Patricia

by Caroline Emilia Jacobs

THE WAY OF A GRANDMOTHER

Patricia sat on the back steps carefully arranging purple and white asters in an old blue and white punchbowl, the pride of her Aunt Julia's heart.

"It's the 'Washington bowl,' Custard," she explained to the small curly black dog, watching her intently. "Daddy says it's called that because it is just as easy to prove that Washington never did have punch from it as that he did." Patricia paused to rearrange one particularly wobbly aster, too short as to stem and too big as to head. "Anyhow, it's one of the very nicest things we've got."

Custard sighed restlessly; to spend this breezy October afternoon in fussing over flowers, when just beyond the gate a whole world waited to be explored, seemed to him a most un-Patricia-like wasting of time.

Then as Patricia rose slowly to her feet, the bowl of flowers in her hands, he sprang up at her with a sharp little bark of delight.

"Down!" she warned sharply. "Custard Kirby, if you make me drop this punchbowl I don't know what Aunt Julia will say!"

It seemed to Patricia as if that journey upstairs to the spare bedroom never would be made in safety; but it was accomplished at last, and her burden placed right in the center of the low reading-table, standing at one side of the south window.

With a long breath of relief, Patricia sat down on the edge of the bed, looking about the big pleasant room with approving eyes. It was exactly the sort of room she should like to have when she got be a grandmother. There were fresh muslin curtains at the windows, the fine old-fashioned mahogany furniture shone from its recent polishing; on the broad hearth a light fire was laid ready for the lighting, and at one corner of the fireplace stood a big chintz-covered armchair. Of course there was a footstool beside it. Patricia had seen to the footstool herself, hunting it out up garret that morning. She had wondered why Daddy's eyes twinkled at sight of it—Daddy would tell her nothing about grandmother, she must wait and see. And Patricia so hated waiting for anything, from surprises to scoldings.

"Yes, it certainly does look grandmothery, Custard," she said; "and the flowers help a lot. I know she'll love asters; they're such an old-ladyish flower. Mind, sir, you're not to go rushing at her! And the very first time you run off with any of her things you're going to get your ears boxed."

Custard wagged tentatively; boxing his ears appeared to him to belong to Miss Kirby's special department.

"Miss P'tricia!" Sarah stood in the doorway, indignation in the very points of her knotted turban—"Miss P'tricia, ain't yo' never be'n tole not to sit on beds? 'Tic'larly beds all ready fo' comp'ny!"

Patricia slipped hurriedly to her feet; but by this time Sarah had caught sight of something else. "Land sakes, Miss P'tricia! Ef yo' isn't gone an' tuk Miss Julia's punchbowl—what she don't 'low no one but herse'f to tech!"

Patricia put an arm around Sarah's waist, or rather, around as much of it as she could encompass. "Aunt Julia wasn't in—and I wanted the very nicest bowl I could think of. It is so perfectly lovely to have a grandmother coming!"

There was a world of unconscious longing in Patricia's voice; no one, not even Daddy, knew quite what the coming of her grandmother meant to the little motherless girl. And a grandmother she had not seen since babyhood. The coming weeks seemed to Patricia full of untold possibilities.

"It do look pretty," Sarah admitted, as she went to smooth out the bed covers. "'Pears like it was time yo' was gettin' your dress changed, honey. Yo' best let me giv yo' hair a brush; seems like yo' never did get the kinks out."

Patricia submitted with most unaccustomed patience to the finishing touches Sarah insisted on giving her toilet. "I reckon yo'll do now, honey," Sarah said at last.

"Only half an hour more and she'll be here, Custard," Patricia said to the dog, sniffing inquiringly at the tips of her best shoes; "Daddy's to meet the five-thirty train."

