Patty's Friends
“I’ll be eighteen next month.”
“And you haven’t set the Thames on fire, or won the Victoria Cross yet? But you’re just at the age when your type of happy girlhood is often beset with over-conscientious scruples. Don’t give way to them, Patty. It is not your lot to do definite, physical good to suffering humanity, like a Red Cross nurse, or the Salvation Army. Nor is it necessary that you should work to earn your bread, like a teacher or a stenographer. But it is your duty, or rather your privilege, to shed sunshine wherever you go. I think I’ve never known any one with such a talent for spontaneous and unconscious giving-out of happiness. It is involuntary, which is its chiefest charm, but whoever is with you for a time is cheered and comforted just by the influence of your own gladness. This is honest talk, my child, and I want you to take it as I mean it. Don’t try to do this thing, that would spoil it all; but just remember that you do do it, and let that satisfy your desire to be a useful member of this busy world.”
“You’re such a dear,” said Patty, as she caressed her friend’s hand affectionately; “if that’s all true, and of course it is, since you say so, I’m very glad. But can’t I do something more definite, more voluntary?”
“Of course there are always opportunities for doing good,—organised charities and those things that everybody takes part in. But if you want to widen your own field of benefaction, simply know more people. Whether you know them socially or as casual acquaintances, you will almost invariably add happiness to their lives, though it be in the merest trifles. Now, I’m assuming that you have sense enough not to overdo this thing, and thrust yourself upon people who don’t want you.”
“Madam,” said Patty, in mock indignation, “you may trust me. I am an American!”
“You are indeed; and you have what is known as Yankee good sense, if you are a mere infant.”
“Eighteen is pretty old, I think; and you’re not so very ancient, yourself,” retorted Patty; “but I’m willing to sit at your feet and acquire wisdom.”
When dressed to go out that afternoon, Patty stopped at Lady Hamilton’s door to say good-bye.
“Come in, and let me see if you’ll pass muster. Yes, that frilly, flowered muslin is just right for the Terrace; and that hat with long streamers is truly pastoral.”
“What’s pastoral about the Terrace, pray?”
“Nothing but the ladies’ clothes, and the lamb-like demeanour of the M.P.’s.”
“I may see your father there.”
“You may. But he’ll be an exception to the lamb-like ones. Here, let me put these valley lilies in your belt. They rather suit your costume.”
“Oh, thank you; they’re beautiful. If I see your father, I’ll give him a spray and say you sent it.”
“Very well; he’ll then pitch you and the flowers all in the Thames together.” “Well, at least we’ll cause a sensation among the lambs. Good-by, Kitty lady.”
“Good-bye, little one. Have a good time, and come in to tell me about it when you return.”
The tea on the Terrace was a new delight. Patty had been through the Houses of Parliament before, but this was her first experience of that unique function known as the Terrace Tea.
The broad, beautiful space was crowded with tables, and the tables were crowded with people. Merry, chatting, laughing Londoners, Americans, and foreigners mingled in groups and drank tea together.
Mrs. Hastings and Patty were met by their host, Mr. Pauncefote, and escorted to a table, already surrounded by several people.
Patty felt greatly pleased when she found herself seated between Grace and Tom Meredith, and listened with interest as they designated various celebrated people who were strolling by.
“But, after all,” she said, at last, “Dukes and Duchesses don’t look very different from ordinary people.”
“Of course they don’t. Why should they? They aren’t any different,” said Tom. “Indeed, Miss Fairfield, I’ve vanity enough to believe you’d find me more interesting than some of the Dukes.”
“I’m sure you are,” laughed Patty, “but if I were introduced to a real Duke, I’d be so scared I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Now I call that too bad,” declared Tom, with an aggrieved look. “And, pray, why aren’t you scared when in my august society?”
“I am,” said Patty, dimpling, as she smiled at him, “only I’m successfully striving not to show my quaking fright.”
“That’s better. I hope the longer you know me, the more awed you’ll be of my,—of my–”
“Of your what?” calmly inquired his sister.
“’Pon my word, I don’t know,” confessed Tom, good-naturedly; “of my awesomeness, I suppose.”
“How do you like London?” said a loud voice, in the tones that are sometimes called stentorian, and Patty suddenly realised that her host was addressing her.
A bit embarrassed at finding the eyes of all at the table upon her, she answered, shyly: “I love it; it is so—so kind to me.”
“Bravo! Pretty good for an American,” shouted Mr. Pauncefote, who seemed unable to moderate his voice. “And which do you like best, the people or the show-places?”
