A STOLEN POEM
After supper there was dancing, and Patty was besieged by would-be
partners. Good-naturedly she fractioned her dances, and even divided
the short intermissions between them. Everybody wanted to dance with
the smiling little person in red velvet, and her pretty gaiety salved
the wounds of those whom she was obliged to refuse.
At last, Farnsworth came to her, and his determined expression told
Patty he was about to lay down the law.
Sure enough, he took her hand in his, drew it through his arm, and led
her out of the dancing room.
"Without even a 'by your leave?'" and Patty looked up at him,
inquiringly.
"Without it or with it. But you can't dance any more tonight. You're
so tired you can scarcely stand up now."
"That's so, now that you speak of it. But I hadn't realised it."
"Of course you hadn't. You're crazy, when it comes to dancing!"
"Well, you're not. You haven't danced with me once tonight, except
that old country dance."
"Did you want me to? Were you lacking for partners?"
"_Me_! Lacking for partners! Am I, usually?"
"Oh, Patty, what a little Vanity Box you are! No, you never lack for
partners or attention or flattery,--all you ever lack is a little
common sense."
"Why-ee! Little Billee! I've always prided myself on my common sense.
But where are you taking me?"
"Not very far. There's a comfy window-seat in this little reception
room, where you can rest a bit, then I'm going to send you home."
"Oh, you are! And who constituted you my Major Domo, or Commanding
Officer, or Father Superior, or whoever it is that orders people about?"
"I don't order; I persuade, or induce, by power of my irresistible
charm." Farnsworth's blue eyes twinkled, and Patty laughed outright,
as she said, "Yes, I noticed the irresistibility as I left the Blaneys'
tonight!"
"And, that's the very subject I was about to discourse upon,--the
Blaneys, I mean. But first, let me make you comfy."
Farnsworth led Patty to the spacious, cushioned window-seat, and piled
soft pillows at her back, and tucked an ottoman beneath her feet, and
then sat down beside her. The little room was deserted by the dancers,
and though some of the guests strolled in and out, occasionally, there
was ample opportunity for real conversation.
"It's this way, Patty," Farnsworth began. "I know Sam Blaney, and you
don't. I knew him years ago, and though I've not seen him of late
years, he's the same old two and sixpence."
"And a very attractive two and sixpence," declared Patty, an obstinate
expression coming into her face. "You see, Little Billee, either you
like wise, brainy people, or you don't. I do."
"I know you do, and so do I. But the Blaney crowd are neither wise nor
brainy. They are frauds."
"Do you mean conscious frauds? Wilfully deceptive?"
"To a certain degree, yes. They do fool themselves, sometimes, into
thinking they are sincere, but they can't even fool themselves all the
time,--let alone other people."
"Your observations do not interest me." Patty's air was lofty, she
looked away into space, as if bored to death with her companion.
"Would it interest you to know that I know Sam Blaney to be a fraud and
a dishonest man?"
"I have heard you say that one's friends should be sacred from
disparaging remarks."
"True enough. But, in the first place, Blaney isn't my friend, and
even if he were, I should sacrifice him or his friendship for you."
"Why?"
"Never mind why. Oh, Patty, rely on my judgment, rely on my word in
this matter, and don't have anything more to do with that rubbish
bunch!"
"Look here, Little Billee, if that's all the subject you can find to
talk about, I believe I'd rather go back and dance. I'm rested now."
"Sit still, Lady Gay. While we're on this subject, we're going to
fight it to a finish."
"You mean you're going to fight me to a finish. Go on, it won't take
long."
"You poor little girl,--you are tired, I know. Well, to make a long
story short, then, you must break with these Cosmic people, because, if
you don't, it will harm your social standing and injure your
reputation."
"Why? They're absolutely correct and high-minded. They're a little
unconventional, maybe, but they're interesting and worth while."
"But they're frauds, Patty. And they've taken you up, because you're a
social favourite, and you add lustre to their list."
"And they don't care for me, personally!"
"Now, don't flare up. Of course they like you, personally,--who
doesn't? But they make you think you're brainy and soulful and a
little old deep-thinker--and,--you're not, you know."
"Well! You _are_ complimentary! What am I, pray? An ignoramus?"
