Much to Sally's surprise, Fox came on and he brought Henrietta.
"Doctor Sanderson's engagements cannot be very pressing," she said to him, smiling, as she gave him her hand, "to permit of his coming several hundred miles merely to see two lone women."
Now Doctor Sanderson's engagements, as it chanced, were rather pressing; and it was a fair inference from Sally's words that she was not as glad to see him as he wished and had hoped. But her smile belied her words.
"Miss Ladue forgets, perhaps," he replied, bowing rather formally, "that most of our patients are women, lone or otherwise, and that it is all in the way of business to travel several hundred miles to see them—and to charge for it. Although there are not many that I would take that trouble for," he added, under his breath. "So look out, Sally," he concluded gayly, "and wait until our bill comes in."
That sobered Sally. "Oh, Fox," she said, "we owe you enough already." Which was not what he had bargained for. Sally was looking at him thoughtfully and seemed to be calculating. "Perhaps," she began, "I could manage to—"
"Sally," he interrupted hastily—he seemed even fierce about it—"Sally, I'd like to shake you."
Sally laughed suddenly. "Why don't you?" she asked. "I've no doubt it would do me good."
"That's better," Fox went on, with evident satisfaction. "You seem to be coming to your senses." Sally laughed again. "That's still better. Now, aren't you glad to see me?"
"Why, of course I am."
"Then, why didn't you say so?" he challenged. "Merely to gratify my curiosity, tell me why you didn't."
"Why didn't you?" Sally retorted, still chuckling a little.
Fox looked blank. "Didn't I? Is it possible that I omitted to state such an obvious truth?"
Sally nodded. She was looking past him. "Oh," she cried quickly, "there's Henrietta."
"Another obvious truth," he murmured, more to himself than to Sally. "There's Henrietta."
Henrietta came quickly forward; indeed, she was running. And Sally met her. Sally was quick enough, but she seemed slow in comparison with Henrietta.
"Sally, dear!" exclaimed Henrietta, kissing her on both cheeks. "How glad I am to see you! You can't imagine." Which was a statement without warrant of fact. If there was one thing that Sally could do better than another, it was to imagine. "Come up with me and show me my room. I've an ocean of things to say to you. Fox will excuse us, I know."
"Fox will have to, I suppose," he said, "whether he wants to or not."
"You see," laughed Henrietta, "he knows his place."
"Oh, yes," Fox agreed. "I know my place."
Sally had not seen Henrietta for four or five years. Henrietta was a lively girl, small and dainty and very pretty. Her very motions were like those of a butterfly, fluttering with no apparent aim and then alighting suddenly and with great accuracy upon the very flower whose sweetness she had meant, all along, to capture; but lightly and for a moment. The simile is Sally's, not mine, and she thought of it at the instant of greeting her; in fact, it was while Henrietta was kissing her, and she could not help wondering whether Henrietta—But there she stopped, resolutely. Such thoughts were uncharitable.
In spite of Sally's wonderings, she was captivated by Henrietta's daintiness and beauty. Sally never thought atall about her own looks, although they deserved more than a thought; for—well, one might have asked Jane Spencer or Richard Torrington, or even Fox, who had just seen her for the first time in years. Or Everett Morton might have been prevailed upon to give an opinion, although Everett's opinion would have counted for little. He would have appraised her good points as he would have appraised those of a horse or a dog; he might even have compared her with his favorite horse, Sawny,—possibly to the disadvantage of Sawny, although there is more doubt about that than there should be,—or to his last year's car. But he was driving Sawny now more than he was driving his car, for there was racing every afternoon on the Cow Path by the members of the Gentlemen's Driving Club. No, on the whole, I should not have advised going to Everett.
Sally, I say, not being vain or given to thinking about her own looks, thought Henrietta was the prettiest thing she had ever seen. So, when Henrietta issued the command which has been recorded, Sally went without a word of protest, leaving Fox and her mother standing in the back parlor beside the table with its ancient stained and cut green cloth. Fox was not looking at her, but at the doorway through which Sally had just vanished.
"Well," he said at last, turning to her, "I call that rather a cold sort of a greeting, after four years."
Mrs. Ladue laughed softly. "What should she have done, you great boy?" she asked. "Should she have fallen upon your neck and kissed you?"
"Why, yes," Fox replied, "something of the sort. I shouldn't have minded. I think it might have been rather nice. But I suppose it might be a hard thing to do."
