Book: Patty and Azalea

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But she insisted, "Yes, it is--"

"I _know_ it is not! It was the man who came here to see you one
day,--and whatever his name is, it is not Smith! Tell me the truth or
not, as you choose, but don't try to insist on Smith!"

"All right, then I choose to tell you nothing, I have a perfect right to
have friends telephone me, and I think it shows an ill-bred curiosity
for you to ask their names!"

Azalea's would-be haughty face and her reference to ill-breeding struck
Farnsworth so funny he laughed in spite of himself.

Azalea was quick to take advantage of this.

"Oh, Cousin William," she said, smilingly, "don't be hard on me. I'm
only a wild Western girl, I know, but I'm--I'm your cousin and I claim
your--your--"

Azalea didn't quite know what she _was_ claiming, but as it was really a
cessation of the interview that she most desired, she turned on her heel
and walked rapidly toward the house.

"Hold on!" cried Farnsworth, "not so fast, Zaly. Before you leave me,
listen to this. I am not at all satisfied with what you have told
me,--or, rather, what you have refused to tell me,--and I am going to
write to your father, and ask him why he doesn't write to you."

Azalea stood still, facing him, and her face turned white.

"Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of dismay, "you _mustn't_ do that!"

"But I will. There's no reason I shouldn't write to my relative. And I
must get at the mystery of this thing."

"Don't do that, Cousin William, don't, I beg of you!" The girl was
greatly excited now. Her face was drawn with terrified apprehension and
her voice shook with fear.

"Why not?" Farnsworth demanded, and he grasped her arm as she tried to
run away. "I'm going to have this out now, Azalea! _Why_ shan't I write
to Uncle Thorpe?"

"Be--because he isn't--he isn't there--"

"Is he dead?"

"Oh, _no_! He's--he's--gone away on a--a business trip."

"You're making up, Azalea,--I see it in your face. Tell me the truth
about him. Has he married again?"

"No,--oh, no."

"Well, then, where is he?"

"He's--I don't know--"

"You don't know where he is,--and yet you claim you had a letter from
him!"

"You say I wrote that letter myself--"

"And you did!"

"Well, then, it was because you insisted on my getting a letter from
him,--and--and that's the only way I could think of."

Azalea gave a half-smile, hoping Farnsworth would laugh, too.

But he did not. He said, sternly, "I can't understand you, Azalea. I
don't want to misjudge you, but you must admit, yourself, that you're
making it very hard for me. Why won't you tell me everything? If Uncle
Thorpe disowned you,--cast you off,--or anything like that,--tell me;
I'll take your part,--and I'll defend you."

"Would you, Cousin William?" Azalea's voice was wistful; "would you
defend me?"

The serious tone disturbed Farnsworth more than her anger had done, and
he looked at her keenly.

"Yes," he answered, "but only if you are frank and truthful with me.
Now, once again, Azalea, what is the _real_ name of the man who called
you up yesterday?"

"Brown," said Azalea, and Farnsworth gave a gesture of impatience.

"You're a very poor story-teller!" he exclaimed. "It is not Brown,--or
Green,--or Smith. If you had said some less common name, I might have
believed you. But your inventiveness doesn't go far enough. When people
want to deceive, it's necessary to frame their falsehoods convincingly.
If you had said Mersereau or Herncastle,--I might have swallowed it."

Azalea stared at him.

"Why would you have thought those names were right?" she asked.

"Because I should have felt sure you didn't invent them. But when you
want to conceal a name, and you say Smith or Brown, it doesn't go! Also,
you _look_ as if you were fibbing. Why do you do it, Azalea? _Why_?"

"Oh, Cousin William," the girl looked genuinely distressed, "I wish I
could tell you all,--I believe I will,--but--no,--I can't--"

Then she shrugged her shoulders, and tossed her head, and her defiant
manner returned.

Farnsworth gave up in despair. "Very well, Azalea," he concluded, "I
shall write to-day to Uncle Thorpe. I tell you this frankly, for _I_ do
not do things on the sly. I'm sorry you take the attitude you do, but
while I'm waiting to hear from your father, I shall continue to treat
you as a guest and a trusted friend. That is all."

Farnsworth stood aside, and let Azalea pass. The girl went back to the
house, in deep thought.

She did not go to her room, or write any letters. She dawdled about,
started the phonograph going, read a little in a magazine, and seemed
generally distraught.

As she sat in the big, pleasant hall, she saw Farnsworth come in, go to
the library and sit at his desk writing. Apparently this was one of the
days when he did not go to New York. Patty came by--spoke cheerily to
Azalea as she passed her, and then went on to speak to Bill.

