Patty Blossom

"No, Phil," and Patty gave him a lovely smile, while her blue eyes shone like stars; "no, you were right, before. Not here—not now. Come, let us join the others,—and you come to see me at home—soon."

"Your own sweet way is mine, Patty," and Van Reypen kissed the trembling little hand he held. "Now, brace up, dear; remember, they'll all be watching us, even chaffing us. Can you meet them?"

"Yes," and Patty assumed her old mischievous smile. "Carry things off with a high hand, Phil. That's the way to meet them."

Together they sauntered to the supper room, and, as they had expected, were met by a storm of chaff.

"Where have you two been? 'Fess up, now!"

"Flirting," replied Van Reypen, coolly. "Haven't we, Patty?"

"Yes, if you call such a mild affair worthy of the name," and Patty's nonchalant air and unembarrassed manner gave no further inducement for teasing.

"Let's sit here," Phil went on, selecting seats at a small table, with some casual friends, and then his resources of conversation and Patty's gay chatter did away with all chance for personal allusions.

CHAPTER XVI

A STOLEN POEM

After supper there was dancing, and Patty was besieged by would-be partners. Good-naturedly she fractioned her dances, and even divided the short intermissions between them. Everybody wanted to dance with the smiling little person in red velvet, and her pretty gaiety salved the wounds of those whom she was obliged to refuse.

At last, Farnsworth came to her, and his determined expression told Patty he was about to lay down the law.

Sure enough, he took her hand in his, drew it through his arm, and led her out of the dancing room.

"Without even a 'by your leave?'" and Patty looked up at him, inquiringly.

"Without it or with it. But you can't dance any more tonight. You're so tired you can scarcely stand up now."

"That's so, now that you speak of it. But I hadn't realised it."

"Of course you hadn't. You're crazy, when it comes to dancing!"

"Well, you're not. You haven't danced with me once tonight, except that old country dance."

"Did you want me to? Were you lacking for partners?"

"Me! Lacking for partners! Am I, usually?"

"Oh, Patty, what a little Vanity Box you are! No, you never lack for partners or attention or flattery,—all you ever lack is a little common sense."

"Why-ee! Little Billee! I've always prided myself on my common sense.

But where are you taking me?"

"Not very far. There's a comfy window-seat in this little reception room, where you can rest a bit, then I'm going to send you home."

"Oh, you are! And who constituted you my Major Domo, or Commanding Officer, or Father Superior, or whoever it is that orders people about?"

"I don't order; I persuade, or induce, by power of my irresistible charm." Farnsworth's blue eyes twinkled, and Patty laughed outright, as she said, "Yes, I noticed the irresistibility as I left the Blaneys' tonight!"

"And, that's the very subject I was about to discourse upon,—the Blaneys, I mean. But first, let me make you comfy."

Farnsworth led Patty to the spacious, cushioned window-seat, and piled soft pillows at her back, and tucked an ottoman beneath her feet, and then sat down beside her. The little room was deserted by the dancers, and though some of the guests strolled in and out, occasionally, there was ample opportunity for real conversation.

"It's this way, Patty," Farnsworth began. "I know Sam Blaney, and you don't. I knew him years ago, and though I've not seen him of late years, he's the same old two and sixpence."

"And a very attractive two and sixpence," declared Patty, an obstinate expression coming into her face. "You see, Little Billee, either you like wise, brainy people, or you don't. I do."

"I know you do, and so do I. But the Blaney crowd are neither wise nor brainy. They are frauds."

"Do you mean conscious frauds? Wilfully deceptive?"

"To a certain degree, yes. They do fool themselves, sometimes, into thinking they are sincere, but they can't even fool themselves all the time,—let alone other people."

"Your observations do not interest me." Patty's air was lofty, she looked away into space, as if bored to death with her companion.

"Would it interest you to know that I know Sam Blaney to be a fraud and a dishonest man?"

"I have heard you say that one's friends should be sacred from disparaging remarks."

"True enough. But, in the first place, Blaney isn't my friend, and even if he were, I should sacrifice him or his friendship for you."

"Why?"

"Never mind why. Oh, Patty, rely on my judgment, rely on my word in this matter, and don't have anything more to do with that rubbish bunch!"

"Look here, Little Billee, if that's all the subject you can find to talk about, I believe I'd rather go back and dance. I'm rested now."

