"Antiques?"
"Yes, of the proper sort. Old Willow china and Sheffield plate. Copper lustre tea-sets and homespun bedspreads. And samplers! Oh, Azalea, I've three or four stunning samplers! One is dated 1812. That ought to bring a fine price."
"I don't know about samplers. Of course, I know what they are,—but what makes them valuable?"
"Age, my dear. And authoritative dates. People make collections of old samplers, and those who collect will spend 'most anything for a good specimen."
"I've one that my grandmother made,—at least, I can get it. Would you like it?"
"Would I? Indeed I would! But you ought to keep that, Azalea. My, what a generous girl you are! You'd give away your head, if it weren't fastened on! No, dear child, keep your grandmother's sampler yourself. Is it a good one?"
"I don't know what a 'good' one is. It has flowers on it, and little people,—queer ones,—and a long verse of poetry and an alphabet of letters."
"And the date?"
"Yes; 1836, I think it is."
"That's fairly old. Not a collection piece,—but a good date. Is it in good condition,—or worn?"
"Good as new. I don't want it, Elise,—that is, I'd like to give it to you. You've been awful good to me."
"All right, Zaly, send for it, and we'll take a look at it, anyway."
CHAPTER XI
THE SAMPLER
Vanity Fair was all that its name implied. By good fortune, the weather was perfect,—ideally pleasant and sunshiny, yet not too warm. Wistaria Porch was transformed into a veritable Fairyland, and it was a bewildering vision of flowers, flags and frivolity by day, and a blaze of illuminated gaiety by night.
It was to last but two days, for, Patty said, they might hope for fair weather for that long but hardly for three days.
It was to open at noon, and all the morning everybody was running about, doing last minute errands or attending to belated decorations.
Azalea had the Indian booth. It was a wigwam, in effect, but it was so bedecked and ornamented that it is doubtful if a real Indian would have recognised it as one. However, it was filled with real Indian wares, and the beautiful baskets and pottery were sure to prove best sellers. Azalea received a large consignment from some place she had sent to in Arizona, and other people had donated appropriate gifts, until the little tent was overflowing.
Azalea herself, the attendant on the booth, was in the garb of an Indian princess, a friend of Patty's having lent the costume for the occasion. It was becoming to the girl, and she looked really handsome in the picturesque trappings, and elaborate head-dress.
Just before time for the Fair to be opened, Azalea went over to Elise's booth. As she had planned, Elise had a log cabin, and in it she had arranged a motley collection of antiques and heirlooms that were quaint and valuable. It was the design of the Fair to sell really worthwhile things at their full value; and as they expected many wealthy patrons, the committees felt pretty sure of a grand success.
"Elise," said Azalea, as she appeared at the door of the cabin, "here's my contribution to your department. I haven't had a chance to give it to you before." She handed out a parcel, which Elise opened eagerly.
It proved to be a sampler,—old, but in fine condition. It was an elaborate one, with many rows of letters, some lines of verse, and several little pictured shapes. There was a beautiful border, and the signature was Isabel Cutler, 1636!
"Oh!" exclaimed Elise, "what a gem! Where did you get it? Why, Azalea, this is a museum piece! 1636! It's worth hundreds of dollars!"
"Oh, no," said Azalea, "it can't be worth all that! But I thought you'd like an old one."
"But I don't understand! Where did you get it?"
"It was my grandmother's."
"But your grandmother didn't live in 1636!"
"N—n—no,—I s'pose not. Well,—you see, she had it from her grandmother and great-grandmother,—clear back,—you know."
"I see," said Elise, scrutinising the sampler. "It's a marvel, Azalea.
You mustn't sell it at this Fair. It ought to go to a museum. 1636!
That's one of the earliest sampler dates! I can't see how it's lain
unknown all these years. Who had it before you did?"
"Mother."
"Oh, yes,—of course. Well, I'm not going to take it from you—"
"Yes, you are, Elise. I want to give it to you. I've wanted all along to give you something nice,—you've been so good to me—"
"Rubbish! don't talk like that, Zaly! If you want to make Patty a present, now,—give it to her. That would be a worth-while return for her kindness to you."
"Oh, I don't think so much of the old thing as you do. I don't even think it's pretty."
"It isn't a question of prettiness, or even of a well worked piece. It's the date. And this is genuine,—I can see that. But I can't understand it! Why,—I think this border wasn't used until—I must look it up in my book. That's home in New York. But, there's one thing sure and certain! This doesn't get put in with my bunch of wares! Mr. Greatorex may come this afternoon. He's an expert on these things. He'll know just what it's worth."
"Oh, Elise," Azalea looked troubled, "don't take it so seriously. It's just an old thing. You've others here that are far handsomer."
"As I told you, Zaly, it's the age that counts,—not the beauty. Run along to your own booth. I'll lay this aside until I can find out about it. But if it's as valuable as I think it is, you mustn't give it to Vanity Fair,—or to anybody. 1636! My!"
Azalea looked a little crestfallen. Instead of being glad at the unexpected value ascribed to her gift, she seemed decidedly put out about it. She strolled round by Patty's booth. That enterprising young matron had caused to be built for her use a little child's playhouse. It was just large enough for half a dozen children, and would perhaps hold nearly as many grown people. But it had a good-sized verandah and on this were tables piled with the loveliest fairy-like gossamer garments and comforts for tiny mites of humanity. Such exquisite blankets and afghans and tufted silk coverlets and such dainty frocks and caps and little coats and everything an infant could possibly use, from baskets to bibs and from pillows to porringers.
