The days slipped by with wonderful swiftness after the trunks had been unpacked and things had settled down to the regular routine. Patricia wondered at the evenness of their minds and the serenity of their hearts in those first three weeks of studio life.
"Everything goes so smoothly," she confided to Miss Jinny one day at the end of the fortnight. "It sounds monotonous, but I don't mean it that way at all. We're all sonaturallypolite and agreeable. We don't seem to have to force ourselves a bit."
"That's because we've each of us got something to do," declared Miss Jinny emphatically. "If we were idling around, musing on ourselves from morning till night like some poor creatures do, we'd get prickly mighty soon. People were made to work, and it's flying in the face of Providence to try to get away from it. We all got our share in the curse of Adam, and the sooner we realize it, the better for us."
Patricia played with the handle of the great glittering brass amphora that stood by the low stool where she sat. Her face was puzzled though not disquiet.
"I wonder just what my work will turn out to be?" she said thoughtfully. "I'm beginning to be afraid I haven't any real work of my own. I've tried so hard to get on with the modeling—for I do love it—but it just seems as though I couldn't. That first head that they liked so much, and the study of Ju is about all the sculpture I've got in my system, I reckon. I'm downright ashamed to let them know——"
"You needn't be," declared Miss Jinny vigorously. "You never pretended you were in it for anything but sport, did you? Bruce knows you're about through with it; I heard him say so to Elinor yesterday."
"Oh, did he though?" cried Patricia, kindling. "How clever of him to see. I thought no onedreamed!"
Miss Jinny chuckled. "We knew you were only marking time till you stepped off into your music," she said encouragingly. "It was nice, of course, that you got along so well, but no one expected you to take to it for good and all."
Patricia sighed contentedly. "How nice you all are!" she said appreciatively. "I thought you'd all be disgusted with me if I quit. After Mr. Grantly said that study of Ju showed promise, I nearly wore myself to a bone trying to make good. I've been scared stiff about it."
"Don't you worry, Miss Pat. You'll find your own work all in good time. It mayn't be what you'd like it to, but it'll be something that you can do better than any one else," said Miss Jinny with kind wisdom. "Look at me. I'm sure that books and catalogues is my forte, but the Lord knows better. He's given me the sense to see it, too, and so mama is comfortable and happy and someone else who hasn't a dear mother depending on her does the library work in my place."
"You're a darling," said Patricia, "and the Lord must be terribly fond of you."
"Patricia Louise Kendall! That's sacrilege!" gasped the scandalized Miss Jinny.
"Is it?" exclaimed Patricia, equally startled. "I didn't know it was. Mr. Spicer said it himself yesterday when he was talking to me in the print room, and I was telling him about your poor basket and saving bank, and all that. I'm awfully sorry, Miss Jinny."
Miss Jinny had a queer look, Patricia thought, as she turned hurriedly away with a murmured excuse about the tea table.
"Why, it's all ready," cried Patricia wondering at her changed manner. "We put the sliced lemon on the very last thing."
But Miss Jinny was not to be diverted into talk again, and as she started out of the studio the bell came to her aid, buzzing shrilly an insistent summons to the door.
"That's Griffin; I know her ring!" cried Patricia jumping up. "I'll go."
Griffin it was, in the highest good humor and bursting with news. She did not wait to get out of her coat before she began to unbosom herself to them both, alternately addressing each in turn.
"Kendall Major's missed it, I tell you, going off to that poky architectural show," she declared to Miss Jinny. "We had the time of our lives today in life class. Benton's up in the air because Howes showed him that Ascension study she did over here—you know he never could bear Haydon or his work—and he was as mad as hops that he should be butting in with any of his own special pets like Howes."
"How mean!" cried Patricia spiritedly. "Bruce hasn't even seen that study. What did he say about it?"
"Oh, he couldn'tsayanything right out," replied Griffin knowingly, "but he made it hot for us, I tell you. Poor old Bottle Green caught it first, for painting before he'd given her permission, and then he jumped on me for not painting. Radford caught it and then he lit on Slovinski for using the Whistler palette, and she justblew up! These Poles aren't like us tame tabbies, you know, and she's full of ginger, for all her sleepy ways. She's terribly high-born, you know, and can't bear anyone to look cross-eyed at her."
"What did she do?" asked Patricia eagerly.
"Slammed him good and hard," returned Griffin succinctly. "Told him he was fifteen different sorts of a lobster."
"Oh, do talk English, Griffie dear," begged Patricia, laughing. "Miss Jinny doesn't understand your Choctaw speech."
"Well then, she rebuked him thoroughly for his variable though severe criticisms, and stated, with some emotion, that the Board should be enlightened as to his unfitness, through his captious temper, for the delicate task of nourishing the tender sensibilities of the budding artist."
"My word, she wasn't shy, was she?" interpolated Patricia, much diverted.
"Not she," declared Griffin. "We were all in a blue fit. Not that we old stagers are sorry for the man, but it shocked our sense of what's due him as a teacher. I was fearfully ashamed of Slovinski, but itwasfun to see how astounded he looked. He just stood looking at her more quietly than I'd ever seen him look at any one, and then he bowed and asked her if she'd quite finished. Jiminy, but he was polite! We all got a chill. Slovinski sat down, and we took to work again. Benton went on criticizing as if nothing had happened, but we felt mighty queer. Then Bottle Green stooped over to get her paint-box, and up she starts, most tragic-like, with her hand, on her shoulder, and she solemnly announces she's broken her arm."
"Poor thing, she's done it at last!" cried Patricia compassionately. "Then what happened?"
"She got safely off, and then the model began to look queer, and in a minute she'd fainted. Howes brought her to with a glass of mineral water, and the class broke up. But the model didn't go. After Benton had made a small spicy speech of farewell—he's leaving, can't stand being sassed—she got up on the stand and gave us a bunch of monologues that were out of sight. She used to be on the variety stage until she lost her voice. I tell you, Kendall missed it."
