Patty Blossom

"Who wooed you there?"

"Can't remember exactly. But it was the third from the last,—I think."

"You little witch! Do you know how fascinating you are?"

"No; tell me." Patty was in mischievous mood, and looked up demurely at Blaney.

"By Jove, I will! As soon as I can get you alone. Run away, now, and do your dance. And, listen; I command you to think of me at every step."

"Can't promise that. It's all I can do to remember Mr. Grantham's steps; they're fearfully complicated. So—you think of me,—instead."

With a saucy smile at Blaney, Patty slipped from her place, and went around to the dressing room.

"Oh, here you are," cried Alla, who was waiting to help her dress; "I was just going to send for you. Now, off with your frock."

Some fifteen or twenty minutes later, the audience sat in breathless anticipation of Patty's dance.

Howard Grantham was a great artist, and never before had he been known to devise a dance for any one. But he had recognised Patty's skill in the art, and had requested that he be allowed to design a picture dance for her. The result was to be a surprise to all present, except the Blaneys, for rehearsals had been jealously kept secret.

The lights in the room were low, and the stage, which was a small grove of evergreen trees, was dark. Then, through the trees, appeared slowly a faint, pink light, as of breaking dawn. Some unseen violins breathed almost inaudible strains of Spring-song music.

Two trees at the back were slowly drawn apart as two small, white hands appeared among their branches. In the opening showed Patty's lovely face, eyes upturned, scarlet lips parted in a smile that was a joyous expression of youth and gladness. Still further she drew apart the lissome trees, and stepped through, a vision of spring itself. Clouds of chiffon swirled about her, softest dawn-rose in colour, changing of tints of heliotrope and primrose, as she swayed in graceful, pliant rhythm. Her slim white arms waved slowly, as the hidden melodies came faintly from the depth of the grove. Her pretty bare feet shone whitely among the soft pine needles and the steps of her dance were the very essence of poetry itself.

The audience watched in silence, spellbound by the fair sight. Slowly she moved and swayed; then, as the music quickened, her steps grew more animated, her smile more bright, the lights were stronger, and the dance ended in a whirl of graceful pirouette and tossing, fluttering draperies. With no pause or intermission, Patty was changed to an impersonation of summer. It was done by the lights. Her robe was really of white chiffon, and as pink lights had made it appear in rosy tints, so now a deep yellow light gave the effect of sultry sunlight.

The music, and likewise the rhythm of the dance, were soft and languorous as a July noon. Limply hung the draperies, slowly waved the graceful arms, and at the end, Patty sank slowly, gently, down on a mound beneath the trees, and, her head pillowed on her arm, closed her eyes, while the violin notes faded to silence.

Knowing better than to applaud her, the spectators watched in silence. A moment, and then a clear bugle-like note sounded. Patty started up, passed her hand across her brow, opened her eyes, smiled slowly, and more and more merrily, then sprang up, and as the lights made her costume appear to be of the gold and russet red of autumn, she burst into a wild woodland dance such as a veritable Dryad might have performed. The music was rich, triumphant, and the whole atmosphere was filled with the glory of the crown of the year. By a clever contrivance, autumn leaves came fluttering down and Patty's bare feet nestled in them with childish enjoyment. Her smile was roguish, she was a witch, an eerie thing. The orange light glowed and shone, and at the height of a tumultuous burst of music, there was a sudden pause. Patty stopped still, her smile faded, and the colours changed from autumn glows to a cold wintry blue. Her gown became white, with blue shadows, the music was sharp and frosty. Patty danced with staccato steps, with little shivers of cold. The ground now appeared to be covered with frost, and her feet recoiled as they touched it. The music whistled like winter blasts. A fine snow seemed to fall, the blue shadows faded, all was white, and Patty, whirling, faster and faster, was like a white fairy, white robes, white arms, white feet, and a sparkling white veil, that grew more and more voluminous as she shook out its hidden folds. Faster she went, whirling, twirling, swirling, like a leaf in the wind, until, completely swathed in the great white veil, she vanished between the parted trees at the back of the stage.

The music ceased, the lights blazed up, the dance was over. A moment passed as the audience came back to earth, and then the applause was tremendous. Hands clapped, sonorously, voices shouted "Bravo!" and other words of plaudit; and "Encore!" was repeatedly demanded.

