Читать книгу Patty Blossom - Carolyn Wells - Страница 4

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As Roger had predicted, the snow departed as quickly as it came, and two days after their sleigh ride there was scarcely a vestige of white on the ground. Tennis was again possible and a great game was in progress on the court at Pine Laurel. Patty and Roger were playing against Elise and Sam Blaney, and the pairs were well matched.

But the long-contested victory finally went against Patty, and she laughingly accepted defeat.

“Only because Patty’s not quite back on her game yet,” Roger defended; “this child has been on the sick list, you know, Sam, and she isn’t up to her own mark.”

“Well, I like that!” cried Patty; “suppose you bear half the blame, Roger. You see, Mr. Blaney, he is so absorbed in his own Love Game, he can’t play with his old-time skill.”

“All right, Patsy, let it go at that. And it’s so, too. I suddenly remembered something Mona told me to tell you, and it affected my service.”

“What is it?” asked Elise. “Anything of importance?”

“Yes; it’s this: Mona has decided to sell Red Chimneys, and Philip Van Reypen thinks it a good plan to buy it for the Children’s Home.”

“For gracious’ sake!” exclaimed Patty. “That is news! Why doesn’t Phil tell me about it?”

“That’s just it. He’s coming down here tomorrow to talk it over with you. Mona’s coming too, you know, and you can all have a powwow.”

“All right,” and Patty wagged her head, sagaciously. “It’s not a bad idea at all. I knew Mr. Galbraith was thinking of selling the Spring Beach place, and it would be a fine house for the kiddies.”

“And are you running a Children’s Home?” asked Sam Blaney, as they all strolled back to the house, and paused on the wide veranda.

“Too cool for you out here, Patty?” asked Elise.

“Not a bit of it. I love the outdoors. Somebody find me a sweater and a rug, and I’ll be as happy as a clam.”

Roger brought a red silk sweater from the hall, and a big, soft steamer rug, and proceeded to tuck Patty up, snugly.

“Yes,” she said, turning to Blaney, and answering his inquiry, “I am supposed to be organising a Children’s Home, but all the hard work is done for me, and I only say yes or no, to easy questions. You see, a dear old friend of mine left me a sum of money for the purpose, and I want to prove a trustworthy steward. But we’re not going to do anything definite until Spring, unless, as Red Chimneys is in the market, it seems advisable to secure it while we can.”

“Goodness, Patty,” said Elise; “you talk like a Board of Managers!”

“That’s what I am; or, rather, I’m Manager of the Board. Is Philip coming tonight, Roger?”

“Yes, he’ll be here for dinner. And Mona, too. I say, Blaney, we’ll bring ’em along to your party, eh?”

“Of course. Alla will be delighted to have them. No matter if we’re crowded. You see, Miss Fairfield, our place is small, but our welcome is vurry, vurry large——” Blaney waved his long arms, as if including the whole world in his capacious welcome.

“You’re vurry, vurry kind,” returned Patty, unconsciously imitating his peculiar pronunciation. “I’m just crazy to see your studio. It seemed as if the time would never come. And I want to meet your sister, too. I know it will be a lovely party. I’ve never been to a real Bohemian Studio party.”

“Oh, we don’t call it Bohemian, because, you see, it is Bohemian. Only make-believe Bohemians call themselves so. You’ll learn to distinguish the difference.”

“I hope so. I’ve always wanted to know what Bohemianism really is.”

“We’ll show you tonight. What are you going to wear?”

“My goodness, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. Also, I’ve never been asked a question like that before.”

“Ah, but it means so much! If your gown should be out of key——” Blaney rolled up his eyes and spread his hands, as if the thought were too appalling for words.

Patty giggled. “I hope it won’t be,” she said. “But, tell me, what is the key? Maybe I can strike it.”

“The key,” and the poet looked thoughtful, “ah, yes, I have it! The key will be saffron and ultramarine.”

Patty gasped. “Oh, I haven’t a frock to my name in those colours!”

“But you can harmonise,—yes, harmonise. You will, won’t you? If you didn’t, I couldn’t bear it.”

“Oh, then I’ll harmonise, yes, I promise you I will. I’ll find something that won’t make a discord. But can you dictate to all your guests like this?”

“Alas, no! Would that I might! And now I must go. Alla will be wanting me.”

“What is he, anyway?” said Patty, as after his adieux, the poet swung away, with his queer, loping gait.

“Bats in his belfry,” returned Roger, laughing. “He’s the real thing in high-art souls,—if you get what I mean.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” demurred Patty; “I think he’s sincere.”