"Hardly that. You're the sweetest, loveliest girl God ever made, but
you're not a blue-stocking. You're not college bred, or even
well-read."
"Do you know you're a very horrid person? Do you know I wouldn't stand
such talk from many people?"
"I should hope not. Very few people know you well enough or love you
well enough to tell you these truths."
"I know somebody who loves me too much to talk to me like that."
"Van Reypen, of course. But, Patty, he doesn't approve of the Blaney
crowd, either, and you know it."
"That's because he doesn't understand them, and----"
"Wait a minute. Just what do you mean by understand them? They speak
English, I suppose."
"How dense you are! There is much beside language of _words_ to be
understood by kindred----"
"Don't you dare say souls!"
"I will,--I _do_ say _souls_! That's what has no meaning for you!"
"Go on, Posy Face! You're pretty stunning when you get really stirred
up!"
Farnsworth's face broke into a broad smile, and Patty was so amazed at
his sudden change of manner that it irritated her.
"Oh, I am, am I! Well, other people have thought so, too. To the
extent of putting it into poetry--real poetry!"
"Such as what?"
Farnsworth was so cynical of tone, that Patty broke her pledge of
secrecy to the small extent of quoting a few words from the poem Blaney
had given her.
"Such as this," she cried:
"----perhaps because her limpid face
Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein
The dimples found no place to anchor and
Abide."
"That is poetry, indeed!" agreed Farnsworth, looking at her
quizzically. "Did you say it was written to you?"
"Yes, Sam Blaney wrote it, to me. I didn't mean to tell you, it's a
confidential matter,--but you were so horrid about him----"
"Wait a minute, Patty. Is that an original poem, that Blaney wrote for
you alone?"
"Yes, it is. I promised not to tell it to anybody, so I'll ask you to
say nothing about it."
"Tell me more of it."
"No, I won't. I promised not to."
"You needn't. _I'll_ tell _you_ what comes next:
'----perhaps because her tresses beat
A froth of gold about her throat, and poured
In splendour to the feet that ever seemed
Afloat.'
Isn't that it?"
"Yes! How did you know?" Patty's startled eyes were wide in amazement.
"You dear little goose. I hate to give you a shock, Posy-girl, but
those lines were written by a not altogether obscure poet,--one James
Whitcomb Riley."
"What! It's no such thing! Mr. Blaney wrote them about me! They
begin----"
"Wait! Don't break your promise of confidence. They begin:
"'I loved her.--Why? I never knew.' Don't they?"
"Yes, that's the poem Sam Blaney wrote for me----
"But he chanced to write it after Riley did--not before. Strange they
were so similarly inspired, wasn't it?"
"William Farnsworth, do you mean to tell me that that is a poem of
Riley's,--and Sam Blaney palmed it off on me as his own!"
"It looks that way, Patty. At any rate, those are Riley's lines. I've
known the thing for years. It's a favourite of mine."
"But I've a book of Riley's,--it isn't in that."
"My child, you mustn't get annoyed with me, when I tell you you're not
deeply versed in book-lore,--or deeply booked in verse-lore! For it's
true. I admit that is not one of the poet's best known bits,--it's in
'Flying Islands of the Night,'--but it is so exquisite that it ought to
be better known. And, by the way, Patty, if you thought Blaney did
that gem, I don't wonder you admired him. But, dear little girl, do
you see now that the man is capable of deception?"
Patty looked deeply troubled. "You're sure, Billee,--you're _positive_
about this?"
"As sure as I am of my own name."
"Then I want nothing more to do with Sam Blaney or any of his crowd.
I'll never forgive it. Why, he wrote the poem while I sat looking at
him,--just as fast as he could scribble."
"Doesn't that seem to prove it? He knew Riley's lines, and wrote them
down. I doubt if the greatest poet that ever lived scribbled lines
like that, offhand."
"Of course they couldn't! You've done it, Little Billee. You've
smashed my idols, blown up my air castles, knocked the pedestals from
under my heroes----"
"I'm sorry, dear,--but when they are unworthy idols and heroes----"
"And they are! I see it all now. I banked on Mr. Blaney's genius
mostly on account of that poem. But, as you say, the very fact that he
made me promise not to show it to anybody--but I don't need to prove
it. You tell me it's Riley's, and there's no further question about
it."
"I'll send you the book, Patty. You'll enjoy it all."