"What did I miss?" called Elinor's voice from the other room, where she had come in unnoticed.
She came to the doorway with her hat and furs still on and repeated the question. Griffin gave her a synopsis of the row and the casualties following, which she received with a little protesting laugh.
"I can't say it sounds better than the architectural show," she said, pulling out her hat-pins.
"That part wasn't," agreed Griffin, "though a bit more sporting perhaps. But what came after was. Mary Miller, the model, told us the most wonderful story—her own life, first in the bush in Australia and then here in New York and Chicago; and who do you think she is?"
"Melba in disguise?" mocked Elinor gayly.
"Stuff!" snorted Griffin, impatiently. "Her family comes from Rockham, and her grandmother used to live at Greycroft. She's going out to see the place when it gets warmer. I didn't tell her you lived there now, for I didn't know whether you'd want——"
"Lands to goodness, I believe I've seen her!" exclaimed Miss Jinny. "There was a Mary Miller, a little thing about five, used to play about the place when old Miss Spence lived there. Her mother married again and went to Australia. Must be the same one."
"Come over to the shop tomorrow and see if it isn't—" Griffin began, when there was a sound of laughter and talking in the outer hall and the door opened to admit Bruce, Margaret Howes, the two Halden girls and Judith.
Mr. Spicer and Mrs. Shelly came in almost at the same time, and Miss Jinny's delicious tea and nut-cakes were served with great gayety and lively chatter. The Haldens, having come from a two-days vacation at Rockham, were full of neighborhood gossip and gave very circumstantial accounts of Greycroft, Hannah Ann and Henry.
"We saw Hannah Ann and Henry on Saturday and got all the news about the place from them. Major had the colic one night, but Hannah Ann saved him with a quart of homeopathic pills," laughed Miriam. "Everything looked just as natural as life when we drove by this morning. They'll be mighty glad to see you all when you go back."
"What are you putting up in the garden, Elinor?" asked Madalon, stirring her tea. "I noticed that Henry had a lot of poles planted along the south shrubbery——"
Judith's dismayed exclamation cut short her account of the activities at Greycroft.
"Now you've done it!" cried Judith in distress. "She knows all about it, and I meant it for a surprise! Oh dear!"
"I'm awfully sorry—" began Madalon, contritely, but Judith was too deeply disappointed to be very polite.
"Hannah Ann and I have been writing about it for ever so long," she lamented, "and we were having it put just where you wanted it, Elinor, and Henry got the trees from the wood lot, and we were going to have it for a surprise—" She broke off, choking.
Elinor slipped an arm about her. "But what is it, Ju dear?"
"A pup-pup-pergola," spluttered Judith, recovering a bit. "Just the sort you wanted. And we planned for Miss Pat to make one of those lovely stone seats out of concrete. But it isn't any use, now," she ended forlornly.
"Don't be a muff," said Patricia briskly. "It's twice as good, don't you see, coming out this way? Here are eight people surprised all in a bunch, instead of merely Elinor and poor me. You've sprung it in the very nick of time, Infant."
"Sure thing," supplemented Griffin genially. "I'm in it now, and if you'd put it off, I'd been in Kalamazoo or Madagascar, and missed it all."
Judith with this encouragement began to take heart, and by the time Mr. Spicer and Margaret Howes had joined their congratulations to the others, she was fully recovered and enjoying herself immensely, arguing with Margaret Howes and Bruce as to the shape of the projected seat with a freedom that was usually denied her.
The subject of Mary Miller was brought up and discussed with great interest. Everyone advocated Miss Jinny's visit to the Academy, and Judith added the hope that the descendant of the old housekeeper at Greycroft might be able to throw some light on the disappearance of the old miser's silver and bank books, a remark that caused some consternation among the elder members of the party.
"Don't you go making suggestions of that sort," warned Bruce, with impressive authority. "The girl will feel as though her great-grandmother were a thief."
"Oh, I wouldn't put it that way," cried Judith, scandalized. "I'd just sort of hint around gently. Maybe they dug it up long ago."
"Ju's got the idea from her last thriller that the Dutchman who used to live at Greycroft buried his treasure somewhere about the place," explained Patricia to Griffin. "I suppose she'll spend her time grubbing this summer."
Griffin pushed up her blouse sleeve, showing a remarkably thin arm. "I'm your man, if you ever want a pal," she said to Judith. "I'm trained down to the right weight now and ready for business."
Judith did not know whether she was being chaffed or not, so she dexterously changed the subject.
"Doris Leighton's sister has the scarlet fever," she announced, enjoying the stir that the name caused, "and Doris is nursing her. She takes turns with the nurse, and Geraldine cries when she goes out of the room."
"Phew, that doesn't sound like our fine lady of the stony heart!" exclaimed Griffin. "Are you sure, kidlet?"
Judith nodded emphatically. "Mrs. Leighton told Miss Hillis over the phone, and she told the class, as 'an example of sisterly devotion,' she called it. I felt like telling herwhat I knew."
"Judith Kendall, you're a little monster!" cried Patricia, indignantly. "Even if Doris did cheat, she's doing a noble thing now, and we ought to be the last to blab, since Elinor got the prize. Doris had to pay for her sins and she has human feelings, too."
"Pooh, she didn't have to pay much," said Judith with the callousness of childhood. "She only gave back the prize and left the Academy."
"I'm glad to hear that she is making good now," said Margaret Howes gravely. "I always felt there was a lot of good in Leighton under her fluff."
"Perhaps it took hard rubs to bring it out," said Miss Jinny, pouring another cup for Mr. Spicer. "We poor human critters are like that sometimes. Good times spoil us. Maybe she's had it too easy, poor girl."
"Souls have muscles, the same as bodies do, and they need exercise," agreed Bruce thoughtfully. "I know lots of fellows who are failures through having too much money. It's a dangerous thing to let your soul get seedy."
"Golly, that pretty nearly hits us all, doesn't it?" said Griffin apprehensively. "I'm not so sure about myself, now you mention it. Doris Leighton may be one ahead of me in this business. Fatty degeneration of the soul is a new one to me."
