Seven Miles to Arden

by Ruth Sawyer

  VIII

  WHEN TWO WERE NOT COMPANY

  The laughter would have proved contagious to any except one inPatsy's humor; and, as laughing alone is sorry business, the man soonsobered and looked over at Patsy with the merriment lingering only inhis eyes.

  "By Willie Shakespeare, it's the duke's daughter in truth!"

  The words made little impression on her; it was the laugh and voicethat puzzled her; they were unmistakably the tinker's. But there wasnothing familiar about face, figure, or expression, although Patsystudied them hard to find some trace of the man she had beenjourneying with.

  With a final bewildered shake of the head her eyes met his coldly,mockingly. "My name is Patricia O'Connell"--her voice was crisp andtart; "it's the Irish for a short temper and a hot one. Now maybe youwill have the grace to favor me with yours."

  "Just the tinker," he complied, amiably, "and very much at yourservice." This was accompanied by a sweeping bow.

  Patsy had marked that bow on two previous occasions, and it testifiedundeniably to the man's identity. Yet Patsy's mind balked ataccepting it; it was too galling to her pride, too slanderous of herpast judgment and perceptibilities. A sudden rush of anger broughther to her feet, and, coming over to the opposite side of the hearth,she faced him, flushed, determined, and very dignified. It is to bedoubted if Patsy could have sustained the latter with any degree ofconviction if she could have seen herself. Straying strands of stilldamp hair curled bewitchingly about her face, bringing out theroundness of cheek and chin and the curious, guileless expression ofher eyes. Moreover, the coquettish gown she wore was entrancing; itwas a light blue, tunic affair with wide baby collar and cuffs, and aRoman girdle; and she had found stockings to match, with whitebuckskin pumps. It had been blind chance on her part--this making ofa toilet, but the effect was none the less adorable--and condemningto dignity.

  This was evidently appreciated by the tinker, for his face was an oddmixture of grotesque solemnity and keen enjoyment. Patsy wasaltogether too flustered to diagnose his expression, but it addedconsiderably to the temperature of the O'Connell temper. In view ofthe civilized surroundings and her state of dignity Patsy had takento King's English with barely a hint of her native brogue.

  "If you are the tinker--and I presume you are--I should very muchappreciate an explanation. Would you mind telling me how you happenedto be hanging onto that stump, in rags, and looking half-witted whenI--when I came by?"

  "Why--just because I was a tinker," he laughed.

  "Then what are you now?"

  "Once a tinker, always a tinker. I'm just a good-for-nothing; good tomend other people's broken pots, and little else; knowing more aboutbirds than human beings, and poor company for any one saving the verygenerous-hearted."

  Patsy stamped her foot. "Why can't you play fair? Isn't it onlydecent to tell who you are and what you were doing on the road when Ifound you?"

  "You know as well as I what I was doing--hanging onto the stump andtrying to gather my wits. And don't you think it would be nicer ifyou talked Irish? It doesn't make a lad feel half as comfortable oras much at home when he is addressed in such perfect English."

  Patsy snorted. "In a minute I'll not be addressing you at all. Do youthink, if I had known you were what you are, I would ever have beenso--so brazen as to ask for your company and tramp along with youfor--_two_ days--or be here, now? Oh!" she finished, with a groan anda fierce clenching of her fists.

  "No, I don't think so. That's why I didn't hurry about gathering upthe wits; it seemed more sociable without them. I wouldn't havebothered with them now, only I couldn't stay in those rags anylonger; it wouldn't have been kind to the furniture or the people whoown it. These togs were the only things that came anywhere near tofitting me; and, somehow, a three-days' beard didn't match them.Lucky for me, Heaven blessed the house with a good razor, and,presto! when the beard and the rags were gone the wits came back. I'mawfully sorry if you don't like them--the wits, I mean."

  "Sure, ye must be!" Unconsciously Patsy had stepped back onto hernative sod and her tongue fairly dripped with irony. "So ye thoughtye'd have a morsel o' fun at the expense of a strange lass, while yelaughed up your sleeve at how clever ye were."

