  Patty’s bedroom was a pretty, cheery and charming place. The sunlight came in through delicate, lacy curtains, the furniture and appointments were all that a fastidious taste could desire, and the pictures and trinkets scattered about were beautiful and attractive. There were always fresh flowers in the vases and the whole effect was conducive to happiness and contentment. Yet across the lace-covered bed was the outstretched form of somebody who had flung herself there in a very abandonment of woe. Somebody with golden curly hair, from which the boudoir cap had fallen unheeded; somebody who was digging a little wet mop of a handkerchief into eyes that flowed with tears like a very freshet of rain. Somebody who was shaking and quivering with great racking sobs that were all the more agonising because they were silent. Patty was crying. And with her ever-active efficiency, she was making a thorough and complete success of it. Now and then, she would pause, sit up and vigorously wipe her eyes, then she would fling herself back into the nest of damp pillows and start all over again. Her pretty negligÉe of light blue silk was crumpled into a shocking state; one little slipper had fallen off, and though her face was buried in the pillows her heaving shoulders and tumbled curls still bore witness to the woe that was torturing her soul. Suddenly, she became angry, and sat up straight, fists clenched, eyes blazing,—fairly gritting her teeth in a wave of indignation. Then again, grief, deep, hopeless grief overcame her, and back she fell, fresh tears welling up and spilling over. “Patty,” cried Bumble, bouncing into the room, “I’ve a splendid plan! Let’s get a whole lot of top balloons, and—for the love of Michaelovitch Paderewski! what is the matter?” Curiously Bumble looked at the shaking figure on the bed. With a frightened face, she came cautiously toward Patty, unable to believe her eyes at the sight of her cousin’s attitude. “Get out! go ’way!” wailed Patty, in such hollow tones that they scarce seemed her own at all. “Patty! dear! my own little darling cousin, what is it? Tell Bumble! Tell me, dear.” “N-nothing! Go away, I tell you.” “I won’t go away! How can I, when I don’t know what’s the matter with you! Are you ill?” “No—no—oh, Bumble, don’t pester me!” “But what ails you, Patty? You don’t even speak like yourself. I’m going to call Nan.” “No, don’t! Yes, do! Oh, I don’t care what you do!” and a brand-new deluge poured forth, as Patty sat up and stared at Helen with eyes full of utter woe as well as gushing tears. Thoroughly frightened, Helen did call Nan, who came at once. “Why, you poor little thing,” she said, sitting down beside Patty, and caressing her, as she offered a fresh handkerchief in place of the squeezed up mop in Patty’s hand. “Never mind, dear, don’t try to talk,—just be quiet. And cry all you like,—but, gracious! I didn’t know one person could hold so many tears! Now, hush, dear, don’t talk. Keep right on crying, it’ll do you good.” Nan’s comforting voice and her tender whimsicality, helped Patty, and she sobbed in Nan’s arms, for a time, then, by degrees, her tears began to be somewhat checked, and she stopped shaking. Nan only patted her gently, and crooned comforting little sounds, that soothed the tortured nerves by their loving tone. At last, Patty stopped crying for the simple reason, apparently, that her tears had at last become exhausted. Helen had brought a fresh relay of handkerchiefs, and as Patty half-unconsciously accepted one after another, the bed was strewn with the moistened squares of linen. “Hold on,” warned Bumble, “if you’re going to begin again, go easy on this; it’s the last one of mine.” “I’ve plenty,” assured Nan, “cry away, Patty, if you like.” Nan’s intuition told her that Patty must have her cry out, before any explanation could be forthcoming. And it was so. Every time the tears ceased and Patty undertook to talk, just so often the floods burst forth again. Helen grew a bit impatient, and wanted to know what it was all about, but Nan gave her a warning glance, that curbed her curiosity. For Nan knew Patty’s temperament, and knew, too, that only some really great matter lay at the bottom of this outbreak. At last, a point was reached, where it seemed that the tears were really exhausted, and, weak and white, Patty looked with loving gratitude into Nan’s comforting eyes. “Bless you, dear,” Nan said, kissing the flushed cheek,—“here’s a dry pillow, now, rest. I’m going to get you a glass of milk and a biscuit.” When Nan returned, Patty was quiet, and very sad-looking. Helen was trying to cheer her up by talking nonsense, but Patty paid little heed to her chatter. Mechanically she took the milk that Nan brought, and nibbled at a biscuit. “It’s this, people,” she said, at length, “you might as well know, first as last. Billee has thrown me over.” Helen stared, aghast, but Nan laughed. “Oh, Patty!” she cried, “all that fuss for a simple little lovers’ quarrel! Well I suppose you are a simple little lover, and I daresay Bill has no notion of it all. What’s your fancied grievance? And, I must admit I’m relieved! I feared it was something serious.” “And it is!” flashed Patty; “I guess you’ll think so when you know. I sent him a val—valentine——” “And that upset the apple-cart? Why, why; was it a ‘comic’?” “Don’t tease, Nan, it’s fearful. You saw the valentine, didn’t you, Bumble?” “Yes, but I don’t