CONSTANCE'S OTHER SIDE
Whatever Patricia did, she did thoroughly.
She had almost a week before Elinor's return, and she set about finding
something to do that should prove her return to herself, and more even
than that, for she wanted tremendously to be better and stronger than
she had ever been.
The haunting sense of failure was with her, but she would not stop to
listen to it. She practiced her exercises with the greatest care, she
went to the concerts for which she had cards, and, remembering Madame
Milano's song at the Filmore evening, she bought the music and learned
the thing by heart. She was afraid this might not be strictly honorable,
since Tancredi had forbidden her to sing songs, but she had such a
strong conviction that she was already a failure that she hoped she
might be pardoned this solace to herself.
"You're looking a lot gayer since you got settled," said Constance
Fellows one afternoon as she sat in Patricia's room, mending the russet
frock. It looked odd to see Constance with a needle, but she was deft
with it.
"I guess I'm more used to being by myself," replied Patricia, not
wishing to go into details. "I'd never been alone, you know, and it was
strange at first."
Constance nodded, but her clear eyes showed she understood. As she went
on with her sewing she said cheerfully:
"It _is_ better to rub up against all sorts of people. You don't come to
realize what living means till you've seen what the rest of them are up
to. Cotton-wool isn't the environment to bring out beauty, after all."
Patricia smiled absently. "But all the pretty things are put in nice
pink cotton-wool," she said, thinking of the jeweler's boxes in
Rosamond's case.
"Ah, but that's when the pretty things are finished and done," cried
Constance, dropping her work and leaning forward with fire in her eyes.
"How about when they are being shaped? There are hammers there then, and
fires, too, and they are battered into their beautiful shapes with cruel
blows. My word, Patricia Kendall, can't you see it? It takes plenty of
hammering and burning before it gets to the cotton-wool stage."
Patricia caught her earnestness. "The trees and flowers and skies aren't
hammered into shape," she argued, with half a vision of what Constance
meant.
"They are the result of hammering, perhaps," returned Constance quickly,
"but that doesn't matter so much. They're the works of God, and that
sort of thing can just grow, like a lovely disposition, but the things
of earth have to be made into shape with rough hands. Look at the people
you know. How many of the selfish, pampered ones amount to a row of
pins? Can you honestly say that you know anyone who hasn't been the
better for a little hammering?"
Patricia thought swiftly of Doris Leighton, of Mrs. Nat, and she shook
her head.
"That's all that's the matter with the Fair Rosamond," Constance
explained. "She's been in cotton-wool all her life, and it's going to
rob her of her chance to give something to the world----"
She broke off abruptly, seeming to be much moved, and, rising with a
disturbed air, walked up and down for a few minutes while Patricia tried
to go on with her own darning as though nothing unusual had happened.
Constance dropped into her chair with a low laugh. "Don't mind my
preaching, Miss Pat," she said without any suggestion of apology in her
candid tone. "I always get so excited when I'm proclaiming human
rights."
Patricia looked puzzled and she answered quickly: "Human rights--my
rights to the bit of hammering that belongs to me. Auntie, you know,
advocates cotton-wool so strongly that I suppose I'm a bit daft on my
end of the argument."
Patricia had been silent, but she spoke slowly and with a light
breaking on her face. "I believe it's true, Constance," she said
earnestly. "I can see now that it's the only way. I was getting terribly
spoiled in cotton-wool, and----" She stopped because she did not want to
seem to complain of Rosamond. "I'm glad Miss Ardsley got this dear room
for me," she ended brightly, "I've had such fun since I've been here."
She saw that Constance was not too much deceived, and to turn the talk
she seized the first thing that came into her mind.
"Does your aunt still object to your living here?" she asked, and then
was annoyed with herself for her own lack of tact, for she recalled that
it was not Constance but Rosamond who had told her of the aunt's
objections to Artemis Lodge.
Constance laughed easily. "She's coming around," she replied as though
she were used to discussing her private affairs with Patricia. "She is
so pleased with my altar-piece in All Saints that she's ready to
forgive me anything. Auntie is really awfully good."
Patricia was alight at once. "Your altar-piece, Constance?" she cried.
"Oh, how splendid! When did you do it? Why didn't you tell me about it
sooner? Where is it now?"
Constance laughed, yet she was deeply gratified, for she had been more
drawn to Patricia than to any of the others. "It's in All Saints, of
course, where it should be. You didn't think it was in the Bandbox or
the Comique, did you?" she bantered. "Auntie paid for it, and so she's
privileged to criticise, you know."
"Do let me see it," begged Patricia. "I haven't a thing to do this
afternoon. Let's go and see it."
Constance demurred at first and then gave in. "The air will do us good,
anyway," she said, "We've been cooped up here for an hour or more."
Patricia found the altar-piece a revelation of another side of
Constance--a side she had not dreamed of, and she gave it the tribute of
silence for a long five minutes.
Then she spoke very softly: "I know now why you believe in bearing the
everyday toil and trouble of the world. It's because you've been
painting that. Why, Constance, it's--it's--_triumphant_."
Constance was looking at the painting and she forgot she was not
speaking to herself alone.
"And why not?" she said in a deep breath. "He didn't fear that poverty
and pain would keep anyone out of the kingdom of gladness. It was what
He was telling them all the time--those exclusive, rich men who wanted
to get the secret of His serene life. It wasn't that He liked pain and
poverty, but He wanted everyone to know that it was the fear of them
that shut people out of the kingdom of gladness. Why shouldn't He look
triumphant when He'd opened the door so wide?"
