Patty and Azalea

"Oh, hush! Elise, you drive me distracted! It can't be anything like that!"

"Yes, it can! I hope it isn't, but do let this be a lesson to you, Patty! Don't ever allow that girl to see the baby again,—much less touch her! I think you and Bill must have taken leave of your senses to give her such freedom! Why, you don't deserve to have that heavenly baby!"

"That's so, Elise, I don't!" and Patty broke into a flood of tears. "My little flower! My precious own baby! How could I ever let Azalea touch her? But, Elise, Zaly loves her as much as we do."

"That may be,—and of course, she wouldn't harm the child wilfully. But, as I said, accidents will happen,—and if it's Bill's fault, why,—of course, it's his own child,—and that's different. But Azalea has no business to take chances with other people's children."

"I know it, and if she only brings her back this time in safety,—I'll never let her see Fleurette alone again!"

All that afternoon Patty suffered agonies of suspense. Now she would cry uncontrollably,—and again, she would sit, still and dry-eyed, waiting for some sound of Azalea's arrival.

But no rolling wheels of the baby coach greeted her ears, nor any little crowing notes of glee from her baby's lips.

Several times she tried again to reach Farnsworth by telephone,—but always unsuccessfully.

At last the long hours wore away, and Farnsworth came home.

Patty flew to greet him, and was instantly wrapped in his big embrace.

"Well, Patty-maman," he said, as he kissed her, "how's things today? I had to go over to Philadelphia, on a flying trip,—wish I could have flown, literally,—and hadn't even time to let you know. Then, Rollins told me you had called up several times,—so I skittled home to see what it's all about."

His big, cheery voice comforted Patty, and her trouble suddenly seemed easier to bear, with his help near.

"Oh, Little Billee," she cried, "Azalea has run off with Fleurette."

"Good gracious, you don't say! But how much better to have Zaly do the kidnapping than some professional abductors! Hello, Elise, glad to see you! When did you arrive? This morning?"

"No; this afternoon. But, Bill, this matter is serious. Azalea took the baby away, on the sly."

"That's like her! Azalea has sly ways. And more than that,—she has queer ways! It won't do, Patty, there's something wrong,—very wrong,—about the girl. Did she get a letter to-day?"

"No; not this morning. I forgot to look this afternoon."

"What do you mean?" asked Elise, her curiosity aroused. "Do you keep tab on her letters, Patty?"

"Yes; I'm ordered to by my lord and master. He thinks—"

"Never mind, dear, drop the subject now. I've a good reason, Elise, for watching the letters,—not mere idle curiosity. Now, Patty, for details. What do you mean by taking the baby on the sly!"

So Patty told him how Azalea had ordered the baby's food prepared, saying Patty has asked her to do so.

"H'm, h'm,—looks bad. But don't worry, little mother, I'm sure nothing has happened to our Little Flower,—I mean nothing of an accidental nature. Azalea is exceedingly fond of the baby, and I can easily imagine her wanting to take her for a ride this beautiful afternoon. It's perfectly wonderful out! There's a soft breeze and the air is delightful—"

"But why didn't she ask me?" cried Patty.

"Afraid you'd say no!" and Farnsworth smiled. "You know, you've not been overly gracious of late about Azalea taking baby out."

"I know it, but I had my own reasons."

"And quite right you should have. But, don't worry, I'm sure the two wanderers will turn up all right."

Farnsworth's hearty assurance went far to relieve Patty's fears and when Elise suggested a bad fall, he only laughed, and said,

"No-sir-ee! Zaly is a terror, and a trial in lots of ways, but if she had let that child fall, she would have called Patty and Winnie and the whole household for help, and would have run for the doctor herself! She never would have run away! Not Azalea! She's no coward,—whatever other unpleasant traits she may possess."

"That's so," agreed Patty; "and she truly loves the baby. No, Elise, nothing like that happened,—I'm sure. I see it as Bill does, now. It is a heavenly day,—and Zaly felt pretty sure I wouldn't let her take Baby out by herself, without the nurse,—and she does love to do that,—and so she sneaked off, and made up that yarn about the food in order to get Fleurette's hat and coat on! Oh, she's a manoeuvrer!"

"Well, I'm glad you both feel that way about it," said Elise; "of course you know the girl better than I do,—as I've never even seen her! but if she's such a strong-arm, I think I'm rather afraid of her!"