"Fox," she protested, "you are wrong about Sally. She isn't cold at all, not at all. She is as glad to see you as I am—almost. And I am glad."
"That is something to be grateful for, dear lady," he said. "I would not have you think that I am not grateful—very grateful. It is one of the blessings showered uponme by a very heedless providence," he continued, smiling, "unmindful of my deserts."
"Oh, Fox!" she protested. "Your deserts! If you had—"
He interrupted gently. "I know. The earth ought to be laid at my feet. I know what you think and I am grateful for that, too."
To this there was no reply.
"I think," he resumed reflectively, "that enough of the earth is laid at my feet, as it is. I shall not be thirty until next fall." He spoke with a note of triumph, which can easily be forgiven.
"And I," she said, "am forty-three. Look at my gray hairs."
He laughed. "Who would believe it? But what," he asked, "was the special reason for your wanting to see me now? I take it there was a special reason?"
She shook her head. "There wasn't anyspecialreason. I meant to make that plain and I thought I had. I feel as if I ought to apologize for asking you at all, for you may have felt under some obligation to come just because you were asked. I hope you didn't, Fox, for—"
Fox smiled quietly. His smile made her think of Uncle John Hazen. "I didn't," he said.
"I'm glad you didn't. Don't ever feel obliged to do anything for me—for us." She corrected herself quickly. "We are grateful, too,—at least, I am—for anything. No, there wasn't any special reason. I just wanted to see you with my own eyes. Four years is a long time."
Fox, who had almost reached the advanced age of thirty, was plainly embarrassed.
"Well," he asked, laughing a little, "now that you have seen me, what do you think?"
"That," she answered, still in her tone of gentle banter, "I shall not tell you. It would not be good for you." A step was heard in the hall. "Oh," she added, hastily, in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper, "here's Patty. Be nice to her, Fox."
However much—or little—Mrs. Ladue's command had to do with it, Fox was as nice to Patty as he knew how to be. To be sure, Fox had had much experience with just Patty's kind in the past four years, and he had learned just the manner for her. It was involuntary on his part, to a great extent, and poor Patty beamed and fluttered and was very gracious. She even suggested something that she had had no expectation of suggesting when she entered the room.
"Perhaps, Mr. Sanderson," she said, with a slight inclination of her head, "you would care to accompany us out on the harbor to-morrow afternoon. It is frozen over, you know, and the ice is very thick. There is no danger, I assure you. It doesn't happen every winter and we make the most of it." She laughed a little, lightly. "The men—the young men—race their horses there every afternoon. They usually race on the Cow Path—Washington Street, no doubt I should call it, but we still cling to the old names, among ourselves. These young men have taken advantage of the unusual condition of the harbor and it is a very pretty sight; all those horses flying along. We shall not race, of course."
If Sally had heard her, I doubt whether she would have been able to suppress her chuckles at the idea of the Hazens' stout horse—the identical horse that had drawn her on her first arrival—at the idea, I say, of that plethoric and phlegmatic and somewhat aged animal's competing with such a horse as Sawny, for example. Mrs. Ladue had some difficulty in doing no more than smile.
"Why, Patty," she began, in amazement, "were you—but I must not keep Fox from answering."
Patty had betrayed some uneasiness when Mrs. Ladue began to speak, which is not to be wondered at. She quieted down.
"I ought to have called you Doctor Sanderson," she observed, "ought I not? I forgot, for the moment, the celebrity to which you have attained." Again she inclined her head slightly.
Fox laughed easily. "Call me anything you like," he replied. "As to going with you to see the races, I accept with much pleasure, if you can assure me that there is really no danger. I am naturally timid, you know."
Patty was in some doubt as to how to take this reply of Fox's; not in much doubt, however. She laughed, too. "Are you, indeed?" she asked. "It is considered quite safe, I do assure you."
Mrs. Ladue looked very merry, but Patty did not see her.
"We will consider it settled, then," Patty concluded, with evident satisfaction.
On her way to her room, half an hour later, Mrs. Ladue met Patty on the stairs.
"Sarah," said Patty graciously, "I find Doctor Sanderson very agreeable and entertaining; much more so than I had any idea."
Mrs. Ladue was outwardly as calm as usual, but inwardly she felt a great resentment.
"I am glad, Patty," she replied simply; and she escaped to her room, where she found Sally and Henrietta.
"Sally," she said abruptly, "what do you think? Patty has asked Fox to go with us to see the racing to-morrow afternoon. I don't know who the 'us' is. She didn't say."