  "See here! don't be too hard, please! That foolishness was realenough; I had just been knocked over the head by the kind gentlemanfrom whom I borrowed the rags. I paid him a tidy sum for the use ofthem, and evidently he thought it was a shame to leave me burdenedwith the balance of my money. Arguing wouldn't have done any good, sohe took the simplest way--just sandbagged me and--"

  "Was it much money?"

  "Mercy, no! Just a few dollars, hardly worth the anaesthesia."

  "And ye were--half-witted, then?"

  "Half? A bare sixteenth! It wasn't until afternoon--until we reachedthe church at the cross-roads--that I really came into fullpossession--" The sentence trailed off into an inexplicable grin.

  "And after that, 'twas I played the fool." Patsy's eyes kindled.

  The tinker grew serious; he dug his hands deep into his capaciouswhite flannels as if he were very much in earnest. "Can't youunderstand? If I hadn't played foolish you would never have let mewander with you--you just said so. I knew that, and I was selfish,lonely--and I didn't want to give you up. You can't blame me. When aman meets with genuine comradeship for the first time in hislife--the kind he has always wanted, but has grown to believe doesn'texist--he's bound to win a crumb of it for himself, it costs nomore than a trick of foolishness. Surely you understand?"

  "Oh, I understand! I'm understanding more and more every minute--'tisthe gift of your tongue, I'm thinking--and I'm wondering which of uswill be finding it the pleasantest." She flashed a look ofunutterable scorn upon him. "If ye were not half-witted, would yemind telling me how we came to be taking the wrong road at thechurch?"

  The tinker choked.

  "Aye, I thought so. Ye lied to me."

  "No, not exactly; you see--" he floundered helplessly.

  "Faith! don't send a lie to mend a lie; 'tis poor business, I canpromise ye."

  "Well,"--the tinker's tone grew dogged--"was it such a heinous sin,after all, to want to keep you with me a little longer?"

  The fire in Patsy's eyes leaped forth at last. "Sin, did yesay? Faith! 'tis the wrong name ye've given it entirely. 'Twasamusement, ye meant; the fun of trading on a girl's ignoranceand simple-heartedness; the trick of getting the good makings ofa tale to tell afterward to other fine gentlemen like yourself."

  "So you think--"

  "Aye, I think 'twas a joke with ye--from first to last. Maybe yemade a wager with some one--or ye were dared to take to the road inrags--or ye did it for copy; ye're not the first man who has done thelike for the sake of a new idea for a story. 'Twas a pity, though, yecouldn't have got what ye wanted without making a girl pay with herself-respect."

  The tinker winced, reaching out a deprecatory hand. "You are wrong;no one has paid such a price. There are some natures so clear andfine that chance and extremity can put them anywhere--in anycompany--without taking one whit from their fineness or leaving oneatom of smirch. Do you think I would have brought you here and riskedyour trust and censorship of my honor if you had not been--what youare? A decent man has as much self-respect as a decent woman, and thesame wish to keep it."

  But Patsy's comprehension was strangely deaf.

  "'Tis easy enough trimming up poor actions with grand words. There'dhave been no need of risking anything if ye had set me on the rightroad this morning; I would have been in Arden now, where I belong.But that wasn't your way. 'Twas a grand scheme ye had--whatever itmight be; and ye fetch me away afore the town is up and I can ask theroad of any one; and ye coax me across pastures and woods, a far cryfrom passing folk and reliable information; and ye hold me,loitering the day through, till ye have me forgetting entirely why Icame, along with the promise laid on me, and the other poorlad--Heaven help him!"

  "Oho!" The tinker whistled unconsciously.

  "Oho!" mimicked Patsy
; "and is there anything so wonderfully strangein a lass looking after a lad? Sure, I'm hating myself for notminding his need better; and, Holy Saint Michael, how I'm hating ye!"She ran out of the room and up the stairway.