But Mr. Grantham had forbidden Patty to return to the stage, even to acknowledge the laudation. He believed in the better effect of an unspoiled remembrance of her last tableau.

So, shaking with excitement and weariness, Patty sank into a chair in the dressing-room, and Alla began to draw on her stockings.

"You must rest quietly, dear Patricia, for a half hour at least," she said, solicitously. "You are quite exhausted. But it was wonderful! I have never seen anything so beautiful! You will be fêted and praised to death. I've sent for a cup of coffee, to brace you up."

"Oh, please not, Alla!" cried Patty, knowing the kind of coffee it would be. "I don't want it, truly. Just give me a glass of water, and let me sit still a minute without seeing anybody. It is exhausting to dance like that."

"Yes, dear, it is. Now rest quietly, and I'll keep everybody away, until you feel like seeing them."

But Patty was keyed up with the excitement of the occasion and unwilling to rest for very long. So, with Alla's help, she was soon rearrayed in her red velvet and ready to return to the Studio.

"I'm ashamed of myself," she said to Alla, "but I'm so vain, I really want to go out there and hear people tell me that I did well!"

"That isn't vanity," Alla returned. "That's proper pride. If any one can do a thing as well as you did that dance, it would be idiocy not to enjoy hearing appreciative praise."

"Do you think so?" and Patty looked relieved; "I don't want to be conceited, but I'm glad if I did well."

"Wait till you hear what Sam says! He's wild about you, anyway, and after that dance he'll be crazier over you than ever."

Patty smiled, happily, and with a final adjustment of her freshly done-up hair, she declared herself ready to return to the party.

As hers had been the last number on the program, she was not surprised to find the audience standing about in groups, or picturesquely posed on divans, and her appearance was the signal for a new hubbub of excitement.

But before she could hear a definite word from any one, a tall, powerful figure came striding up to her, and big Bill Farnsworth's unsmiling blue eyes looked straight into her own merry ones.

Her merriment died away before the sternness of his expression.

"Get your wraps, Patty," he said, in low but distinct tones. "At once."

"What for?" and Patty stared at him in amazement. "What has happened?"

But she had no fear that any untoward accident had befallen, for Farnsworth showed no sympathy or gentleness in his face, merely a determined authority.

"Go at once," Farnsworth repeated, "and get your cloak."

"I won't do it," she replied, giving him an angry glance. "I don't want to go home; why should I get my cloak?"

"Then I'll take you without it," and picking her up in his arms, Big Bill strode through the throng of people, with as little embarrassment as if he were walking along the street. Many turned to look at him with curiosity, some smiled, but the Cosmic souls rarely allowed themselves to be surprised at anything, however peculiar.

As they passed Sam Blaney, Patty noticed that he stood, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, and a strange expression on his face,—half defiant, half afraid.

Farnsworth carried Patty down the stairs and out of the house, and placed her with care, but a bit unceremoniously, in the tonneau of a waiting motor-car. He jumped in beside her, and pulled the lap robe over her. The car started at once, and was well under way by the time Patty found voice enough to express her indignation.

"You—perfectly—horrid—old—thing!" she gasped, almost crying from sheer surprise and anger.

"Yes?" he said, and she detected laughter in his tone, which made her angrier than ever.

"I hate you!" she burst forth.

"Do you, dear?" and Farnsworth rearranged the rug to protect her more fully.

There was such gentleness in his touch, such tenderness in his voice, that Patty's anger melted to plain curiosity.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded. "Why did you bring me away in such—such caveman fashion?"

Farnsworth smiled. "It was a caveman performance, wasn't it? But you wouldn't come willingly."

"Of course I wouldn't! Why should I?"

"For three very good reasons." Farnsworth spoke, gravely. "First, you were in a place where you didn't belong. I couldn't let you remain there."

"It is not your business to say where I belong!"

"I wouldn't want any one I care for to be in that place."

"Not even Daisy Dow?"

"Certainly not Daisy."

"Oh, not Daisy—of all people! Oh, certainly not!"

"Next, you were doing what you ought not to do."

"What!"

"Yes, you were. You danced barefoot before those—those unspeakable fools!"

Patty felt uncomfortable. She hadn't herself exactly liked the idea of that barefoot dance, and hadn't told any one she was going to do it. She had insisted to Mr. Grantham that she preferred to wear sandals. But he had talked so beautifully of the naturalness of the whole conception, the exquisite appropriateness of unshod feet, and the necessity of her carrying out his design as a whole, that she had yielded.

