The bachelor apartment-house which Allen Sanford called his home in New
York, though constantly referred to by him as his "two by twice hall
bedroom," was considerably more pretentious and expensive than a young
man receiving his modest income would ordinarily have selected; yet when
he decided upon it, the chief point in question was whether or not it
suited his tastes. The fact that the rent alone exceeded the salary
assured him by his position in the Consolidated Companies did not strike
him as of any particular significance. He had sold his motor before
leaving Washington, and with this nest-egg and what remained of his last
allowance to draw upon, the necessity of economy had not occurred to
him. "I've eaten up the tires, and now I'm beginning on the chassis," he
had once remarked in conversation; but with characteristic confidence in
the future, he made no provision for the time when he should have
thoroughly fletcherized the entire machine.
Now that he had joined the army of the unemployed, and had decided to
return to Pittsburgh, it was incumbent upon him to pack up his
belongings. This was a project which failed to appeal to him. He had
formally terminated his connection with the Consolidated Companies on
the day before, and this Sunday morning had been set apart by him for
his tremendous undertaking. His trunks were in the middle of the floor,
and his clothes deposited in various stages of disorder upon every chair
in the room, preparatory to making the start toward packing which
appalled him. The empty drawers of the dresser and the chiffonnier, and
the bare hooks of the closet bore silent tribute to the thoroughness of
his work thus far.
He was sitting upon the edge of a trunk, regarding in dismay the
confusion around him and wondering where to make a start, when the bell
rang vigorously. He opened the door in surprise, and was relieved to
find no more formidable a visitor than the elevator boy.
"A young lady down-stairs to see you, sir."
"A--what?" demanded Allen.
"She wouldn't give her name, sir."
"I'll be right down," he cried, slamming the door unceremoniously in the
boy's face, and rushing into his coat and waistcoat. Could it be that
Alice had really meant what she said that night, and had come to
convince him of it! There was a girl for you! He would never accept the
sacrifice, he told himself resolutely, still he fairly danced as he
straightened his necktie, tripped over his evening clothes, which he had
knocked onto the floor, and almost stumbled over a little figure in the
hallway, as he threw open the door and started to rush to the elevator.
"They wouldn't let me come up in the elevator, so I walked," announced
Patricia, looking up at him with a beaming smile.
"What are you doing here? Is Alice down-stairs?" Allen demanded,
completely bewildered by the unexpected apparition.
"I've come to go away with you, and Alice is at home," the child
answered, simply. "Papa said you were going back to Pittsburgh. Aren't
you glad to see me? I've got all my things packed up in this bag, except
my _Knights of the Round Table_, which wouldn't go in, so I carried it
under my arm."
He looked at her, speechless with astonishment as she proudly held up
the diminutive satchel and displayed her precious volume.
"Of course I'm glad to see you, Lady Pat," he said at length; "but you
ought not to come here alone, you know."
"I'm not alone," she insisted. "Riley is down-stairs in my pony cart.
Phillips didn't know where you lived, but he's only a groom, so I
brought Riley. Now, how shall we get rid of him, and have you made a
hundred thousand dollars with my money?"
"I'm ashamed to say I haven't--I was too late. The storks had all gone
South for the winter, but I must give you back your bank."
Allen turned into his room, closely followed by Patricia.
"Then you haven't money enough to get married?" she asked in a pathetic
little voice. Suddenly her face brightened. "But I don't mind; I'll keep
house for you without any money; and storks always come to newly married
people, I've heard them say so."
"We couldn't do that, Lady Pat; we'd starve to death unless we ate the
storks. Come, let's go and find Riley."
But Riley's anxiety had resulted in his anticipating them, and the
familiar face at that moment showed above the stairway, as the old man
approached them, out of breath.
"Ah, there ye are, praise be ter th' Virgin Mary," he panted. "Ah, sich
a mess as ye're gettin' poor old Riley in. I cudn't hilp it, Misther
Allen, I cudn't nohow," heading off any criticism from that
quarter--"she wud have it, and that's th' ind iv it. I'm thinkin' that's
why they named her Miss Pat--'tis th' Irish persistency iv her name that
crops out, an' th' cajolery. I cudn't hilp it, nohow."
"Of course he couldn't help it." Patricia assented. "I had to see you,
and some one had to show me where you lived. But you may go now if you
want to, Riley."
"We had better come inside and talk it over--if we can get in," Allen
suggested, opening the door again, and pushing the things one side.
"Ah, Misther Allen--all ye'er clothes will be spiled, kickin' 'round
like this. Shall I fold 'em up an' put 'em in th' thrunks fer ye, sor?"
Riley was in his element again, and Allen grasped at the old man's offer
with an eagerness not assumed.
"That's just the thing," he said. "You pack the trunk, Riley, while Lady
Pat and I sit on the window-seat and have a little visit."
