Patricia (9 page)

Oh, perhaps some of them would be rough and silly with some of the girls, and perhaps they might get like Thorny when they were older, but the ones she knew best in her class were either sober, serious, studying hard, and very shy with girls or else they were all absorbed in athletics and had no time for anything else. Not even those she knew in the senior class were loudmouthed and silly like Thorny. Maybe they weren't as good-looking as he was, but they treated the girls with respect. Why, there was John Worth. Of course, it was true he never even went to their parties—though she knew several of the girls had invited him and wanted him to go—but John Worth would never behave that way if he did go with the girls. He was a boy you could trust. He wouldn't take advantage of a girl and try to kiss her and hug her the minute he got alone with her. Look how nice he had been to her, just a little girl, that day on the ice! Of course, he had been only a very young boy then, and she a very little girl, but he had acted like a gentleman. She knew in her heart that he was different. Oh, why couldn't Thorny have been different, if she had to be such friends with him because he was the son of her mother's friend?

How long would this have to go on, anyway? When Thorny grew older and she grew older, would her mother think she could go on making dates for them, forcing them on each other? How dreadful!

Then the tears came again, a perfect avalanche of them, and terror mingled with disgust and hate for Thorny. Somehow she would have to take a stand against him and
make
her mother understand! Yes, even if she had to tell it all to her father. Poor Father! And let him in for a terrible argument with her mother. She envisioned what it would be like and shrank away, shuddering into her little sopping, inadequate handkerchief. Then her face was down again in her hands, and a little cool breeze stole across her forehead and touched it softly. And something else, cool and silk-like brushed across her hot wet eyes and soothed and comforted her burning skin. It seemed so tender, almost like little fingers gently pitying her, that she opened her eyes, and there were little white blossoms touched with pink, a perfect little flock of them, dancing in the breeze close beside her and softly caressing her face at the whim of the wind.

She gave a little nervous laugh of relief and, nestling nearer, touched her lips to their coolness and brushed them with her fingertips. Dear little flowers. Dear little lovely creations of God doing their best to comfort her!

Lying there so near to them, she studied all the little delicate pink veins in them. She felt as if God had sent them to help her through this hard time. Did God understand? Did He care? Sometimes in the little unfashionable chapel where she and her father went Sundays, she had heard people pray as if God cared for everybody, especially for those who loved Him. Her mother's teaching had always carried the implications that God cared of course for the very poor good people who couldn't help themselves, but that people who were well off, like her father and his family, could look after themselves. They didn't need God because they were well educated and had plenty of money and moved in the best society. Her mother had never actually said that in so many words, but all her upbringing of her child had implied that, and Patricia had gathered that and wondered and had not been able to harmonize it with the things she heard at the chapel. But she had never dared talk to her mother about it because that question of hers would surely be charged to the little plebeian church that her father allowed her to attend.

But now as the little flowers continued to whisper soft things to her, lying there in the grass at the woodside, she came to a swift conviction that the chapel people were right and that God did care for His own.

It was very still there with just the whispering flowers around her face and a sweet bird up in a high treetop singing an occasional song of lonely far-off cheer. Someone was working over in a distant field. She could hear the ring of a hoe touching a stone now and again. When she opened the lashes of her eyes a tiny crack, she could see a figure in blue overalls, working with brisk quick movements of arms and body, keeping time with the hoe. It was quite far away, but it was reassuring. If Thorny should suddenly appear, she could scream and that workman would hear her. She was not absolutely all alone.

So she lay still for a little. At least she did not need to hurry home. Perhaps if she waited long enough, her mother would not think to question her about the day and she could keep the whole dreadful happening to herself. Anyway, she could close her eyes again and just rest a few minutes and try to think what she should do. She must remember that some explanation must be given to her classmates, too, for they would wonder at her absence, and there was no telling whether Thorny would go back to them at all! She must work out the whole matter so that she need not be ashamed.

