University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
PATTY'S JOURNEY.

EVEN wounds and bruises heal more rapidly when
the heart is cheered, and as Patty, after spending
Saturday and Sunday with the patient, found time
to come in and give him his breakfast every morning
before she went to school, he grew more and more
cheerful, and the doctor announced in his sudden style
that he'd “get along.” In all her interviews Patty
was not only a woman but a Methodist. She read
the Bible and talked to the man about repentance;
and she would not have been a Methodist of that day
had she neglected to pray with him. She could not
penetrate his reserve. She could not guess whether
what she said had any influence on him or not. Once
she was startled and lost faith in any good result of
her labors when she happened, in arranging things
about the room, to come upon a hideous wolf-skin cap
and some heavy false-whiskers. She had more than
suspected all along that her patient was a highwayman,
but upon seeing the very disguises in which his
crimes had been committed, she shuddered, and asked
herself whether a man so hardened that he was capable
of theft—perhaps of murder—could ever be any better.
She found herself, after that, trying to imagine how

the wounded man would look in so fierce a mask.
But she soon remembered all that she had learned of
the Methodist faith in the power of the Divine Spirit
working in the worst of sinners, and she got her testament
and read aloud to the highwayman the story
of the crucified thief.

It was on Thursday morning, as she helped him
take his breakfast—he was sitting propped up in bed
—that he startled her most effectually. Lifting his
eyes, and looking straight at her with the sort of stare
that comes of feebleness, he asked:

“Did you ever know a young Methodist circuit
rider named Goodwin?”

Patty thought that he was penetrating her secret.
She turned away to hide her face, and said:

“I used to go to school with him when we were
children.”

“I heard him preach a sermon awhile ago,” said
the patient, “that made me tremble all over. He's a
great preacher. I wish I was as good as he is.”

Patty made some remark about his having been a
good boy.

“Well, I don't know,” said the patient; “I used
to hear that he had been a little hard—swore and
drank and gambled, to say nothing of dancing and
betting on horses. But they said some girl jilted him
in that day. I suppose he got into bad habits because
she jilted him, or else she jilted him because he was
bad. Do you know anything about it?”

“Yes.”

“She's a heartless thing, I suppose?”

Patty reddened, but the sick man did not see it.
She was going to defend herself—he must know that
she was the person—but how? Then she remembered
that he was only repeating what had been a matter of
common gossip, and some feeling of mischievousness
led her to answer:

“She acted badly—turned him off because he became
a Methodist.”

“But there was trouble before that, I thought.
When he gambled away his coat and hat one night.”

“Trouble with her father, I think,” said Patty,
casting about in her own mind how she might change
the conversation.

“Is she alive yet?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Give her head to marry Goodwin now, I'll bet,”
said the man.

Patty now plead that she must hasten to school.
She omitted reading the Bible and prayer with the
patient for that morning. It was just as well. There are
states of mind not favorable to any but the most
private devotions.

On Friday evening Patty intended to go by the
cabin a moment, but on coming near she saw horses
tied in front of it, and her heart failed her. She
reasoned that these horses belonged to members of the
gang and she could not bring herself to plunge into
their midst in the dusk of the evening. But on Saturday
morning she found the strangers not yet gone, and
heard them speak of the sick man as “Pinkey.” “Too
soft! too soft! altogether,” said one. “We ought to

have shipped him —” Here the conversation was
broken off.

The sick man, whom the others called Pinkey, she
found very uneasy. He was glad to see her, and told
her she must stay by him. He seemed anxious for
the men to go away, which at last they did. Then
he listened until Mrs. Barkins and her children became
sufficiently uproarious to warrant him in talking.

“I want you to save a man's life.”

“Whose?”

“Preacher Goodwin's.”

Patty turned pale. She had not the heart to ask
a question.

“Promise me that you will not betray me and I'll
tell you all about it.”

Patty promised.

