Seven Miles to Arden
Ruth Sawyer
SEVEN MILES TO ARDEN
by
RUTH SAWYER
Author of_The Primrose Ring_
Illustrated
Harper & Brothers PublishersNew York & London
SEVEN MILES TO ARDEN
Copyright, 1915, 1916, by The Curtis Publishing CompanyCopyright, 1915, 1916, by Harper & BrothersPrinted in the United States of AmericaPublished April, 1916
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BOOKS BYRUTH SAWYER
SEVEN MILES TO ARDEN. Illustrated. Post 8vo THE PRIMROSE RING. Illustrated. Post 8vo
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
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(See page 220) "Where twin oaks rustle in the wind There waits a lad for Rosalind"]
_TO HIMSELF_
_It leads away, at the ring o' day, On to the beckoning hills; And the throstles sing by the holy spring Which the Blessed Virgin fills.
White is the road and light is the load, For the burden we bear together. Our feet beat time on the upward climb That ends in the purpling heather.
There is spring in the air and everywhere The throb of a life new-born, In mating thrush and blossoming brush, In the hush o' the glowing morn.
Our hearts bound free as the open sea; Where now is our dole o' sorrow? The winds have swept the tears we've wept-- And promise a braver morrow.
But this I pray as we go our way: To find the Hills o' Heather, And, at hush o' night, in peace to light Our roadside fire together._
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE WAY OF IT 1
II. A SIGN-POST POINTS TO AN ADVENTURE 12
III. PATSY PLAYS A PART 25
IV. THE OCCUPANT OF A BALMACAAN COAT 39
V. A TINKER POINTS THE ROAD 48
VI. AT DAY'S END 64
VII. THE TINKER PLAYS A PART 85
VIII. WHEN TWO WERE NOT COMPANY 106
IX. PATSY ACQUIRES SOME INFORMATION 121
X. JOSEPH JOURNEYS TO A FAR COUNTRY 139
XI. AND CHANCE STAGES MELODRAMA INSTEAD OF COMEDY 153
XII. A CHANGE OF NATIONALITY 165
XIII. A MESSAGE AND A MAP 191
XIV. ENTER KING MIDAS 202
XV. ARDEN 216
XVI. THE ROAD BEGINS ALL OVER AGAIN 231
SEVEN MILES TO ARDEN
I
THE WAY OF IT
Patsy O'Connell sat on the edge of her cot in the women's free wardof the City Hospital. She was pulling on a vagabond pair of gloveswhile she mentally gathered up a somewhat doubtful, ragged lot ofprospects and stood them in a row before her for contemplation,comparison, and a final choice. They strongly resembled the contentsof her steamer trunk, held at a respectable boarding-house inUniversity Square by a certain Miss Gibb for unpaid board, for thesewere made up of a jumble of priceless and worthless belongings,unmarketable because of their extremes.
She had time a-plenty for contemplation; the staff wished to see herbefore she left, and the staff at that moment was consulting at theother end of the hospital.
Properly speaking, Patsy was Patricia O'Connell, but no one had everbeen known to refer to her in that cold-blooded manner, save on theprograms of the Irish National Plays--and in the City Hospital'sregister. What the City Hospital knew of Patsy was precisely what theAmerican public and press knew, what the National Players knew, whatthe world at large knew--precisely what Patricia O'Connell had chosento tell--nothing more, nothing less. They had accepted her on her ownscanty terms and believed in her implicitly. There was one thingundeniably true about her--her reality. Having established this factbeyond a doubt, it was a simple matter to like her and trust her.
No one had ever thought it necessary to question Patsy about hernationality; it was too obvious. Concerning her past and her familyshe answered every one alike: "Sure, I was born without either. I wasfound by accident, just, one morning hanging on to the thorn of aKillarney rose-bush that happened to be growing by the Brittanycoast. They say I was found by the Physician to the King, who wastraveling past, and that's how it comes I can speak French and King'sEnglish equally pure; although I'm not denying I prefer them bothwith a bit of brogue." She always thought in Irish--straight, DonegalIrish--with a dropping of final g's, a bur to the r's, and a "ye"for a "you." Invariably this was her manner of speech with those sheloved, or toward whom she felt the kinship of sympatheticunderstanding.
