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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!"

"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."