Patricia

  He had her in such an embrace that her arms were pinioned to her sides.

  “Stop! Stop!” she gasped. “We’re—only kids! And—I hate—you!”

  But now her strength and sense were coming back to her. She began to kick his ankles and shins.

  “You little handsome devil!” said Thorny between his kisses, returning her kicks with a lashing out of one of his own heavily shod feet. “I’ll teach you to fight me! I will! You’re mine, now, and I’ll make you know it and own it—yes, and like it before we’re done. Do you know that?” And then his face came down and smothered her again with his tempestuous fondling.

  Struggling, turning, gasping, Patricia at last got one hand free and let it fly at Thorny’s face in a blinding blow, scratching his cheeks and eyes. Freeing her own face at last, she let out a terrific scream. True, it was stifled and cut in two at once by Thorny’s hard hand clapped over her mouth, but she had got one finger in his eyes and he was blinded himself.

  She was like a young fury now, getting her other arm free, beating him around the face, and giving him all he could take, especially directing her blows at his eyes, until suddenly with a howl of pain he put one hand up to guard his eyes and she struggled free. Turning, she fled with all her might away from him, not pausing to see in which direction she was going, not looking back to see if he were following. She dashed across the mossy ground, screaming as she went.

  But it happened that she was going in the opposite direction from all her comrades, who were at that moment engaged in a rollicking game in which they were all shouting and laughing and screaming at the top of their lungs, so they did not hear her. But she went on and on, climbing up a hill, stumbling over roots of trees and logs, once caught in the branches of a low-hanging tree, but struggling on.

  She had stopped screaming now, but the tears were raining down her face, and she was crying softly, sometimes groaning as she stumbled against a log or a tree trunk.

  Then it occurred to her that Thorny might be following. Yet she dared not look behind her. She must get out of the woods, into the open, into the road somewhere if possible, where she could call for help if he came.

  Then suddenly she fell prostrate across a big root of a tree, and her whole being was shaken with the shock of the fall. Now if he came, she could not hope to get away. Her strength was utterly gone. She was trembling in every nerve. She was frightened beyond anything she had ever experienced. For a moment or two she dared not try to look around. He might even be just upon her. It would be like him to creep up and take her unaware. He had always been that way, selfish and ready to take anyone at a disadvantage. A memory of the way he had held her in that close horrid embrace, the feel of his hot wet lips against hers, his quick excited breath upon her face made her shudder. Oh, she would die if he ever caught her and did that again.

  She was not a girl who had been used to kissing. She was only filled with inexpressible horror at the awful contact she had had. Why did people want to kiss unless they loved one another? How could they bear to go around caressing one another? She shuddered again, and then that horror lest he was stealing up to her quietly grew so strong that she had to look around. Slowly, very quietly, she looked back to see if he was coming.

  No, he was not in sight. And the way was fairly open. There did not seem to be any place where he could be hiding.

  With stealth she drew herself up from the ground and looked around her and then up. She seemed to be about ten feet below the top of the hill, and there were wide open spaces up there, a field perhaps, a meadow. If she could only gain that, get out into the wideness where there were no obstructions to fall over, no roots to hinder, no bushes to hide, perhaps she might get away home. She felt as if she would never go out again if she once gained that stronghold. And oh, what would her mother say now? Surely she would see how mistaken she was about Thorny! At least her father would see, and he would do something definite about it to protect her. Surely her mother would never think it was right for a boy as big as Thorny to kiss a girl that way, as mature as she was, and do it against her will, again and again. Oh!

  Shudder after shudder went over her as she slowly tried to rise and creep out of the place where she had fallen.

  Blinded by her tears, she stood up and slowly gained the top of the hill, reaching at last the shelter of a large tree where she could lean against the trunk and peek out to make sure Thorny was not anywhere around. If she could only have known that Thorny was still seated on a log trying to get the dirt out of his eyes that had been rubbed in along with the violet stems and anemones when Patricia turned upon him, what a comfort it would have been to her just then.

  When she turned to look around her at the top of the hill, she was not just sure where she was. In a general way she knew that the village where home was should be behind her, beyond the woods from which she was emerging, but she did not want to return that way. She was utterly humiliated and filled with shame over what had happened. She did not want to meet Thorny again—ever! And she dared not go back through the woods lest he would be there and insist on taking her off again. There was no telling what kind of explanation he would give if she went back. She trembled at the thought. So there was no more picnic for her that day. Thorny had managed to spoil it forever, even the memory of it.

  They would get along without her. Nobody would likely miss her very much. Or if they did, they would think she had gone off with Thorny. In fact, that was the worst thing they could think, but perhaps she could explain to them sometime that it had been because she wanted to get away from Thorny that she ran home. Anyway, that wasn’t something to settle now. She had to get away from here right away, because there was no telling how soon Thorny would come plunging up that hill after her and she felt that that would be the end of her forever. With another swift glance down the hill and a quick scanning of the meadows, she turned toward the left and hurried along the edge of the woods. Somewhere ahead ought to be the road, and if followed, eventually it ought to lead to home. And if it should be that Thorny had figured out already that she would take the road and go toward home, at least there might be people passing in cars to whom she could cry out for help.