“You do! Well, he may be, for all of me. But if he is, give me base deception, every time! Don’t you fall in love with him, Patty, Van Reypen wouldn’t stand for it.”

“I don’t know what Mr. Van Reypen has to say about it,” returned Patty, with a heightened colour. “And remember, Roger, not everybody is so absorbed in loving and being loved as you are!”

Patty’s roguish smile was affectionate as well, for she was fond of Roger, and also of Mona, and she was deeply interested in their love affair. Their engagement had been a short one, and now that the wedding day was so near, the whole Farrington family could think or talk of little else. And as a house guest and a dear friend, Patty, too, was enthusiastic and excited about the preparations.

And then Roger went off to the train to meet Mona, and Philip, who came down at the same time, and Elise disappeared and Patty sat alone, in the falling dusk, snugly tucked in her rugs, and feeling very lazy and comfortable and happy.

Her thoughts drifted idly from one subject to another, and presently she heard a step beside her, and felt her hand taken in somebody’s warm clasp.

“Philip!” she cried, starting up.

“Yes, my girl, and so glad to see you again. How are you?”

“Fine. This splendid air and luxurious living has made me all well again.”

“That’s good. But it’s too late for you to be out here. Come on in the house.”

“Yes, I will. Did Mona come?”

“Yes, we came down together. How that girl is improving!”

“What do you mean? She always was a fine character.”

“Yes, but she has so much more—er—sweetness and light.”

“That’s so. I’ve noticed it ever since she’s been engaged.”

“Well, don’t you put on any more sweetness and light when you get engaged. I simply couldn’t stand it! You’re chock-a-block full of it now!”

“Don’t worry. Besides, I’ve no intention of being engaged. What’s the use, if I’m sweet and light enough now?”

“You’re going to announce your engagement in just fifteen days from now, my lady. Why, that will be Farrington’s wedding day! By Jove, what an idea! We’ll announce it at their wedding!”

“We’ll do nothing of the sort. You take too much for granted.”

“Well, you promised——”

“I know what I promised. But the fifteenth is a long way off yet.”

“That may be, but it’s bound to get here. Come in the house now. It’s too damp for you out here.”

They went in, and found Mona and Elise chattering like two magpies, with Roger trying to get in a word edgeways.

“Hello, Patty,” cried Mona, springing up to greet her. “My, how fine you’re looking! Lakewood agrees with you all right. And Patty, the bridesmaids are going to sing, after all. Will you be home in time for one or two rehearsals?”

“Yes, indeed. I’ll come up whenever you want me, Mona.”

“Good girl. Now I must go and dress for dinner. I’d no idea we’d get here so late; and Roger says there’s a party on for tonight.”

“Yes,” laughed Patty; “and it’s a party you have to get keyed up to,—I mean your gown.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come along and I’ll tell you.”

The two girls went off together, and half an hour later Elise found them in Patty’s room, still talking and no beginning made in the matter of dressing.

But later, when the young people left the house to go to the Studio party, they were resplendent of costume. Patty had told the other girls what Mr. Blaney had said, and though they scoffed at it, they agreed not to wear anything that might be too desperately inharmonious.

Mona was in white, declaring that that could offend nobody. Elise wore pale yellow, for the same logical reason. Patty had on a gown of soft chiffon, of old-gold colour, which, she said, was the nearest to saffron she had ever had or ever hoped to have.

“I don’t like the word saffron,” she declared; “somehow it makes me think of camomile tea.”

“Naturally,” said Roger; “I believe they’re both yarbs. Blaney might call this affair a Saffron Tea, and have done with it.”

But the gown was most becoming to Patty. The dull old-gold tints sets off her fair skin, and her bright gold hair, piled high, was topped with a gold and amber comb. Round her throat was an old-fashioned necklace of topazes, lent her by Mrs. Farrington. Altogether, she looked, Philip declared, positively Burne-Jonesey, and he called her the Blessed Damosel.

When at last they entered the Studio of the Blaney brother and sister, Patty blinked several times, before she could collect her senses. It was very dimly lighted, and a strange, almost stifling sense of oppression came over her. This was caused by the burning of various incense sticks and pastilles which gave out a sweet, spicy odour, and which made a slight haze of smoke. Becoming a little accustomed to the gloom, Patty discerned her host, amazingly garbed in an Oriental burnoose and a voluminous silk turban. He took her hand, made a deep salaam, and kissed her finger-tips with exaggerated ceremony.

“My sister, Alla,” he said, “Miss Fairfield.”