They were all rather serious for a silent moment, and then Patricia spoke. Her clear voice was rather low and timid, but her eyes were shining.
"Let's phone to her and tell her that we all hope Geraldine will soon be well," she said, looking at Elinor with loving confidence.
There was a murmur of assent and Elinor rose quickly.
"The very thing, Miss Pat," she agreed radiantly. "I'll look up the number for you."
But Patricia shrank from appearing too magnanimous.
"It's your affair, Norn," she demurred. "You ought to do the talking."
So Elinor went into the sitting-room where the telephone was, and in the intervals of their rather forced conversation, they could hear scraps of her kind questions and gentle answers. When she returned to the studio, her face was glowing.
"I'm so glad you thought of phoning, Miss Pat," she said, taking her plate and cup from Bruce and seating herself by Miss Jinny. "Doris was—well, I can't tell you what she said, but she certainly isn't as bad as we thought her. She's just wrapped up in Geraldine and she seems to think that this illness is a judgment on her for the prize study."
"Poor thing," exclaimed Griffin. "Did you tell her we all asked for her?"
Elinor nodded. "She said I might as well tell you all, for it would be in the papers tomorrow. Her father has failed, and they're dreadfully poor. It's been coming on for a long while, and that was why she wanted the prize so much—not that she excused herself for it, she only said I could see how she came to stoop so low. She was frantic for the money and was so worried that she couldn't think of any subject for herself. She thought I was rich and happy and wouldn't care. She even thought I might not turn in my study at all, when I got sick that night. She's had a terrible time about it, but she was so glad to have the chance to explain."
"Why in the world didn't she say so before?" cried Griffin indignantly. "She had a chance to defend herself. We're not absolutely inhuman."
"She couldn't, don't you see, without telling her father's private affairs?" said Elinor gently. "She didn't feel that it was any excuse for her conduct, anyway."
Patricia heaved a deep sigh. "Well, I must say," she said with a triumphant look at Miss Jinny, "I do believe in first impressions and I'm glad I always liked Doris Leighton."
Miriam Halden rose regretfully. "Sorry to break up the festivities, Miss Jinny," she said, shaking hands, "but our train leaves in just ten minutes, and Madalon has on bran-new pumps with heels that cut her down to a mile an hour. We'll see you all again next week at the house-breaking, as Judith calls it."
"We'll be here," promised Madalon, following her sister's example. "We'll have to miss lunch and the Senior dance, but what's a mere dance compared to helping a neighbor say farewell to their happy little home. Look for us at twelve-thirty sharp and prepare an extra mess of pottage, for we'll both be fearfully hungry. Tell David and Tom Hughes we'll come in on the same train they do. Good-bye, be good till Saturday and then we'll all be happy."
"That Miller girl needs a good rest," said Miss Jinny emphatically.
She had come in from her visit to the Academy, where she had interviewed the model with a thoroughness that left little of her past unexplored, and her face was sad and thoughtful as she stood pulling off her gloves, finger by finger, by the big side window in the studio.
Mrs. Shelly went on with her knitting, but Patricia, who was mending a long rent in her best blouse, looked up with eager interest.
"Did you have a chance to talk to her much?" she asked, snapping off her thread in her absorption. "What is she really like? Does she remember Rockham? And does she know we have the old place?"
Miss Jinny chuckled and then grew grave and thoughtful.
"I guess she wouldn't last much longer at this business," she said, smoothing the creases out of the glove fingers. "She's got a pinched look and her cheeks are mighty pink. No, it ain't paint; I asked right out, and she answered just as nice as could be. She seems tired, poor girl, and mortally glad to have some one take an interest. She says the class rooms are so hot, and the change from living in eighty degrees to sixty-five, like it is in her room, has made her downright sick part of the time."
"It must be hard on her," acquiesced Patricia. "Why didn't she get something else to do?"
"Couldn't," said Miss Jinny, briefly. "A girl without friends or money hasn't much show in a big town. I'm going to take charge of that girl, Patricia."
Patricia felt a thrill of alarm.
"You aren't going to bring herhere?" she queried, a faint flush of shame at the selfishness of her speech creeping into her cheeks.
"Certainlynot," said Miss Jinny crisply. "I'm merely a guest here. I'm going to do something more practical, and I want you to help me, if you can stop being jealous of the poor girl, for——"
Patricia flung the sewing aside and threw her arms about her friend in a tempest of contrition. "I didn't mean to be horrid," she cried. "You know I wouldn't really be so selfish—if I thought you wanted it. But we have been so happy together here, and I wanted it to go onto the end, just like a beautiful story that ends happily. I'm sorry I seemed mean."
Miss Jinny gave her a pat and a kiss. "I guess I feel quite as much that way as you do, Miss Pat," she said with unusual softness. "I hadn't the wildest notion of bringing Mary Miller here. I'm going to take her to Rockham with me."
Patricia's heart sank, but she concealed her feelings sufficiently to reassure Miss Jinny, who went on briskly:
"I'm going to take her out with us day after tomorrow—she's not going back to the Academy—and I'm going to get work for her. There's where you can help. She's a good sewer, she says, though she'd rather live with someone and do housework."
"Shouldn't think she'd be strong enough for housework," said Patricia, puckering her brow. "Mrs. Hand wants a 'lady houseworker,' but I don't believe she'd have an ex-model. She's so awfully particular, you know."
Miss Jinny nodded. "She'd work her to death, anyway," she agreed. "She's mighty inhuman under her soft outside. Her help don't hear much of her purry ways, I can tell you. That's why they're always leaving. No, Mrs. Hand won't do." She sighed in perplexity. "I wish we were well enough off to keep her ourselves. I've taken a liking to her quiet ways, and I'd enjoy having her about, I'm sure. Most country girls are so loud and clumping that I've never wanted help before, but she's mighty different."