Sally stared and broke into chuckling. "Oh,mother!" she cried.
Whitby has a beautiful harbor. It is almost land-locked, the entrance all but closed by Ship Island, leaving only a narrow passage into the harbor. That passage is wide enough and deep enough for steam-ships to enter by; it is wide enough for ships of size to enter, indeed, if they are sailed well enough and if there were any object in sailing-ships of size entering Whitby Harbor. Many a ship has successfully navigated Ship Island Channel under its own sail, but that was before the days of steam.
Before the days of steam Whitby had its shipping; and in the days of shipping Whitby had its fleets of ships and barks and brigs and a schooner or two. Although the industries of Whitby have changed, the remnants of those fleets are active yet, or there would have been nothing doing at the office of John Hazen, Junior, or at his wharf. Patty and some others of the old régime, as she would have liked to put it, were wont to sigh and to smile somewhat pathetically when that change was alluded to, and they would either say nothing or they would say a good deal, according to circumstances. The old industry was more picturesque than the new, there is no doubt about that, and I am inclined to the view of Miss Patty and her party. It is a pity.
But some of those old barks and brigs are in commission still. Only a few years ago, the old bark Hong-Kong, a century old and known the world over, sailed on her last voyage before she was sold to be broken up. They were good vessels, those old barks; not fast sailers, but what did the masters care about that? There was no hurry, and they could be depended upon to come home when they had filled, for the weather that would harm them is not made.In the course of their voyages they pushed their bluff bows into many unknown harbors and added much to the sum of human knowledge. They could have added much more, but ship captains are uncommunicative men, seldom volunteering information, although sometimes giving it freely when it is asked; never blowing their own horns, differing, in that respect, from certain explorers. Perhaps they should be called lecturers rather than explorers. Poor chaps! It may be that if they did not blow them and make a noise, nobody would do it for them, but they never wait to find out. Let them blow their penny trumpets. It is safe and sane—very.
Captain Forsyth had pronounced views on this subject. "Explorers!" he roared to Sally one day. "These explorers! Huh! It's all for Smith, that's what it is, and if Jones says he has been there, Jones is a liar. Where? Why, anywhere. That previously unknown harbor Smith has just discovered and made such a fuss over—I could have told him all about it forty years ago. Previously unknown nothing! It's Wingate's Harbor, and when I was in command of the Hong-Kong we poked about there for months. And there's another, about a hundred miles to the east'ard that he hasn't discovered yet, and it's a better harbor than his. Discover! Huh!"
"But why," Sally asked in genuine surprise,—"why, Captain Forsyth, haven't you told about it? Why don't you, now?"
"Why don't I?" Captain Forsyth roared again. "Nobody's asked me; that's why. They don't want to know. They'd say I was a liar and call for proofs. Why should I? Cap'n Wingate found it, as far as I know, but there might have been a dozen others who were there before him. I don't know. And Cap'n Sampson and Cap'n Wingate and Cap'n Carling and Cap'n Pilcher and—oh, all the masters knew them almost as well as they knew Whitby Harbor. They're mostly dead now. But I'm not. And if anybody comes discovering Whitby Harbor, why, let himlook out." And the old captain went off, chuckling to himself.
Many a time the old Hong-Kong had entered Whitby Harbor under her own sail. Later, the tugs met the ships far down the bay and brought them in, thereby saving some time. Whether they saved them money or not I do not know, but the owners must have thought they did. At least, they saved them from the danger of going aground on Ship Island Shoal, for that passage into the harbor was hardly wide enough for two vessels to pass in comfort unless the wind was just right.
Once in, it must have been a pretty sight for the returned sailors and one to warm their hearts—a pretty sight for anybody, indeed; one did not need to be a returned sailor for that. There, on the left, was the town, sloping gently down to the water, with its church spires rising from a sea of green, for every street was lined with elms. And there were the familiar noises coming faintly over the water: the noise of many beetles striking upon wood. There were always vessels being repaired, and the masters of Whitby despised, for daily use, such things as marine railways or dry-docks. They would haul down a vessel in her dock until her keel was exposed and absolutely rebuild her on one side, if necessary; then haul her down on the other tack, so to speak, and treat that side in the same way. Even in these later years the glory of Whitby Harbor, although somewhat dimmed, has not departed. On the right shore there was nothing but farms and pastures and hay-fields with the men working in them; for there is less water toward the right shore of the harbor.
