CHAPTER IV
A NEW RELATIVE
May came in with the sunshine and balmy days that are popularly supposed to belong to that month, but which do not always materialise.
Wistaria Porch was fairly basking in the sunshine, and the flower gardens were already showing their early blooms. The tulip beds were a blaze of bright glory and hyacinths and daffodils added their sweetness and beauty.
"Such a heavenly place!" Patty exclaimed as she and Little Billee strolled along the garden paths in the late afternoon. "I'm glad we have this week-end to ourselves,—I love to have guests, but once in a while,—you know—"
"I do know!" declared Farnsworth, "and I'd be willing to have 'em twice in a while—"
"Have what?"
"Week-ends alone with you! Oh, I like company, too,—have all you want, but now and then—just now and then, a family party looks good to me! Where's our blessed child at the moment?"
"She ought to be here,—it's time. Winnie usually brings her for her afternoon visit to her proud parents. And here she comes! Here's mudder's own Poggly-woggly Pom-pom head!"
"What delightful names you invent! Let me have a try at it! Here's
Fodder's own Piggly-winktum! There, how's that?"
"Perfectly horrid! Sounds like a pig!"
"All right, let's try again. Who's the airiest, fairiest, tiny mite? Who's the pinky-goldiest Smiley-eyes in the whole world? Here she is!" and big Bill took the baby, from nurse's arms, and flung her high in the air, catching her deftly on her descent, while Patty held her breath in apprehension. She knew perfectly well Bill wouldn't let the child fall,—and yet, accidents had occurred,—and the crowing baby might squirm out of the watchful father's arms.
But no accident happened and the two had their usual afternoon romp.
Little Fleurette knew her father and adored the big, comfortable man who held her so firmly and tossed her up so delightfully.
"Now, it's my turn,—give her to me," said Patty, at last. Then Bill deposited the child in her mother's arms, and the little one nestled there contentedly. She was a good baby, and rarely cried or fretted. Healthy and strong, she bade fair to become a fine big woman some day, and Patty's leaping mind had already planned out her whole lifetime!
"I think I'll send her to the Mortimer School," she said, musingly.
"Why, that's a finishing school!" exclaimed Bill, knowing of the fashionable establishment.
"Yes; I mean when she's ready to be 'finished,'" said Patty, calmly. "Before that, she'll go to Kindergarten,—and some other school, I suppose."
"I suppose she will; but we'll have a few years of her company here, at home, won't we, before her schooldays begin?"
"Yes, of course, we're having them now. But they go so fast! Oh, Little Billee, all the days fly so fast,—I can't realise we've been married nearly two years—"
"Nonsense! A year and nearly two months—"
"Well, it soon will be two years! I never saw the time fly so! It goes like a Bandersnatch!"
"Does that mean you're so happy, Patty?"
"It means exactly that! Oh, I want to live forever! I am so happy! I didn't know life with you and Fleurette would be so beautiful as it is!"
"Is it, dearest? I'm so glad," and the big man looked at his dainty, sweet little wife with his whole soul in his fine clear blue eyes.
"Your eyes are wonderful, Billee, dear," said Patty, meeting his glance lovingly; "did your mother have blue eyes,—or your father?"
"Both of them did. I was thought to look more like mother, as a kiddy,—but they were both fair haired and blue eyed."
"You never knew your mother much, did you?"
"No, she died when I was very small. And father, when I was about ten.
Then, as I've told you, I lived four years with Aunt Amanda—"
"In Arizona?"
"Yes; in a small settlement,—hardly even a village,—called Horner's
Corners."
Patty laughed. "What a darling name! How could anybody call a place that! Suppose it had grown to be a large city."
"Then they would probably have changed the name. Perhaps they have already done so,—I haven't heard from there for years."
"Why didn't you keep up your relatives' acquaintance?"
"Well, Aunt Amanda died, later, and her husband never cared much for me, anyhow. So we drifted apart, and never drifted together again."
"Wasn't your aunt your mother's sister?"
"Oh, Lord, no! She was not really my aunt, at all. She was a cousin of my father's and when she took me in, I called her auntie. But they only took me because they wanted my help on the place, and I worked hard for them four years. They gave me no affection, nor even thanks for my services, and as I couldn't learn anything or make any sort of progress in that God-forsaken valley, I left them and shifted for myself."
"And made a great success of the shifting!" Patty's eyes glowed as she looked at her big handsome husband.
"Yes, I found you! And, incidentally that little flower of loveliness that's going to sleep against your breast."
"So she is! Pretty thing!" Patty gazed adoringly at the baby and then handed her over to the nurse, who returned for her charge.
"Tell me more about Horner's Corners," Patty resumed, as they remained seated on the porch, after Fleurette's departure.
"Not much to tell. It consisted of a store and post-office,—a church and school,—and forty or fifty small houses. Uncle Thorpe's place was a mile out from the Corners, proper, and I used to trudge back and forth every day for the mail, and for provisions. And part of the time I went to school. The teacher was a nice young girl, but we boys led her a dance! How we did plague her!" and Bill laughed at the recollection.
"Any children in your aunt's family?"
"One; a little baby girl, named Azalea."
"What a pretty name! Where is she now?"
"I don't know. Right there, probably. Let me see. I was ten when I went there. But she wasn't born then. When I left, that child was about a year old, I guess. She must be about seventeen or so, now."
"And she's your only living relative?"
"The only one I know anything about. Mother's people were English,—none of them over here. No near relatives, anyhow, for she was an only child. Dad was, too, for that matter. Little Zaly,—that's what they called her, is about the last leaf on the tree."
"Let's ask her to visit us, can't we? I do want to know your people; and if she's all the people there are, I want to know her."
"Why, child, I don't know anything about her,—I don't even know if she's still in the land of the living."
"Can't you write and find out?"
"Why, I suppose so. But why do you want her? She's probably an awkward, countrified little thing—"
"I don't care for that! She's your kin, and I'm prepared to love her for that reason."
"That's a dear thing for you to say, Patty mine, but you may get more than you bargain for. Suppose you invite Azalea and Uncle Thorpe himself comes trotting along, too!"
"Well, I could even live through that! I don't suppose he'd bite me!"
"But I'm quite sure he wouldn't fit into your scheme of things entire! Oh, let sleeping dogs lie, Pattibelle. Take me for my whole family,—I'm a host in myself."
