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.
"Will will take you home when he carries Floss to rehearsal," Patty said as she entered. "We are going to Mrs. Shankland's."
CHAPTER XXII
A MISUNDERSTANDING
In this 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, if indeed 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 for several 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 Jacob Wentworth 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.