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CHAPTER XVIII
A CHAPTER OF SHREDS AND PATCHES

Monday morning found the young people at the Sanford cottage in rather indifferent spirits. When the sun, after having fought his way through clouds to do so, awoke Patty, the sound which his beams evoked from her lips was not, like that of Memnon, a note of joy, but a sigh. Flossy announced at breakfast a severe attack of her dyspepsia, caused, she declared, by the sermon to which she had listened at Samoset.

"It was a dreadfully hard sermon," she said, "and had more heads than a hydra. I'm not used to such things, and it's no wonder it made me ill."

"I didn't hear it," Will remarked; "but it has given me a headache all the same. It must be because I have so many ideas. I shall lose my wits with the pain some day, I've no doubt."

"If you do," Floss retorted, "you can advertise for them as of no use but to the owner, like private papers."

"What nonsense you two talk!" grandmother Sanford said mildly. "Dost thee think, William, that friend Putnam has secured my pension yet?"

"I will try to find out to-day, grandmother, after I've driven mother over to call on the young and lovely bride, Mrs. Bathalina Peter Clemens Mixon."

From the time of the sudden and romantic departure of Bathalina, the life of Mrs. Sanford had been made a burden by the trial of new servants. She utterly refused to have anybody about her who was Irish; yet the servants she had tried had proved alike a weariness to the flesh and a vexation to the spirit. They were principally farmers' daughters, who "never thought o' livin' out, but would stop a spell, jes' to 'commodate." In Montfield everybody knew his neighbor's affairs; and the friends of the family had been sending in a continuous stream of candidates, or messages respecting girls they thought might be available, or concerning people who might know of girls to hire, or have heard of somebody who did. Even Mrs. Brown at length became aware of the vacancy in the Sanfords' kitchen, and sent over a girl whom she recommended as being all that the most exacting could desire. It proved to be the same amiable domestic who had dealt such destruction among Mrs. Brown's hairpins; and for various reasons her first morning at the doctor's cottage was also her last.

"What could you expect," Mrs. Sanford said, "of a girl Mrs. Brown recommended? She's no kind of a housekeeper. She'd be sure to have a pig killed on the wane of the moon. And she's like one of her own doughnuts: she's no sort or kind of life nor sconce, but tough as leather to bite, if you are ever hungry enough to want to eat one. I declare I am worn almost to a shadow with trying girls, and not getting one fit to live with."

But at last a ray of light had shone through the clouds. Bathalina Mixon had sent word that her experience of wedded bliss was not, on the whole, satisfactory, and that she was willing to return and be forgiven. So Mrs. Sanford and Will were going to treat with the repentant bride, and if possible arrange for her return.

"She ain't more than half-witted," Mrs. Sanford said; "but I've concluded that's an advantage; and she knows the ways of the house, and is afraid of the doctor."

Few couples were ever more ill-assorted than Dr. Sanford and his wife; but the husband bore with admirable patience the follies which experience had taught him it was idle to hope to eradicate. His keen sense of humor aided him in this forbearance, and a remark of his wife's more than usually grotesque, had no other visible effect upon him than to provoke a quiet smile about the corners of his lips. The doctor was unspeakably fond of his children, and in them found something of the companionship denied him with his wife. Will was to succeed his father in his practice, and was already studying with that in view. For Patty her father could not bear to plan a future, since he could not endure the thought of separation. Her wooers had made little impression upon him, but he frowned decidedly upon Clarence Toxteth.

"I do not like the breed," he said to his wife. "The Toxteth blood doesn't seem to have any brain-making power in it."

"I think anybody must have brains to get money," Mrs. Sanford answered. "They've got that, at any rate, and only one son for it to go to."

"One son of that kind," her husband returned grimly, "is a great plenty."

Towards Mr. Putnam the doctor's attitude was not hostile, but rather that of one who reserved his opinion. He postponed in his mind the consideration of these things, as if by so doing he could delay the inevitable, and retain his favorite child the longer in the home-nest.

But all this has no very intimate connection with the visit which Mrs. Sanford and her son had set out to pay to Mrs. Mixon. They found her in a dilapidated building in the outskirts of Samoset, which had been built as a tenement for the hands in a cotton-mill now burned. Hither Peter had conveyed his bride, when, flushed with eager love, she flew to his arms from the funeral of her cousin's child; and for a week he had treated her with the utmost consideration, having an eye to her money.

"The shekels naturally belong in the husband's hands," he said, "and you'd better let me take care of them. These banks are slippery things, and I've no confidence in those Samoset fellers anyway. I'll get it, and you can call on me for cash when you want it."

Whether her call would be answered was a question the foolish wife unfortunately forgot to consider; and into the rascal's pocket went the savings which Dr. Sanford had taken pains to have Bathalina lay by. Mixon's tenderness decreased in the same proportion as his bride's funds; and, when once he had obtained them all, the amiable Peter was amiable no longer. He began a course of reckless abuse, developing an imaginative ingenuity in the invention of curses and opprobrious epithets, which was wonderful to hear.

"I bore livin' with him as long as I could," Bathalina afterward confided to aunty Jeff; "but one day it was borne in upon me that I was unequally yoked with unbelievers, and I made up my mind, that, as it wasn't much of a marriage anyway, I wouldn't have no more to do with him. So I told him if he'd go over to Montfield, and ask Mis' Sanford would she take me back, I'd get out of his way, and he might marry 'Mandy West for what I cared."

The arrangements for Bathalina's return were easily concluded, and Mrs. Sanford and Will set out towards home once more. They drove rapidly, as the clouds were every moment becoming more threatening. Fate, however, had her purposes in their going, and interposed by breaking beneath the wheels of their carriage a decayed culvert. The buggy was overturned, mother and son being suddenly and unceremoniously tumbled in an undignified heap into the carriage-top. The horse stopped of his own will in spite of the alarming outcry of Mrs. Sanford, who moaned and shrieked, and wailed and lamented, while her son fished her from the wreck.

 
"'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.

CHAPTER XIX
TOXTETH SEEKS AN ALLY

Mrs. Sanford was 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 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.