The two went out of doors together. Azalea jumped at the chance, and
running into the library, glanced over the letters Farnsworth had
written. As she had surmised, there was one addressed to Samuel Thorpe,
Horner's Corners, Arizona.

Azalea didn't touch it. She merely glanced at her wrist-watch and
hurried up to her own room.

Sitting there at the pretty desk, she wrote two or three letters, and
sealed and addressed them.

Then, sitting on her window-seat, she looked out over the beautiful
lawns and gardens. She saw Bill and Patty walking about, pausing here
and there. She knew they were selecting places for the booths and stands
to be used at the forthcoming Fair.

How happy they were! And how miserable she was! She looked at them
enviously, and then again she tossed her hand, in her defiant way, and
turned from the window.

At luncheon Azalea was very sweet and pleasant. She talked with
Farnsworth gaily, and discussed the Fair with Patty and Elise.

"I'm going to donate some lovely things for the sale," she said. "I've
written home for some Indian baskets and Navajo blankets, and some
beadwork."

"Good gracious, Azalea," cried Elise, "you'll outshine us all in
generosity! I'm making some lace pillows and boudoir caps, but they
won't sell as well as your gifts."

"It's very kind of you, dear," and Patty smiled at the Western girl with
real gratitude. "I wonder what booth you'd rather serve in, Azalea," she
went on. "Of course, you may take your choice."

"When is the Fair?" Azalea asked.

"We're planning it for the middle of July. I think we can get ready by
that time."

"I won't be here then," and Azalea looked thoughtful.

"Won't be here! Of course you will! What nonsense!" and Patty's blue
eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"I thought I might outstay my welcome," Azalea said, seeming a little
confused.

"Nay, nay, Pauline," and Patty smiled at her, "stay as long as you like.
As long as you can be happy with us."

But there was an uncomfortable pause, for Farnsworth didn't second
Patty's invitation or make any comment on it.

"I'm going down to New York in the car this afternoon," said Elise.
"Want to go, Azalea?"

"Yes,--I'd be glad to."

"All right, be ready about three. You going, Pattibelle?"

"No; not to-day. My lord and master is at home, and I can't give up a
precious hour of his companionship."

"Oh, you turtle-doves! All right, then, Zaly and I will sally forth to
the great metropolis."

Elise was spending a month with Patty, and was going later to the
mountains with her own family. They were all anxious, therefore, to get
the Fair under way, and to hold it while Elise was still there.

So things were being pushed, and the committees were hard at work. There
were innumerable errands to the city, and nearly every day the big car
went down and returned laden with materials for the work.

Promptly at three, Azalea was in the hall, and Elise joined her, ready
for the trip.

"I mean to mail these in New York," said Elise, who carried a handful of
letters.

"I will too," returned Azalea, who also had a number of them in her
hand. "Let's take these that are on the hall table,--they go quicker if
we mail them in the city."

"All right," said Elise, carelessly, and Azalea, with a stealthy look
about, picked up the big pile of addressed mail that lay on the table.

No one was looking and she deftly slipped out from the lot the letter
Farnsworth had written to Mr. Thorpe,--and pocketed it.

Going out the door, she handed the rest of the letters, with her own, to
the chauffeur, to mail, and then got into the car after Elise.

Away they went, chattering blithely about the Fair, and the enormous lot
of work yet to be done for it.

"There are so many working with us," observed Elise, "that it seems a
big job of itself to keep them in order."

"It all amazes me," returned Azalea. "I never saw people work as hard as
you and Patty do. And you accomplish such a lot! And yet, you never get
flustered or hurried, or--"

"That's partly the result of long experience in these bazaar affairs,
and partly because we both have a sort of natural efficiency. That's a
much used word, Zaly, but it means a lot after all."

"Yes, it does. What's your booth, Elise?"

"It isn't exactly a booth. I'm going to have a log cabin,--a real one,
built just as I've planned it, and in it I'm going to sell all sorts of
old-fashioned things."

"Antiques?"

"Yes, of the proper sort. Old Willow china and Sheffield plate. Copper
lustre tea-sets and homespun bedspreads. And samplers! Oh, Azalea, I've
three or four stunning samplers! One is dated 1812. That ought to bring
a fine price."

"I don't know about samplers. Of course, I know what they are,--but what
makes them valuable?"

"Age, my dear. And authoritative dates. People make collections of old
samplers, and those who collect will spend 'most anything for a good
specimen."

"I've one that my grandmother made,--at least, I can get it. Would you
like it?"

