by Ruth Sawyer
IX
PATSY ACQUIRES SOME INFORMATION
With the realization that the tinker was gone, the empty housesuddenly became oppressive. Patsy put down the photograph with aquick little sigh, and hunted up the breakfast-tray he had leftspread and ready for her, carrying it out to the back porch. There inthe open and the sunshine she ate, according to her own tabulation,three meals--a left-over supper, a breakfast, and the lunch which shewas more than likely to miss later, She was in the midst of the lunchwhen an idea scuttled out of her inner consciousness and pulled ather immediate attention. She rose hurriedly and went inside. Roomafter room she searched, closet after closet.
In one she came upon a suit of familiar white flannels; and shepassed them slowly--so slowly that her hands brushed them with afriendly little greeting. But the search was a barren one, and shereturned to the porch as empty-handed and as mystified as she hadleft it; the heap of ashes on the hearth held no meaning for her, andconsequently told no tales.
"'Tis plain enough what's happened," she said, soberly, to thesparrows who were skirmishing for crumbs. "Just as I said, he wasfearsome of those constables, after all, and he's escaped in myclothes!"
The picture of the tinker's bulk trying to disguise itself behindanything so scanty as her shrunken garments proved too irresistiblefor her sense of humor; she burst into peal after peal of laughterwhich left her weak and wet-eyed and dispelled her loneliness likefog before a clearing wind.
"Anyhow, if he hasn't worn them he's fetched them away as a weesouvenir of an O'Connell; and if I'm to reach Arden in any degree ofdecency 'twill have to be in stolen clothes."
But she did not go in the blue frock; the realization came to herpromptly that that was no attire for the road and an unprotectedstate; she must go with dull plumage and no beguiling feathers. Soshe searched again, and came upon a blue-and-white "middy" suit and adark-blue "Norfolk." The exchange brought forth the veriest wisp of asigh, for a woman's a woman, on the road or off it; and what one hasnot a marked preference for the more becoming frock?
Patsy proved herself a most lawful housebreaker. She tidied up andput away everything; and the shutter having already been replacedover the broken window by the runaway tinker, she turned the knob ofthe Yale lock on the front door and put one foot over the threshold.It was back again in an instant, however; and this time it was nolawful Patsy that flew back through the hall to the mantel-shelf.With the deftness and celerity of a true housebreaker she de-framedthe tinker and stuffed the photograph in the pocket of her stolenNorfolk.
"Sure, he promised his company to Arden," she said, by way ofstilling her conscience. Then she crossed the threshold again; andthis time she closed the door behind her.
The sun was inconsiderately overhead. There was nothing to indicatewhere it had risen or whither it intended to set; therefore there wasno way of Patsy's telling from what direction she had come or whereArden was most likely to be found. She shook her fist at the sunwrathfully. "I'll be bound you're in league with the tinker; 'tis alla conspiracy to keep me from ever making Arden, or else to keep mejust seven miles from it. That's a grand number--seven."
A glint of white on the grass caught her eye; she stooped and foundit to be a diminutive quill feather dropped by some passing pigeon.It lay across her palm for a second, and then--the whim takingher--she shot it exultantly into the air. Where it fell she markedthe way it pointed, and that was the road she took.
It was beginning to seem years ago since she had sat in MarjorieSchuyler's den listening to Billy Burgeman's confession of a crimefor which he had not sounded in the least responsible. That was onTuesday. It was now Friday--three days--seventy-two hours later. Shepreferred to think of it in terms of hours--it measured the timeproportionally nearer to the actual feeling of it. Strangely enough,it seemed half a lifetime instead of half a week, and Patsy could notfathom the why of it. But what puzzled her more was the presentcondition of Billy Burgeman, himself. As far as she was concerned hehad suddenly ceased to exist, and she was pursuing a Balmacaan coatand plush hat that were quite tenantless; or--at most--they weresupported by the very haziest suggestion of a personality. The hardershe struggled to make a flesh-and-blood man therefrom the morepersistently did it elude her--slipping through her mental grasp likeso much quicksilver. She tried her best to picture him doingsomething, feeling something--the simplest human emotion--and theresult was an absolute blank.
