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CHAPTER XXXIV
THE MASKERS

Meanwhile the other maskers, if not at heart happier than Patty, were at least outwardly gay. The fun was heartily entered into on all sides, and mock flirtations abounded. Flossy accepted the proffered arm of an Italian bandit, one of the Samoset party; and the pair had joined the promenaders moving up and down the long hall.

"But whom do you represent?" he asked. "I do not understand your dress."

"Oh! I'm Dame Trot and her wonderful cat," Flossy returned lightly. "I supposed that even in Italy I had been heard of."

"So you have, Dame Trot; but, not seeing your cat, I was naturally puzzled."

"My cat," she replied confidentially, "is dead."

"Indeed? How sad! When did the melancholy event take place?"

"I do not know exactly. The fact is, he disappeared one night; and, as I'm sure he couldn't live without me, I am convinced that he must be dead."

"And you were deprived of even the privilege of weeping over his grave?"

"He is like Moses," she answered impressively. "The place of his sepulchre no man knoweth to this day."

"That is a distinction," laughed the brigand. "Keep a brave heart, Dame Trot: I may hear tidings of the wonderful cat yet. Meanwhile here is some one who is evidently looking for you."

It was a huge monk, who had all the evening been searching for the white lute-string which she wore.

Some weak souls yield to omens and ill-starred presages, but heroic mortals overcome them. So far from being discouraged by the ill-luck of his penny-tossing, Burleigh was but the more firmly determined to press his suit. Tucking Flossy under his arm, he led her out of the press, and found solitude behind a stand of plants in the back hall.

"I have been trying all the evening to find you," he said. "Did I not do well to make out the lute-string dress?"

"Oh, wonderfully!" she answered, imitating him in pulling off her mask. "Dear me, how hot it is! These masks are so roasting!"

"They are close," he assented. "Look here," he continued with sudden vehemence. "I dare say you'll be angry, – you'll have a right to be, – but I love you, and I want you for my wife!"

"Mercy!" exclaimed Flossy, much as if she had been shot.

An opening among the plants let a beam of light fall upon his honest, manly face; and, as he leaned eagerly towards Flossy, his clear eyes seemed to look into the very depth of her being.

"Don't you care for me?" he pleaded. "I have loved you" —

He left his sentence incomplete, and caught her into his arms, to the great detriment of the lute-string dress. He insisted always that he saw permission in her face; but she quite as strenuously averred that she gave him no answer, and that her face could have expressed nothing but indignant surprise. But in any case they forgot the world in general and the company present in particular, until they heard people going away, and were astonished to find that supper with its unmasking had passed by, and that it was long after midnight.

"And I am so fond of supper!" Flossy said. "It was very unkind of you to keep me here."

"But I am so fond of you," he retorted, "that it was very good of you to stay."

"I've a great mind to eat you," she said.

"Do. I know I shall like it, and I'm sure I'd taste better than pop-corn."

"But I haven't promised any thing," Flossy said, speaking, as usual, quite independently of the subject in hand. "We're not engaged until you've seen father."

An hour or two later, when Burleigh was preparing to retire, his silver lucky-penny dropped to the floor.

"Ah, ha!" he cried, tossing it into the air. "You were wrong, after all, old fellow, unless you wanted to bully me into proposing; and, by George! I think that's the only way I got pluck for it."

And the great honest fellow took himself to bed, and lay awake thinking of Flossy with a simple humility that was very touching. A glow of love and happiness enveloped him like a rosy cloud; and when at last he fell asleep it was to dreams as passionately pure as had been his waking thoughts, and, like them, centring about the little maiden who had that night promised to become his wife.

Before the guests at Mrs. Toxteth's unmasked, Will encountered Putnam, and endeavored to discover his identity.

"You are evidently dumb," he said at last, after having vainly tried to make Tom speak. "'Tis a virtue more to be commended in the other sex."

"By great Cæsar's immortal ghost!" exclaimed the undisguised tones of Clarence Toxteth at his elbow, "that must be Will Sanford's voice. Where is Patty? Didn't she come?"

"She came, but I don't know where she is."

"I've hunted the whole evening for her, and have had supper put off on purpose to find her before we unmasked. I followed Emily Purdy a while, but I knew her voice the minute she spoke."

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, but still remained silent.

"For my part," Sanford said, "I shouldn't tell her dress if I knew it; but as it happens I don't. She was covered from head to foot in a waterproof when we came."

Putnam turned away with a feeling of relief. He began to hope that Patty's wild freak might pass unknown, and searched through the rooms, meaning to make a last appeal to her to leave before the masks were removed. His search was of course unsuccessful, but he encountered Emily Purdy.