And dolls,—soft, cotton or woolly dolls for little babies to play with, and soft, cuddly bears and lambs. Rattles, of course, and bath-tub toys, and all sorts of infants' novelties.
Patty, happy as a butterfly, hovered over her treasures. She wore the immaculate white linen garb of a nurse, and very sweet and fair she looked. Later, Fleurette was to grace the booth and attract all observers by her marvellous baby charm.
At high noon the bazaar was opened with a flourish of trumpets and a fanfaronade by the band. Farnsworth had given the services of a first class band as his donation, and the musicians made good.
The scene was one of varied attractions. The place itself was lovely with its wealth of flower gardens and shrubbery and the unique and elaborate booths here and there among the trees made a striking picture.
Betty was queen of the soda fountain. A really, truly soda fountain had been procured, and it was attended by white uniformed servitors who were trained to the work, but Betty was the presiding genius and invited her customers to sample her beverages, with free advice as to which flavours and combinations she thought the best.
Raymond Gale was a general supervisor of several of the enterprises.
He had in charge the moving-picture men who had expressed a desire to get some scenes of the gay throngs and were willing to pay well for the privilege.
"You like the 'movies,'" he called out to Azalea, "come over here and get into the game."
"Can't," she called back. "I have to be on duty at my wigwam."
"Oh, come along; the wigwam won't run away. At least promenade up and down once with me."
So Azalea came, laughingly, and the two walked grandiloquently into the focus of the camera.
"And there is a man making phonograph records," young Gale went on. "Come over there, Zaly, and we'll have a joust of words, and record it on the sands of time!"
"What do you mean?" asked Azalea, interestedly, for she had no knowledge of some of the performances going on.
She went with Raymond and found a crowd waiting at the booth where the phonograph man was doing business. His plan was to make a record for any customer who cared to sing, recite or soliloquise for him. Mothers gladly brought their infant prodigies to "speak pieces" and went away proudly carrying the records that could be played in their homes for years to come. Aspiring young singers made records of their favourite songs. One young girl played the violin for a record.
Taking their turn, Raymond and Azalea had what he called an impromptu scrap. A few words of instruction were enough for Azalea's dramatic instinct to grasp his meaning, and they had a lively tiff followed by a sentimental "making-up" that was good enough for a vaudeville performance, and which Azalea knew would greatly amuse Patty and Bill when they should hear the record.
"Oh, what fun!" Azalea cried, "I never heard of such a thing. I want to make a lot of records. I'm going to make one of Baby!"
She ran into the house and up to the nursery where Winnie was just giving the child her dinner. "Goody!" cried Azalea, "now she'll be good-natured! Let me take her, Winnie."
Not entirely with Winnie's sanction, but in spite of her half-expressed disapproval, Azalea took the laughing child and ran back to the phonograph booth.
"Let me go in ahead of you people, won't you, please?" she begged, and the waiting line fell back to accommodate her.
But alas for her hopes. She wanted the baby to coo and gurgle in the delightful little way that Fleurette had in her happiest moments.
Instead, frightened by the strangeness of the scene and the noise and laughter of the people all about, Fleurette set up a wail of woe which developed rapidly into a storm of screams and sobs,—indeed, it was a first-class crying spell,—a thing which the good-natured child rarely indulged in.
Not willing to wait for a better-tempered moment, the man took the record and poor little Fleurette was immortalised by a squall instead of a sunny burst of laughter.
But there was no help for it, and Azalea, greatly chagrined, took the baby back to Nurse.
"Here's your naughty little kiddy," she cried ruefully, handing
Fleurette over, but giving the child a loving caress, even as she spoke.
"Thank you, Miss Thorpe, I'm glad to get her back so soon."
And then Azalea ran away to her Indian booth, where she found her assistant doing a rushing business with the Indian wares.
Indeed, everybody seemed anxious to buy the baubles of Vanity Fair. The cause was a worthy one, the patrons were wealthy and generous, and the vendors were charming and wheedlesome.
So the coin fairly flowed into their coffers and as the afternoon wore on they began to fear they wouldn't have enough goods to sell the second day.
Azalea was a favourite among the young people. She looked a picture in her Indian dress and she was in rare good humour. She tried, too, to be gracious and gentle, and committed no gaucheries and made no ignorant errors.
"You've simply made that girl over," Elise said to Patty, as the two spoke of Azalea's growing popularity.
Patty sighed. "I don't know," she said, thoughtfully. "There's something queer about Azalea. Little Billee has said so from the first, and now I begin to see it, too."
"She is queer," assented Elise, "but she's so much nicer than she was at first. Ray Gale is very devoted to her."
"I know it. I like Ray, too, but sometimes,—think,—he knows something about her that he won't tell us."
"For mercy's sake,—what do you mean? knows something about your own cousin that you don't know!"
"Oh, Zaly isn't our own cousin, you know. But—well, never mind now,
Elise. This isn't a good time to talk confidentially."
Crowds of people were constantly arriving, and among them were many of
Patty's old friends. Many, too, of her newer acquaintances, who lived in
Arden and also in the nearby towns.
Patty was charming and delightful to everybody, remembering that she was in a way hostess as well as a sales-lady.
Fleurette graced her mother's booth with her presence, later in the afternoon, and quite redeemed her reputation for good nature, by smiling impartially on everybody, and gurgling a welcome to all who looked at her.
The little garments and toys of Patty's booth were soon sold out, for they were choice bits of needlework and found ready buyers.
And then one enthusiastic young father wanted to buy the playhouse itself, in which Patty had displayed her wares.
"But I meant to keep this for my own baby!" she cried.
