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 doesn’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:
“Must I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize
And sailed through bloody seas?
“Are there no foes for me to face?
Must I not stem the flood?
Is this vile world a friend to grace
To help me on to God?”
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:
“Since I must fight if I would reign,
Increase my courage, Lord;
I’ll bear the toil, endure the pain,
Supported by thy word.”
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.