"How clever Patty Sanford was in deceiving us!" he said as soon as he was sure she knew him. "We might have known she only took that man's dress as a blind. Have you seen her to-night? I think her costume the handsomest here."

"No, I haven't seen her," Emily answered. "How is she dressed?"

"You'll see when we unmask," Tom answered; adding, with quiet sarcasm, "It wouldn't be quite fair to tell before."

CHAPTER XXXV
PETER MIXON

Finding a man flung apparently lifeless at her feet, Patty applied herself in the most matter-of-fact way to the discovery whether he were dead or alive.

He had been with much violence pitched headforemost into the ditch; and her first care was to drag his head out of the mire, and to turn him over into an easy position. She loosened his cravat, and bathed his forehead with water. At last a faint groan attested that life had not departed, and the man stirred feebly.

By this time a few men panting and blowing came running up. They had heard the runaway, and pursued as rapidly as possible, humanity and curiosity alike spurring them on. By Patty's direction they carried the injured man into the house of Mrs. Brown, which chanced to be at hand; and then it was seen that he was Peter Mixon. They were obliged to deposit the unfortunate Peter on a lounge while the lady of the house had a bed prepared for him.

"I've been meaning to have a bed made up in the spare-room," that notable housekeeper said, "ever since brother Phineas's folks were here last spring. I never would have believed, Patience Sanford, that you'd have brought him here! But there! as I was telling Joe only the other day when our old gray cat died, that we've had for more than ten years, our best friends ain't to be depended upon; but they'll go off the handle when you least expect it. And it ain't as if I had a house full of copious apartments: I've only that room for company. However, carry him up."

The sufferer was at length got to bed, a messenger having meanwhile been sent for Dr. Sanford. Patty thought it best to remain until her father came; as Mrs. Brown evinced a strong disposition to stir up the wounded man, and make him tell where he was injured. Mixon lay unconscious, his heavy breathing sounding painfully through Mrs. Brown's dribble of speech. His head was badly gashed, and one of his arms hung limp and helpless. When Dr. Sanford came, he saw at a glance that the man was dangerously hurt, several of his ribs being broken, and it appearing probable that he was injured internally. Dr. Sanford made his daughter useful while he dressed the wounds in the patient's head.

"I shall stay a while," he said when this was done. "How came you here?"

"I was going home, and saw him thrown out."

"Going home? What for?"

"I had a headache, and the rooms were very warm," she replied, dropping her eyes.

"Were you alone?"

"Yes, sir."

Her father looked at her keenly.

"I won't force your confidence," he said; "but I've seen for some time that you were unhappy. Be careful, my daughter."

"I shall be as merry as a grig," she answered, "when I have slept off this headache."

The wind had risen, and the sky was overcast, as Patty hurried towards home. The leaves went scurrying by with a hollow rustle, while all the air was full of those eerie noises which haunt its bosom on All-Hallowe'en. Shivering somewhat from excitement, and more from fatigue, the girl reached her gate. The wounded man had already given place in her mind to the remembrance of her interview with Tom Putnam. Now at last she felt that every thing was ended between them. Instead of going into the house, she crossed the garden towards the brook. Just above the bridge was a pool which the children used to call Black-Clear Eddy, from the singular blackness at once and transparency of the water. Standing beside this she dropped a stone into the pool to break the thin film of ice which was forming. Then she unfastened her cloak, and drew up from beneath the bosom of her dress a silk cord, to which was fastened a hoop of gold wire. It was her secret, known to no one but herself. Years before, Tom Putnam had twisted this ring carelessly from a bit of gold broken from his sister's bracelet, and had given it to Patty for a philopena. She held it a moment in her hand, and then dropped it through the hole in the ice.

"There!" she said to herself, turning away. "That is done. I feel so much like a sensational story, that I am not sure I am not to be continued in our next. I should have done something tragic in throwing away that trumpery ring. A few lines from 'The Faithful Jewess' wouldn't have come in amiss: —

 
"'I raise my arms to you, ye starless skies,
And cry for pity on my hapless lot.
Ah, perjured one! Why hast thou left me lone?'
 

"Goodness, how cold it is! Good-by, old ring! Some of the witches riding about to-night may fish you up, and wear you to their sabbath."

She entered the silent house, and crept to her room, where she got quickly to bed, only to lie and toss with troubled thought, which would have ended in tears had she been of weaker mettle. She fell asleep at last: and from her mind, as from Pandora's box, slipped every thing but hope; so that she dreamed she was betrothed to Tom Putnam with the very ring she had dropped into Black-Clear Eddy.