"Oh, you can build another by the time that little mite needs one," the young man replied. "And my youngster is four years old,—just ready to inhabit a ready made home of this kind,"
So the pretty little house was sold, and plans were made to remove it to the purchaser's estate.
So it went. Azalea had many offers for her wigwam, if she would sell it after the fair. She agreed to let it go to the highest bidder, and finally received a fine price.
Archery was one of the pretty diversions, and at this Azalea excelled. To the surprise of all, she proved exceedingly skilful with the bow and arrow and easily won the prize offered. But she magnanimously refused to accept it, and returned it to be competed for over again.
Mr. Greatorex, the expert connoisseur in the matter of antiques, arrived at Elise's log cabin and expressed delight in its construction and furnishing.
The cabin was not for sale, Elise laughingly informed him, as Mr. Farnsworth intended to keep it a permanent fixture on his own grounds. Also, Elise went on, very few things of value were left on her tables,—but she still had one piece on which she wished to ask his opinion.
From a drawer she brought out the sampler that Azalea had given her and passed it over to Mr. Greatorex, without comment.
He looked at it, at first casually and then more closely.
His face expressed mystification, and suddenly he examined the date minutely and then smiled.
"Very clever, my dear,—very cleverly done, indeed. Did you do it?"
"Oh, no; it is the property of a friend of mine,—it was done by an ancestor of hers. You see it's signed and dated."
"I see! Oh, yes, I see! But you mustn't try to impose on me,—my eyesight is not yet entirely gone!"
"What do you mean, Mr. Greatorex?" Elise was puzzled. "I'm not trying to impose on you!"
"I hope not, my girl, for I wouldn't want to believe such a thing of you. But you have been imposed upon."
"How?"
"This sampler was worked in 1836, not 1636."
"How do you know?"
"Very easily. Here, you can see for yourself. You see how the figures are made,—ordinary cross stitch. Well, as you know, an eight is worked almost exactly the same as a six, except that it has two more stitches on the upper right-hand side. If those two stitches are picked out of an eight, it turns into a six! Now, I'm sure your young eyes can see that two stitches have been picked out in this instance. See the slight mark where the canvas is the least bit drawn? And see, on the back a fresh stitch was necessary to keep the ends from ravelling. It would pass to a careless observer, but to one accustomed to these things the fraud is plainly evident."
"Oh, Mr. Greatorex," and Elise looked sorrowful, "I don't care so much about the sampler being less valuable than I thought, as I do about having to think the friend who gave it to me would cheat me!"
"Perhaps she didn't. Perhaps somebody cheated her."
"No; she told me her mother gave her this, and that she had had it from her mother and grandmother—and so forth."
"Then I fear your friend knew of the fraud,—though perhaps her mother gave it to her as it is now."
"Can you judge if the stitches were picked out recently?"
"I should say very recently. The canvas is faded, of course, but, as you see, the threads beneath where the missing stitches were is quite a shade lighter. Had the picking been done years ago, the canvas would have assumed a uniform tinge,—or nearly so."
"Of course it would,—I can see that for myself. Oh, dear!—Well, Mr.
Greatorex, don't say anything about this, will you?"
"Certainly not. But that's a good sampler, as it stands,—I mean as a specimen of 1836 work."
"Yes, I know it is. And yet, oughtn't the stitches to be put back?"
"Probably not,—for they could not be matched exactly—"
"But if it remains like this, everybody will think it two hundred years older than it really is."
Mr. Greatorex smiled. "Scarcely," he said. "You see, my dear, the earliest known dated sampler is one of 1643 which is in the Victoria and Albert Museum, in England. There are but six or seven known in that century at all. It would be remarkable, therefore, to find a work of art that would antedate all collections, and yet show the patterns and style of work common less than a hundred years ago!"
"Oh, I understand,—I've read up on the matter somewhat,—but I'm so sorry—oh, I am so sorry!"
Elise looked woe-begone indeed, for she realised that Azalea had, in all probability committed the fraud herself, and with a deliberate intention of deceiving her.
Azalea's own ignorance of the whole matter was so great, that it was not surprising that she thought the mere alteration of the date would make the sampler of greater value. But what broke Elise's heart was the knowledge of Azalea's wilful deception.
She thanked Mr. Greatorex for his explanations and, again asking him not to mention the matter to any one at all, she put the sampler back in the drawer and locked it up.
"Sold my sampler yet, Elise?" Azalea asked, when next they met.
"Yes; I bought it in myself," Elise replied. "I wanted it, so I bought it. I haven't paid for it yet, for I want to know what you consider a fair price?"
Elise looked Azalea straight in the eyes, and was not surprised to note the rising colour in the cheeks of the Indian maiden.
"Why—why," Azalea stammered, "you said it was worth hundreds of dollars—you said that yourself, Elise."
"That was before I knew of your own handiwork on the sampler."
"What do you mean?" cried Azalea, angrily.
"Just what I say. To the work on the sampler, you added a bit more,—or rather, you subtracted some!"
CHAPTER XII
AZALEA'S CHANCE
"What do you mean by subtracted some?"
"Now, Azalea, there's no use in your acting like that! You know perfectly well you can't fool me! If you really want to know what I mean, I'll tell you. I mean that you picked out two stitches from the eight to make it look like a six. Didn't you, now?"
"Oh, well, if you've discovered that, I may as well own up. Yes, I did."
"And aren't you ashamed of yourself? Don't you think such a deception a wrong and contemptible thing to do?"
"Oh, pshaw, it was only for a joke. Can't you take a joke, Elise?"
"It wasn't only for a joke. You hoped you would make me think the sampler two hundred years older than it really is! And you thought that would make it much more valuable. Well, you overreached yourself! There were no samplers made—so far as is known—in 1636. So your trick wouldn't fool anybody!"
