LORRAINE
Later in the afternoon Kenneth Harper called.
Patty and Grandma Elliott were both glad to see the boy, for though a
student at Columbia College, he had visited much at Vernondale, and they
were both well acquainted with him.
“It’s awfully jolly, your being in town this winter, Patty,” he said,
“and I expect I’ll bother you to death running down to see you. If I
come too often, Mrs. Elliott, you must just put me out without any
ceremony.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Grandma, smiling, “and if you appear more
than once a week, I shall give you a gentle hint.”
“A hint will be sufficient, ma’am; I’m not like the man who hung around
until they kicked him downstairs. He thought a while and then the
situation dawned upon him; ‘I know what they meant,’ he said; ‘they
meant they didn’t want me up there!’ Now I’m not like that; I can catch
on much more quickly.”
Patty and Grandma laughed heartily at Kenneth’s funny story, and then
the boy unwrapped a parcel which he had brought.
“You see,” he said, “I felt sure you people would want to do a little
light farming, so I brought you a plantation.”
As he spoke he removed the papers from a pretty window-box, which was
filled with several small plants.
“Oh, how nice!” cried Patty, clapping her hands; “I just wanted
something to take care of. You see I can’t have a dog or a cat or any
kind of an animal here, but I can have plants. One of the girls gave me
a little fern, but I think it is going to die. It’s drooping like a
weeping-willow now.”
“I rather think these will die soon,” said Kenneth, cheerfully, “but it
doesn’t matter; when they do, you can get some more to put in—of a
different kind. It’s nice to have a variety.”
“I think they look very thrifty,” said Grandma, “and I’m sure with good
care they’ll do nicely.”
“Perhaps they will, ma’am; that one in the end is an orange tree. It may
have oranges on by Christmas.”
“Yes, if anybody ties them on,” said Patty, laughing.
With Kenneth’s help they arranged the box in the bay-window, and Patty
named it “Ten-Acre Farm.” “For,” she said, “although it doesn’t really
measure quite ten acres, I like a large-sounding name; it gives you such
a feeling of roominess.”
“And that’s a great thing in New York,” said Kenneth; “somehow I always
feel cramped. My room is too small, there’s never any room in the street
cars, and even the sidewalks are crowded.”
“Well, you may come down and roam around my farm whenever you like,”
said Patty; “and now, don’t you think it would be nice, Grandma, if we
made a cup of tea? Just to see how the tea-things work, you know.”
Grandma thought it would be a very nice plan, and she rang for hot
water, while Patty hunted up the tea-caddy, and Kenneth filled the
alcohol lamp.
And so, when Mr. Fairfield returned with the promised box of candy, he
found a merry tea-party of three awaiting him.
“How do you do, Kenneth, my boy!” he said, cordially grasping young
Harper’s hand.
“I’m very well, Mr. Fairfield, and delighted to welcome you and yours as
fellow-citizens of our village. The last time I saw you, we were all
down at the seashore; do you remember?”
“Yes, and a jolly time we had down there; we must go again next summer.
Won’t you stay and dine with us, Kenneth?”
“No, thank you, sir; I can’t to-night, much as I should like to. I must
go home and dig up Greek roots all the evening.”
“You have a farm, too, then?” said Grandma, smiling.
“Yes, and one that’s rather hard to till. But I suppose, Patty, you’ll
be grubbing away at lessons next week.”
“Yes,” said Patty, “and I believe I’m not to lift my eyes from my book
from Monday morning till Friday night.”
“But Saturdays?” said Kenneth.
“Saturday afternoons, if we are at home, we’ll always be glad to see
you,” said Grandma.
“Thank you, ma’am; I’ll often run down, and, take my chances on finding
you in.”
“I like that young chap,” said Mr. Fairfield, after Kenneth had gone;
“and he seems so alone here in the city. I think we might be a little
kind to him, Grandma.”
“I think so, too,” agreed Mrs. Elliott, cordially; “he’s a thoroughly
nice boy, and I’ve always liked him.”
“He _is_ a nice boy,” said Patty, “and how much he looks like his aunt.
He always makes me think of Miss Daggett.”
The elders laughed at this, for Miss Daggett, who had been the
Fairfields’ next-door neighbour at Vernondale, was an elderly, erratic,
unamiable spinster, and her nephew was a frank young fellow, as
good-natured as he was good-looking.
When dinner-time came Grandma told Patty that she might wear her white
cashmere dress and white hair-ribbons.
This pleased Patty very much, for it was one of her favourite frocks,
and she always enjoyed wearing it. Though not over-fond of dress, Patty
had a great liking for pretty things, and was also very sensitive to
pleasant sights and sounds.
So the dinner-hour delighted her, for the dining-room was gaily lighted
and decorated, and musicians in a palm-screened balcony played soft
music.
Patty took her place at their table, and, being of an adaptable nature,
remarked that she felt already quite at home there.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Fairfield; “it’s a little more like a hotel
than I had anticipated. Still, if we feel that we’re surrounded by too
many of our fellow-beings, we can have a private dining-room.”
“Oh, no, don’t do that,” said Patty; “I like it better this way.”
“I like it, too,” said Grandma Elliott; “don’t make a change yet, Fred;
let us try it for a while, at least.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Fairfield, “just as you ladies say. And, Grandma,
I think that lady at the next table must know you. She’s smiling at you
most amiably.”
Mrs. Elliott looked in the direction indicated.