"You are,—my lord and master,—you sure are! But, all the same, I must hunt up your little cousin. Of course her father can't come, if he isn't invited. And I'd like to know the child. I might do something for her,—be of some real help to her, I mean. Maybe she's longing to get East and have the advantages I could give her."
"Maybe she's longing to stay put in her native desert."
"In that case, she can say so. I shan't compel her to come! Let me write her, anyway, mayn't I, Little Billee?"
"Of course you may. You may write to anybody you wish; to the Sultan of
Kasharabad, if you like."
"Is he your relative?"
"He may be,—for all I know. Some family trees branch widely."
"Well, give me Azalea's address,—I'm going to open a correspondence, at least."
"No address, that I know of, except Miss Azalea Thorpe, Horner's Corners,
Arizona."
"I'll write, if only for the fun of addressing a letter there. I never heard such a funny name for a place!"
Patty tore up two or three letters before she finally composed one that suited her. It was not easy to know what attitude to take toward such a complete stranger, and with no knowledge of what sort of a girl she was writing to. But she at last sent off this:
MY DEAR AZALEA:
I am the wife of your cousin, William Farnsworth. Though you do not remember him, your father will tell you about him. At any rate, as you are of his kin, I want you to come and make us a visit—that is, if you care to. We have a lovely home, not far from New York City, and I would do my best to make you happy and give you a good time. You may not want to come,—indeed, you may have moved away from your native town, and may never even get this letter. But if you do get it, write me, at any rate, and tell me what you think about a trip East. We both send love and hope to hear from you soon.
Affectionately yours,
PATTY FARNSWORTH.
"You see," Patty explained to Bill, as she read the letter to him, "it may be she can't afford such a trip. But I didn't like to hint at that, so I asked her to write me what she thinks about it. If she thinks she can't spend so much money, then we can offer to get her ticket."
"Very thoughtful and very delicately done, my dearest. You have the kindest heart a little blue-eyed girl ever possessed."
"Not entirely disinterested, though. I do want to have some of your people under our roof,—and this is my first attempt. If it fails, I shall look up some of your English relatives."
"Yes, we will do that some day. I'd like to round them up myself. Mother's tales of her childhood home,—as retold me by my father,—sounded delightful. They had old country estates, and—"
"And ancestral halls! Hung with old armour! Oh, Little Billee, what fun to take Fleurette there! Portraits of her ancestors smiling down at her from the oaken walls of the long picture gallery—"
"Patty, Patty! how you do run on! I don't know that there are any picture galleries at all."
"Oh, of course there are. They're bound to be there. And maybe a family ghost! A spectre, that stalks the corridors when one of the family is about to die—"
"Hush! You bad child! What awful ideas!"
"I've just been reading a story about a family spectre. I think they're most interesting."
"Well, we'll cut out the spook show. I've no liking for clanking chains and hollow groans!"
* * * * *
Impatiently Patty waited for the answer to her letter, and one day it came.
Farnsworth was in New York on business, and so she put it away unopened until his return.
"Goody girl!" he cried, when she told him. "Nice of you, dear, to let us have the first reading together."
"Oh, I couldn't gobble it up alone,—I like everything better if I have it with you."
And so they sat side by side on the porch, and read the long looked for missive.
* * * * *
"DEAR COUSIN PATTY;" it began.
I was so surprised and pleased to get your letter I hardly knew what to do. It seemed as if the dream of my life had at last come true. I've always wanted to go East,—to see New York,—oh, I'm so excited I can hardly write! And dear Cousin William! How kind of him to tell you about me,—for I was a very small baby when he was here. My father has told me all about it. When shall I start? I accept your invitation with joy. I have saved up my money and I have enough, I think, for the ticket. How much does it cost? But I can find out somehow. Father sends his respects and he says I may go. I am all ready. Can't you telegraph me, so I can go soon?
With grateful thanks,
I am yours very sincerely,
AZALEA THORPE.
"Well," said Bill, "what do you think of that for a letter?"
He looked thoughtfully at Patty, as he spoke.
"Why," she hesitated,—"I think it's a very nice letter—"
"Wait, now,—be honest!"
"Well, I—oh, I don't know,—but I looked for a little more—simplicity, I guess. This sounds as if she had resorted to a 'Complete Letter-Writer' for help."
"Just what I thought, exactly! But I don't know as we can blame her if she did. The poor child is doubtless unversed in polite correspondence, and she did her best,—but she felt she needed a little more elegance of construction and so forth, and she picked out some dressy phrases from the book."
"It doesn't matter, anyway," said Patty, generously, "she's glad to come, and so I'm glad to have her. Let's telegraph at once,—shall us?"
"Yes; but I don't like that haste of hers. It strikes me queer."
"Queer, how? She's impatient to start,—that's all. What else could it mean?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. But the whole letter's queer,—if you ask me!"
"I do ask you,—and I ask you how it's queer."
"It's so,—so jumbly,—incoherent,—choppy."
"Pooh! don't criticise the lack of style in that poor country child. I'll teach her to write letters,—and I won't let her know I'm teaching her, either."
"You'll teach her lots of things,—I know,—and in that dear, gentle way of yours, that couldn't hurt or offend anybody. Well, I'll telegraph, then, for her to come ahead. What else shall I say?"
"Tell her what road to take, and all directions you can think of. Though it sounds to me, as if she thought she would have no difficulty as to travel."
"Sounds that way to me, too; but I suppose her father can look after such details. Queer message from her father."
"Not at all. You said he wasn't overfond of you, so as he sends his respects to you, I don't think you need ask for more."
"If she does start right off,—and I'm pretty sure she will,—she'll be here in a week or so."
"Of course; but I'll be ready for her. I'll give her the yellow room. It's big and sunny and has a lovely bath and dressing-room. It's all in order, too, I'll just make some soft lacy pillows and give it some little personal touches and it will be all ready for her. Oh, Billee,—think what a lot we can do for her!"
Patty's eyes glowed with the anticipation of aiding the little country girl, but Farnsworth was not so sanguine.
"You're running a risk, girlie," he said. "Suppose she turns out impossible. The fact of her being my relative doesn't quite canonise her, you know. Perhaps she isn't a saint."
"Now, now, old calamity howler,—I don't want her to be a saint! I hope and expect she'll be a sweet, docile nature, and her lack of culture, if any, I shall try to remedy. Her lack of familiarity with social customs and all that, I know I can remedy. Oh, I expect a busy time with her,—and I know I shall have to be tactful and kind,—but don't you think I can be?"
