Up to this point Captain Lumsden had been a spectator--having decided
to risk a new attack of the jerks that he might stand guard over
Patty. But Patty was so far forward that he could not see her,
except now and then as he stretched his small frame to peep over the
shoulders of some taller man standing in front. It was only when
Bigelow uttered these exulting words that he gathered from the
whispers about him that Patty was the center of excitement. He
instantly began to swear and to push through the crowd, declaring
that he would take Patty home and teach her to behave herself. The
excitement which he produced presently attracted the attention of the
preacher and of the audience. But Patty was too much occupied with
the solemn emotions that engaged her heart, to give any attention to
it.
"She is my daughter, and she's _got_ to learn to obey," said Lumsden
in his quick, rasping voice, pushing energetically toward the heart
of the dense assemblage with the purpose of carrying Patty off by
force. Patty heard this last threat, and turned round just at the
moment when her father had forced his way through the fringe of
standing people that bordered the densely packed congregation, and
was essaying, in his headlong anger, to reach her and drag her forth.
The Methodists of that day generally took pains to put themselves
under the protection of the law in order to avoid disturbance from
the chronic rowdyism of a portion of the people. There was a
magistrate and a constable on the ground, and Lumsden, in penetrating
the cordon of standing men, had come directly upon the country
justice, who, though not a Methodist, had been greatly moved by
Bigelow's oratory, and who, furthermore, was prone, as country
justices sometimes are, to exaggerate the dignity of his office. At
any rate, he was not a little proud of the fact that this great
orator and this assemblage of people had in some sense put themselves
under the protection of the Majesty of the Law as represented in his
own important self. And for Captain Lumsden to come swearing and
fuming right against his sacred person was not only a breach of the
law, it was--what the justice considered much worse--a contempt of
court. Hence ensued a dialogue:
_The Court_--Captain Lumsden, I am a magistrate. In interrupting the
worship of Almighty God by this peaceful assemblage you are violating
the law. I do not want to arrest a citizen of your standing; but if
you do not cease your disturbance I shall be obliged to vindicate the
majesty of the law by ordering the constable to arrest you for a
breach of the peace, as against this assembly. (J. P. here draws
himself up to his full stature, in the endeavor to represent the
dignity of the law.)
_Outraged Father_--Squire, I'll have you know that Patty Lumsden's my
daughter, and I have a right to control her; and you'd better mind
your own business.
_Justice of the Peace_ (lowering his voice to a solemn and very
judicial bass)--Is she under eighteen years of age?
_By-stander_ (who doesn't like Lumsden)--She's twenty.
_Justice_--If your daughter is past eighteen, she is of age. If you
lay hands on her I'll have to take you up for a salt and battery. If
you carry her off I'll take her back on a writ of replevin. Now,
Captain, I could arrest you here and fine you for this disturbance;
and if you don't leave the meeting at once I'll do it.
Here Captain Lumsden grew angrier than ever, but a stalwart
class-leader from another settlement, provoked by the interruption of
the eloquent sermon and out of patience with "the law's delay," laid
off his coat and spat on his hands preparatory to ejecting Lumsden,
neck and heels, on his own account. At the same moment an old sister
near at hand began to pray aloud, vehemently: "O Lord, convert him!
Strike him down, Lord, right where he stands, like Saul of Tarsus. O
Lord, smite the stiff-necked persecutor by almighty power!"
This last was too much for the Captain. He might have risked arrest,
he might have faced the herculean class-leader, but he had already
felt the jerks and was quite superstitious about them. This prayer
agitated him. He was not ambitious to emulate Paul, and he began to
believe that if he stood still a minute longer he would surely be
smitten to the ground at the request of the sister with a relish for
dramatic conversions. Casting one terrified glance at the old
sister, whose confident eyes were turned toward heaven, Lumsden broke
through the surrounding crowd and started toward home at a most
undignified pace.
Patty's devout feelings were sadly interrupted during the remainder
of the sermon by forebodings. But she had a will as inflexible as
her father's, and now that her will was backed by convictions of duty
it was more firmly set than ever. Bigelow announced that he would
"open the door of the church," and the excited congregation made the
forest ring with that hymn of Watts' which has always been the
recruiting song of Methodism. The application to Patty's case
produced great emotion when the singing reached the stanzas:
"Must I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize
And sailed through bloody seas?
"Are there no foes for me to face?
Must I not stem the flood?
Is this vile world a friend to grace
To help me on to God?"
At this point Patty slowly rose from the place where she had been
sitting weeping, and marched resolutely through the excited crowd
until she reached the preacher, to whom she extended her hand in
token of her desire to become a church-member. While she came
forward, the congregation sang with great fervor, and not a little
sensation:
"Since I must fight if I would reign,
Increase my courage, Lord;
I'll bear the toil, endure the pain,
Supported by thy word."
After many had followed Patty's example the meeting closed. Every
Methodist shook hands with the new converts, particularly with Patty,
uttering words of sympathy and encouragement. Some offered to go
home with her to keep her in countenance in the inevitable conflict
with her father, but, with a true delicacy and filial dutifulness,
Patty insisted on going alone. There are battles which are fought
better without allies.
That ten minutes' walk was a time of agony and suspense. As she came
up to the house she saw her father sitting on the door-step,
riding-whip in hand. Though she knew his nervous habit of carrying
his raw-hide whip long after he had dismounted--a habit having its
root in a domineering disposition--she was not without apprehension
that he would use personal violence. But he was quiet now, from
extreme anger.
"Patty," he said, "either you will promise me on the spot to give up
this infernal Methodism, or you can't come in here to bring your
praying and groaning into my ears. Are you going to give it up?"
"Don't turn me off, father," pleaded Patty. "You need me. I can
stand it, but what will you do when your rheumatism comes on next
winter? Do let me stay and take care of you. I won't bother you
about my religion."
"I won't have this blubbering, shouting nonsense in my house,"
screamed the father, frantically. He would have said more, but he
choked. "You've disgraced the family," he gasped, after a minute.
Patty stood still, and said no more.
"Will you give up your nonsense about being religious?"
Patty shook her head.
"Then, clear out!" cried the Captain, and with an oath he went into
the house and pulled the latch-string in. The latch-string was the
symbol of hospitality. To say that "the latch-string was out" was to
open your door to a friend; to pull it in was the most significant
and inhospitable act Lumsden could perform. For when the
latch-string is in, the door is locked. The daughter was not only to
be a daughter no longer, she was now an enemy at whose approach the
latch-string was withdrawn.
Patty was full of natural affection. She turned away to seek a home.
Where? She walked aimlessly down the road at first. She had but one
thought as she receded from the old house that had been her home from
infancy----
The latch-string was drawn in.
_CHAPTER XXV._