"Oh, I imagine you can hold your own against her!" laughed Patty, happy now, since Bill's reassurance of her darling's safety. "All the same, I wish Zaly would come home! It's after six! Come on, Elise, let's dress for dinner, and then that will be done."

They went to their rooms, and soon Patty was all dressed and had returned to her post of vantage on the wistaria porch, to look for the return of the lost ones. And at last, through the gathering dusk, she saw a baby carriage being propelled along the roadway.

"Here we are!" cried a voice, which Azalea tried hard to make casual, but which showed in its quality a trace of apprehension.

"Oh!" Patty cried, and without another word flew down the steps, and fairly grabbed her baby.

The child was asleep, but Patty lifted her from the pillows and gazed into the little face. Apparently there was nothing wrong, but the golden head cuddled down on Patty's shoulder and the baby slept on.

"She's tired," vouchsafed Azalea, "but she's all right."

"Where have you been?" asked Farnsworth sternly, as he came out of the front door.

"Just for a walk," said Azalea, trying to speak pertly, but quailing before the accusing blue eyes fixed upon her.

Patty said no word to the girl, but holding Fleurette close, went at once to the nursery with her.

"She's all right, Winnie, isn't she?" the mother asked, anxiously.

"Yes, ma'am,—I think so,—but she's a little too droopy for mere sleepiness."

"Droopy! what do you mean?"

"It may be nothing,—Mrs. Farnsworth,—it may be only that she's tired out and very sleepy,—but she acts a mite as if she'd been—"

"Been what? Speak out, Winnie! What do you mean?"

"Well,—she acts to me like a baby that's had something soothing—some drops, you know."

"Something to make her sleep?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, nonsense! Miss Thorpe couldn't give her anything like that! And why would she? Don't you make any mistake, Winnie, Miss Thorpe adores this baby!"

"I know it, she does, Mrs. Farnsworth, but all the same,—look at those eyes, now."

Patty looked, but it seemed to her that the blue eyes drooped from natural weariness, and assuring herself that no bones were broken or out of place, she drew a long sigh of relief and told Winnie to put Fleurette to bed as usual.

The nurse shook her head sagely, but said no more of her fears.

Patty returned to the porch where Farnsworth was still talking to Azalea. Apparently he had scolded her sharply, for she was crying, and that with Azalea Thorpe was a most unusual performance. She usually resented reproof and talked back in no mild-mannered way. But now she was subdued and even frightened of demeanour, and Patty knew that Bill had done all that was necessary and further reproaches from her were not needed.

"And another thing," Farnsworth was saying, "I want to know why you have had no letters from your father since I asked to see one,—that was two or three weeks ago!"

"I have had one," Azalea answered, sullenly, "I had one this morning."

"Let me see it," demanded Bill, and Azalea went up to her own room and returned with the letter.

There was no envelope on it, and Farnsworth opened the folded sheet and read:

MY DEAR CHILD:

I received your last letter and I am very glad you are having such a nice time. It must be very pleasant at the grand house where you are staying,—and I suppose you are getting grand too. I am very lonesome without you, but I am willing, for I want you to have a good time and get improvement and all that. Remember me kindly to Cousin William and his wife. I like to hear you tell about the baby. She must be a fine child. I am well, and I hope you are, too. With much affection, from your loving

FATHER.

"Where's the envelope?" asked Farnsworth, as he raised an unsmiling face to Azalea.

"I tore it up."

"Why?"

"I always do,—I never save envelopes. It was just a plain one."

"Address typewritten?"

"Yes."

"All right, Zaly. Here's your letter," and he handed it back to her.

CHAPTER IX

VANITY FAIR

The Farnsworths made no difference in their treatment of Azalea, after her escapade. Bill had scolded her severely for taking the baby away without leave, and sternly forbidden her ever to do so again, and the girl had promised she would not.

Patty had said nothing to her on the subject, feeling that she could best keep Azalea's friendliness by ignoring the matter, and she was trying very hard to teach the girl the amenities of social life.

And Azalea was improving. She behaved much better at table and in the presence of guests. Patty rejoiced at the improvement and, as she took strict care that Azalea should have no opportunity to see Fleurette alone, she feared no repetition of those anxious hours when the baby was missing.

Elise rather liked the Western girl. They became good friends and went for long strolls together. Elise was a good walker, and Azalea was tireless.

One day they had gone a long distance from home, when suddenly Azalea said, "I wish you'd stay here a few minutes, Elise, and wait for me."

