University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
RAT FIGHTING

A DAY went by, and another day, and Mr. Lightwait
did not present himself to fulfil his promise
to Margaret, nor did he send any apology, nor
was there anything heard of him. Hours upon
hours she sat at the window looking toward the
parsonage in the hope that she would see him coming, or at
any rate, see him in the garden, or about the door-yard of
his house; but when, by chance, she at last saw a man
about the grounds, it happened that it was twilight, and
she could not tell whether or not it was he. Meantime,
rumors kept coming in about Samuel. At one time, that he
was mad past all hope, tearing his hair by handfuls from his
head, his clothing from his body, and being dangerous, even
to his keeper; another time, that he appeared as sane as
ever; had denied all knowledge of the murder; talked
freely and intelligently upon all subjects; and for his diversion
had betaken himself to basket-making! Still another
report represented him as wild-eyed, sick and drooping, and

as having muttered in his sleep of some bloody murder
done long ago at sea; and of a box of gold that was buried
under one of Mrs. Whiteflock's haystacks. Luther Larky,
it was said, had upset the stacks supposed to conceal the
treasure, on account of its nearness to the woods, and had
digged all night, by moonlight, having had only his trouble
for his pains.

These conflicting reports, coming to her, as she was
isolated from all comfort and sympathy, nearly drove poor
Margaret distracted. If it had been her privilege to go to
Samuel, to show forth her love by word or deed, it would
have been such a mitigation of her grief, but no such privilege
was accorded her; and as for claiming it, she could as
easily have set her feeble strength against the tide of the
ocean.

Heaven pity the woman that, for any reason, is forbidden
to speak of her love; she had as well have fire in her
bosom.

She had at first felt the greatest satisfaction in the belief
that Mr. Lightwait was ignorant of her secret; but as the
time passed and the concealed fire gnawed deeper and
deeper, she was resolved almost, to go to him and uncover
the living death, and entreat his pity — his help.

With this thought in her heart, she approached his
grounds night after night as she walked in the fields to fetch
home the cows; but she no sooner found herself coming
near to him, than startled from her purpose, and afraid, she
fled away as fast as her feet would carry her. But when
the pressure of any misfortune becomes heavy enough, we
must needs speak or die, and Margaret had almost got her
courage to the sticking point, when the pressure was slightly
lifted; a three-cornered and sweetly scented little note came
from Mr. Lightwait, addressed to her mother, to be sure,
but still with reference to herself. It ran as follows:

He did not sign his name in full, but simply, or rather
not simply, “Lightwait.”

Mrs. Fairfax could not tell just why, but somehow she
felt flattered by the signature. She read the note again
and again, and then she meditated in silence a long while,
and then she re-read it and, finally having borrowed pen,
ink and paper of Margaret, sat herself to the task of composing
a reply. She essayed her powers upon unruled
paper at first, but this baffled her utmost skill, and, having
spoiled several sheets, she came down to ruled lines, and
after much labor achieved a reply — not satisfactory, but
tolerable.

His proposal was very kind, and Margaret's childish
fondness for the unfortunate young man referred to, would,
she had no doubt, be gratified by its execution, and she
sincerely hoped he would be able to report himself very
soon. And so she took leave to send her little daughter to
him, with her acceptance, knowing that his spiritual-mindedness
and godly conversation must have the happiest effect
upon the morbid condition to which the late excitements
had reduced her.

With much love to Miss Lightwait, she was, &c., &c.

This was the substance of what she wrote, what she
thought, was another thing; but if it had been written
would have run somewhat as follows: He has been rash
enough to make one ridiculous proposal, this bishop's son;
perhaps, all things concurring, he will be rash enough to
make another; we will give him the opportunity; besides,

Margaret cannot but contrast Sam Dale unfavorably with
this great man, if she have but the chance. “Pride above
all things strengthens the affections.” So says one who
knows a good deal of the human heart, and Mrs. Fairfax
had, somehow, arrived at the same conclusion. She had
some fears, it is not unlikely, of the interview with Samuel,
but hope was strong too, and she played for a high stake,
and must risk something.