Patricia settled herself circumspectly in the hammock, smoothing out her crisp white skirts. "Oh, I do wonder what she'll be like, really I haven't even a photograph—grandmother doesn't like being photographed—and I haven't seen her since I was three years old. Custard, do you suppose she'll have an ear trumpet, like the Barkers' grandmother? It's very embarrassing talking into an ear trumpet. I rather hope she's short and—stoutish. I've been thinking over all the people I know, and it seems to me that the short, stout ones are mostly more good-natured than the other kinds."

Custard wagged agreeingly; he was short, and not his worst enemy could accuse him of being thin. So far this coming of a grandmother did not appeal to Custard; never before had he been refused a share of the hammock; and those one or two preliminary nips he had taken at the toes of Patricia's shiny shoes had been promptly squelched. To be talked to and confided in was all very well, but a game of tag in the meadow behind the house would have been a great deal more fun. Nor was Custard quite sure what a grandmother was; he hoped it was something good to eat.

Patricia had never known such a long half hour; she made one or two trips down to the gate, walking carefully on the edge of the grass, so as not to get her shoes dusty. It was very odd that Aunt Julia didn't come home—Good, she was coming now.

"Isn't the train late?" Patricia demanded, the moment her aunt was within earshot.

Miss Kirby smiled. "It isn't due yet, Patricia, for five minutes." She didn't look in the least excited, going calmly up the garden path to the house.

But then it wasn't her grandmother who was coming; besides, Patricia's gray eyes danced mischievously, she didn't know about the punchbowl.

Patricia decided to wait down by the gate—explanations were such tiresome things.

Then, in a few moments, far down the quiet village street she caught sight of a familiar gig, duly attended by old Cæsar, the pointer.

The gig was quite close now. Patricia's heart gave a great jump, then seemed to stand quite still.

She hadn't come!

There was a lady in the gig with Daddy; but—

Patricia turned sharply, and regardless of her shoes ran swiftly back up the driveway and through the garden to the meadow beyond; never stopping until she dropped, a little breathless heap, beside the brook.

Custard barked excitedly, thinking it some new move in this grandmother game; then suddenly he poked his cold black nose in under the tossed thatch of Patricia's brown curls. For Patricia was crying—and doing it quite as earnestly and as thoroughly as she did most things.

At last she sat up, dabbing her eyes.

"She didn't come! And we were all ready—and now it can't be just the same—when she does come. Custard, do you suppose it's a—a judgment on me, for taking the punchbowl?"

Custard looked sober.

"I'll go put it right back. Oh, dear, I do hope that other person hasn't stayed to supper!"

Patricia went back to the house, forlorn, bedraggled; very different from the Patricia whom Sarah had sent downstairs not an hour before, imploring her to "try and keep smarted up for once."

On the back porch she met her father.

"Patricia," he asked, "what does this mean? Why did you run away when you saw your grandmother coming?"

Patricia gasped. "But, Daddy, she didn't come! I didn't see her! Oh, do you mean, was that—I expected she'd have on a bonnet tied under her chin—and a shawl—and glasses." Patricia was half crying again, her head on her father's shoulder.

It was hard to relinquish the picture of the grandmother she had been carrying in her mind for the past fortnight; a sort of composite picture of all the grandmothers she knew in Belham.

And the doctor, understanding, comforted her, sending her to freshen herself up again for supper, with the promise that it would all come right—she would see.

On the upper landing Patricia came face to face with grandmother; a grandmother who was tall and slender and dressed in some delicate gray material that rustled softly when she walked, and gave forth a faint scent of violets. There was very little gray in the dark wavy hair, that framed a face altogether different from the placid wrinkled one of Patricia's imaginings; but when Mrs. Cory said, "O Patricia!" and held out her arms, Patricia went to her at once.

They sat down on the broad window seat to get acquainted; Patricia hoped grandmother would not see she had been crying and how tumbled her clean dress was. Though Mrs. Cory saw, she said nothing, she had the gift of knowing what questions not to ask; only asking instead, "Patricia dear, who put that delightful bowl of flowers in my room?"

