Patty Fairfield/Chapter 1
Patty Fairfield
CHAPTER I
HER FATHER'S PLAN
"How old are you, Patty?" asked her father, abruptly.
"Fourteen, papa,—why?"
"My conscience! what a great girl you're getting to be. Stand up and let me look at you."
Patty Fairfield, with two twists and a spring, brought herself to her feet, and stood awaiting her father's inspection.
He saw a slender, graceful girl, a Southern blonde of the purest type. Her pretty golden hair would gladly have hung in curly masses, but it was only allowed to have its own sweet will around her temples and at the end of a long thick braid.
Her eyes were blue, deep and twinkly, and the rest of her face was as pretty and sweet as soft girlish contours and a perfect complexion could make it.
But best of all was the gentle expression and frank, good-natured smile which so often broke into mischievous dimples.
It did on this occasion, and Patty laughed merrily at her father's grave consideration of her.
"What is it, papa?" she asked. "Did you think I was still an infant, and were you going to buy me a new dolls' house? Or were you going to take me to the circus? I'm not a bit too old for the circus."
"Aren't you? Then I will take you, but what is on my mind at present is a much more serious matter. Sit down again, Puss, and I'll tell you all about it.
"You know for years I've looked forward to the time when you should grow up to be old enough to keep house for me. And I thought then we'd go back North and settle down among my people and your mother's relatives. I haven't been North since your mother died, but now I want to go, and I want you to spend the rest of your life there. In many ways it will be better for you than Virginia. You will have more advantages; your life will be broader and more varied. Now I can't be ready to leave here for good in less than a year; I want to sell out my lumber interests and settle up my business affairs.
"But I am continually receiving letters from your aunts,—you have lots of aunts, Patty,—and they are apparently all anxious that you shall visit them. So, if you consent, this is my plan. You've never traveled any, have you, Puss?"
"Never been out of Virginia in my life, papa."
"No? Well, you ought to see a little of how the rest of the world lives and moves. So I think I'll let you visit in the North for a year,—say three months with each of your four aunts,—and then next fall I'll be ready to join you, and we'll buy a house and you shall be mistress of it."
"A home of our own? Oh, papa, I'd like that lots!"
"Yes, so would I. As we have always lived in boarding-houses since your mother's death, you've had no opportunity to learn the details of housekeeping, and these four visits will show you four very distinct types of families."
"Why, are my aunts all so different, papa?"
"Indeed they are, and though I hope you can make yourself happy with each one, yet you Will find life very different in the various homes."
"Tell me about them, papa," said Patty, contentedly settling herself back among the cushions of the couch, for she dearly loved a long talk with her father.
"Well, you will go first to the St. Clairs. You remember Uncle Robert, your mother's brother, who was here four or five years ago, don't you?"
"Indeed I do; he brought me a French doll nearly as big as I was then myself,—and a whole five-pound box of candy. He is a lovely man. But I've never seen Aunt Isabel or the children,—only their photographs."
"Your Aunt Isabel is,—but no,—I won't tell you anything about your relatives. You may discover their faults and virtues for yourself. Most of all, my child, you will need to cultivate your sense of proportion. Do you know what proportion means?"
"Oh, yes, papa, I studied 'ratio and proportion' in arithmetic."
"Not that kind," said her father, smiling; "I mean a proportion of human interests, of amusements or occupations. I wonder if you are too young to understand."
"No, I'm not too young to understand anything," said Patty, fairly blinking in her endeavor to look as wise as an owl.
"Well, then, listen while I put it this way. Suppose you were to make a cake, an ordinary sized cake, you know, how much yeast would you put in it?"
"Not any, papa," said Patty, laughing merrily. "I know enough housekeeping not to put yeast in a cake. I'd use baking-powder."
"Yes," said her father, quite undisturbed, "that is what I meant,—baking-powder. Now how much of it would you use?"
"Well, about two teaspoonfuls," said Patty, feeling very important and housewifely.
"Yes. Now suppose instead of two teaspoonfuls you put in two cupfuls."
"Why then I wouldn't have any cake at all! I reckon it would rise right up the chimney and run down on the roof outside."
