Patricia by Grace Livingston Hill
She was panting and breathless, what with the wind and the rain and the running, but she felt as if suddenly a strong shelter had come down above her and put her into a quiet haven. The wind might blow, and the rain had soaked her through, but she was not chilled because strong young arms were around her. The thunder might crash and the lightning glare, but her eyes were closed against John’s shoulder, and she was not afraid anymore.
Suddenly it came to her what a difference it made which boy held you. Now if this was Thorny she would hate it. His very touch, even if it were to shelter her, was unpleasant. Too possessive. But John was carrying her as her father might have done, or her brother if she had had one. There was something about John that made him seem dependable even in the midst of peril. He was only a boy but he took the responsibility of a man. There was a gentleness and courtesy about him, even in his overalls, that made one trust and rest.
So Patricia, only a little girl yet herself, thought her sweet bright reasonings and was comforted. John Worth was standing to her now for an angel of mercy, and she tried not to remember Thorny’s unpleasant intimacy.
She nestled there out of the frightening world, and John Worth sheltered her by the slant of his body, and the length of his arms enfolded her. She felt so glad she was not down there in the woods during this awful storm, with Thorny trying to take care of her. Somehow she felt that if she had been left in a strait Thorny would have fled and left her to find her own way home as best she could. Thorny gave no impression of being a gallant gentleman.
John Worth’s stride was buoyant even in this storm. He did not seem to be puffing and panting with her weight.
And then while the thunder still rolled and the lightning filled the whole sky with a sheet of glory light, they arrived. He set her down on a small porch that had a little seat on either side.
It was a plain little shingled house below the side of a wet green hill. Behind and beyond the house were those long black plowed furrows they had just come through so safely, which she never could have crossed alone, she was sure. And there were wet trees bending in the blast and a clean smell of freshly washed vegetation.
Then almost as soon as her feet touched the porch floor, the door opened and a sweet-faced woman stood there, reaching out tender soft hands to draw her inside the room, where there was a fire burning in an open grate. Someone was sitting in an easy chair beside the fire, with blankets wrapped around him. He had a face like John Worth’s, only older and tired looking. She remembered that she had heard that John Worth’s father had been sick.
“Well, well, Son, who is this ye’ve brought me?” John’s mother said, as she looked smilingly into the girl’s face. “A wee bairnie come in out of the storm, is it? A wee birdie that couldn’t fly away to her own nest in a wild wind like this!”
There was a pleasant burr on her tongue and a lovingness about her touch that made Patricia glad. What a mother! That must be what made John Worth different from the other boys. He had a mother like this!
“Why, Mother, this is Patricia Prentiss,” said John. “The girl I told you I skated with a few minutes once.”
“I remember,” said the mother, giving Patricia another loving smile and a little pat on her arm. “And now, come away, my bairnie, and we’ll get you dried and warm. There’s a cauld wind and we don’t want you to get sick from coming to visit us. You’re verra welcome. My lad has told us all aboot you, has pictured the braw hoose where you live, and we’re honored the noo ta have ye enter our wee bit co-tage.”
She led Patricia into an inner room opening from the larger one. She opened a closet door and took blankets from a shelf and set a chair for her.
“Noo, you tak off yer wet things and wrap ye in yon blanket. It’s all clean from the wash and the sunshine, and laid away in wee bags of lavender. It’s soft and warm, made from our own lambies in Scotland, a part of my ain dowry, and kept for special occasions like today.” She smiled as she hung the blanket over the back of the chair.
“Take off yer bit frock with the bonnie bluebells on it, and I’ll iron it dry for ye. It’s na sa verra wet.”
“Oh, no,” said Patricia brightly. “John covered me up with himself as far as he could reach. I think he must be very tired. He carried me all the way over that awful plowed ground.”
“John’s a hearty lad,” said John’s mother. “He’d tak it all in the day’s stride and think nothing of it. You’re only a slip of a thing, you know, and John’s used ta hard worruk. That’s it. Noo, I’ll pit the blanket aboot ya, and you slip off the rest of yer things an’ give them ta me. I’ll hev them right an’ dry in a trice.”
Mrs. Worth took the limp chintz frock and smiled.
Patricia answered her smile with one as bright and full of gratitude.
“Oh, but I don’t want you to go to all that trouble for me. Let me hang them around the room. They’ll soon dry,” said Patricia. “I’m making a lot of trouble for everybody.”
“Yer makin’ a lot of pleasure for us all, lassie. It’s like havin’ a bit o’ sunshine come inta the room on a dark day. And feyther’ll be wantin’ ta see ye. It’s hard days for feyther, shut away from the worruld, and John always tries to bring brightness home with him when he comes. You see, feyther’s always been active and traveled aboot the worruld much, an’ he taks it hard to be shut away all the time. Not that he says much aboot it, ye ken, but his eyes will light up when someone comes in ta break the monotony. Noo, wrap the blanket aboot ya close, and drop doon on the wee cot for a minute and rest ye. I’ll soon be back wi’ yer garments. I’ll tak the wee shoes, too, an’ set them by the overn wi’ the door open. They’ll soon be fit and right. Noo, mak yersel’ at home, lassie, till I return.”
