Patty's Perversities

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 the road 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."

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 serves them 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 very good 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.

CHAPTER XX

AN OUTBURST

"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 the ardor 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 had worked 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 of father'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 you trifled 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 always sings 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."

CHAPTER XXI

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

"This must 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 was there 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 will be 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.'"

quoted Flossy under her breath to Patty —

"'Wash for need.'""'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.