There were no hay-fields visible on this day of which I am speaking, but almost unbroken snow; and there were no noises of beetles to come faintly to a vessel which had just got in. Indeed, no vessel could have just got in, but, having got in, must have stayed where she happened to lie. For Whitby Harbor was more like Wingate's Harbor, of which Captain Forsyth had been speaking, in connection withexplorers, than it was like Whitby Harbor. It presented a hard and shining surface, with a bark and three schooners frozen in, caught at their anchorages, and with no open water at all, not even in the channel.
If you will take the trouble to recall it, you will remember that the winter of 1904-05 was very cold; even colder, about Whitby, than the previous cold winter had been. Toward the end of January, not only was Whitby Harbor frozen, but there was fairly solid ice for miles out into the bay. Whitby, not being, in general, prepared for such winters, was not provided with boats especially designed for breaking the ice. The two tugs had kept a channel open as long as they could; but one night the temperature fell to twenty-three below zero and the morning found them fast bound in their docks. So they decided to give it up—making a virtue of necessity—and to wait; which was a decision reached after several hours of silent conference between the tugboat captains, during which conference they smoked several pipes apiece and looked out, from the snug pilothouse of the Arethusa, over the glittering surface. At a quarter to twelve Captain Hannibal let his chair down upon its four feet and thoughtfully knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
"I guess we can't do it," he said conclusively. "I'm goin' home to dinner."
The condition, now, reminded Captain Forsyth of other days. For nearly two weeks the temperature had not been higher than a degree or two above zero and the ice in the harbor, except for an occasional air-hole, was thick enough to banish even those fears which Doctor Sanderson had mentioned. Any timidity was out of place.
If any fear lingered in the mind of the stout horse as to the intention of his driver; if he had any lingering fear that he might be called upon to race, that fear was dispelled when he saw his load. He knew very well that he would be disqualified at once. There were Patty and Sally, and Mrs. Ladue, Fox and Henrietta, all crowded into the two-seatedsleigh. Mr. Hazen had said, smiling, that he would come, later, from his office, on his own feet. Charlie, seeing the crowded condition, absolutely refused to go. This was a blow to Miss Patty, who had intended that he should drive, but was obliged to take the coachman in his place. Sally did not blame him and made up her mind, as she squirmed into the seat with Patty and the coachman, that she would join Uncle John as soon as she saw him.
It seemed as if the entire population of Whitby must be on the ice. The whole surface of the harbor was dotted thickly with people, skating, sliding, or just wandering aimlessly about, and, on occasion, making way quickly for an ice-boat. There was not usually ice enough to make ice-boating a permanent institution in Whitby, and these ice-boats were hastily put together of rough joists, with the mast and sail borrowed from some cat-boat; but they sailed well.
The most of the people, however, were gathered in two long lines. The harbor was black with them. They were massed, half a dozen or more deep, behind ropes that stretched away in a straight line for more than a mile; and between the ropes was a lane, fifty feet wide or more, white and shining, down which the racing horses sped. The racing was in one direction only, the returning racers taking their places in the long line of sleighs which carried spectators and went back at a very sober pace to the starting-point. Here the line of sleighs divided, those not racing making a wide turn and going down on the right, next the ropes, leaving the racers a wide path in the middle.
As the Hazens' sleigh approached to take its place in the line, a great shouting arose at a little distance. The noise swelled and died away and swelled again, but always it went on, along both sides of the line, marking the pace. Fox could see the waving hands and hats.
"They seem to be excited," he said, turning, as well as he could, to Mrs. Ladue, who sat beside him. Henrietta sat on his other side. "Do you happen to know what it is about?"
Mrs. Ladue was smiling happily. "Some favorite horse, I suppose," she replied, "but I don't know anything about the horses. You'd better ask Sally."
So Fox asked Sally; but, before she could answer, Patty answered for her. "I believe that it is Everett Morton and Sawny racing with Mr. Gilfeather. I am not sure of the name, of course," she added hastily. "Some low person."
Sally looked back at Fox with a smile of amusement. It was almost a chuckle. "Mr. Gilfeather keeps a saloon," she remarked. "I believe it is rather a nice saloon, as saloons go. I teach his daughter. Cousin Patty thinks that is awful."
"Itisawful," Patty said, with some vehemence, "to think that our children must be in the same classes with daughters of saloon-keepers. Mr. Gilfeather may be a very worthy person, of course, but his children should go elsewhere."
Sally's smile had grown into a chuckle. "Mr. Gilfeather has rather a nice saloon," she repeated, "as saloons go. I've been there."