“The people,” said Patty, her embarrassment lost sight of in a flash of mischief. “I like the Members of Parliament better than Parliament House.”
“Good! Good!” cried the portly M.P., striking the table with his fist until the cups rattled; “that’s true Yankee cleverness. You’re a good sort, my child. Are they all like you in America?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Patty, demurely; “are they all like you in England?”
Patty’s innocent air of inquiry robbed the speech of all effect of pertness, and the genial Mr. Pauncefote roared with delight.
“Ha, ha!” he cried; “all like me in England? No, my child, no! Heaven be praised, there are very few after my pattern.”
“That’s too bad,” said Patty. “I think your pattern is a good one.”
“It is,” said Tom Meredith. “If we had more statesmen after Mr. Pauncefote’s pattern, the House of Commons would be better off.”
This speech called forth applause from the other guests, and the host said, loudly: “Pshaw, pshaw!” but he looked greatly pleased.
When the tea was over and the party rose from the table, Mr. Pauncefote detained Patty for a moment’s chat, while the others broke up into smaller groups or wandered away.
“I want you to meet my daughter,” he was saying; “the young lady in gray over there, talking to Sir Otho.”
“Sir Otho who?” said Patty, quickly, forgetting to respond in regard to Miss Pauncefote.
“Sir Otho Markleham; see the large gentleman with gold-rimmed glasses. She is my youngest daughter, and I know she’d be glad to meet you.”
“I’d be delighted,” said Patty, but her attention centred on Sir Otho.
Could it be that was Lady Hamilton’s severe father? He did not look so obstinate as she had imagined him, but as she drew nearer, she observed the firm set of his square jaw and reversed her opinion.
Sir Otho was very tall and big, and his smoothly brushed hair was light brown without a trace of gray.
He wore closely-trimmed whiskers, of the style known as “mutton-chop,” and his cold gray eyes almost glittered as he looked through his glasses. The introduction to Miss Pauncefote implied also an introduction to Sir Otho, and in a moment Patty found herself chatting in a group of which Lady Kitty’s father was one.
There was something about the big man that awed her, and she naturally fell into conversation with Miss Pauncefote, while the two gentlemen talked together. But as they were all about to separate, and even after Sir Otho had said good-afternoon, Patty hesitated irresolutely for a second, and then turned back toward him again.
“Sir Otho,” she said, timidly.
“Well, ma’am, what is it?” was the response as he turned in surprise to look at her.
“I am very glad to meet you,” said Patty, and as soon as the words were uttered, she realised how absurd they were.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the puzzled gentleman. He was very unresponsive, and showed in his face that he thought little of this exhibition of American forwardness.
“Especially so,” Patty went on, “because I know your daughter, Lady Hamilton.”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Sir Otho Markleham, the red blood dyeing his large face crimson, and his eyes fairly snapping with anger.
“Yes, I do,” went on Patty, resolved now to plunge in desperately, “and she sent you these flowers.”
Patty had previously detached two or three of the prettiest sprays of the lilies of the valley, and now held them out, with the air of one fulfilling a trust.
For a moment Sir Otho Markleham looked as if he would really like to pitch the American girl and her flowers into the river, and then, almost mechanically, he took the blossoms from Patty’s hand.
Then, with a straight, cold stare at her, he said, in a hard voice: “I have no daughter,” and after a stiff, formal bow, he walked away.
CHAPTER V
MISS YANKEE DOODLE
“You didn’t, really!” exclaimed Lady Hamilton, as Patty gleefully described giving the flowers to Sir Otho Markleham.
“But I did, Kitty, and truly, he was mad enough to pitch me into that yellow muddy old river. I greatly admire his self-control in not really doing it. But what eyes he has! So gray and steely, they cut right through me! And he just said, tragically, ‘I have no daughter,’ and stalked away. But—and this is the main thing—he kept the flowers!”
“How do you know?”
“I watched him. I fully expected he’d fling them straight over Parliament House, but he didn’t. He didn’t even throw them on the stone floor of the Terrace, and gr-r-rind them ’neath his iron heel! I can’t say that he put them in his button-hole, for his back was toward me, but I know he kept them.”
“Oh, Patty, you are a silly! You think you’ve gone far toward healing the family feud of the Marklehams. But you haven’t. My father gave the whole episode no thought at all, unless it was to think of you as an impertinent child.”
“Well, it was a wedge,” said Patty, doggedly, “and if I ever get another chance at him, I’ll hammer it in.”
“No, don’t, Patty dear; you mean well, I know, but you don’t know father’s disposition. If he thought you were an intermediary, he’d be more stubborn than ever.”
