Patty's Perversities

Nor could Miss Mullen's persuasions move him. The thrust she had given his pride, thinking thereby the more surely to accomplish her object, had turned against her. He felt that to send away the woman who had become his tenant would appear an acknowledgment of the truth of the slander against him.

But it was with a heavy heart that he rode homewards.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE RUSTIC ROAD

Miss Flora Sturtevant was walking slowly along a lovely forest-road. It was near sunset, and the rays of light shot long bars of dusky gold between the tree-trunks. The robin, the thrush, and the oriole, still delaying through the warm autumnal weather, sang by starts amid the branches. The bright knots of ribbon upon Flora's dress, and the scarlet poppies in her hat, were touched and lighted by the glow, making all the hundred lights and gleams of the wood seem to centre about her figure. She carried in her hand a bunch of ferns and grasses, mingled with a few bright leaves; and she sauntered with the careless air of having come out merely for enjoyment.

The road had once been the county turnpike, but had long ago fallen into disuse. Now the trees met overhead, the grass and ferns had obliterated the marks of wheels, and, except for hunters or loitering pleasure-seekers, the way remained untrodden.

But Miss Sturtevant, idle and leisurely as was her mien, was not simply sauntering to enjoy the pleasure of nature. She was upon a diplomatic errand. Frank Breck had conducted her hither, and had turned back, that she might be alone to encounter a man who Breck knew was soon to pass this way. The lady was perfectly cool and collected. The idea of meeting in the forest a man to whom she had never spoken, and whose character she knew to be bad, seemed not to give her the slightest concern. Perhaps she expected Breck to remain within call; possibly her strong self-reliance made her insensible to fear.

At length the barking of a dog rang through the woods, and soon sounds of some one approaching were heard. Miss Sturtevant's lips closed with an expression of firmness, over which, however, instantly spread the veil of a smile. Shading her eyes with her hand, and half-turning where she stood, she looked off through the leafy spaces towards the setting sun, conscious that the first glimpse the new-comer caught of her would give him her figure at its best. So absorbed was she in gazing at the sunset, that she apparently did not hear the approaching stranger until he was within half a dozen feet of her. Then she turned suddenly, just as the dog ran up to her. She uttered a little exclamation of surprise.

"How you startled me!" she said, stooping to caress the dog, a handsome pointer. "What a lovely dog you are!"

"He is a kind o' handsome pup," the hunter said, replying to the remark addressed to his dog, – "handsome for a pup, that is," he added guardedly.

"Oh!" cried Flora, catching sight of the game which the man carried. "Oh, how perfectly lovely the necks of those birds are! What are they? What a fine shot you must be!"

"Well, middlin'," he answered, evidently flattered. "Them partridges was terrible shy."

"I've wanted a heron all summer," remarked she, still admiring the glossy necks of the birds. "The feathers, I mean; but I didn't know anybody who could shoot one."

"Herons ain't none too plenty round here," he said, "and it's all-fired hard to get a shot at one."

"Haven't I seen you before?" asked Flora, letting her trimly-gloved hand rest upon the dog's head. "Did you ever live in Boston?"

"I guess I did!" he returned. "I lived with Breck there for most seven years."

"Oh! then, you are Mr. Mixon. It is wonderful that I happened to meet you here. I've wanted to see you for a long time. Do you know who I am?"

"You must be Miss Sturtevant, ain't you? – the one who was so deused smart about the Branch stock."

"Did you hear of that?" she asked, laughing. "I suppose I am the one; but I didn't know I was so smart."

"All-fired smart is what I say," Mixon affirmed with emphasis. "What did you want of me?"

"You may think it strange," she said reflectively; "yes, I'm sure you will think it very strange that I know any thing about it; but you have some papers that I want to see."

Mixon's face instantly assumed an expression of intensest cunning. He leaned upon his gun, bending his head towards his companion. The dog stood between the strangely-matched pair, turning his intelligent face from one to the other. Flora pushed her hat back from her face as if for coolness, but in reality because she knew it was more becoming so. Her blue eyes shot persuasive glances upon the man before her; while her fingers toyed with the long silken ears of the pointer.

"Papers!" Mixon said. "What sort of papers?"