"Sit still, Lady Gay. While we're on this subject, we're going to fight it to a finish."

"You mean you're going to fight me to a finish. Go on, it won't take long."

"You poor little girl,—you are tired, I know. Well, to make a long story short, then, you must break with these Cosmic people, because, if you don't, it will harm your social standing and injure your reputation."

"Why? They're absolutely correct and high-minded. They're a little unconventional, maybe, but they're interesting and worth while."

"But they're frauds, Patty. And they've taken you up, because you're a social favourite, and you add lustre to their list."

"And they don't care for me, personally!"

"Now, don't flare up. Of course they like you, personally,—who doesn't? But they make you think you're brainy and soulful and a little old deep-thinker—and,—you're not, you know."

"Well! You are complimentary! What am I, pray? An ignoramus?"

"Hardly that. You're the sweetest, loveliest girl God ever made, but you're not a blue-stocking. You're not college bred, or even well-read."

"Do you know you're a very horrid person? Do you know I wouldn't stand such talk from many people?"

"I should hope not. Very few people know you well enough or love you well enough to tell you these truths."

"I know somebody who loves me too much to talk to me like that."

"Van Reypen, of course. But, Patty, he doesn't approve of the Blaney crowd, either, and you know it."

"That's because he doesn't understand them, and–"

"Wait a minute. Just what do you mean by understand them? They speak English, I suppose."

"How dense you are! There is much beside language of words to be understood by kindred–"

"Don't you dare say souls!"

"I will,—I do say souls! That's what has no meaning for you!"

"Go on, Posy Face! You're pretty stunning when you get really stirred up!"

Farnsworth's face broke into a broad smile, and Patty was so amazed at his sudden change of manner that it irritated her.

"Oh, I am, am I! Well, other people have thought so, too. To the extent of putting it into poetry—real poetry!"

"Such as what?"

Farnsworth was so cynical of tone, that Patty broke her pledge of secrecy to the small extent of quoting a few words from the poem Blaney had given her.

"Such as this," she cried:

"–perhaps because her limpid face Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein The dimples found no place to anchor and Abide."

"That is poetry, indeed!" agreed Farnsworth, looking at her quizzically. "Did you say it was written to you?"

"Yes, Sam Blaney wrote it, to me. I didn't mean to tell you, it's a confidential matter,—but you were so horrid about him–"

"Wait a minute, Patty. Is that an original poem, that Blaney wrote for you alone?"

"Yes, it is. I promised not to tell it to anybody, so I'll ask you to say nothing about it."

"Tell me more of it."

"No, I won't. I promised not to."

"You needn't. I'll tell you what comes next:

  '–perhaps because her tresses beat  A froth of gold about her throat, and poured  In splendour to the feet that ever seemed  Afloat.'

Isn't that it?"

"Yes! How did you know?" Patty's startled eyes were wide in amazement.

"You dear little goose. I hate to give you a shock, Posy-girl, but those lines were written by a not altogether obscure poet,—one James Whitcomb Riley."

"What! It's no such thing! Mr. Blaney wrote them about me! They begin–"

"Wait! Don't break your promise of confidence. They begin:

"'I loved her.—Why? I never knew.' Don't they?"

"Yes, that's the poem Sam Blaney wrote for me–

"But he chanced to write it after Riley did—not before. Strange they were so similarly inspired, wasn't it?"

"William Farnsworth, do you mean to tell me that that is a poem of Riley's,—and Sam Blaney palmed it off on me as his own!"

"It looks that way, Patty. At any rate, those are Riley's lines. I've known the thing for years. It's a favourite of mine."

"But I've a book of Riley's,—it isn't in that."

"My child, you mustn't get annoyed with me, when I tell you you're not deeply versed in book-lore,—or deeply booked in verse-lore! For it's true. I admit that is not one of the poet's best known bits,—it's in 'Flying Islands of the Night,'—but it is so exquisite that it ought to be better known. And, by the way, Patty, if you thought Blaney did that gem, I don't wonder you admired him. But, dear little girl, do you see now that the man is capable of deception?"

Patty looked deeply troubled. "You're sure, Billee,—you're positive about this?"

"As sure as I am of my own name."

"Then I want nothing more to do with Sam Blaney or any of his crowd. I'll never forgive it. Why, he wrote the poem while I sat looking at him,—just as fast as he could scribble."