Patricia's color deepened. "I did—grandmother; I thought you would like them—they were," Patricia caught herself up, doubting now the appropriateness of those "old-ladyish" flowers.

Fortunately Custard appeared at that moment, wagging ingratiatingly; and grandmother at once responded to his overtures with a friendliness that warmed not only the heart of Custard but of Custard's small mistress.

Patricia went to bed that night with her thoughts rather in a whirl. "I suppose," she decided finally, "that she is one of those 'up-to-date grandmothers' one reads about; anyhow, she's a dear and I love her, and oh, Aunt Julia did behave beautifully about the punchbowl—she seemed to appreciate what a delicate situation it was—and I'll never, never take it again without asking."

On the whole, this "up-to-date grandmother" proved a most charming possession; a grandmother who took long walks with one, who played croquet with one, who planned delightful trips in town to shops and even to matinees. And how delightful to know that one was the object of both envy and interest to the other girls; to be able to show the tiniest of enameled watches, straight from Paris; to have a grandmother who had actually been in Egypt, and had seen the king and queen of England. Patricia held her head very high in these days.

Yet at times there was an odd, barely defined feeling of something like regret at the bottom of Patricia's heart.

This new grandmother was the best of chums and companions, but somehow it was hard to realize that she was really a grandmother. And before Patricia's inward gaze would pass the picture of a little white-capped old lady, quietly knitting at one corner of the fireplace; an old lady whose big Dutch pocket held an unfailing supply of ginger nuts and peppermint drops, whose stories were all of those far-off days when "I was a little girl."

But only at times; as a rule these days were too full for Patricia to find time for inner visions.

"You're the luckiest girl, Patricia Kirby," Patricia's particular chum, Nell Hardy, declared one morning on the way to school. "I think Mrs. Cory's perfectly lovely; she always acts as if she was ever so glad to see you."

Patricia swung her strap of books thoughtfully. "Daddy says she has a beautiful manner. I'm going to be just like her."

Nell's quick glance was hardly flattering. "When?"

"Anyhow, she's my grandmother!" Patricia retorted; she shook out her short skirts, if only she could have silk linings. Clothes were beginning to take on new meanings for Patricia.

"We'd better hurry," Nell said, "or we'll be late."

"Grandmother never really hurries."

"Maybe she did when she was going to school; there's the bell now!"

"Bet I'll be there first," Patricia said, darting ahead.

But she wasn't; it seemed as if all the babies and dogs in town chose that particular moment to get right in her path, avoiding with equal skill Nell's eager rush. What with picking up a baby here and stopping to speak to one there—Patricia never could get by babies—Patricia reached the schoolhouse just too late to join her line and had to wait outside until the opening exercises were over.

It was by no means the first time; and Miss Carrol looked very grave as Patricia slipped into her place a little later, trying to ignore Nell's bob of triumph.

It was after supper that evening that the doctor called Patricia into the office. "Patricia," he said, as she came to stand before him, "I met Miss Carrol this afternoon."

"Yes, Daddy." Patricia's thoughts flew rapidly backward; had she been doing anything very dreadful?

"She tells me that you have been tardy very frequently of late, Patricia."

"Y-yes, Daddy."

"And yet you usually appear to start in good season?"

"Yes, Daddy; it—it doesn't seem to be the starting early. It's—such a lot of things always do seem to happen on the way."

"What kind of things, Patricia?"

"Well, you see, Daddy, there are such a lot of babies all along, they just expect to be noticed; and sometimes I go for some of the girls and they've something to do and I wait to help; and sometimes I go an errand for old Mrs. Daly—you know she hasn't any one to go at home. If you were with me you'd understand, Daddy."

The doctor smiled. "Oh, I understand all right, Patricia; still, this being late for school has got to stop. Suppose every one in the room came just a little late?"

"They don't," Patricia said; "most of the girls hate it."

"And you must learn to hate it too; as a means to that end, if it happens again this week it must be only the yard on Saturday, Patricia."

