Patty's Friends

She did not look at the Earl, but he gazed fixedly at her.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you so changed from last evening?”

Patty thought hard. She was allowed the “civilities of the day,” so she must depend on those.

“Isn’t it a charming morning?” she said, without, however, turning toward the man at her side.

“It is indeed. But why are you such an enigma? Are all Americans so puzzling?”

“And isn’t the rose garden wonderful?” went on Patty, still looking off in the distance.

“Wonderful, of course. Please look at me. I believe, after all, you’re Miss Fairfield’s younger sister! Ah, I have guessed you at last!”

Patty still looked straight ahead, but an irrepressible smile dimpled the corners of her mouth.

“Do you think it will rain?” she said.

“By Jove, I won’t stand this!” cried the Earl, impetuously. “I know you are yourself—the Miss Fairfield I talked with last night—but why you’re masquerading as a schoolgirl, I don’t know!”

At this Patty could restrain her mirth no longer, and her pretty laughter seemed to appease the Earl’s irritation.

“Am I not fit to be looked at, or spoken to?” he said, more gently; “and if not, you must at least tell me why.”

“I can’t tell you why,” said Patty, stifling her laughter, but still gazing at the far-away hills.

“Why can’t you? Have you promised not to?” The Earl meant this as a jest, little thinking it was the truth, but Patty, now nearly choking with merriment, said demurely, “Yes, sir.”

“Nonsense! I’m not going to eat you! Look at me, child.”

“I can’t,” repeated Patty, in a small voice, and holding her wilful, golden head very straight, as she stared firmly ahead.

“Whom did you promise?”

“You have no right to ask.”—“That,” said Patty to herself, “is an ordinary incivility, but I can’t help it!”

“I have a right to ask! And I don’t care whether I have or not. You’re a mischief, and I won’t stand any more of your chaff. Who made you promise not to speak to me, or look at me?”

The Earl, quietly, but with a decided air, moved around until he faced Patty, and the laughing blue eyes were so full of fun that he laughed too.

“You ridiculous baby!” he cried; “what are you, anyway? One night, a charming young woman, the next day, a naughty child.”

“I’m not naughty! Nobody made me promise. I did it of my own free will.”

“But whom did you promise?”

“Lady Hamilton,” said Patty, remembering all at once that the matter was to be referred to her.

“Oho! Well, now, see here. You just break that promise, as quick as you can, and I’ll make it square with Lady Hamilton.”

“Will you?” said Patty, drawing a long sigh of relief. “And will you blot out last evening, and pretend it never was, and begin our acquaintance from now?”

“I will,” said the Earl, looking at her, curiously, “if you will tell me why you seem to have a dual personality.”

Then Patty explained her appearance at dinner in Lady Hamilton’s gown, and to her pleased surprise, the Earl laughed long and loudly.

“Best joke ever!” he declared; “a baby like you giving an imitation of the ‘belle of the ball’!”

“I’m not so infantile,” said Patty, pouting a little, for the Earl now treated her as if she were about twelve.

“You are!” he declared. “You ought to be in the schoolroom eating bread and jam.”

“I’d like the bread and jam well enough, for I’m getting hungrier every minute.”

“Well, it’s an hour yet to luncheon time; come along and I’ll show you the rose orchard. It may make you forget your gnawing pangs of hunger.”

On pleasant terms, then, they went through the gate in the high hedge that surrounded the enclosure. The rose orchard was unique. It had originally been a fruit orchard, and as most of the trees were dead, and many of them fallen, roses had been trained over their trunks and branches. The gorgeous masses of bloom covered the old gnarled wood, and the climbing roses twined lovingly around branches and boughs. Here and there were rustic seats and arbours; and there were many bird-houses, whose tiny occupants were exceedingly tame and sociable. Several other guests were walking about, and Patty and the Earl joined a group which included their host and hostess.

“How do you like it?” said Lady Herenden, drawing Patty’s arm through her own.

“It’s the most beautiful place since the Garden of Eden,” said Patty, so enthusiastically that everybody laughed.

Then Mr. Snowden sauntered up, and reminded Patty of her promise to go walking with him.

“You haven’t seen the deer park yet,” he said, “nor the carp pond; though I believe the carp are merely tradition. Still, the pond is there.”

“Run along, child!” said Lady Herenden. “You’ll just about have time for a pleasant stroll before luncheon.”