Mrs. Worth vanished, shutting the door quietly.
Patricia, wrapped in the wonderfully soft blanket, sat down and looked around her, greatly intrigued by everything.
The room was spotlessly clean. The windows shone even with the dashing rain upon them. There were thin old muslin curtains. They were edged with delicate crocheted lace starched crisply and tied back with a band of themselves. The floor was wide boards, their cracks filled and painted gray; there were braided rag rugs scattered about and some pieces of fine old furniture—a quaint bureau, a little sewing table with lovely drawers, a small but beautiful old desk, two or three chairs, one an old-time rocker. And there were pictures on the wall, photographs of people with strong dependable faces, sweet womanly faces with gentleness and peace written in their eyes. Like John’s mother, Patricia thought. She got up and went over to the wall to study them. There was one of a sweet old lady with a little muslin cap on, white hair smoothed down, parted in the middle, sweet wise eyes. She was older than John’s mother. And there was a girl in the next frame. She looked like John. It must be a picture of John’s mother when she was young.
There were others, too. She went around the room picking them out, wondering who they were, tracing resemblances. And there was a whole row of John’s pictures. Some when he was a baby, with little tendrils of curls framing his round cheeks and wide wondering eyes. Patricia studied those until they were stamped upon her memory. When at last she turned away she felt as if she had known John Worth since babyhood. She went back to those pictures again after she had studied the rest.
There was one, a wide rambling old stone house, foreign in its look and very old. Quaint, her mother would have called it and tossed it aside as worth little. But Patricia looked long at it. It had a home look. She wondered if that was where John’s mother lived when she was a little girl. She asked her when she came back with the little pile of pretty garments neatly folded over her arm and the slender shoes in her hand.
“Oh, how quickly you did them!” said Patricia, turning to meet those kindly eyes that looked so much like John’s eyes. “But I am so sorry to have made you all that trouble!”
“It was a pleasure, dearie. You know, I’ve always wanted a little girl’s pretty things to fuss over. My wee lassie we
“Oh, I couldn’t lie down,” said Patricia, “it was so interesting. Won’t you tell me, is this picture yourself? And that row over there, are they John?”
“Right you are, lassie. These of me were taken over in the old country, before I met feyther. And those two pictures above, they were my own feyther an’ mither. And this”—she pointed to a little frame on the bureau—“was my wee bairnie.” Her voice was full of unshed tears.
Patricia looked at the picture for a long minute, and then she said, her voice very tender, “I didn’t know about the baby. I’m sorry. And you are such a lovely mother! She’s missed a lot, not having you!”
“Oh, but she’s been with the heavenly Feyther!” said the mother, with a sudden bright smile. “And—I shall go to her someday. Then we’ll have each other forever. Abut whiles I like to see a pretty lass like you, and think what my wee Margaret might have been if the Feyther had chose to leave her here awhile. Noo, get yersel’ dressed, lassie, and come you out to eat a little supper with us. Then John’ll find a way to be taking you home when the storm is over.”
“Oh, but I can walk home by myself,” said Patricia. “John must not take any more trouble for me. That is, I can walk home if you will just point out the way to the main road. I think I’m a little turned around now. This house is not very near the road, is it? When I came I didn’t do much looking around.”
“It’s quite a walk, dearie,” said Mrs. Worth. “My lad will be glad to see you home, but we’ll wait a little till the storm is by. Noo, here’s a comb an’ brush. And here are towels and water. Just make yourself at home. I’ll run out and look after my scones. We’ll have a bit supper as soon as you’re ready.”
Patricia hurried with her dressing and was soon ready to go out. But before she opened the door she went over to the row of John’s pictures and studied them again. Then she sighed.
Such a nice boy he was, with such a sweet mother! Why couldn’t Thorny have been like that? Would she have to be bothered with Thorny all her life, or had she angered him and was he done? She sincerely hoped he was angry and would never come again, although she knew that if that was the case she would have to account for it to her mother, and she and her father would have an uncomfortable time of it until Thorny was placated and brought back. Oh, why did Mother like a boy like that?
Then with one more long look at John’s pictures and a lingering glance at the dear old house in Scotland, she went out.
She could see through the door of the living room out into the kitchen, where John’s mother was stooping down to the open oven door and a delectable aroma of hot gingerbread filled the air. She was very hungry, and suddenly she realized that she had had no lunch. She had gone all day on excitement and now the aroma of the cooking made her ravenous. She stood in the kitchen doorway looking at the big pan of gingerbread that Mrs. Worth was cutting into lovely squares, deftly placing them on a big platter. She looked up and smiled, and Patricia smiled back shyly.
“That looks wonderful!” she said with eyes aglow.
“You want a piece now while it’s hot, don’t you, lassie? My lad likes it best when it’s hot, too.”
She plumped a generous piece on a pretty china plate and handed it over.
“There! Take that in the room there and sit by the fire with feyther. He wants to pass the time of day with ye.”