  So, breathless and trembling, she hurried along, stumbling over uneven places in the way and once actually falling down again. She was so tired and so sorrowful that now she did not try to rise, but just lay huddled there in a discouraged little heap and began to cry. Long shuddery sobs that shook her whole young body, tears that flooded her face and hung jeweled drops on her long eyelashes and rained down her pink cheeks with a healing tide. She must get these awful shudders and tears out of her system before she attempted to go home.

  And what was she going to say when she got there? What would her mother think? Oh, if only Mother would stay late at her all-day club meeting, then she could have the day to herself to rest and think up an explanation; perhaps she would never even have to explain. When she tried to think of words to make it all plain, she couldn’t find the right ones, not words that she dared utter to her mother. Not words that would explain how she felt about the way Thorny had treated her. Her mother would think she was something vile and awful to have such thoughts, if she tried to tell her how terrible Thorny had been. Her mother would say that if she hadn’t been to that lowdown school, she would never have put such an interpretation on Thorny’s actions, that of course Thorny was a nice decent boy and wouldn’t have any idea of doing anything wrong. That all boys of that age liked to kiss nice, well-behaved, pretty girls, and that Patricia was acting childish to think that there was anything so very terrible about being kissed. That all pretty girls expected to be kissed and were proud of it. They felt that it only showed that they were growing up and getting more attractive, and that Patricia was a silly little goose to get all excited because that delightful boy Thorny had chosen to kiss her. If she had only been trained in a nice private school like Gloria Van Emmons, she would have understood and known how to accept a little attention now and th
en. Why, Patricia could fairly hear her mother’s voice saying these things, and suddenly it seemed to her more than she could bear, to have her mother like that, not understanding. How could her mother be so blind as not to know what Thorny had become? Oh, perhaps her mother thought that was all right. Perhaps she thought that all boys and men were like that. If that was true, Patricia felt she never wanted to have anything to do with boys again. But she knew it wasn’t true. She knew that the boys in her school wouldn’t have dared crush her in their arms that way. They always treated her with respect.

  Oh, perhaps some of them would be rough and silly with some of the girls, and perhaps they might get like Thorny when they were older, but the ones she knew best in her class were either sober, serious, studying hard, and very shy with girls or else they were all absorbed in athletics and had no time for anything else. Not even those she knew in the senior class were loudmouthed and silly like Thorny. Maybe they weren’t as good-looking as he was, but they treated the girls with respect. Why, there was John Worth. Of course, it was true he never even went to their parties—though she knew several of the girls had invited him and wanted him to go—but John Worth would never behave that way if he did go with the girls. He was a boy you could trust. He wouldn’t take advantage of a girl and try to kiss her and hug her the minute he got alone with her. Look how nice he had been to her, just a little girl, that day on the ice! Of course, he had been only a very young boy then, and she a very little girl, but he had acted like a gentleman. She knew in her heart that he was different. Oh, why couldn’t Thorny have been different, if she had to be such friends with him because he was the son of her mother’s friend?

  How long would this have to go on, anyway? When Thorny grew older and she grew older, would her mother think she could go on making dates for them, forcing them on each other? How dreadful!

  Then the tears came again, a perfect avalanche of them, and terror mingled with disgust and hate for Thorny. Somehow she would have to take a stand against him and make her mother understand! Yes, even if she had to tell it all to her father. Poor Father! And let him in for a terrible argument with her mother. She envisioned what it would be like and shrank away, shuddering into her little sopping, inadequate handkerchief. Then her face was down again in her hands, and a little cool breeze stole across her forehead and touched it softly. And something else, cool and silk-like brushed across her hot wet eyes and soothed and comforted her burning skin. It seemed so tender, almost like little fingers gently pitying her, that she opened her eyes, and there were little white blossoms touched with pink, a perfect little flock of them, dancing in the breeze close beside her and softly caressing her face at the whim of the wind.

  She gave a little nervous laugh of relief and, nestling nearer, touched her lips to their coolness and brushed them with her fingertips. Dear little flowers. Dear little lovely creations of God doing their best to comfort her!

  Lying there so near to them, she studied all the little delicate pink veins in them. She felt as if God had sent them to help her through this hard time. Did God understand? Did He care? Sometimes in the little unfashionable chapel where she and her father went Sundays, she had heard people pray as if God cared for everybody, especially for those who loved Him. Her mother’s teaching had always carried the implications that God cared of course for the very poor good people who couldn’t help themselves, but that people who were well off, like her father and his family, could look after themselves. They didn’t need God because they were well educated and had plenty of money and moved in the best society. Her mother had never actually said that in so many words, but all her upbringing of her child had implied that, and Patricia had gathered that and wondered and had not been able to harmonize it with the things she heard at the chapel. But she had never dared talk to her mother about it because that question of hers would surely be charged to the little plebeian church that her father allowed her to attend.

  But now as the little flowers continued to whisper soft things to her, lying there in the grass at the woodside, she came to a swift conviction that the chapel people were right and that God did care for His own.

