Patty's Success

“All right; come on, then.” Roger led her across the room, and with a smiling face, and in tones of glad welcome, she said:

“Oh, Mr. Hepworth, how do you do?”

“Patty!” he exclaimed, taking her hands in his. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

There was a thrill in his voice that startled her, but she only said, “And so am I glad to see you. Why haven’t you been to call on me?”

“I’ve just returned from a Southern trip. Only reached New York to-night,—and here I am.”

“Here I am, too, but I can’t talk to you now. My programme is full, and I make it a point always to keep my engagements.”

“Not one dance left?” said Mr. Hepworth, looking over the scribbled card.

“Not one! I’m so sorry,—but, of course, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Of course not. Run along now, and enjoy yourself, and I’ll call on you, if I may, some time when you are at home.”

“Yes, do,” said Patty, realising that Mr. Hepworth was the same kind, thoughtful friend he had always been.

“I wonder why I’m so glad to see him,” she thought to herself, as she walked away with her new partner; “but I am, all the same.”

CHAPTER VI

A FAIR PROPOSITION

It was on the afternoon of New Year’s Day that Mr. Hepworth came to call on Patty. She was at home again, having returned from her visit to Elise a few days after Christmas.

“You know I am old-fashioned,” he said, as he greeted the Fairfield family, and joined their circle round the library fire. “But I don’t suppose you thought I was quite so old-fashioned as to make calls on New Year’s Day. However, I’m not quite doing that, as this is the only call I shall make to-day.”

“We’re glad to see you any day in the year,” said Nan, cordially, and Patty added:

“Indeed we are. I’ve been wondering why you didn’t come round.”

“Busy,” said Mr. Hepworth, smiling at her. “An artist’s life is not a leisure one.”

“Is anybody’s now-a-days?” asked Mr. Fairfield. “The tendency of the age is to rush and hurry all the time. What a contrast to a hundred years ago!”

“And a good contrast, too,” declared Nan. “If the world still jogged along at a hundred years ago rate, we would have no motor-cars, no aëroplanes, no–”

“No North Pole,” suggested her husband. “True enough, Nan, to accomplish things we must be busy.”

“I want to get busy,” said Patty. “No, I don’t mean that for slang,”—as her father looked at her reprovingly,—“but I want to do something that is really worth while.”

“The usual ambition of extreme youth,” said Mr. Hepworth, looking at her kindly, if quizzically. “Do you want to reform the world, and in what way?”

“Not exactly reform it,” said Patty, smiling back at him; “reform has such a serious sound. But I do want to make it brighter and better.”

“That’s a good phrase, too,” observed Mr. Hepworth, still teasingly. “But, Patty, you do make the world brighter and better, just by being in it.”

“That’s too easy; and, anyway, I expect to remain in it for some several years yet; and I want to do something beside just be.”

“Ah, well, you can doubtless find some outlet for your enthusiasms.”

“What she really wants,” said her father, “is to be an operatic star.”

“And sing into phonographs,” added Nan, mischievously.

“Yes,” smiled Patty, “and have my picture in the backs of magazines!”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Hepworth, “aim high, while you’re about it.”

“I can aim high enough,” returned Patty, “but I’m not sure I can sing high enough.”

“Oh, you only need to come high enough, to be an operatic star,” said Mr. Hepworth, who was in merry mood to-day.

“But, seriously,” said Patty, who was in earnest mood, “I do want to do good. I don’t mean in a public way, but in a charity way.”

“Oh, soup-kitchens and bread-lines?”

“No; not exactly. I mean to help people who have no sweetness and light in their lives.”

“Oh, Patty,” groaned Nan, “if you’re on that tack, you’re hopeless. What have you been reading? ‘The Young Maiden’s Own Ruskin,’ or ‘Look Up and Not Down’?”

“And lend a ten,” supplemented Mr. Fairfield.

“You needn’t laugh,” began Patty, pouting a little. Then she laughed herself, and went on: “Yes, you may laugh if you want to,—I know I sound ridiculous. But I tell you, people, I’m going to make good!”

“You may make good,” said her father, “but you’ll never be good until you stop using slang. How often, my daughter, have I told you–”

“Oh, cut it out, daddy,” said Patty, dimpling with laughter, for she knew her occasional slang phrases amused her father, even though they annoyed him. “If you’ll help me ‘do noble things, not dream them all day long,’ I’ll promise to talk only in purest English undefiled.”