Farnsworth kissed the wistful, questioning face upturned to his and assured her that she most certainly could!
So Patty gaily set about her preparations of the pretty guest chamber. She hoped Azalea liked yellow,—most girls did,—but if not, she could easily be moved to the pink guest room.
This yellow room, however, was so well adapted for a young girl. There was a long French window that opened on the dearest little balcony, where the wistaria clambered and made a delightful shade. There was an alcove, where stood a Chippendale writing desk, and a revolving book rack. There was a sewing corner, with a fully furnished work-stand; and there was a soft puffy couch, with a pile of down pillows and a fluffy yellow afghan. And yet there was ample room for the bed, with its dimity draperies, and the fascinating toilet table, with its bewildering array of ivory fittings.
Uncertain of her guest's tastes, Patty put out few books, only a story or two of general interest and a couple of new magazines. All such matters could be attended to after she had sized up the newcomer.
On the day she was expected, Patty arranged the flowers in the yellow room herself.
Naturally, she chose azaleas, and some of a lovely soft tint of buff harmonised with pale pink ones. White ones too, with a bit of green foliage, until the room was a bower of beauty. Not overdone, though. Patty never made the mistake of too many flowers,—fond as she was of them.
A last affectionate survey of the room convinced her that all was exactly as it should be, and with a happy little sigh of contentment she went down to the porch to await the arrival of the guest, for Farnsworth had gone to the station to meet her, and they were due now at any minute.
CHAPTER V
THAT AWFUL AZALEA
The car came along the driveway and stopped in front of the porch where
Patty sat.
Farnsworth stepped out, with a cheery "Here we are!" and Patty rose to greet the visitor.
Up the steps toward her flew a figure which, as Patty afterward described it, seemed like a wild Indian! A slight, wiry figure, rather tall and very awkward, and possessed of a nervous force that expressed itself in muscular activity.
"Oh, how do you do?" the girl cried, explosively. "You're Cousin Patty,—aren't you?" But even as she spoke, she stumbled on the steps, pitched forward, falling on Patty, and but for Farnsworth's quick action would have knocked her down.
"Jiminy crickets! Ain't I the tangle-foot! Guess I'm getting in bad at the very start. Hope I didn't hurt you."
"Not at all," said Patty, recovering her poise, both mental and physical. "You are very welcome, Azalea. Will you sit here a few minutes before we go in the house?"
"Sure! I'll spill myself right into this double-decker!"
She threw herself into a long wicker lounging-seat, of the steamer-chair type, and stretched out her feet in evident enjoyment of the relaxation.
"Well, this is comfort, after travelling cross country for days and days!
I say, Cousin, it was awful good of you to ask me."
"Think so?" and Patty tried to smile pleasantly. She avoided catching Bill's eye, for the poor man was overcome with shame and consternation that his relative should be so impossible.
"Yep,—I do. My! this place of yours is swell. I never saw such a grand house—close to. You're rich, ain't you, Cousin William?"
"So, so," Farnsworth replied, gazing at the girl in a sort of horrified fascination. "You've changed since last we met," he went on, in an endeavour to make casual conversation.
"Well, yes, I s'pose so. They tell me I was a squalling young one when you were at the Corners. Was I a terror?"
"Not then!" Bill wanted to answer, but of course he didn't.
"Not at all," he said, pleasantly. "You were a pretty baby—"
"But greatly changed,—hey?"
The girl gave him a quick glance. She was not ill-looking, as to features and colouring, but her whole effect was unattractive,—even repelling.
She had flashing black eyes, which darted from one object to another in a jerky, inquisitive way. Her scarlet lips parted over white, even teeth, but her lower lip hung, and her half-open mouth gave her an air of ignorance, often accompanied by rude staring.
Her black hair was concealed by a coarse straw hat, untrimmed save for some gaudy flowers embroidered on the straw with crude coloured wools.
"How do you like my hat?" Azalea asked suddenly. "Just the shape of a horse's hat, isn't it? But it's all the go. This dress is, too,—hope you like it,—I do."
The dress in question was a "sport suit" of a large-sized green and black check. It was cheap material, and badly cut, and its ill-fitting coat hung on Azalea's slim shoulders in baggy wrinkles. Her blouse was bright pink Georgette, beaded with scarlet beads, and altogether, perhaps her costume could not have been worse chosen or made up,—at least, from Patty's point of view.
She ignored the question about the hat, and asked the girl as to her journey.
"O.K.," Azalea returned. "Had a bang-up time. Made friends all along the line. Some of 'em coming to see me. Hope you'll like 'em."
She stretched out luxuriously in the long chair, throwing her arms above her head, and crossing her feet, which were dressed with "gun metal" stockings and shoes. Her hat was pushed awry, and wisps of hair fell at either side of her face.
"Now, perhaps you'd like to go to your room," suggested Patty, at her wits' end what to do with such an unconventional person.
"Nixy; I'm too comfortable here! I'll chuck my hat, and just enjoy myself."
Off came the hat, and was pitched on the floor. Azalea ran her fingers through her hair, making it a little more disordered than before. It was pretty hair,—or, rather would have been, if it were better cared for. Dark, almost black, with a slight inclination to curl, it was bunched into a tousled knot that was far from picturesque.
"Oh, come," said Patty, jumping up, for she couldn't stand the girl's uncouth actions another minute. "Come along with me, Azalea. You must dress for dinner soon,—and some one might come to call now. We'll have tea in your room, if you like."
"Tea! I never drink it. I like coffee,—for breakfast,—or cocoa. But see here, Cousin, don't you make any difference for me. I ain't company, you know,—just let me be one of the family, won't you?"
Many retorts flashed through Patty's mind, but she only said, "Certainly,
Azalea. We want you to be one of us."
Farnsworth was silent. The man was really aghast. What had he brought on poor little Patty! He didn't excuse himself with the thought that it was Patty's doing, not his, that Azalea was there at all, but he felt personally to blame for having such a relative and for having her there in their home. He looked helplessly at Patty, with such despair in his kind eyes, that she ran over and kissed him, in spite of the fact that they were not alone.
Azalea giggled. "That's right," she said, affably; "don't mind me! Just go right on spoonin' even when I'm around. I don't mind. And I don't wonder you took to her, Cousin William. She's a peach, for fair,—ain't she?"