"Why, where are you going?" asked the other, in astonishment.

"Never mind, it's a little secret,—for the present. You just sit here on the grass and wait,—there's a duck. Here's a book you can read."

Azalea offered Elise a small volume—it was a new humorous publication, and one Elise had expressed a desire to read. She took it, saying, "All right, Zaly, go ahead, but don't be too long."

Azalea left her, and Elise soon became absorbed in the book.

It was a full half hour before Azalea returned.

"Where have you been?" asked Elise, looking up, and then glancing at her watch. "It's half-past four!"

"I know it. That's not late. Come on, let's go home."

Azalea was smiling and in an excited mood, but she looked tired,—almost exhausted, as well. She was flushed, and her hair was rumpled, and her breath came quickly, as if she had been through some violent exercise.

"What have you been up to, Zaly?" Elise asked, curiously. "You look all done up!"

"I went for a walk by myself. Sometimes I have moods—"

"Fiddlesticks! Don't try to make me think you had a longing for self-communion or any foolishness of that sort! I know you, Azalea Thorpe! You went off to meet somebody—"

"I did not! How you talk, Elise Farrington!"

"Yes, you did! Somebody that you don't want Patty and Bill to know about. Oh, you don't fool me! I'm not a blind bat!"

"Well, you're way off! How could I possibly know anybody they don't know?"

"You do, though. You had some people come to see you, and the Farnsworths didn't meet them at all."

"How do you know?"

"Patty told me."

"Tattle-tale! It's none of her business if I did!"

"Now, look here! I won't stand for such talk about Patty! You stop it! She's not only your hostess but she's the best friend you ever had or ever will have! She's making you over,—and goodness knows you needed it!"

"And that's none of your business! I'm as good as you are,—this minute!"

"I didn't say you weren't! It isn't a question of goodness. You may be a saint on earth compared to me, but you don't know how to behave in decent society,—or didn't, till Patty took you in hand."

"She invited me to visit her! I didn't ask her to have me!"

"Yes, because she wanted to be kind to her husband's people, and you seemed to be the only one available."

"Well, I was. And as I'm Cousin William's only relative, I have a right to visit him as long as I please."

"I don't deny that, Azalea," and Elise couldn't help laughing at the defiant air of the speaker. "I'm not disputing your right to be here. But I do deny your right to say anything whatever against Patty, who is trying her best to do all she can for your pleasure and for your good."

"That's so," and Azalea's manner suddenly changed. "Patty is a dear, and I love her. And that baby! Oh!"

"How crazy you are over that child," Elise exclaimed. "She is a dear baby, but I don't see why you idolise her so."

"Oh, I love babies, and Fleurette is so sweet and soft and cuddly! I love to have her all to myself,—but Patty won't let me."

"I don't wonder! Where did you go with her that day, Azalea?"

"Nowhere in particular. Just for a walk in the country. I mean I walked.

Baby rode in her coach."

"But you went somewhere. Nurse Winnie insists you gave the child some soothing syrup,—or whatever they call it."

"What! I did nothing of the sort! Why, Elise, I wouldn't do such a thing! I love that kiddy! I wouldn't give her a morsel to eat or drink. I know how careful Nurse and Patty are about that! You must be crazy to think I'd give Baby anything!"

Azalea's honesty was unmistakable, Elise couldn't doubt she was speaking the truth. She began to think Nurse Winnie had imagined the soothing syrup.

The two girls went home, and Elise said no word to any one of Azalea's strange disappearance for a time.

They found Patty in a state of great excitement and interest over a new project.

Betty Gale was there and the two heads were together over a list they were making and they were chattering like a couple of magpies.

"Oh, Elise," Patty cried out, "we're getting up the grandest thing! It's going to be here,—for the benefit of the Summer Fund, and it's going to be Vanity Fair!"

"What? What does that mean?"

"Just what it says! It's a big bazaar,—of course,—and we're going to call it Vanity Fair and sell only gay, dainty, dinky little contraptions, and have all sorts of pretty booths and fancy dances and flower stands, and—oh, everything that Vanity Fair suggests."

"Fine!" approved Elise. "Great name! Who thought of it? You, Betty? I'm for it,—heart and soul! How about you, Azalea?"

The Western girl stood silent. This was the sort of thing that was outside her ken. Though she had been at Wistaria Porch for some weeks now, and had become fairly conversant with the ways of Patty and her friends, this kind of a gay project was to her an unknown field.