  The tinker was after her in a twinkling. He reached the foot of thestairs before she was at the top. "Please--please wait a minute," hepleaded. "If there's another--lad, a lad you--love, that I have keptyou from--then I hate myself as much as you do. All I can say is thatI didn't think--didn't guess; and I'm no end sorry."

  Patsy leaned over the banisters and looked down at him through eyesunmistakably wet. "What does it matter to ye if he's the lad I loveor not? And can't a body do a kindness for a lad without loving him?"

  "Thank Heaven! she can. You have taught me that miracle--and I don'tbelieve the other lad will grudge me these few hours, even if you do.Who knows? My need may have been as great as his."

  Patsy frowned. "All ye needed was something soft to dull your witson; what he's needing is a father--and mother--and sweetheart--andsome good 1915 bonds of human trust."

  The tinker folded his arms over the newel-post and smiled. "And doyou expect to be able to supply them all?"

  "God forbid!" Patsy laughed in spite of herself.

  And the tinker, scoring a point, took courage and went on: "Don't yousuppose I realize that you have given me the finest gift a strangercan have--the gift of honest, unconditional friendship, asking noquestions, demanding no returns? It is a rare gift for any man--and Iwant to keep it as rare and beautiful as when it was given. So pleasedon't mar it for me--now. Please--!" His hands went out in earnestappeal.

  The anger was leaving Patsy's face; already the look of comradeshipwas coming back in her eyes; her lips were beginning to curve in theold, whimsical smile. And the tinker, seeing, doubled his courage."Now, won't you please forgive me and come down and get some supper?"

  She hesitated and, seeing that her decision was hanging in thebalance, he recklessly tried his hand at tipping the scales in hisfavor. "I'm no end of a good forager, and I've rooted out lots ofthings in tins and jars. You must be awfully hungry; remember, it'shours since our magical breakfast with the lady's-slippers."

  Patsy's fist banged the railing with a startling thud. "I'll neverbreak fast with ye again--never--never--never! Ye've blighted thegreenest memory I ever had!" And with that she was gone, slamming thedoor after her by way of dramatic emphasis.

  * * * * *

  It was a forlorn and dejected tinker that returned alone to the emptyhearthside. The bright cheer of the fire had gone; the room hadbecome a place of shadows and haunting memories. For a long time hestood, brutally kicking one of the fire-dogs and snapping his fingersat his feelings; and then, being a man and requiring food, he wentout into the pantry where he had been busily preparing to set forththe hospitality of the house when Patsy had wakened.

  But before he ate he found a tray and covered it with the best thepantry afforded. He mounted the stairs with it in rather a laggingfashion, being wholly at sea concerning the temperature of hisreception. His conscience finally compromised with his courage, andhe put the tray down outside Patsy's door.

  It was not until he was half-way down the stairs again that he calledout, bravely, "Oh--I say--Miss--O'Connell; you'd better change yourmind and eat something."

  He waited a good many minutes for an answer, but it came at last; thevoice sounded broken and wistful as a crying child's. "Thank--you!"and then, "Could ye be after telling me how far it is from here toArden?"

  "Let me see--about--seven miles;" and the tinker laughed; he couldnot help it.

  The next instant Patsy's door opened with a jerk and the tray wasprecipitated down the stairs upon him. It was the conclusive evidenceof the O'Connell temper.

  But the tinker never knew that Patsy wept herself remorsefully tosleep; and Patsy never knew that the last thing the tinker did thatnight was to cut a bedraggled brown coat and skirt and hat intostrips and burn them, bit by bit. It was not altogether a pleasantceremony--the smell of burning wool is not incense to one's nostrils;and the tinker heaved a deep sigh of relief as the last flare dieddown into a heap of black, smudgy embers.

  "That Green County sheriff will have a long way to go now if he'sstill looking for a girl in a brown suit," he chuckled.

  Sleep laid the O'Connell temper. When Patsy awoke her eyes were asserene as the patches of June sky framed by her windows, and she feltat peace with the world and all the tinkers in it.