Patty was greatly relieved when Mr. Snowden made no reference to her age or her costume. He treated her politely and chatted gaily as he led her around to see all the picturesque bits of woodland and meadow. The magnificent old place showed its age, for it had not been unduly renovated, though everything was in good order.

They went into the old church, which was on the estate, they visited the farmhouses and stables, and Patty found Mr. Snowden a kind and entertaining guide.

CHAPTER X

A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW

The rest of their stay at Herenden Hall passed off delightfully. Patty fitted into her own niche, and everybody liked the natural, unaffected young girl.

She and Jack Merivale became good chums, and went fishing together, and rowing on the pond like old cronies.

It was Patty’s nature to make friends quickly, and during her stay in Kent, she had a royal good time. Lord Ruthven talked over the matter with Lady Hamilton, and as he chose to consider it all a great joke on himself, she also took his view of it. As for Patty, she was so engrossed with other people that she nearly forgot all about the moonlight episode.

Only sometimes, when she chanced to catch sight of Lord Ruthven, she would say to herself, “Sylvester, Sylvester!” and then turn away to hide her laughter.

They stayed over until Tuesday, and then took the noon train back to London, Lady Herenden expressing an earnest wish that Patty would visit her again. Lady Kitty and Patty reached the Savoy duly, and Mr. Fairfield invited the returned travellers to dinner in the great Restaurant. This was a treat in itself, and Patty gleefully ran up to her room to dress for dinner.

“Lend me one of your gowns to wear, Kitty?” she said, roguishly, looking in at her friend’s door.

“Go away, you bad child. You’re not in my care, now. I shall confess all to your father to-night at dinner, and then I’ve done with you.”

“You’ve chosen a wise time,” said Patty, sagely. “Father’s always especially good-natured at dinner.”

“Let us hope he will be,” said Lady Hamilton, who was really a little anxious about it all. But she need not have been, for when the story was told, both Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield looked upon it as a huge joke.

Nan, especially, was almost convulsed with laughter at the account Patty gave of the moonlight scene, and her tragic repetition in a stage whisper of “Sylvester, Sylvester!” was truly funny of itself.

“It couldn’t be helped,” said Mr. Fairfield, “and it was in no way your fault, Lady Hamilton. It would have been a pity to shut Patty in her room on such a gala occasion, and no one could foresee that she was going to throw herself at the Earl’s head!”

“Father!” exclaimed Patty, “I didn’t do any such thing! He threw himself at my feet, if you please.”

“Well, it’s all right, chickabiddy, but don’t let it happen again. At least, not for many years, yet. I suppose some time, in the far future, I shall be asked to be a father-in-law to a Duke or a Count, but let’s put it off as long as possible.”

“Then Nan will be Dowager Duchess,” cried irrepressible Patty, “won’t that be fun!”

“I can do it,” said Nan, with an air of self-satisfaction that made them all laugh.

“I’m glad you exonerate me,” said Lady Hamilton, with a sigh of relief. “And since I let Patty appear too old, I’m going to average matters in this way. Next week is the child’s birthday, and I want to give her a children’s party, if I may. You and your husband may come, Mrs. Fairfield, if you’ll both dress as children of tender years.”

“We’ll do it,” cried Mr. Fairfield. “This is an inspiration of yours, Lady Hamilton, and will, as you say, quite even things up.”

Then plans were speedily made for the children’s party. It was only a week to Patty’s birthday, but Lady Kitty said that was long enough ahead to send invitations to an afternoon affair.

For the party was to be held from three to six, and each guest was asked to dress as a small child. Patty put considerable thought on her own costume, for she said her eighteenth birthday was an important occasion, and she must do it honour.

She finally decided on a quaint little Kate Greenaway dress, and big-brimmed hat of dark green velvet with white feathers tumbling over its brim. The frock was ankle length and short-waisted and she wore old-fashioned little slippers, with crossed ribbons, and black lace mitts. A shirred silk workbag hung at her side, and she carried a tiny parasol.

A few days before the party, Patty had an inspiration. It came to her suddenly, as most inspirations do, and it was so startling that it almost took her breath away.

“I can’t do it,” she said to herself, one minute; and “I will do it,” she said to herself the next.

Not daring to think long about it lest she lose her determination, she started that very afternoon on her surprising errand.

She had the carriage to herself, for she had been to tea with a friend, and on her way home she asked the coachman to stop at a house in Carlton Terrace.