Patricia rubbed the end of her nose with the scissors. "There are the Haldens and the Berkleys and Tattans," she mused. "They're all supplied. Perhaps someone will leave and then she can get their place. Maybe Hannah Ann will have her help sometimes,—we can't afford to have anyone regularly, you know."
Miss Jinny rose abruptly, and putting away her things, began preparations for tea.
"Well, it's settled that she's going with us," she said comfortably. "I guess the future will take care of itself. If we do the best we can and leave the rest to the Lord, we can't go far astray. I feel that Mary Miller is going to be taken care of some way."
It had been raining all the afternoon, a gentle persistent rain that gave no sign of clearing, and they decided, after a cozy dinner at home, that their projected trip to Rockham the next day would have to be given up; but when Bruce pulled aside the curtain from the studio window to compare his watch with the illuminated disc of the St. Francis clock tower, he gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
"It's cleared off, after all," he said. "It's going to be a ripping fine day tomorrow."
They crowded to the big window, and saw, through the wet flicker of tiny sprouting leaves, a wind-swept sky with racing clouds and brilliant stars blazing in the dark, serene spaces between the hurrying masses of billowy vapor.
Judith clapped her hands. "We'll go, won't we, Bruce, and Elinor, and Miss Jinny?" she asked, whirling to each authority in turn. "We'll see dear, delectable Greycroft and have our picnic in the barn?"
"And the pup-pup-pergola, too," added Patricia mischievously.
Miss Jinny meditated for a moment. "I don't believe I'll go," she said. "I'm going back in another day or so, and mama and I will have enough of Rockham anyway. I'll stay with her and finish that library book that Mr. Spicer lent me. It's overdue now, anyway."
So it was arranged that the four of them, Elinor, Patricia, Judith, and Bruce, should take the early train to Rockham and spend the day in adjusting matters at Greycroft for their return the following Saturday, coming back to town in the late afternoon or early evening.
Just as they had finished, to their great satisfaction the studio knocker sounded the quick double knock that always heralded Griffin, and Judith flew to welcome her.
"I didn't ring," she explained, standing on the little blue rug by the umbrella stand, and jabbing her dripping umbrella into the stand. "The hall door was open and I came right in." She hesitated, and then rushed on, directing most of her speech to Elinor. "Geraldine Leighton is dying, they say, and I thought we might each send a little note to Doris—she's awfully alone, now that Mrs. Leighton is ill, you know. It mightn't help her much, but it would show her that we——"
"Dying!" cried Patricia, aghast. "Why they said she was better this morning."
Judith crept near to Mrs. Shelly and caught her hand close in both of hers. The others put eager questions. Griffin, who was deeply stirred, answered breathlessly. Suddenly, in the midst of the quiet, home-like, cozy evening, had come tragedy and the shadow of death.
Patricia had known Geraldine Leighton in a very slight and casual way, but with the word "dying," she became the heroic center of her hurrying thoughts. She saw her in the dim room with Doris and the nurse and doctor, each agonizingly intent on the slow, faltering heart-beats and the fitful, irregular breathing. As her swift mind galloped on to the end, and the subdued sounds of grief caught her inner ear, another face began to print itself rapidly on that quick-moving scene—Doris, white and haggard, looked into her eyes, and she felt her whole heart go out to her.
Griffin was just ending the sentence that had hurried the fleeting pictures through her mind when Patricia slipped away unnoticed into the hall, where she flung on a cape and soft hat of Judith's and softly let herself out.
The Leighton house was a big dark pile at the end of the street and the only light visible was in the back room where Patricia knew the struggle against death and disease was being fought out. She paused for a long look and then she ran lightly up the steps and put a shrinking finger on the bell.
It seemed an eternity till the door was grudgingly opened and a white-faced, gruff boy asked unrecognizingly what she wanted.
Patricia put her questions tremblingly, for she feared the stern, strange face of the boy in knickerbockers. She had seen him playing and shouting in the square on other days, and the change was so great that she felt death alone could have wrought it. But he answered evenly that 'Geraldine was just the same,' and was closing the door when Patricia stopped him. After a hasty parley, on his part, at first stubborn and then yielding, the door closed and Patricia, with beating heart, ran down the steps and hurried to the side of the house where the long windows of the drawing room protruded their iron balconies over the sidewalk.
Here she waited in the shadow of the fluttering violet arc light, with her eyes fastened to the silent, insensible windows. Ten minutes that seemed ten eternities went lagging by. Tears of disappointment rose to Patricia's eyes and she shivered as the gusts of west wind flung the drops from the saturated trees in a silver shower across the darkened panes.
"I'll count ten, and then I'll go," she said to herself.
The windows remained dark, and the only sounds on the quiet side street were the wind in the wet trees and the sizzle of the arc light above her head.
"Five, six, sev——"
She sprang forward as the second window slowly moved and a muffled figure stood on the balcony.
"Oh, Doris!" was all she found to say, as she stretched eager hands toward her.
Doris shrank back with a low, horrified cry.
"Don't come near me!" she warned in a stifled voice. "Go back as far as the tree. Don't you know it's scarlet fever? I'll go in at once if you come nearer."
Patricia retreated to the tree, and Doris stood with one hand clutching the cloak and the light strong on her face. She looked more beautiful than ever to Patricia's friendly eyes, and there was a calm strength in her manner that awed while it comforted her. All consciousness of herself was gone, and, Patricia felt, gone forever, and in its place a quiet courage that spoke of conquered pride and vanity and selfishness. Doris Leighton had found herself.
In the hurried words that they exchanged there was a more solid welding of their renewed friendship than the telephone could have accomplished for them in many interviews, and they parted at the end of the allotted five minutes, each with a growing faith in the mercies of that Providence which had led them to a nobler comradeship.
Patricia, promising to give Doris' messages to Elinor and the rest, hurried off, leaving the drawing-room windows once more blank and impassive. She ran into the studio as Griffin was rising to go, with her umbrella, reclaimed from the stand, still dripping slow occasional drops unheeded on the polished floor.
