A SUMMER HOME
“If I were sure Patty would get her motor car,” said Nan, “I’d vote for
the seashore. But, if she doesn’t, I’d rather go to the mountains.”
“’Course I’ll get it,” declared Patty. “I’m sure, certain, positive,
convinced, satisfied beyond all shadow of doubt that I’ve cinched that
car! It only remains to get the formal notice.”
“And to get the car,” added her father.
They were discussing, in family conclave, their plans for the coming
summer.
Patty liked the seashore, and Nan, the mountains, but each wanted the
other to be pleased, so there was a generous rivalry going on.
“But I can use it in the mountains,” went on Patty; “mountain roads are
pretty much civilised nowadays. And, anyway, it’s sure to be a perfect
hill-climber.”
“Oh, _sure_ to be!” said Mr. Fairfield, who never could bring himself to
believe seriously that Patty would get the car.
“Well, let’s divide the time,” suggested Nan. “Let’s go to the seashore
first, and spend, say, May, June, and July. Then go to the mountains for
August and September.”
“That would be lovely!” declared Patty, enthusiastically, “if I didn’t
know you were planning it that way for my benefit. And I can’t—no, I
can_not_ bring myself to accept such a sackerry-fice!”
“You can’t help yourself, you mean,” said Nan. “And, now that part of
it’s settled, where shall we go?”
“I like the New Jersey shore,” said Mr. Fairfield, “because I can run up
to New York so easily from there. But I was thinking of buying a house,
so we could go to it each summer, and so do away with this yearly
discussion of where to go. Even if we have a summer home, we can go on a
trip to the mountains as well, later in the season.”
“That’s so,” agreed Nan. “No one wants to go to the mountains before
August.”
“Oh, won’t it be gay!” cried Patty. “A home of our own, at the seashore!
With little white curtains blowing out of its windows, and box trees at
the entrance to the drive!”
“That sounds attractive,” agreed Nan. “And wide verandas all round, and
the ocean dashing over them, sometimes.”
“It wouldn’t be a bad investment,” said Mr. Fairfield. “We wouldn’t
build, you know, but buy a house, and then fix it up to suit ourselves.
And, whenever we tired of it, we could sell it.”
“Good business, Mr. Fairfield,” said Patty, nodding her head at him
approvingly. “Now, I know the spot I’d like best. And that’s at Spring
Beach. It’s the prettiest part of the whole Jersey coast.”
“I think so, too,” said Nan. “It’s not a large enough place to be
rackety and noisy, but it has beautiful homes and charming people. I’ve
been there several times, though not to stay long.”
“Be sure to buy a house with a garage, father,” put in Patty. “For I
must have a place to keep my car.”
“Well, as we’ll have our own car there, I fancy we’ll have a garage,
Puss. But we may have to add an ell, to accommodate your toy wagon. When
do you expect to get it, by the way?”
“The winner will be announced on the twentieth of April, and the car
delivered about May first. So I’ll take you both for a May-day ride. Not
both at once, of course.”
“You’ll take Miller on your first few rides, my girl; until you’ve
thoroughly learned how to manage the thing.”
“All right, I will. For I don’t want to make any stupid mistakes through
ignorance. Accidents may happen, but, if so, I expect to be able to use
my skill and knowledge to repair them.”
“Patty, you have a sublime self-confidence,” said her father, laughing;
“but I’m glad of it. For it will probably carry you through when your
vaunted skill and knowledge give out.”
A few nights later, Mr. Fairfield came home with several photographs of
Spring Beach houses that were for sale. Each was accompanied with a
description, and the Fairfield trio looked them over with great
interest. Two seemed more desirable than the rest, and it was decided
that, next day, they should all go down to the shore to look at them.
“Let’s take Christine,” suggested Patty; “a day at the seashore will do
her good.”
So, next morning, the quartette started for Spring Beach.
Christine had never seen the ocean before, and Patty greatly enjoyed
seeing the Southern girl’s delight.
It was a fine April day, the air clear and cool, and the blue sky
cloudless, save for some cotton-wool masses near the horizon. The waves
were deep, translucent blue, with brilliantly white crests, and they
rolled and tumbled in to shore, as if anxious to greet Christine.
“Is it like you thought it would be?” asked Patty, as Christine stood,
with clasped hands, gazing.
“Yes; in its lines. For, of course, I’ve seen pictures of it. But I
didn’t know it was so _alive_.”
“Yes,” said Patty, with a nod of comprehension, “that’s the way it seems
to me. Really alive, and always responsive to my moods and thoughts.”
“I didn’t know you had moods and thoughts,” said Christine, smiling at
Patty a little quizzically.