"All right. There's no harm done, that I can see. My little joke fizzled out,—that's all."
"No, that isn't all. It has proved you are a deceitful girl! You don't mind telling a falsehood!"
"I didn't tell any!"
"Yes, you did! It's an untruth to pretend something is what you know it isn't! If I had sold that to some unsuspecting buyer, for a large price, you wouldn't have said a word! You'd have let it go!"
"Of course; all's fair at a Fair!"
"Oh, don't try to be funny, Azalea; I'm really angry about this matter."
"Huffy, eh? Well, get over it, then! I don't care! Some people like me! Don't they?"
The last question was asked of Raymond Gale, who came walking by.
"Sure; I do!" was the hearty reply. "Who doesn't?"
"Elise," and Azalea pouted at the girl.
"Fiddlesticks!" said Elise, gaily. "Never mind, Azalea, I'll take your joke in good part."
For Elise had suddenly decided that she didn't want to spoil Patty's Fair by having a quarrel with her guest. So, though a good deal perturbed by the sampler incident, she preferred to drop the subject.
Azalea understood, and was glad to be let off so easily, though she felt sure Elise would tell Patty all about it later.
With Azalea, however, out of sight was out of mind, and she walked away with young Gale in a merry mood.
As they strolled along, a man stepped toward them, and raising his cap in a respectful way, asked Azalea if he might have a few words with her, alone.
He had a business-like air, and though polite, was, quite evidently, not a man of social position.
Gale stared at him, and Azalea grew very red and confused.
"I—well—not just now," she said, hesitatingly. "I'll see you some other time."
"No, miss, that won't do," The man was courteous, but decided,—and had a manner that bespoke authority.
"If I'm in the way, I'll vanish," Raymond said, laughing a little.
"Well—if you will—" Azalea looked at him beseechingly. "I'll explain later."
So Gale walked off by himself and Azalea turned a troubled face to the man.
"Mr. Merritt," she said, "I can't have anything more to do with the whole affair. I'm quite sure my relatives here wouldn't approve of it, and I can't keep the matter secret any longer."
"But you must come, Miss Thorpe. By a strange coincidence you are greatly needed. Miss Frawley has broken her ankle—"
"She has!" Azalea's eyes sparkled, "Oh,—I don't mean I'm not sorry for her,—I am, indeed! But—"
"But it gives you a chance! A wonderful chance,—and if you can make good—"
"Oh, I can! I will! Shall I come now?"
"No; but you must come to-morrow morning at nine, sharp. Will you?"
"Indeed I will! I'll be there on time."
"And tell your people about it,—don't you think you'd better?"
"Oh," Azalea's face fell. "I don't know. Suppose they refuse to let me go!"
"How can they? They have no real control over you."
"No,—but I'd hate to go against their expressed disapproval."
"Nonsense! This is your first chance at a career. Don't muff it, now! Why, just your skill at archery is enough to put you over! It's the very place for you! Western doings, riding, shooting, lassoing, all sorts of bareback, daredevil stunts—"
"I know—I know. Yes, I'll be there to-morrow. You go, now,—here comes my cousin."
With a quick glance at Farnsworth, who was approaching, the man walked swiftly away.
"Who is he?" Bill asked, as he came up to Azalea.
"Friend of mine," she answered, gaily.
"What's his name?"
"That's telling!"
"I know it is, and I expect to be told."
"People don't always get all they expect."
"Don't trifle with me, Azalea; I'm not in a trifling mood. Who was that man?"
"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. Now, now, Cousin William, you know yourself, it's very rude to insist on prying into other folks' secrets!"
"Why is it a secret? What possible business can a man like that have with you,—that I can't know about?"
"Why do you say 'a man like that'? He's all right."
"All right is a vague term. He's not one of our sort."
"Don't be a snob! Remember you were born and brought up in the West, just as much as I was. And although you've now got to living high and mighty, you needn't look down on me or my friends!"
"You're talking rubbish, Azalea. That man is not your friend,—he was talking to you on some business matter."
"I'm not a business woman!"
"You're not a woman at all! You're a young girl, and a very silly one,—to have secret dealings with a common-looking man. Now, as your temporary guardian, I insist you tell me all about it"
"'Temporary guardian' is good! Who appointed you?"
"I'm that by reason of your being a guest in my house, and too in view of the fact that you have, apparently, nobody to look after you. Your father has mysteriously disappeared. You've had no word from him since you've been here! So far as I know, you have no other relatives, and so, as your nearest of kin, I propose to look after you,—if you will let me. Don't be foolish, Azalea, dear," Farnsworth's voice took on a tender tone, "don't be antagonistic. I want to help you, not annoy you. Why not look on me as a friend, and let me know all you're about? There can be no reason why I shouldn't."
"You might not approve," and Azalea looked at him uncertainly.
"Why? Are you up to anything wrong?"
"No," but she spoke hesitatingly, "not wrong, Cousin, but—all the same, you might not approve."
"Tell me, and let me see. If it isn't wrong, I'll promise not to censure you, even if I don't entirely approve."
Azalea's attention was attracted by the man who had lately left her. He stood behind Farnsworth and made gestures that informed Azalea she was not to let his presence be known. So she continued to talk to Bill, but also kept the other man in view.
His procedure was somewhat strange. He pretended to be holding a baby, cuddling an imaginary child in his arms. Then he tossed the non-existent little one up in the air, and pretended to catch it again.
Then he nodded to Azalea. She shook her head negatively and very vigorously.
