Kitabı oku: «Patty's Summer Days», sayfa 2
CHAPTER III
ATLANTIC CITY
Patty’s day at the Barlows’ was a decided contrast to her visit at Mrs. Allen’s.
In the Allen home every detail of housekeeping was complete and very carefully looked after, while at the Barlows’ everything went along in a slipshod, hit-or-miss fashion.
Patty well remembered her visit at their summer home which they called the Hurly-Burly, and she could not see that their city residence was any less deserving of the name. Her Aunt Grace and Uncle Ted were jolly, good-natured people, who cared little about system or method in their home. The result was that things often went wrong, but nobody cared especially if they did.
“I meant to have a nicer luncheon for you, Patty,” said her aunt, as they sat down at the table, “but the cook forgot to order lobsters, and when I telephoned for fresh peas the grocer said I was too late, for they were all sold. I’m so sorry, for I do love hothouse peas, don’t you?”
“I don’t care what I have to eat, Aunt Grace. I just came to visit you people, you know, and the luncheon doesn’t matter a bit.”
“That’s nice of you to say so, child. I remember what an adaptable little thing you were when you were with us down in the country, and really, you did us quite a lot of good that summer. You taught Bumble how to keep her bureau drawers in order. She’s forgotten it now, but it was nice while it lasted.”
“Helen, Mother, I do wish you would call me Helen. Bumble is such a silly name.”
“I know it, my dear,” said Mrs. Barlow, placidly, “and I do mean to, but you see I forget.”
“I forget it, too,” said Patty. “But I’ll try to call you Helen if you want me to. What time does Uncle Ted come home, Aunt Grace?”
“Oh, about five o’clock, or perhaps six; and sometimes he gets here at four. I never know what time he’s coming home.”
“It isn’t only that,” said Bob; “in fact, father usually comes home about the same time. But our clocks are all so different that it depends on which room mother is in, as to what time she thinks it is.”
“That’s so,” said Helen. “We have eleven clocks in this house, Patty, and every one of them is always wrong. Still, it’s convenient in a way; if you want to go anywhere at a certain time, no matter what time you start, you can always find at least one clock that’s about where you want it to be.”
“I’m sure I don’t see why the clocks don’t keep the right time,” said Mrs. Barlow. “A man comes every Saturday on purpose to wind and set them all.”
“We fool with them,” confessed Bob. “You see, Patty, we all like to get up late, and we set our clocks back every night, so that we can do it with a good grace.”
“Yes,” said Helen, “and then if we want each other to go anywhere through the day,—on time, you know,—we go around the house, and set all the clocks forward. That’s the only possible way to make anybody hurry up.”
Patty laughed. The whole conversation was so characteristic of the Barlows as she remembered them, and she wondered how they could enjoy living in such a careless way.
But they were an especially happy family, and most hospitable and entertaining. Patty thoroughly enjoyed her afternoon, although they did nothing in particular for her entertainment. But Aunt Grace was very fond of her motherless niece, and the twins just adored Patty.
At five o’clock tea was served, and though the appointments were not at all like Mrs. Allen’s carefully equipped service, yet it was an hour of comfortable enjoyment. Uncle Ted came home, and he was so merry and full of jokes, that he made them all laugh. Two or three casual callers dropped in, and Patty thought again, as she sometimes did, that perhaps she liked her Barlow cousins best of all.
Dinner, not entirely to Patty’s surprise, showed some of the same characteristics as luncheon had done. The salad course was lacking, because the mayonnaise dressing had been upset in the refrigerator; the ice cream was spoiled, because by mistake the freezer had been set in the sun until the ice melted, and the pretty pink pyramid was in a state of soft collapse.
But, as Aunt Grace cheerfully remarked, if it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else, and it didn’t matter much, anyway.
It was this happy philosophy of the Barlow family that charmed Patty so, and it left no room for embarrassment at these minor accidents, either on the part of the family or their guest.