“’Deed I have! Perhaps not such subtle and temperamental ones as yours
or Mr. Hepworth’s, but perfectly good moods and thoughts, all the same.”
“Why do you class mine with Mr. Hepworth’s?”
“Because you’re both artists. Aren’t artists supposed to have most
impressive and unspeakable thoughts at sight of the ocean or the moon or
the purple shadows on the distant hills?”
“Patty, I suppose you’re making fun of me, but I don’t mind a bit. And,
of one thing I’m sure, whatever your thoughts may be, they’re never
unspeakable!”
“Right you are, Christine! I’m glad you appreciate my talent for
volubility! That’s why I like the sea. I can talk to it all day, and it
is most appreciative, but it never talks back.”
“Oh, it talks back to me! It has told me lots of things already.”
“That’s because you’re an artist. But this must be the new house!
Father’s turning in here. Oh, isn’t it lovely!”
It was a most beautiful place, though its somewhat dense shrubbery
partly hid the view of the ocean.
But the house was delightful. Large, roomy, and well-built, it seemed
all any one could desire for a summer home.
They went through it, with many comments, and then went on a block
farther, to look at the other one they had in mind.
This was equally desirable, in every way, as a dwelling, but the large
grounds had very few trees or tall shrubs, so that the sea-view was
unobstructed.
“This is my choose!” declared Patty, sitting down on the steps of the
front veranda. “What’s the use of coming to the seashore and living in a
forest? Oh, my fond parents, do decide to take this one, for your little
Patty’s sake!”
“Will there be shade enough?” asked Mr. Fairfield.
“Yes, indeed!” declared Patty. “If not, we can go inside and draw the
curtains. But I do love a house where you can see out. And I think this
is the finest ocean view on the beach.”
“It is,” corroborated the agent, who was showing them the house. “And
the sunrise view is grand.”
“I don’t often see the sun rise,” admitted Patty, laughing; “but perhaps
I shall, down here, for I’m going to sleep out of doors.”
“In your motor car?” enquired her father.
“No, sir! I’m going to have a veranda bedroom. There, you see it,
between those two front towers. I’ve always wanted to try that sort of a
fresh-air fund scheme.”
“Well, whatever you and Nan decide on, I’ll agree to,” said Mr.
Fairfield, who lived but to please his wife and daughter.
So, after some further serious consideration of rooms and outlooks, Nan
and Patty agreed that the second house they had visited was the one for
them, and Christine commended their choice.
“It’s rather large for just us three,” said Nan, but Patty replied:
“Never mind, we’ll have lots of company. I expect to have house parties
a great deal of the time; we’ve never had room for much company in New
York. What shall we name the place?”
“‘Sea View,’” said her father, and Patty laughed.
“Yes,” she said; “or ‘Ocean View,’ or ‘Fair View,’ or ‘Beach View’! No,
let’s get something descriptive and unhackneyed. Help us, Christine.”
“I like a name like ‘The Breakers,’” said Nan. “It’s so dignified.”
“How about ‘The Pebbles’?” asked Christine, looking at the pebbled walks
that led through the lawn.
“That’s just right!” said Patty, “and it’s seashorey, too. We’ll call
the place ‘The Pebbles’; shall us, Nan?”
“Yes; I like that. It’s simple and yet expressive.”
“And now,” said Mr. Fairfield, “let us go over to the hotel for
luncheon, and then, while I have a little business talk with the agent,
you ladies can rave over the sea, the sea, the open sea.”
“What good times you do have, don’t you, Patty?” said Christine, as they
strolled along the board walk to the hotel.
“Yes, Christine, I do. And I often feel as if I didn’t deserve so much
happiness; and perhaps it’s wrong for me to have so much, when many
other girls have so little.”
“No, Patty; that isn’t the way to look at it. You ought to be glad and
thankful, but never feel any doubt about its being all right. Myself, I
have so much to be thankful for, sometimes my heart almost bursts with
gratitude. But I know it’s all right, and that I _ought_ to have it.
Whatever is, is right, Patty.”
“Yes; I s’pose so. But, Christine, what do you mean, about yourself? Are
you glad you have to earn your own living?”
“Oh, that’s merely incidental. Since I have to earn my own living, I’m
glad I can, of course. Or, at least, I shall soon be able to. But I
mean, I’m so glad that I have such talent as I have, and such a love of
my life work, and such dear friends, and such a happy outlook
generally.”
“Christine, you’re a darling. I don’t believe many people know how fine
and lovely you are. Do they?”
“I don’t know many people,” said Christine, smiling; “but those I do
know don’t all share your views. Elise doesn’t.”
“Bother Elise! Don’t let her bother you! Why think of her at all?