Patty smiled. "I don't want it in corroboration of your assertion, but
I'd love to have it. I'd like to know more poetry, Billee. As you so
delicately hinted, my education on such matters is a little lacking."
"That's your own fault," said Farnsworth, bluntly. "Poetry isn't a
thing to learn at school,--but alone, and at odd times and moments."
"It seems queer," and the earnest little face gazed into his, "for you
to know such a lot about poetry. You're so----"
"Go on; don't mind hurting me. So uncouth, awkward, clumsy, lacking
in--er--understanding, wasn't it?"
Farnsworth spoke bitterly, and his deep blue eyes were clouded.
"No," Patty returned, gently, "no, I didn't mean all those horrid
things, and you know it! I meant, you're so busy with your mines and
things, and so wrapped up in your business that it's surprising to know
you have time for poetry."
"It's _my_ theory that one can always find time for anything he really
wants to do?"
"Can he? Do you suppose, then, you could find time to teach me a
little bit about poetry, and how to study it,--or, don't you really
want to do this?"
Farnsworth looked at her, and a great and tender light came into his
eyes. Then, with a quick smile, he said, lightly, "Yes, indeed; I'll
make out a list of books for you tomorrow. May I send them to you?"
Patty was aware of a sudden lack of enthusiasm in Farnsworth's manner,
and with equal coolness, she said, "Thank you, that won't be necessary.
Just send the list, and I can get them. And, now I think I must begin
to commence to think about considering going home."
"Yes, it's late. Who's taking you?"
"I'm going with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. They kindly asked me."
"Very well. Will you go now?"
"Yes, please. And, I--I want to thank you for setting me straight
about the Blaneys."
"Don't include Alla. I doubt if she'd do a deceptive thing. But all
the same, Patty, she's no friend for you. You don't care for her, do
you?"
"No; I did at first, she interested me----"
"I know; 'interested you strangely,' as the novelists say."
"Yes, just that. She is so queer and unusual and----"
"Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, freakish."
"I suppose so. But I liked it all, at first. I don't mind owning up I
was getting a little tired of it. It didn't----"
"It didn't make good, did it? But you're through with it now. How
will you break it all off, without unpleasantness--for you?"
"Oh, I can manage that by my tactful nature. I mean, with Alla. I
shan't bother to be specially tactful with Sam. Need I be?"
"No. When a man has practised a fraud like that on you, he deserves no
consideration whatever."
"And tell me, Little Billee, tell me quickly, for I must really be
going, how did you walk in there and kidnap me so easily?"
"I had a sort of notion that you ought to be looked after. Channing
was here, laughing over some of the details of the Blaney party that he
had heard of, and when he told about your dance,--well, Patty, I'll be
honest with you. I wanted to see that dance. You know how I love your
dancing. Also, I wanted to know just what the dance was,--for I know
Grantham."
"The dance was all right, Billee?"
"Yes, perfectly all right, only I'd rather you'd worn sandals. But it
was a wonderful dance,--exquisite, poetic, all that is beautiful. I
went in, reminded Sam of our old acquaintance, and he welcomed me
decently, if not over-cordially. I saw one or two numbers on the
program before yours, and I concluded I didn't want you mixed up with
that bunch. They're right enough, but their unconventionality and
ultra Bohemianism are not the element in which Patty Fairfield belongs.
Then came your dance. Unspeakably lovely, all that it ought to be, but
not for that herd of idiots! So, I made up my mind I'd persuade you to
go home with me,--pretty much instanter! I told Blaney I intended to
take you. He was mad all through, and denied my right to ask you to
leave his party. But,--well, I reminded him of a few of our past
memories--memories fraught with sadness!--to put it poetically,--and he
made no further objections to my carrying out my own sweet will----"
"And so you carried out----"
"My own sweet girl! Exactly! Patty, you little rogue, you musn't
bewitch me like that! If you do, I'll pick you up again, and carry you
off--oh, here comes Mrs. Morrison. Have _you_ come to carry Patty off?"
"Yes," and Mrs. Morrison looked regretful. "I'm sorry, Patty, dear,
but really----"
"It's time! Yes, I know it, and I'm quite ready to go. Good night,
Little Billee."
"Good night, Patty. Get a good rest, for you really need it."