"Doesn't that seem to prove it? He knew Riley's lines, and wrote them down. I doubt if the greatest poet that ever lived scribbled lines like that, offhand."

"Of course they couldn't! You've done it, Little Billee. You've smashed my idols, blown up my air castles, knocked the pedestals from under my heroes–"

"I'm sorry, dear,—but when they are unworthy idols and heroes–"

"And they are! I see it all now. I banked on Mr. Blaney's genius mostly on account of that poem. But, as you say, the very fact that he made me promise not to show it to anybody—but I don't need to prove it. You tell me it's Riley's, and there's no further question about it."

"I'll send you the book, Patty. You'll enjoy it all."

Patty smiled. "I don't want it in corroboration of your assertion, but I'd love to have it. I'd like to know more poetry, Billee. As you so delicately hinted, my education on such matters is a little lacking."

"That's your own fault," said Farnsworth, bluntly. "Poetry isn't a thing to learn at school,—but alone, and at odd times and moments."

"It seems queer," and the earnest little face gazed into his, "for you to know such a lot about poetry. You're so–"

"Go on; don't mind hurting me. So uncouth, awkward, clumsy, lacking in—er—understanding, wasn't it?"

Farnsworth spoke bitterly, and his deep blue eyes were clouded.

"No," Patty returned, gently, "no, I didn't mean all those horrid things, and you know it! I meant, you're so busy with your mines and things, and so wrapped up in your business that it's surprising to know you have time for poetry."

"It's my theory that one can always find time for anything he really wants to do?"

"Can he? Do you suppose, then, you could find time to teach me a little bit about poetry, and how to study it,—or, don't you really want to do this?"

Farnsworth looked at her, and a great and tender light came into his eyes. Then, with a quick smile, he said, lightly, "Yes, indeed; I'll make out a list of books for you tomorrow. May I send them to you?"

Patty was aware of a sudden lack of enthusiasm in Farnsworth's manner, and with equal coolness, she said, "Thank you, that won't be necessary. Just send the list, and I can get them. And, now I think I must begin to commence to think about considering going home."

"Yes, it's late. Who's taking you?"

"I'm going with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. They kindly asked me."

"Very well. Will you go now?"

"Yes, please. And, I—I want to thank you for setting me straight about the Blaneys."

"Don't include Alla. I doubt if she'd do a deceptive thing. But all the same, Patty, she's no friend for you. You don't care for her, do you?"

"No; I did at first, she interested me–"

"I know; 'interested you strangely,' as the novelists say."

"Yes, just that. She is so queer and unusual and–"

"Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, freakish."

"I suppose so. But I liked it all, at first. I don't mind owning up I was getting a little tired of it. It didn't–"

"It didn't make good, did it? But you're through with it now. How will you break it all off, without unpleasantness—for you?"

"Oh, I can manage that by my tactful nature. I mean, with Alla. I shan't bother to be specially tactful with Sam. Need I be?"

"No. When a man has practised a fraud like that on you, he deserves no consideration whatever."

"And tell me, Little Billee, tell me quickly, for I must really be going, how did you walk in there and kidnap me so easily?"

"I had a sort of notion that you ought to be looked after. Channing was here, laughing over some of the details of the Blaney party that he had heard of, and when he told about your dance,—well, Patty, I'll be honest with you. I wanted to see that dance. You know how I love your dancing. Also, I wanted to know just what the dance was,—for I know Grantham."

"The dance was all right, Billee?"

"Yes, perfectly all right, only I'd rather you'd worn sandals. But it was a wonderful dance,—exquisite, poetic, all that is beautiful. I went in, reminded Sam of our old acquaintance, and he welcomed me decently, if not over-cordially. I saw one or two numbers on the program before yours, and I concluded I didn't want you mixed up with that bunch. They're right enough, but their unconventionality and ultra Bohemianism are not the element in which Patty Fairfield belongs. Then came your dance. Unspeakably lovely, all that it ought to be, but not for that herd of idiots! So, I made up my mind I'd persuade you to go home with me,—pretty much instanter! I told Blaney I intended to take you. He was mad all through, and denied my right to ask you to leave his party. But,—well, I reminded him of a few of our past memories—memories fraught with sadness!—to put it poetically,—and he made no further objections to my carrying out my own sweet will–"

"And so you carried out–"

"My own sweet girl! Exactly! Patty, you little rogue, you musn't bewitch me like that! If you do, I'll pick you up again, and carry you off—oh, here comes Mrs. Morrison. Have you come to carry Patty off?"