And all the while the shadow of a very real man followed her down theroad--a shadow in grotesquely flapping rags, with head flung back. Adozen times she caught herself listening for the tramp of his feetbeside hers, and flushed hotly at the nagging consciousness thatpointed out each time only the mocking echo of her own tread. Likethe left-behind cottage, the road became unexpectedly lonely anddiscouraging.
"The devil take them both!" she sputtered at last. "When one manrefuses to be real at all, and the other pesters ye with being tooreal--'tis time to quit their company and let them fetch up where andhow they like."
But an O'Connell is never a quitter; and deep down in Patsy's heartwas the determination to see the end of the road for all three ofthem--if fate only granted the chance.
She came to a cross-roads at length. She had spied it from afar andhailed it as the end of her troubles; now she would learn the rightway to Arden. But Patsy reckoned without chance--or some one else.The sign-boards had all been ripped from their respective places on acentral post and lay propped up against its base. There was littleinformation in them for Patsy as she read: "Petersham, five miles;Lebanon, twelve miles; Arden, seven miles--"
The last sign went spinning across the road, and Patsy dropped on anear-by stone with the anguish of a great tragedian. "Sevenmiles--seven miles! I'm as near to it and I know as much about it aswhen I started three days ago. Sure, I feel like a mule, just, on atreadmill, with Billy Burgeman in the hopper."
A feeling of utter helplessness took possession of her; it was as ifher experiences, her actions, her very words and emotions, werecontrolled by an unseen power. Impulse might have precipitated herinto the adventure, but since her feet had trod the first stretch ofthe road to Arden chance had sat somewhere, chuckling at his owncomedy--making, while he pulled her hither and yon, like a marionetteon a wire. Verily chance was still chuckling at the incongruity ofhis stage setting: A girl pursuing a strange man, and a strangesheriff pursuing the girl, and neither having an inkling of thepursuit or the reason for it.
On one thing her mind clinched fast, however: she would at least sitwhere she was until some one came by who could put her right, onceand for all; rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief--she would stopwhoever came first.
The arpeggio of an automobile horn brought her to her feet; the nextmoment the machine careened into sight and Patsy flagged it from themiddle of the road, the lines of her face set in grim determination.
"Would you kindly tell me--" she was beginning when a girl in thetonneau cut her short:
"Why, it's Patsy O'Connell! How in the name of your blessed SaintPatrick did you ever get so far from home?"
The car was full of young people, but the girl who had spoken was theonly one who looked at all familiar. Patsy's mind groped out of thepresent into the past; it was all a blind alley, however, and lednowhere.
The girl, seeing her bewilderment, helped her out. "Don't youremember, I was with Marjorie Schuyler in Dublin when you were all sojolly kind to us? I'm Janet Payne--those awful 'SpitsburgerPaynes'"--and the girl's laugh rang out contagiously.
The laugh swept Patsy's mind out into the open. She reached out andgripped the girl's hand. "Sure, I remember. But it's a long way fromDublin, and my memory is slower at hearkening back than my heart. Abrave day to all of you." And her smile greeted the carfulindiscriminately.
"Oh!"--the girl was apologetic--"how beastly rude I am! I'mforgetting that you don't know everybody as well as everybody knowsyou. Jean Lewis, Mrs. Dempsy Carter, Dempsy Carter, Gregory Jessup,and Jay Clinton--Miss Patricia O'Connell, of the Irish
NationalPlayers. We are all very much at your service--including the car,which is not mine, but the Dempsy Carters'."
"Shall we kidnap Miss O'Connell?" suggested the owner. "She appearsan easy victim."