“Huh!” said Patty, more expressively than politely; “I’m not going to make any trouble. Trust your Aunt Patty for that!”
Lady Hamilton laughed, as she always did at Patty’s funny American phrases, and the subject of Sir Otho was dropped.
“Better not mix yourself up in other people’s quarrels,” said Mr. Fairfield, when Patty told him about it. “Your motive is a good one, but an Englishman is not apt to brook interference from an outsider, especially an American.”
“Oh, pshaw, Fred; Patty won’t do any harm,” said Nan. “Patty’s tact is a match for any English temper, and if she could bring about a reconciliation, I’d be so glad for that sweet Lady Hamilton.”
“All right; I give in. When you two are against me, I hold up my hands.”
“We’re not against you, Daddy,” said Patty, smiling fondly at her father. “You’re on our side, only you don’t quite realise it.”
“I told you she had tact,” laughed Nan, “and she grows cleverer every day; don’t you, Stepdaughter?”
“Yes, Stepmother,” replied Patty, gazing at Nan in mock adoration; “since I have you for a model, how could I do otherwise?”
“You’re a pair of sillies,” said Mr. Fairfield, laughing at their nonsense, “and in a vain endeavour to improve your minds, I think I’ll read aloud to you.”
“Oh, goody!” cried Patty, for they both loved to hear Mr. Fairfield read. “And mayn’t I ask Lady Kitty to come in? She’ll sit still as a mouse, I know.”
“Certainly, my child; ask any one you like. If you see any people in the corridors, bring them back with you. Perhaps the elevator man will come.”
“’Deed he won’t be asked,” said Patty, indignantly. “I just want my sweet, lovely Lady Kitty.”
The sweet, lovely lady was pleased to come, and did indeed sit still as a mouse, listening to Mr. Fairfield’s fine reading.
Then Patty sang one or two of her newest songs, and then Nan declared they must all go down to the Grill Room for a Welsh Rabbit.
This plan enchanted Patty, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lady Hamilton agreed. So the evening proved a merry little festivity, and Patty went to bed healthily tired, but healthily happy.
Bob Hartley did not forget his promise to ask Patty to the Garden Party at Regent’s Park, and Patty gladly accepted the invitation.
“The only thing that bothers me,” she said to Nan, “is that the Hartleys don’t seem to have much money, and at a Charity Garden Party there are so many ways to spend, that I fear I’ll be a burden to them. It makes me awfully uncomfortable, and yet I can’t offer to pay for myself. And with those young men present, I can’t offer to pay for the whole party.”
“No,” agreed Nan. “But you might do something yourself. Invite them all to be your guests at some especial side-show, or booth. There are often such opportunities.”
“I hope there will be. The Hartleys are a funny kind of poor. They have a good apartment in London, and their country place is fine. They have old servants, and keep a carriage, and all that, and yet they never seem to have spending money.”
“English people are often like that. The keeping up of an establishment comes first with them, and little personal comforts afterward.”
“That isn’t my idea of economy,” said Patty, decidedly; “I’d rather spend all I want on flowers and books and pretty hats, and go without a butler and a footman and even a team of horses.”
“You can’t judge, because you’ve always had whatever you want.”
“Of course; because father is indulgent and has plenty of money. But if he hadn’t, I’d be just as happy, living in a plainer way.”
“Yes, Patty, I believe you would,” and Nan looked at the girl affectionately. “Well, do your best to help the Hartleys financially this afternoon without offending them.”
“Ah, that’s just the trouble. They’re so dreadfully proud they won’t accept so much as a glass of lemonade from one who is their guest.”
“Try it, and see. It may not be so difficult as you think.”
So Patty went gaily off to the Garden Party. Mrs. Hartley called for her in her carriage. Mabel was with her, and they were to meet the boys at the park.
It was a beautiful drive, in the open victoria, along the busy streets of the city, and then on out to the green slopes of Regent’s Park.
The portion of the park devoted to the Garden Party was gay with booths and flower-stands, tents and arbours, and catch-penny shows of all sorts.
Sinclair and Robert were awaiting them, and also another young Englishman, whom Bob introduced as Mr. Lawton. The latter was a typical Briton, with a slight drawl, and a queer-looking monocle in his right eye.
“Awfully jolly to meet you,” he exclaimed, as he shook Mrs. Hartley’s hand, and bowed formally to the girls.
He fascinated Patty, he was so exactly like the young Englishmen pictured in Punch, and she waited to hear him say “Bah Jove!” But he didn’t say it, he contented himself with “My word!” by way of expletive, and though it didn’t seem to mean anything, it was apparently useful to him.