  It was very still there with just the whispering flowers around her face and a sweet bird up in a high treetop singing an occasional song of lonely far-off cheer. Someone was working over in a distant field. She could hear the ring of a hoe touching a stone now and again. When she opened the lashes of her eyes a tiny crack, she could see a figure in blue overalls, working with brisk quick movements of arms and body, keeping time with the hoe. It was quite far away, but it was reassuring. If Thorny should suddenly appear, she could scream and that workman would hear her. She was not absolutely all alone.

  So she lay still for a little. At least she did not need to hurry home. Perhaps if she waited long enough, her mother would not think to question her about the day and she could keep the whole dreadful happening to herself. Anyway, she could close her eyes again and just rest a few minutes and try to think what she should do. She must remember that some explanation must be given to her classmates, too, for they would wonder at her absence, and there was no telling whether Thorny would go back to them at all! She must work out the whole matter so that she need not be ashamed.

  But lying so, with the little still breezes all around her and that bird singing a lullaby above her, with the reassuring hoe chiming in now and again like a bell, she fell asleep. For she was really very tired, what with the excitement and the fight with Thorny and the unaccustomed climb.

  It might have been a long time she had been lying there—she was not conscious of time and its flight—but she awoke suddenly to the sound of a low rumble above her, and—was that a step she had heard? Was somebody coming?

  Chapter 9

  Patricia sat up sharply, giving a wild look around her and frantically rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Then she looked up. This strange place! The woods, the wide field, the little pink frightened flowers at her feet! Ah! Now she knew where she was! She had run away from Thorny, and this strange listlessness upon her was from her struggle and the climb up the hill!

  But the sky was overcast! A storm! The clouds were heavy and dark, and that was thunder unmistakably! And lightning! A vivid quiver darting down the sky and cleaving a blue-black cloud in half!

  And those footsteps that were coming! Oh, could it be Thorny? She suddenly rose with new strength and darted her glance about wildly. There had been somebody working over to the right, in the field.

  Her eyes went to the distance where the man had been, and then she saw him, running toward her. But that wasn’t Thorny! A vivid flash of lightning lit him up. This man had overalls, blue overalls. With mingled relief and fear she watched him, her clasped hands over her heart, her eyes wide with dread. But there was something strangely familiar about that run, head up, shoulders poised easily, arms flexed, running with long easy strides, not a motion wasted. Like an athlete! Somewhere before she had seen this man run!

  Then suddenly he was almost upon her and she saw his face. Another long frightening gash of lightning in the sky, a crash of thunder, that seemed to roar and blaze between them; it lit up their faces, and Patricia’s face broke into a welcoming smile.

  “Oh! It’s you!” she said with relief, and her eyes were bright with friendliness and welcome.

  It was John Worth!

  “And it’s you!” said the boy. “What are you doing way up here? Weren’t you at the picnic?”

  “Yes, but—I ran away!” Then she laughed. It had been just this way the last time he came to her rescue, down by the creek. Their eyes met and understanding was in his face.

  “It wasn’t Thorny, this time, was it?” He laughed pleasantly. “He wouldn’t be in on this picnic, of course.”

  “Why, yes,” said Patricia, “it was. I told him he wasn’t invited, but he came anyway.”

  “He would!” said John Worth, with a frown. “He’s that way! I’m surprised the other boys stood for him.”

  “Oh, I
’m afraid they thought I brought him, and they were trying terribly hard to be polite. But, of course, they didn’t know what happened. I was picking violets and he came and sent them all off and then he tried to kiss me, and I hated it!”

  Patricia’s face grew dark with the memory of it.

  “He—is—awful! So, I ran away!”

  “Wait till I get a chance at him!” said John Worth, with an ominous glint in his dark eyes. “I certainly will give him his! But—that didn’t just happen, did it? Weren’t you lying here quite a while? I thought I saw something white down on the grass, but I didn’t identify you till just now. At least I wasn’t just sure who you were till I got here, but I saw a storm coming and I thought I’d better find out what it was that was lying here before it began to rain. Where are the rest? Were you to meet them somewhere?”

  “Oh no, I’m on my way home. I didn’t want anybody to know I had gone, so I rested here a few minutes; I’d run so hard up the hill. And I guess I was rather frightened. Maybe I went to sleep. Then I heard thunder—”

  Suddenly another crash rent the air, and the lightning covered the whole heaven with brilliancy.

  Patricia stood quivering with her hands over her eyes.

  “Oh!” she said in a trembling little voice. “There is going to be a storm! I must go home!”

  “I should say there is!” said John Worth, coming quickly over to her. “Come! Quick! There’s the rain!”

  He held out his hand and caught hers.

  “Let’s go!” he said and, with a quick motion, drew her arm within his own. “You can’t get home till this is over! I’ll take you to my home! It’s not far. All set?”

  They started out across the field, but suddenly the very windows of heaven seemed to open and let down a torrent. Patricia stumbled on, blinded with the rain, and almost fell once or twice, except that John’s strong arm held her steady. But when they came to the plowed ground, he halted her and, stooping, picked her up in his arms and ran on, over the furrows that seemed so endless and so unnavigable to the girl. Her face was against his broad breast, she was sheltered partly by his shoulders, and she felt as safe as if she were at home.