Fox laughed, but Miss Patty did not. She turned a horrified face to Sally.
"Oh,Sally!" she cried. "Whatever—"
"I had to see him about his daughter. He was always in his saloon. The conclusion is obvious, as Mr. MacDalie says."
"Oh,Sally!" cried Patty again. "You know you didn't."
"And who," asked Fox, "is Sawny?"
"Sawny," Sally answered, hurrying a little to speak before Patty should speak for her, "Sawny is a what, not a who. He is Everett Morton's horse, and a very good horse, I believe."
"He seems to be in favor with the multitude." The shouting and yelling had broken out afresh, far down the lines. "Or is it his owner?"
Sally shook her head. "It is Sawny," she replied. "I don't know how the multitude regards Everett. Probably Mr. Gilfeather knows more about that than I do."
They had taken their place in the line of sleighs and were ambling along close to the rope. The sleighs in the line were so close that the stout horse had his nose almost in the neck of a nervous man just ahead, who kept looking back, while Fox could feel the breath of the horse behind.
He looked at Mrs. Ladue. "Does it trouble you that this horse is so near?" he asked. "Do you mind?"
"Nothing troubles me," she said, smiling up at him. "I don't mind anything. I am having a lovely time."
And Fox returned to his observation of the multitude, collectively and individually. They interested him more than the horses, which could not truthfully be said of Henrietta. Almost every person there looked happy and bent upon having a good time, although almost everybody was cold, which was not surprising, and there was much stamping of feet and thrashing of arms, and the ice boomed and cracked merrily, once in a while, and the noise echoed over the harbor. Suddenly Fox leaned out of the sleigh and said something to a man, who looked surprised and began rubbing his ears gently. Then he called his thanks.
"That man's ears were getting frost-bitten," Fox remarked in reply to a questioning glance from Mrs. Ladue. "Now here we are at the end of the line and I haven't seen a single race. I say, Sally, can't we get where we can see that Sawny horse race? I should like to see him and Mr. Gilfeather."
"He's a sight. So is Mr. Gilfeather." And Sally laughed suddenly. "If we should hang around here until we hear the noise coming and then get in the line again, we should be somewhere near halfway down when he comes down again. Can we, Cousin Patty?"
Patty inclined her head graciously. "Why, certainly, Sally. Anything Doctor Sanderson likes."
"Doctor Sanderson is greatly obliged," said Fox.
The nervous man appeared much relieved to find that they were to hang around and that he was not condemned to having the nose of their horse in his neck all the afternoon.They drove off to join a group of sleighs that were hanging around for a like purpose.
A light cutter, drawn by a spirited young horse, drew up beside them.
"Good afternoon," said a pleasant voice. "Won't some one of you come with me? You should have mercy on your horse, you know."
"Oh, Dick!" Sally cried. There was mischief in her eyes. "It is good of you. Will you take Edward?"
Even Edward, the stolid coachman, grinned at that.
"With pleasure," said Dick, not at all disconcerted, "if Miss Patty can spare him."
"Oh," cried Miss Patty, "not Edward."
"Well," continued Sally, "Miss Sanderson, then."
"With pleasure," said Dick again. There was no need to ask Henrietta. The introductions were gone hastily through, and Henrietta changed with some alacrity.
"You are not racing, Dick?" Sally asked, as he tucked the robe around Henrietta.
"Oh, no," Dick replied solemnly, looking up. "How can you ask, Sally? You know that I should not dare to, with this horse. He is too young."
"Gammon!" Sally exclaimed. "I shall keep my eye on you, Dick."
"That's a good place for it," Dick remarked. "Good-bye."
Henrietta was laughing. "Will you race, Mr. Torrington?" she asked.
"Oh, no," Dick repeated, as solemnly as before. "I have no such intention. Of course, this horse is young and full of spirits and I may not be able to control him. But my intentions are irreproachable."
Henrietta laughed again. "Oh, I hope so," she said, somewhat ambiguously.
Another cutter, the occupant of which had been waiting impatiently until Dick should go, drew up beside the Hazens'. The aforesaid occupant had eyes for but one person.
"Won't you come with me, Sally?" He did not mean that the wrong one should be foisted upon him.
Sally smiled gently and shook her head. There were so many things she had to deny him! "Thank you, Eugene. I shall join Uncle John as soon as he comes down—as soon as I see him."
"Well, see him from my sleigh, then. The view is as good as from yours. Isn't it a little crowded?"
Sally shook her head again.
"Won't you come?" he persisted.