"Here are my things, too, Riley." Patricia handed the old man her
satchel and book. "Perhaps you'd better pack those on top."
"Why should I pack thim in Misther Allen's thrunk?" he demanded.
"Because we're going away to be married," she announced, grandly. "You
are the first one in the family to know it, and you mustn't tell."
Riley started to speak, but a signal from Allen silenced him; so he
continued his work, bringing order out of chaos so quickly that he won
instant admiration.
"Now, look here, Lady Pat," said Allen, kindly, as the child sat on her
heels in front of him on the window-seat, "we must talk this matter over
very carefully."
"Yes, Sir Launcelot," Patricia assented, expectantly.
"In the first place, I have made your father very angry with me."
"Were you a naughty boy?"
"He thinks so, and he must be right; but it wouldn't do to make him any
more angry by taking you away without his permission. You see that,
don't you?"
"But they wouldn't blame you--they'd blame me," the child persisted.
"Alice would frown at me and say 'Pa-tri-ci-a.' Papa would be severe and
say, 'I shall have to ask mamma Eleanor to punish you,' and mamma
Eleanor would look sad and say, 'Oh, my darling,' But she'd forget all
about it as soon as I kissed her."
"No; they would blame me, because I'm older--and, besides, a true knight
could never stand by and see his Lady Fair blamed, could he? The only
thing is for me to go away, and for you to go back home with Riley, and
then, later, for me to storm the castle and carry you off."
"But if you did that, you might carry off Alice instead of me," she
objected.
"That's so," Allen assented, laughing, "unless she hurries up and gets
married. That was our agreement, Lady Pat--as long as Alice is free, we
can't make any plans for ourselves."
"Wouldn't it be grand to have you storm the castle and carry me off!"
Patricia was quite taken by the idea. "Anyhow, next to Alice, you love
me best, don't you, Sir Launcelot?"
"I certainly do," Allen said, truthfully. "Now, you'll go home with
Riley and wait to see what happens, won't you?"
"All right," the child said, entirely satisfied. "Gee, but I wish Mr.
Covington would hurry up!"
Patricia rose obediently and took Riley's hand, as they left the room.
"Wit ye well," she said as she bade Allen good-bye at the elevator. "I
shall wait at the window with a silken ladder every night until you
come."
Allen turned slowly back into his room, closed the door, and sat down
alone on the window-seat which had so recently also sustained his
animated little companion. Not until now had the full force of the
wrench come upon him, and he was conscious of a lump in his throat as he
thought of Alice, first always, then of Mr. Gorham, and last of the city
itself. During the months since he had accidentally met Alice in
Washington, there had never been a wavering of his purpose. She was the
one girl to him among the many he met during the social rounds into
which he had plunged while living in New York. He had been undaunted by
her attitude, undismayed by the seeming hopelessness of it all--but now
her very sympathy proved to him the necessity of at last giving up the
one great hope upon which he had set his heart. The pain at separating
from his chief, while of a different nature, was no less keen. Mr.
Gorham still stood to Allen as the epitome of the best that a man could
express. The shock which had come to him when Gorham admitted a
knowledge of Covington's investment of Alice's money, did not weaken his
respect for the man, but rather was the final event to convince him that
his own conception of business must be entirely wrong. If Mr. Gorham
sanctioned it, then it was right, it could be nothing else; but all his
efforts, conscientious as he knew them to have been, to master the
intricacies of the code his preceptor had tried to teach him, had
accomplished nothing.
And the great city, which contained so many of his classmates and
friends, who had made him welcome in their homes, must in the future
receive him only as a stranger. He loved the individuality of the great
towering buildings, the wonderful harbor with its kaleidoscopic
shipping, the surging masses of the striving people in the streets, the
blinding glare of Broadway at night, and the tense, eager business
competition keeping each man, irrespective of position, constantly on
his taps to hold his own or to forge ahead against the incoming tide of
growing prosperity. Everything he craved seemed centred here, yet he had
been a part of it all, and had failed to keep his grip. His opportunity
had been given him, and he had not taken advantage of it. The city
contained no room for failures--only those who could force success from
its grinding turmoil belonged within its ever-grasping arms. He must
turn his back upon it all, and go to some place less critical, less
overpowering, taking with him as memories, in place of triumphs, the
thoughts of what might have been.
Amid the gloom which surrounded him, a childish face forced its sweet
features upon him, and it relieved the tension of the moment. Dear
little Patricia, at least, had faith in him. Alice's attitude was that
of sympathy and pity, but little Pat saw in him, the failure, those
attributes which belong to the Knight Courageous, undaunted by the
hostile flings of Fortune. As she grew older, she too would discover
that the gold was paint and the silver, tinsel; but until then, he knew
her faith was in him. He pressed his hands against his aching
temples--"God bless her for that," he said, softly, "God bless her for
that."