“Now,” said Patty, after dinner, “if necessary, I’m going to set all the clocks forward, for, Helen, I do want you to be ready when Mrs. Allen sends for us. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting, one bit.”
“Never mind the clocks, Patty,” said Helen good-naturedly. “I’ll be ready.” She scampered off to dress, and sure enough was entirely ready before the carriage came.
“You see, Patty,” she said, “we can do things on time, only we’ve fallen into the habit of not doing so, unless there’s somebody like you here to spur us up.”
Patty admitted this, but told Bumble that she was sorry her influence was not more lasting.
On Saturday they started with the Banks’s on the automobile trip. Mrs. Allen provided Patty with a long coat for the journey, and a veil to tie over her hat. Not being accustomed to motoring, Patty did not have appropriate garments, and Mrs. Allen took delight in fitting her out with some of Nan’s.
Mr. Banks’s motor-car was of the largest and finest type. It was what is called a palace touring car, and represented the highest degree of comfort and luxury.
Patty had never been in such a beautiful machine, and when she was snugly tucked in the tonneau between Mrs. Allen and Ethel, Mr. Banks and Mr. Allen climbed into the front seat, and they started off.
The ride to Atlantic City was most exhilarating, and Patty enjoyed every minute of it. There was a top to the machine, for which reason the force of the wind was not so uncomfortable, and the tourists were able to converse with each other.
“I thought,” said Patty, “that when people went in these big cars, at this fearful rate of speed, you could hardly hear yourself think, much less talk to each other. What’s the name of your car, Mr. Banks?”
“The Flying Dutchman,” was the reply.
“It’s a flyer, all right,” said Patty, “but I don’t see anything Dutch about it.”
“That’s in honour of one of my ancestors, who, they tell me, came over from Holland some hundreds of years ago.”
“Then it’s a most appropriate name,” said Patty, “and it’s the most beautiful and comfortable car I ever saw.”
They went spinning on mile after mile at what Patty thought was terrific speed, but which Mr. Banks seemed to consider merely moderate. After a while, seeing how interested Patty was in the mechanism of the car, Mr. Allen offered to change seats with her, and let her sit with Mr. Banks, while that gentleman explained to her the working of it.
Patty gladly made the change, and eagerly listened while Mr. Banks explained the steering gear, and as much of the motor apparatus as he could make clear to her.
Patty liked Mr. Banks. He was a kind and courteous gentleman, and treated her with a deference that gave Patty a sudden sense of importance. It seemed strange to think that she, little Patty Fairfield, was the honoured guest of the well-known Mr. Banks of Philadelphia. She did her best to be polite and entertaining in return, and the result was very pleasant, and also very instructive in the art of motoring.
They reached Atlantic City late in the afternoon, and went at once to a large hotel, where Mr. Banks had telegraphed ahead for rooms.
Patty and Ethel had adjoining rooms, and the Allens and Mr. Banks had rooms across the hall from them.
Patty had begun to like Ethel before this trip had been planned, and as she knew her better she liked her more. Ethel Banks, though the only daughter of a millionaire, was not in the least proud or ostentatious. She was a sweet, simple-minded girl, with friendly ways, and a good comradeship soon developed between her and Patty.
She was a little older than Patty, and had just come out in society during the past winter.
As Patty was still a schoolgirl, she could not be considered as “out,” but of course on occasions like the present, such formalities made little or no difference.
“Now, my dear,” said Mr. Banks to Ethel, “if you and Miss Fairfield will hasten your toilettes a little, we will have time for a ride on the board walk before dinner.” This pleased the girls, and in a short time they had changed their travelling clothes for pretty light-coloured frocks, and went downstairs to find Mr. Banks waiting for them on the verandah. He explained that the Allens would not go with them on this expedition, so the three started off. As their hotel faced the ocean, it was just a step to the wide and beautiful board walk that runs for miles along the beach at Atlantic City.
In all her life Patty had never seen such a sight as this before, and the beauty and wonder of it all nearly took her breath away.