CHAPTER XXXVI
MRS. SMITHERS

Peter Mixon's unlucky and disreputable head had been pretty severely battered by his accident; and for several days he remained, as his wife lucidly said, "unsensible." This delirium had passed away, but Dr. Sanford had little hope of the patient's recovery. Bathalina hung over her husband's bed in an agony of late and needless remorse, lamenting that her "sinful pride" had come to this; although the connection was by no means apparent. She sang "Death-bed Reflections" so constantly, that at last Will Sanford threatened her with instant death if he heard another syllable of that doleful hymn. She labored with Peter in regard to his spiritual condition, continually begging him to let her read aloud from the Scriptures.

"You told me you was a Methodist," she said reproachfully; "but either you lied, or you're fallen from grace. You'd better let me read a chapter: it may arouse your conscience."

"Read, then, if you want to," he said one day, too feeble to resist.

"Where shall I read?" she asked delightedly, giving her Bible a preparatory scrub with her apron.

"Oh!" he answered weakly, "read about David and Goliath: that's as lively a chapter as any I know of."

"Peter Mixon!" cried Bathalina, "don't be blasphemous on your death-bed! But it is a just reward for my sinful pride that I should be the widow of an unbeliever."

Both Patty and Flossy were frequent in their visits to the sick man. He seemed grateful, in his rough way, for their kindness, and would brighten up as they entered the chamber. Particularly he seemed pleased to have Patty about him, and would take from her hand the medicine which no persuasions of his wife could induce him to swallow.

"He takes to you wonderful," Bathalina said: "I don't think he's so bad at heart."

"I noticed the other day," Mrs. Sanford remarked, overhearing her, "that he has a mole on the left side of his chin, and that's a sure sign of goodness. Not so good as on the right side; but I don't doubt he's right-hearted in the main."

Patty occupied herself more with the invalid, because of her mental uneasiness. There is no refuge for unhappiness but labor. Hazard Breck had returned to college; and, before leaving, he called to bid her good-by.

"I perhaps ought not to speak of it," he said hesitatingly, as he rose to go; "but you look very unhappy nowadays, Patty."

"Do I? It must be your fancy. I don't have a mournful thought from one year's end to another. Sentimentalizing isn't in my line."

"I fear it is in mine," he said. "The summer has been a very bitter-sweet one to me. I am glad it is done."

"It is you who are sad," she said, bravely smiling. "You look at me through colored glasses. I am gay as a lark."

"I wish I believed it," he returned.

The pain of a boy's first love, although less fleeting than the bliss, is fortunately also transient. His love and regret were very real to Hazard. He was conscious that Patty did not love him; but he believed that his boyish passion would be eternal, and life for him henceforth only desolation. That we shall some day smile at a fancy makes the present pain none the less poignant.

"You will come back at Christmas, won't you?" Patty said, wishing to divert the conversation.

"No, I think not; but, if I do, I hope you won't look as solemn as you do now."

"Solemn? Nonsense! I'm as merry as a cricket. Where is your brother to-day?"

"He rode over to Samoset with uncle Tom this morning. They won't be back till evening."

After her caller had gone, Patty turned back into the parlor, and looked at her face in the glass.

"I do look like Death's second wife," she soliloquized. "If I could only have a tremendous cry, and get over it, I might feel better, I suppose; but I can't: so there's an end of it. I'll go and see that wretched old Peter instead. I think I shall eventually go as a missionary, and nurse sick cannibals until they get well enough to cook and eat me. Heigh-ho! What a wretched old Peter it is, to be sure! At least I'm thankful to him for giving me something to do. Poor Hazard, I wish I were half as good as he is! Patty Sanford, you are a fool! Go and see that dilapidated Mixon this minute!"