"She certainly is," said Farnsworth, forcing a polite smile, but conscious of a strong desire to choke his new-found relative.
His utterly discouraged face roused Patty to fresh efforts at hospitality, and taking Azalea's arm, she persuaded her to get up from the lounging chair.
On her feet, the girl shook herself with a careless abandon of manner, unheeding the fact that a hairpin flew from her loosened hair, and she dropped the handkerchief, gloves and small bag that she had had in her lap.
"Oh, pshaw," she said, as Bill restored them, "ain't I awful! That's me—dropping things all the time! But I can pick them up myself—don't you be bothering."
She stuffed gloves and handkerchief in the bag, slinging it on her arm. "My, what a vine!" she said, pulling down a branch of the wistaria,—and, incidentally, breaking it off.
"Oh, golly! Look what I done! Just like me! But you've got plenty left."
She tossed the broken branch out on the lawn, and then turned to follow
Patty, already in the doorway.
"I'm coming!" she said, "lead the way, Cousin, I'll trail you. What a big house! Don't you ever get lost in it?"
"No," smiled Patty, "and you won't as soon as you're used to it. This way, Azalea."
"Hello! Hello! This my room?" The Western girl looked at the pretty yellow room as Patty ushered her in.
"Yes, if you like yellow,—if not—"
"Oh, yes, I like yellow good enough. Don't make any diff to me what colour a room is. Nice and big, ain't it? Say, do you care if I chuck some of the lace props into the discard?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, these here, now, faddly-duds." And Azalea whisked off a little lace stand-cover, swept up an armful of lace pillows, and was about to jerk off the lace bedspread, when Patty protested.
"Oh, wait a minute,—of course you needn't have anything you don't want,—but Janet will take off the spread."
"'Fraid I'll muss it up, hey?" Azalea laughed, "Well. I s'pose I am a terror! But honest to goodness I can't stand for those ticklers. They get in my ears!"
Patty sighed. She had grasped the situation the instant she first laid eyes on the girl, but somehow it seemed to be developing further difficulties all the time.
"Now, Azalea," she began, "let me help you get your travelling dress off and put you into your kimono, and we'll chat over a cup of tea. Oh, you don't like tea,—will you have lemonade?"
"Yep. Love it! Plenty of sugar, though."
Patty gave the order to Janet, who had appeared to look after the visitor, and turned back at the sound of Azalea's loud, strident laughter.
"Kimono! At six P.M. That's good. Why, Cousin, I use my kim for a dressing gown, I ain't going to bed,—am I?"
"No, dear. But we'll have a more cosy time, I think, if you get off your travel things and have a refreshing bath."
"Oh, well, I'll take off this rig,—I want to be choice of it, anyway.
You have dinner at night?"
"Yes, we always do."
"Well, don't make any change for me, as I said. I ain't accustomed to it, but I can stand it, I guess. Nothing fazes me!"
Azalea took off her dress and looked at the skirt with concern.
"Some dusty," she remarked, "but it'll brush off."
"Oh, yes; lay it on that chair. Janet will look after it."
"Brush it, you mean?"
"Yes; clean it and press it properly."
"My land! does your servant do that?"
"Certainly. And leave your street shoes out for her to attend to."
"Oh,—I see! She's a regular outfit! Well, I never had a maid,—but I guess I can stand one."
Janet re-entered the room at this moment, and with an attempted air of grandeur, Azalea flung herself into a low chair, and stuck out her foot to have her shoe removed.
Patty gasped. The girl changed so quickly from independence to apparent helplessness, and yet her manner was so crude and overbearing, that it was doubtful how the maid would take it.
However, Janet was not only a well-trained servant, but she adored her mistress and not for worlds would she have failed in her duty.
Quietly and respectfully she knelt before Azalea and took off her shoes and waited on her as she would have waited on any of Patty's more cultured friends.
"Yes, put on a kimono, Azalea," Patty said, this time in a decided tone, and Azalea obeyed.
Then the tea tray was brought and the two sat together for a time.
Patty was up against a crisis. She had been thinking deeply ever since
Azalea's arrival, and she was still perplexed.
Should she try now to reform the girl,—improve her manners, or at least her general attitude,—or, should she leave her to her own ways for a time, and trust to her observation of other people to show her her own faults?
It was almost impossible not to correct some of Azalea's ignorant mistakes, but still more difficult to ignore her over readiness to adapt herself to what she thought was the proper behaviour toward servants.
On the latter point Patty permitted herself a word when they were alone.
"Be a little careful with Janet," she said, pleasantly. "She's a bit peculiar as to disposition. A splendid maid, and a most capable girl,—but she doesn't like to be ordered about too definitely. You see, she knows her duties so well, and is so efficient, that it's really unnecessary to give her directions."
"Oh, pooh, she's only a servant. You oughtn't to stand for her airs. Why, our girl at home,—she was a Tartar! But I tamed her. I've a way with them—"
"Please, Azalea," and Patty smiled ingratiatingly, "remember, won't you, that this is my house and these are my servants. I have my own ways of treating them, and I'm going to ask you to work with me,—not against me."
"Dunno what you mean! I've no notion of working against you, Cousin. And don't you be high and mighty with me! We'll get along all right, if you meet me half way, but—"
Patty saw her chance. "Good, Azalea! There's my hand on that! We'll meet each other half way, and you consider my wishes and I'll consider yours."
The danger point was passed and Azalea smiled again.
"I want to see the baby," she said suddenly. "I love babies."
"To-morrow, please. She's asleep now."
"Well, I can look at her. I won't wake her. I'll be awful careful."
This interest in Fleurette touched Patty's mother heart, and she consented.
"Can I go this way?" said Azalea, looking at her kimono.
This garment was,—not entirely to Patty's surprise,—a horror of gaily flowered silkoline, but as they would see no one but the nurse, she said, "Yes; come along."
To the nursery they went and there, in her bassinette lay the baby, asleep. She looked like a lovely little flower, indeed, and Patty gazed with adoring eyes at the flushed little face.
"Oh!" cried Azalea, aloud, "what an angel baby!"
"Hush!" whispered Patty, "don't wake her!" and Nurse Winnie stood around in a state of nervous apprehension.
"No, I won't," Azalea said, in such a loud whisper, that it was scarce a whisper at all,—rather a muffled shout.