Reaching the house, Patty sent her card in by the footman, and awaited results with a beating heart.

The footman returned to the carriage door, saying, Sir Otho Markleham would be pleased to see Miss Fairfield, and resolutely crushing down her timidity, Patty went in.

She was ushered into a large and formal drawing-room, and waited there a few moments alone.

She wished she had been asked into a library, or some more cosy room, for the stiff hangings, and massive furniture were oppressive. But she had no time for further thought, for Sir Otho entered the room.

He bowed with exceeding courtesy, but with a surprised air, which was indeed only natural.

Frightened almost out of her wits, Patty extended her hand, and though she tried to conquer her embarrassment, her voice trembled, as she said: “How do you do, Sir Otho? I’ve come to see you.”

She tried to speak jauntily, but there was a queer little break in her voice.

“So I perceive,” said Sir Otho, coldly. “May I ask why I have this honour?”

This was too much for Patty. Her nerves were strained almost to the breaking point, and when Sir Otho spoke so repellently, she realised how foolish her little plan had been, and how hopeless was her dream of reconciling this dreadful old man and his daughter. Partly, then, because of her overwrought nerves, and partly because of the downfall of her cherished hopes, Patty burst into tears.

She rarely cried, almost never, unless at some injustice or undeserved unkindness. But when she did cry, it was done as she did everything else, with a whole-souled enthusiasm.

Utterly unable to control herself, for a few moments she sobbed, and shook in paroxysms of emotion.

The old gentleman fairly danced around.

“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed; “what is the matter? What does this mean? Did you come into my house for the purpose of having a fit of hysterics?”

Now Patty wasn’t a bit hysterical; it was merely a sudden blow of disappointment, and she would have been over it in a moment, but that Sir Otho made matters worse by storming at her.

“Stop it, do you hear? I won’t have such goings on in my house! You are a madwoman!”

As Patty’s sobs grew quieter, and she sat softly weeping into an already soaked handkerchief, her host’s mood seemed to change also.

“When I consented to see Miss Patricia Fairfield,” he said, quoting her name as it appeared on the card she had sent in, “I didn’t know I was to be subjected to this extraordinary treatment.”

“I d-didn’t know it e-either,” said Patty, wiping her eyes, and trying to smile. Then, as she saw Sir Otho’s hard old face beginning to soften a little, she smiled at him through her tears.

“There, there, my dear, don’t cry,” he said, with a clumsy imitation of gentleness. “Shall I ring for a maid? Will you have some sal volatile?”

“No,” said Patty, trying hard to check her sobs; “no, I will go away.”

“But what’s it all about?” said the bewildered old man. “What made you cry?”

“You did,” said Patty, with such suddenness that he nearly fell over.

“I? Bless my soul! What did I do?”

“You were so c-cross,” said Patty, weeping afresh at the remembrance of his cold looks.

“Well, never mind, child, I won’t be cross again. Tell me all about it.”

Surely Sir Otho was melting! Patty sagaciously believed he was touched by her tears, so made no desperate effort to stop them.

“I c-can’t tell you now. You’re not in a k-kind m-mood.”

“Yes, I am; try to tell me, my dear child.”

Patty thought she had never known any one who could turn from anger to kindness so suddenly, but she resolved to strike while the iron was hot.

“It’s about K-Kitty,” she said, still sobbing, but peeping out from behind her handkerchief to see how he took this broadside.

“I supposed so,” he said, with a sigh. “Well, what about her?”

“She’s your daughter, you know,” went on Patty, growing more daring, as she slyly watched the old gentleman’s expression.

“Is she, indeed? I’d forgotten the fact.”

This, though in a sarcastic tone, was better than his usual disavowal of the relationship.

“And did you stop in here, and treat me to this absurd scene, just to inform me concerning my family tree?”

“N-no,” said Patty, resorting to tears again. “I stopped in, to—to ask you s-something.”

“Well, out with it! Are you afraid of me?”

This nettled Patty.

“No,” she said, starting to her feet. Her tears had stopped now, and her eyes were blazing. “No! I am not afraid of you! I’m sorry I broke down. I was foolishly nervous. But I’m over it now. I came in here, Sir Otho Markleham, to ask you to make peace with your daughter, and to propose to you a pleasant way to do so. But you have been so cross and ugly, so sarcastic and cruel, that I see the utter hopelessness of trying to reconcile you two. I was foolish even to think of it! Lady Kitty is gentle and sweet in many ways, but she has inherited your obstinate, stubborn–”

“Pigheaded,” suggested Sir Otho, politely.