"Yes," and Mrs. Morrison looked regretful. "I'm sorry, Patty, dear, but really–"

"It's time! Yes, I know it, and I'm quite ready to go. Good night, Little Billee."

"Good night, Patty. Get a good rest, for you really need it."

CHAPTER XVII

PATTY'S DECISION

"You see, Nan, it isn't fair. I don't feel honest to keep Phil in uncertainty, when I don't think—no, I really don't think I'm going to marry him."

"But good gracious, Patty, you ought to know by this time! Either you care for him or you don't."

"Nan, I've only learned of late that when people say 'care for' they mean love. I think it's a silly phrase,—why, I care for lots of things–"

"There are a good many things you've only learned of late, Patty, and a good many more you've still to learn. But I really think you ought to make up your mind about Phil Van Reypen."

"Well, amn't I making it up as fast as I can? I'm going right at it now, in dead earnest, and you've got to help me."

Nan smiled at the anxious face that looked into her own.

They were in Patty's boudoir, the morning after the Christmas party. A breakfast tray, with contents only partly demolished, was pushed away, as the importance of the discussion made food seem an intrusive factor.

Patty's cap was askew on her hastily knotted-up curls, and she gathered about her the voluminous folds of a billowy, blue silk affair, that was her latest acquisition in the way of négligées.

"My child," said Nan, "you have given yourself away. If you want any help in making up your mind, you are not in love with that young man. You don't 'care for' him, in the technical sense of the term."

"But he's very nice, Nancy. He's a big-hearted, fine-minded–"

"Upstanding, clean-cut American gentleman. Let me help you out. Yes, Patty, he's all those things and more. But if you don't love him you mustn't marry him. You're old enough to know your own mind."

"I'm not such an ancient!"

"Don't be silly! You're nearly twenty-one–"

"Just twenty and a half."

"Well, all right, twenty and a half. But that's not like seventeen.

You're young for your years, I think. But anyway, you've seen enough of men to know if Phil Van Reypen is 'Lord of your life,—your King,—your Star!' Is he?"

"Not much he isn't! Why, Nan, he's an awfully nice chap, but no 'Philip, My King!' There, you see I can quote poetry as well as you.

Oh, Nan, Bill Farnsworth knows an awful lot about poetry! Would you think he would?"

"Now, Patty, keep to the subject in hand. Fred and I both think you ought to be engaged to Philip, or else tell him you won't be. It isn't fair to him, to act as you do."

"I know it, you angel stepmother, and so, I'm going to decide, right now,—with much quickness. Heigho! Which shall it be? Patty Van Reypen,—or stay an old maid all my life."

"Oh, I dare say there are others. You may possibly have another chance at matrimony."

"Nan," and Patty turned suddenly grave, "I don't like that—a chance at matrimony. I mean, if one gets engaged, it ought to be to a man she loves so much that she doesn't think of it as a 'chance.' It ought to be the one and only."

"Why, that's just what I'm trying to say, dear. Now, is Phil the one and only?"

"No, ma'am. Not by no manner of means, he isn't. Nixie, he is not!"

"That mass of negatives sounds rather conclusive to me. So, with that as a premise, I'm going to advise you, even urge you to tell him so with unmistakable definiteness."

"But, Nan, it makes him feel so bad."

"That is the trouble, Patty. Every true woman hates to disappoint the man who truly loves her. And Phil adores you. His love is deep and sincere. He would make you very happy—if you loved him. If not, it would only mean unhappiness for you both. And, so, it is really kinder to him to tell him so frankly and let him give up any false hopes."

"I know it, and I'm going to do it. But I don't know just how. You see, Nan, he is so persistent,—and in such a nice, kind way. When I tell him that, he'll only say that he won't consider it final, and we'll wait and see. Then the argument begins all over again."

"And so, I tell you, at the risk of repeating myself, that you must make up your own mind positively first; then, if an adverse decision, you must tell him, so positively that he can't misunderstand. Then, if he refuses to give up all hope, it isn't your fault."

"That's good, sound talk, Nan, and I will try to do just as you say. But—well, here's the thing in a nutshell. I like Phil so much that I hate to tell him I can't love him."