The board walk was forty feet wide, and was like a moving picture of gaily-dressed and happy-faced people.
Although early in April, it seemed like summer time, so balmy was the air, so bright the sunshine. Patty gazed with delight at the blue ocean, dotted with whitecaps, and then back to the wonderful panorama of the gay crowd, the music of the bands, and the laughter of the children.
“The best way to get an idea of the extent of this thing,” said Mr. Banks, “is to take a ride in the wheeled chairs. You two girls hop into that double one, and I will take this single one, and we’ll go along the walk for a mile or so.”
The chairs were propelled by strong young coloured men, who were affable and polite, and who explained the sights as they passed them, and pointed out places of interest. Patty said to Ethel that she felt as if she were in a perambulator, except that she wasn’t strapped in. But she soon became accustomed to the slow, gentle motion of the chairs, and declared that it was indeed an ideal way to see the beautiful place. On one side was an endless row of small shops or bazaars, where wares of all sorts were offered for sale. At one of these, a booth of oriental trinkets, Mr. Banks stopped and bought each of the girls a necklace of gay-coloured beads. They were not valuable ornaments, but had a quaint, foreign air, and were very pretty in their own way. Patty was greatly pleased, and when they passed another booth which contained exquisite Armenian embroideries, she begged Ethel to accept the little gift from her, and picking out some filmy needle-worked handkerchiefs, she gave them to her friend.
On they went, past the several long piers, until Mr. Banks said it was time to turn around if they would reach the hotel in time for dinner.
So back they went to the hotel, and, after finding the Allens, they all went to the dining-room.
Privately, Patty wondered how these people could spend so much time eating dinner, when they might be out on the beach. At last, to her great satisfaction, dinner was over, and Mr. Allen proposed that they all go out for a short stroll on the board walk.
Although it had been a gay scene in the afternoon, that was as nothing to the evening effect. Thousands,—millions, it seemed to Patty,—of electric lights in various wonderful devices, and in every possible colour, made the place as light as day, and the varied gorgeousness of the whole scene made it seem, as Patty said, like a big kaleidoscope.
They walked gaily along, mingling with the good-natured crowd, noticing various sights or incidents here and there, until they reached the great steel pier, where Mr. Allen invited them to go with him to the concert. So in they went to listen to a band concert. This pleased Patty, for she was especially fond of a brass band, but Mrs. Allen said it was nothing short of pandemonium.
“Your tastes are barbaric, Patty,” she said, laughing. “You love light and colour and noise, and I don’t believe you could have too much of any of the three.”
“I don’t believe I could,” said Patty, laughing herself, as the music banged and crashed.
“And that gewgaw you’ve got hanging around your neck,” went on Mrs. Allen; “your fancy for that proves you a true barbarian.”
“I think it’s lovely,” said Patty, looking at her gay-coloured beads. “I don’t care if I do like crazy things. Ethel likes these beads, too.”
“That’s all right,” said Mrs. Allen. “Of course you like them, chickadees, and they look very pretty with your light frocks. It’s no crime, Patty, to be barbaric. It only means you have youth and enthusiasm and a capacity for enjoyment.”
“Indeed I have,” said Patty. “I’m enjoying all this so much that I feel as if I should just burst, or fly away, or something.”
“Don’t fly away yet,” said Ethel. “We can’t spare you. There are lots more things to see.”
And so there were. After the concert they walked on, and on, continually seeing new and interesting scenes of one sort or another. Indeed, they walked so far that Mr. Allen said they must take chairs back. So again they got into the rolling chairs, and rolled slowly back to the hotel.
Patty was thoroughly tired out, but very happy, and went to sleep with the music of the dashing surf sounding in her ears.
CHAPTER IV
LESSONS AGAIN
But all this fun and frolic soon came to an end, and Patty returned to New York to take up her studies again.
Grandma Elliott was waiting for her in the pretty apartment home, and welcomed her warmly.