“Goodness, Patty!” said Nan, “you’re a walking cyclopædia of poetical quotations to-day.”

“And you’re a running commentary on them,” returned Patty, promptly, which remark sent Mr. Hepworth off in peals of laughter.

“Oh, Patty!” he exclaimed, “I’m afraid you’re going to grow up clever! That would be fatal to your ambition! Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever. Nobody can be both.”

“I can,” declared Patty; “I’ll show you Missouri people yet!”

Mr. Fairfield groaned at this new burst of slang, but Mr. Hepworth only laughed.

“She’ll get over it,” he said. “A few years of these ‘noble aims’ of hers will make her so serious-minded that she won’t even see the meaning of a slang phrase. Though, I must admit, I think some of them very apt, myself.”

“They sure are!” said irrepressible Patty, giggling at her father’s frown.

“But I’ll tell you one thing,” went on Mr. Hepworth: “Whatever line you decide upon, let it be something that needs no training. I mean, if you choose to go in for organised charity or settlement work, well and good. But don’t attempt Red Cross nursing or kindergarten teaching, or anything that requires technical knowledge. For in these days, only trained labour succeeds, and only expert, at that.”

“Oh, pshaw,” said Patty; “I don’t mean to earn money. Though if I wanted to, I’m sure I could. Why, if I had to earn my own living, I could do it as easy as anything!”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Mr. Hepworth, gravely. “It isn’t so easy for a young woman to earn her living without a technical education in some line.”

“Well, Patty, you’ll never have to earn your own living,” said her father, smiling; “so don’t worry about that. But I agree with our friend, that you couldn’t do it, if you did have to.”

“That sounds so Irish, daddy, that I think it’s as bad as slang. However, I see you are all of unsympathetic nature, so I won’t confide in you further as to my aims or ambitions.”

“I haven’t noticed any confidences yet,” murmured Nan; “only appeals for help.”

Patty gave her a withering glance.

“The subject is dropped,” she said; “let us now talk about the weather.”

“No,” said Hepworth; “let me tell you a story. Let me tell you of a girl I met down South, who, if she only had Patty’s determination and force of character, might achieve success, and even renown.”

“Do tell us about her,” said Nan, for Mr. Hepworth was always an interesting talker.

“She lives in Virginia, and her name is Christine Farley. A friend of mine, down there, asked me to look at some of her drawings, and I saw at once that the girl has real talent, if not genius.”

“Of course you would know,” said Nan, for Mr. Hepworth himself was a portrait painter of high repute.

“Yes, she really has done some remarkable work. But she is poor and lives in a small country town. She has already learned all the local teachers can give her, and needs the technical training of a good art school. With a year of such training she could easily become, I am sure, a successful illustrator. At least, after a year’s study, I know she could get good work to do, and then she would rapidly become known.”

“Can’t she manage to do this, in some way?” asked Mr. Fairfield.

“No; she is ambitious in her work, but in no other way. She is shy and timid; a country girl, inexperienced in the ways of the world, ignorant of city life, and desperately afraid of New York, which to her is a name for all unknown terrors.”

“Goose!” said Patty. “Oh, I’m sorry for her, of course; but as an American girl, she ought to have more spunk.”

“Southern girls don’t have spunk, Patty,” said her father, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t they! Well, I guess I ought to know! I’m a Southern girl, myself. At least, I was until I was fourteen.”

“Perhaps you’ve achieved your spunk since you came North, then,” said Hepworth; “for I agree with your father, Southern girls do not have much energy of character. At least, Miss Farley hasn’t. She’s about nineteen or twenty, but she’s as childish as a girl of fourteen,—except in her work; there she excels any one of her age I’ve ever known.”

“Can nothing be done in the matter?” asked Nan.

“I don’t know. I’m told they’re very proud people, and would not accept charity. Of course she never can earn anything by her work if she stays at home; and as she can’t get away, it seems to be a deadlock.”

“I’d like to help her,” said Patty, slowly. “I do think she ought to have ingenuity enough to help herself, but if she hasn’t, I’d like to help her.”

“How can you?” asked Nan.

“I don’t know. But the way to find out how to do things is to do them.”

“Oh, dear,” moaned Mr. Hepworth, in mock despair. “I said I feared you were clever. Don’t say those things, Patty, you’ll ruin your reputation as a beauty.”