“He's to be killed as he goes through Wild Cat
Woods on Sunday afternoon. He preaches in Jenkinsville
at eleven, and at Salt Fork at three. Between
the two he will be killed. You must go yourself.
They'll never suspect you of such a ride. If any man
goes out of this settlement, and there's a warning given,
he'll be shot. You must go through the woods to-night.
If you go in the daytime, you and I will both
be killed, maybe. Will you do it?”

Patty had her full share of timidity. But in a
moment she saw a vision of Morton Goodwin slain.

“I will go.”

“You must not tell the doctor a word about where
you're going; you must not tell Goodwin how you got
the information.”

“He may not believe me.”

“Anybody would believe you.”

“But he will think that I have been deceived, and
he cannot bear to look like a coward.”

“That's true,” said Pinkey. “Give me a piece of
paper. I will write a word that will convince him.”

He took a little piece of paper, wrote one word
and folded it. “I can trust you; you must not open
this paper,” he said.

“I will not,” said Patty.

“And now you must leave and not come back
here until Monday or Tuesday. Do not leave the
settlement until five o'clock. Barkins will watch you
when you leave here. Don't go to Dr. Morgan's till
afternoon and you will get rid of all suspicion. Take
the east road when you start, and then if anybody is
watching they will think that you are going to the
lower settlement. Turn round at Wright's corner. It
will be dark by the time you reach the Long Bottom,
but there is only one trail through the woods. You
must ride through to-night or you cannot reach Jenkinsville
to-morrow. God will help you, I suppose, if
He ever helps anybody, which I don't more than
half believe.”

Patty went away bewildered. The journey did not
seem so dreadful as the long waiting. She had to
appear unconcerned to the people with whom she
boarded. Toward evening she told them she was
going away until Monday, and at five o'clock she was
at the doctor's door, trembling lest some mishap should
prevent her getting a horse.

“Patty, howdy?” said the doctor, eyeing her agitated
face sharply. “I didn't find you at Barkins's as I
expected when I got there this morning. Sick man
did not say much. Anything wrong? What scared
you away?”

“Doctor, I want to ask a favor.”

“You shall have anything you ask.”

“But I want you to let me have it on trust, and
ask me no questions and make no objections.”

“I will trust you.”

“I must have a horse at once for a journey.”

“This evening?”

“This evening.”

“But, Patty, I said I would trust you; but to
go away so late, unless it is a matter of life and
death—”

“It is a matter of life and death.”

“And you can't trust me?”

“It is not my secret. I promised not to tell you.”

“Now, Patty, I must break my promise and ask
questions. Are you certain you are not deceived?
May n't there be some plot? May n't I go with you?
Is it likely that a robber should take any interest in
saving the life of the person you speak of?”

Patty looked a little startled. “I may be deceived,
but I feel so sure that I ought to go that I
will try to go on foot, if I cannot get a horse.”

“Patty, I don't like this. But I can only trust
your judgment. You ought not to have been bound
not to tell me.”

“It is a matter of life and death that I shall go.

It is a matter of life and death to another that it
shall not be known that I went. It is a matter of life
and death to you and me both that you shall not
go with me.”

“Is the life you are going to save worth risking
your own for? Is it only the life of a robber?”

“It is a life worth more than mine. Ask me no
more questions, but have Bob saddled for me.” Patty
spoke as one not to be refused.

The horse was brought out, and Patty mounted,
half eagerly and half timidly.

“When will you come back?”

“In time for school, Monday.”

“Patty, think again before you start,” called the
doctor.

“There's no time to think,” said Patty, as she rode
away.

“I ought to have forbidden it,” the doctor muttered
to himself half a hundred times in the next
forty-eight hours.