"Would I? Indeed I would! But you ought to keep that, Azalea. My, what a
generous girl you are! You'd give away your head, if it weren't fastened
on! No, dear child, keep your grandmother's sampler yourself. Is it a
good one?"

"I don't know what a 'good' one is. It has flowers on it, and little
people,--queer ones,--and a long verse of poetry and an alphabet of
letters."

"And the date?"

"Yes; 1836, I think it is."

"That's fairly old. Not a collection piece,--but a good date. Is it in
good condition,--or worn?"

"Good as new. I don't want it, Elise,--that is, I'd like to give it to
you. You've been awful good to me."

"All right, Zaly, send for it, and we'll take a look at it, anyway."




CHAPTER XI

THE SAMPLER


Vanity Fair was all that its name implied. By good fortune, the weather
was perfect,--ideally pleasant and sunshiny, yet not too warm. Wistaria
Porch was transformed into a veritable Fairyland, and it was a
bewildering vision of flowers, flags and frivolity by day, and a blaze
of illuminated gaiety by night.

It was to last but two days, for, Patty said, they might hope for fair
weather for that long but hardly for three days.

It was to open at noon, and all the morning everybody was running about,
doing last minute errands or attending to belated decorations.

Azalea had the Indian booth. It was a wigwam, in effect, but it was so
bedecked and ornamented that it is doubtful if a real Indian would have
recognised it as one. However, it was filled with real Indian wares, and
the beautiful baskets and pottery were sure to prove best sellers.
Azalea received a large consignment from some place she had sent to in
Arizona, and other people had donated appropriate gifts, until the
little tent was overflowing.

Azalea herself, the attendant on the booth, was in the garb of an Indian
princess, a friend of Patty's having lent the costume for the occasion.
It was becoming to the girl, and she looked really handsome in the
picturesque trappings, and elaborate head-dress.

Just before time for the Fair to be opened, Azalea went over to Elise's
booth. As she had planned, Elise had a log cabin, and in it she had
arranged a motley collection of antiques and heirlooms that were quaint
and valuable. It was the design of the Fair to sell really worthwhile
things at their full value; and as they expected many wealthy patrons,
the committees felt pretty sure of a grand success.

"Elise," said Azalea, as she appeared at the door of the cabin, "here's
my contribution to your department. I haven't had a chance to give it to
you before." She handed out a parcel, which Elise opened eagerly.

It proved to be a sampler,--old, but in fine condition. It was an
elaborate one, with many rows of letters, some lines of verse, and
several little pictured shapes. There was a beautiful border, and the
signature was _Isabel Cutler, 1636!_

"Oh!" exclaimed Elise, "what a gem! Where _did_ you get it? Why, Azalea,
this is a museum piece! 1636! It's worth hundreds of dollars!"

"Oh, no," said Azalea, "it can't be worth all that! But I thought you'd
like an old one."

"But I don't understand! Where did you get it?"

"It was my grandmother's."

"But your grandmother didn't live in 1636!"

"N--n--no,--I s'pose not. Well,--you see, she had it from _her_
grandmother and great-grandmother,--clear back,--you know."

"I see," said Elise, scrutinising the sampler. "It's a marvel, Azalea.
You mustn't sell it at this Fair. It ought to go to a museum. 1636!
That's one of the earliest sampler dates! I can't see how it's lain
unknown all these years. Who had it before you did?"

"Mother."

"Oh, yes,--of course. Well, I'm not going to take it from you--"

"Yes, you are, Elise. I want to give it to you. I've wanted all along
to give you something nice,--you've been so good to me--"

"Rubbish! don't talk like that, Zaly! If you want to make Patty a
present, now,--give it to her. That would be a worth-while return for
her kindness to you."

"Oh, I don't think so much of the old thing as you do. I don't even
think it's pretty."

"It isn't a question of prettiness, or even of a well worked piece. It's
the date. And this is genuine,--I can see that. But I can't understand
it! Why,--I think this border wasn't used until--I must look it up in my
book. That's home in New York. But, there's one thing sure and certain!
This doesn't get put in with my bunch of wares! Mr. Greatorex may come
this afternoon. He's an expert on these things. He'll know just what
it's worth."

"Oh, Elise," Azalea looked troubled, "don't take it so seriously. It's
just an old thing. You've others here that are far handsomer."

"As I told you, Zaly, it's the age that counts,--not the beauty. Run
along to your own booth. I'll lay this aside until I can find out about
it. But if it's as valuable as I think it is, you mustn't give it to
Vanity Fair,--or to anybody. 1636! My!"