To those who pushed their inquisitiveness about ancestry to thebreaking-point Patsy blinked a pair of steely-blue eyes while shewrinkled her forehead into a speculative frown: "Faith! I can hearkenback to Adam the same as yourselves; but if it's some one more modernyou're asking for--there's that rascal, Dan O'Connell. He's too longdead to deny any claim I might put on him, so devil a word will I besaying. Only--if ye should find by chance, any time, that I'd ratherfight with my wits than my fists, ye can lay that to Dan's door;along with the stubbornness of a tinker's ass."
People had been known to pry into her religion; and on these Patsysmiled indulgently as one does sometimes on overcurious children."Sure, I believe in every one--and as for a church, there's not aplace that goes by the name--synagogue, meeting-house, orcathedral--that I can't be finding a wee bit of God waiting insidefor me. But I'll own to it, honestly, that when I'm out seeking Him,I find Him easiest on some hilltop, with the wind blowing hard fromthe sea and never a human soul in sight."
This was approximately all the world and the press knew of PatsyO'Connell, barring the fact that she was neighboring in the twenties,was fresh, unspoiled, and charming, and that she had played theingenue parts with the National Players, revealing an art thatpromised a good future, should luck bring the chance. Unfortunatelythis chance was not numbered among the prospects Patsy reviewed fromthe edge of her hospital cot that day.
The interest of the press and the public approval of the NationalIrish Players had not proved sufficient to propitiate thatiron-hearted monster, Financial Success. The company went intobankruptcy before they had played half their bookings. Their finalcurtain went down on a bit of serio-comic drama staged, impromptu, ona North River dock, with barely enough cash in hand to pay thecompany's home passage. On this occasion Patsy had missed her cue forthe first time. She had been left in the wings, so to speak; and thatnight she filled the only vacant bed in the women's free ward of theCity Hospital.
It was pneumonia. Patsy had tossed about and moaned with the rackingpain of it, raving deliriously through her score or more of roles.She had gone dancing off with the Faery Child to the Land of Heart'sDesire; she had sat beside the bier in "The Riders to the Sea"; shehad laughed through "The Full o' Moon," and played the Fool while theWise Man died. The nurses and doctors had listened with open-eyedwonder and secret enjoyment; she had allowed them to peep into a newworld too full of charm and lure to be denied; and then of a suddenshe had settled down to a silent, grim tussle with the "GrayBrother."
This was all weeks past. It was early June now; the theatrical seasonwas closed for two months, with no prospects in the booking agenciesuntil August. In the mean time she had eight dollars, seventy-sixcents, and a crooked sixpence as available collateral; and an unpaidboard bill.
Patsy felt sorry for Miss Gibb, but she felt no shame. Boarding-housekeepers, dressmakers, bootmakers, and th
e like must take the riskalong with the players themselves in the matter of getting paid fortheir services. If the public--who paid two dollars a seat for aperformance--failed to appear, and box-office receipts failed tomargin their salaries, it was their misfortune, not their fault; andothers had to suffer along with them. But these debts of circumstancenever troubled Patsy. She paid them when she could, and when shecould not--there was always her trunk.
The City Hospital happened to know the extent of Patsy's property; itis their business to find out these little private mattersconcerning their free patients. They had also drawn certainconclusions from the facts that no one had come to see Patsy and thatno communications had reached her from anywhere. It looked to them asif Patsy were down and out, to state it baldly. Now the Patsys thatcome to free wards of city hospitals are very rare; and thesuperintendent and staff and nurses were interested beyond the usuallimits set by their time and work and the professional hardening oftheir cardiac region.
"She's not to leave here until we find out just who she's got to lookafter her until she gets on her feet again, understand"--and the olddoctor tapped the palm of his left hand with his right forefinger, asign of important emphasis.
Therefore the day nurse had gone to summon the staff while Patsystill sat obediently on the edge of her cot, pulling on her vagabondgloves, reviewing her prospects, and waiting.
"My! but we'll miss you!" came the voice from the woman in the nextbed, who had been watching her regretfully for some time.
"It's my noise ye'll be missing." And Patsy smiled back at her awinning, comrade sort of smile.
"You kind o' got us all acquainted with one another and thinkin'about somethin' else but pains and troubles. It'll seem awfullonesome with you gone," and the woman beyond heaved a prodigioussigh.