Chapter 10
Patricia took the plate gratefully and went in to the fireplace, looking down at the wonderful velvety, shining brown crust. It looked better than anything she had ever eaten in her life.
“That’s right, lass,” said John’s father, smiling her a welcome and pointing to a low rocker on the other side of the hearth, “come, let’s get acquainted.”
Patricia sat down and then looked doubtfully down at her gingerbread.
The kind eyes of the man smiled at her.
“Eat it up, lassie, while it’s hot,” he advised. “It’s best that way. Mother will bring me a bit presently. You’re not to wait on me. I’m an invalid, I’m sorry to say, and they baby me.”
Patricia smiled and began to eat the delectable cake, and she reflected that here was a man her father would enjoy knowing. Would she dare to tell him about him sometime?
Patricia found it easy to talk with John Worth’s father. He had kind, twinkly eyes, and he seemed glad that she was there.
Then John stamped up on the porch, wiping his feet hard on a mat outside, and came in with a brimming pail of milk.
“Had to come in this door, Father,” he explained apologetically. “It’s fair a flood at the back door. But it’s lightening up a little now. It won’t be long before the storm is over. Will your mother be worrying, Pat?” he asked anxiously.
Patricia gave him a quick smile.
“No, not worried,” she said thoughtfully. “She thinks I’m with people—a person—who will take care of me.”
John grinned comprehendingly.
“I see,” he said. “Well, you are, you know. I promise you that!”
“Yes,” said Patricia, “and a great deal better than—any of the others.” Her eyes met John’s, and a quick little message passed from eye to eye. “I’ll never be able to thank you for the way you did it.”
He gave her the look an old friend gives, as he passed into the kitchen with his pail of milk.
Patricia sat there thinking what a nice time she was having and hoping she wouldn’t have to spoil it all when she got home by explaining everything.
Suddenly she looked up and found John’s father’s eyes upon her kindly.
“I think it is beautiful here,” she said with childlike frankness. “I should think you would be very happy here, all shut in from the rain and the world.”
“Oh, I am,” the invalid said, smiling. “Of course, I would like to be well and strong again and go out and work for my beloved ones, but since I may not, it is good to be here with them.”
“It is very homelike,” she said. “I like this house.”
“But you live in a very beautiful home, they tell me.”
“Yes, I guess so,” sighed Patricia reflectively, “but it isn’t a home like this. We never sit down by an open fire and just enjoy it. My father has to be away a great deal on business, and my mother likes the house all kind of cleared up and empty as if you always expected a lot of company and couldn’t act like yourself. Of course, it’s my home, and I like it all right. But this house is so cozy. I like it here. Is that building in the picture up there in Scotland?” Patricia pointed to a large photograph of a columned structure hanging over the mantel.
“No,” said Mr. Worth, “that’s in this country. That’s my college where I used to teach.”
“Oh,” said Patricia with a sudden surprise in her eyes. This, then, was the explanation of why John Worth was such a brilliant student in school. But she did not say anything more, for John and his mother came in bearing trays.
John put his down on a small table and pulled out a beautiful old mahogany table, lifted its leaves, spread on the cloth his mother handed him, and quickly the table was set.
“Couldn’t I help?” Patricia asked hesitantly. “I’d like to.”
The mother’s face lit up.
“Yes,” she said brightly, “bring in the scones. They’re in the big blue platter on the kitchen table. There’s a holder by them. Better use it. The platter is pretty hot. I like my scones piping hot.”
Patricia came back carefully carrying the big platter of scones. She hadn’t known what scones were when she went after them, but there they were, a heaped-up platter full, steaming hot and delicately browned. They were most inviting.
There were thin slices
John brought his father’s chair up to the table. The mother brought in the teapot, and they all settled into a sweet reverent quiet with bowed heads. Patricia bowed her head, too. This was something quite new to her, but she liked it. And then the voice of the father was raised in a beautiful blessing that included her also, “the young guest in our household.” Her heart thrilled as she heard the petition.
“Grant that the young guest in our household may early learn to know Thee as her Savior, and may have a gracious and a lovely life of service before her, so that everywhere she goes, all who see her shall notice the glory in her face and take knowledge of her that she has been with Jesus.”
When the blessing was over and the heads lifted, Patricia’s eyes were all dewy with the wonder of it. She felt as if she had been listening at the door of heaven. She raised her eyes and met the eyes of the boy upon her questioningly, as if he were wondering how she would take that, whether she might have disliked it, as if he were ready to resent it if she did. But she met his glance with one full of appreciation, a look that fully entered into this bit of worship, and his own face lit with gladness. It seemed to the girl that now some special bond had come between them, a kind of recognition of a strange, lovely kinship that she would never forget, no matter if time went on forever without their meeting again.
Patricia thought that she never had tasted such food before. She thought the scones delicious, and the rich creamy milk was cold and delightful. There were stewed apples, too, in thick translucent quarters, golden and clear, big glass dishes of them, and more gingerbread to eat with them. Patricia was ashamed at the way she ate and ate and could not get enough.