“Pooh!” said Patty, who sometimes didn’t know whether Mr. Hepworth was teasing her or not, “that isn’t a clever thing to say.”

“Well, if you don’t mean it for an epigram, I’ll forgive you,—but don’t let it happen again. Now, as to Christine Farley. I’ll let you be clever for once, if you’ll turn your cleverness to devising some way to aid her to an art education. Can you think of any way?”

“I can think of dozens,” returned Patty, “but the only thing to do is for her to come to New York, get a scholarship at the Art School, and then board in a hall bedroom,—art students always do that,—and they have jolly good times with chafing dishes and palette knives, and such things. I’ve read about ’em.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Hepworth, “but how is she to pay the board for the hall bedroom? They are really quite poor, I’m told.”

“Well!” said Patty, scornfully, “anybody,—the merest infant,—could earn enough money outside class hours to pay a small sum like that, I should hope! Why, how much would such board cost?”

“Patty, child,” said her father, “you don’t know much of social economics, do you? I fancy the young woman could board properly for about twelve or fifteen dollars a week; eh, Hepworth?”

“Yes; I daresay fifteen dollars a week would cover her expenses, including her art materials. Of course this would mean literally the ‘hall bedroom’ in a very modest boarding-house.”

“Well!” went on Patty, “and do you mean to say that this girl couldn’t earn fifteen dollars a week, and attend her classes, too?”

“I mean to say just that,” said Mr. Hepworth, seriously.

“I agree with you,” said Nan. “Why, I couldn’t earn fifteen dollars a week, and stay at home from the classes.”

“Oh, Nan!” cried Patty, “you could! I’m sure you could! Why, I’ll bet I could earn fifteen dollars a week, and have plenty of time left for my practising, my club meetings, motoring, skating, and all the things I want to do beside. Fifteen dollars a week is nothing!”

“Gently, gently, my girl,” said her father, for Patty’s cheeks were pink with the earnestness of her argument. “Fifteen dollars a week seems nothing to you, because you have all the money you want. But where is your sense of proportion? Your idea of relative values? The value of fifteen dollars handed out to you willingly by a loving father, or the value of fifteen dollars earned from a grudging employer, are totally different matters.”

“I don’t care,” said Patty. “I know I could earn that much a week, and I believe this other girl could do so, if she had somebody to make her think she could.”

“There’s a good deal in that,” said Hepworth, thoughtfully. “Miss Farley does need somebody to make her think she can do things. But the life of an art student is a busy one, and I’m sure she couldn’t earn much money while she’s studying.”

“But fifteen dollars a week isn’t much,” persisted Patty. “Anybody could earn that.”

“Look here, Puss,” said her father: “sometimes you show a bravery of assertion that ought to be put to the test. Now I’ll make a proposition to you in the presence of these two witnesses. If you’ll earn fifteen dollars in one week,—any week,—I’ll agree to pay the board of this Miss Farley in New York, for a year, while she pursues her art studies.”

“Oh, father, will you?” cried Patty. “What a duck you are! Of course I can earn the money, easily.”

“Wait a moment; there are conditions, or rather stipulations. You must not do anything unbecoming a quiet, refined girl,—but I know you wouldn’t do that, anyway. You must not engage in any pursuit that keeps you away from your home after five o’clock in the afternoon–”

“Oh,” interrupted Patty, “I don’t propose to go out washing! I shall do light work of some sort at home. But never you mind what I do,—of course it will be nothing you could possibly object to,—I’ll earn fifteen dollars in less than a week.”

“A week, though, is the proposition. When you bring me fifteen dollars, earned by yourself, unassisted, in the space of seven days, I’ll carry out my part of the bargain.”

“But the girl won’t accept it,” said Patty, regretfully.

“I’m trusting to your tact, and Nan’s, to offer the opportunity to her in such a way that she will accept it. Couldn’t that be done, Hepworth?”

“Why, yes; I daresay it could be managed. And you are very generous, Mr. Fairfield, but I can’t say I have much hope of Patty’s success.”

“‘Patty’s success’ is always a foregone conclusion,” said that young woman, saucily; “and now, at last, I have an aim in life! I shall begin to-morrow,—and we’ll see!”

The others laughed, for no one could take pretty Patty very seriously, except herself.

“But don’t tell anybody,” she added, as the doorbell rang.

They all promised they wouldn’t, and then Elise and Roger came in to bring New Year’s greetings, and the conversation took a lighter and merrier turn.