They had not missed her, much to her surprise. She felt she had undergone so much, and they were still in the very state she had left them. She blurted out her triumphant account of the new Doris, almost forgetting Geraldine, and to their excited questionings and comments she flashed illuminating replies, making them see the very figure in the muffled cloak with the courageous expression on its lovely face.
There was generous and general rejoicing at her account of the brief interview, and a strong feeling that under this happier augury Geraldine must recover. Patricia went to bed feeling that the storm of the afternoon had been a type of her own day, and that for her the stars were serenely shining after the tempest of doubt and estrangement.
"Geraldine won't die," she said fervently to Elinor as she put out the light. "Iknowshe won't die."
And the morning proved her prophecy, for at the first inquiry came the joyful news that the crisis was past and Geraldine already improving.
"Now we can go on our spree with clear minds," said Judith, as they sat down to breakfast in the sunny sitting-room. "It's a perfect day and Rockham will look too sweet for anything."
"What a beautiful description of a spring day in the country by a budding literary light," commented Patricia merrily. "I'm afraid your style is rather going off, Ju! You haven't been consulting that dictionary of yours recently."
Judith merely shrugged and went on with her breakfast, while Bruce and Elinor, who had been up unusually early and were already equipped, discussed Elinor's finished wall-decoration which stood at the far end of the studio, just visible from the breakfast table. Bruce was much elated over the progress of his pupil, and prophesied great things for Elinor in time. He even went so far as to promise that the stained glass window for which she had made a cartoon should be executed and put in the little Rockham church.
Altogether they were in a happy frame of mind and life seemed very satisfactory to them. As they left the town behind and the dimpling, downy, spring-time country rolled out beyond their flying windows, they became positively hilarious, intoxicated by sunshine and spring. They found Greycroft, Hannah Ann and Henry all equally admirable. The pergola was inspected and found well-composed and attractive, and the site for Patricia's concrete seat was decided on hopefully. The picnic luncheon in the big barn, which Hannah Ann served with great delight while Henry hurried back and forth to the house with warm dishes and reinforcements of delicious food, was a glorious frolic, and even the big black clouds that swept suddenly over the luminous sky did not distress them.
"Let's stay here for a minute or two, and then run up to the house before it comes," suggested Patricia, with her chin on the half door of the barn, looking out over the tender landscape and down at the flowers in the unused barnyard far below.
Hannah Ann and Henry had disappeared with the remains of the feast and the four were alone in the big solid structure, with hay mows on either side of their banqueting floor and a smell of dry, sweet herbage in the air.
Bruce scanned the rushing yellow clouds.
"Better shut the windows there, Miss Pat," he said. "I'll close the doors and then we'll hustle. It's going to be a stunner when it comes."
Patricia had barely clicked the bolts in the glass upper doors and heard the heavy clash of the wooden contact as Bruce slid the great leaves of the big door into place, when with a swish and sweep the storm broke.
"We can't go now," cried Patricia, throwing her voice above the sound of the wind, but Bruce and Elinor at the other end of the barn were apparently absorbed in the spectacle, and did not hear her. Judith cuddled close and Patricia felt her hands go cold, but she could only clasp them harder to reassure her—no words could reach her ear.
The wind, driving furiously from the west, flung the clouds before it—great sullen masses of flying gray vapor that now broke into drenching torrents, shaking the barn and tearing at the casements. In a moment the place was dark with its roar and the rumble of coming fury undertoned the shrill screams of the greedy tempest wind.
Patricia held Judith close, with her own heart beating tumultuously to the rhythm of the storm. Hard rattling drops castinetted at the glass, beating an accompaniment to the roar of the racing clouds. For a moment all was black, then, as the whirling cloud masses swept apart, the pelting drops lulled and a gray twilight full of ominous murmurs filled the place. Before Patricia could frame the swift thought that the storm was passing, darkness swept over them again, and the fierce scream of the relentless wind tore at the corners of the barn. The rain beat, deluged, engulfed the out-of-doors; it drummed gayly with diminishing ferocity; then it roared sullenly, flooding the rain spouts to bursting; it raged again, with the scream of the wind growing higher, and snapping branches flung themselves past the gray squares of the windows, flying leaves pasted wet green blurs on the streaming glass. Judith shuddered.
"Oh, Patricia!" she cried in Patricia's ear, but the words died into the tempest.
The sound of running water outside their shelter gradually forced its way into the tumult. The road was a yellow waterway; the brook tore above the limit of its deep banks into a widening saffron river among the green meadows, which showed in the ghastly light in crude and ugly colors.
Then, suddenly as it had come, the storm passed, trailing dark, yellow-gray, ragged clouds in its wake. The light came back and the awed girls at the little window saw below them in the emerald meadows, wide ugly yellow splotches that grew as they looked, meeting other growing patches of swirling yellow water from the lanes and roads. Trees showed fresh wounds and masses of broken branches clotted the discolored waters of the brook. Birds called excitedly and flew exultantly about in the limpid air. The sun flung gay greens and golds. The storm was past.
Patricia drew a deep breath.
"Look, look!" cried Judith, her eyes alight and her whole slender little figure relaxed. "Two trees are down!"
Across the road a huge sycamore blocked the way and on the pike a giant willow had crashed down.
"Oh, Bruce, the sycamore you painted is gone!" called Patricia, not turning. "Come and see!"
Elinor came, with the painter following, and as soon as they saw the work of the storm, Bruce awoke to immediate action.
"You girls tell Henry to come down with the axe and grubbing-hoe," he commanded briskly. "I'm off." And flinging his coat to Elinor, he seized a hatchet that was lying in the stairway and started for the wreckage, while Patricia and Judith flew to fulfill his orders.
The sun shone and the birds sang while the work went on, and far down the pike they could see other prone trees with busy choppers clearing limbs and entangling foliage from the highway. A band of men begirt with axes, cords and other implements passed on their way to the school house where a big maple blocked the pike.