Sally sighed. "No, I thank you, Eugene. I will stay until I see Uncle John."
Bowing, Eugene Spencer drove off, leaving Sally rather sober and silent. Fox watched her and wondered, and Mrs. Ladue, in her turn, watched Fox. She could do that without being observed, now that Henrietta was gone. But the noise that told of that Sawny horse was coming, and they got into line.
Whatever the things in which Everett Morton had failed, driving was not one of them. There was some excuse for his not succeeding in any of the things he had tried: he did not have to. Take away the necessity and how many of us would make a success of our business or our profession? For that matter, how many of us are there who can honestly say that we have made a success of the profession which we have happened to choose? I say "happened to choose," because it is largely a matter of luck whether we have happened to choose what we would really rather do. Any man is peculiarly fortunate if he has known enough and has been able to choose the thing that he would rather do than anything else, and such a man should have a very happy life. He should be very grateful to his parents. I envy him. Most of us are the slaves of circumstances and let them decide for us; and then, perhaps too late, discover that which we had rather—oh, so much rather—do than follow on in the occupation which fate has forced us into. We have to labor in our "leisure" time in the work which we should have chosen, but did not; as if the demands of to-day—if we would succeed—left us any leisure time!
It is not to be supposed that Everett had such thoughts as these. He was concerned only with Sawny, at the moment, and with Mr. Gilfeather. He may have had the fleeting thought that he made rather a fine figure, in his coat and cap of sables and with his bored, handsome face. Indeed, he did. A good many people thought so. Even Sally may have thought so; but Sally did not say what she thought. As Everett made the turn at the head of the course, he looked around for Mr. Gilfeather, and presently he found him.Mr. Gilfeather was a hard-featured man, with a red face and a great weight of body, which was somewhat of a handicap to his horse. But if the horse expressed no objection to that and if Mr. Gilfeather did not, why, Everett was the last person in the world to raise the question.
"Try it again?" Mr. Gilfeather called, smiling genially.
Everett nodded. He did manage a bored half-smile, but it could not be called genial, by any stretch of the word.
They manœuvred their horses until they were abreast, and jogged down the course. They wanted it clear, as far as they could get it; and Mr. Gilfeather's horse fretted at the bit and at the tight hold upon him. Sawny did not. He knew what he had to do. And presently the course opened out clear for a good distance ahead.
"What do you say, Everett?" asked Mr. Gilfeather. A good many people heard it and noted that Gilfeather called Morton Everett. "Shall we let 'em go?"
Everett nodded again, and Mr. Gilfeather took off one wrap of the reins. The nervous horse sprang ahead, but Sawny did not. He knew what was expected of him. Everett had not been keeping a tight hold on him; not tight enough to worry him, although, to be sure, it was not easy to worry Sawny. So, when Everett tightened a little upon his bit, Sawny responded by increasing his stride just enough to keep his nose even with Mr. Gilfeather. He could look over Mr. Gilfeather's shoulder and see what he was doing with the reins. Perhaps he did. Sawny was a knowing horse and he almost raced himself.
Mr. Gilfeather's horse had drawn ahead with that first burst of speed, and now, seeing that Everett was apparently content, for the time, with his place, Mr. Gilfeather tried to check him, for he knew Everett's methods—or shall I say Sawny's?—and there was three quarters of a mile to go. But Sawny's nose just over his shoulder made him nervous; and the rhythmical sound of Sawny's sharp shoes cutting into the ice—always just at his ear, it seemed—made him almost as nervous as his horse, although Mr.Gilfeather did not look like a nervous man. So he let his horse go a little faster than he should have done, which was what the horse wanted; anything to get away from that crash—crash of hoofs behind him.
But always Sawny held his position, lengthening his stride as much as the occasion called for. He could lengthen it much more, if there were need, as he knew very well; as he knew there soon would be. Mr. Gilfeather's horse—and Mr. Gilfeather himself—got more nervous every second. The horse, we may presume, was in despair. Every effort that he had made to shake Sawny off had failed. He hung about Mr. Gilfeather's shoulder with the persistence of a green-head.
In these positions, the horses passed down between the yelling crowds. Mr. Gilfeather may have heard the yelling, but Everett did not. It fell upon his ears unheeded, like the sound of the sea or of the wind in the trees. He was intent upon but one thing now, and that thing was not the noise of the multitude.
When there was but a quarter of a mile to go, Sawny felt a little more pressure upon the bit and heard Everett's voice speaking low.