"Papers that old Mr. Mullen" – She left her sentence unfinished, not wishing to risk displaying her ignorance of the real nature of the documents in question. Mixon regarded her sharply.

"Do you know Frank Breck?" he asked. "Maybe, now, he might ha' mentioned this to you."

"I know a great many people besides Frank Breck," she returned, smiling. "I didn't need to go to him for information."

"It's mighty strange," Peter said in a deliberative way, "how many folks thinks I have papers they want. There's Breck; he's always at me. And Miss Mullen – she's sent for me a sight more times than I've been. And then Hannah Clemens, she thought I might have something would put her into her rights. Then there was Tabitha Mullen's lawyer" —

"Mr. Wentworth?" questioned Flora eagerly.

"Yes, that's him. He mittened on to me the other day."

"But I didn't know he had been here."

"He only came down one train," said Peter; "an' he went back on the next. Miss Mullen sent after me to see him. And now you take it up, and want some valuable papers. I wish I could supply you all; but I can't."

"But you can at least let me see" – Flora began. But Mixon interrupted.

"I can't let you see what I hain't got, can I? Somebody must ha' lost an awful precious dociment to make all this stir. – Come, Trip."

"Honestly," Miss Sturtevant said, in her fear that he would escape her, going so far as to lay her fingers upon his arm, – "honestly, haven't you those papers?"

"Naturally I wouldn't want to speak too positively," he returned coolly, "not knowing what you want. But I guess it's safe enough to say no. – Come, Trip."

"Wait," said Flora, retaining the hold she had taken upon Mixon's coat-sleeve. "I didn't mean to put you to trouble without paying you for it."

"Well, that's business. How much, now, should you say was a fair sum, if I had the papers, and would let you see 'em?"

"You might make your own terms," she said quickly, more and more convinced of the value of the mysterious papers. "You'd be the best judge of what it was worth."

"Well, that's generous, almost too all-fired generous. I'm sorry I can't accommodate you; but I can't. Good-night, marm."

And, followed by Trip, Mixon strode off down the rustic way, already dusky in the fast deepening twilight.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE THEATRICALS

A very mixed audience filled to overflowing the town-hall of Montfield. In the front-seats, which had been cleverly reserved for them by a small advance in price, were seated the élite of the village, complacently chatting together of the weather, the exhibition, their servants, and such small gossip as serves to savor the somewhat insipid existence of a country village. Behind these sat the farmers with their wives and daughters; the former regarding the curtain with a species of awe, while the latter indulged in clumsy flirtations with the rustic swains, who offered them delicate attentions in the shape of lozenges and peanuts. The talk here among the elders was chiefly of the crops and of cattle; while the youths and maidens speculated, giggling, upon the prospects of a dancing-school for the winter.

The relatives of the performers were chiefly in the reserved seats, and exhibited more or less nervousness according to their temperaments; all alike, however, endeavoring the most preternatural semblance of indifference.

"I have half regretted," Miss Tabitha Mullen remarked to Dr. Sanford, next whom she chanced to be seated, "that I allowed Ease to take part in this. It scarcely seems the thing with such a mixed audience. But all her associates were concerned in it, and I did not wish to seem over particular."

"You mustn't be too strict with Ease," Mrs. Sanford began to reply for her husband, when the tinkling of a bell announced the rise of the curtain, and she left her remark unfinished.

The young people of Montfield were accustomed at intervals to give theatrical performances, finding this the easiest method of raising funds for charitable purposes. They had accumulated quite a respectable collection of scenery and stage-properties, all more or less primitive, but answering sufficiently well for their purposes. "The Faithful Jewess" required chiefly forest scenery; and of this they possessed quite a variety, amateur talent being apt to run to the rustic drama. The tragedy proceeded smoothly enough, the back-seats understanding little of it, but liking it rather better on that account, besides being amused by the costumes and the high-sounding blank verse. Mr. Putnam was certainly not an accomplished actor; but of a part like that of the patriarch he made as much as the character would admit. The scenes between himself and Patty were really impressive, and won the admiration even of Miss Mullen, who prided herself upon her taste, and was nothing unless critical.

It is probable that both actors played the better for the presence of a deep feeling towards each other. The lawyer was conscious of a thrill whenever his hand touched hers; and, if Patience was less moved, it was because she was more truly an actor, and more completely identified with her part.