"It must be beautiful,—to know about things like that,"—she said, at last, so wistfully, that Patty put out a hand and drew Azalea to her side.

It was this sort of a speech that made Patty feel that she was making headway in her efforts to improve the girl, and she rejoiced to have her show a desire to join in the new project.

"You can help us lots, I'm sure, Zaly," she said, kindly, "and you'll have a chance to learn about it all. There's heaps of fun in a Fair, especially when it's all novel to you. It's an old story to us, but I always love anything of the sort. We'll have it here, you see, and it will be a lawn fête and a house party and a general hullabaloo!"

"We're making out the committees," said Betty, "and, you'll be here, won't you, Elise?"

"Well, I just guess! You can't lose me! I shall be back and forth, of course, but I'll do my share of the work, and exact my share of the fun."

"Fine!" said Betty, a bit absently, as she was deeply absorbed in her list of names.

"Of course," Patty went on, partly to the others and partly as if merely thinking aloud for her own benefit, "there will be all the regulation things,—lemonade well, fortune-telling, society circus and everything, but the idea is to have every one of them just a little bit different from what it has always been before, and have it in harmony with the idea of Vanity Fair."

"The book?" asked Elise.

"No, not Thackeray. I mean, just the idea of the gay atmosphere,—the light, giddy side of life. For instance, let's have a Vanity booth and sell all sorts of aids to beauty—"

"Powder and paint!" exclaimed Azalea, in surprise.

"Well, I meant more like lacy caps and stunning négligées. And yes, of course, vanity cases and powder-puff bags and mirrors and perfumes,—oh, all sorts of foolishnesses that are pretty."

"I know," said Elise, nodding her head. "And we'll have an artificial flower booth,—that's right in line. And people love to buy 'em,—I do."

"And laces," said Patty; "and embroidered boudoir pillows, and oh,—and baby things! Why Fleurette's nursery wardrobe looks like a Vanity Fair itself!"

"Hold on," cried Betty, laughing, "don't go too far. Not everybody is interested in baby togs!"

"I s'pose not," said Patty, smiling. "All right, cut out the Baby booth."

"No," spoke up Azalea, "let's have it. Everybody knows a baby to give presents to. And the little caps and things are so pretty."

"Good for you, Zaly," cried Patty; "we'll have it, and you and I will run it, and Fleurette shall be the presiding genius, and sit enthroned among the fairy wares! Oh, it will be lovely!"

"Yes, do have it," agreed Betty. "It will be a screaming success with Fleurette in it!"

"And if you want such things," Azalea went on, losing her diffidence, "I can get a lot of Indian things from home,—baskets,—you know,—and leather, and beaded things."

"Fine, Zaly!" and Elise smiled at her. "We do want those,—real ones,—they always sell."

They went on planning, all working in harmony, and each full of suggestions, which the others approved or criticised, in frank, friendly fashion.

Then Janet appeared to call Azalea to the telephone, and the girl looked up, surprised. She blushed scarlet, and hurried from the room.

"Who could have called her?" said Elise; "she doesn't know any one you don't know,—does she, Patty?"

"No; but she knows lots of our friends. Somebody is probably asking her to go somewhere."

None of them tried to listen, but the telephone was in the next room and Azalea's voice had a peculiar carrying quality that made it difficult not to overhear snatches of her conversation.

"No," she exclaimed, positively, "I can't do it! I really can't! I'm sorry it didn't go right, but I can't do it again! It's impossible!"

A pause, and then, again, "No, I simply can't! Don't ask me—yes, of course,—I know,—but, you see, they said,—oh, I can't tell you now,—I'll write,—well, yes, I'll do that!—Oh, of course, I'll be there—but the—the other one—no, no, no!"

These remarks were at long intervals and disconnected, but they were clearly heard by the three in the next room, and though no one mentioned it, each thought it a strange conversation for Azalea to take part in.

Patty listened thoughtfully, feeling no hesitation in doing so, for she had only Azalea's good at heart and wanted to know anything that might help her understand the mystery that was certainly attached to the girl.

In the first place to whom could Azalea possibly be talking in that fashion? Moreover, her voice was troubled, and her tone was one of nervous apprehension and anxiety.

At last she returned to the group, and Patty said, pleasantly, "Who's your friend, Zaly?"