Mrs. Elliott and Patty were to stay at The Wilberforce only about a fortnight longer. Then Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield were to return and take Patty away with them to the new home on Seventy-second Street. Then the apartment in The Wilberforce was to be given up, and Grandma Elliott would return to Vernondale, where her son’s family eagerly awaited her.
“I’ve had a perfectly beautiful time, Grandma,” said Patty, as she took off her wraps, “but I haven’t time to tell you about it now. Just think, school begins again to-morrow, and I haven’t even looked at my lessons. I thought I would study some in Philadelphia, but goodness me, there wasn’t a minute’s time to do anything but frivol. The wedding was just gorgeous! Nan was a dream, and papa looked like an Adonis. I’ll tell you more at dinner time, but now I really must get to work.”
It was already late in the afternoon, but Patty brought out her books, and studied away zealously until dinner time. Then making a hasty toilette, she went down to the dining-room with grandma, and during dinner gave the old lady a more detailed account of her visit.
After dinner, Lorraine Hamilton and the Hart girls joined them in the parlour. But after chatting for a few moments with them, Patty declared she must go back to her studies.
“It’s awfully hard,” she said to Lorraine, as they walked to school next morning, “to settle down to work after having such a gay vacation. I do believe, Lorraine, that I never was intended for a student.”
“You’re doing too much,” said Lorraine. “It’s perfectly silly of you, Patty, to try to cram two years’ work into one, the way you’re doing.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Patty, “because then I won’t have to go to school next year, and that will be worth all this hard work now.”
“I’m awfully sorry you’re going away from The Wilberforce,” said Lorraine. “I shall miss you terribly.”
“I know it, and I’ll miss you, too; but Seventy-second Street isn’t very far away, and you must come to see me often.”
The schoolgirls all welcomed Patty back, for she was a general favourite, and foremost in all the recreations and pleasures, as well as the classes of the Oliphant school.
“Oh, Patty,” cried Elise Farrington, as she met her in the cloakroom, “what do you think? We’re going to get up a play for commencement. An original play, and act it ourselves, and we want you to write it, and act in it, and stage-manage it, and all. Will you, Patty?”
“Of course I will,” said Patty. “That is, I’ll help. I won’t write it all alone, nor act it all by myself, either. I don’t suppose it’s to be a monologue, is it?”
“No,” said Elise, laughing. “We’re all to be in it, and of course we’ll all help write it, but you must be at the head of it, and see that it all goes on properly.”
“All right,” said Patty, good-naturedly, “I’ll do all I can, but you know I’m pretty busy this year, Elise.”
“I know it, Patty, and you needn’t do much on this thing. Just superintend, and help us out here and there.”
Then the girls went into the class room and the day’s work began.
Patty had grown very fond of Elise, and though some of the other girls looked upon her as rather haughty, and what they called stuck-up, Patty failed to discern any such traits in her friend; and though Elise was a daughter of a millionaire, and lived a petted and luxurious life, yet, to Patty’s way of thinking, she was more sincere and simple in her friendship than many of the other girls.
After school that day Elise begged Patty to go home with her and begin the play.
“Can’t do it,” said Patty. “I must go home and study.”
“Oh, just come for a little while; the other girls are coming, and if you help us get the thing started, we can work at it ourselves, you know.”
“Well, I’ll go,” said Patty, “but I can only stay a few minutes.”
So they all went home with Elise, and settled themselves in her attractive casino to compose their great work.
But as might be expected from a group of chattering schoolgirls, they did not progress very rapidly.
“Tell us all about your fun in Philadelphia, Patty,” said Adelaide Hart.
And as Patty enthusiastically recounted the gaieties of her visit, the time slipped away until it was five o’clock, and not a word had been written.
“Girls, I must go,” cried Patty, looking at her watch. “I have an awful lot of studying to do, and I really oughtn’t to have come here at all.”
“Oh, wait a little longer,” pleaded Elise. “We must get the outline of this thing.”
“No, I can’t,” said Patty, “I really can’t; but I’ll come Saturday morning, and will work on it then, if you like.”
