Patty's Perversities. Bates Arlo

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СКАЧАТЬ way she talks about that funeral is more crazy than her usual speeches, and that is certainly needless."

      "Don't names," Flossy asked pensively, "always convey a color to your mind, Mr. Blood?"

      "Convey a color?"

      "Yes. Like Caroline, you know: that always makes me think of pale yellow, and Susan of red, and Mary of blue."

      "What nonsense!" laughed her cousin. "What color would Bathalina suggest?"

      "That name," said Flossy, "always calls up a grayish, dirty green, like faded linsey-woolsey."

      And at that moment the dinner-bell rang.

CHAPTER X.

       Table of Contents

A CHANCE MEETING.

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      The Putnam mansion, wherein the lawyer's ancestors had lived and died for several generations, stood next to the cottage of Dr. Sanford; or rather the two places were back to back, each facing one of the two principal of the village streets. To reach either house from the more distant thoroughfare, a short cut was taken across the grounds of the other, right-of-way being conceded by mutual agreement.

      People in Montfield retired early; and thus it happened that at ten o'clock of the Friday night following the coming of grandmother Sanford the lights were out in the doctor's cottage, and sleep was supposed to have descended upon all the dwellers therein. Patty had not, however, retired. A thunder-storm was slowly rising out of the west, with golden fringes of lightning about its dark edges; and she sat at her open window to watch its progress. The unusual restraint imposed upon her by her lameness had made her restless; and she longed to steal out of the house, and run races across the orchard as she had done when a child. The sultry closeness of the night made her take a fan, with which she did little but tap impatiently upon the window-ledge. She was not thinking connectedly, but in a vague way unpleasant thoughts and feelings crowded tumultuously through her brain like the crew of Comus.

      Suddenly in the garden below she heard voices. A man was speaking earnestly, but in a tone too low to be audible at the window above. A woman answered him, the pair seeming to discuss something with much emphasis. Her curiosity greatly excited by so unusual a circumstance, Patty leaned out of the window to discover, if possible, who were the speakers.

      "Well, it's the Lord's will," she heard the woman's voice say. "And I, for one, ain't a-going to run a muck agin it."

      "It is Bathalina!" the listener said to herself. "Who in the world can she be talking to?"

      She leaned farther from her window, but by an unlucky movement of her arm sent her fan fluttering down to the gravel walk below. The speakers departed in different directions like phantoms, and Patty was left once again to her own reflections. At first she speculated upon the possible nature of the interview she had interrupted; then her thoughts came back to her fan. It chanced to be one painted by an artist-cousin, and one of which she was fond: a thunder-storm was rapidly approaching, and the fan likely to be ruined. Her ankle was fast recovering, and she was not long in determining to go down into the garden for her property. With the aid of the furniture and the stair-railings she got safely down to the side-door, cautiously unbolted it and slipped out. The fan was only a few steps from the door, but a rolling-stone lay in wait for the lame ankle, and gave it so severe a turn that Patty sank down a miserable heap upon the ground. She sat there a moment to recover herself, and then crawled back to the door-steps. Seated here, she gazed ruefully at the fan, a white spot upon the dusky walk, and, coddling her aching ankle in her hands, wondered how she was to regain her room.

      At that moment brisk steps sounded on the walk, approaching the spot where she sat. A tall form defined itself amid the darkness, pausing before her.

      "Good-evening," said the voice of Tom Putnam. "Is it you, Patty?"

      "Yes. It is I."

      "Would it be polite to ask if you walk in your sleep?"

      "I can't walk awake at any rate," she replied, half laughing and half crying, "whatever I may do in my sleep."

      "Then, you must have come here for air in your dreams."

      "I came after that fan, and I've twisted my foot over again."

      He restored the fan, and then seated himself at her feet on the lowest step.

      "It is fortunate I took this way home," he said coolly. "I hear that you think I am miserly."

      "What?" she exclaimed in surprise.

      "I am told that you pronounce me miserly," he repeated. "I am very sorry, for I mean to ask you to be my wife."

      Instead of answering this strange declaration, Patty covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. He laid his fingers lightly upon her hair, smoothing it with a caressing motion. Surprise, physical pain, anger, and love were all oddly mingled in Patty's mind. She knew that she loved this man, and she was bitterly angry with herself for having misjudged him. She was no less angry with him for knowing the latter fact, of which Emily Purdy had taken care that he should not remain ignorant. She had, too, that Amazonian repugnance to the caress of a lover which is often inborn in strong personalities. She shook off the lawyer's touch as if it were fire.

      "I misjudged you," she said, by an angry effort controlling her tears, "and I am not too proud to own it. Now forget it."

      "Very well," he said, "it is forgotten. But your opinion is every thing to me, for I have loved you these dozen years, Patty. I've watched you growing up, and loved you more and more every year. I've had the words in my mouth a hundred times; but now I am able to marry, and I ask you to be my wife."

      However cool these words may seem in black and white, they were intense as Tom Putnam spoke them, his rich voice gathering force as he proceeded. He was moved from that calm which Flossy Plant declared to be an essential law of his existence. The passion he felt was too old, too well defined, to come stammering and broken from his tongue; but his voice trembled, and he bent forward until his hot breath touched her cheek. He did not again attempt to caress her, but she felt that his eyes were fixed upon her with a keenness that could almost pierce the darkness. Still her mood was a defensive one. That she fought against herself no less than against him, only added strength to her determination not to yield.

      "You had little faith in the depth of my love," she said at last, after a silence which seemed to both very long, "if you thought I should be afraid of poverty with you."

      "Then you do love me!" he exclaimed, in joyous, vibrating tones.

      "I did not say so," she retorted quickly. "I was talking of your feelings, not mine."

      "I had no right to ask you to share poverty," he said. "I loved you too well to do it."

      "That is because you looked only at your own side," she persisted. "If I loved a man, I should be glad if he were poor. I should delight to show him that I loved him better than any thing money would buy. Oh! I should be proud and glad to work for him if I need—and you thought I wouldn't do it!"

      He СКАЧАТЬ