When she had ridden a mile on the road that led
to the “lower settlement” she turned an acute angle,
and came back on the hypothenuse of a right-angled
triangle, if I may speak so geometrically. She thus
went more than two miles to strike the main trail
toward Jenkinsville, at a point only a mile away from
her starting-place. She reached the woods in Long
Bottom just as Pinkey told her she would, at dark.
She was appalled at the thought of riding sixteen miles
through a dense forest of beech trees in the night
over a bridle-path. She reined up her horse, folded

her hands, and offered a fervent prayer for courage
and help, and then rode into the blackness ahead.

There is a local tradition yet lingering in this very
valley in Ohio in regard to this dark ride of Patty's.
I know it will be thought incredible, but in that day
marvelous things were not yet out of date. This
legend, which reaches me from the very neighborhood
of the occurrence, is that, when Patty had nerved herself
for her lonely and perilous ride by prayer, there
came to her, out of the darkness of the forest, two
beautiful dogs. One of them started ahead of her
horse and one of them became her rear-guard. Protected
and comforted by her dumb companions, Patty
rode all those lonesome hours in that wilderness bridle-path.
She came, at midnight, to a settler's house on
the farther verge of the unbroken forest and found
lodging. The dogs lay in the yard. In the early
morning the settler's wife came out and spoke to them
but they gave her no recognition at all. Patty came a
few moments later, when they arose and greeted her
with all the eloquence of dumb friends, and then,
having seen her safely through the woods and through
the night, the two beautiful dogs, wagging a friendly
farewell, plunged again into the forest and went—no
man knows whither.

Such is the legend of Patty's Ride as it came to
me well avouched. Doubtless Mr. John Fiske or Mr.
M. D. Conway could explain it all away and show
how there was only one dog, and that he was not
beautiful, but a stray bull-dog with a stumpy tail. Or
that the whole thing is but a “solar myth.” The

middle-ages have not a more pleasant story than this
of angels sent in the form of dogs to convoy a brave
lady on a noble mission through a dangerous forest.
At any rate, Patty believed that the dumb guardians
were answers to her prayer. She bade them good-by
as they disappeared in the mystery whence they came,
and rode on, rejoicing in so signal a mark of God's
favor to her enterprise. Sometimes her heart was sorely
troubled at the thought of Morton's being already the
husband of another, and all that Sunday morning she
took lessons in that hardest part of Christian living—
the uttering of the little petition which gives all the
inevitable over into God's hands and submits to the
accomplishment of His will.

She reached Jenkinsville at half-past eleven. Meeting
had already begun. She knew the Methodist
church by its general air of square ugliness, and near
it she hitched old Bob.

When she entered the church Morton was preaching.
Her long sun-bonnet was a sufficient disguise,
and she sat upon the back seat listening to the voice
whose music was once all her own. Morton was
preaching on self-denial, and he made some allusions
to his own trials when he became a Christian which
deeply touched the audience, but which moved none
so much as Patty.

The congregation was dismissed but the members
remained to “class,” which was always led by the
preacher when he was present. Most of the members
sat near the pulpit, but when the “outsiders” had
gone Patty sat lonesomely on the back seat, with a

large space between her and the rest. Morton asked
each one to speak, exhorting each in turn. At last,
when all the rest had spoken, he walked back to where
Patty sat, with her face hidden in her sun-bonnet, and
thus addressed her:

“My strange sister, will you tell us how it is with
you to-day? Do you feel that you have an interest
in the Savior?”

Very earnestly, simply, and with a tinge of melancholy
Patty spoke. There was that in her superior
diction and in her delicacy of expression that won
upon the listeners, so that, as she ceased, the brethren
and sisters uttered cordial ejaculations of “The Lord
bless our strange sister,” and so on. But Morton?
From the first word he was thrilled with the familiar
sound of the voice. It could not be Patty, for why
should Patty be in Jenkinsville? And above all, why
should she be in class-meeting? Of her conversion
he had not heard. But though it seemed to
him impossible that it could be Patty, there was yet
a something in voice and manner and choice of words
that had almost overcome him; and though he was
noted for the freshness of the counsels that he gave
in class-meeting, he was so embarrassed by the sense
of having known the speaker, that he could not think
of anything to say. He fell hopelessly into that trite
exhortation with which the old leaders were wont to
cover their inanity.