And now that Bill Farnsworth spoke of it in this rude way, it seemed to divest the dance of all its aesthetic beauty, and make of it a horrid, silly performance.

She tried to speak, tried to reply in indignant or angry vein, but she couldn't articulate at all. A lump came into her throat, big tears formed in her eyes, and a sob that she tried in vain to suppress shook her whole body.

She felt Farnsworth's arm go protectingly round her. Not caressingly, but with an assurance of care and assumption of responsibility.

Then, he pulled off the glove from his other hand with his teeth, and after a dive into a pocket, produced and shook out a big, white, comforting square of soft linen, and Patty gratefully buried her face in it.

CHAPTER XV

THE CHRISTMAS PARTY

"Much obliged, Billee," Patty said, at last, as she handed back a somewhat damp handkerchief, and Farnsworth stuffed it in his pocket. "Where are you taking me?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Back where you brought me from, please."

"Well, you can't go there. Will you go home, or to the Farringtons'?"

A quick side glance at the stern face beside her showed Patty that there was no chance of her going back to the Blaneys', so she said, with great dignity, "I'll go to Elise's, then. But I want you to understand that I resent your treatment, that I detest you for using your strength to interfere with my pleasure, and that I absolutely sever all friendship or acquaintance with you, now and forever!"

"Bad as that? Well, well, you must be annoyed."

"Annoyed! annoyed! why, I–"

"There now, Posy Face, quiet down a bit, we're almost at the house. You don't want to go in looking like a—a weeping willow! You'll spoil the effect of that red frock, if your eyes are red, too, and your cheeks all tear-stained. Here, have a fresh handkerchief."

Farnsworth produced another big white linen affair, and unfolding it with a flourish, held it up to Patty's face.

"I never saw anybody have so many clean handkerchiefs! Do you carry a dozen?"

"Always glad to help ladies in distress. Are you often so lachrymose?"

"Oh Little Billee, don't be so everlasting good-natured, when I feel so cross. Why did you bring me away from that place, when I was having such a good time? And the best part was just about to begin!"

"Now, Patty, listen—while the listening's good. Here we are at Elise's; I want you to go in, gay and smiling, and not cause any curious comment. So let the Blaney discussion wait, and I'll tell you all about it, first chance we get. You don't want everybody to know that you left the Cosmic Club a—er,—a bit unintentionally, do you? Then, forget it, for the moment, and put on a Merry Christmas manner. You'll be glad you did, afterward."

Farnsworth's talk was sound sense, and Patty knew it. She already felt a little relieved at getting away from Sam Blaney and back with her own crowd. So she shook off her petulance and her anger, and when she entered the Farringtons' drawing-room, no smile that greeted her was brighter than her own in response.

"Why, Pattibelle," cried Chick Channing, "welcome home! I feared we had lost you to the high-geared Highbrows. Merry Christmas and many of 'em! Come sit by my side, little darling–"

"No, come sit by us," insisted Elise, from the other side of the room.

"You're a dear, to come so early, Patty. How did it happen?"

"Oh, I just couldn't stay there any longer," said Patty, very truthfully. "Am I in time for the Christmas tree?"

"Indeed you are," returned Elise; "also for the feast and the dancing and the Mistletoe Bough."

"Good!" and Patty joined the laughing group, of which she immediately became the centre. Her red velvet gown, though unusual, was not so eccentric as to appear peculiar in this setting, and the girls began to express admiration.

Nor were the men unappreciative.

"A real Yuletide frock, Patty," said Phil Van Reypen, approvingly.

"Didn't know you could wear that colour."

"I couldn't," laughed Patty, "in daylight. But the electrics even things up, somehow, and my complexion takes on a harmonising tint of brick red."

"Because you are a brick," put in Channing. "Did you get many Christmas gifts, Patty? Did you get my small votive offering?"

"Did I get many gifts! My boudoir looks like a World's Fair! Yes, Chick, I got your present. Let me see, it was the padded calf Emerson, wasn't it?"

"It was not! If you got that, it probably came from your Cosmetic friends. I sent you—oh, if you didn't even open it–"

"But I did, Chickadee. It was a heavenly jade hatpin, an exquisite bit of carving. I just adore it, and I shall never wear any other. So cheer up, life is still worth living!"