“You must jolly well let me be your guide,” he declared; “Mrs. Hartley and I will lead and the rest of you will follow wherever we go. First, we make the grand tour.”
This meant joining a long procession that were sauntering along a board walk, on either side of which were settees filled with people.
Patty, with Sinclair, followed the leaders, and Mabel and Bob followed them.
But their progress was slow, for continually some of the party recognised friends seated alongside, and stopped to speak to them. Patty was introduced so often that she became bewildered, and soon stopped trying to remember who was who.
“You’re getting jolly well fagged,” said Mr. Lawton, suddenly noticing her expression. “Now, we’ll stop this merry-go-round and adjourn to the tea tent.”
This they did, and were soon comfortably seated round a tea table.
“Great show, isn’t it?” said Bob, enthusiastically. “And you haven’t seen half of it yet. There’s fortune-telling, and Punch and Judy, and the hat-trimming contest, and I don’t know what beside.”
Sinclair adroitly paid the tea bill, before Mr. Lawton could do so, though the latter tried.
“Never mind, old fellow,” he cried, “I’ll get even with you! I hereby invite you all to supper at six o’clock.”
“We’re pleased to accept,” said Patty, promptly; “and I hereby invite you all to the play, or whatever it is, given by the Stagefright Club. I think that’s such a lovely name for a dramatic club. Can’t we go at once?”
Mrs. Hartley looked a little disturbed at Patty’s invitation, but did not demur, and tea being over, they all went toward the tent where the play was to be given. Patty managed to walk ahead with Mr. Lawton, this time, and when they reached the big tent, she offered him her little gold chain-purse, saying, quietly, “Won’t you see to the tickets, please?”
“Trust me,” said Mr. Lawton, and taking Patty’s purse, he bought seats for them all. It was gracefully done, and they all went in in gay spirits and without a trace of embarrassment, thanks to Patty’s tact.
The play was very funny. Though only a trifling farce, it was written by professionals, for the benefit of the charity, and was played by the clever amateurs who had chosen such an odd name for their club. The situations in the play were screamingly funny, and Patty shook with laughter as she listened to the jokes and the merry by-play.
“Hist, she comes!” declared a weird figure in a sepulchral voice, as he waited in the middle of the stage.
“Hist, she comes!”
But nobody came.
“That’s her cue,” he muttered; “what can be the matter? I say,” he cleared his throat and spoke louder: “Hist, she comes!” As the expected entrance was still delayed, he only said: “Well, she ought to be hissed when she does come!” And calmly sat down to wait for her, amid the applause of the audience.
The short playlet soon came to an end, and still shaking with laughter, the party went out again into the beautiful atmosphere which is found on a spring day in Regent’s Park.
“Now, my children,” said Mrs. Hartley, “I simply cannot walk about any more. I’m going to sit in one of those chairs yonder, for I see some people I know over there. You can amuse yourselves with Punch and Judy, or Ring Toss or whatever you like, and come back to me in an hour or so. Sinclair, look after the little ones, won’t you?”
It was a great joke that Sinclair, the oldest Hartley boy, should look after the others. He had reached the age of twenty, and was much more grave and dignified than Bob and Grace. Mrs. Hartley often declared she could even trust him to match samples for her, so careful was he. So the young people wandered away and spent a delightful hour looking at the beautiful or grotesque sights that adorned the fair.
Patty could not do much financially, but under cover of giving to charity, she bought pretty souvenirs for Mabel and Mrs. Hartley, and laughingly invited the group to be photographed by a Camera Fiend.
This personage was clothed in red, and with black horns and Mephistophelean countenance was made to look as much like a fiend as possible. With outlandish hoots and yells, he posed the group and took several snapshots, which they were to call for later.
As they concluded it was nearly time to drift back to Mrs. Hartley, Patty noticed a gentleman who stood at a little distance, looking at her intently.
“Who’s your friend, Patty?” asked Mabel. “Do you know him?”
“Yes,” said Patty, slowly. “He’s Sir Otho Markleham.”
“So he is,” said Bob. “I’ve seen him often, but I don’t know him personally.”
Sir Otho, still looking at Patty, took a few steps toward her, and then paused irresolutely.
“Please excuse me,” said Patty to the others, “I think I’ll go speak to him for a minute.”
“Do,” said Mr. Lawton; “we’ll wait for you right here.”
Following an impulse, Patty walked directly toward Sir Otho, who looked as if he would like to run away.
“How do you do?” she said, pleasantly, as they met.
“Quite well,” he said, but there was no responsiveness in his manner. “Do you wish to speak to me?”
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