"Don't ye believe it," said Patsy, with conviction. "They'll befetching in some one a good bit better to fill my place--ye see,just."
"No, they won't; 'twill be another dago, likely--"
"Whist!" Patsy raised a silencing finger and looked fearsomely overher shoulder to the bed back of her.
Its inmate lay covered to the cheek, but one could catch a glimpse oftangled black hair and a swarthy skin. Patsy rose and went softlyover to the bed; her movement disturbed the woman, who opened dumb,reproachful eyes.
"I'll be gone in a minute, dear; I want just to tell you how sorry Iam. But--sure--Mother Mary has it safe--and she's keeping it for ye."She stooped and brushed the forehead with her lips, as the staff andtwo of the nurses appeared.
"Faith! is it a delegation or a constabulary?" And Patsy laughed thelaugh that had made her famous from Dublin to Duluth, where thebankruptcy had occurred.
"It's a self-appointed committee to find out just where you're goingafter you leave here," said the young doctor.
Patsy eyed him quizzically. "That's not manners to ask personalquestions. But I don't mind telling ye all, confidentially, that Ihaven't my mind made yet between--a reception at the VincentWanderlusts'--or a musicale at the Ritz-Carlton."
"Look here, lassie"--the old doctor ruffled his beard and threw outhis chest like a mammoth pouter pigeon--"you'll have to give us asensible answer before we let you go one step. You know you can'texpect to get very far with that--in this city," and he tapped thebag on her wrist significantly.
Patsy flushed crimson. For the first time in her life, to herknowledge, the world had discovered more about her than she hadintended. Those humiliating eight dollars, seventy-six cents, and thecrooked sixpence seemed to be scorching their way through the leatherthat held them. But she met the eyes looking into hers with a flintyresistance.
"Sure, 'twould carry me a long way, I'm thinking, if I spent it bythe ha'penny bit." Then she laughed in spite of herself. "If ye don'tlook for all the world like a parcel of old mother hens that havejust hatched out a brood o' wild turkeys!" She suddenly checked herIrish--it was apt to lead her into compromising situations withAnglo-Saxon folk, if she did not leash her tongue--and slid intoEnglish. "You see, I really know quite a number of peoplehere--rather well--too."
"Why haven't they come to see you, then?" asked the day nurse,bluntly.
Patsy eyed her with admiration. "You'd never make a press agent--or adoctor, I'm afraid; you're too truthful."
"You see," explained the old doctor, "these friends of yours are whatwe professional people term hypothetical cases. We'd like to be sureof something real."
One of Patsy's vagabond gloves closed over the doctor's hand. "Blessyou all for your goodness! but the people are more real than youthink. Everybody believes I went back with the company and I neverbothered them with the truth, you see. I've more than one good friendamong the theatrical crowd right here; but--well, you know how it is;if you are a bit down on your luck you keep away from your own world,if you can. There is a girl--just about my own age--in society here.We did a lot for her in the way of giving her a good time when shewas in Dublin, and I've seen her quite a bit over here. I'm going toher to get something to do before the season begins. She may need asecretary or a governess--or a--cook. Holy Saint Martin! but I cancook!" And Patsy clasped her hands in an ecstatic appreciation of herculinary art; it was the only one of which she was boastful.
"I'll tell you what," said the old doctor, gruffly, "we will let yougo if you will promise to come back if--if no one's at home. It'sagainst rules, but I'll see the superintendent keeps your bed for youto-night."
"Thank you," said Patsy. She waved a farewell to the staff and theward as she went through the door. "I don't know where I'm going orwhat I shall be finding, but if it's anything worth sharing I'll sendsome back to you all."
The staff watched her down the corridor to the elevator.
"Gee!" exclaimed the youngest doctor, his admiration working out tothe surface. "When she's made her name I'm going to marry her."
"Oh, are you?" The voice of the old doctor took on its habitualtartness. "Acute touch of philanthropy, what--eh?"
Patricia O'Connell swung the hospital door behind her and stepped outinto a blaze of June sunshine. "Holy Saint Patrick! but it feelsgood. Now if I could be an alley cat for two months I could get alongfine."
She cast a backward look toward the granite front of the CityHospital and her eyes grew as blue and soft as the waters ofKillarney. "Sure, cat or human, the world's a grand place to be alivein."
