantly, "is chiefly figures of speech."
"What does that signify?"
"It signifies that you think of our talk yesterday hyperbolically."
Patty felt herself growing flushed and perturbed. Their conversation hid completely the sentiments underlying it. Her tenderness was met by apparent indifference. What was this talk of figures of speech, when he should have said simply "I love you."
"On the contrary," she replied, "I do not think of our conversation yesterday at all."
"Then, why do you so resolutely keep your face from me?"
"Certainly not because I said any thing yesterday that I am ashamed of."
Putnam took from his pocket her note, and read aloud the postscript.
"It is very generous in you to fling that in my face," she exclaimed, turning suddenly.
"It was abominable," he laughed; "but it made you show your face, and that's worth sinning for."
"Why did you keep my note?" she asked, as he carefully replaced it in his pocket-book. "You told me once you never kept any letters but business ones."
"Oh! I always preserve yours. Every rule has its exception."
"I am flattered," she said, softening a little.
"You've no reason to be," he retorted saucily. "I only keep them because I suppose you are sure to demand them some time; and, if I couldn't return them, you'd say I kept them."
"Then, I demand them now."
"You shall have them when you give me mine."
"You may have them this minute," she exclaimed.
"Ah!" retorted he, laughing. "I have discovered what I wanted to know. You have cared enough for them to keep them."
"You are the most hateful man on the face of the earth!" she said angrily, running into the house, and up to her own chamber.
She gathered all his notes together, with the trifles she had treasured, even before she confessed to herself that she cared for him,—this odd stone from Mackerel Cove, that Chinese coin he took from his watch-guard one day as a reward for a joke she made, a dry and musty cracker upon which he drew at a picnic a clever caricature of Mrs. Brown's frowsy head, a few dried flowers, and a pencil-sketch or two. She gathered them together, meaning to make a packet of them to put into Tom's hands before he left the house. Then she began to read over the notes, simple things that said little, and from another would have had noespecial meaning or value. Here he asked her if he might drive her to a picnic at Wilk's Run; this was to say that he was going to Boston, and would be glad to execute any commissions for her,—trifling things, but written by his hand. She turned over his gifts, keepsakes which any friend might give to another. She recalled, while making up her packet, the circumstances in which each came to her. Memories exhale from mementos as odors from faded roses laid long away among our treasures. Patty ended by a brief shower of tears, and by replacing the souvenirs in the box whence they came. Her tears cleared her mental atmosphere as a thunder-shower may the air of a sultry day. Ten minutes later she flashed down stairs, bright, trenchant, and gay as a dragon-fly. She comforted herself with the illogical conclusion, "After all, I love him so deeply, he must love me."
Meanwhile the lawyer had questioned Flossy. She described so bewilderingly the situation of "this pew, you know," that it was quite impossible to form the slightest idea of its position. He therefore concluded to take the young lady herself to Samoset; and, just as Patty descended from her chamber, the two drove away. The psalmody was found without trouble; and the printed slip in the binding was eventually traced to the newspaper from which it was cut, furnishing the link which had before been missing in the evidence needed to secure the long-talked-of pension.
"There'snobody else," said Will Sanford; "and if Tom Putnam won't take the part, the 'Faithful Jewess' may go to the 'demnition bowwows' but her sorrows will never afflict a Montfield audience."
"Nobody would be more heartily rejoiced, I'm sure, than I should," his sister answered, "if she would take a journey in that direction: only there isn't time to learn another play. So you'll have to ask him."
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Will said. "It's your place."
"I'll never ask him to do any thing. He's too stubborn to live, and he treats me abominably."
"Then, you should heap coals of fire on his head by inviting him to take this part, that nobody but Sol Shankland would have anyway."
"When I heap coals of fire," she returned vigorously, "I want them to burn: I want at least to be able to smell the scorched hair."
"I think you will have that satisfaction," her brother replied, "if you'll walk into his office this afternoon, and tell him there is no one in the three towns canact as well as he can, and ask will he please be that drivelling idiot of a patriarch."
"I'll do nothing of the kind. Besides, I'm going to ride with Clarence Toxteth this afternoon."
"He's always dangling round you nowadays, it seems to me."
"Well, I can't help that, can I?"
"You could if you wanted to. If you married anybody for his money, Patty, I'd never speak to you again."
"Pooh! You'd speak to me if I married a boa-constrictor."
"No. I'd send you a card on which you'd find nothing but the awful words,—
'Boa-constrictoress, farewell!'"
'Boa-constrictoress, farewell!'"