Patty was in high spirits. It was partly reaction from the artificial atmosphere of the Studio, and partly her real enjoyment of the festive occasion of Elise's Christmas party. The Farrington parties were always on an elaborate scale, and this was no exception.

"I wish Roger and Mona were here," Patty said, "I sort of miss them."

"So do I," chimed in Daisy Dow. "But the honeymoon shining on the sands at Palm Beach still holds them under its influence."

"They must be happy," observed Kit Cameron. "Think of it! Christmas and a bridal trip and the Sunny South,—all at once."

"It is a large order," laughed Patty. "But Mona likes a lot of things at once. That girl has no sense of moderation. When are they coming home, Elise?"

"Don't know. No signs of it yet. Come on, people, now we're going to have the tree!"

The orchestra played a march, and the crowd trooped into the great hall known as the Casino. There awaited them a resplendent Christmas tree, glittering with frosted decorations and glowing with electric lights.

Van Reypen had quietly taken possession of Patty as a partner, and he guided her to a pleasant seat where she could see all the entertainment. For great doings had been arranged to please the guests, and a short program was carried out.

Waits sang old English carols, mummers cut up queer antics, servitors brought in the Boar's Head and Wassail Bowl, and finally it was announced that all present would participate in the old-fashioned dance of Sir Roger de Coverley.

Patty enjoyed it all. She loved to see this sort of thing when it was well done, and in this instance every detail was faultless. Van Reypen quite shared her enthusiasm, and was vigorously clapping his hands over some jest of a mummer, when Big Bill Farnsworth came up to Patty, made a low bow, his hand on his breast, and whisked her off to the dance before she fairly realised what had happened.

"Why—I can't!" she exclaimed, as she found herself standing opposite her smiling partner. "I'm—I'm engaged to Philip!"

"I know you are," returned Farnsworth, gravely, "but you can give me one dance."

Patty blushed, furiously. "Oh, I didn't mean engaged that way," she said, "I meant engaged for this dance."

"No," corrected Farnsworth, still smiling, "you did mean you are engaged to him that way, but not for this dance."

"Well, he hadn't actually asked me," said Patty, doubtfully, "but I know he took it for granted–"

"It isn't wise to take too much for granted—there! see, he has just discovered your absence."

Sure enough, Van Reypen, who had been engrossed with the mummer's chaff, turned back to where Patty had sat, and his look of amazement at her absence was funny to see.

Glancing about, he saw her standing in line, opposite Farnsworth. At first, he looked wrathful, then accepting his position with a good grace, he smiled at them both.

"Little deserter!" he said to her, as he sauntered past her, in search of another partner.

"Deserter, yourself!" she returned. "You completely forgot my existence!"

"I didn't, but I am duly punished for seeming to do so. But I claim you for a supper partner, so make a memorandum of that!"

Patty smiled an assent, and the dance began.

"Don't you like this better than that smoky, incense-smelly atmosphere of the Studio?" Farnsworth said to Patty, as they walked through the stately figures of the dance.

"This is a home of wealth and grandeur," said Patty, "but wealth and grandeur are not the most desirable things in the world."

"What are?"

"Brains and–"

"Yes, brains and breeding. But your high-browed, lowbred–"

"Billee, I've stood a lot from you tonight; now, I refuse to stand any more. You will please stop saying things that you know offend me."

"Forgive me, Patty, I forgot myself."

"Then it's forgive and forget between us. I'll do the forgiving because you did the forgetting. But I've forgiven you all I'm going to. So don't make any more necessary."

"I'll try not to," and then the subject of the earlier evening was not mentioned again.

The dance concluded, Farnsworth stood for a moment, still holding Patty's hand after their last sweeping curtsey, and he said, "Will you be my supper partner, too? Please do."

"I can't," and Patty laughed up at him. "I'm really engaged to Phil."

"Oh, are you, Patty?" cried Daisy, who was just passing, with Kit Cameron. "I said you'd announce it tonight! What fun! But why are you telling Big Bill all by himself first? You ought to tell all the crowd at once. I'll do it for you. Come on, Kit, let's spread the news! We've Patty's own word for it."

The two ran off, laughing, and Patty looked a bit dismayed. "Kit's such a scamp," she said, ruefully, "he'll tell that all over the room–"

"Isn't it true?"