But lying so, with the little still breezes all around her and that bird singing a lullaby above her, with the reassuring hoe chiming in now and again like a bell, she fell asleep. For she was really very tired, what with the excitement and the fight with Thorny and the unaccustomed climb.

It might have been a long time she had been lying there—she was not conscious of time and its flight—but she awoke suddenly to the sound of a low rumble above her, and—was that a step she had heard? Was somebody coming?

Patricia sat up sharply, giving a wild look around her and frantically rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Then she looked up. This strange place! The woods, the wide field, the little pink frightened flowers at her feet! Ah! Now she knew where she was! She had run away from Thorny, and this strange listlessness upon her was from her struggle and the climb up the hill!

But the sky was overcast! A storm! The clouds were heavy and dark, and that was thunder unmistakably! And lightning! A vivid quiver darting down the sky and cleaving a blue-black cloud in half!

And those footsteps that were coming! Oh, could it be Thorny? She suddenly rose with new strength and darted her glance about wildly. There had been somebody working over to the right, in the field.

Her eyes went to the distance where the man had been, and then she saw him, running toward her. But that wasn't Thorny! A vivid flash of lightning lit him up. This man had overalls, blue overalls. With mingled relief and fear she watched him, her clasped hands over her heart, her eyes wide with dread. But there was something strangely familiar about that run, head up, shoulders poised easily, arms flexed, running with long easy strides, not a motion wasted. Like an athlete! Somewhere before she had seen this man run!

Then suddenly he was almost upon her and she saw his face. Another long frightening gash of lightning in the sky, a crash of thunder, that seemed to roar and blaze between them; it lit up their faces, and Patricia's face broke into a welcoming smile.

“Oh! It's
you
!” she said with relief, and her eyes were bright with friendliness and welcome.

It was John Worth!

“And it's
you
!” said the boy. “What are you doing way up here? Weren't you at the picnic?”

“Yes, but—I ran away!” Then she laughed. It had been just this way the last time he came to her rescue, down by the creek. Their eyes met and understanding was in his face.

“It wasn't Thorny, this time, was it?” He laughed pleasantly. “He wouldn't be in on this picnic, of course.”

“Why, yes,” said Patricia, “it was. I told him he wasn't invited, but he came anyway.”

“He would!” said John Worth, with a frown. “He's that way! I'm surprised the other boys stood for him.”

“Oh, I'm afraid they thought I brought him, and they were trying terribly hard to be polite. But, of course, they didn't know what happened. I was picking violets and he came and sent them all off and then he tried to kiss me, and I hated it!”

Patricia's face grew dark with the memory of it.

“He—is—awful! So, I ran away!”

“Wait till I get a chance at him!” said John Worth, with an ominous glint in his dark eyes. “I certainly will give him his! But—that didn't just happen, did it? Weren't you lying here quite a while? I thought I saw something white down on the grass, but I didn't identify you till just now. At least I wasn't just sure who you were till I got here, but I saw a storm coming and I thought I'd better find out what it was that was lying here before it began to rain. Where are the rest? Were you to meet them somewhere?”

“Oh no, I'm on my way home. I didn't want anybody to know I had gone, so I rested here a few minutes; I'd run so hard up the hill. And I guess I was rather frightened. Maybe I went to sleep. Then I heard thunder—”

Suddenly another crash rent the air, and the lightning covered the whole heaven with brilliancy.

Patricia stood quivering with her hands over her eyes.

“Oh!” she said in a trembling little voice. “There is going to be a storm! I must go home!”

“I should say there is!” said John Worth, coming quickly over to her. “Come! Quick! There's the rain!”

He held out his hand and caught hers.

“Let's go!” he said and, with a quick motion, drew her arm within his own. “You can't get home till this is over! I'll take you to my home! It's not far. All set?”

They started out across the field, but suddenly the very windows of heaven seemed to open and let down a torrent. Patricia stumbled on, blinded with the rain, and almost fell once or twice, except that John's strong arm held her steady. But when they came to the plowed ground, he halted her and, stooping, picked her up in his arms and ran on, over the furrows that seemed so endless and so unnavigable to the girl. Her face was against his broad breast, she was sheltered partly by his shoulders, and she felt as safe as if she were at home.