And then she poked her forefinger into the baby's roseleaf cheek.
"Pretty!" she said, beaming at the child.
"Oh, don't touch her!" Patty cried out. "Come away, Azalea!" for she really didn't know what the strange girl would do next.
"Pshaw! I didn't hurt her. If she's such a touch-me-not, she's no fun at all! But every-body's like that with their first baby! Silly! Fussy! Just ridiculous!"
"I daresay," laughed Patty, determined not to show her annoyance. "But it's time to dress for dinner,—or nearly. Come back to your room,—and—wouldn't you like to take a fifteen minute nap? It might refresh you."
"It would not! Take a nap in broad daylight! I never heard of such a thing! Oh, well, if I can't speak to that kid let's go back to my room. I'll skittle into my frock and go down to that flowery, bowery piazza again. I like that."
"What shall you put on?" asked Patty, interestedly, as Azalea made a mad dive into her trunk.
"Dunno. What say? This?" She held up a mussy looking white muslin, trimmed with coarse embroidery and some imitation lace.
"That will do nicely," Patty said, relieved that it was at least white, and not some of the flamboyant effects she saw still in the trunk. "Janet will press it off for you,—it's rumpled from packing. And then you needn't unpack, dear, Janet will do that for you."
"Oh, I thought you told me not to call on the servant for anything!"
"No," Patty said, discouraged, "I didn't quite say that,—here's Janet now. Let her do your hair for you!"
"Do my hair! Mercy gracious! I should say not! I've never had that done for me."
"But I'm sure you'll be pleased with the way she'd do it. Janet is an artist at hair-dressing."
"Nopy! nix on the barber act for little Zaly! I'll comb my own wig, thank you!"
With a comb, she stood before the cheval glass, and twisted up the dark mop into a tidy but most unbecoming coil.
"Don't you care how it looks?" cried Patty, in dismay. "Really, don't you? And you've such pretty hair!"
"Then if it's pretty hair, it doesn't need any fancy doing," and Azalea gave a whimsical smile. "There, that's done. Now for my frock."
Janet had whisked the white muslin away, and already had it back, pressed and freshened.
"Lovely!" Azalea exclaimed; "how ever did you do it so quick? Happen to have an iron on the stove?"
"Electric iron," said Patty, briefly. "They're always handy, you know."
"Never saw one. No, Miss Janet,—not that way, it hooks in the back."
At last, Azalea was attired, and looked fairly presentable in her white frock; though having no white shoes and stockings she wore black ones.
"I'd like white ones," she said, apologetically, "but I could only have two pairs so I got black and the ones I wore here."
"Quite right," said Patty, appreciatively; "I'll be glad to get you some white ones. They'd be pretty with this frock."
"Oh, thank you. I'd love to have 'em. Where we going now?"
"Suppose you come to my room, while I dress," Patty suggested, thinking an object lesson in the arts of the toilette might not be amiss.
"O.K.," and the visitor strode along by the side of her hostess.
They were a contrast! Patty, dainty, graceful and sweet, was the very antithesis of tall, gawky Azalea, with her countrified dress and badly made black shoes. Her careless air, too, was unattractive,—for it was not the nonchalance of experience, but the unselfconsciousness of sheer ignorance of urban ways and manners.
"My land! what a room," the country girl ejaculated, as they entered Patty's boudoir. "How ever can you live in this fancy place! It's like a picture!"
"It is," agreed Patty, pleased at the comment. "But I love it. I'm afraid I'm too fond of soft lights and pretty appointments, and delicate fragrance."
"Well, you've got it! My land! I'm afraid to move around! I don't want to break anything."
"You won't," laughed Patty. "Sit there, and we can talk while I get into my gown. I do my own hair, too," and she shook down her mop of golden curls, to Azalea's hearty admiration.
CHAPTER VI
TABLE MANNERS
Patty's dining-room was beautiful. She argued that as an appreciable percentage of one's waking hours were spent there, care and thought should be given to its appointment.
The colouring was soft old blue, and the furniture of mahogany. The lights were pleasantly shaded and the sideboards and cabinets showed attractive silver and glass in immaculate order.
"The flowers are in your honour," said Patty, smiling, as they took their places at the table, in the centre of which was a bowl of azaleas.
"Ho, ho! You needn't have done that! I ain't accustomed to such grand things."
"Now, Azalea, flowers on the table aren't especially grand. I think I should have them,—if I could,—if I were eating in the middle of the Desert of Sahara."
"I believe you would," said Bill, smiling at her; "Patty is a flower-worshipper, Zaly. Zaly's the name your mother called you when you were a tiny mite. Tell me about your father? Was he willing to be left alone?"
"Oh,—he didn't mind. What lovely silver you have, Patty."
"Yes; they are my wedding presents."
"Oh, tell me all about your wedding!"
"I didn't have any. I mean, not a big reception and all that. We were married in haste,—so we could have a chance to repent at leisure,—if we want to."
"And do you?" asked Azalea, with such a serious air that the other two laughed.
"I haven't had leisure enough for that yet," Bill declared.
"And I don't know what leisure means," Patty said. "I'm busy from morning till night. If we ever get any leisure,—either of us,—perhaps we'll begin on that repentance performance."
But Patty's happy face, as she turned it toward her husband, left little doubt as to her state of satisfaction with her life. Though, as she said, she was always busy, it was by her own wish, and she would have been miserable if she had had nothing to do.
Azalea, as Bill expressed it later to Patty, was a whole show!
The girl was ignorant of manners and customs that were second nature to her hosts, and was even unacquainted with the uses of some of the table furniture.
But this they had expected, and both Patty and Bill were more than ready to ignore and excuse any lapses of etiquette.
However, they were not prepared for Azalea's attitude, which was that of self-important bravado. Quite conscious of her shortcomings, the girl's nature was such that she preferred to pretend familiarity with her strange surroundings and she assumed an air of what she considered elegance that was so funny that the others had difficulty to keep from laughing outright.
She was especially at great pains to extend her little finger when she raised a glass or cup, having evidently observed the practice among people she admired. This finally resulted in her dropping the glass and spilling water all over her dinner plate.
"Hang it all!" she cried; "ain't that me! Just as I get right into the swing of your hifalutin ways, I go and upset the applecart! Pshaw! You'll think I'm a country junk!"