At the later rehearsals the young lady had ignored the presence of any misunderstanding between herself and her lover, and had been outwardly her usual self, bright and gay. She had avoided any approach to sentiment, alike with Toxteth and with Putnam. She had given herself up to the arrangements for the exhibition, attending to those thousand details of which no one else ever thought. She enjoyed the excitement, and that most seductive of all forms of flattery, the self-consciousness of being a motive-power and a leader. She had put aside every thing else to be thought of and met after this evening; and the feverish excitement arising from this undercurrent of feeling buoyed her up to-night.

Her dress, setting off her fine form to advantage, was in color and arrangement admirably adapted to her beauty, and never had she looked so superbly handsome. No wonder that to-night her lovers were more deeply enamoured than ever.

Among her lovers, be it said here, was no longer to be numbered Burleigh Blood. The transfer of his allegiance to Flossy Plant, which Patty had first attempted in half-jest, had become deep earnest; and the giant was the humble slave of the little lady he might almost have balanced upon his extended palm.

"The Faithful Jewess," with its "ring-round-rosy" situations, its harrowing dialogue, and long-winded soliloquies, at last reached its tragic climax. The actors strung themselves before the curtain in answer to the vigorous applause of hands horny with holding the plough, and then retired to the dressing-rooms to prepare for "The Country Wooing." The Montfield orchestra, under the lead of old Gustave Harlakenden, the German shoemaker, plunged precipitately into the mazes of a wonderful pot-pourri of popular melodies; while the audience rustled and buzzed.

Tom Putnam, who was not in the cast for the second play, having resumed his ordinary clothing, emerged from his dressing-room just as Miss Sturtevant came from hers, costumed for "The Country Wooing."

"I must congratulate you," she said, "upon the decided hit you made in 'The Jewess.' You took the house by storm."

"Thank you," returned Tom. "You attribute to me the honor which was due to the ladies in the piece."

"It is very modest of you to say so," Flora smiled; "but you undervalue your own acting. I wonder if you will think me rude and presuming, if I make a request."

"Ladies are supposed never to be either," he answered.

"How satirical! I am afraid to ask you. But I will. Will it be too much to ask you to walk home with me to-night? I go to-morrow, and I want you to take those books I borrowed. I should have returned them before."

"Certainly I will," replied he. "I did not know you went so soon."

"I waited for these theatricals," she said. "My half-sister is to be married next week, and I ought to have gone before."

They had by this time reached the end of the stage, which served as a sort of green-room. Here direst confusion reigned. Burleigh Blood had made the dreadful announcement that the excitement had driven his part entirely out of his mind.

A dozen voices proffered in consternation several dozen suggestions at once.

"Never mind," Flossy said. "Make up something: nobody will know."

"But the cues?" exclaimed Miss Sturtevant in dismay.

"Oh, dear! I wish I were at home!" cried Dessie Farnum, almost in tears.

"I never could make up any thing," Burleigh said in despair. "I was a fool to take the part anyway!"

"You'll have to trust to the prompter," Patty said. "There's no help for it now. You are not in the first scene, and can look it over."

"Or hunt up your wits," added Emily Purdy.

"Are you ready?" Patty asked. "Ring up."

The bell sounded, bringing the orchestra to so sudden a stop, that one out of sight might have supposed an immense extinguisher suddenly clapped over it.

"Don't bother," Flossy said consolingly to Burleigh as he stood in the wing, vainly endeavoring to follow the advice of Patty. "If you forget, I'll prompt you. I know the whole of your part and mine too."

Had he known that few mortals were more liable to stage-fright than Flossy herself, he might have been less comforted: as it was, he placed implicit confidence in her ability, and this gave him sufficient self-control to fix for a little his attention upon his book. The next moment, in some way, without any exact knowledge of how he got there, he found himself upon the stage, and the other players one by one going away, and leaving him in the full gaze of that sea of faces. He longed to catch them and hold them back, as each slipped into the friendly obscurity of the wings; but he stood stiff and helpless alone upon the stage with Flossy. The scene which ensued was as follows, the italics indicating what was said in a tone inaudible to the audience.

Flossy (as Waitstill Eastman). "Won't you sit down, Jonathan? You say I don't mind if I do."