CHAPTER VII

DEPARTMENT G

Alone in her own room that same night, Patty thought out her great project. She was not at all doubtful of her success, she was only choosing among the various methods of earning money that occurred to her.

All were easy, and some of them even seemed delightful occupations.

“Father is an angel,” she thought to herself; “a big, splendid angel. He knew I could do my part easily enough, and he only made it a stipulation because he didn’t want to shoulder the whole affair outright. He wanted me to feel I had a hand in it. He’s so tactful and dear. Well, I’ll do my part so well, he’ll have nothing to complain of. Then I’ll get Nan to write to the girl, and invite her here for a few days or a week. Then I rather guess we can gently persuade her to accept the goods the gods provide.”

Considering the matter as settled, Patty went to sleep and dreamed happily of her coming triumphs as a wage-earner.

“Do you go to business to-day, Miss Fairfield?” asked her father, at the breakfast table.

“Yes, Mr. Fairfield. That is, I shall occupy myself with my—with my occupation.”

“Indeed! that is logical, at any rate. Would it be indiscreet to inquire the nature of said occupation?”

“It would be not only indiscreet, but useless, for I decline to tell. But it is work I shall do at home. I’ve no desire to enter an office. And, you don’t need a stenographer, anyway, do you?”

“No, and if I did, I shouldn’t take you. You’re too young and too self-assured,—not desirable traits in office work.”

“I may get over them both,” said Patty, smiling at him.

“You probably will,” said Nan, “before you’ve succeeded in this ridiculous scheme you’ve undertaken.”

“Now, Nannikins, don’t desert Mr. Micawber in that cruel fashion,” Patty flung back, gaily; “the game’s never out till it’s played out, you know; and this game isn’t even yet begun.”

“You’ll be played out before the game is,” said her father.

“Oh, daddy, I’m ’fraid that’s slang! I am truly ’fraid so!”

“Well, mind now, Puss; you’re not to tire yourself too much. Remember when you ’most worked yourself to death, at your Commencement celebration.”

“Yes, but I’ve had a lot of experience since that. And I’m much weller and stronger.”

“Yes, you’re well; but you’re not of a very strong constitution, and never will be. So remember, and don’t overdo.”

“Not I. I can earn fifteen dollars a week, and more too, I know, without overdoing myself.”

“Good-by, then; I must be off. I’ll hear to-night the report of your first day’s work.”

The family separated, and Patty ran singing away to make her preparations for the campaign.

“What are you doing?” asked Nan, as she went rummaging in the linen closet.

“Nothing naughty,” replied Patty, giggling. “Curb your curiosity, stepmothery, for it won’t be gratified.”

Nan laughed and went away, and Patty proceeded to select certain very pretty embroidered doilies and centrepieces,—two of each.

These she laid carefully in a flat box, which she tied up into a neat parcel. Then she put on her plainest cloth suit, and a small, dark hat, and was ready to start.

“Nan,” she said, looking in at the library door, “what time do you want the motor?”

“Oh, about eleven or twelve. Keep it as long as you like.”

“It’s only ten now. I’ll be back in less than an hour, I’m sure. Good-by.”

“Good-by,” returned Nan. “Good luck to you!”

She thought Patty’s scheme ridiculous, but harmless, for she knew the girl well enough to know she wouldn’t do anything that might lead her into an unpleasant position; but she feared that her boundless enthusiasm would urge her on beyond the bounds of her nervous strength.

Though soundly healthy, Patty was high-strung, and stopped at no amount of exertion to attain a desired end. More than once this nervous energy of hers had caused physical collapse, which was what Nan feared for her now.

But Patty feared nothing for herself, and going out to the waiting motor-car, she gave the chauffeur an address down in the lower part of Broadway.

It was so unusual, that Miller hesitated a moment and then said, deferentially: “This is ’way downtown, Miss Patty; are you sure the number is right?”

“Yes; that’s all right,” she returned, smiling; “go ahead.”

So he went ahead, and after a long ride southward, the car stopped in the crowded mercantile portion of lower Broadway.

Patty got out, and looked a little apprehensively at the unfamiliar surroundings. “Wait for me,” she said to Miller, and then turned determinedly to the door.

Yes, the number was right. There was the sign, “Monongahela Art Embroidery Company,” on the window. Patty opened the big door, and went in.

She had fancied it would be like the shops to which she was accustomed, where polite floor-walkers stepped up and asked her wishes, but it was not at all like that.