Patricia was tremendously interested and it was with the greatest regret that she heard the whistle of the up-train, while the tangle of the sycamore was still undisturbed in the roadway.
"Oh, do let's stay till it's all done," she urged, but Bruce and Elinor were adamant.
"What does it matter if we do miss the train?" she insisted. "We can take the early one in the morning. We'll be home almost as soon."
"I've got to pack tonight, young lady," Bruce reminded her. "I'm not so fortunate as to be coming to Greycroft, you'll remember. It takes longer to get to Chicago than to Rockham."
"Oh, that's so," acquiesced Patricia. "I suppose you do have to be there for that private view of the panels."
"And a fresh suit is advisable, too," added Bruce. "I don't want my duds to come a week later, as they did in Milwaukee. I'll make sure this time."
"All right," said Patricia, amiably. "We've had a glorious day anyway, and we'll soon be back here for keeps. I guess I'm not pig enough to grumble. Come on, Judy, we've got to go see Hannah Ann's new hat before we go. I wish she'd left us get it for her. I'm sure it's a fright."
Judith followed sedately with her head in the air.
"I'm going to ask Elinor if Hannah Ann and Henry can't come in town Saturday for the 'housebreaking,'" she said to Patricia as they climbed the stairs. "I think it would be very nice for them to see all our friends. They're suchurbane dependents."
"Did you see the Haldens on the train, Frad?" asked Patricia as she and David were talking aside by the studio window while Elinor was welcoming Tom Hughes and Griffin, Margaret Howes and Mr. Spicer, who had all arrived in a bunch, Tom having lagged behind to get a big sheaf of roses for Elinor, whom he admired immensely.
"No, we looked for them high and low, but didn't see hide nor hair of them," he answered, ruffing his hair in a way that distressed Patricia, who was very proud of his straight, shining locks.
"I wonder what keeps them?" she said anxiously. "They'd surely phone if they were detained or weren't coming. All of Bruce's friends are here, and Hannah Ann is on pins and needles for fear we'll be delayed and not get through in time for the four-forty. She was awfully glad to see you, wasn't she?"
"Yep," replied David, grinning. "I was afraid she'd regard me as an interloper in the family abode, but she gave me the glad hand in great shape. I didn't think it was in her to be so hearty. She's taken me in, all right."
"She had your room all fixed with the best covers, but Elinor persuaded her to reconsider it," smiled Patricia. "You're going to be as much at home as any of us, Frad dear, and I'm glad the time will soon be here for your school to shut up and let you come H-O-M-E,home."
The clock on St. Francis' tower boomed the hour.
"I think we'll have to begin with the feeding," said Bruce, as Miss Jinny and Mrs. Shelly, gorgeous in their very best raiment, entered from their bedroom. "Madam, may I have the privilege of escorting you to the head of the table?"
Mrs. Shelly made him a pretty little bow.
"I shall be delighted, Mr. Haydon," she said primly, to the great gratification of Judith, who had previously arranged this incident.
Elinor followed with Mr. Grantly, and Miss Jinny came next with Mr. Spicer, who was very ceremonial and splendid in new clothes of the latest pattern. Patricia thought he looked particularly radiant, and wondered how he could be so glad to say good-bye. She was about to whisper to Tom Hughes, who was next in the merry jumble that followed the first three precise couples, when there was a tremendous rapping at the studio door, and Hannah Ann in her treasured new hat rushed from Miss Jinny's room, where she had been in ambush, to the besieged portal.
Patricia, Hannah Ann, and the Haldens met on the blue rug, and Patricia was the first to find her voice.
"Well, of all people in the world!" she cried delightedly to the newcomers. "Wheredidyou come from? Why aren't you in Paris? And where's Mr. Bingham?"
A tall, good-looking man in tweeds was shaking hands heartily with Hannah Ann, while an esthetically dressed, rather languid young lady in pastel green was trying to introduce a pretty, smiling blond girl in black furs whom Patricia easily recognized as the original of the photograph that had stood on Mr. Lindley's desk at Greycroft, and the Haldens were explaining how they heard that the Lindleys were in town and so had come in on an earlier train specially to capture them for the house-breaking.
Patricia bubbled with enjoyment of the surprise. She kissed Mrs. Bingham and Mrs. Lindley, too, though she had never laid eyes on her before, and she came near kissing the tall Mr. Lindley, much to the edification of the others who had rushed from the sitting-room at the sound of the outcry.
Griffin and other intimates were introduced to the late Miss Auborn and the professor, both of whom had starred as boarders in the past summer at Greycroft when, at Judith's suggestion, the three girls had tried to retrieve their broken fortunes by means of "paying guests."
"Mr. Bingham will be along presently," said the late Miss Auborn with great composure, arranging her draperies with a careful hand. She was looking remarkably smart and it was evident that the amiable Mr. Bingham had totally eclipsed Art for her. "We only met the Lindleys by chance and Ferdinand had some business to transact that could not wait."
Patricia studied her with eager interest. The bride of half a year was still a bride to her, and the transformation of the limp, bedraggled art student into this languid, elegant young lady was an affair that had its beginnings at Greycroft, for it was under that hospitable roof that Mr. Bingham had first seen Miss Auborn. In the merry Babel of the studio party Mrs. Bingham held her own with a calm assurance that Miss Auborn had not possessed, and when Mr. Bingham, pink and smiling as ever and just a bit more bald, joined them, the air of mild authority with which she welcomed that gentleman impressed Patricia even more strongly.
As they went back to the flower-decked sitting-room, Judith edged close to whisper in her ear.
"I think Miss Jinny has hurt her hand, Miss Pat," she said with exaggerated anxiety. "She's got her handkerchief wrapped about it. I hope it isn't badly hurt—she doesn't look as if it wereinimical, does she?"
Patricia made a gesture of amused impatience. "You monkey, you aren't thinking of Miss Jinny's hand at all. Where did you get that stuffy word?"
