Seven Miles to Arden

by Ruth Sawyer

  IV

  THE OCCUPANT OF A BALMACAAN COAT

  Safe in her room, with the door closed and locked, Patsy stoodtransfixed before a trunk--likewise closed and locked.

  "Thank Heaven for many blessings!" she said, fervently. "Thank HeavenMiriam St. Regis has worn wigs of every conceivable color and styleon the stage, so there is small chance of any one here knowing thereal color of her hair. Thank Heaven she's given to missing herengagements and not wiring about it until the next day. Thank HeavenI've played with her long enough to imitate her mannerisms, and knowher well enough to explain away the night, if the need ever comes.Thank Heaven that George Travis is an old friend and can help out, ifI fail. Thank Heaven for all of these! But, holy Saint Patrick! howwill I ever be getting inside that box?"

  On the heels of her fervor came an inspiration. Off came her glovesand hat, off came coat and skirt, blouse and shoes, and into thecloset they all went. For, whereas Patsy could carry off hershabbiness before masculine eyes, she had neither the desire nor thefortitude to brave the keener, more critical gaze of her own sex. Itwas always for the women that Patsy dressed, and above all else didshe stand in awe of the opinion of the hotel chambermaid, going downin tottering submission before it. Unlocking her door, she rang thebell; then crept in between the covers of her bed, drawing them upabout her.

  The chambermaid came and Patsy ordered the housekeeper. Thehousekeeper came and Patsy explained to her the loss of her bag--theloss of the keys was only implied; it was a part of Patsy's creed oflife never to lie unless cornered. She further implied that she wasentertaining no worry, as a well-appointed hotel always carried abunch of skeleton trunk keys for the convenience of their guests.

  Patsy's inspiration worked to perfection. In a few minutes the Innhad proved itself a well-appointed hostelry, and the trunk stood openbefore her. Alone again, she slipped out of bed--to lock the door andinvestigate. A wistaria lounging-robe was on in a twinkling, withquilted slippers to match. Then Patsy's eager fingers drew forth adark emerald velvet, with bodice and panniers of gold lace, and sheclasped it ecstatically in her arms.

  "Miriam always had divine taste, but the faeries must have guided herhand for the choosing of this. Sure, I'd be feeling like a king'sdaughter if I wasn't so weak and heartsick. I feel more like a younggosling that some one has coaxed out of its shell a day too soon. Isit the effect of Billy Burgeman, I wonder, or the left-overs from theCity Hospital, or an overdose of foolishness--or hunger, just?"

  "Miss St. Regis" dined in her own room, and she dined like a king'sdaughter, with an appetite whetted by weeks of convalescing, charityfare. Even the possible appearance at any minute of her original selfoffered no terrors for her in the presence of such a soul-satisfying,hunger-appeasing feast.

  * * * * *

  At nine-thirty that evening, when the manager sent the hall-boy tocall her, she looked every inch the king's daughter she had dined.The hall-boy, accustomed to "creations," gave her a frank stare ofadmiration, which Patsy noted out of the tail of her eye.

  She was ravishing. The green and gold brought out the tawny red glintof her hair, which was bound with two gold bands about the head,ending in tiny emerald clasps over the barely discoverable tips ofher ears; little gold shoes twinkled in and out of the clinging greenas she walked.

  "Faith! I feel like a whiff of Old Ireland herself," was PatsyO'Connell's subconscious comment as "Miss St. Regis" crossed thestage; and something of the feeling must have been wafted across thefootlights to the audience, for it drew in its breath with a littlegasp of genuine appreciation.

  She heard it and was grateful for the few seconds it gave her to lookat the program the manager had handed her as she was entering. It hadnever occurred to her that Miss St. Regis might arrange her programbeforehand, that the audience might be expecting something definiteand desired in the form of entertainment. It took all the control ofa well-ordered Irish head to keep her from bolting for the littlestage door after one glance at the paper. Her eye had caught theimpersonation of two American actresses she had never seen, thereading of a Hawaiian love poem she had never heard of, and scenesfrom two plays she had never read. It was all too deliciously,absurdly horrible for words; and then Patsy O'Connell geared up herwits, as any true kinswoman of Dan's should.

  In a flash there came back to her what the company had done oncewhen they were playing one-night stands and the wrong scenery hadcome for the play advertised. It was worth trying here.

  "Dear people," said Patsy O'Connell-St. Regis, smiling at theaudience as one friend to another, "I have had so many requests fromamong you--since I made out my program--to give instead an evening ofold Irish tales, that I have--capitulated; you shall have your wish."

  The almost unbelievable applause that greeted her tempted her tofurther wickedness. "Very few people seem ever to remember that I hadan Irish grandfather, Denis St. Regis, and that I like once in awhile to be getting back to the sod."