"Then get that out of the nutshell, and put this in. If you like him so much, it's your duty to tell him you can't love him. Heavens, Patty, have you no idea of other people's rights?"

"I don't believe I have, Nan. I'm a spoiled child, I admit it. You and Dad spoil me, and all my friends do, too. I'm made to believe that the sun rises and sets in silly little Patty Fairfield, and it has made me a vain, conceited, selfish, insufferable Pig! That's what it has done!"

"Oh, Patty, you little idiot! Nothing of the sort. You're,—since you doubtless meant to be contradicted,—you're a dear thing, and there isn't a selfish bone in your body. If people adore you, it's because of your sunny, sweet nature, and your absolute thoughtfulness and kindness to others. Don't be foolish that way. But regarding this matter of Philip, I know you see it as I do. And it's really your kind heart and your dislike of hurting anybody's feelings that makes you hate so to tell him what you must tell him."

"Yes, Nan, I must tell him. I know it myself. I know that I like him lots, and I'd be awfully sorry not to be friends with him, but I don't want to marry him."

"Do you want to marry anybody else?"

"I hardly know how to answer that. I suppose every girl would rather be married than not, if it's to just the right man. But one thing is certain, Philip isn't the right man."

Patty sighed, and the far-away look in her eyes made Nan wonder if there was a "right man" whose image was enshrined in the girl's heart. But she only said, "Then, dear, tell him so."

"I will," said Patty, but she looked very serious and troubled over it.

However, she did tell him so. When Van Reypen called that evening Patty answered his plea with a decisive No. She was very gentle and kindly, but she gave him no ray of hope, no suggestion of a change of decision.

Philip took it gravely, but was unwilling to admit it was final. He knew from Patty's demeanour that she meant it to be, but he hoped he could yet win her by further devotion and patience. She told him this was impossible, but he only smiled and expressed his determination to try it.

"I take your word for it, dear," he said. "I know you mean just what you say, that you don't love me enough to give yourself to me. And I won't urge you, or tease you. Just let me remain your friend, and let me see you, occasionally. I promise not to intrude when I'm not wanted. And though I expect nothing, there's no law against hoping, you know."

Phil's winsome smile was so cheery and yet so wistful, that Patty's heart was touched anew. But she said, "It must be just friends, Phil. I like you lots, you know that, but I can't be always fearful that–"

"That I'll break loose and become unmanageable! You needn't, dear. I promise to abide by your decision, unless I can make you want to change it. Now, forget it all, for the present, and let's be friends and chums and comrades and all those nice things, that don't bother curly-headed little girls and make them look troubled and sad. But, I want to thank you and bless you, dear, for your sweet kindliness to me. Why, you might have sent me flying about my business with nothing more than a curt No. I'm glad you didn't do that!"

"I don't treat my friends like that," and Patty smiled, relieved that the ordeal was practically over. "Now, will you help us with the House Sale?"

"In a minute! But tell me what house is to be sold?"

"Oh, no, we don't sell any house. It's really a sort of Bazaar, but instead of holding it in a hall or any big place, we have it in a house,—this house, in fact."

"Here?"

"Yes, next week. It's a horrid nuisance,—the getting ready and clearing up afterward, I mean,—but we want to make money for the library of our working girls' club."

"Let me give you the money you'd make, and then don't have the Bazaar thing."

"You're awfully good, Phil, and I'd like to do that. But it wouldn't work. The Club would just take your contribution and then go calmly on and have a Bazaar or something beside."

"But it would let you out. You needn't have it here."

"That would be selfish. I'm too selfish as it is. No, I'll have the sale here. Of course, the committee will help, and all that, but well, you know what committees are."

"Yes, they let the chairman do everything and then they criticise. And I'll bet you're chairman, aren't you?"

"Yes," Patty laughed. "How you do catch on! But I'm not shifting responsibility. Indeed, I'd rather do it all, if I could do it my own way. But they all tell me what to do, and then whatever's wrong is my fault."

"I know. All committees are like that. Well, just do the best you can and let me help all I can. Is there much I can do?"

"Why, yes, I think so. At least there will be on the day of the Sale.

Come round then and we'll set you to work."

"Glad to. What is to be sold? Can't I buy some things?"

"Yes, indeed. It's a novel sale, in this way: There are wares all over the house. In the library we'll sell books, and in the dining-room, food, and, also, china and glass and fancy linens."