The sun was set, and the cool, red clouds drifted to high
fantastic heaps above the western hills, and the shadows
beginning to creep dimly out from the borders of the woods,
when she put the note in Margaret's hand with instructions
to carry it at once to the parsonage. “And mind, dear,”
she said, “it is not be trusted with any one but Mr. Lightwait
himself, so be sure you ask to see him.”

“Yes, mother,” and Margaret's face was all aglow as,
taking her hood from the wall, she was flying out of the
door.

“Stop, foolish child! stop! not in that old dress, surely,
and just see your hair!” But Margaret was out of hearing,
her hair tumbled, her face flushed, and her blue gingham
gown slipping off one shoulder.

“Mercy, mercy! she will spoil it all!” cries Mrs. Fairfax.

“O, dear, good Mr. Lightwait, he is going to take me to
see Samuel after all!” And she flew faster and faster,
across the hollow, along the slope, where they had gathered
the daisies in the moonlight, past the sheltered nook where
the tender confession had been made, all close to the garden,
all in the garden, where, as if struck suddenly dumb, she
stood still, her eyes staring wide, and the hot blood in her
cheek dropping cold and heavy to her heart. She had expected
to find her pastor in his study, pale, sad and sick,
his religious books about him, and his mind composed to
heavenly contemplations; and was that he before her?
vigor in all his attitude, and the hot eager glow of mad excitement
flushing in his cheek, and giving an animal expression
to his mouth and eyes. There was a deep scratch
across the back of one hand, and the wristband had some
splashes of fresh blood upon it, his hat was tumbled in the
grass, and seemed to have been rolled about a good deal,
for bits of dead leaves and dry grasses were sticking to it,
his coat was off, and thrown over a bush at hand, his waistcoat

was unbottoned, and his hair dashed away from his
forehead, as she had never seen it till then. He was stooping
forward, his hands resting upon his thighs, and gazing
intently into what seemed to be a rough wooden box, that
stood near by.

A small black terrier was barking and snapping from between
his legs, and altogether he looked so little like the
saintly man that was used to clasp his white hands over the
Bible, of a Sunday, that it was no wonder Margaret stood
still. She could hear a dull thrumming and thumping inside
the box, now against one side and now the other, and a
clawing and scratching and squealing that frightened her;
nor was her terror lessened when, drawing near, still unperceived,
she looked down into the box and beheld the
ghastly white teeth, writhing tails, torn shoulders, and
bloody heads of a couple of fighting rats!

And this was the business that so transformed and
absorbed the gentle, pious pastor.

For a moment, he stood abashed before the modest face
of the young girl, and then his brow clouded, and he bit
his lips, more as if in anger with her than ashamed of himself.

“And what procures me this unexpected pleasure, at this
hour?” he said, as he dashed on his coat, and thrust back
out of sight the blood-specked wristband.

It was as if the hour was very ill-chosen, and Margaret
felt rebuked and mortified, but at the same time quite conscious
of her advantage. She said, therefore, emboldened
partly by her advantage, partly by a just feeling of indignation:
“The hour, Mr. Lightwait, suited my convenience.
I am only sorry it doesn't suit yours.” And she glanced
significantly at the box.

Then Mr. Lightwait said it was not of his own convenience
he was thinking — it would be convenient for him
to see her at any hour, but he feared from the appearance
of the clouds that rain was approaching, and if she should
happen to be caught in a thunder storm, why! it would be
dreadful.

She smiled, glancing at the box again, as though she
would say a thunder storm were much less dreadful than
that.

Then she spoke out, “I came to fetch you this, from

mother,” and she presented the note, and was turning
away, but he detained her.

“No, my pet, the rain is not so imminent, and I have
something special to say.”

“Here, Dick,” he called to his man, who was at work in
another part of the garden, “come and make an end of
these mad fellows — I am heartily sick of the sight of them.”
And then, doubtless for Margaret's especial benefit, “I
don't know why he should have put the nasty things in my
way, at any rate, — such a horrible sight.”

But as Dick approached, he went close to him and spoke
low, so low that she could not hear distinctly what he said,
but from the man's answer, which was that the critter's
were good for a dozen turns yet, she could not help fearing
that his orders were to keep them for another fight. It is
possible, however, that her fears misled her, and that the
instructions were of a more merciful character. And so let
us hope.