"Nobody in particular," and Azalea looked as if that were a question she had been dreading.

"You mean not a particular friend; but who was it?" Patty was persistent, even at risk of rousing Azalea's wrath, for she felt she must know.

"I won't tell you!" Azalea cried, stormily. "It's nobody's business if I answer a telephone call. I don't ask you who it is, every time you telephone!"

"All right, Zaly, forgive me,—I was a bit inquisitive."

And so the matter was dropped, but that night after Azalea had gone to her room, Patty came tapping at the door.

It was only after repeated knocking that Azalea opened the door a little way, and quite evidently resented the intrusion.

"I'm just going to bed," she said, ungraciously.

"I won't stay but a minute," and Patty insistently pushed her way in. "Now, don't fly into a rage, dear, but you must tell me who called you up on the telephone to-day."

"You've no right to ask!"

"Yes, I have, and, too, there must be some reason why you are so unwilling to tell me. Why is it?"

Azalea hesitated. Then she said, "Oh, I've no reason to make a secret of it. But I think you're very curious. It was somebody I met on the train when I came East."

"A man or a woman?"

"A—a woman."

"Are you telling the truth, Azalea?" and Patty's clear, compelling gaze was direct and accusing.

"Well—well—Patty, it's both."

"Those people who called here one day, and you saw them on the porch?"

"Yes."

"What are their names?"

"Oh,—oh, I forget."

"Rubbish! You don't forget. Be sensible, Azalea. You're making a mystery of something. Now if it's anything wrong, I'm going to know about it,—if it's merely a little secret of your own,—a justifiable one,—tell me so, in a convincing way, and I'll stop questioning."

"It is a secret of my own,—and it's nobody's business but mine."

"Is it a harmless, innocent matter?"

"Of course it is! What do you think I am? A thief?"

"Gracious, no! I never thought you were that!" Patty laughed. "But I do suspect you're up to some flirtation or affair of that sort, and I have a perfect right to inquire into the matter. Why didn't you let us meet your friends that day they called?"

"I didn't suppose you would care to know them. They're not your sort."

"Are they your sort? Oh, Zaly, I thought you wanted to be our 'sort,'—as you call it. You don't want to have friends Bill and I wouldn't approve of, do you?"

"Oh,—I don't know what I want! I wish you'd go 'way, and leave me alone!"

"I will in a minute. Tell me your friends' names."

"I won't."

"Then I shall ask Ray Gale. He knows them,—he recognised them the day they were here, and you forbade him to tell me who they were."

"Then if he knows them, isn't that enough to assure you of their respectability?"

"It isn't a question of respectability,—I want to know why they are telephoning you,—not casually,—but apparently on some important matter."

"That's my business. Oh, Patty, let me alone!"

Azalea was clearly overwrought, and in another moment would fly into an hysterical tantrum. But Patty made one more effort.

"Just tell me the name," she said, gently.

"Well—Smith. There, now are you satisfied?"

"I am not," said Patty, truthfully. "Good night, Azalea."

She went thoughtfully away, and communicated to Bill the whole conversation.

"She's a queer girl," Farnsworth remarked, after he had heard all about the afternoon telephoning. "Do you know, Patty, that letter which she pretended came from her father,—she wrote herself."

"What?"

"She did; and on my own typewriter,—here in our library."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. I knew it, the moment I saw it, for the writing on my machine is so familiar to me, I can recognise it instantly. The tail of the y doesn't print, and there are lots of little details that make it recognisable."

"Are you sure, dear? I thought all typewriting was just alike."

"Oh, no; it is as greatly differentiated, almost, as penwriting,—some experts think more so. I mean, it can't be forged successfully, and penwriting can. Well, anyhow, that letter Azalea showed me, as being from her father, was written on my machine. She had no envelope, for of course she couldn't reproduce the proper postmark on an envelope she had herself addressed."

"But why,—what for? I don't understand."

"I haven't got it all straightened out yet, myself,—but I shall. Another thing, Azalea is a poor speller, and she herself spells very with two r's. She did in a dinner acceptance she wrote and referred to me for approval. So, when I saw that word misspelled twice in the letter we're talking of, I knew she wrote it,—I mean, it corroborated my belief. Now, Patty, we've a peculiar case to deal with, and we must feel our way. This telephoning business is serious. Of course, Smith is not those people's name! She told you a falsehood. We know she is capable of that! Now to find out what their name is. It isn't too late to call up Gale."