"Not at all," said Patty, kindly, "'twas an accident that might happen to anybody. Norah will bring you a fresh plate. Don't think of it."
"No, I won't have a fresh plate. I'm going to keep this one, to serve me right for being so awkward." And no amount of insistence would persuade the foolish girl to have her plate changed.
"Nonsense, Azalea!" Farnsworth remonstrated, "you can't eat that chicken, floating around in a sea of potato and water! Don't be a silly! Let Norah take it."
"No, I won't," and a stubborn look came into the black eyes. But in the meantime, Norah had attempted to remove the plate,—carefully, not to spill the water.
Azalea made a clutch at it, and succeeded in overturning the whole thing,—and the food fell, partly in her lap and partly on the pretty tablecloth.
"Never mind," said Patty, gaily. "Leave it all to Norah,—she'll do a conjuring trick."
And sure enough, the deft waitress whisked the details of the accident out of sight, spread a large fresh napkin at Azalea's place, set another plate for her, and was passing her the platter of chicken almost before she realised what was going on.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed; "that was some stunt! Say, I'm sorry, Cousin Patty,—but I'm a little kerflummixed,—and I may as well own up to it."
"Oh, don't be that!" Patty laughed, carelessly. "Forget the past and enjoy a piece of hot chicken. It's real good,—isn't it?"
"It's great! I never tasted anything like it!" Whereupon, Azalea took in her fingers a wing and, with both elbows on the table, proceeded to enjoy it in her own informal way. But both little fingers were carefully extended at right angles to the others. She glanced at them now and then, to make sure.
Her equanimity restored by Patty's kindliness and tact, the girl lapsed into what was, doubtless, her customary way of eating. She displayed undue gusto, smacked her lips at the appearance of a dainty dish and when the dessert proved to be ice cream, she rolled her eyes ceilingward, and patted her chest in a very ecstasy of anticipation.
It was too much for Farnsworth. He appreciated Patty's patience and endurance, but he knew just how she felt. And it was his cousin who was acting like a wild Indian at their pretty home table!
"Azalea," he said,—Norah had left the dining-room,—"who brought you up?
Your mother died some years ago. With whom have you lived since?"
"Why,—oh,—only with Papa."
"But Uncle Thorpe,—I remember him well,—was a simple soul, but he was a quiet, well-behaved man. Why didn't he teach you to be more restrained in your ways,—especially at table?"
"Restrained? Oh, you mean I eat too much! Well, I have got a big appetite, but to-night I guess I'm specially hungry. Or else your eats are specially good! You don't mind how much I eat, do you, Cousin Patty?"
"Of course she doesn't," Farnsworth went on, trying to look severe but obliged to smile at Azalea's total unconsciousness of any wrong manners on her part. "But she does care if you behave like a 'wild and woolly,' although she's too polite to say so!"
"Wild and woolly nothing! I've been awful careful to crook out my finger,—and that's the very reason why I upset the tumbler!"
"That's true," agreed Patty, "and so, Zaly, suppose you discontinue that habit. It isn't done this year."
"Honest? That so? I'd be mighty glad to quit it!"
"Do, then," put in Bill. "And while we're on the subject, you won't mind if I go into it a little more deeply,—will you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for one thing, they don't put elbows on the table this season as much as formerly."
"Pooh! I know that! I didn't mean to,—but I forgot. I guess I know how to behave,—if I don't always do it!"
"I'm glad you do, Zaly,—and, listen, dear, you're my relative, you know, and I'm going to ask you to try to use your knowledge,—for Patty is too polite to mention such subjects!"
"Oh, I don't mind! Pick on me all you like,—either of you. I suppose there are some frills I'm not onto,—but I'm quick at catchin' on,—and I'll get there, Eli!"
Norah returned then, and the subject was not continued. Coffee was served in the library and the small cups excited Azalea's scorn.
"Skimpy, I call it!" she cried. "And where's the milk?"
"You may have cream if you wish it, Azalea," said Patty, a little tired of smiling. "Norah will bring some."
"Oh, let me get it," and Azalea jumped up. "I remember, Patty, you told me not to trouble the servants too much."
"Sit down!" Farnsworth said, in a tone that made Azalea jump. "Wait for
Norah to bring it."
"Oho! you believe in making the lazy things work, don't you! What's the use of hiring a dog, and doing your own barking? That's right!"
Patty struggled with her annoyance, overcame it, and making a gesture to Bill to keep quiet, she warded off his angry explanations, and took the situation in her own hands.
"Here's cream, Azalea," she said, as the maid reappeared, "many people like it in after dinner coffee, and you're very welcome to it."
"Licking good!" was the verdict, as Azalea stirred her coffee, and drank the tiny cupful at one draught. "The sample's fine! I'll take a regular sized cup, please."
"For breakfast," smiled Patty. "That's all we serve at night. Are you fond of music, Azalea?"
"You bet! Why, we've got some records that are just bang-up!"
"I remember Uncle Thorpe was quite a singer," said Bill; "do you sing, too?"
"Not so's you'd notice it! My voice is like—"
But the description of Azalea's singing voice was interrupted by the entrance of two young people. Betty Gale and her brother Raymond stepped in at the open French window, and laughingly announced themselves as daring intruders.
"Very welcome ones," declared Patty, jumping up to greet them, and then
Farnsworth introduced Azalea.
"You're the real purpose of our visit," said Betty, her charming little face alight with gay welcome. "We adore our neighbours, and they simply worship us,—so we're quite prepared to take any friends or relatives of either of them into our hearts and homes."
"My!" said Azalea, unable to think of any more fitting response, and taking Betty's outstretched hand, with her own little finger carefully extended.
Betty Gale's eyes opened wide for a fraction of a second, then she as quickly accepted the situation, and said, cordially, "I'm sure we shall be friends. And you must like my scapegrace brother, too, if only for my sake."
"At first," supplemented Raymond, as he stepped toward Azalea, "but as soon as you know me better, you'll love me for myself alone,—I feel sure of that!"
"My!" said Azalea again. Her bravado deserted her in the presence of these two merry visitors. They seemed so at ease, so knowing, so carelessly polite, that Azalea felt as if they were beings from some other sphere. The Farnsworths, she knew, made allowance for her because she was a guest in their household, but these people seemed to expect her to be like themselves, and she suddenly realised she couldn't be as they were.
