University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

As twilight gathered in on the evening of Sarah's sad
return home, a humbler personage of our tale, Peggy
Blossom, might have been seen emerging from the
cabin of Aunt Agnes. Her face wore a melancholy
expression, and she looked round as if she were surprised
it was so near night. Her grandmother was
ill, and had frequently expressed a strong desire to
see Agnes, saying, that the cheerful voice and conversation
of the old woman would comfort her. Aunt
Agnes had promised to visit Granny Gammon the
next day. With a quick, but not as cheerful a step
as was usual with her, Peggy trod along the old road
by the mill. To beguile the loneliness of the way,
she carolled forth, as if with a light heart, the following
song, which was known in Springdale as the
composition of a drunken shoemaker, just such a
“Souter Johnny,” as Burns has described in his Tam
O'Shanter.

As Peggy was humming over for the third time the
last verse of the song, she heard footsteps behind her,
and, on turning round, Jack Gordon stepped up to her,
and said:

“The merry miller, and the merry miller's wife;
I suppose that's Hardy and yourself, Peggy?”

“And suppose it was,” replied Peggy, in a careless
tone.

“But by —; I won't suppose it was,” said Gordon,
angrily; “Hardy would do like Joe Hitt, all he

could to injure Bob; and I did all I could to save
him, and I expect other returns for it.”

“You must go to Bobby for returns, Mr. Gordon;
I have none to make.”

“None to make! I have, then. You must marry
me, Peggy,—yes, must, or you, and your granny, and
your Bobby, your Cousin Bobby, will rue the day you
ever saw John Gordon.”

“I rue it now,” said Peggy.

“You do, hey? you shall rue it worse than this;
for what do you rue it? tell me what harm have I
done to you—and have you not made a fool of me?”

“Mr. Gordon, I want to have no quarrel with you
—why can't you let me alone; why do you beset my
path in this way?”

“Your path—beset your path; didn't you show
me all sorts of favours over the other chaps when I
first saw you. Did you not, I ask you?” said Gordon,
in a stern tone.

“My favours, as you call them, are my own, Mr.
Gordon, and I can give them as I please—it's enough
for you. I don't see, if you have the spirit of a man
in you, how you can beset me in this way: it's
enough for you to know that I have no favours for
you.”

“Yes, but I have favours for you!” exclaimed
Gordon; “an' death and destruction shall come of
this, before I'm jilted in this fashion. Do you think
I'll be made a fool and lick-spittle of by a girl, and
come and go at her beck and call? No! once when
I talked to you about having me, you didn't refuse;
you said nothing; you as much as gave consent. You
took presents from me; you knew that the looking-glass
was meant for you—you had it hanging up in
your house—and you must take a miff all at once,
and send it to the village, and get it broke by the
way, and I must have the clowns and fools laughing

at me. No! by hell, I won't stand it! you must have
me, Peggy. You listened to me once, why not
listen to me again.”

“Listening is not consenting, Mr. Gordon. To tell
you the plain truth, I don't like you, I can't like you,
and I won't like you.”

“Peggy, don't drive me desperate,” said Gordon,
laying his hand with some violence on her shoulder.
“You must have me; I've sworn it; and through death
and destruction I'll wade before I let you off.”

Peggy was frightened at the deep vindictive tone
of Gordon, and walked on, rapidly, without saying a
word. He kept up with her, however, and seemed
to be aware of the effect which he had produced, and
by such means he hoped to control her, for he said:

“I'll see you dead before I'll suffer you to jilt me
in this way. Do you think I'll have the whole village
laughing at me. What I offer you is fair—honourable—what
you listened to: and because folks don't
choose to like me, and that infernal old buck-roe hussey
(alluding to Miss Rachellina) don't approve of
my conduct, do you think I am going to give up for
them. Blast them, I'll burn them out first. If you
make me desperate, Peggy, you must take what it
brings.”

“Do you make such threats in the face of the law,”
said Peggy, endeavouring to rally her spirit, which
was not a tame one.

“Yes!” exclaimed Gordon, furiously, “in the face of
heaven and earth. Your treatment is such lately that
my mind's made up. You wouldn't even speak to me
in the village the other day—my mind's made up.
You must stop here on this very spot, and give me
your promise, or worse will come of it;” and as Gordon
spoke, he stopped and seized her hand, but in an
instant he released his grasp on hearing the voices of
persons who were evidently advancing towards them.

On hearing them, Peggy darted away from Gordon,
and hastened on to meet them. Gordon sprang after,
and seizing her, bid her stop and listen to him. “At
least promise to say nothing about this,” he said; “I'll
come and see you to morrow—don't make me desperate.”

This fear of exposure on the part of Gordon gave
courage to Peggy, and she broke from him and advanced.
Gordon turned for a moment as if with the
intention of passing towards the hills, and then, with a
careless air, followed Peggy, who soon met those
whose voices they had heard. They proved to be
her Cousin Bobby, and Hardy, the miller. Hardy
was a blunt, honest fellow, and one of Peggy's admirers.
He glanced at Gordon, and said:

“Good evening, Miss Peggy. How are you, Gordon?
Miss Peggy, I reckon you and Gordon have been
sparking it, as you are together here.”

“Sparking it,” said Peggy, with a toss of her head,
“together here; I hope this is the last time Mr. Gordon
and I will ever be together—with my free will
we shall never meet again.”

“There, Jack Gordon!” exclaimed Bobby, “I hope
you'll mind that.”

“Mind! O, certainly!” replied Gordon; “I'll mind
whatever a woman says to me, or such a mighty
man as yourself, Mr. Robert Gammon.”

“I'm man enough for you, Jack Gordon!” said
Bobby, poising himself upon his longest leg, and supporting
his equilibrium with the point of his lame one.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Gordon, in bitter derision.

“John Gordon,” said Peggy, with firmness and
even with dignity, “there's been enough of this; go
your way. Never come to my Granny's again—
never speak to me again. I tell you here, before
Robert Gammon and Mr. Hardy, that I despise and
hate you; that you have been a pest to me, and I'm

thankful that this has happened, for I shan't be tormented
by you any more.”

“You don't know that, Peggy, my girl,” said Gordon,
affecting to laugh. “I'll call and see you when
you're in a better humour; but I won't tell tales out
of school. Good-bye, Cousin Bobby; I reckon you
think yourself man enough for Cousin Peggy, too;
don't you? ha, ha!” So speaking, Gordon walked off
in the direction of the hills.