Burleigh (as Jonathan Cowboy). "You say I – I don't mind if I do."

F. "Why don't you then? I'm goin' to."

B. "I'm goin' to."

F. "Don't hold your arms so stiff! So is Christmas coming. You needn't, though, if you don't want to. (Sits.) I mean to make myself comfortable. I was waiting for you to sit down."

B. "For me to sit down?"

F. "Say that!"

B. "For me to sit down."

F. "Sit down!"

B. "Sit" —

F. "Goodness! Don't say that! Your chair don't seem easy, somehow. Maybe the floor ain't even over there. I'll move it over there, then."

B. "I'll move it, then."

F. "Move nearer to me. Don't come any nearer me!"

B. "Which shall I do?"

F. "Move up! You'd better keep your distance! Move up! Yes, miss."

B. "Yes, miss."

F. "Keep moving nearer. Now get out, Jack Cowboy! Now don't" —

B. "I know it. Now don't be cross, Waitstill. It ain't often a feller has a chance to come and see you."

And, having thus got fairly launched, Burleigh recalled his lines, which he had faithfully committed, and went smoothly on to the end. Flossy had occasionally to direct his actions, for he fixed his attention so firmly upon the words, that his tendency was to repeat them like a parrot; but between them they came through safe. And, as Flossy had once jokingly predicted, her friend's awkwardness passed for clever acting, so that his success was so great as to astonish every one, particularly himself.

CHAPTER XXIX

NIGHT-SCENES

Miss Sturtevant's summer visit to Montfield usually ended with September, but this year she had remained for the theatricals. That she did not carry Tom Putnam's heart as a trophy of her summer's campaign was certainly no fault of hers. As she walked home from the exhibition, leaning upon his arm, she taxed him with his want of attention.

"I have scarcely seen you for the summer," she said. "You have been very sparing of your calls."

"I confess my remissness, but I have so little time."

"You might at least," Flora said, "have come to thank me for my hint about the Samoset and Brookfield. Almost everybody else sold out."

"To your gain," he returned. He had little respect for the woman beside him, and was annoyed at her intrusion.

"I thought I answered your note," he continued. "I certainly intended doing so."

"Oh, you did!" Miss Sturtevant said, leaning upon his arm more heavily. "But a note is a poor substitute for a call from one to whom one is attached."

"I hope," the lawyer observed briskly, determined not to be drawn into a scene, "that you have sold out. I see by the morning paper that the vote has been reconsidered, and the Branch is not to be bought, after all: I suspected it would be so, all the time. The whole thing was only the work of speculators, and I hope you were as lucky as I in getting rid of your paper at the flood."

"What!" cried his companion, – "reconsidered? You do not mean that the Branch isn't to be bought? Uncle Jacob promised" —

"The Branch certainly is not to be bought," Putnam repeated. "The corporation has no use for it, and never had. You haven't held your stock?"

"I have," she answered, pressing her thin lips together. "I am completely beggared. Good-night. I must have time to think."

"I wish I had known," Tom said, standing upon the step below her; for they had reached the Browns' door. "I supposed you knew all about the stock."

"I thought I did," she answered in a strained, thin voice. "It seems I was mistaken. Good-night."

She went in, and the door closed behind her. Tom walked home, kicking his boot-toes out against every pebble, divided between disapproval and pity.

Twenty-four hours later Miss Sturtevant was confronted with Mr. Jacob Wentworth in the library of his Beacon-street residence. The lawyer sat by a grate in which had been kindled a fire as a precaution against the autumnal chill in the air. On a small table at his hand lay the last number of "Punch," between a decanter of choice sherry and a well-furnished cigar-stand. Mr. Wentworth's family being out for the evening, he was enjoying himself in almost bachelor comfort, only the contrasting background of bachelor loneliness being needed to make his happiness complete. He was not well pleased at this late call from Flora, of whom he had never been fond, and who now came to mar the delightful ease of his evening with complaints of the inevitable. She looked worn and old and eager. She had been travelling a large part of the day, and the anxiety which Putnam's news had brought to her had told severely.

"I knew you would reproach me," Mr. Wentworth was saying. "But, when I found that you had deceived me, I felt under no further obligations to you."

"But I did not deceive you. Peter Mixon has the papers."