A strange contradictory streak in her nature often made her assume an accomplishment she did not possess, and now, knowing she couldn't chat in their lively fashion, she took refuge in an attitude of bold hilarity, and talked loud and fast.
"I'll love you, if you make love to me good and proper," she said, with a burst of laughter. "But I've got a beau back home, who'll go for you, if he knows it!"
"Oh, we'll keep it secret," returned young Gale; "I'm awfully good at keeping secrets of that sort! Trust me. And it shall be my earnest endeavour to cut out said beau. Meet me halfway, won't you?"
"Yes, indeed, and then some! I'm a great little old halfway meeter, you bet!"
"I'm sure of it!" Gale was laughing now. "Let's go out on the verandah and talk it over."
"Don't trust him too implicitly, Miss Thorpe," warned Betty; "my brother is a first-grade scalawag,—and I want you to be forewarned!"
"There, there, Sis, I'll do my own forewarning. Come along, Miss Thorpe, we'll sit under the spreading wistaria tree."
The two disappeared, and there was a moment's silence, and then Patty said,
"Our cousin is from Arizona, and it's hard for her, at first, to adapt herself to our more formal ways. It must be great out there,—all wide spaces, and big, limitless distances—"
"God's country!" said Farnsworth, who always had a love for his Western wilds.
"Nix!" cried Betty, "I've been there, and it's just one cactus after another!"
"Well, cactuses are all right,—in their place," said Patty, smiling.
"They're as much verdure as maples or redwoods."
"Quite different kind of verdure," said Betty. "Now, Patty, I want to do something for your cousin,—right away, I mean, to help you launch her."
"Oh, no, Betty; you're awfully kind, but—"
"Yes, I shall, too. I'm your nearest neighbour, and it's my right. I suppose you'll give her a luncheon or something, first, and then I'll follow it with a tea, or a dance, or whatever you like. There'll be lots of things for her later on, so I want to get my bid in first. How pretty she is."
"You're a darling, Betty," cried Patty, enthusiastically, touched by her friend's kindness, "but,—well, there's no use mincing matters,—I'm not sure Azalea is quite ready to be presented to society."
"Oh, but your cousin—"
"Indeed she isn't!" put in Farnsworth, "I want you to understand that she's my cousin,—not Patty's. And, also my wife's quite right,—Azalea is not ready for social functions,—of any sort. You see, Betty, we can't blink the facts,—she's of the West, western,—in the least attractive sense. I'm fond of my home, and unashamed of my people, but all the same, I'm not going to have Patty embarrassed by the ignorance and awkwardness of an untutored guest. And so here's where I set my foot down. We accept no invitations for Azalea until we think she is in trim to make a correct appearance in society."
"Oh, Cousin Bill, I overheard you and I think you're just horrid!" Azalea came running back into the room, while Raymond Gale followed, evidently in a dilemma how to act.
"Cousin Patty would let me go, I know, and I want to go to Miss Gale's to a party! Just because I upset a glass of water at dinner, you're mad at me! It isn't fair! I think you're real mean!"
The girl went up to Farnsworth and almost scowled at him as she awaited his response.
But he looked at her steadily,—even sternly.
"Of course it must be as Patty says," he told her, at last, "but I will say, Azalea, that I'm surprised at you—"
"Why should you be surprised at me? You invited me to come and see you. If I'm not good enough to visit you, I'll go home again. You didn't ask me any questions,—you just said come along,—and I came. I ain't a swell,—like these friends of yours,—but I am your cousin, and you've got no right to scorn me!"
"That's so, Bill," Patty said, seriously; "and here's another thing. Betty has met Azalea now,—she knows just what she is. If she still cares to ask her to her house, I shall approve of her going. I want to do all I can for our cousin, and there's no better way to teach people to swim, than to throw them into the water!"
"Bully for you, Cousin Patty!" Azalea cried, her eyes snapping at Bill.
"I'm not so bad as I might be, and I'll do just what you tell me."
"I'm sure you will," agreed Betty, and Farnsworth looked at her appreciatively, feeling a deep sense of gratitude at the way she was helping Patty out.
"It seems hard on you, Azalea," he went on, "to talk of you like this,—as if you were not present,—but it is so. You need,—I'm not going to hesitate to tell you,—you need a thorough training in matters pertaining to polite society. Unless you are willing to accept our teachings and do your best to profit by them,—I am going to send you back home! For much as I want to be kind and helpful to my young cousin,—I will not even try, if it makes my wife any trouble or embarrassment."
"Oh, pshaw, Little Billee,—leave Azalea to me,—I can manage her."
"You can't, Patty, without her cooperation and willingness. Will you promise those, Azalea?"
"Sure I will! I'm a great little old promiser,—I am!"
"And will you keep your promises?"
"You bet! I don't want to go home when I've just got here! And if my learning things is my meal ticket,—then I'm ready to learn."
Farnsworth sighed. He had had, as yet, no chance to talk to Patty alone, since their misfit visitor had arrived. He had been firmly resolved to send her home again,—until now, that Patty and Betty seemed willing to take her in hand. If they were, it would be a great injustice to the Western girl not to give her the chance to learn refinement and culture from those two who were so well fitted to teach her.
And, anyway,—he continued to muse,—perhaps Azalea's worst faults were superficial. If she could be persuaded to amend her style of talk and her gauche manners, perhaps she was of a true fine nature underneath. His Uncle,—so-called,—and his Aunt Amanda, he remembered as kindly, good-hearted people, of fair education, though lacking in elegance.
"Oh, don't take it so seriously," cried the vivacious Betty, as she noted Farnsworth's thoughtful face: "leave the little girl to us for a few weeks,—and you will be surprised at the result! You'll do just as I tell you,—won't you, Azalea?"
"If you tell me the same as Cousin Patty," was the reply, and the strange girl gave Patty a look of loyalty and admiration that won her heart.
"That's right, Zaly, dear," Patty cried, "you're my girl, first, last and all the time! And we'll both do as Betty says,—because she knows it all! She knows lots more than I do."
"Indeed I do!" and the saucy Betty laughed. "Well, then, I'll arrange for a dance for Azalea very soon. Do you dance?"
"I don't know," replied Azalea, "I never tried."
CHAPTER VII
MYSTERIOUS CALLERS
Big Bill Farnsworth came into the nursery, where Patty was playing with the baby. It was the nurse's luncheon hour, and Patty always looked after Fleurette then.
