Chapter XXXII Pinkey’s Discovery
Pinkey was grum. He didn’t like to be neglected, if he was a highwayman. He had gotten out of bed and drawn on his boots.
“So you couldn’t come to see me because there was a young preacher sick at the doctor’s?” he said, when Patty entered.
“The young preacher is my cousin,” said Patty, “and he is going to die.”
“Your cousin,” said Pinkey, softened a little. “But Goodwin is there, too. I hope you didn’t tell him anything about me?”
“Not a word.”
“He ought to be grateful to you for saving his life.”
“He seems to be.”
“And people that are grateful are very likely to have other feelings after awhile.” There was a significance in Pinkey’s manner that Patty greatly disliked.
“You should not talk in that way. Mr. Goodwin is engaged to be married.”
“Is he? Do you mind telling me her name?”
“To a lady named Meacham, I believe.”
“What?—Who?—To Ann Eliza? How did it happen that I have never heard of that? To Ann Eliza! Confound her; what a witch that girl is! I wish I could spoil her game this time. Goodwin’s too good for her and she sha’n’t have him.” Then he sat still as if in meditation. After a moment he resumed: “Now, Miss Lumsden, you’ve done one good turn for him, you must do another. I want to send a note to this Ann Eliza.”
“I cannot take it,” said Patty, trembling.
“You saved his life, and now you are unwilling to save him from a worse evil. You ought not to refuse.”
“You ought not to ask it. The circumstances of the case are peculiar. I will not take it.”
“Will you take a note to Goodwin?”
“Not on this business.”
Pinkey was startled at the emotion she showed, and looked at her inquiringly: “You were a schoolmate of Morton’s—of Goodwin’s, I mean—and a body would think that you might be the identical sweetheart that sent him adrift for joining the Methodists—and then joined the Methodists herself, eh?”
Patty said nothing, but turned away.
“By the holy Moses,” said Pinkey, in a half-soliloquy, “if that’s the case, I’ll break the net of that fisherwoman this time or drown myself a-trying.”
Patty had intended to read the Bible to her patient, but her mind was so disturbed that she thought best to say good-morning. Pinkey roused himself from a reverie to call her back.
“Will you answer me one question?” he asked. “Does Goodwin want to marry this girl? Is he happy about it, do you think?”
“I am sure he isn’t,” said Patty, reproaching herself in a moment that she had said so much.
Patty made some kindly remark to Mrs. Barkins as she went out, walked briskly to the fence, halted, looked off over the field a moment, turned round and came back. When she re-entered Pinkey’s room he had put on his great false-whiskers and wolf-skin cap, and she trembled at the transformation. He started, but said: “Don’t be afraid, Miss Lumsden, I am not meditating mischief. I will not hurt you, certainly, and you must not betray me. Now, what is it?”
“Don’t do anything wrong in this matter,” said Patty. “Don’t do anything that’ll lie heavy on your soul when you come to die.—I’m afraid you’ll do something wrong for Mr. Goodwin’s sake, or—mine.”
“No. But if I was able to ride I’d do one thunderin’ good thing. But I am too weak to do anything, plague on it!”
“I wish you would put these deceits in the fire and do right,” she said, indicating his disguises. “I am disappointed to see that you are going back to your old ways.”
He made no reply, but laid off his disguises and lay down on the bed, exhausted. And Patty departed, grieved that all her labors were in vain, while Pinkey only muttered to himself, “I’m too weak, confound it!”