“Yes! Pigheaded disposition, and though, as the older, you ought to make the advance, you’ll never do it—and she never will—and—so–”

Patty broke down again, this time from sheer sadness of heart at the irrevocable state of things.

Her face buried in her handkerchief, to her great surprise she felt a kindly touch on her shoulder.

“Don’t condemn me too soon, little one; and don’t condemn me unheard. Suppose I tell you that some of my ideas have undergone a change since Miss Yankee Doodle has taken it upon herself to scold me.”

“Oh!” said Patty, rendered almost breathless with amazement at the kind tone and the gentle touch.

“But suppose it’s very hard for an old man like me to uproot some feelings that have grown and strengthened with the passing years.”

“But if they’re bad and unworthy feelings, you want to uproot them!” cried Patty.

“Yes,” said Sir Otho, “I do. And though my irascible and taciturn nature won’t let me admit this to any one else, I’ll confess to you, Miss Yankee Doodle, I do want to pull them up, root and branch.”

Sir Otho looked so brave and manly as he made this confession, which was truly difficult for him, that Patty grasped his hand in both hers, and cried: “Oh, what a splendid man you are! I’ll never be afraid of you again!”

“You weren’t afraid of me, child. That’s why your words had weight with me. You fearlessly told me just what I was, and I had the grace to be ashamed of myself.”

“Never mind that now,” said Patty, eagerly. “Do you want to be friends again with Kitty?”

“More than anything on earth.”

“Well, then, let me manage it; and do it the way I want you to, will you?”

Patty’s voice and smile were very wheedlesome, and Sir Otho smiled in response, as he said:

“You’ve surely earned the right to manage it. How shall it be done? Will Kitty meet me halfway?”

“I think she will,” said Patty, slowly. “But she’s not very tractable, you know. Indeed, Sir Otho, she’s such a contrary-minded person, that if she knew you wanted to be kind to her, she’d likely run away.”

“Miss Patricia,” said Sir Otho, gravely, “you can’t tell me anything about my daughter Catharine that I don’t already know. And she is, indeed, contrary-minded, on occasion. As you so justly observed, she inherits my obstinate and cross-grained disposition.”

“And yet she’s so lovely to look at,” sighed Patty.

“Ah, well, she didn’t get her good looks from me, I’ll admit.”

“I think she did,” said Patty, looking critically at the fine old face, with a thoughtful gaze that was very amusing.

“Well, are you going to detail to me the plan of this rather difficult campaign?”

“Yes, I am. And I hope you’ll see it as I do.”

“If I don’t, I have little doubt but you can change my views. Will you have time to drink a cup of tea with me? We can plan so much more cosily over the teacups.”

“Yes, I will,” said Patty, consulting her watch.

“Then let us have it served in the library, and not in this depressing room, which you must associate with stormy outbursts of woe.”

Patty laughed, and followed the stately old gentleman into the library, where tea was soon served.

“One lump?” said Patty, holding the sugar-tongs poised over a teacup, while she put her head on one side and smiled at her host.

“Two, please. It’s delightful to have some one make my tea for me, and you do it very prettily.”

“But, alas!” said Patty, in mock despair, “I’ll soon be supplanted here, by that ‘obstinate, cross-grained’ Lady Kitty.”

“Why are you so sure she’ll come back here to live?”

“Just give her the chance, and see,” said Patty, wagging her head sagaciously, as she poured her own tea.

“How much pleasanter this is than squabbling,” she observed, glancing happily at her host.

“Yes, or crying,” said he, a bit teasingly, and Patty blushed.

“That’s past history,” she said; “and now I’ll tell you my plan.”

The details of the plan kept them both talking for some time, and then Patty had to hurry away to reach home at her appointed hour.

“Now, I won’t see you again until then,” she said, as they parted at the door. “But I know you won’t fail me.”

“Not I!” said Sir Otho, and with his hand on his heart, he made a profound bow, and Patty drove homeward in the happiest mood she had known for many a day.

CHAPTER XI

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

Patty’s birthday party was a great success.

As a rule, young people love a “dress-up” party, and the guests all entered into the spirit of the thing.

Lady Hamilton was in her element.