"Daddy!" Patricia made swift calculation on the tips of her fingers; it was Monday night—twice four made eight—eight pitfalls to be avoided or else—Not once since her coming had grandmother failed to take Patricia somewhere on Saturday afternoon.

All of this was in Patricia's gray eyes, as she lifted them appealingly to her father. "Daddy, if you could make it something else?"

"Are you going to give up the fight beforehand, Pat?"

"But you see, Daddy," Patricia quoted gravely, "I 'know my limitations.' And besides, it isn't just me—grandmother'll be so disappointed; you know we always go somewhere together Saturday afternoon."

"Which means a double reason for coming up to the mark, Patricia," the doctor answered; and Patricia, with a little sigh, turned away.

She and Custard were alone in the sitting-room a little later, when Mrs. Cory came in. Grandmother glanced at the sober face. "Is anything wrong, dear?" she asked.

"I'm positive I can't make it," Patricia said forlornly.

"Make what?"

And Patricia explained.

"Of course you can, dear," grandmother said cheerily; "and indeed you must; I've got a very special reason for wanting you to—I'm not going to tell you what it is, however, until Saturday morning at breakfast."

"Over four days to wait! Grandmother, mayn't I have just the first letter?"

Grandmother shook her head.

The next morning at breakfast she announced that she felt the need of more regular exercise, and she thought she should take a short walk every morning.

"Ah!" Dr. Kirby said, "about what time?"

"I should think—about half past eight," Mrs. Cory answered.

"A short walk before breakfast is considered more beneficial by some."

Miss Kirby looked interested. "There are a good many pretty walks about Belham," she said.

When Patricia came down the path, her strap of books over her shoulder, and a get-there-early-or-die expression on her face, Mrs. Cory was just turning out of the gate.

"Are you going in my direction, grandmother?" Patricia asked; and grandmother replied that she was.

Later, sauntering slowly homewards, Mrs. Cory met the doctor. He drew rein. "Well?" he asked.

She laughed softly. "Patrick, if you'd been with us! It was like making a royal progress. There were exactly six babies, and I quite lost count of the dogs, not to mention several old ladies, all waiting to pass the time of day with Patricia. My only wonder is that she ever gets to school at all. Patrick, I don't believe you realize what a dear child she is."

"Don't I!"

Mrs. Cory stood a moment looking down the pleasant tree-bordered street. She had not been in Belham before since the death of Patricia's mother, more than eight years ago, having been abroad most of the time. Now she found herself regretting this long absence. She had been missing a good deal—she would like to have had some share in Patricia's life all these years.

"I was beautifully early this morning," Patricia announced proudly at the table that noon.

"And you will be this afternoon?" grandmother asked.

"I'm not so apt to be late afternoons," Patricia answered; "I suppose it's just happened that way."

The next morning after breakfast, Patricia lingered. "Are you going my way this morning, grandmother?"

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Cory answered.

Patricia caught the smile in her father's eyes and wondered.

Half-way to school she suddenly stopped. "Grandmother, you're doing it on purpose—to make me get there early!"

Mrs. Cory smiled. "You see I didn't want to lose my treat, Patricia."

When Friday noon came Patricia had not one tardy mark for those four days; and on that same Friday noon she met her Waterloo.

It was the Dixon baby who caused her downfall.

He was one of Patricia's most ardent admirers; and when he saw her coming that noon he made as straight for her as his very shaky two-year-old legs would allow. Of course he tumbled down and scratched his snubby little nose; and of course Patricia stopped to pet and comfort him, carrying him back to the house. "Mrs. Dixon," she called from the gate, "oh, Mrs. Dixon!"

But Mrs. Dixon had just stepped over to a neighbor's. Patricia tried to put her charge down, but he stoutly refused to be put.

"You'll be late, Patricia," Nell warned, coming up.

"Danny won't let me leave him; and I don't know where his mother is," Patricia almost wailed.