"It isn't stuffy," defended Judith with a flash. "It's a nice, crackling word, and I got it from Arnold Bennet, if you want to know. He uses it all the time. And I've got another, too—'inept'—and that's what you are now, Patricia Kendall. I'm ashamed of your extreme indifference to the beauties of your own language."
Patricia halted by the chair at a side table where her name card lay. Her eyes were fastened on Judith with a peculiarly penetrating gaze, and her firm grasp detained the arm that would have escaped.
"Judith, my child, there's something up, and you'd better confess at once," she said gravely. "No one will hear you now while we're getting our places. What is it you're plotting?"
Judith wriggled from her with an expression of injured innocence that almost satisfied her.
"I'm not going to do anything, Miss Pat," she declared with emphasis. "You can ask Bruce if I'm 'up to' anything, as you call it."
Patricia reluctantly released her and she slipped away to her own table with Madalon Halden, Tom Hughes, and little Jack Grantly, a nephew of the sculptor, who had been invited specially for Judith's sake, and who was promptly set down by that discriminating young person as being much too young for the high post of companion to her.
Miriam Halden, Mr. Hilton, Griffin, Margaret Howes, Herbert Lester and David—officially known as Francis Edward, but particularly recognized by his twin as Frad—all sat at the same rose-decked table with Patricia, and, as Griffin put it, they made the other tables look "like thirty cents in pennies." The candle light sparkled on laughing eyes and white teeth, and ripples of merriment enlivened every mouthful of the savory dishes that Dufranne's dignified François, aided by the radiant Henry, served continuously.
Patricia felt sorry for Elinor and Bruce that they should be marooned among the elder and more serious members of the party, but, as David pointed out to her in an answering whisper, they seemed uncommonly satisfied where they were and not at all in need of sympathy.
"We're going to see the decoration—the one Elinor made for the church, you know," said Patricia to Miriam as they left the festive, disheveled sitting-room to the rejuvenating hands of Hannah Ann and Henry, and went with the chatting crowd into the big studio again. "Bruce wouldn't have the luncheon in here because we couldn't get a good view of it if the place was cluttered up with tables and things. He's fearfully proud of it. He says it's as good as lots of regular artists could do."
"She hasn't been studying long, has she?" asked Miriam, with her eyes intent on the long blue curtain that screened the decoration from sight.
"Just last summer with Miss Auborn and Bruce, and then three months at the Academy and with Bruce again," replied Patricia proudly. "Bruce wouldn't let her stay at the Academy all the time. He thinks it's best to work like the old masters used to, in the studio of some artist, doing things right away. He didn't want Elinor's originality to get barnacles, he said."
Bruce stepped to the space that had been with difficulty kept at the west side of the studio, and stood before them with his hand raised.
"We asked you today to help us break up housekeeping," he said with his winning smile; "but I must confess that I for one have deceived you. I planned to get you all here for a totally different purpose, and I trust you will approve of my craftiness when you have seen what I have to show you."
"Sure we will," interposed Tom Hughes in an unexpectedly audible stage whisper, which greatly confused him, but delighted Patricia and David.
"You all know," Bruce went on, "that I have been trying an experiment of my favorite theory of art education, but very few of you know how it has progressed. And it is to show you the result that I have lured you here today—to crow over some of you, in fact. The canvas I am going to show you was designed, executed as far as it has gone, entirely by Miss Elinor Kendall, a student of hardly more than nine months' study. The subject is the 'Nativity' and it is designed for a chancel in a small church."
As the curtain was drawn from the long canvas Patricia's eyes were on the faces of those in whose impressions she was most interested, and they gave her great satisfaction. Mrs. Bingham's eyes were wide and startled as those of the small hen who discovers that her ungainly child is really a white swan.
"She won't be patronizing Elinor after this," thought Patricia with a chuckle. "And Mr. Grantly has to swallow himself, too. He'll hate to have to eat humble pie to Bruce after all his din against Bruce's way of thinking. But they all like it, Mr. Lindley and the Halls and Mr. Spicer, too. Dear old Norn, how proud I am of you!"
Judith nudged her sharply. "Miss Jinny's got her hand unwrapped and it'sa ring!" she hissed.
But Patricia was too much absorbed to heed.
"Hush!" she cautioned, slipping an absent hand into Judith's quivering palm. "Bruce is talking. Oh, isn't hedear, to say nice things of each of us. It's like commencement time, Ju, isn't it? All the good little girls get prizes, but I wish he wouldn't go back to that honorable mention of mine. I feel like an impostor."
"Well, you needn't," expostulated Judith sagely. "You got it, didn't you?"
"Y—yes," responded Patricia dubiously. "But I'll never be an artist. I sort of felt that long ago, but now I'm dead certain of it, and it seems like a sham to haul out that effort in the face of Elinor's splendid work."
"I don't feel that way at all—" began Judith, but their murmured comments halted at Bruce's next words.
"And I am glad to tell you that the youngest of our promising students has also made good in her own department," he said, with a smile at the corner where Judith reared her head with sudden pride.
"Miss Judith Kent Kendall has just had her first story accepted and printed inThe Girl's Companion."
Patricia gasped, and in the moment's silence that fell she gave the promising authoress a little shake.
"So that was what you were up to?" she said. "I knew you had something on your mind, Judy Kendall, you crafty, clever thing. How perfectly glorious to think you're really in print!"
Judith pulled out of her embrace.
"Don't make a show of me, Miss Pat," she commanded reproachfully. "It isn't correct to show that you are so delighted."
She turned to receive the congratulations that crowded on her, and Patricia, with a gay little ripple of amusement, watched the slender childish figure straighten to its utmost height and assume an air of grave affability as Judith responded to her ovation.
"That kid is a born actress," said David in her ear. "Look at her, Miss Pat. Isn't she the picture of an eminent authoress at a club reception?"
Patricia smiled and opened her lips, but the words died away, as Bruce, now with a gayety that bespoke a different sort of announcement, mounted the model stand in the middle of the room, and rapped loudly for attention. Miss Jinny had vainly tried to grab his sleeve as he slipped past her and now stood with an expression of grim martyrdom glaring at Mr. Spicer, who was smiling at her openly and, Patricia thought, heartlessly.