“What if my house be troubled with a rat, and I be
pleased to give ten thousand ducats to have it baned?”

And with this soliloquy he took Margaret's hand, and led
her to another part of the grounds, and having seated her
within an arbor of tangling vines, he went on: —

“So I can give no reason, nor I will not, more than a
lodged hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I
follow thus a losing suit against him.”

Then he opened the note, cutting the wafer loose with his
knife, and blowing the particles aside with his breath, as
though they offended him; and as he read, he frowned and
bit his lip, as though he were disappointed, or displeased,
or both. He folded it at last, and then he said to Margaret,
“You know what this is, my dear?” And on her replying
in the negative, he told her what it was, and expressed himself
delighted with the privilege of putting his little plan into
execution. “And so, my darling,” he concluded gayly,
“you have nothing to do but name the day.”

“To-morrow?”

“Yes — perhaps — let me see! What did brother Timpson
say about his dearborn? O, I know! he wants to use
it himself to-morrow.”

“Then you have seen him about it?”

“Why, to be sure, and I should have seen you too, and
kept my promise, but I have been sick, you know.”

“Very sick? because you are looking so well to-night.”

“Ah, thank you, even for false coin, but I can repay you
in genuine; and truly I never saw you so charming as in
this simple gown; and then your hair! why the winds have
dressed it for you, to perfection! And what splendid waiting
maids they are, to be sure, with their soft hands and
delicate perfumes; I wish we never required any other;
I wish we had some sweet little isle of our own, where we
might live — well, as Adam and Eve did in the garden.
Suppose now, as the scenery is so fitting, we play their parts,
just for an hour. What say you, my beautiful Eve?” He
touched her bright head at this, and then, as if by chance,
the hand slid to the neck, and finally to the rosy, dimpled
shoulder, where it rested. Then he began repeating pasges
from Paradise Lost.

Margaret who had waited impatiently, said, when he
paused, “If not to-morrow, when? that is, if we are to go
at all?”

“So you are still a-tiptoe to see your Samuel?” he answered,
with an almost reproachful look of his sad eyes, and
tightening the clasp of his hand a little upon the shrinking
shoulder.

“Our Samuel.” And Margaret dropped her eyes and
blushed.

“Your correction makes me happy, my dear; do you
know I was half jealous of that handsome rascal?” still

clasping the shoulder, and praising its roseate beauty with
his eyes.

Margaret drew up her sleeve, the blush deepening, quite
over her neck, and turned slightly away. Then he cried,
half gayly, half petulantly,

“Come, such whisperings waked Eve in the old time, and
will it not arouse, and bring my little Eve back to herself?”
She hung her head, and pouted in silence, and he went on:—

“But, come, it is time you should begin your part; I will
prompt.”

“Come, why don't you begin? and Eve, you must know,
embraced Adam as she said this; you are not playing your
part well, my dear, not at all.”

“I am not playing any part.” And with her lip tremling
and her eyes glistening with tears, Margaret stood up,
and said she would go home. He put his arm around her
waist, and drew her to his knee, kissed her, and calling her
his poor vexed child, said he would not plague her any
more, no he wouldn't, and nobody should; nobody nowhere.
Then he said he would go to the house and fetch his umbrella
and walk home with her, and they would arrange
matters by the way.

When he was gone she felt tempted to run away; but she
thought it would look ill-bred and rude, and as she dreaded

nothing so much as that, she remained, against her judgment
and her will, as it were. She could not get the images of
the bloody rats out of her mind, and then the part her pastor
had pretended to play, though its significance was not
very clear, annoyed her. She had parsed a little in Paradise
Lost, at school, and knew it was in Father Goodman's library,
and so her dissatisfaction was, in some sort, satisfied.

It was a good while before Mr. Lightwait returned, and,
meantime, the clouds that shone in a rosy bank along the
west when she set out from home, had grown gray, and then
black, and finally overrun half the sky, and rain threatened
every moment.

“We must hurry,” Margaret said, putting on her hood.

“No, it is too late for that; see yonder!”