Janet Payne clapped her hands, but Patsy shook a decided negative."That's the genius of the Irish," she laughed; "they look easy tillyou hold them up. I'm bound for Arden, and must make it by thequickest road if you'll point it out to me."
"Why, of course--Arden; that accounts for you perfectly. Stupid thatI didn't think of it at once. What part are you playing?" Janet Payneaccompanied the question with unmistakable eagerness.
Patsy shot a shrewd glance at the girl. Was she indulging ingood-natured banter, or had she learned through Marjorie Schuyler ofPatsy's self-imposed quest, and was seeking information in figurativespeech? Patsy decided in favor of the former and answered it in kind:"Faith! I'm not sure whether I've been cast for the duke'sdaughter--or the fool. I can tell ye better after I reach Arden." Andshe turned abruptly as if she would be gone.
But the girl held her back. "No, you don't. We are not going to loseyou like that. We'll kidnap you, as Dempsy suggested, till afterlunch; then we'll motor you back to Arden. You'll get there justabout as soon."
Patsy had not the slightest intention of yielding; her mind and herfeet were braced against any divergence from the straight road now;but the man Janet Payne had called Gregory Jessup said something thatscattered her resolutions like so much chaff.
"You've simply got to come, Miss O'Connell." And he leaned over theside of the car in boyish enthusiasm. "Last summer Billy Burgemanused to read to me the parts of Marjorie's letters that told aboutyou, and they were great! We were making up our minds to go toIreland and see if you were real when your company came to America.After that Marjorie would never introduce us after the plays, just tobe contrary. You wouldn't have the heart to grudge us a littleacquaintanceship now, would you?"
"Billy Burgeman," repeated Patsy. "Do you know him?"
Dempsy Carter interposed. "They're chums, Miss O'Connell. I'll wagerthere isn't a soul on earth that knows Billy as well as Greg does."
"That's hard on Marjorie, isn't it?" asked Janet Payne.
"Oh, hang Marjorie!" The sincerity of Gregory Jessup's emotionsomewhat excused his outburst.
"Why, I thought they were betrothed!" Patsy looked innocent.
"They were. What they are now--Heaven only knows! Marjorie Schuylerhas gone to China, and Billy has dropped off the face of the earth."
A sudden silence fell on the cross-roads. It was Patsy who broke itat last. "Well?" A composite, interrogative stare came from thecarful. Patsy laughed bewitchingly. "For a crowd of rascallykidnappers, you are the slowest I ever saw. Troth, in Ireland they'dhave it done in half the time."
The next instant Patsy was lifted bodily inside, and, amid a generalburst of merriment, the car swung down the road.
* * * * *
It was a picnic lunch--an elaborate affair put up in a hamper, afireless cooker, and a thermos basket; and it was spread on a tiny,fir-covered peninsula jutting out into a diminutive lake. It was anenchanting spot and a delicious lunch, with good company to boot;but, to her annoyance, Patsy found herself continually comparing itunfavorably with a certain vagabond breakfast garnished with yellowlady's-slippers, musicianed by throstles, and served by a tinker.
"Something is on your mind, or do you find our American manners andfood too hard to digest comfortably?" Gregory Jessup had curled upunceremoniously at her feet, balancing a caviar sandwich, a Camembertcheese, and a bottle of ale with extraordinary dexterity.
"I was thinking about--Billy Burgeman."
He cast a furtive look toward the others beyond them. They seemedengrossed for the moment in some hectic discussion over fashions, andhe dropped his voice to a confidential pitch: "I can't talk Billywith the others; I'm too much cut up over the whole thing to standhearing them hold an autopsy over Billy's character and motives." Hestopped abruptly and scanned Patsy's face. "I believe a chap couldturn his mind inside out with you, though, and you'd keep thecontents as faithfully as a safe-deposit vault."
Patsy smiled appreciatively. "Faith! you make me feel like SaintMartin's chest that Satan himself couldn't be opening."