"Well, that shows just what I mean. There'd be a too great proportion of baking-powder, wouldn't there?"
"Indeed there would," assented Patty, much interested in the conversation, but a little bewildered.
"To try again," her father continued, "suppose your frock was so covered by trimming that the material could scarcely be seen at all."
"Then," said Patty, who was rapidly learning her lesson, "then there'd be too great a proportion of trimming for the frock."
"Ah," said her father, "you begin to see my drift, do you? And if you had all tables in your house, and no chairs or bedsteads or bureaus, there'd be too great a proportion of tables, wouldn't there?"
"Yes; and I perceive," said Patty, slowly and with mock gravity, "that proportion means to have too many of one thing, when you'd better have a lot of others."
"No, you're all wrong! That is a lack of proportion. Proportion is to have exactly the right amount of each ingredient."
"Yes,—and what has all this to do with Aunt Isabel? Does she put too much baking-powder in her cake, or has she nothing but tables in her house?"
"Those, my dear, were only figures of speech. But if you're going to make a home for your old father next year, I want you to learn from observation what are the principal ingredients to put into it, and then learn to adjust the proportions."
"Papa, I believe I do know what you mean, but it's all out of proportion when you call yourself 'my old father,' for you're not old a bit. You're a beautiful young man, and I'm sure any one who didn't know us would take you for my brother."
"Come, come, Puss, you mustn't be so flattering, or I'll keep you here, and not let you go North at all; and I do believe you're just dying to go."
"I'd like it lots if you were going too. But to be away from you a whole year is no fun at all. Can't I wait until next fall and we'll go together?"
"No, Patsie; your aunts are urging me to let you visit them and I think the experiences will do you good. And beside, my plans for the next year are very uncertain. I may have to go to Bermuda to see about my plantation there,—and all things considered, I think you would be better off in the North. I shall miss you, of course, but a year soon slips away, you know, and it will fly very quickly for you, as you will be highly entertained with your new experiences."
Now, Patty Fairfield was a philosophic little girl, so when she found that her father's mind was made up she accepted the situation and offered no objections of any kind. And, indeed the new plan was not without its charm. Although she knew none of her aunts, she knew a great deal about them, and their Northern homes seemed attractive to her in many ways.
"What about school, papa?" she said, finally.
"That will be left to the judgment of each aunt in turn. I think Aunt Isabel has a governess for her children, and Aunt Hester will probably teach you herself. But you will learn enough, and if not, you can consider it a year's vacation, and I'll put you back in school when I am with you again."
"Well," said Patty, meditatively, "I think it will be very nice, and I'll like it, but I'll be awful lonesome for you," and with a spring she jumped into her father's arms.
"Yes, of course, my baby, we'll be homesick for each other, but we'll be brave, and when we feel very lonesome, we'll sit down and write each other nice long letters."
"Oh, that will be fun, I love letters; and here comes Clara, may I tell her about it?"
"Yes, and tell her she must come to see me once in a while, and cheer me after I lose my own little girl."
Clara Hayden was Patty's intimate friend and both the girls' hearts grew sad at the thought of parting.
"But," said Patty, who was determined to look on the bright side, "after a year, papa and I will have a house of our own, and then you can come and make us a long, long visit And we can write letters, Clara, and you must tell me all about the girls, and about school and about the Magnolia Club."
"Yes, I will; and you write to me about all you do at your aunts' houses. Where do they live, Patty?"
"Well, I shall go first to Aunt Isabel's, and she lives in Elmbridge. That's in New Jersey, but it's quite near New York. Next I'm going to Aunt Hester's; she lives in Boston. Then I'm going to visit Aunt Grace. They live in Philadelphia, but I'll be with them in the summer-time, and then they're at their country place somewhere on Long Island, wherever that may be. And the last one is Aunt Alice, and I forget the name of the town where she lives. Isn't it nice, Clara, to have so many aunts?"
"Yes, lovely! I suppose you'll go to New York often."
"I don't know; I think I'm afraid of New York. They say it's an awful dangerous place."
"Yes, it is. People get killed there all the time."
"Fiddlesticks! I don't believe they do. Well, I reckon I won't get killed. Uncle Robert will take better care of me than that."