Azalea looked a little crestfallen. Instead of being glad at the
unexpected value ascribed to her gift, she seemed decidedly put out
about it. She strolled round by Patty's booth. That enterprising young
matron had caused to be built for her use a little child's playhouse. It
was just large enough for half a dozen children, and would perhaps hold
nearly as many grown people. But it had a good-sized verandah and on
this were tables piled with the loveliest fairy-like gossamer garments
and comforts for tiny mites of humanity. Such exquisite blankets and
afghans and tufted silk coverlets and such dainty frocks and caps and
little coats and everything an infant could possibly use, from baskets
to bibs and from pillows to porringers.

And dolls,--soft, cotton or woolly dolls for little babies to play with,
and soft, cuddly bears and lambs. Rattles, of course, and bath-tub toys,
and all sorts of infants' novelties.

Patty, happy as a butterfly, hovered over her treasures. She wore the
immaculate white linen garb of a nurse, and very sweet and fair she
looked. Later, Fleurette was to grace the booth and attract all
observers by her marvellous baby charm.

At high noon the bazaar was opened with a flourish of trumpets and a
fanfaronade by the band. Farnsworth had given the services of a first
class band as his donation, and the musicians made good.

The scene was one of varied attractions. The place itself was lovely
with its wealth of flower gardens and shrubbery and the unique and
elaborate booths here and there among the trees made a striking picture.

Betty was queen of the soda fountain. A really, truly soda fountain had
been procured, and it was attended by white uniformed servitors who were
trained to the work, but Betty was the presiding genius and invited her
customers to sample her beverages, with free advice as to which flavours
and combinations she thought the best.

Raymond Gale was a general supervisor of several of the enterprises.

He had in charge the moving-picture men who had expressed a desire to
get some scenes of the gay throngs and were willing to pay well for the
privilege.

"You like the 'movies,'" he called out to Azalea, "come over here and
get into the game."

"Can't," she called back. "I have to be on duty at my wigwam."

"Oh, come along; the wigwam won't run away. At least promenade up and
down once with me."

So Azalea came, laughingly, and the two walked grandiloquently into the
focus of the camera.

"And there is a man making phonograph records," young Gale went on.
"Come over there, Zaly, and we'll have a joust of words, and record it
on the sands of time!"

"What do you mean?" asked Azalea, interestedly, for she had no knowledge
of some of the performances going on.

She went with Raymond and found a crowd waiting at the booth where the
phonograph man was doing business. His plan was to make a record for any
customer who cared to sing, recite or soliloquise for him. Mothers
gladly brought their infant prodigies to "speak pieces" and went away
proudly carrying the records that could be played in their homes for
years to come. Aspiring young singers made records of their favourite
songs. One young girl played the violin for a record.

Taking their turn, Raymond and Azalea had what he called an impromptu
scrap. A few words of instruction were enough for Azalea's dramatic
instinct to grasp his meaning, and they had a lively tiff followed by a
sentimental "making-up" that was good enough for a vaudeville
performance, and which Azalea knew would greatly amuse Patty and Bill
when they should hear the record.

"Oh, what fun!" Azalea cried, "I never heard of such a thing. I want to
make a lot of records. I'm going to make one of Baby!"

She ran into the house and up to the nursery where Winnie was just
giving the child her dinner. "Goody!" cried Azalea, "now she'll be
good-natured! Let me take her, Winnie."

Not entirely with Winnie's sanction, but in spite of her half-expressed
disapproval, Azalea took the laughing child and ran back to the
phonograph booth.

"Let me go in ahead of you people, won't you, please?" she begged, and
the waiting line fell back to accommodate her.

But alas for her hopes. She wanted the baby to coo and gurgle in the
delightful little way that Fleurette had in her happiest moments.

Instead, frightened by the strangeness of the scene and the noise and
laughter of the people all about, Fleurette set up a wail of woe which
developed rapidly into a storm of screams and sobs,--indeed, it was a
first-class crying spell,--a thing which the good-natured child rarely
indulged in.

Not willing to wait for a better-tempered moment, the man took the
record and poor little Fleurette was immortalised by a squall instead
of a sunny burst of laughter.

But there was no help for it, and Azalea, greatly chagrined, took the
baby back to Nurse.

"Here's your naughty little kiddy," she cried ruefully, handing
Fleurette over, but giving the child a loving caress, even as she spoke.

"Thank you, Miss Thorpe, I'm glad to get her back so soon."

And then Azalea ran away to her Indian booth, where she found her
assistant doing a rushing business with the Indian wares.