“Why, she certainly does know me,” she said, bowing cordially to the
lady in question. “That is Mrs. Hamilton. She’s the daughter of my old
friend, Ellen Howard. And that’s her daughter sitting next her. If
they’re living here, Patty, you will probably find Lorraine Hamilton a
pleasant companion.”
“Lorraine,” said Patty; “what a pretty name. And she looks like a nice
girl, too.”
After dinner our party found Mrs. Hamilton and her daughter in the
parlour, and paused to talk to them there.
Mrs. Hamilton was glad to see Mrs. Elliott, who had been such a dear
friend of her mother’s, and while they talked to each other the two
girls sat down on a near-by sofa to become acquainted.
Lorraine Hamilton was a girl of about Patty’s own age, but while Patty
was rosy and healthy-looking, Lorraine was pale and delicate. She was
very graceful and pretty, with dark hair and large dark eyes. But she
seemed listless and indifferent, and Patty, who enjoyed everything
enthusiastically, wondered what could be the matter with her.
“Are you well?” Patty asked her, bluntly. One of Patty’s greatest faults
was her abrupt manner of questioning people. She did not mean to be
rude, but she was by nature so frank and straightforward that she often
spoke in that way without realising it.
“Yes,” said Lorraine, looking a little surprised, “I’m well, but I’m
never very strong.”
“I don’t believe you take exercise enough,” said Patty, still bluntly;
“you don’t look as if you did.”
“I don’t take any,” said Lorraine, candidly, “that is, not if I can help
it. I walk to school and back every day, but that’s only three blocks
each way, and I never go out anywhere else.”
“But why not?” asked Patty, in amazement.
“Because I don’t want to. I hate to go out of doors; I like to sit in
the house all the time, and read or write.”
“I like to read, too. But I like to run out of doors or walk or ride or
play tennis or skate or anything like that.”
“I don’t,” said Lorraine, shortly.
She spoke so curtly that Patty suddenly realised that perhaps she hadn’t
been very polite herself, and as she saw that Grandma Elliott and Mrs.
Hamilton were still deeply absorbed in their conversation, she felt that
she ought to try once more to entertain this queer girl.
“What do you like to read?” she asked, by way of starting a subject.
“Poetry,” said Lorraine, “all kinds of poetry. I’m going to be a poet
myself.”
“Oh, are you?” said Patty, a little awed by this confident announcement.
“Yes, I’ve sent some poems to the magazines already.”
“Have they been printed yet?”
“No, they weren’t even accepted. But that doesn’t discourage me; poets
never succeed at first.”
“No, I suppose not.” Patty wished to be agreeably encouraging, but she
knew very little about the experiences of young poets.
“Do you live in The Wilberforce?” she asked, thinking it better to get
away from the subject of poetry.
“Yes,” said Lorraine; “we’re on the third floor.”
“Why, so are we; how very nice. Will you come and see us?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Lorraine; “I’d like to ever so much. We’re very
lonely; my father is in the Navy, and is away on a three years’ cruise.
So mother and I are all alone.”
“I’m glad you’re here; Grandma and your mother can be company for each
other, and I’m sure you and I will be friends. Where do you go to
school?”
“To the Oliphant.”
“Why, that’s where I’m going; I start on Monday.”
“That’s nice; we can go together.” For the first time Lorraine seemed to
show some interest and animation, and Patty felt encouraged to believe
that there might be some fun in this queer girl after all.
“Tell me about the school,” she said.
“Well,” said Lorraine, “it’s quite a big school, with lots of pupils and
about a dozen teachers. Miss Oliphant is the principal, and she’s very
stern and strict. Miss Fenton is vice-principal, and she isn’t a bit
stern. In fact, she’s too easy-going; you can just wind her around your
finger. Then the French teacher is rather nice, and Miss Rand, the
English teacher, is lovely.”
“Tell me about the girls,” said Patty.
“Oh, there are all sorts; there are the grubbing girls that just study
and dig all the time, and the silly girls, who never study at all. Then
there is a set of snobbish girls, who stick up their noses at anybody
who isn’t a millionaire.”
“The girls don’t sound very nice, as you describe them,” said Patty.
“No, they’re not very nice; I don’t know a girl I really like in the
whole school.”
“That sounds cheerful,” said Patty, laughing; “I think I’ll enjoy a
school made up of girls like that. Do you suppose they’ll like me?”
“I don’t know,” said Lorraine, looking uninterested; “they don’t like
me.”
Patty felt like saying, “I shouldn’t think they would,” but she politely
refrained, and just then the elder ladies called them to go upstairs.
“Well,” said Patty, as she was alone with her family once more, “that
Hamilton girl is the queerest thing I ever saw. She didn’t have a good
word to say about anybody or anything, and she doesn’t seem to have a
joy in life. Such a lackadaisical, washed-out looking thing as she is!
I’m sorry for her.”
“Perhaps you can cheer her up, Patty girl,” said her father; “you have
joy and good-humour enough for two, I’m sure. Can’t you give her a
little?”
“It would be fun to try,” said Patty, smiling at the idea; “perhaps I
can transform her into a gay, jolly little flutter-budget.”
They all laughed at the notion of the pale Lorraine being gay or jolly,
but Patty was more in earnest than they thought, and she said: “I really
am going to try, for I think it’s my duty; and besides I can’t stand
seeing such a forlorn-looking thing around.”
“Do try, Patty,” said Grandma, gently, “and I hope you will succeed. You
will have ample opportunity, for I have invited Mrs. Hamilton to come
and see us, and to bring Lorraine.”
“All right, Grandma,” said Patty, cheerily, “I’ll do my best.”