University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV
DRAWING THE LATCH-STRING IN.

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 does n'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:

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:

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.