  There was something so hypnotic in her intimacy--this taking of everyone into her confidence--that one budding youth forgot himselfentirely and naively remarked, "It's a long way to Tipperary."

  That clinched her success. She might have chanted "Old King Cole" andreaped a houseful of applause. As it was, she turned faery child andled them all forth to the Land of Faery--a world that neighbored soclose to the real with her that long ago she had acquired the habitof carrying a good bit of it about with her wherever she went. It wassmall wonder, therefore, that, at the end of the evening, when shefixed upon a certain young man in the audience--a man with apersevering mustache, an esthetic face, and a melancholy, myopicsquint--and told the last tale to him direct, that he felt calledupon to go to her as she came down the steps into the ball-room andexpress his abject, worshipful admiration.

  "That's all right," Patsy cut him short, "but--but--it would sound somuch nicer outside, somewhere in the moonlight--away from everybody.Wouldn't it, now?"

  This sudden amending of matter-of-factness with arch coquetry wouldhave sounded highly amusing to ears less self-atuned than theerstwhile wearer of the Balmacaan. But he heard in it only theflattering tribute to a man chosen of men; and the hand that reachedfor Patsy's was almost masterful.

  "Oh, would you really?" he asked, and he almost broke his melancholywith a smile.

  "It must be my clothes," was her mental comment as he led her away;"they've gone to my own head; it's not altogether strange they'vetouched his a bit. But for a man who's forged his father's name andlost the girl he loved and then plunged into mortal despair, he'sconvalescing terribly fast."

  They had reached a quiet corner of the veranda. Patsy dropped into achair, while her companion leaned against a near-by railing andlooked down at her with something very like a soulful expression.

  "I might have known all along," Patsy was thinking, "that a back likethat would have a front like this. Sure, ye couldn't get a real manto dress in knee-length petticoats." And then, to settle all doubts,she faced him with grim determination. "I let you bring me herebecause I had something to say to you. But first of all, did you comedown here to-night on that five-something train from New York?"

  The man nodded.

  "Did you get to the train by a Madison Avenue car, taken from thecorner of Seventy-seventh Street, maybe?"

  "Why, how did you know?" The melancholy was giving place to ratherpleased curiosity.

  "How do I know!" Patsy glared at him. "I know because I've followedyou every inch of the way--followed you to tell you I believed inyou--you--you!" and her voice broke with a groan.

  "Oh, I say, that was awfully good of you." This time the smile hadright of way, and such a flattered, self-conscious smile as it was!"You know everybody takes me rather as a joke."

  "Joke!" Patsy's eyes blazed. "Well, you're the most serious,impossible joke I ever met this side of London. Why, a person wouldhave to dynamite his sense of humor to appreciate you."

  "I don't think I understand." He felt about in his w
aistcoat pocketand drew forth a monocle, which he adjusted carefully. "Would youmind saying that again?"

  Patsy's hands dropped helplessly to her lap. "I couldn't--only, aftera woman has trailed a man she doesn't know across a country shedoesn't know to a place she doesn't know--and without a wardrobetrunk, a letter of credit, or a maid, just to tell him she believesin him, he becomes the most tragically serious thing that everhappened to her in all her life."

  "Oh, I say, I always thought they were pretty good; but I neverthought any one would appreciate my poetry like that."

  "Poetry! Do you--do that, too?"

  "That's all I do. I am devoting my life to it; that's why my familytake me a little--flippantly."

  A faint streak of hope shot through Patsy's mind. "Would you mindtelling me your name?"

  "Why, I thought you knew. I thought you said that was why youwanted to--to--Hang it all! my name's Peterson-Jones--WilfredPeterson-Jones."

  Patsy was on her feet, clasping her hands in a shameless burst ofemotion while she dropped into her own tongue. "Oh, that's abeautiful name--a grand name! Don't ye ever be changing it! And don'tye ever give up writing poetry; it's a beautiful pastime for any manby that name. But what--what, in the name of Saint Columkill, everhappened to Billy Burgeman!"

  "Billy Burgeman? Why, he came down on the train with me and went backto Arden."

  Patsy threw back her head and laughed--laughed until she almostfeared she could not stop laughing. And then she suddenly becameconscious of the pompous manager standing beside her, a yellow sheetof paper in his hand.

  "Will you kindly explain what this means?" and he slapped the paperviciously.

  "I'll try to," said Patsy; "but will you tell me just one thingfirst? How far is it to Arden?"

  "Arden? It's seven miles to Arden. But what's that got to do withthis? This is a wire from Miss St. Regis, saying she is ill and willbe unable to fill her engagement here to-night! Now, who are you?"

  "I? Why, I'm her understudy, of course--and--I'm--so happy--"Whereupon Patricia O'Connell, late of the Irish National Players andlater of the women's free ward of the City Hospital, crumpled up onthe veranda floor in a dead faint.