"Would you care if it were?"

"I care for anything that concerns you or your happiness."

"Or any one else or any one else's happiness! Oh, I know you, Bill Farnsworth, you want everybody to be happy."

"Of course I do!" and the big man laughed, heartily. "Is that a crime?

But most of all I care to have one little foolish, petulant Blossom-girl happy."

"Well, then, why don't you make her so? Why aren't you kind and nice to her, instead of being horrid about her friends and her dancing, and acting like a great Lord of something-or-other, frowning on her innocent amusements!"

"Oh, Patty, what an arraignment! But never mind that. May I take you to the supper room?"

"Oh, here you are, Light of my eyes!" and Van Reypen came up and offered his arm.

With a smile of farewell to Farnsworth, Patty accepted Philip's escort and walked off.

"What's this report Cameron and Daisy Dow are spreading?" asked Van Reypen, looking at her, quizzically, but with a glance full of meaning. "They say you and I are to announce our engagement tonight. I'm so delighted to hear it, I can't see straight; but I want your corroboration of the rumour. Oh, Patty, darling girl, you do mean it, don't you?"

Philip had drawn her to one side, away from the crowd, and in a palm-screened alcove, he stood beside her, his handsome face glowing with eagerness, as he anticipated yet feared her reply.

"Nonsense, Phil. It happened that I told Bill Farnsworth I was engaged to you for supper, and Daisy overheard, and she and Kit tried to tease me, that's all."

"But since it happened that way,—since the report is current,—don't you think,—doesn't it seem as if this would be an awfully good chance to make it a true report?"

"No, sir! A girl can't get engaged all in a minute, and en route to a supper room, at that! Besides, I'm hungry."

"You can't put me off that way! You may think to be hungry interferes with romance. Not a bit of it! You say you'll marry me, and I'll get you all the supper you want, and, incidentally, eat a good square meal myself. There!"

Van Reypen had great charm. His great dark eyes were fixed on Patty, and in their depths she could read his big, true love, unembarrassed by the place or the occasion. He knew only that he was pleading with the girl he loved, suing for his life's happiness, a happiness that lay in the little rosy palm of Patty Fairfield's hand.

"Darling," he whispered, taking the little hand in both his own, "Patty, darling, do say yes, at last. Don't keep me in suspense. Don't bother about learning to love me, and all that. Just come to me,—tell me you will,—and I know you'll love me. You can't help it, dear, when I love you so. Why, Patty, I've got to have you! You don't know how I want you. You've so twined yourself into my heart that you seem part of me already. Dear, dear little girl, my love, my sweetheart–"

Philip's arm went round Patty's shoulder, and he drew her to him.

"Phil!" cried Patty, starting back. "Don't, please don't."

"I won't, dear,—I won't call you mine until you say I may,—but, oh, Patty!"

His voice was so full of deep feeling, his eves pleaded so longingly for her consent, that Patty's heart went out to him. She was sorry for him, and she honestly longed to say the word that would give him joy and gladness forever. But that very feeling taught her the truth about herself. She knew, in one sudden, illuminating flash, that she didn't and couldn't love Philip Van Reypen in the way she was sure she wanted to love and would love the man she should marry.

Nor could she speak lightly or carelessly to him now. It was a crisis. A good, true man had offered her his love and his life. It was not a slight thing to be tossed aside as a trifle. If she accepted it, well; but if not, she must tell him so kindly, and must tell him why. And Patty didn't know why. In fact, she wasn't sure she didn't want Phil, after all. He was very big-hearted,—very splendid.

"What are you thinking of, girlie?" he asked, gently, as he watched the changing expressions on her face.

"I'm trying to be honest with myself, Phil. I'm trying to think out why it is that I don't say yes to you at once. I suppose you think me heartless and cold to think it out like this, but, I'm in earnest–"

"So am I, dear, very much in earnest. And, I think, my own Heart's Dearest, that you're nearer to loving me now than you've ever been. Nearer saying yes than ever before. And, so, I'm not going to let you answer now. This isn't the time or place. Somebody may come looking for us at any moment. You have given me hope, Patty—unconsciously, you've given me hope for the first time. I'll be satisfied with that, for now. And, I'll see you soon, in your own home, to hear the rest from your own lips. Oh, Patty, how can I wait? I can't! Say yes, now,—say it, Patty!"