Patty hurried away, and when she reached home she found Kenneth Harper waiting for her.
“I thought you’d never come,” he said, as she arrived. “Your school keeps very late, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, I’ve been visiting since school,” said Patty. “I oughtn’t to have gone, but I haven’t seen the girls for so long, and they had a plan on hand that they wanted to discuss with me.”
“I have a plan on hand, too,” said Kenneth. “I’ve been talking it over with Mrs. Elliott, and she has been kind enough to agree to it. A crowd of us are going to the matinée on Saturday, and we want you to go. Mrs. Morse has kindly consented to act as chaperon, and there’ll be about twelve in the party. Will you go, Patty?”
“Will I go!” cried Patty. “Indeed I will, Ken. Nothing could keep me at home. Won’t it be lots of fun?”
“Yes, it will,” said Kenneth, “and I’m so glad you will go. I was afraid you’d say those old lessons of yours were in the way.”
Patty’s face fell.
“I oughtn’t to go,” she said, “for I’ve promised the girls to spend Saturday morning with them, and now this plan of yours means that I shall lose the whole day, and I have so much to do on Saturday; an extra theme to write, and a lot of back work to make up. Oh, Ken, I oughtn’t to go.”
“Oh, come ahead. You can do those things Saturday evening.”
Patty sighed. She knew she wouldn’t feel much like work Saturday evening, but she couldn’t resist the temptation of the gay party Saturday afternoon. So she agreed to go, and Kenneth went away much pleased.
“What do you think, grandma?” said she. “Do you think I ought to have given up the matinée, and stayed at home to study?”
“No, indeed,” said Grandma Elliott, who was an easy-going old lady. “You’ll enjoy the afternoon with your young friends, and, as Kenneth says, you can study in the evening.”
So when Saturday came Patty spent the morning with Elise. The other girls were there, and they really got to work on their play, and planned the scenes and the characters.
“It will be perfectly lovely!” exclaimed Adelaide Hart. “I’m so glad for our class to do something worth while. It will be a great deal nicer than the tableaux of last year.”
“But it will be an awful lot of work,” said Hilda Henderson. “All those costumes, though they seem so simple, will be quite troublesome to get up, and the scenery will be no joke.”
“Perhaps Mr. Hepworth will help us with the scenery,” said Patty. “He did once when we had a kind of a little play in Vernondale, where I used to live. He’s an artist, you know, and he can sketch in scenes in a minute, and make them look as if they had taken days to do. He’s awfully clever at it, and so kind that I think he’ll consent to do it.”
“That will be regularly splendid!” said Elise, “and you’d better ask him at once, Patty, so as to give him as much time as possible.”
“No, I won’t ask him quite yet,” said Patty, laughing. “I think I’ll wait until the play is written, first. I don’t believe it’s customary to engage a scene painter before a play is scarcely begun.”
“Well, then, let’s get at it,” said Hilda, who was practical.
So to work they went, and really wrote the actual lines of a good part of the first act.
“Now, that’s something like,” said Patty, as, when the clock struck noon, she looked with satisfaction on a dozen or more pages, neatly written in Hilda’s pretty penmanship. “If we keep on like that, we can get this thing done in five or six Saturday mornings, and then I’ll ask Mr. Hepworth about the scenery. Then we can begin to rehearse, and we’ll just about be ready for commencement day.”
While Patty was with the girls, her interest and enthusiasm were so great that the play seemed the only thing to be thought of. But when she reached home and saw the pile of untouched schoolbooks and remembered that she would be away all the afternoon, she felt many misgivings.
However, she had promised to go, so off she went to the matinée, and had a thoroughly pleasant and enjoyable time. Mrs. Morse invited her to go home to dinner with Clementine, saying that she would send her home safely afterward.
