XXVII
The bachelor apartment-house which Allen Sanford called his home in New York, though constantly referred to by him as his "two by twice hall bedroom," was considerably more pretentious and expensive than a young man receiving his modest income would ordinarily have selected; yet when he decided upon it, the chief point in question was whether or not it suited his tastes. The fact that the rent alone exceeded the salary assured him by his position in the Consolidated Companies did not strike him as of any particular significance. He had sold his motor before leaving Washington, and with this nest-egg and what remained of his last allowance to draw upon, the necessity of economy had not occurred to him. "I've eaten up the tires, and now I'm beginning on the chassis," he had once remarked in conversation; but with characteristic confidence in the future, he made no provision for the time when he should have thoroughly fletcherized the entire machine.
Now that he had joined the army of the unemployed, and had decided to return to Pittsburgh, it was incumbent upon him to pack up his belongings. This was a project which failed to appeal to him. He had formally terminated his connection with the Consolidated Companies on the day before, and this Sunday morning had been set apart by him for his tremendous undertaking. His trunks were in the middle of the floor, and his clothes deposited in various stages of disorder upon every chair in the room, preparatory to making the start toward packing which appalled him. The empty drawers of the dresser and the chiffonnier, and the bare hooks of the closet bore silent tribute to the thoroughness of his work thus far.
He was sitting upon the edge of a trunk, regarding in dismay the confusion around him and wondering where to make a start, when the bell rang vigorously. He opened the door in surprise, and was relieved to find no more formidable a visitor than the elevator boy.
"A young lady down-stairs to see you, sir."
"A—what?" demanded Allen.
"She wouldn't give her name, sir."
"I'll be right down," he cried, slamming the door unceremoniously in the boy's face, and rushing into his coat and waistcoat. Could it be that Alice had really meant what she said that night, and had come to convince him of it! There was a girl for you! He would never accept the sacrifice, he told himself resolutely, still he fairly danced as he straightened his necktie, tripped over his evening clothes, which he had knocked onto the floor, and almost stumbled over a little figure in the hallway, as he threw open the door and started to rush to the elevator.
"They wouldn't let me come up in the elevator, so I walked," announced
Patricia, looking up at him with a beaming smile.
"What are you doing here? Is Alice down-stairs?" Allen demanded, completely bewildered by the unexpected apparition.
"I've come to go away with you, and Alice is at home," the child answered, simply. "Papa said you were going back to Pittsburgh. Aren't you glad to see me? I've got all my things packed up in this bag, except my Knights of the Round Table, which wouldn't go in, so I carried it under my arm."
He looked at her, speechless with astonishment as she proudly held up the diminutive satchel and displayed her precious volume.
"Of course I'm glad to see you, Lady Pat," he said at length; "but you ought not to come here alone, you know."
"I'm not alone," she insisted. "Riley is down-stairs in my pony cart. Phillips didn't know where you lived, but he's only a groom, so I brought Riley. Now, how shall we get rid of him, and have you made a hundred thousand dollars with my money?"
"I'm ashamed to say I haven't—I was too late. The storks had all gone
South for the winter, but I must give you back your bank."
Allen turned into his room, closely followed by Patricia.
"Then you haven't money enough to get married?" she asked in a pathetic little voice. Suddenly her face brightened. "But I don't mind; I'll keep house for you without any money; and storks always come to newly married people, I've heard them say so."
"We couldn't do that, Lady Pat; we'd starve to death unless we ate the storks. Come, let's go and find Riley."
But Riley's anxiety had resulted in his anticipating them, and the familiar face at that moment showed above the stairway, as the old man approached them, out of breath.
"Ah, there ye are, praise be ter th' Virgin Mary," he panted. "Ah, sich a mess as ye're gettin' poor old Riley in. I cudn't hilp it, Misther Allen, I cudn't nohow," heading off any criticism from that quarter—"she wud have it, and that's th' ind iv it. I'm thinkin' that's why they named her Miss Pat—'tis th' Irish persistency iv her name that crops out, an' th' cajolery. I cudn't hilp it, nohow."
"Of course he couldn't help it." Patricia assented. "I had to see you, and some one had to show me where you lived. But you may go now if you want to, Riley."
"We had better come inside and talk it over—if we can get in," Allen suggested, opening the door again, and pushing the things one side.
"Ah, Misther Allen—all ye'er clothes will be spiled, kickin' 'round like this. Shall I fold 'em up an' put 'em in th' thrunks fer ye, sor?"
Riley was in his element again, and Allen grasped at the old man's offer with an eagerness not assumed.
"That's just the thing," he said. "You pack the trunk, Riley, while Lady
Pat and I sit on the window-seat and have a little visit."