It was more like a large warehouse. Partitions that rose only part way to the ceiling divided off small rooms or departments, all of which were piled high with boxes or crates. The aisles between these were narrow, and the whole place was rather dark. Moreover, there seemed to be nobody about.

Patty sat down in a chair and waited a few moments, but no one appeared, so she got up again.

“Here’s where I need my pluck,” she said to herself, not frightened, but wondering at the situation. “I’ll go ahead, but I feel like Alice in Wonderland. I know I’ll fall into a treacle well.”

She traversed half the length of the long building, when she saw a man, writing in one of the small compartments.

He looked up at her, and then, apparently without interest in her presence there, resumed his work.

Patty was a little annoyed at what she thought discourtesy, and said:

“I’ve come to answer your advertisement.”

“Fourth floor,” said the man, indicating the direction by pointing his penholder across the room, but not looking up.

“Thank you,” said Patty, in a tone intended to rebuke his own lack of manners.

But he only went on writing, and she turned to look for the elevator.

She could see none, however, so she walked on, thinking how like a maze was this succession of small rooms and little cross aisles. When she saw another man writing in another coop, she said politely:

“Will you please direct me to the elevator?”

“What?” said the man, looking at her.

Patty repeated her request.

“Ain’t none,” he said. “Want work?”

Though unpolished, he was not rude, and after a moment’s hesitation, Patty said, “Yes, I do.”

“Have to hoof it, then. Three flights up; Department G.”

“All right,” said Patty, whose spirits always rose when she encountered difficulties. She saw the staircase, now; a rough, wooden structure of unplaned boards, and no balusters. But she trudged up the long flight hopefully.

The next floor seemed to be full of whirring looms, and the noise was, as Patty described it afterward, like the buzzing of a billion bees! But, asking no further directions, she ascended the next staircase and the next, until she found herself on the fourth floor.

Several people were bustling about here, all seeming to be very busy and preoccupied.

“Where is Department G?” she inquired of a man hurrying by.

“Ask at the desk,” he replied, without pausing.

This was ambiguous, as there were more than a score of desks about, each tenanted by a busy man, more often than not accompanied by a stenographer.

“Oh, dear, what a place!” thought Patty. No one would attend to her wants; no one seemed to notice her. She believed she could stand there all day if she chose, without being spoken to.

Clearly, she must take the initiative.

She saw a pleasant-faced woman at a desk, and decided to address her.

“Where is Department G, please?” she asked.

“G?” said the woman, looking blank.

“Yes, G. The man downstairs told me it was on the fourth floor. Isn’t this the fourth floor?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then, where is Department G?”

“G?”

“Yes, G!”

“I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“Who does know?”

“I don’t know.”

The absurdity of this conversation made Patty smile, which seemed to irritate the other.

“I can’t help it if I don’t know,” she snapped out. “I’m new here, myself; only came yesterday. I don’t know where G is, I’m sure.”

“Excuse me,” said Patty, sorry that she had smiled, and she turned away.

She caught a red-headed boy, as he passed, whistling, and said:

“Do you know where Department G is?”

“Sure!” said the boy, grinning at her. “Sashay straight acrost de room. Pipe de guy wit’ de goggles?”

“Thank you,” said Patty, restraining her desire to smile at the funny little chap.

She went over to the desk indicated. The man seated there looked at her over his glasses, and said:

“To embroider?”

“Yes,” said Patty.

“Take a chair. Wait a few moments. I’m busy.”

Relieved at having reached her goal, Patty sat down in the chair indicated and waited. She waited five minutes and then ten, and then fifteen.

The man was busy; there was no doubt of that. He dashed off memoranda, gave them to messengers, telephoned, whisked drawers open and shut, and seemed to be in a very whirl of business.

As there was no indication of a cessation, Patty grew impatient, at last, and said:

“Can you attend to my business soon? If not, I’ll call some other day.”

“Yes,” said the man, passing his hand across his brow a little wearily. He looked tired, and overworked, and Patty felt sorry for him.

But he whirled round in his office chair and asked her quite civilly what she wanted.

“You advertised for embroiderers,” began Patty, feeling rather small and worthless, “so I came–”

“Yes, yes,” said the man, as she paused. “Can you embroider? We use only the best. Have you samples of your work?”

“I have,” said Patty, beginning to untie her box.

But her fingers trembled, and she couldn’t unknot the cord.