Patty looked up to see a tall, gaunt woman smiling at her. Miss Blaney, like her brother, was long, lanky and loose-jointed, and seemed to desire to accentuate these effects. Her ash-coloured hair was parted and drawn loosely down to a huge knot at the back of her neck. A band of gilt filigree was round her head at the temples, and was set with a huge green stone which rested in the middle of her forehead. Long barbaric earrings dangled and shook with every movement of her head, and round her somewhat scrawny neck was coiled an ugly greenish serpent of some flexible metal formation. For the rest, Miss Blaney wore a flowing robe of saffron yellow, a most sickly shade, and the material was frayed and worn as if it had been many times made over. It hung from her shoulders in billowy folds, and the wearer was evidently proud of it, for she continually switched its draperies about and gazed admiringly at them.

“Frightfully glad to see you,” this weird creature was saying, and Patty caught her breath, and murmured, “Oh, thank you. So kind of you to ask me.”

“I feel sure I shall adore you,” Miss Blaney went on; “you are simpatica,—yes, absolutely simpatica.”

“Am I?” and Patty smiled. “And is it nice to be simpatica? It doesn’t mean a simpleton, does it?”

“Oh, how droll! My dear, how droll!” and Miss Blaney went off in contortions of silent laughter. “Just for that, you must call me Alla. I always want droll people to call me by my first name. And your name is——”

“Patty.”

“Impossible! You can’t be named that! Incredible! Ooh!”

Alla ended with a half-breathed shriek.

“Oh, well,” said Patty, hastily, “my name is really Patricia, though no one ever calls me that.”

“I shall call you that. Patricia! Perfect! You couldn’t have been better dubbed. No, not possibly better dubbed. Patricia, ah, Patricia!”

Patty edged away a little. She began to think her hostess was crazy. But Alla went on:

“And my brother, Patricia, do you not adore him?”

“Well, you see, I’ve only seen him a few times. I can’t quite agree that I adore him, yet.”

“But you will. As soon as you have heard his poems, you will put him on a pedestal, yes, on a high pedestal. And tonight you will hear him read his wonderful lines. What a treat you have in store!”

And then new arrivals claimed Miss Blaney’s attention, and Patty turned aside. She found Philip waiting for her, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“What is it all?” he whispered; “a bear garden?”

“Hush, Phil, don’t make me laugh. Did you ever see anything like it?”

“Well, I’ve been to Studio jinks, but they were to this as moonlight unto sunlight and as water unto wine! Shall I take you home?”

“No, indeed! I want to see the fun. I’ve never been to a Studio jinks,—or whatever you call it, and I want to live and learn.”

“All right, Patty. You shall stay as long as you like, but I’ll wager that inside of an hour you’ll be begging me to get you out of it.”

“All right, if I do, I shall expect you to take me away. Let’s look at the room.”

They sauntered about, and finally sat down on a Turkish divan, which proved much lower than they had anticipated.

“What an uncomfortable thing!” said Patty, “but sit here a minute, while I look round.”

From the ceiling hung Moorish-looking lamps, which gave almost no light, and, were of rather dilapidated appearance. The furniture, too, was not only antique, but wabbly-legged and here and there tied up with strings or leather thongs. Statuettes were about, broken and dusty; jugs and bowls of dull brass and copper; rickety screens; enormous unframed photographs, warped and faded, but bearing splashing and unintelligible autographs; and draperies of all sorts, from old shawls to tattered ecclesiastical robes.

“I see what Mr. Blaney meant by the key of saffron,” said Patty, sagely. “Everything is that colour because of the accumulation of dust and dirt! I don’t believe this place has ever had a good house-cleaning!”

“Oh, Patty, my dear child! Don’t thus expose your ignorance! Bohemia never cleans house! The very thought is sacrilege!”

“Why is it? Some of this old brass stuff would be lovely if it were cleaned up. And look at that copper kettle! It’s positively blue!”

“But that’s what they want, dear,” said Van Reypen, smiling at her. “Howsumever, I’m glad you don’t like it. We won’t model our home on a Bohemian plan.”

“And look at the people,” went on Patty, in an awe-struck whisper. “Some of them are decent, like our crowd,—but look at that girl in orange!”

The girl in question wore a costume of flame-coloured woolen material that was indeed striking. Her black hair was in two long braids, and she was carrying a small musical instrument that Philip said was a zithern.

“I don’t know,” he went on, “but I fancy she will play a sort of accompaniment to our host’s poems. They generally work it that way.”

“Stop making fun, Phil,” reproved Patty; “perhaps the poems will be lovely,—with musical setting.”

“Perhaps,” said Philip.