She was panting and breathless, what with the wind and the rain and the running, but she felt as if suddenly a strong shelter had come down above her and put her into a quiet haven. The wind might blow, and the rain had soaked her through, but she was not chilled because strong young arms were around her. The thunder might crash and the lightning glare, but her eyes were closed against John's shoulder, and she was not afraid anymore.

Suddenly it came to her what a difference it made which boy held you. Now if this was Thorny she would hate it. His very touch, even if it were to shelter her, was unpleasant. Too possessive. But John was carrying her as her father might have done, or her brother if she had had one. There was something about John that made him seem dependable even in the midst of peril. He was only a boy but he took the responsibility of a man. There was a gentleness and courtesy about him, even in his overalls, that made one trust and rest.

So Patricia, only a little girl yet herself, thought her sweet bright reasonings and was comforted. John Worth was standing to her now for an angel of mercy, and she tried not to remember Thorny's unpleasant intimacy.

She nestled there out of the frightening world, and John Worth sheltered her by the slant of his body, and the length of his arms enfolded her. She felt so glad she was not down there in the woods during this awful storm, with Thorny trying to take care of her. Somehow she felt that if she had been left in a strait Thorny would have fled and left her to find her own way home as best she could. Thorny gave no impression of being a gallant gentleman.

John Worth's stride was buoyant even in this storm. He did not seem to be puffing and panting with her weight.

And then while the thunder still rolled and the lightning filled the whole sky with a sheet of glory light, they arrived. He set her down on a small porch that had a little seat on either side.

It was a plain little shingled house below the side of a wet green hill. Behind and beyond the house were those long black plowed furrows they had just come through so safely, which she never could have crossed alone, she was sure. And there were wet trees bending in the blast and a clean smell of freshly washed vegetation.

Then almost as soon as her feet touched the porch floor, the door opened and a sweet-faced woman stood there, reaching out tender soft hands to draw her inside the room, where there was a fire burning in an open grate. Someone was sitting in an easy chair beside the fire, with blankets wrapped around him. He had a face like John Worth's, only older and tired looking. She remembered that she had heard that John Worth's father had been sick.

“Well, well, Son, who is this ye've brought me?” John's mother said, as she looked smilingly into the girl's face. “A wee bairnie come in out of the storm, is it? A wee birdie that couldn't fly away to her own nest in a wild wind like this!”

There was a pleasant burr on her tongue and a lovingness about her touch that made Patricia glad. What a mother! That must be what made John Worth different from the other boys. He had a mother like this!

“Why, Mother, this is Patricia Prentiss,” said John. “The girl I told you I skated with a few minutes once.”

“I remember,” said the mother, giving Patricia another loving smile and a little pat on her arm. “And now, come away, my bairnie, and we'll get you dried and warm. There's a cauld wind and we don't want you to get sick from coming to visit us. You're verra welcome. My lad has told us all aboot you, has pictured the braw hoose where you live, and we're honored the noo ta have ye enter our wee bit co-tage.”

She led Patricia into an inner room opening from the larger one. She opened a closet door and took blankets from a shelf and set a chair for her.

“Noo, you tak off yer wet things and wrap ye in yon blanket. It's all clean from the wash and the sunshine, and laid away in wee bags of lavender. It's soft and warm, made from our own lambies in Scotland, a part of my ain dowry, and kept for special occasions like today.” She smiled as she hung the blanket over the back of the chair.

“Take off yer bit frock with the bonnie bluebells on it, and I'll iron it dry for ye. It's na sa verra wet.”

“Oh, no,” said Patricia brightly. “John covered me up with himself as far as he could reach. I think he must be very tired. He carried me all the way over that awful plowed ground.”