Her shortest way to the house of Mrs. Brown was through the Putnam fields; and to-day, being sure that the lawyer was absent, she started in this direction. Meanwhile a whimsical fate had conducted to the Castle in Air another woman. This visitor came slowly over the brown fields, passing along the bank of the brook, stopping now and then to bite into a rose-hip, or chew the bark from some tender twig. It was Mrs. Smithers, the woman who had summoned Putnam to Samoset, and who had lately come to live in the stone cottage. This woman, who among people had a restless, constrained manner, here moved with a free, elastic step and bearing. Her childhood had been passed in the neighborhood of Montfield; and Hannah Clemens had grown up as lovely as a wild rose. Her sister Bathalina seemed to have absorbed all the ugliness of the family, and to have gone on her half-witted way honestly and contentedly, leaving to the elder her fatal dowry of beauty, wit, and unhappiness. In an evil day Mr. Mullen saw the beautiful, ambitious girl; and to his wealth she yielded only too readily. Never loving him, she had yet the art to fascinate him, until, after the death of his wife, he had been ready to marry her. Her own infatuation for a new lover, the father of the Breck boys, had made her refuse the hand of Mr. Mullen. Outliving both her lovers, who died nearly at the same time, Mrs. Smithers, as, with a slight concession to morality, she called herself, wandered about the country, seldom content to remain for long in one place. Her natural restlessness was increased by her habitual use of opium; and a habit of morose sullenness had grown upon her. Shunned by all her kindred, it was perhaps strange that she should have chosen to return to her native village. She went out chiefly at night; and, having discovered that from the Castle in Air could be seen the tower of Mullen House, often came on moonlight evenings to view the mansion she steadily persisted in calling her own. To-day, having seen Putnam drive away, she ventured to come by daylight; and she descended the ladders just as Patty had crossed the bridge on her way to Mrs. Brown's. The latter walked on composedly, until, at the foot of the elm, Mrs. Smithers blocked her path.

"Well," Mrs. Smithers said, after examining the face of the other a moment in silence, "what do you want? You'll know me another time, I hope."

"Will you let me pass, please," Patty replied coldly.

"So! No: I won't let you pass till I'm ready. I'd like to look at you a while. I've seen you before."

She placed her arms akimbo as she spoke, and stared at Patty, who stood quiet.

"So!" she said at last. "What are you on these premises for? What do you want? Are you after your rights too?"

There was no further motive in the woman's actions at the moment than a wild desire to vent her rage upon any one who offered. As Patty changed color, however, a sudden devilish inspiration darted like the whisper of an evil spirit through Mrs. Smithers's opiumized brain. Completely ignorant of the relations between Patty and Putnam, she understood that her words had been misconceived. By chance she had hit between the joints of the harness. Patty had refused to listen to the insinuations of her mother and Mrs. Brown, who coupled what was known of the character of the new tenant of the stone cottage and her mysterious relations with the lawyer, much to the discredit of that gentleman. Now this woman seemed herself to confirm the slander; and it was no wonder that Patty grew pale.

"So!" Mrs. Smithers said again, seizing the chance to calumniate the man she hated none the less because he had remained unmoved by her fascinations. "So! We know what we know of Tom Putnam. Humph!"

"Will you stand out of my way?" Patty said.

This calmness enraged the woman before her as no violence could have done. She caught Patty forcibly by the wrists.

"So!" she screamed. "You'll hear nothing! I've seen them has held their heads as high as you, and been brought low enough, after all. Do you think, miss, I'm to be ordered out of your way like a dog, when, if I had my rights, there's nobody in this d – d town'd dare queen it over me! So! I'll" —

But Patty wrenched herself free, and ran swiftly towards the street. The other did not follow, but stood cursing, until a turn hid the girl from her sight.

CHAPTER XXXVII
THANKSGIVING

It was raining, and raining with a will. It was sure to rain all day: there was no question about that. As Patty looked from her window Thanksgiving morning, and saw the leafless trees and faded grass on Boston Common, soaked in the cold November storm, it seemed to her that she had never gazed upon a drearier scene. She crossed her arms upon the window-sill, resting her chin on them, and fell into a fit of bitter musing.

Flossy, announcing her decision to remain in Montfield through the winter, had coupled with it her intention of spending Thanksgiving week at home.

"I must go and see father once in a while," she remarked. "That's only respectable. And I must have something to wear, you know, even in Montfield. Patty is going with me to bring me back safe."

"I going with you?" her cousin returned. "I had not heard of that before."

"Didn't I tell you? I supposed you'd know. As father would say, 'There are some things which even this Court may be supposed to understand.'"

Patty was secretly glad to get away. To escape from Montfield seemed like an escape from herself. She was restless and dissatisfied, and even the remonstrances of the family at her being away upon Thanksgiving Day fell upon heedless ears. Once the plan was proposed, she felt a feverish desire for its accomplishment until she was actually in the train moving towards Boston. At first she experienced a feeling of relief, as if she had left care and trouble behind; but scarcely had the hills of Montfield faded from sight than she longed to turn back. At home she at least was where she might see her lover, even if it were but to quarrel with him. At home she could sit brooding at her window, looking towards the Putnam place, and imagining the life and the thoughts of its master. Hardly could she restrain the tears which pressed to her eyes as the train bore her farther and farther from home; but with angry pride she controlled herself, and laughed gayly at all Flossy's nonsense.

Mr. Plant had received her kindly; and, in the distractions of pleasure-seeking and of shopping, Patty had forgotten or overcome her sentimental woes until this morning.