He nodded peremptorily and insistently. Again she shook her head, and as she did so Farnsworth wheeled suddenly and saw the man.
Angrily, he made a dash for him, but the stranger was agile and alert, and ran swiftly away and out of the grounds to the street.
Farnsworth looked at Azalea coldly. "So you were holding communication with him, over my shoulder! This is a little too much, Azalea, and now the crisis has been reached. Either you give me a full explanation of your business with him, or you bring your visit here to an end. I cannot have you in my house, if you are deceitful and insincere. I stand by my offer; I will listen willingly to your story, and judge you most leniently. I don't really believe you are up to anything wrong. But a secret is always mysterious and I hold that you are too young and inexperienced to have secrets from your elders."
"I have nothing to confess or confide, Cousin William," said Azalea, putting on a haughty air. "I refuse to be accused of wrong-doing, when I am not guilty of it,—and I will bring my visit here to an end at once! I will leave to-morrow!"
"Oh, pshaw, Zaly, don't go off so suddenly!" Farnsworth laughed lightly, for he had said a little more than he meant to, and he realised, too, that this was neither the time nor the place to have such a serious talk with the girl.
"Come along now, and have tea with us all in the tea-house," he said. "Forget your bad, cruel cousin's scoldy ways, and as to the mysterious man, I'll trust your word that he's all right."
"Oh, thank you, Cousin!" Azalea fairly beamed now. "How good you are!
I'll tell you all about it,—some day!"
So the matter rested for the moment, and the two went to join the merry group around the tea-table.
The Fair drew to a brilliant close. The second evening was even more gay and festive than the first. Everything was sold out,—or, if not, it was disposed of by auction after the time-honoured method of Fairs.
Much money had been accumulated for the good cause, and though tired, the workers were jubilant over the success of Vanity Fair.
"I shall sleep late to-morrow morning," declared Patty, as, after all the guests were gone, the house party started for bed.
"Me, too," agreed Elise. "I'm glad you haven't anybody staying here but us. No house guests, I mean, but just Zaly and me."
"I'm glad, too," said Patty. "You see, I expected Father and Nan, but they've changed their plans and will remain in California another month."
"They're having a gorgeous trip, aren't they?"
"Yes, indeed, but I wish they'd ever get home! Just think, Father has never seen Fleurette!"
"She'll be a big girl when they do see her. She's growing like a little weed."
"Like a little flower, you mean! Don't you just love her name, Elise?"
"Fleurette? Little Flower? Of course I do. The sweetest ever. Does Bill still call you Patty Blossom?"
"Yes, at times. Oh, he calls me 'most any old thing! He makes up new names for both of us every day! Come along, Zaly, you're dropping from sheer weariness. Time for little girls like you to go beddy!"
Affectionately Patty put her arm round the girl, and led her away upstairs.
"Sleep well," she said, as she left Azalea in her own room. "And don't come downstairs in the morning before ten or eleven. I'm sure I shan't. The servants will clear everything up, and Bill will oversee it. I hate the aftermath of a Fair,—don't you?"
Azalea nodded agreement, and Patty kissed her good-night and went off.
But it was only eight o'clock the next morning when Azalea crept softly downstairs. She was neatly attired in a cloth suit, with a fresh white shirtwaist and a pretty hat.
She was not at all sleepy or weary-looking and she went out through the pantry to the kitchen.
"Please give me a cup of coffee," she said to the cook, who was just beginning her day's work.
She looked in amazement at Azalea, for she had had no orders over night to serve an early breakfast.
"I'll get you something as quick as I can," she said, good-naturedly. "I didn't know you was going to town, Miss Thorpe."
"Just decided," said Azalea, carelessly; "and I don't want breakfast,—only a cup of coffee and a bit of toast. There's a good cookie."
Smiling at the cajolery, the cook bustled about and soon had an appetising little repast ready. Azalea gratefully accepted the poached egg and the marmalade in addition to what she had requested, and in a short time had finished and prepared to depart.
But she did not ask for one of the Farnsworth motor-cars; instead, she walked swiftly out of the gate and down the street toward the trolley line.
She waited for a car and when it came she got aboard and settled down for a long ride.
At last she got out and a short walk brought her to her destination.
This was nothing more nor less than a great moving-picture studio.
There were a number of people about, all very busy and intent on what they were doing.
Azalea seemed to be known, for two or three nodded pleasantly to her as she went swiftly along to the office.
There she presented herself, and was received by Mr. Bixby, the man who had one day called on her at Wistaria Porch.
"Well, Miss Thorpe," he said, briskly, "I suppose you heard the news.
Miss Frawley has broken her ankle—"
"Yes, I heard that," said Azalea, with a sympathetic look.
"And we think we want to put you in her place,—at least, for a trial."
"I'm glad to try," Azalea said, earnestly. "I'll do my best to make good. But I can't bring the baby again."
"Oh, pshaw, yes you can,—just once more, anyway. But never mind that now. We must see about your own part. You know there's danger, Miss Thorpe?"
"Miss Frawley braved the danger," Azalea said, quietly.
"Yes, and Miss Frawley broke her ankle."
"I know; and I may break mine, but I'll take the chance. I am not afraid,—though I well know that accidents may happen. What was Miss Frawley doing?"
"It was in that climbing scene. You know she climbs the sheer precipice of rock. There are hidden spikes driven into the rock for her feet, of course, but she missed one, and fell."
"I'll be as careful as I can, but I may miss it, too."
"In that case, we'll have to get some one else," said Mr. Bixby, coolly. "Are you ready for work?"
"Oh, yes," and then Azalea was shown to the dressing-rooms.
