Patty Blossom. Wells Carolyn
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Patty Blossom
CHAPTER I
"Patty, Patty, pit-a-pat,
Grinning like a Chessy Cat,
if you don't stop looking so everlasting cheerful, I'll throw something at you!"
"Throw," returned Patty, as her grin perceptibly and purposely widened to the full extent of her scarlet lips.
"All right!" and Elise threw a sofa cushion and another and another, following them up with a knitted afghan, a silk slumber robe, and then beginning on a pile of newspapers.
Patty, who was lounging on a broad divan, protected her face with a down pillow, and contentedly endured the avalanche.
Then, as the enemy's stock of missiles gave out, she sat up, flinging the impedimenta right and left, and her smiling face and tumbled curls triumphantly braved further assault.
"It's snowing like the very dickens," Elise declared, disconsolately.
"I don't see any snow," and Patty shut her blue eyes tight.
"Of course you don't, you old goose! If a roaring Bengal tiger stood in front of you, with full intent of eating you at once, you'd shut your eyes and say, 'There isn't any tiger there.' That is, if you had time to get the words out before you slipped down his throat."
Leisurely, Patty got up, shook her rumpled skirts, and walked to the window.
"It does look like snow," she observed, critically eyeing the landscape.
"Look like snow!" cried Elise; "it's a blizzard, that's what it is!"
"Well, doesn't a blizzard look like snow? It does to me. And I don't know anything nicer than a whole long day in the house. I'm having the time of my life."
Patty threw herself into a big armchair, in front of the blazing log fire, and contentedly held out her slippered feet to the glowing warmth.
"But we were going to play tennis, and–"
"My dear child, tennis will keep. And what's the use of growling? As you remark, it is a young blizzard, and we can't possibly stop it, so let's make the best of it, and have what is known in the kiddy-books as Indoor Pastimes."
"Patty, you're enough to exasperate a saint! You and your eternal cheerfulness!"
"All right, anything to please," and Patty assumed a doleful expression, drew down the corners of her mouth, and wrung her hands in mock despair.
"Isn't it mean," she wailed; "here's this horrid, hateful old snowstorm, and we can't go outdoors or anything! I'm mad as a hornet, as a hatter, as a wet hen, as a March hare, as a—as hops, as—what else gets awful mad, Elise?"
"I shall, if you continue to act like an idiot!"
"My good heavens!" and Patty rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, "there's no pleasing her—positively no pleasing her! What to do! What to do!"
But Elise's face had cleared up, and as she looked from the window, she smiled gaily.
"He's coming!" she cried, "Sam's coming!"
Patty hastily adjusted her dignity and sat up with a formal air to greet the visitor, while Elise scrabbled up the sofa cushions and newspapers.
The girls were down at Lakewood. Patty was the guest of Elise, whose family had taken a cottage there for the season. That is, it was called a cottage, but was in reality an immense house, most comfortably and delightfully appointed. Patty was still supposed to be convalescing from her recent illness, but, as a matter of fact, she had regained her health and strength, and, though never robust, was entirely well.
The invitation to Pine Laurel, as the house was called, was a welcome one, and the elder Fairfields were glad to have Patty go there for a fortnight or so. She had arrived but the day before, and now the unexpected snowstorm had spoiled the plans for tennis and other outdoor affairs. Though it was late November, it was early for such a tempestuous snowstorm, and the weather-wise ones opined that it was a mere swift and sudden flurry.
Patty, with her usual adaptability to circumstances, didn't care much, and felt pretty sure the storm would depart as quickly as it had gathered. She was quite willing to stay indoors a day or two if need be, and could easily amuse herself in many ways. Not so Elise. She was impatient and impetuous, and was always greatly put out if her plans went awry. But the diversion of an unexpected guest roused her to animation and she poked the logs to a brighter blaze by way of welcome.
After the sound of stamping and whisking off snow in the hall, a young man came into the pleasant sun-parlour where the girls were.
It was with difficulty that Patty concealed her amazement as she looked at him. He was of a type that she had heard of, but had never before chanced to meet.
Mechanically, she went through the formalities of the introduction, and sat staring at him, without realising that she was doing so.
"Well," said Sam Blaney, at last, "what about it? Do I get a blue ribbon?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" and Patty blushed at her rudeness. "You see, you er—you reminded me of somebody I have met–"
"No, you mean I remind you of somebody you never have met, but are glad to discover at last."
Patty laughed outright, for the words so definitely expressed her state of mind. Thus encouraged, she continued to look at him.
Blaney was not so extraordinary of appearance, but he presented the effects of the class known as artistic. His thick, fair hair, while it could scarcely be called long, was a trifle longer than the conventional cut. His collar, while not Byronic, was low, and he wore a Windsor tie, of a sickly, pale green. He was a big man, but loose-jointed and ungainly of build. His manners were careless, and his voice was low and soft. He had big grey eyes, which seemed especially noticeable by reason of enormous tortoise-rimmed glasses, whose long, thick bows hooked over his ears.
"You are a poet," Patty said, decisively, after a smiling survey; "and you are right, I have always wanted to know a live poet."
"I hope," said Blaney, in a mournful way, "that you don't agree with those wiseacres who think the only good poet is a dead poet."
"Oh, goodness, no!" said Patty, quickly. "But most of the poetry with which I am familiar was written by dead men—that is, they weren't dead when they wrote it, you know–"
"But died from the shock?"
"Now you're making fun of me," and Patty pouted, but as Patty's pout was only a shade less charming than her smile, the live poet didn't seem to resent it.
"Doubtless," he went on, "my work will not be really famous until after I am dead, but some day I shall read them to you, and get your opinion as to their hopes for a future."
"Oh, do read them to Patty," exclaimed Elise; "read them now. That's the very thing for a stormy day!"
"Yes," Patty agreed; "if you have an Ode to Spring, or Lines on a Blooming Daffodil, it would be fine to fling them in the teeth of this storm."
"I see you're by way of being a wag, Miss Fairfield," Blaney returned, good-naturedly. "But you've misapprehended my vein. I write poems, not jingles."
"He does," averred Elise, earnestly. "Oh, Sam, do recite some—won't you?"
"Not now, Lady fair. The setting isn't right, and the flowers are too vivid."
Patty looked at the two large vases of scarlet carnations that stood on the long, massive table in the middle of the room. She had thought them a very pleasant and appropriate decoration for the snowy day, but Blaney's glance at them was disdainful.
"He's an affected idiot!" she exclaimed to herself. "I don't like him one bit!"
"Please like me," said the poet's soft voice, and Patty fairly jumped to realise that he had read her thought in her face.
"Oh, I do!" she said, with mock fervour, and a slight flush of embarrassment at her carelessness. "I like you heaps!"
"Don't be too set up over that," laughed