Sure enough, there was a gray streak of falling rain along
the ridge between Mrs. Whiteflock's house and her mother's.

He sat down, contentedly as could be, and pulled Margaret
down beside him, and then began to hum to her, —

“We had better go now,” Margaret said. “Maybe, it
will rain all night; the clouds look like it.”

“Suppose it does; our bower will protect us, therefore —

“But you said you would not plague me any more.”

“Plague you! not for the world; but surely the beautiful
thoughts of our immortal Milton cannot plague you.
Just hear: —

“But I did not come to hear Milton; I came” —

“Ah, my little Eve, you came about your Samuel, didn't
you?”

“My Samuel, again! Well, if you like to have it so.”

“I don't like to have it so; but let me tell you about my
visit to Brother Timpson; isn't he a queer chap? he calls
all his d's like j's. For instance, when I asked him about
the dearborn, he said he was almost immejiately going to
Injianapolis, Injiana; an ojious journey, to be sure, but it
must be took, and so he would have use for his dearbin!”

And then he added, still mimicking Brother Timpson, “I
suppose that was injubitably true, for what could injuce our
good neighbor to deny me his mejium of conveyance, otherwise?”
He wondered whether this ijiom of Brother Timpson
would not be effective in the pulpit. And then he
laughed, and continued to laugh till he saw by Margaret's
still, pale face that she was shocked and astonished, when
he said he meant no harm — he thought Brother Timpson a
most estimable man, but to say the truth, he did think one
of his children pretty nearly an ijiot! And then he said he
referred to Miss Thally Thimpson, who he was thorry to
thay was just now very thick! And so he fell laughing
again.

“By the way, do you know Sister Timpson? She's a
power in the church, and I may say in the world, isn't she?”

She was a little, pale-eyed, meek woman, with thin hair
and a freckled face; a person who never went out of her
own doors, and who was afraid of her own voice.

“She did not speak directly to me, during my stay, but
I must give her the credit to say that she did speak for my
benefit. She took little Thally on her knees and told her to
tell the gentleman that a little flaxseed tea would be good
for his cold; and that he would find it healin' and soothin'
and coolin' and quietin', which I took to be a very kind thing
of her. It came to me, however, in the regular way, and
was not transmitted through her little daughter Thally, as
she desired, that modest young damsel preferring to hide
her apple cheeks in the maternal bosom — a position from
which, on my own personal account, I had no disposition to
dislodge her.”

Still Margaret sat in sad, rebuking silence, and suddenly
changing his manner, and placing his hand gently upon her's,
he said: “My child, I perceive in all things you are too
superstitious. Did you ever read that chapter of the Acts
of the Apostles; the fourteenth, I think it is, where it tells
how Paul and Barnabas rent their clothes, and ran in among

the people, crying out, “We also are men with like passions
with you”?

“O the prejudice of men and women too!” And then
he said, very sadly —

“And certain men which came down from Judea taught
the brethren, and said, except ye be circumcised after the
manner of Moses, ye cannot be saved.”

And then he sighed, and said the world was not advanced
one whit since that day, and after a little silence repeated
the subjoined text: —

“But with me it is a very small thing that I should be
judged of you, or of men's judgment: yea, I judge not mine
own self. For I know nothing of myself; yet am I not
hereby justified; but he that judgeth me is the Lord.”

The rain was falling slowly on the leaves above their
heads, and the winds made little stirs among them, that were
sadder than silence; it was not yet wholly dark, but the
twilight just hung on the edge of night, giving to all things
that uncertain gloom that is more impressive than light or
darkness.

“Shall we pray?” he said, when he spoke again, and
all at once, dropping on his knees, and veiling his face,
he began to pray, using the Lord's prayer, and pausing to
repeat twice, and with great unction, “Lead us not into
temptation.” After the amen, he took Margaret by the
hand, and said, “Now let us go home;” and so he led her
all the way, as though she had been a little child, talking
chiefly on religious subjects, and seeming to be altogether
in a contrite and devout frame of mind.

At her mother's door he took formal, almost cold leave of
her, and as he turned back in the darkness and the rain, she
stood looking after him, wistfully, almost tenderly.