"Nonsense! You'd come over to be constricted, and the long and lovely bridegroom could make his supper of you. You know you adore me, Will, and so you'll see Tom Putnam. Tell him Sol is sick, or lame, or dead, or whatever it is, and we can't do without him."
"I'm always put upon," her brother said with mock despair: "in fact, I'm but a lovely, timorous flower that has been snubbed in the bud. I suppose I'll have to do it."
"That's a duck. You're an awful nice brother! But then who wouldn't be with such a surpassingly lovely sister!"
Half an hour later, Will encountered the lawyer in the street.
"I was going to see you," he said. "You presented yourself in the nick of time."
"People who present themselves in the nick of time," Putnam answered good-humoredly, "generally find themselves in a tight place. What did you want of me?"
"I wanted to tell you that you are to take the part of the patriarch in the sensational, melodramatic madness entitled 'The Faithful Jewess,' to be performed for the benefit of the church on the 23d of this blessed month of October."
"You are sure that you are not misinformed?"
"Quite sure."
"But I have already declined to take part in those theatricals."
"My informant was very positive," Will said.
"May I ask the name of your informant?"
"Patty Sanford."
"Did she say I was to act?"
"Certainly," Will answered, distorting the truth with perfect recklessness.
"Um! The part must have been given to some one before this."
"Yes. When you refused, there was nobody left to take it but Sol Shankland."
"What has become of him?" asked the lawyer.
"General inanity, I suspect, though he says, 'neümonyer,' as he calls it."
"In that case," Putnam said, laughing, "he might furnish the funds."
"But you'll come to rehearsal to-morrow night?"Sanford asked, fumbling in his pocket for a play-book. "It's at our house at half-past seven."
"If your sister has issued her commands, I suppose I've nothing to do but to obey."
The fact was, that the lawyer repented his former refusal, since it shut him out of the rehearsals at which Patty necessarily spent most of her evenings; and he was glad circumstances had put it into his power to retrieve his error. He found himself daily longing more and more to be near her, and yet shut more completely from her presence. He walked on towards his office with a brisker step, and neglected his business to commit the senseless lines of the part assigned to him.
About the time that Will was so unscrupulously using his sister's name to insnare the lawyer, that young lady was having a somewhat spicy interview with her mother. From the day when young Toxteth had confided to Mrs. Sanford his intentions in regard to Patty, the shallow woman had gone about with the secret locked in her bosom like a vase of perfume, whose subtile odors pervaded every corner of her brain-chambers. Her head unconsciously took a new elevation, and her step a fresh dignity. The Sanfords were independent and comfortable. Dr. Sanford's practice was good, and rather more lucrative than is usual in country-towns. With Will's education, however, and Patty's books and music-teachers to provide for, the surplus at the end of the year was small; and Mrs. Sanford never ceased to sigh for the time when, the son being established in his profession, and thedaughter married, her husband could begin to accumulate property.
"Daughter Britann," grandmother would say, "thy mind is overmuch set on this world's goods. The Sanfords are never rich, unless thee shouldst reckon the wealth of brains; and thou hast already sufficient for all thy needs."
"So have you, mother," Mrs. Sanford one day retorted; "but I notice you are just as anxious about your pension, for all that."
"That I shall bestow in charity," the old lady answered. "I hope I am not unduly anxious. If my son Charles had not wished it, I should never have troubled the matter."
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Sanford said. "It would have been a sin to neglect such an opportunity. I am glad that for once Charles had sense enough to do the right thing about a money matter. He's usually so dreadfully squeamish!"
To a mind like Mrs. Sanford, the getting of money was the only end worth pursuing in this world. Her fancy dwelt upon the position Patience might occupy as the wife of a wealthy Toxteth, and upon her own importance as the mother-in-law of the best catch in Montfield. Knowing how much Patty might be influenced by her father, in case she proved blind to her own good in this important matter, Mrs. Sanford one night ventured to broach the subject to him.
"It is time Patty was getting settled," she began.
"Humph!" the doctor returned, "I do not see the need of any haste."
"But there is need. If she lets her chances slip by now, she'll live to repent of it. Girls who are over particular always have to put up with a crooked stick at last."
"What are you driving at?"
"Why," Mrs. Sanford said rather hesitatingly, "she might have Clarence Toxteth, if she only chose."
"How do you know?"
"I do know, and that's enough," his wife answered importantly. "He's half dead for her."
"He'll be whole dead before he gets her, unless she's a bigger fool than I ever thought her."