"Take her, Daddy," Patty cried, holding up the soft, fragrant little bundle of happy humanity, and Farnsworth grasped the child in his strong careful way, and tossed her up high above his head.
The baby laughter that followed proved Fleurette's delight in this performance, and she mutely insisted on its repetition.
"Azalea does that," said Patty, in a troubled tone, "she is strong and very athletic, I know, but I can't bear to see anybody toss baby around but you."
"No; Azalea oughtn't to do it,—she is strong, but she isn't careful enough. Don't allow it, Patty."
"I do forbid it, but she comes in here when I don't know it,—or she picks baby out of her carriage, Winnie says, and tosses her clear up and catches her again."
"I'll speak to her about it; why, she'll drop the child some day! She must not do it!"
"I wish you would speak to her," Patty sighed. "Azalea is really a trial. I don't know what to do with her. Sometimes she is so sweet and docile that I think I'm teaching her to be a civilised person, and then she flies off at a tangent and she's as unruly and intractable as she was at first."
"How long has she been here now?"
"Nearly a month. I've tried and Betty has tried,—and, yes, Azalea has tried herself,—but we can't seem to—"
"Camouflage her!"
"That's just it! I want her to look like the background she's against here,—and she doesn't!"
"I should say not! Last night at dinner she threw herself back in her chair and yawned openly—"
"Openly! It was all of that! I saw her,—across the table through the flowers. And, Billee,—she's queer—that's what she is,—queer!"
"Have you noticed that, too? Yes, she is queer,—here take this
Little Flower. She's nearly asleep."
"So she is,—give her to me,—there, there, mudder's pressus,—petty poppity,—yes, she's queer!"
"Who? Fleurette?"
"You know very well I don't mean Fleurette! I mean that Pride of the West,—that stranger within our gates,—that thorn in the flesh,—that awful Azalea!"
"Meaning me?" and Azalea herself popped her head in at the nursery door.
"Yes," replied Farnsworth, imperturbably, "meaning you. Come in, Azalea,
I want to speak to you. When have you heard from your father?"
"Let me see—about a week ago, I think."
"Will you show me the letter?"
"Why, how inquisitive you are! What do you want to see it for?"
"I'd like to read it. I suppose it isn't distinctly a private letter."
"N-no, of course not. But, the truth is,—I haven't got it."
"What did you do with it?"
"I—I tore it up."
"Was it unpleasant?"
"No, but as I had answered it,—I didn't need to keep it."
"What was in it? Tell me,—in a general way."
"Oh,—it said—he hoped I was well,—and he—he hoped you were well,—and—"
"And he hoped Patty was well! and he hoped the baby was well,—yes,—and after those polite hopes, what else did he say?"
"Why,—why, I don't know,—I guess that was about all."
"Oh, it was! Why didn't he tell you something about himself? What he was doing,—or going to do?"
"I don't know. Papa isn't very much of a letter writer."
"Well, he used to be! It was his special forte. I've had letters from him a dozen pages long. I don't believe he's outgrown his bent of letter writing. Now, listen, to this, Azalea, the next letter you get from him, I want you to show it to me, see? If there's anything in it you don't want me to know about, cut that out,—but show me at least the beginning and the ending,—and a part of a page. You hear me?"
"Of course I hear you,—not being deaf! And I'll show you the letter,—if I think of it."
"You'll think of it,—I'll see to that, myself. You ought to get one soon, oughtn't you?"
"No,—I haven't answered his last one yet."
"Why, you just said you had!"
"Oh, I meant the one before the last—"
"You meant nothing of the sort. And, mind you, Azalea, this is a direct command,—you must show me his next letter."
"I won't take commands! How dare you? You have no right to order me about so. I hate you!"
"Don't talk so, Zaly," Patty said, gently. "Cousin Bill isn't asking anything out of the way. There's no reason you shouldn't show him your father's letter,—in part, at least,—is there now?"
"N—no,—but I don't want to."
"Of course you don't," put in Bill, "and for a very good reason!"
"What reason?" cried Azalea, her black eyes flashing.
"You know as well as I do."
"I don't!"
"Very well, say no more about it now,—only remember I want to see the next one."
Azalea flounced out of the room, very angry, and muttering beneath her breath.
"What in the world, Little Billee, are you getting at?" asked Patty, as she cuddled Fleurette into her shoulder.
"There's something queer, Patty, something very queer about that girl!"
"You've oft repeated that assertion, Sweet William,—just what do you mean by it?"
"What I say, Faire Ladye! There's something rotten in the state of
Denmark,—there is that!"
"But why are you so anxious to see her father's letters?"
"They're part of the queer element. Have you ever seen her get one,—or read one from him?"
"Not that I definitely remember; but she may easily have read them right before me, and I not have known it."
"But wouldn't she be likely to read a word or two,—or deliver some polite message he might send?"
"I should think so,—but she never has."
"That's the queerness."
"Oh, do tell me, dear, what you're getting at! Do you think Mr. Thorpe is dead,—and she never told us? There'd be no sense in that!"
"Not a bit! It's something queerer than that."
"Do you think he's married again?"
"Queerer than that."
"Will-yum Farnsworth, if you don't tell your own wife what you mean,
I'll never speak to you again! There!"
"At risk of that awful condition of things, I won't tell you just yet. But you do this. Here's something you can do toward solving the mystery,—and I can't. Find out for sure,—don't ask her, but see for yourself,—if Azalea gets a letter from Horner's Corners addressed in a big, bold Spencerian hand. I remember Uncle Thorpe's handwriting perfectly, and it's unmistakable. I've not seen it since Azalea came."
"Goodness, do you call it a mystery?"
"I do, indeed. You'll find out it's a pretty startling mystery, or I miss my guess."
"Well, Azalea is a handful, I admit, but I think she's good at heart, and she is devoted to my booful little Fleury-floppet! My own Dolly-winkums,—who looks prezackly like her Daddy-winkums!"
"Patty, you'll go to the lunatic asylum some day, if you let yourself talk such gibberish!"
"Listen to him, Baby mine, my flubsy-dubsy,—my pinky-poppy-petal, listen to your dreadful Dads! Isn't he the—"
"The what?" and Farnsworth strode across the room and took his wife and child both into his big bear-like embrace.
"The dearest, sweetest man in the world!" Patty said, laughing but nearly smothered in his arms.
"All right, you're excused," and he let them go.