"Mercy, put him down and come on!" Nell advised. "He's a little nuisance."

"You don't know Danny's powers for hanging on," Patricia said; "besides, he did hurt himself."

Five minutes after school had opened Patricia made her appearance.

"Patricia," Miss Carrol said, "I had begun to hope that you were not going to end the week as you began it."

Patricia took her place without answering.

Miss Kirby and Mrs. Cory had gone in town that afternoon, not to return until the late train, and it so happened that the doctor did not come home to supper; so there was no one but Sarah to notice the depths into which Patricia was plunged. For Patricia never did anything by halves.

"Is yo' sick, honey?" Sarah asked anxiously, when Patricia refused a second piece of chocolate cake.

Patricia shook her head. "I'm just disgusted with life."

"Land sakes!" Sarah exclaimed; "and only this noon looked like yo' was walkin' on air!"

Patricia went to bed early that night; even Custard's powers to comfort had proved inadequate. To-morrow stretched ahead a long, blank, dreary waste.

She was a little late to breakfast the next morning; as she slipped into place, after kissing him good-morning, the doctor glanced at her rather closely. She was a most subdued Patricia.

And then grandmother came in, also a little late. "Patricia," she said, almost at once, "after breakfast I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Hardy if Nell may go in town with you and me to-day—to the circus."

Patricia caught her breath—so that was the "special reason!"

Then she pushed her chair back. "I—can't go!" she cried; and was halfway upstairs before any of the others could speak.

Mrs. Cory turned to Miss Kirby. "What can be the matter?"

Miss Kirby shook her head. "Do you know what it means, Patrick?"

The doctor looked guilty. "I am afraid it means—that Patricia has been late to school again."

"But I thought," grandmother began, then stopped; as soon as she had finished her breakfast she went up to Patricia's room.

Coming down a few moments after, she went straight to the office.

"Patrick," she said, "I have been finding out how Patricia came to be late; and remember, please, that Patricia herself has given me only the barest facts, with no thought of making out a case for herself, but reading between the lines—" and then the doctor was given the opportunity to also read between the lines.

He listened gravely. "I know," he said at last, "it was a very Patricia-like action; still I am afraid I must stand by my word."

"Patrick, I think I shall claim my prerogative."

"Your what?"

"Prerogative—as a grandmother. From time immemorial it has been the right of the grandmother to come to the rescue of the grandchildren."

"But Patricia knows—"

"It is my chance, you see,"—Mrs. Cory had been told why Patricia had run away that first night,—"my chance to prove to Patricia that even if I don't wear a cap and spectacles and all the paraphernalia of the good old-fashioned grandmother, at heart I really am one—just as soft-hearted and unreasonable as any one of them."

"But—"

"Patrick, didn't your grandmother ever get you out of a tight place?"

The doctor looked thoughtfully out at the leaf-covered lawn; it was going to be a perfect fall day. "Yes," he said, "she did, more than once—bless her—in the most reprehensible way."

"The way of a grandmother the world over," Mrs. Cory commented softly.

"And upon my word I don't believe it did me any harm!" the doctor went through to the foot of the stairs. "O Pat!" he called.

Patricia came promptly, bravely blinking back the tears.

"You mustn't lay it up against me, Pat," the doctor said; "it's all your grandmother's doing. She simply insists on taking you to that circus today."

"Daddy!" Patricia's arms were about his neck instantly; "Daddy, I will try—ever 'n' ever so hard! You'll see!"

The doctor laughed. "Wish I were going too, Pat. In my young days it was after the circus that one appreciated most the advantages of owning a grandmother."

"Where is grandmother, Daddy?"

"In the office."

Patricia flew to the office. "Oh," she cried, her arms around her grandmother's neck this time, "you're the very grandmotheriest grandmother that ever could be!"

And then and there vanished forever from Patricia's heart that picture of a placid, wrinkled little old lady, knitting quietly at one corner of the fireplace.