"Now, stretch yourself, Sawny," said that voice cheerfully.
And Sawny stretched himself to his full splendid stride and the sound of that crash of hoofs came a little faster. It passed Mr. Gilfeather's shoulder and he had a sight of red nostrils spread wide; then of Sawny's clean-cut head and intelligent eye. Did that eye wink at him? Then came the lean neck and then the shoulder: a skin like satin, with the muscles working under it with the regularity of a machine; then the body—but Mr. Gilfeather had no time for further observation out of the corner of his eye. His horse had heard, too, and knew what was happening; and when Mr. Gilfeather urged him on to greater speed, he tried to go faster and he broke.
That was the end of it. He broke, he went into the air, hedanced up and down; and Sawny, who never was guilty of that crime, went by him like a streak.
Everett smiled as he passed Mr. Gilfeather, and his smile was a little less bored than usual. "If I had known that this was to be a running-race," he said; but Mr. Gilfeather lost the rest of Everett's remark, for Sawny had carried him out of hearing.
It chanced that they had passed the Hazens' sleigh just before Mr. Gilfeather's horse broke. Sally watched the horses as they passed, with Sawny gaining at every stride. Her face glowed and she turned to Fox.
"There!" she said. "Now you've seen him. Isn't he splendid?"
"Who? Mr. Morton?" Fox asked innocently. "He does look rather splendid. That must be a very expensive coat and the—"
Sally smiled. "It was Sawny that I meant."
"Oh," said Fox.
"Everett might be included, no doubt," she continued.
"No doubt," Fox agreed.
"He is part of it, although there is a popular opinion that Sawny could do it all by himself, if he had to."
"Having been well trained," Fox suggested.
Sally nodded. "Having been well trained. And Everett trained him, I believe."
Fox was more thoughtful than the occasion seemed to call for. "It speaks well for his ability as a trainer of horses."
"It does." Sally seemed thoughtful, too.
"And what else does Mr. Morton do," asked Fox, "but train his horse?"
"Not much, I believe," Sally replied. "At other seasons he drives his car; when the roads are good."
"A noble occupation for a man," Fox observed, cheerfully and pleasantly; "driver and chauffeur. Not that those occupations are not quite respectable, but it hardly seems enough for a man of Mr. Morton's abilities, to say the least."
Sally looked up with a quick smile. "I am no apologistfor Everett," she said. "I am not defending him, you observe. I know nothing of his abilities."
"What do you know, Sally," Fox inquired then, "of popular opinion?"
"More than you think, Fox," Sally answered mischievously, "for I have mixed with the people. I have been to Mr. Gilfeather's saloon."
"Oh,Sally!" cried Patty, "Iwishyou wouldn't keep alluding to your visit to that horrible place. I am sure that it was unnecessary."
"Very well, Cousin Patty, I won't mention it if it pains you." She turned to Fox again. "I was going to say that it is a great pity."
Fox was somewhat mystified. "I have no doubt that it is, if you say so. I might fall in with your ideas more enthusiastically if I knew what you were talking about."
"I am talking about Everett," Sally replied, chuckling. "I don't wonder that you didn't know. And I was prepared to make a rather pathetic speech, Fox. You have dulled the point of it, so that I shall not make it, now."
"To the effect, perhaps, if I may venture to guess," Fox suggested, "that Everett might have made more of a success of some other things if he had felt the same interest in them that he feels in racing his horse."
"If he could attack them with as strong a purpose," Sally agreed, absently, with no great interest herself, apparently, "he would succeed, I think. I know that Dick thinks he has ability enough."
Fox made no reply and Sally did not pursue the subject further. They drove to the end of the course in silence. Suddenly Sally began to wave her muff violently.
"Oh, there is Uncle John," she said. "If you will excuse me, I will get out, Cousin Patty. You needn't stop, Edward. Just go slow. I find," she added, turning again to the back seat, "that it is the popular opinion that it is too cold for me to drive longer in comfort, so I am going to leave you, if you don't mind."
"And what if we do mind?" asked Fox; to which question Sally made no reply. She only smiled at him in a way which he found peculiarly exasperating.
"Take good care of father, Sally," said Patty anxiously.
"I will," Sally replied with a cheerful little nod. "Good-bye." And she stepped out easily, leaving Patty, Fox, and her mother. This was an arrangement little to Patty's liking. Doctor Sanderson was in the seat with Mrs. Ladue. To be sure, he might have changed with Patty when Sally got out, but Mrs. Ladue would not have him inconvenienced to that extent. She noted that his eyes followed Sally as she ran and slid and ran again. Mr. Hazen came forward to meet her and she slipped her hand within his arm, and she turned to wave her muff to them. Then Sally and Uncle John walked slowly back, toward the head of the course.