"What did he have in it?"
"Some good Christian souls."
"Contents don't tally--mine are some very un-Christian thoughts." Heabandoned the sandwich and cheese, and settled himself to the moreserious business of balancing his remarks. "Billy and I work for thesame engineering firm; he walked out for lunch Tuesday and no one hasseen him since--unless it's Marjorie Schuyler. Couldn't get anythingout of the old man when I first went to see him, and now he's too illto see any one. Marjorie said she really didn't know where he was,and quit town the next day. Now maybe they don't either of them knowwhat's happened any more than I do; but I think it's infernally queerfor a man to disappear and say nothing to his father, the girl he'sengaged to, or his best friend. Don't you?"
Patsy's past training stood stanchly by her. She played the part ofthe politely interested listener--nothing more--and merely nodded herhead.
"You see," the man went on, "Billy has a confoundedly queer sense ofhonor; he can stretch it at times to cover nearly everybody'scalamities and the fool shortcomings of all his acquaintances. Why,it wasn't a month ago a crowd of us from the works were lunchingtogether, and the talk came around to speculating. Billy's hardagainst it on principle, but he happened to say that if he was goingin for it at all he'd take cotton. What was in Billy's mind was notthe money in it, but the chance to give the South a boost. Well, oneof the fellows took it as a straight tip to get rich from the oldman's son and put in all he had saved up to be married on; lost itand squealed. And Billy--the big chump--claimed he was responsiblefor it--that, being the son of his father, he ought to know enough tohold his tongue on some subjects. He made it good to the fellow. Ihappen to know, for it took every cent of his own money and his nextmonth's salary into the bargain--and that he borrowed from me."
"Wouldn't his father have helped him out?"
Gregory Jessup gave a bitter little laugh. "You don't know the oldman or you wouldn't ask. He is just about as soft-hearted and humanas a Labrador winter. I've known Billy since we were both littleshavers--and, talk about the curse of poverty! It's a saintlybenediction compared to a fortune like that and life with the man whomade it."
"And--himself, Billy--what does he think of money?"
"I'll tell you what he said once. He had dropped in late after a bigdinner where he had been introduced to some one as the fellow who wasgoing to inherit sixty millions some day. Phew! but he was sore! Hewalked miles--in ten-foot laps--about my den, while he cursed hisfather's money from Baffin Bay to Cape Horn. 'I tell you, Greg,' hefinished up with, 'I want enough to keep the cramps out of life,that's all; enough to help the next fellow who's down on his luck;enough to give the woman I marry a home and not a residence to livein, and to provide the father of my kiddies with enough leisure forthem to know what real fatherhood means. I bet you I can make enoughmyself to cover every one of those necessities; as for the millions,I'd like to chuck them for quoits off the Battery.'"
For a moment Patsy's eyes danced; but the next, something tumbled outof her memory and quieted them. "Then why in the name of SaintAnthony did he choose to marry Marjorie Schuyler?"
"That does seem funny, I know, but that's a totally different side ofBilly. You see, all his life he's been falling in with people whomade up to him just for his money, and his father had a confoundedway of reminding him that he was bound to be plucked unless he kepthis wits sharp and distrusted every one. It made Billy sick, and yetit had its effect. He's always been mighty shy with girls--reckon hisfather brought him up on tales of rich chaps and modern Circes.Anyway, when he met Marjorie Schuyler it was different--she had toomuch money of her own to make his any particular attraction, and hefinally gave in that she liked him just for himself. That was a proudday for hi
m, poor old Bill!"
"And did she--could she really love him?" Patsy asked the question ofherself rather than the man beside her.
But he answered it promptly: "I don't believe Marjorie Schuyler hasanything to love with; it was overlooked when she was made. That'swhat's worrying me. If he's got into a scrape he'd tell Marjorie thefirst thing; and she's not the understanding, forgiving kind. Hehasn't any money; he wouldn't go to his father; and because he'sborrowed from me once, he's that idiotic he wouldn't do it again. IfMarjorie has given him his papers he's in a jolly blue funk andperfectly capable of going off where he'll never be heard of again.Hang it all! I don't see why he couldn't have come to me?"