“Sister,” he said, “you know the way—walk in it.”
Then the brethren and sisters sang:

And the meeting was dismissed.

The members thought themselves bound to speak
to the strange sister. She evaded their kindly questions
as they each shook hands with her, only answering
that she wished to speak with Brother Goodwin.
The preacher was eager and curious to converse with
her, but one of the old brethren had button-holed him
to complain that Brother Hawkins had 'tended a barbecue
the week before, and he thought that he had
ought to be “read out” if he didn't make confession.
When the old brother had finished his complaint and
had left the church, Morton was glad to see the strange
sister lingering at the door. He offered his hand and
said:

“A stranger here, I suppose?”

“Not quite a stranger, Morton.”

“Patty, is this you?” Morton exclaimed

Patty for her part was pleased and silent.

“Are you a Methodist then?”

“I am.”

“And what brought you to Jenkinsville?” he said,
greatly agitated.

“To save your life. I am glad I can make you
some amend for the way I treated you the last time I
saw you.”

“To save my life! How?”

“I came to tell you that if you go to Salt Fork this
afternoon you will be killed on the way.”

“How do you know?”

“You must not ask any questions. I cannot tell
you anything more.”

“I am afraid, Patty, you have believed somebody
who wanted to scare me.”

Patty here remembered the mysterious piece of
paper which Pinkey had given her. She handed it to
Morton, saying:

“I don't know what is in this, but the person who
sent the message said that you would understand.”

Morton opened the paper and started. “Where is
he?” he asked.

“You must not ask questions,” said Patty, smiling
faintly.

“And you rode all the way from Hissawachee to
tell me?”

“Not at all. When I joined the church Father
pulled the latch-string in. I am teaching school at
Hickory Ridge.”

“Come, Patty, you must have some dinner.” Morton
led her horse to the house of one of the members,
introduced her as an old schoolmate, who had
brought him an important warning, and asked that she
receive some dinner.

He then asked Patty to let him go back with her
or send an escort, both of which she firmly refused.
He left the house and in a minute sat on his Dolly
before the gate. At sight of Dolly Patty could have
wept. He called her to the gate.

“If you won't let me go with you I must go to
Salt Fork. These men must understand that I am not
afraid. I shall ride ten miles farther round and they
will never know how I did it. Dolly can do it, though.
How shall I thank you for risking your life for me?

Patty, if I can ever serve you let me know, and I'll
die for you. I would rather die for you than not.”

“Thank you, Morton. You are married, I hear.”

“Not married, but I am to be married.” He
spoke half bitterly, but Patty was too busy suppressing
her own emotion to observe his tone.

“I hope you'll be happy.” She had determined to
say so much.

“Patty, I tell you I am wretched, and will be till
I die. I am marrying one I never chose. I am
utterly miserable. Why did n't you leave me to be
waylaid and killed? My life is n't worth the saving.
But God bless you, Patty.”

So saying, he touched Dolly with the spurs and
was soon gone away around the Wolf Creek road—a
long hard ride, with no dinner, and a sermon to
preach at three o'clock.

And all the hour that Patty ate and rested in Jenkinsville,
her hostess entertained her with accounts of
Sister Ann Eliza Meacham, whom Brother Goodwin
was to marry. She heard how eloquent was Sister
Meacham in prayer, how earnest in Christian labor, and
what a model preacher's wife she would be. But the
good sister added slyly that she did n't more than half believe
Brother Goodwin wanted to marry at all. He'd tried
his best to give Ann Eliza up once, but could n't do it.

When Patty rode out of the village that afternoon
she did her best, as a good Christian, to feel sorry
that Morton could not love the one he was to marry.
In an intellectual way she did regret it, but in her
heart she was a woman.