  "'Twould be flattering the lad too much entirely to make up with himbefore breakfast; but I'll be letting him tramp the road to Ardenwith me, and we'll part there good friends. Troth, maybe he was a bitlonesome," she added by way of concession.

  She sprang out of bed with a glad little laugh; the day had a grandbeginning, spilling sunshine and bird-song into every corner of herroom, and to Patsy's optimistic soul a good beginning insured abetter ending. As she dressed she planned that ending to her ownliking and according to the most approved rules of dramaticconstruction: The tinker should turn out a wandering genius, for inher heart she could not believe the accusations she had hurledagainst him the night past; when they reached Arden they would comeupon the younger Burgeman, contemplating immediate suicide; thiswould give her her cue, and she would administer trust and a generalbracer with one hand as she removed the revolver with the other; ingratitude he would divulge the truth about the forgery--he did it tosave the honor of some lady--after which the tinker would sponsorhim, tramping him off on the road to take the taste of gold out ofhis mouth and teach him the real meaning of life.

  Patsy had no difficulty with her construction until she came to thefinal curtain; here she hesitated. She might trail off to find KingMidas and square Billy with him, or--the curtain might drop leavingher right center, wishing both lads "God-speed." Neither ending wasentirely satisfactory, however; the mental effect of the tinker goingoff with some one else--albeit it was another lad--was anything butsatisfying.

  The house was strangely quiet. Patsy stopped frequently in herplaymaking to listen for some sounds of human occupancy other thanher own, but there was none.

  "Poor lad! Maybe I killed him last night when I kicked the tea-thingsdown the stairs after him; or, most likely, the O'Connell temper hashim stiffened out with fear so he daren't move hand or foot."

  A moment later she came down the stairs humming, "Blow, blow, thouwinter wind," her eyes dancing riotously.

  Now, by all rights, dramatic or otherwise, the tinker should havebeen on hand, waiting her entrance. But tinker there was none;nothing but emptiness--and a breakfast-tray, spread and ready forher in the pantry.

  Curiosity, uneasiness mastered her pride and shecalled--once--twice--several times. But there came no answering soundsave the quickening of her own heart-beats under the pressure of herheld breath.

  She was alone in the house.

  A feeling of unutterable loneliness swept over Patsy. She came backto the stairs and stood with her hands clasping the newel-post--forall the world like a shipwrecked maiden clinging to the last spar ofthe ship. No, she did not believe a shipwrecked person could feelmore deserted--more left behind than she did; moreover, it was aneasier task to face the inevitable when it took the form of blind,impersonal disaster. When it was a matter of deliberate, intentionalhuman motives--it became well-nigh unbearable. Had the tinker gone tobe rid of her company and her temper? Had he decided that the roadwas a better place without her? Maybe he had taken the matter of theother lad too seriously--and, thinking them sweethearts, had countedhimself an undesired third, and betaken himself out of their ways.Or--maybe--he was fearsome of constables--and had hurried away tocover his trail and leave her safe.

  "Maybe a hundred things," moaned Patsy, disconsolately; "maybe 'tisall a dream and there's no road and no quest and no Rich Man's sonand no tinker, and no anything. Maybe--I'll be waking up in anotherminute and finding myself back in the hospital with the deliriumstill on me."

  She closed her
eyes, rubbed them hard with two mandatory fists, thenopened them to test the truth of her last remark; and it happenedthat the first object they fell on was a photograph in a carvedwooden frame on the mantel-shelf in the room across the hall. It wasplainly visible from where Patsy stood by the stairs--it was alsoplainly familiar. With a run Patsy was over there in an instant, thephotograph in her hands.

  "Holy Saint Patrick, 'tis witchcraft!" she cried under her breath."How in the name of devils--or saints--did he ever get this taken,developed, printed, and framed--between the middle of last night andthe beginning of this morning!"

  For Patsy was looking down at a picture of the tinker, in whiteflannels, with head thrown back and laughing.