Christine, if your philosophy of happiness is any good, it ought to
teach you to cut out anything unpleasant. And, if Elise is unpleasant,
cut her out.”
“No, girlie; not that. If Elise is unpleasant,—and it may be only my
imagination,—I shall try to make her become pleasant.”
“I wish you joy of your task,” said Patty, grinning, for she knew Elise
better than Christine did, and, while she liked her herself, she felt
sure her two friends could never be very congenial.
The well-selected and well-served luncheon proved most acceptable to
appetites sharpened by sea air, and, during its course, enthusiastic
plans were made for improving and furnishing “The Pebbles.”
“Christine will help us with the ‘artistic values,’—I think that’s what
you call ’em,” said Patty. “Nan can look after chairs and tables and
such prosaic things; and I’ll sew the curtains and sofa-cushions. I love
to make soft, silky, frilly things,—and I’m just going to have fun with
this house.”
“What’s my part in this universal plan?” asked Mr. Fairfield.
“Oh, you can just pay the bills, and say ‘perfectly lovely, my dear,’
whenever we ask you how you like anything!”
As this was just the rôle Mr. Fairfield had laid out for himself, he
acquiesced graciously, and then, luncheon being over, they all went back
to the house again.
“We’ll have to come down several times,” said Nan, “but we may as well
measure for some of the hangings and rugs now.”
So Mr. Fairfield filled many pages of his memorandum book with notes and
measurements, and, after an hour or so, they all felt they had made
quite a beginning on the furnishing of the new house.
One delightful room, with a full sea view, Patty declared was
Christine’s room, and she was to occupy it just whenever she chose, and
she was to select its furnishings herself. The girl’s eyes filled with
tears at this new proof of loving friendship, and, though she knew she
should take but few vacation days from her work that summer, yet she
willingly consented to select the fittings, on condition that it be used
as a guest room when she was not present.
Patty’s own rooms were delightful. A bedroom and dressing-room, opening
on a half-enclosed balcony, gave her the opportunity for sleeping out of
doors that she so much desired. Her father insisted that she should have
what he called a “civilised bedchamber,” and then, if she chose to play
gipsy occasionally, she might do so.
So she and Christine planned all her furniture and decorations, and made
notes and lists, and, before they knew it, it was time to return to New
York.
“You know a lot about house decoration, Christine; don’t you?” said
Patty, as they sat in the homeward-bound train.
“No, not a lot. But it comes natural to me to know what things harmonise
in a household. Of course, I’ve never studied it,—it’s a science; now,
you know. But, if I didn’t want to take up illustrating seriously, I
would try decorating.”
“Oh, illustrating is lots nicer,—and it pays better, too.”
“I don’t know about that. But Mr. Hepworth says I will make a name for
myself as an illustrator, and so I know I shall.”
Patty laughed. “You have as much faith in that man as I have,” she said.
“Yes; I’ve implicit faith in his judgment, and in his technical
knowledge.”
“Well, I’ve faith in him in every way. I think he’s a fine character.”
“You ought to think so, Patty. Why, he worships the ground you walk on.”
“Oh, Christine, what nonsense!” Patty blushed rosy-red, but tried to
laugh it off. “Why, he’s old enough to be my father.”
“No, he isn’t. He’s thirty-five,—that’s a lot older than you,—but, all
the same, he adores you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Christine,” said Patty, with a new
note of hauteur in her voice. “Mr. Hepworth is my very good friend, and
I look up to him in every way, but there is no affection or any such
foolishness between us.”
“Not on your side, perhaps; but there is on his.”
“Well, if you think so, I don’t want to hear about it. When you talk
like that, it just goes to spoil the nice pleasant friendship that Mr.
Hepworth and I have had for years.”
“It isn’t the same as you have for Roger Farrington and Kenneth Harper.”
“It is! Just the same. Except that Mr. Hepworth is so much older that I
never call him by his first name. The others were my school chums. Look
here, Christine, we’re going to be very good friends, you and I,—but,
if you talk to me like that about Mr. Hepworth, you’ll queer our
friendship at its very beginning. Now, quit it,—will you?”
“Yes, I will, Patty. And I didn’t mean any harm. I only wanted you to
know Mr. Hepworth’s attitude toward you.”
“Well, when I want to know it, I’ll discover it for myself, or let him
tell me. You must know, Christine, that I’m not bothering about such
things. I don’t want affection, as you call it, from any man. I like my
boy friends, or my men friends, but there’s no sentiment or
sentimentality between me and any one of them? Are you on?”
“On what?” asked Christine, a little bewildered at Patty’s emphatic
speech.
“On deck,” said Patty, laughing at Christine’s blank expression and
changing the subject with promptness and dexterity.