Now, with this cheerless rain steadily falling, and Flossy closeted with her father, to whom she now first disclosed her engagement, Patience found herself homesick and miserable.

"There is one thing certain," she mused. "I have been a fool to care for Tom as I have – and I have. He's a man, after all; and all men are alike, I suppose, – self-contained and self-indulgent. Not that he's as bad as most of them; but he's a man; and – I'm a woman. Either there must be some men different, or a woman could never be happy with any of them. There! Who'd suppose I could be such a fool? I have been very fond of Tom, – very, very fond: I'm not sure I didn't love him just a little bit. He must have cared for me something, or he never could have kissed my hand so. Oh, dear! it's all over now. There comes Floss. I wonder what uncle Chris said."

"I've done it," Flossy remarked coolly, entering, and seating herself with a nimble spring upon the dressing-table. "The paternal astonishment is extreme, not to say alarming."

"I think it likely," Patty answered.

"Papa didn't seem very enthusiastic over my marrying a farmer," her cousin went on in the same abstracted way. "But, as I told him, it isn't as if he'd got to have the farm here in the way."

"Still a farm would be convenient to have in the house," said Patty, laughing.

"Do you know," the other continued, "it was only my profound sagacity that brought him round."

"Then he has come round?"

"Come round? Bless you, Pitsy-Patsy! he has but one wish, – a desire to embrace Burleigh."

"I'd like to see the embrace," laughed Patty. "With the size of the two, it would be a spectacle. How did you accomplish it?"

"Oh, I spoke of the milk and the butter and the cheese – the lovely cream-cheese – and the honey. I wonder," she interrupted herself, "that bees don't keep a cow, cream is so ravishing with honey. And, when papa's mouth began to water, I heaved a sigh, and so sighing I rolled up my eyes, and ejaculated how happy we'd be. And what do you suppose he said?"

"Something very profane, I'm afraid," answered Patty.

"No," Floss said. "He didn't. If you'll believe it, he only smacked his lips, and asked if Burleigh raised early vegetables."

"Is that what you cried for?" asked the other, looking at her cousin's swollen eyes.

Instead of answering, Floss sprang from her perch, ran to her friend, and threw her arms about her neck, bursting into tears. The two foolish creatures wept together, and then kissed each other, and doubtless felt better for the demonstration.

The truth was, that the interview between Mr. Plant and his daughter had been a painful one. He cared little for Flossy's society, and the sympathy between them was not of the closest. But he could not, without difficulty, reconcile himself to have his only child, city born and bred, bury herself in the country, and unite herself to a man so far below his idea of a desirable match. He had received the announcement with unaffected amazement, appearing more deeply moved by it than Flossy had ever seen him. It was only after a long and trying scene that he yielded to his daughter's entreaties and his own desire for peace, and gave a grudging consent.

"I think that is enough of a weep," Patty said, giving her cousin a hug. "I'm sure I don't know what we should cry about."

"Now I'll tell you. He's here," said Flossy impressively.

"Who's here?"

"Burleigh."

"Here? In the house? Have you hidden him in a closet?"

"Oh, dear, no! In Boston, I mean. He's coming to dine to-day. I told father."

"Of all schemers!" Patty laughed. "Really, Floss, uncle Chris will frighten Burleigh to death. They won't know how to take each other."

"No," was the answer. "But they needn't take each other. I'm the one to be taken."

"O Dandelion, Floss-head!" Patience cried, catching her cousin's face between her hands, and looking deep into her eyes. "Are you happy, Floss? Is being in love so delightful?"

"That depends upon who is in love," the little witch answered. "Some people in that predicament devote all their energies to making themselves uncomfortable. Let me go: there's the postman."

Out of the room she darted, leaving Patty, with cheeks aflame, to wonder how far her secret had been divined.

The postman brought no letter for Flossy; but at the same hour, in another part of the city, an epistle was delivered bearing the Montfield postmark. Miss Sturtevant tore it open in her cheerless room, and read as follows: —

Montfield, Nov. 26.

Dear Flora, – Peter Mixon is getting worse, instead of better, every day. I have tried my best to get what I want; but there's always a crew of women about him, and he's as obstinate as a mule. If you could come down, you'd be in the house with him, and you might do something. Of course, if you get the paper I would make it a good thing for you. Can't you come this week? Patty Sanford is always round him when she is here; but she is in Boston now, and you'd have a better chance before she gets back. At all events, come as soon as you can.

Yours truly,

Frank Breck.

"Uncle Jacob," Flora said to herself, refolding the letter, "I shall go to Montfield to-night. Don't you hope I may give you those papers when I get them?"