“John's a hearty lad,” said John's mother. “He'd tak it all in the day's stride and think nothing of it. You're only a slip of a thing, you know, and John's used ta hard worruk. That's it. Noo, I'll pit the blanket aboot ya, and you slip off the rest of yer things an' give them ta me. I'll hev them right an' dry in a trice.”

Mrs. Worth took the limp chintz frock and smiled.

Patricia answered her smile with one as bright and full of gratitude.

“Oh, but I don't want you to go to all that trouble for me. Let me hang them around the room. They'll soon dry,” said Patricia. “I'm making a lot of trouble for everybody.”

“Yer makin' a lot of pleasure for us all, lassie. It's like havin' a bit o' sunshine come inta the room on a dark day. And feyther'll be wantin' ta see ye. It's hard days for feyther, shut away from the worruld, and John always tries to bring brightness home with him when he comes. You see, feyther's always been active and traveled aboot the worruld much, an' he taks it hard to be shut away all the time. Not that he says much aboot it, ye ken, but his eyes will light up when someone comes in ta break the monotony. Noo, wrap the blanket aboot ya close, and drop doon on the wee cot for a minute and rest ye. I'll soon be back wi' yer garments. I'll tak the wee shoes, too, an' set them by the overn wi' the door open. They'll soon be fit and right. Noo, mak yersel' at home, lassie, till I return.”

Mrs. Worth vanished, shutting the door quietly.

Patricia, wrapped in the wonderfully soft blanket, sat down and looked around her, greatly intrigued by everything.

The room was spotlessly clean. The windows shone even with the dashing rain upon them. There were thin old muslin curtains. They were edged with delicate crocheted lace starched crisply and tied back with a band of themselves. The floor was wide boards, their cracks filled and painted gray; there were braided rag rugs scattered about and some pieces of fine old furniture—a quaint bureau, a little sewing table with lovely drawers, a small but beautiful old desk, two or three chairs, one an old-time rocker. And there were pictures on the wall, photographs of people with strong dependable faces, sweet womanly faces with gentleness and peace written in their eyes. Like John's mother, Patricia thought. She got up and went over to the wall to study them. There was one of a sweet old lady with a little muslin cap on, white hair smoothed down, parted in the middle, sweet wise eyes. She was older than John's mother. And there was a girl in the next frame. She looked like John. It must be a picture of John's mother when she was young.

There were others, too. She went around the room picking them out, wondering who they were, tracing resemblances. And there was a whole row of John's pictures. Some when he was a baby, with little tendrils of curls framing his round cheeks and wide wondering eyes. Patricia studied those until they were stamped upon her memory. When at last she turned away she felt as if she had known John Worth since babyhood. She went back to those pictures again after she had studied the rest.

There was one, a wide rambling old stone house, foreign in its look and very old. Quaint, her mother would have called it and tossed it aside as worth little. But Patricia looked long at it. It had a home look. She wondered if that was where John's mother lived when she was a little girl. She asked her when she came back with the little pile of pretty garments neatly folded over her arm and the slender shoes in her hand.

“Oh, how quickly you did them!” said Patricia, turning to meet those kindly eyes that looked so much like John's eyes. “But I am so sorry to have made you all that trouble!”

“It was a pleasure, dearie. You know, I've always wanted a little girl's pretty things to fuss over. My wee lassie went home to heaven when she was only two years old, and John was well nigh three. I didn't begrudge her to the heavenly Feyther, but my heart was yearned toward a little lassie ever since, and so it has been pleasure to hand your bonnie clothes and make them fit for you! But noo, I'm fearin' ye didn't get a bit nap at all. You look wide awake.”

“Oh, I couldn't lie down,” said Patricia, “it was so interesting. Won't you tell me, is this picture yourself? And that row over there, are they John?”

“Right you are, lassie. These of me were taken over in the old country, before I met feyther. And those two pictures above, they were my own feyther an' mither. And this”—she pointed to a little frame on the bureau—“was my wee bairnie.” Her voice was full of unshed tears.