"Now, Charles, that's the way you always talk. What have you got against Clarence?"
"He hasn't any brains, for one thing."
"He must have," Mrs. Sanford returned, as if her logic admitted of no controversy. "Just see what a smart father he's got! What a sight of money Orrin Toxteth has made!"
"Nonsense! His brains stand in the same relation to his father's as froth does to beer. Good-night. I want to go to sleep."
"You always were prejudiced against Clarence Toxteth," the wife said. But Dr. Sanford allowed this to be the last word by answering nothing.
Mrs. Sanford felt that irritation which one feels who cannot understand how any point of view but one's own is possible. Not to be foiled, she abandoned the attempt to convince her husband, only to concentrate her energies upon her daughter. Very naturally she attempted to dazzle her eyes with the wealth which sobewitched her own fancy. Knowing by experience the difficulty of dealing abruptly with Patty, she began by throwing out hints which seemed to her the acme of strategical tactics, but which were in reality so transparent, that Flossy and Patty made merry over them without stint. Of course, this came to nothing; and Mrs. Sanford would have been the most obtuse of mortals, had she failed to perceive that she produced no impression in the suitor's favor. But the doughty woman had obstinacy, if not firmness; and, the more her plans did not succeed, the more firmly she clung to them. She prepared for the attack; and her daughter, foreseeing what was to come, steeled herself for the combat.
Patty suffered more from the weakness and prejudices of her mother than any one but Dr. Sanford himself. Will, both from his sex and from being much away from home, treated her oddities rather as witticisms. In his sister an inborn reverence for family, and a devotion to the name and relation of a mother, fought with her perception of the ludicrous, and an instinctive repugnance to narrowness and mental inferiority. Shut her eyes as she might, she could not be blind to her mother's faults; and Mrs. Sanford's affection, which should have compensated, had always appeared rather an accident of custom, and but skin-deep. The silly blunders which the doctor's wife constantly made, her absurd superstitions, continually jarred upon her daughter. Patty reproached herself sharply, her conscience flagellating her with vigorous arm for discerning these shortcomings of her mother;but no amount of self-reproach can dull the mental vision. She attempted to see only her mother's kindly deeds; but Patty was neither the first nor the last to discover that reverence and love are not to be constrained by an illogical balance-sheet; and that the taking account of stock in affection generally indicates a tendency to bankruptcy.
Mrs. Sanford had remained in suspense as long as she was able to endure it; and, upon the morning referred to earlier in this chapter, she at last spoke definitely. She was a little in awe of her daughter, having more than once been confused and worsted by that young lady's quickness of thought and expression; and the "Sanford will," she knew of old, had a strength against which it was useless to contend, if it were once determinedly fixed.
"Patty," she said, as they chanced to be alone together, "didn't I hear you tell Willie you were going to ride with Clarence Toxteth this afternoon?"
"Yes, mother. We are going to Samoset to look at those costumes."
"I am glad of it. You haven't treated him very well lately."
"You are losing a hairpin, mother."
"Dear me! Your father's thinking of me, I suppose."
"It ought to please you to have your husband think of you."
"He needn't think all the hairpins out of my head, though," responded Mrs. Sanford. "I'm always losing them."
"Where does the sewing-circle meet next week?" Patty asked, endeavoring to lead the conversation as far as possible from its original theme.
"At Mrs. Brown's; though I doubt she won't be ready for it until a week after it's all over. I declare, I thank the Lord I ain't so shiftless!"
"Well you may," Patty said lightly, feeling safe now.
"He'll be the richest man in Montfield," said Mrs. Sanford, returning to the charge with an abruptness which found the other off her guard.
"Well, what of that?" her daughter asked absently.
"What of that!" the mother cried impatiently. "A good deal of that. But I suppose you'd refuse him, if he offered himself to-day."
"Of course, mother. You know I'm never going to marry."
"Don't talk like a fool, Patience. If you know when you're well off, you'll be careful how you snub Clarence Toxteth."
"I treat him as I do everybody else."
"But you mustn't. You must treat him different. Oh, dear!" Mrs. Sanford continued, quivering with excitement and indignation. "The trouble that girls are from the day they are born! Always contrary, and never knowing what they want, nor what's best for them. Why girls can't be born boys is more than I know!"
"There, mother, that is Irish enough for old Paddy Shaunessey."
"Always flying in the face of luck too," her mother went on, not heeding the interruption, "and alwaystaking up with some crooked stick at last. The way you run after that old Tom Putnam is shameful!"