The name of the soldier never passed between the engaged couple, and so far as Crabb was concerned, Mr. Pennington might never have existed.
Patricia lacked nothing which the most exacting fiancée might require. Roses and violets arrived regularly at the Wharton country place near Haverford, and in the afternoons Crabb himself came in a motor car, always cheerful, always patient, always original and amusing.
To such a wooing, placid, and ardent by turns, Patty yielded inevitably, and at last, late in September, consented to announce the engagement. The news was received in her own family circle with delighted amazement, for Mortimer Crabb had by this time made many friends in Philadelphia, and Miss Wharton had refused so many offers that her people, remembering Pennington, had decided that their handsome relative was destined to a life of single blessedness. They bestirred themselves at once in a round of entertainments in her honor, the first of which was a lawn party and masque at her uncle Philip Wharton’s country place, near Bryn Mawr.
Philip Wharton never did things by halves, and society, back from the seashore and mountains, welcomed the first large entertainment which was to mark the beginning of the country life between seasons.
The gay crowds swarmed out from the wide doorways, into the balmy night, liberated from the land of matter-of-fact into a domain of enchantment. Gayly caparisoned cavaliers, moving in the spirit of the characters they represented strode gallantly in the train of their ladies whose graceful draperies floated like film from white shoulders and caught in their silken meshes the shimmer of the moonbeams. Bright eyes flashed from slits in masks and bolder ones looked searchingly into them. All of the ages had assembled upon a common meeting ground; a cinquecento rubbed elbows with an American Indian, Joan of Arc was cajoling a Crusader, a nun was hazarding her hope of salvation in flirtation with the devil, the eyes of a Puritan maid fell before the glances of a matador. Nothing had been spared in costume or in setting to make the picture complete. The music halted a moment and then swept into the rhythm of a waltz. A murmur of delight and like a change in the kaleidoscope the pieces all converged upon the terrace.
It was here that a diversion occurred. A laugh went up from a group upon the steps and their glances were turned in one direction. Seated upon the balustrade in the glow of the Chinese lanterns sat a tramp, drinking a glass of punch from the refreshment table close at hand. It was a wonderful disguise that he wore. The shirt of some dark material, was stained and torn, the hat, of the brown, army type, was battered out of shape, and many holes had been bored into the crown. The trousers had worn to the color of dry grass and the boots were old, patched, and yellow with mud and grime. In place of the conventional black mask, he wore a bandanna handkerchief tied around his brow, with holes for the eyes. The ends of the handkerchief hung to his breast and hid his features, but under its edges could be seen a brown ear and a patchy beard. As the crowd watched him he lifted his glass aloft solemnly and made the motions of drinking their health. There was a roar of applause. A whimsical arrogance in the pose of the squarely-made shoulders and the tilt of the head gave an additional interest to the somber figure. He looked like a drawing from the pages of a comic weekly, but the ostentation of his gesture gave him a dignity that made the resemblance less assured. As the people crowded around him and sought to pierce his disguise, he got down from his perch and strolled away into the shadows. When the music stopped again he was surrounded by a curious group, but he towered in their center grotesque, and inscrutable. To those who questioned him too closely he mumbled at their meddling and told them to be off. Then he tightened his belt and asked when supper would be ready.
“Are you hungry?” someone asked. He glared at the questioner.
“What kind of a tramp would I be if I wasn’t hungry?” he growled, and those around him laughed again. So they took him to a table and fed him. He ate ravenously. They got him something to drink and it seemed to vanish down his throat without even touching his lips.
“Isn’t he splendid?” said Patricia Wharton, who, with Mortimer Crabb, had just come up. “But who——? I can’t think of anyone, and yet——”
The tramp looked up at her suddenly and dropped his fork upon the table.