This was her secret. For years she had wanted to be a moving-picture actress, and she had hoped before she left Arizona for New York that she might get an opportunity to take up the work. She had expected to begin with minor parts, and hoped by her skill and earnest efforts to attain eminence.
On the train, coming East, she had formed an acquaintance with Mr. Bixby and his wife, who were in the business. As their studio was not far from the Farnsworth home, Azalea had made plans with them to engage in the work.
She had carried out these plans, and had been over to the studios several times, taking parts in which they needed a substitute.
She had done so well and had shown such promise that Mr. Bixby urged her to become a regular actress in his company.
But Azalea was so uncertain as to how Patty and Bill would regard such a move on her part, that she had so far kept the matter to herself.
Then, when the star actress had met with an accident, and the management had concluded to offer Azalea her place, it was a great chance for the girl.
She had come over this morning to give it a trial, entirely at sea as to her subsequent attitude toward the Farnsworths.
She thought she would be guided by circumstances as to whether she would confide all to them, or whether she would continue her secrecy as to her movements.
Mrs. Bixby attended to her in the dressing-room. All of Miss Frawley's costumes, it was found, could be altered to fit Azalea.
As one in a dream, the girl stood to be fitted, while seamstresses and modistes hovered about her.
Then she was informed that the work that day would be only rehearsing and the pictures would not actually be taken until her costumes were ready.
Submissively she did exactly as she was told, and so well did she act the parts assigned her, that Mr. Bixby expressed hearty approval.
Azalea was there nearly all day, and when at last she turned her face homeward, a great dismay seized her.
"What's the matter, child?" asked kindly Mrs. Bixby, who was saying good-bye.
"Oh, I don't know what to do!" Azalea was tempted to tell the director's wife all her troubles.
But Mrs. Bixby was a busy lady, and she said, "Not now, dearie. You skittle home, and to-morrow maybe I can take a couple hours off to hear your tale of woe. You know you've already told me your swagger relatives would throw a fit if they knew what you were up to. Well, I guess it's about fit time!"
Azalea disliked her style of speech, but Mrs. Bixby was kind hearted, and she had hoped to have her for a confidante. However, there was no chance then, for Mrs. Bixby hustled her off to the trolley-car, and Azalea went home to Wistaria Porch.
CHAPTER XIII
"STAR OF THE WEST"
All the way home Azalea wondered how she would be received.
Both Patty and Bill were somewhat suspicious of her and would naturally question her as to where she had been all day. She was tempted to tell them the whole truth and throw herself on their mercy, and but for one thing she would have done so. This was the fact that she had previously taken the baby, Fleurette, over to the studios and had used the child in the pictures.
This she felt quite sure the Farnsworths would not forgive.
Azalea would not have done it, if it had occurred to her at first how the parents would resent such use of their child. But Mr. Bixby had needed a very young baby in a certain picture and Azalea, anxious to please, had offered to bring Fleurette over. She was herself so devoted to the little one and so careful of her, she felt no fear of any harm coming to her. Nor did it, for the infant was good and tractable, and did all that was required of her without any trouble. However, little was required except for her to coo and gurgle in one scene, and to lie quietly asleep in another.
But there was one more short scene where Azalea had to rescue the baby from a burning house. To be sure the flames were artificial and there was no danger from the fire, but the baby was thrown from an upper window, and caught by Azalea, who stood down on the ground.
So accustomed was Fleurette to being tossed about, and so familiar to her was the frolicking with Azalea that she made no objections and was a most delightful addition to the picture.
But something happened to the film, and the director was most anxious to take the scene over again.
Azalea, however, positively refused to take Fleurette again to the studio. She knew how she would be censured, should it be found out, and now Nurse Winnie and the two Farnsworths, as well as Elise, were all watching for anything mysterious that Azalea might do.
She felt almost as if she were living over a slumbering volcano, that might at any moment blow her up. For Elise, she felt sure, would not keep the sampler incident to herself, and if Farnsworth heard of it he would be newly angry at that deception.
So Azalea's delight at her success with the moving-picture company was very much tempered with dismay at her position in the Farnsworth household.
She was almost tempted to run away from them altogether and shift for herself.
Indeed, she practically decided, as she rode in the trolley-car, that if they were hard on her when she reached home, she would run away. Of a wayward disposition and without really good early training, Azalea thought only of herself, and selfishly desired her own advancement without thought or regard for other people.
But, to her pleased surprise, when she entered the gate she heard gay voices on the verandah, and knew that guests were there,—and several of them.
Unwilling to meet them in her street clothes, she slipped around to the back entrance and went in at the servants' door.
"I don't want to appear until I can dress," she explained to the cook, and went upstairs by a back way.
Half an hour later, a very different looking Azalea went down the front staircase and out onto the porch.
She wore a becoming dress of flowered organdie, with knots of bright velvet, and her pretty hair was carefully arranged.
Smiling and happy-looking, she met the guests and greeted them with a graceful cordiality.
"Where have you been?" cried Elise, but Azalea ignored the question and quickly spoke to some one else.
Mona and Roger Farrington were there, and Philip Van Reypen and Chick Channing. This quartette had motored up from New York to dine, and Patty had already persuaded them to say they would stay over night.
"I'm crazy for a house party," she said, "haven't had one for 'most a week! Oh, yes. I've a couple of house guests, but I mean a real party. Let's make it a week-end, and have lots of fun!"
The visitors were entirely willing, and after telephoning home for additional apparel, they settled down to enjoy themselves.
As they hadn't much more than accomplished this settling when Azalea arrived, there was no comment made on her absence all day.
In fact, Patty rather forgot about it, in the multitude of her conferences with the housekeeper and the maids.