Indeed, everybody seemed anxious to buy the baubles of Vanity Fair. The
cause was a worthy one, the patrons were wealthy and generous, and the
vendors were charming and wheedlesome.

So the coin fairly flowed into their coffers and as the afternoon wore
on they began to fear they wouldn't have enough goods to sell the second
day.

Azalea was a favourite among the young people. She looked a picture in
her Indian dress and she was in rare good humour. She tried, too, to be
gracious and gentle, and committed no _gaucheries_ and made no ignorant
errors.

"You've simply made that girl over," Elise said to Patty, as the two
spoke of Azalea's growing popularity.

Patty sighed. "I don't know," she said, thoughtfully. "There's something
queer about Azalea. Little Billee has said so from the first, and now I
begin to see it, too."

"She _is_ queer," assented Elise, "but she's so much nicer than she was
at first. Ray Gale is very devoted to her."

"I know it. I like Ray, too, but sometimes,--think,--he knows something
about her that he won't tell us."

"For mercy's sake,--what do you mean? knows something about your own
cousin that you don't know!"

"Oh, Zaly isn't our own cousin, you know. But--well, never mind now,
Elise. This isn't a good time to talk confidentially."

Crowds of people were constantly arriving, and among them were many of
Patty's old friends. Many, too, of her newer acquaintances, who lived in
Arden and also in the nearby towns.

Patty was charming and delightful to everybody, remembering that she was
in a way hostess as well as a sales-lady.

Fleurette graced her mother's booth with her presence, later in the
afternoon, and quite redeemed her reputation for good nature, by smiling
impartially on everybody, and gurgling a welcome to all who looked at
her.

The little garments and toys of Patty's booth were soon sold out, for
they were choice bits of needlework and found ready buyers.

And then one enthusiastic young father wanted to buy the playhouse
itself, in which Patty had displayed her wares.

"But I meant to keep this for my own baby!" she cried.

"Oh, you can build another by the time that little mite needs one," the
young man replied. "And my youngster is four years old,--just ready to
inhabit a ready made home of this kind,"

So the pretty little house was sold, and plans were made to remove it
to the purchaser's estate.

So it went. Azalea had many offers for her wigwam, if she would sell it
after the fair. She agreed to let it go to the highest bidder, and
finally received a fine price.

Archery was one of the pretty diversions, and at this Azalea excelled.
To the surprise of all, she proved exceedingly skilful with the bow and
arrow and easily won the prize offered. But she magnanimously refused to
accept it, and returned it to be competed for over again.

Mr. Greatorex, the expert connoisseur in the matter of antiques, arrived
at Elise's log cabin and expressed delight in its construction and
furnishing.

The cabin was not for sale, Elise laughingly informed him, as Mr.
Farnsworth intended to keep it a permanent fixture on his own grounds.
Also, Elise went on, very few things of value were left on her
tables,--but she still had one piece on which she wished to ask his
opinion.

From a drawer she brought out the sampler that Azalea had given her and
passed it over to Mr. Greatorex, without comment.

He looked at it, at first casually and then more closely.

His face expressed mystification, and suddenly he examined the date
minutely and then smiled.

"Very clever, my dear,--very cleverly done, indeed. Did you do it?"

"Oh, no; it is the property of a friend of mine,--it was done by an
ancestor of hers. You see it's signed and dated."

"I see! Oh, yes, I _see_! But you mustn't try to impose on me,--my
eyesight is not yet entirely gone!"

"What do you mean, Mr. Greatorex?" Elise was puzzled. "I'm not trying to
impose on you!"

"I hope not, my girl, for I wouldn't want to believe such a thing of
you. But you have been imposed upon."

"How?"

"This sampler was worked in 1836, not 1636."

"How do you know?"

"Very easily. Here, you can see for yourself. You see how the figures
are made,--ordinary cross stitch. Well, as you know, an eight is worked
almost exactly the same as a six, except that it has two more stitches
on the upper right-hand side. If those two stitches are picked out of an
eight, it turns into a six! Now, I'm sure your young eyes can see that
two stitches _have_ been picked out in this instance. See the slight
mark where the canvas is the least bit drawn? And see, on the back a
fresh stitch was necessary to keep the ends from ravelling. It would
pass to a careless observer, but to one accustomed to these things the
fraud is plainly evident."

"Oh, Mr. Greatorex," and Elise looked sorrowful, "I don't care so much
about the sampler being less valuable than I thought, as I do about
having to think the friend who gave it to me would cheat me!"

"Perhaps she didn't. Perhaps somebody cheated her."

"No; she told me her mother gave her this, and that she had had it from
her mother and grandmother--and so forth."

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