"I took the trouble to go to Montfield myself," the other answered judicially, "to prevent the possibility of a mistake; for the Mullen property is a large one, and my client's interests are my own. I saw the man personally, and he assured me that he had no papers whatever."

"So he did me," Flora burst out; "but I was not such a fool as to believe him."

The lawyer gave a sweeping wave of the hand as if to thrust completely aside the implication.

"You are imaginative," he said coolly.

"I had proof of it," she returned, – "proof, I tell you; and you have lied to me about the Branch, and ruined me."

She was ashy pale, and even Mrs. Gilfether would have found no lack of expression in her blue eyes now.

"The turning of the road the other way," Wentworth said unmoved, "was for my interest; and, when Miss Mullen assured me that Frank Breck had the papers, I hardly felt under obligation to communicate further with you."

"Frank Breck?"

"Yes. He is the son of an old friend of the Clemens woman."

"Uncle Jacob," Miss Sturtevant said in her harshest voice, rising from her seat as she spoke, "you are a fool. I shall be even with you yet. Good-night."

When, on the night of the theatricals, Patty saw Tom Putnam give his arm to Miss Sturtevant, she accepted at once the proffered escort of Clarence Toxteth. To Toxteth's remarks she replied in monosyllables, pleading that she was very tired. She dismissed him at the piazza-steps, and, passing into the shadow, gave him the impression that she had entered the house. As a matter of fact she discovered her door-key to be missing; and, not caring to disturb any one, she sat down to wait for Will. He was long in coming, for he and Ease loitered that night.

But steps approached; and, to her surprise, Patty saw in the moonlight Bathalina and her quondam husband coming up the walk. They parted midway between the gate and house, Mrs. Mixon advancing alone.

"I thought, Bathalina," Patty said, "that you had given that man up."

"Law, Miss Patty, how you started me! I thought you would have been a ghost."

"Nonsense! Where have you been all this time?"

"Traipsin' up and down, up and down, like the Devil, seeking of somebody to devour. I'm worn almost out of my shoes, but Peter would argufy it out. So we've been traipsin' up and down; and this shawl's so thick, and the weather so warm, let alone it's bein' October and ought to be cool, that I am about melted to death."

"What makes you wear your shawl, then?"

"I'm not a young girl, miss, that I should walk in my figger. I won't go through the streets with my figger showin', if it kills me."

"What are you walking with Peter Mixon for, anyway? I thought you were done with him."

"Well, miss," the servant answered with a great appearance of candor, "Amanda West wouldn't have him, seein' as he was sort of married to me; and I've been thinking very likely it was all my sinful pride refusing to live with him after the Lord had kind o' jined us."

"The Lord kind o' joined you, I should think!" Patty retorted contemptuously. "The Old Evil One had more to do with it."

CHAPTER XXX

THE WOUNDS OF A FRIEND

The plan which Mrs. Toxteth had once mentioned to Ease, of having a masquerade follow the exhibition, had not been forgotten; and the invitations had accordingly been issued. It was arranged that the actors should meet on the morning following the theatricals, and make some arrangement for the exchange of costumes. About ten o'clock Patty, Flossy, and Will walked over to the Hall together.

"I feel like the ashes of yesterday's cigar slopped with the dregs of last night's champagne," yawned Will, with some reminiscence of wicked college frolics.

"And I," Flossy said, "feel like this man, you know, that" —

"No, I don't know," he interrupted. "I never know 'this man,' Floss; but I'm sorry you feel like him."

"If you'd kept still, you might have found out who he was; but now you'll never know."

"Oh, tell us!"

"No, I shall not. 'Twasn't that other, you know, either."

Flossy's "this man," or "that other, you know," were as famous in her particular circle as Sairy Gamp's "Mrs. Harris, my dear," in a more general one. These allusions were seldom intelligible, and it is to be suspected that sometimes the little witch made them purposely obscure for her own amusement.

The company assembled in the Hall was rather a sleepy one, with scarcely energy enough for discussion. The talk naturally ran chiefly upon the performance, the various haps and mishaps, the successes and failures, the money obtained. Patty and Tom Putnam chanced to stand near each other, and a little apart from the others. She had taken a slight cold from her exposure upon the piazza the night before, and was coughing.