Farnsworth said nothing in the presence of the guests, and Elise, after her first exclamation, subsided.
In fact, Elise was more interested in the society of Channing and Van
Reypen than in the mystery of Azalea's disappearances.
Betty and Ray Gale had been telephoned for, and they came gladly, so that at dinner there was quite a big party.
"You certainly are a great little old hostess, Patty!" exclaimed Roger Farrington, as they seated themselves at table. "I liked you heaps as a girl, but as mistress of a fine house you are even more charming."
"Thank you, Sir Hubert Stanley!" smiled Patty; "and I'm glad to admit that I learned a lot about managing a house from your gifted wife. Do you remember, Mona, how we kept house down at 'Red Chimneys'?"
"Indeed I do!" Mona answered, "what fun we had that summer!"
"I'll subscribe to that!" declared Farnsworth, "for it was then and there that I met the lady who is now my wife! And,—I kissed her the moment I saw her!"
"Oh, Cousin William!" cried Azalea, "did you really? What did she say?"
"Flew at me like a small cyclone of wrath! But as I had mistaken her for my cousin Mona, she couldn't hold me very guilty."
"Yes! A lot Patty looks like me!" said Mona, who was a dark-haired beauty.
"But I didn't see her face," pleaded Bill; "I just saw a girl on the verandah of your house, Mona, and I took it for granted it was you!"
"It's all ancient history," said Patty, laughing. "And, to tell the truth, I'm glad it happened,—for otherwise, I mightn't have become interested in—Mona's cousin."
"Then I bless my mistake!" said Farnsworth, so fervently that Patty shook her head at him.
"Mustn't talk so before folks," she said, reprovingly. "Now, people all, what shall we do with this lovely evening? It's moonlight, so any who are romantically inclined can ramble about the place, and flirt in the arbours,—while those who prefer can play bridge or—the piano. Or just sit and chat."
"Me for the last!" cried Mona. "I've oceans to talk about with you,
Patty. Can't we play all by ourselves for a little while?"
"Certainly," said Patty, as she rose from the table. "Mona and I are going to sit on the wistaria porch and gossip for half an hour. After that, we're all going to dance,—and maybe sing."
"Good enough programme," agreed Van Reypen. "For one half-hour, then, each may do as he or she wishes!"
"Yes, if you all promise to be back here in half an hour."
"Make it an hour, Patty," laughed Elise, who had her own plans.
"All right," said Patty, carelessly, who cared only that her guests should enjoy themselves.
"I want to tell you something," Mona said, as she and Patty at last were alone on the porch. "Who is Azalea?"
"I call that asking, not telling," laughed Patty; "however, I'll reply. She is Bill's cousin,—not first cousin, but the daughter of his father's cousin. So you see,—a distant cousin. Why?"
"I'll tell you why. Roger and I go to the 'movies' sometimes,—and in a picture, the other night, we saw Azalea."
"Saw Azalea! You mean some one who looked like her."
"No; Azalea Thorpe herself! Roger and I both knew her at once. And it was quite a new picture,—taken recently, I mean. Did you know she did such things?"
"No, and I can't think she does. It must have been only a remarkable resemblance, Mona."
"No, Patty. We're positive. And, too, she was doing Wild West stunts,—riding bareback, shooting, throwing a lariat,—all those things,—and Azalea can, you know."
"Yes, I know; and there is something queer going on. It may be that when Azalea goes off for a day or part of a day, that's where she goes. But I can hardly believe it. And why does she keep it so secret?"
"I suppose she thinks you and Bill wouldn't approve."
"And we certainly would not! I don't think it can be possible, Mona. But don't say anything to anybody,—not even to Little Billee,—until I can talk to Azalea, myself. I can do lots with her, alone, but not if anybody else is present."
"Where is she now?"
"Gone for a moonlight stroll with Phil. He's decidedly taken with her."
"Yes, I know it. He said so on the way up here. He thinks she's a fine girl—and he admires those careless, unconventional ways of hers."
"Well, I don't," Patty sighed. "I like Azalea for lots of things,—she's good company and kind-hearted,—and she's devoted to Baby,—but I can't like those free and easy manners! But she's a whole lot better than when she first came! Then she was really a wild Indian! I've been able to tone her down a little."
"You've done wonders for her, Patty. She ought to be very grateful."
Patty made a wry face. "No, she isn't grateful. People never are grateful for that sort of thing. And she doesn't even know she's different! I've had to train her without her own knowledge! But she's chameleon-like, in some ways, and she picks up a lot just from being with mannerly people."
"She does indeed! She's quite correct now,—in her actual doings. It's only in some burst of enthusiasm that she oversteps the bounds of propriety. Well, that's all. I thought I'd tell you,—for it isn't right that you shouldn't know. And there's no mistake. There's only one Azalea Thorpe."
"Was her name on the programme?"
"No; she didn't have a star part,—not even a named part. She was one of a crowd,—cowboys, ranch girls, and a general horde of 'woollies.' Don't accuse her of it, Patty; get around her and see what she says."
"Goodness, Mona, give me credit for a little tact! I'll find out in the best way. What was the name of the play?"
"'Star of the West.' A splendid thing,—have you seen it?"
"No; we almost never go."
"Oh, we go a lot, we love moving pictures."
"I'd like to see this one,—before I speak to Azalea. Is it on now?"
"Yes, at The Campanile. Let's go down to-morrow,—just you and me. We can be back in a couple of hours."
"Well, I'll see. Probably I can go."
In the meantime, Azalea and Van Reypen were talking of the same play.