"Here are my things, too, Riley." Patricia handed the old man her satchel and book. "Perhaps you'd better pack those on top."
"Why should I pack thim in Misther Allen's thrunk?" he demanded.
"Because we're going away to be married," she announced, grandly. "You are the first one in the family to know it, and you mustn't tell."
Riley started to speak, but a signal from Allen silenced him; so he continued his work, bringing order out of chaos so quickly that he won instant admiration.
"Now, look here, Lady Pat," said Allen, kindly, as the child sat on her heels in front of him on the window-seat, "we must talk this matter over very carefully."
"Yes, Sir Launcelot," Patricia assented, expectantly.
"In the first place, I have made your father very angry with me."
"Were you a naughty boy?"
"He thinks so, and he must be right; but it wouldn't do to make him any more angry by taking you away without his permission. You see that, don't you?"
"But they wouldn't blame you—they'd blame me," the child persisted. "Alice would frown at me and say 'Pa-tri-ci-a.' Papa would be severe and say, 'I shall have to ask mamma Eleanor to punish you,' and mamma Eleanor would look sad and say, 'Oh, my darling,' But she'd forget all about it as soon as I kissed her."
"No; they would blame me, because I'm older—and, besides, a true knight could never stand by and see his Lady Fair blamed, could he? The only thing is for me to go away, and for you to go back home with Riley, and then, later, for me to storm the castle and carry you off."
"But if you did that, you might carry off Alice instead of me," she objected.
"That's so," Allen assented, laughing, "unless she hurries up and gets married. That was our agreement, Lady Pat—as long as Alice is free, we can't make any plans for ourselves."
"Wouldn't it be grand to have you storm the castle and carry me off!" Patricia was quite taken by the idea. "Anyhow, next to Alice, you love me best, don't you, Sir Launcelot?"
"I certainly do," Allen said, truthfully. "Now, you'll go home with
Riley and wait to see what happens, won't you?"
"All right," the child said, entirely satisfied. "Gee, but I wish Mr.
Covington would hurry up!"
Patricia rose obediently and took Riley's hand, as they left the room.
"Wit ye well," she said as she bade Allen good-bye at the elevator. "I shall wait at the window with a silken ladder every night until you come."
Allen turned slowly back into his room, closed the door, and sat down alone on the window-seat which had so recently also sustained his animated little companion. Not until now had the full force of the wrench come upon him, and he was conscious of a lump in his throat as he thought of Alice, first always, then of Mr. Gorham, and last of the city itself. During the months since he had accidentally met Alice in Washington, there had never been a wavering of his purpose. She was the one girl to him among the many he met during the social rounds into which he had plunged while living in New York. He had been undaunted by her attitude, undismayed by the seeming hopelessness of it all—but now her very sympathy proved to him the necessity of at last giving up the one great hope upon which he had set his heart. The pain at separating from his chief, while of a different nature, was no less keen. Mr. Gorham still stood to Allen as the epitome of the best that a man could express. The shock which had come to him when Gorham admitted a knowledge of Covington's investment of Alice's money, did not weaken his respect for the man, but rather was the final event to convince him that his own conception of business must be entirely wrong. If Mr. Gorham sanctioned it, then it was right, it could be nothing else; but all his efforts, conscientious as he knew them to have been, to master the intricacies of the code his preceptor had tried to teach him, had accomplished nothing.
And the great city, which contained so many of his classmates and friends, who had made him welcome in their homes, must in the future receive him only as a stranger. He loved the individuality of the great towering buildings, the wonderful harbor with its kaleidoscopic shipping, the surging masses of the striving people in the streets, the blinding glare of Broadway at night, and the tense, eager business competition keeping each man, irrespective of position, constantly on his taps to hold his own or to forge ahead against the incoming tide of growing prosperity. Everything he craved seemed centred here, yet he had been a part of it all, and had failed to keep his grip. His opportunity had been given him, and he had not taken advantage of it. The city contained no room for failures—only those who could force success from its grinding turmoil belonged within its ever-grasping arms. He must turn his back upon it all, and go to some place less critical, less overpowering, taking with him as memories, in place of triumphs, the thoughts of what might have been.
Amid the gloom which surrounded him, a childish face forced its sweet features upon him, and it relieved the tension of the moment. Dear little Patricia, at least, had faith in him. Alice's attitude was that of sympathy and pity, but little Pat saw in him, the failure, those attributes which belong to the Knight Courageous, undaunted by the hostile flings of Fortune. As she grew older, she too would discover that the gold was paint and the silver, tinsel; but until then, he knew her faith was in him. He pressed his hands against his aching temples—"God bless her for that," he said, softly, "God bless her for that."