For the occasion, she had engaged a large salon, and aside from the pretty floral decorations, there were dolls and Teddy Bears and rocking horses, and all sorts of children’s toys and games. On the walls hung bright-colored prints, intended for nursery use, and little, low chairs and ottomans stood about.

Of course, Lady Hamilton, as hostess, did not dress like a child, but wore one of her own lovely, trailing white house-gowns.

When the guests arrived they were shown to dressing-rooms, where white-capped nurses awaited them, and assisted them to lay aside their wraps.

Then led to the salon by these same nurses, the guests were presented to Lady Hamilton and Patty. Such shouts of laughter as arose at these presentations! The young people, dressed as tiny children, came in with a shy air (not always entirely assumed), and made funny little, bobbing curtseys. Some, finger in mouth, could find nothing to say; others of more fertile brain, babbled childishly, or lisped in baby-talk.

Before many had arrived, Patty and Lady Kitty were in such roars of laughter they could scarcely welcome the rest.

Tom Meredith was a dear. Though a boy nearly six feet tall, he had a round, cherubic face, and soft, curly hair. He wore a white dress of simple “Mother Hubbard” cut, the fulness hanging from a yoke, and ending just below his knees, in lace-edged frills. White stockings, and white kid pumps adorned his feet, and his short curls were tied at one side with an immense white bow. He was such a smiling, good-natured chap, and looked so girlish and sweet in his white frock, that Patty at once called him Baby Belle, and the name exactly suited him.

“Did you come all alone?” asked Lady Hamilton.

“Yeth, ma’am,” replied Tom, rolling up his eyes in pretended diffidence. “My nurthie went to a ball game, tho I had to come all by mythelf. But I’th a big dirl, now!”

“You are indeed,” said Patty, glancing at his stalwart proportions, “but you’re surely the belle of this ball.”

Grace Meredith was a little Dutch girl, and was charming in the picturesque Holland headgear, and a tight-waisted, long-skirted blue gown, that just cleared the tops of her clattering wooden sabots. She talked a Dutch dialect, or rather, what she imagined was such, and if not real Hollandese, it was at least, very amusing and funny.

Mabel Hartley looked very sweet as Little Red Riding-Hood, and she carried a little basket on her arm, which contained a real pat of butter.

Sinclair and Bob Hartley were the Princes in the Tower, and the black velvet suits and white lace collars were exceedingly becoming to them. They wore wigs of long flaxen hair, and often fell into the pose of the celebrated picture, to the delight of all who saw them. But when not posing as a tableau, they were so full of antics that Patty told them they were more like Court Jesters than Princes.

“Clowns, you mean,” said Bob, as with a flash of his black satin legs he leap-frogged over Sinclair’s back.

“Behave yourselves, Princes!” admonished Patty, and in a second, the two stood motionless, side by side, as in the great painting.

“You certainly must be photographed like that,” exclaimed Lady Hamilton; and then a brilliant idea came to her and she sent a message at once to a well-known photographer to send one of his men and a camera at once.

And so, the regular programme of the party was suspended while photographs of the guests were taken. Singly and in groups they were snapped off as fast as the camera could be adjusted, and Lady Hamilton promised to send copies to their homes later.

Some of the young people had hired very elaborate costumes and represented celebrated works of art.

Gainsborough’s “Blue Boy,” and Velasquez’ “Maria Teresa,” were truly beautiful, while Van Dyck’s “Baby Stuart,” made a lovely picture. But equally interesting were the less pretentious characters and costumes.

Simple Simon was a favourite with all. A faded blue smock frock, and a battered old hat formed his characteristic garb, and long, straight yellow locks, and a stupid, open-mouthed expression of face made him look like the traditional Simon. He was a boy of much original wit, and his funny repartee proved him, in reality, far from simple-minded.

Little Miss Muffet was present, and Struwelpeter, and “Alice,” and a merry brother and sister had to cut up many roguish antics before they were recognised as “The Heavenly Twins.”

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, wore a pretty Dolly Varden costume, and carried a watering-pot, while Little Boy Blue shyly blew his horn at her. There were several Lord Fauntleroys, and Buster Browns and Rollos, and also a great many who represented nobody in particular, but just a dear little child.

Mr. Fairfield and Nan, though they had said they would come to the party dressed as children, had changed their minds, and arrived later than the others, wearing the garb of elderly people.