"I have a postscript to add," smiled Bruce. "Sometimes, as you know, the postscript is of great importance."
He paused a moment till the silence was perfect and then he said, with a pretense of reading a notice from a sheet of paper:
"Mrs. Virginia P. Shelly announces the engagement of her daughter Virginia E. to Mr. Nathaniel Spicer, late of the Geological Survey——"
He got no further. Miss Jinny, who had won first place in the interest of the art community as Sinbad and kept it by her own wholesome goodness, was surrounded and overwhelmed. Patricia was the first to seize her unwilling hand.
"Now Ishallsee how an engaged couple behaves!" she cried triumphantly. "You shan't escape me, mind you, for I'm your very nearest friend, and I'll be your bridesmaid if you'll let me."
Miss Jinny came to herself with a chuckle. "My gracious, Patricia Kendall, what are you thinking of!" she exclaimed in growing amazement. "Are you mad enough to imagine I'm going to behave like a lunatic, just because I'm taking a new name to myself? Do behave or I'll never speak to you again!"
"That's the way to squelch her," laughed Griffin, who was pumping the beaming Mr. Spicer's hand like mad. "She'd be a regular nuisance if you encouraged her. I'll warn Bottle Green——"
"What, you don't mean to say—" interrupted Margaret Howes. "I heard that Jeffries took her to the vaudeville show and I thought that was a tremendous change of heart for nice old Greenie."
"Yep, she's engaged to Jeffries," announced Griffin with great enjoyment. "Has Elinor heard? Let's go break the news."
Patricia preceded them to the corner where Elinor, rather pale and agitated, was holding back as Bruce tried to lead her to the model stand. Patricia thought that Bruce's insistence had something to do with the decoration, which was half forgotten by most of the company, and she laid a detaining hand on Elinor's other arm.
"What do you want to make a show of her for, Bruce?" she remonstrated feelingly. "You can say all you have to say right here, can't you?"
Then her breath caught in her throat and her heart gave a suddenflop, for, as Elinor raised her left hand there was a flash and glitter of gems—a new splendid circle of diamonds scintillated on Elinor's third finger.
"Oh, Norn," she gasped, dropping her hand and searching Elinor's flushing face with questioning eyes. "You too?"
Elinor nodded mutely and clasped Patricia's two hands in her own. Bruce took Patricia's other hand in his strong, warm grasp and the three stood for a silent second as much apart from the gay, noisy scene as though a curtain had dropped between them.
"I'm awfully glad," said Patricia, recovering herself first and beginning to realize the joyfulness of the astounding news. "Let me tell them, will you?"
It was not until all the guests had gone, and David and his friends had taken their reluctant leave with fervid promises of speedy reunion at Greycroft, and the packers had disappeared with the big canvas and the cartoons [Transcriber's note: cartons?], and Hannah Ann and Henry had reduced everything to a state of perfection that even the most critical Symons in the world could not cavil at, and Bruce had said his last farewells and was on the blue rug at the studio door with his hand on the knob to usher them out, that Patricia found utterance for her seething thoughts.
"I may be a believer in votes for women," she said solemnly, clasping her vanity case so hard that she unconsciously shattered its clasp. "I may be a yellow suffragist, as Judy calls me, but I must say, men can make things mighty comfortable for you."
There was a shout of amazed laughter, but Patricia persisted:
"Look at us last fall before we discovered David; look at us now; look at Miss Jinny; look at Elinor's canvas—which she couldn't have dreamed of doing if Miss Auborn had been chaperoning her! I tell you, men have ways of doing things that hitthe spot, and I think it's a shame they don't get the credit for it."
Bruce cocked his head mischievously at her.
"Are you going to promulgate that doctrine at the Suffrage League?" he asked, beginning to turn the knob.
"Yes, I am—if I ever go there," returned Patricia with great spirit. "But I shan't have time for a long while. I'm going to raise chickens with Miriam Halden this summer, and I've got to start in right away with the plans for the houses and yards."
Bruce flung the door wide.
"Well, we're turning another page of our lives," he said with a backward glance at the rooms where they had been so busy and so happy. "Who can say what will be written there?"
Judith shrugged uneasily.
"That gives me the creeps," she remonstrated. "I don't like it. It sounds like funerals and ghosts——"
Patricia broke in on her dismal forebodings with a rippling, silvery laugh.
"It sounds like wedding bells to me!" she cried, gayly. "You and I don't hear alike, Ju. It sounds like wedding bells, and commencement essays, and checks for stories, and—and—and——"
"What, else?" demanded Judith, whose color had been rising at the alluring forecast. Patricia made a despairing little gesture. "I can't think of anything that will fit poor me," she confessed with mock dejection. "I'm so everlastingly commonplace that I don't sound at all."
"Yes, you do, too!" cried Judith ardently, flinging out a masterpiece. "You sound like asyncopated opera; doesn't she, Bruce?"
Patricia started as the grotesque words sank deep.
"You just wait tillItry my real wings," she said with a queer little catch in her throat. "I've forgotten all about my dear music in these three riotous months, but I'll soon be ready to begin again."
"Is your laurel wreath on good and tight, Judy?" asked Bruce with a twinkle. "I'm going to beg Elinor to have hers tied on with nice little blue ribbons. Miss Pat is on the rampage for fame, and it isn't safe to take chances."
Patricia underwent a swift change as she lifted her shining eyes to Bruce's laughing face.
"Pooh, I'm not a bit dangerous and you know it, Bruce Haydon," she said with returning gayety. "I'm the family grub, and Judy and Elinor are the splendid butterflies." She paused with a merry gurgle. "I'm going to raise chickens for these two glittering geniuses. Greycroft shall be my field of conquest and the white plume that leads to victory will be an Orpington. Lead on!"
The door clicked behind them and they set their faces to the sunset, and Greycroft, and home.