Patricia was too much stirred by this revelation of the depths of
Constance's nature to speak, and they soon went out of the dim church
into the sunlight of the avenue, with its roar of hungry life and
surging energies.
"I think I'll run over to Auntie's now that we're so near," said
Constance at the next corner. "You don't mind, do you?"
Patricia didn't in the least mind. She wanted to go for a walk in the
Park and try to catch and put in order the whirling thoughts that pulsed
through her. "I'll see you tonight after dinner," she promised.
The Park was full of people. The spring was in the air. Patricia felt
strange sensations, stirring thoughts which Constance's picture had
called into life.
"The Kingdom of Gladness," she repeated over and over again, making it a
rhythmic march to keep step with. "The Kingdom of Gladness. And I
thought Constance Fellows just a nice, clever, funny girl!"
She looked at the people on the walks and in the vehicles with a new
eye. She wondered if they were putting in their probation for that
kingdom and when she saw a pinched face or a shabby coat, she felt like
crying out to them, "Oh, don't mind it very much, for it's the best way
into the kingdom."
She was very much agitated and excited, and she felt she could not go
back to the Lodge, where she had given a half promise to spend the five
o'clock hour with Rosamond. She walked about for a long time and sat
down on benches when her mood ebbed, starting up again with a shining
face as her emotions got the better of her again.
She was sitting on a bench when she saw Mr. Long coming briskly along
the bridle path on a beautiful bay horse. He did not see her, and she
jumped up and ran over to the side of the path, holding up an eager hand
to attract his attention.
He was off his horse in one moment and shaking hands with her the next.
"This is very jolly," he said heartily. "I didn't know you were in town
or I'd have tried to look you up. Miss Merton told me when we were at
the theater with the Filmores last night that your family had left town
for a while."
Patricia explained, and Mr Long in his turn told her that he was only in
for a brief stay. He needed a secretary, a sort of caretaker for his
chicken books, he said, laughing, and it must be a female person, since
he had determined to bring Danny home from school for good and all, and
he felt that a woman-body was a crying necessity.
Patricia understood at once. "He wouldn't get on with Mrs. Jonas," she
admitted with a smile. "Have you anyone yet?"
Mr. Long had not. He had seen dozens of them, but they were all either
too young or too old or too stupid or too clever.
"It's going to be mighty hard to fit Danny and the hen accounts, too,"
he confessed. "He's so dead set on pretty people, and most of the pretty
ones are stupid or conceited."
Patricia had a sudden thought that made her dimple. "Must she be very
old?" she asked eagerly.
"Mrs. Jonas will chaperone the place as ever," replied Mr. Long. "She's
needed mainly for Danny, if the truth must be told. I've got to try the
mother act on him now. Poor kid, he's never had anything to look up to
in that line."
"I know someone," said Patricia guardedly. "I can't tell you about her
now, but if you'll come to the dance on Friday I'll show her to you and
you can do the rest."
Mr. Long thought Friday was too far off, but Patricia was firm, and he
ended by saying he'd come. They parted at the next entrance and Patricia
hurried off to Artemis Lodge feeling much elated.
"I'll ask Doris about it in a roundabout way, so she'll say just what
she thinks," she planned, and she was so eager to seek out Doris that
she hurried through her dinner before Rosamond had begun on her first
mouthful, excusing herself by saying that she had some business on hand
that would not wait.
She found Doris in her room, trying to make up her accounts, and the
process was evidently not very agreeable work, for she flung down the
pen at Patricia's knock and slammed the covers of the book with unusual
vigor.
"I never can bear to face that horrid book," she confessed with a little
laugh. "I'm always spending more than I should and it makes me so
ashamed of myself, when Mother needs so many things."
Patricia was finding it very easy. She had not much trouble in learning
that Doris was in search of a more paying position. Her domestic science
was only half a day's work and she needed more. Patricia thought it safe
to hint at something that might be in sight if she came to the dance on
Friday.
Doris had not intended going to the dance, since her gowns were rather
shabby and she could not think of anything new, but on Patricia's
insisting, she said she would go if she could be late. She had a lesson
in French at the Settlement House--Patricia almost shook her head at the
thought of Doris taking free lessons in anything until she recollected
the Kingdom of Gladness--and she could not afford to miss it.
"I'll wait for you," Patricia promised. "I haven't any guests--or only
someone who won't mind. Come over to my room for me, and we'll go down
together."
Constance met her on her way to the Red Salon, where the girls often
gathered after dinner for chat, the Blue Salon across the way being
reserved for reception of visitors.
"The dance is going to be quite wonderfully fine," she told her with as
eager interest as ever a girl showed in a party. "Auntie's coming and
I'm going to have a splendid, gorgeous new dress. I've planned it all
out since I made up my mind. I'll get the stuff tomorrow and have it
made in a jiffy."
Patricia looked at her in some wonder, until she remembered that the
kingdom Constance was trying to enter was one of gladness.
"Of course you want to have a good time," she said aloud. "What color is
it to be?" meaning the dress.
"Yellow--goldy yellow," replied Constance deliciously. "And I'm going
the whole length, gold slippers and all!"
Patricia beamed. "You'll look perfectly stunning," she said, and then
she caught her breath. "Who's playing?" she asked, with a look toward
the open door.
Constance listened. "That must be the little Polish countess," she
replied. "No one else does it that way."
Patricia had a vision of a fascinating, elegant creature with sorrowful
eyes and plenty of furs, and she gave a little cry of expectation.
"Come along. She's beginning the 'Papillion'," she cried. "And I simply
can't miss it."