Fox turned to Mrs. Ladue and they smiled at each other. "I guess," Fox remarked, "that she is not changed, after all; except," he added as an afterthought, "that she is more generally cheerful than she used to be, which is a change to be thankful for."
Sally and Uncle John took Dick Torrington home to dinner; and Henrietta very nearly monopolized his attention, as might have been expected. It was late, as the habits of the Hazens went, when they went up to bed, but Henrietta would have Sally come in for a few minutes. She hadsomany things to say. No, they wouldn't wait. She would have forgotten them by the next day. And Sally laughed and went with Henrietta.
Henrietta's few minutes had lengthened to half an hour and she had not said half the things she had meant to say. She had told Sally how Mr. Spencer—Eugene Spencer, you know—had overtaken them at the head of the course and had accosted Mr. Torrington, challenging him to race.
"Mr. Spencer," continued Henrietta, with a demure glance at Sally, "seemed out of sorts and distinctly cross. I'm sure I don't know why. Do you, Sally?"
Sally looked annoyed. "He is very apt to be, I think,"she remarked briefly. "What did Dick do? He said he was not going to race."
"Yes, that's what he told Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Spencer said, in a disagreeable kind of way, 'You promised Sally, I suppose.' And Dick—Mr. Torrington—smiled and his eyes wrinkled. I think he was laughing at Mr. Spencer—at the pet he was in. Don't you, Sally?"
Sally nodded. She thought it very likely.
"And Dick—I must ask Mr. Torrington's pardon, but I hear him spoken of as Dick so often that I forget—Mr. Torrington told him, in his slow, quiet way, that he hadn't exactly promised you; that, in fact, he had warned you that his horse was spirited and somewhat fractious and he might not be able to hold him. He had warned somebody, anyway, and he thought it was you. It wasn't you, at all, Sally. It was I, but I didn't enlighten him."
"I knew, very well, that he would," Sally observed. "So he raced with Jane?"
"With Mr. Spencer," Henrietta corrected. "Do you call him Jane? How funny! And we beat him and he went off in a shocking temper, for Dick laughed at him, but very gently."
"I'm not sure that would not be all the harder for Jane. I suppose you were glad to beat him."
"Why, of course," said Henrietta, in surprise. "Wouldn't you have been?"
Sally was rather sober and serious. "I suppose so. It wouldn't have made any particular difference whether you beat him or not."
Henrietta made no reply to this remark. She was sitting on the bed, pretty and dainty, and was tapping her foot lightly on the floor. She gazed at Sally thoughtfully for a long time. Finally Sally got up to go.
"Sally," Henrietta asked then, smiling, "haven't you ever thought of him—them—any one"—she hesitated and stammered a little—"in that way?" She did not seem to think it necessary to specify more particularly the wayshe meant. "There are lots of attractive men here. There's Everett Morton and there's Eugene Spencer, though he's almost too near your own age; but anybody can see that he's perfectly dippy over you. And—"
"And there, too," Sally interrupted, "are the Carlings, Harry and Horry, neither of whom you have seen because they happen to be in college. The last time they came home, Harry was wearing a mustache and Horry side-whiskers, so that it would be easy to tell them apart. The only trouble with that device was that I forgot which was which. And there is Ollie Pilcher, and there is—oh, the place is perfectly boiling with men—if it is men that you are looking for."
Henrietta gave a little ripple of laughter. "You are too funny, Sally. Of course I am looking for men—or for a man. Girls of our age are always looking for them, whether we know it or not—deep down in our hearts. Remember Margaret Savage? Well, she seems to be looking for Fox, and I shouldn't wonder if he succumbed, in time. She is very pretty."
There was a look of resentment in Sally's eyes, but she made no remark.
"And I have not finished my list," Henrietta went on. "I can only include the men I have seen to-day. To end the list, there is Dick Torrington. Haven't you—haven't you thought—"
Sally flushed slowly; but she smiled and shook her head. "You see, Henrietta," she said apologetically, "I have my teaching to think of—"
"Oh, bosh!" cried Henrietta, smiling.
"Fox knows," Sally continued, defensively, "and you can't have wholly forgotten, Henrietta."
"Bosh, Sally!" said Henrietta again.