"I saw a picture play last night," Phil was saying, "with a girl in it that looked exactly like you."
"What was the play?" asked Azalea, interestedly.
"'Star of the West.' It was a good play, but I was most interested in the girl I speak of. She was really your double,—but she did things that I don't believe you could compass,—athletic as you are."
"I'd like to see it," said Azalea, thoughtfully.
"Oh, go with me, will you? I'm going to stay up here over the week-end,—and we could skip down to-morrow afternoon, and be back by dinner time."
"I'd love to go,—but Patty doesn't greatly approve of the 'movies.'"
"Oh, never mind that. You've a right to go, if you choose. And you needn't say where we're going, till we get back. Say we're going to take in a matinée."
"Well, I'll go," Azalea said decidedly, "for I'm crazy to see that play.
What's the girl's name?"
"Dunno. It wasn't on the bill. But, truly, Azalea, you'll be surprised to see how much like you she is!"
Azalea hesitated. She knew it was taking a great risk to go with Phil, but she was most anxious to see how she looked on the screen.
This, she knew, was the first picture released in which she had taken a part. It was only a small part, but she had done well, the manager said, and that had been the reason for her further advancement.
She had wanted to see it over at the studio, but her visits there had been so hurried, and she had been so eager to get back, she never dared take the time to see the pictures exhibited.
The two returned to the house, and Patty greeted them gaily.
"Well, wanderers, you're the last of the company to report! Where have you been?"
"Surveying your domain, ma'am," Phil replied; "it's most beautiful by moonlight,—especially when viewed in company with a fair lady."
He bowed gallantly to Azalea, who was looking her best,—a slight blush of excitement on her cheeks at the compliment.
"It is lovely," she said; "the house, from the west lawn, is a wonderful picture! Patty, Mr. Van Reypen has asked me to go to New York with him to-morrow afternoon,—to a matinée. May I?"
"Certainly, my child. And as Mona and I are going down in the early afternoon, we'll all go together in the big car."
Then all went to the hall for a dance. The large reception hall was admirably adapted for this purpose, and the strains of a fine phonograph soon set all feet in motion.
Dancing with Raymond Gale, Azalea pirouetted gaily with some fancy steps.
"Good!" he cried, falling into the spirit of the thing, and they pranced about in a mad whirl.
"How Western she is," Elise said to Phil, with whom she was sedately one-stepping.
"Clever dancer," he returned, briefly, and the subject was not continued.
"Come for a walk," said Gale to Azalea, as the dance was over.
"No; let's sit on the porch a minute," she preferred.
"Come along to this end, then, for I want to say something particular," he urged, and they found a pleasant seat, from which they could see the moon through the leafy wistaria branches.
"Look here, Azalea," Gale began, "I know what you're up to,—with the
Bixbys."
"What!" Azalea's voice was full of fear.
"Yes, and there's no reason you should be so secretive about it."
"Oh, Raymond,—there is reason! Don't tell on me, will you?"
"Of course not,—if you forbid it. But when Farnsworth asks me, what am
I to say?"
"What does he ask you?"
"Who the Bixbys are. And other awkward questions. You see, I know old Bixby,—and I knew as soon as I saw him here that day that he had drawn you into his snares."
"Don't put it that way—I wasn't exactly drawn in."
"Well, you're in, all right. Why, Azalea, I saw you in a picture in New
York, night before last."
"You did?"
"Yes; in 'Star of the West.' Don't try to fib out of it—"
"What!"
"Now you needn't get mad! I know you're not entirely above a little fibbing, now and then!"
"I think I'll go in the house,—I don't like you."
"Oh, Zaly, behave yourself. Be a sensible girl, and face the music! Why don't you own it all up, and tell Farnsworth the whole story? It isn't a criminal thing to act in the 'movies.'"
"They think it is,—Bill and Patty. They'd never forgive me!"
"Oh, pshaw, they would, too! Anyway, I want you to do it,—tell 'em, I mean. Won't you, Zaly,—won't you,—for my sake?"
Gale was sincere and earnest, and Azalea thrilled to the strong tenderness in his voice as he urged her.
But she hesitated to consent.
"I can't, Ray," she said, at last. "Truly, I can't. They'd—they'd turn me off—"
"Oh, Azalea, what nonsense! They'd do no such thing!"
"Yes, they would. You don't know Bill. He's good and generous and kind,—but he hates anything like deceit,—and almost worse, he hates the whole moving-picture racket. I don't mean the pictures themselves, exactly,—but the idea of anybody of his being in them. And, oh, Ray,—it isn't only myself,—but I took—I took—"
"I know,—you took the kiddy."
"Yes, I did. It didn't seem any harm, at first, and then, one day when I brought her home,—she was sleepy,—unusually so, I mean, and Nurse said she had been given soothing sirup,—and—I found out afterward she had! Mrs. Bixby had given her some, to keep her quiet in the picture, you know. Of course, I never dreamed of such a thing,—why, Ray, that little girl is as dear to me,—almost,—as she is to Patty! I wouldn't harm a hair of her blessed little curly head! And I'd never have allowed a drop of that sirup, if I'd known it! But I just gave her to Mrs. Bixby to hold, while I changed my costume,—Mrs. Bixby seems a good woman—"
"Oh, come now, I don't believe it hurt the child."
"You don't know anything about such things. I don't know much, but I know they must never have a bit of that stuff! Anyway, Ray?—we must go in now,—don't give my secret away until I give you permission, will you?"
"No; if you'll promise to think it over and try to believe what I've told you,—that it's best to tell all."
"All right, I'll promise that, and I may decide to tell. But I want to wait until after to-morrow, anyway."