Patsy said nothing while he replenished her plate and helped himselfto another sandwich. At last she asked, casually, "Did the two of youever have a disagreement over Marjorie Schuyler?"
"He asked me once just what I thought of her, and I told him. Wenever discussed her again."
"No?" Inwardly Patsy was tabulating why Billy Burgeman had not goneto his friend when Marjorie Schuyler failed him. He would hardly havecared to criticize the shortcomings of the girl he loved with the manwho had already discovered them.
"What are you two jabbering about?" Janet Payne had left her groupand the hectic argument over fashions.
"Sure, we're threshing out whether it's the Irish or the suffragetteswill rule England when the war is over."
"Well, which is it?"
"Faith! the answer's so simple I'm ashamed to give it. The women willrule England--that's an easy matter; but the Irish will rule thewomen."
"Then you are one of the old-fashioned kind who approves of a lordand master?" Gregory Jessup looked up at her quizzically.
"'Tis the new fashion you're meaning; having gone out so long since,'tis barely coming in yet. I'd not give a farthing for the man whocouldn't lead me; only, God help him! if he ever leaves his hands offthe halter."
The laugh that followed gave Patsy time to think. There was one morequestion she must be asking before the others joined them and theconversation became general. She turned to Janet Payne with a littleair of anxious inquiry.
"Maybe you'd ask the rascally villain who kidnapped me, when he hasit in his mind to keep his promise and fetch me to Arden?"
As the girl left them Patsy turned toward Gregory Jessup again andasked, softly: "Supposing Billy Burgeman has fallen among strangers?If they saw he was in need of friendliness, would it be so hard to dohim a kindness?"
The man shook his head. "The hardest thing in the world. BillyBurgeman has been proud and lonely all his life, and it's an infernalcombination. You may know he's out and out aching for a bit ofsympathy, but you never offer it; you don't dare. We could never gethim to own up as a little shaver how neglected and lonely he was andhow he hated to stay in that horrible, gloomy Fifth Avenue house. Itwasn't until he had grown up that he told me he used to come and playas often as they would let him--just because mother used to kiss himgood-by as she did her own boys."
Gregory Jessup looked beyond the firs to the little lake, and therewas that in his face which showed that he was wrestling with atreasured memory. When he spoke again his voice sounded as if he hadhad to grip it hard against a sign of possible emotion.
"You know Billy's father never gave him an allowance; he didn'tbelieve in it--wouldn't trust Billy with a cent. Poor littleshaver--never had anything to treat with at school, the way the restof the boys did; and never even had car-fare--always walked, rain orshine, unless his father took him along with him in the machine.Billy used to say even in those days he liked walking better. Motherdied in the winter--snowy time--when Billy was about twelve; and heborrowed a shovel from a corner grocer and cleared stoops allafternoon until he'd made enough to buy two white roses. Fatherhadn't broken down all day--wouldn't let us children show a tear; butwhen Billy came in with those roses--well, it was the children whofinally had to cheer father up."
Patsy sprang to her feet with a little cry. "I must be going." Sheturned to the others, a ring of appeal in her voice. "Can't we hurrya bit? There's a deal of work at Arden to be done, and no one butmyself to be doing it."
"Rehearsals?" asked Janet Payne.
And Patsy, unheeding, nodded her head.
There was a babel of nonsense in the returning car. Patsy contributedher share the while her mind was busy building over again into aBalmacaan coat and plush hat the semblance of a man.
"Sure, I'm not saying I can make out his looks or the color of hiseyes and hair, but he's real, for all that. Holy Saint Patrick, buthe's a real man at last, and I'm liking him!" She smiled with deepcontentment.