remember anything about it. What was it?” “Here it is!” and Patty drew from beneath a pillow a moist, bedraggled paper, that had once been a gay, crisp sheet. Nan took it and smoothed it out. She saw a blurred picture of two rustic lovers and with some difficulty she read the absurd lines beneath. “Our love is high as Heaven And wide as rolling sea——” she read aloud, “that’s all right, seems to me,—Little Billee can’t have thrown you over for that sentiment! Now, I’ll read further: The vows cannot be riven That bind my love and me. Orthodox, I’m sure. Not a perfect rhyme, perhaps, but that’s not enough to quarrel over! Let’s see what comes next: But should our pledge be broken Or should your love be dead, Send back this tender token And let us never wed. Why, Patty Fairfield, do you mean to say you sent this ridiculous thing to your Little Billee! I don’t wonder he sent it back! It’s silly beyond words! Why did you send such a horror?” “I dunno,” said Patty, a little shame-facedly, “mostly because Lieutenant Herron dared me to, and I never will be dared. But, oh, Nan, I don’t care if it is a foolish valentine, he did send it back,—and, don’t you see, it says, ‘Send back this tender token, and let us never wed,’—and he did send it back!” Patty’s eyes were large and scared-looking, and, though she didn’t cry now, she looked as if she were about ready to. “But——” Nan looked bewildered,—“I don’t understand——” “I do!” cried Helen, “and it’s awful! I don’t wonder you’re upset, Patty! But, hold on, maybe somebody else got it and sent it back.” “No,” and Patty forlornly showed the envelope. “See, it’s his writing, mailed in Washington, yesterday—oh,—how could he? Why should he?” “Patty Fairfield, behave yourself!” Nan gave her a little shake; “do you mean to tell me Bill Farnsworth means he returns your valentine—your love-token!” “There it is! That’s the one I sent him, and it says to return it if his love is dead—and, he’s returned it! And that horrid Herron told me about a—a b-black-eyed b-beauty——” “Nonsense, Patty! be sensible! It can’t be——” “Very well, how do you explain it? Why should I send that thing to him a few days ago, and get it back today? Why would he return it—there’s no mistaking his writing, look at it—unless he meant me to take it as it’s printed there! He has been bewitched by that b-black-eyed——” “Hush, Patty! Don’t talk such absolute rubbish! I know Bill Farnsworth, and I know——” “You don’t know the girl——” “Jealous! Fie, Patty, for shame!” “But, Nan,” interposed Bumble, “as Patty says, what does it mean? I wouldn’t doubt Little Billee’s faith and loyalty either, only, in the face of this thing, what can we think?” “I’ll never believe Bill meant that! He’s teasing you——” “A pretty way to tease!” Patty was angry now. “And you know he isn’t a tease. He never plays jokes like Kit Cameron, or Chick Channing might. No, Nan, he has been bowled over by a Washington girl and he wants to get rid of me!” “Patty,” and Nan spoke very seriously, “it isn’t right for you so to doubt the man you’ve promised to marry. I can’t, I won’t believe that he means this as you take it!” “How else can he mean it? If you’ll give me a rational explanation of what he does mean, I’ll be only too glad. I’ve thought and thought, and I can’t imagine any meaning but the actual fact that the printed words say to send the valentine back if his love is dead,—and he did send it back! Now, for your explanation!” “I don’t know, Patty. I confess I don’t. It isn’t like him to do it to tease you.” “Of course, it isn’t! He’d never do such a cruel, heartless thing as that,—if he still loved me. So, he has done the cruel thing,—and it’s because he doesn’t love me!” “What are you going to do?” asked Helen, breaking a long silence. “There’s nothing to do,” replied Patty, hopelessly, “I can’t write and beg him to take me back. I have some pride! Nor can I ask what I’ve done to forfeit his regard. For I know I haven’t done anything.” “You’ve flirted with Phil Van Reypen,” said Helen, accusingly. “I haven’t!” flared Patty. “On the contrary, I’ve been very careful not to! He’s flirted with me, if you like, but I’ve not encouraged him. You know I haven’t, Nan.” “Not intentionally, dear, but you have been with him a great deal of late,—and Little Billee is of a jealous nature.” “No, it isn’t that,” and Patty sighed, forlornly; “I only wish it were! Then I could ask his pardon and make up and all that. No, my Billee has found somebody he likes better’n me. I’m Leah, the Forsaken,—after all!” “Leah, nothing!” exclaimed Helen. “Patty, if you can’t cut out a little black-eyed beauty, you’re no good! Don’t submit so tamely! Go to Washington,—hunt up the horrid little thing, and see what she’s like! Then, I’ll back your beauty against her, any day!” “Oh, hush up, Bumble! Do you suppose I’d stoop to get back a man who has thrown me over! You must be crazy! I love Bill Farnsworth,—I adore him, and I can never love anybody else; but I’ll never raise a finger to whistle him back! I’m not that sort of a girl! I shall never write him again, or refer to this miserable business in any way. I’m glad Mr. Herron gave me the hint, or I might have made a fool of myself; now, I won’t!” Nan was re-reading the unlucky missive. “It’s very strange,” was her comment. “I can’t understand it. There is no mistaking his handwriting; there’s no mistaking the words of that silly verse! But I don’t like it, Patty. I’m surprised at Bill. If he had ceased to love you, why not tell you so, like a gentleman? You know, I always said——” “Stop, Nan!” and Patty’s voice was tense, while red spots burned on her cheeks, “don’t you dare cast any reflection on him! My Billee is all right! He is a gentleman! I laid myself open to this treatment and I deserved all I’ve got. It was bad taste to say the least, for me to send that thing! I never should have done it, but to get more money for the committee. I was thoughtless, careless, and foolishly unwilling to let Mr. Herron think I didn’t dare send it. He said ‘you don’t dare take the chance!’ meaning that I might get back—just what I did get back! But I was so sure of Bill’s love, so confident of his faith and loyalty, that I never dreamed there was a chance of Mr. Herron’s being right!” “He isn’t right!” cried Helen. “I believe there’s a mistake somewhere!” “Just where?” asked Patty, listlessly. “If you can invent or imagine something that would explain his returning that horrid old thing, tell me! I’ll be glad to know it!” But Helen couldn’t think of any plausible or even possible explanation or excuse for the return of the valentine. For Farnsworth was not a practical joker, and indeed, few lovers could have been capable of such a jest as that! The case seemed to be at a deadlock. It was incredible that Little Billee should have sent back the valentine, yet, there it was! And indubitably from him. There was no possibility that any one else had written Patty’s address on the big envelope. Bill’s large, well-formed chirography was characteristic and unmistakable. “There’s another thing,” confessed Patty, “Bill thinks I opened a letter that he sent me, sealed. And I didn’t. Maybe that made him stop loving me.” The flower-face was so pathetic in its tragic grief, that Nan waxed wroth again. “Patty,” she said, “if Bill Farnsworth has really tossed you off like a discarded glove, I think Fred Fairfield will reckon with him! It’s outrageous,—that’s what it is!” “Oh, no, Nan; don’t let Father do anything sensational! I don’t want a man who doesn’t want me! I assure you I don’t! I’m no meek Griselda——” “She was the patient one,” put in Helen. “Well, I’m not patient, either! I’m—oh, I’m just miserable! I wish you would both clear out, and let me alone!” “Well, we won’t,” said Nan, determinedly. “But, I’ll tell you what we are going to do. You dress yourself all up and we’ll all go down town and lunch at the gayest and giddiest place we can find, and then we’ll go to a foolish matinÉe,—the most hilarious one there is on the boards,—and then, we’ll get a new start, and when we come home we can talk this over with your father, and see what’s what in the Fairfield household!” Patty demurred, saying she didn’t want to go, but Nan was inexorable, and at last Patty yielded. But only on the condition that they would give her half an hour alone first, to think things out. This was granted, and Patty was left alone and undisturbed for the stipulated time. When Nan came again to the room, she found Patty not yet dressing, but looking far more cheerful. “I’ve thinked it out,” she greeted Nan; “and here’s the result. I’m going to keep faith in my Little Billee, until he tells me with his own lips that he’s tired of me, and loves another girl. I can’t see any way to hope this isn’t so, but I’m going to keep my faith, till I know more,—anyway. Because, Nan,” her voice fell to a whisper, “if I don’t, I’ll go crazy! When I remember all he has said to me,—all his faith in me, all his protestations of undying, unfailing love, I can’t believe it’s all swept away by some new face! Think how long Bill has cared for me——” “That’s right, Patty, look at it like that. It’s a whole lot better.” As a matter of fact, Nan, too, had thought it over very seriously, and she could see no explanation but Bill Farnsworth’s deep perfidy. She could conceive of no theory that would fit the facts, save the hint that Herron had dropped, that Bill had been enslaved by a sparkling little brunette, full of the Southern charm and fascination. It was not like Farnsworth, but Nan realised that men are not always masters of their fates. She carried out her plan, and took the two girls to luncheon and then to the theatre, and she was glad to see that Patty’s poise had returned to her, and though not exactly cheerful, she was at least, calm and composed. Whether this was due to the gay entertainment, or to her avowed faith in her recreant lover, Nan didn’t know. But she was glad that Patty was outwardly pleasant and placid, whatever might be the turmoil in her heart. They returned home about six o’clock, and as they entered, Jane, the housemaid, told Patty there had been a long-distance telephone call for her, during the afternoon. “And whoever it was,” Jane said, “promised to call you again later,—at half-past six.” “All right,” said Patty, her heart bounding with hope that the call might be from Washington. But it was improbable, for owing to the difficulties and delays in getting a good connection, Bill rarely could take time for this method of communication. Still outwardly serene, she went to her room and took off her wraps, and then returned to the library to await the expected call. “Of course, it will be Bill,” said Helen, comfortingly. “Of course it won’t,” Patty returned, drearily, and then she waited. |
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