Clementine added her plea that this invitation might be accepted, but Patty said no. Although she wanted very much to go with the Morses, yet she knew that duty called her home. So she regretfully declined, giving her reason, and went home, determined to work hard at her themes and her lessons. But after her merry day with her young friends, she was not only tired physically, but found great difficulty in concentrating her thoughts on more prosaic subjects. But Patty had pretty strong will-power, and she forced herself to go at her work in earnest. Grandma Elliott watched her, as she pored over one book after another, or hastily scribbled her themes. A little pucker formed itself between her brows, and a crimson flush appeared on her cheeks.
At ten o’clock Mrs. Elliott asserted her authority.
“Patty,” she said, “you must go to bed. You’ll make yourself ill if you work so hard.”
Patty pushed back her books. “I believe I’ll have to, grandma,” she said. “My head’s all in a whirl, and the letters are dancing jigs before my eyes.”
Exhausted, Patty crept into bed, and though she slept late next morning, Grandma Elliott imagined that her face still bore traces of worry and hard work.
“Nonsense, grandma,” said Patty, laughing. “I guess my robust constitution can stand a little extra exertion once in a while. I’ll try to take it easier this week, and I believe I’ll give up my gymnasium work. That will give me more time, and won’t interfere with getting my diploma.”
But though Patty gained a few extra half hours by omitting the gymnasium class, she missed the daily exercise more than she would admit even to herself.
“You’re getting round-shouldered, Patty,” said Lorraine, one day; “and I believe it’s because you work so hard over those old lessons.”
“It isn’t the work, Lorraine,” said Patty, laughing. “It’s the play. I had to rewrite the whole of that garden scene last night, after I finished my lessons.”
“Why, what was the matter with it?”
“It was all wrong. We didn’t think of it at the time, but in one place Elise has to go off at one side of the stage, and, immediately after, come on at the other side, in different dress. Now, of course, that won’t do; it has to be arranged so that she will have time to change her costume. So I had to write in some lines for the others. And there were several little things like that to be looked after, so I had to do over pretty nearly the whole scene.”
“It’s a shame, Patty! We make you do all the hardest of the work.”
“Not a bit of it. I love to do it; and when we all work together and chatter so, of course we don’t think it out carefully enough, and so these mistakes creep in. Don’t say anything about it, Lorraine. The girls will never notice my little changes and corrections, and I don’t want to pose as a poor, pale martyr, growing round-shouldered in her efforts to help her fellow-sisters!”
“You’re a brick, Patty, but I will tell them, all the same. If we’re all going to write this play together, we’re going to do it all, and not have you doing our work for us.”
Lorraine’s loyalty to Patty was unbounded, and as she had, moreover, a trace of stubbornness in her character, Patty knew that no amount of argument would move her from her determination to straighten matters out. So she gave up the discussion, only saying, “You won’t do a bit of good, Lorraine; and anyway, somebody ought to revise the thing, and if I don’t do it, who will?”
Patty said this without a trace of egotism, for she and Lorraine both knew that none of the other girls had enough constructive talent or dramatic capability to put the finishing touches on the lines of the play. That was Patty’s special forte, just as Clementine Morse was the one best fitted to plan the scenic effects, and Elise Farrington to design the costumes.
“That’s so,” said Lorraine, with a little sigh, “and I suppose, Patty, you’ll just go on in your mad career, and do exactly as you please.”
“I suppose I shall,” said Patty, laughing at Lorraine’s hopeless expression; “but I do want this play to be a success, and I mean to help all I can, in any way I can.”
“It’s bound to be a success,” said Lorraine with enthusiasm, “because the girls are all so interested, and I think we’re all working hard in our different ways. Of course I don’t have anything to do except to look after the incidental music, but I do hope that will turn out all right.”
“Of course it will, Lorraine,” said Patty. “Your selections are perfect so far; and you do look after more than that. Those two little songs you wrote are gems, and they fit into the second act just exactly right. I think you’re a real poet, Lorraine, and after the play is over I wish you’d get those little songs published. I’m sure they’re worth it.”
“I wish I could,” said Lorraine, “and I do mean to try.”
