Dick Torrington was out when Fox called at his office, early that afternoon. They were expecting him at any moment. He had not come back from lunch yet. He did not usually stay so long and wouldn't Doctor Sanderson take a seat and wait a few minutes? Accordingly, Doctor Sanderson took a seat and waited a few minutes. He waited a good many minutes. He read the paper through; then paced slowly up and down the waiting-room. Were they sure Mr. Torrington would come back? Oh, yes, they thought so. They did not know what could be keeping him. So Doctor Sanderson thought he would wait a few minutes longer.
The truth was that it was Henrietta who was keeping Dick away from his office and his waiting clients. As she was to go within a few days, Dick thought the time propitious for taking her for a last sleigh ride; it might happen to be the last and it might not. Henrietta, too, thought the time propitious. I don't know what Fox would have thought, if he had known it. Most likely he would have grinned and have said nothing, keeping his thoughts to himself. He was an adept at keeping his thoughts to himself. But there is reason to believe that he would not have waited. Just as his patience was utterly exhausted and he was going out, Dick came in. There was a rather shamefaced grin of pleasure on his face which changed to a welcoming smile when he saw Fox. It was a very welcoming smile; more welcoming than the occasion seemed to call for. Fox wondered at it. But he was not to find out the reason that day.
They came to business at once. Dick was the executor, but he had not notified the beneficiaries under the will yet. Itwas really a very short time since Mr. Hazen's death. Fox, wondering what that had to do with the matter, protested mildly that the only question with him was whether he could buy certain properties of the estate. He would prefer to deal with Dick rather than with Miss Patty.
Dick laughed. "Oh," he said, "I forgot that you didn't know. Those pieces of property that you are after—I know very well what they are," he interrupted himself to say, "and I can guess what you want them for—those pieces of property were left to Sally. I shall have to refer you to her."
Fox's amazement was comical. "Left to Sally!" he exclaimed. "Well! And it never occurred to me."
"It probably has never occurred to Sally either," Dick suggested. "She has more than that. Her uncle John was very fond of her."
"I am sure that it has not occurred to Sally. What will Miss Patty think?"
Dick shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Nobody does. I don't know just how she feels toward Sally. If it were Charlie, now,—but it isn't. About these properties, you will have to see Sally. She isn't at liberty to dispose of them yet, but if she agrees to, there will be no difficulty. I shall not stand in the way of your doing anything you want to do with them. It happens that the lease of them runs out in a few months. I really don't believe that Miss Patty will contest the will, even if she doesn't just like it. Mr. Hazen's word was the law, you know."
Fox was looking out of the window and, as he looked, his glance chanced to fall upon Miss Patty herself, stepping along in a way which she had fondly flattered herself was dainty.
He smiled. "You never can tell about these nervous patients," he observed. "They may do anything—or they may not. But I think I'd better see Sally and break the news."
He found the chance on the evening of that same day.Everett went out, immediately after dinner, as was his habit, and Mrs. Morton left them alone. Sally was reading.
"Sally," said Fox, "I understand that you are an heiress."
Sally put down her book suddenly and gave him a startled glance. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I hope not! Who told you?"
"Dick Torrington. He is the executor."
"Oh, Fox!" she cried. She seemed dismayed. "And Dick knows. But Patty will never forgive me. Can't I help it?"
"No doubt," he replied, smiling, "but I hope you won't, for I want to buy some of your property."
She laughed joyously. "I'll give it to you, you mercenary man! At last, Fox, I can get even with you—but only partly," she hastened to add; "only partly. Please say that you'll let me give it to you."
Fox was embarrassed. "Bless you, Sally!" he said. At that moment, he was very near to heeding Mrs. Ladue's injunction not to wait too long. He stopped in time. "Bless you, Sally! You have paid me. I don't need money anyway."
"Neither do I."
"The time may come when you will. It is a handy thing to have," he went on. "I promise to let you pay me some day," he added hastily, seeing that she was about to insist, "in kind."
Sally nodded with satisfaction. "I'll do it," she said, "in kind. That usually means potatoes and corn and firewood, doesn't it."
"Not this time, it doesn't. But I can't let you think of giving me these places."
"You can't help my thinking of giving them to you," she interrupted.
"For you don't even know what they are," Fox continued. "I didn't mean to tell you yet, but I have to." And he told her what he wanted to do; but only a part. It is to be noted that he said nothing about gynesauruses and coal-trees.
When he had finished Sally sighed. "It's too bad thatI can't give them to you, Fox. I think it would be a very good way; an excellent way."
"Excellent?" he asked.
"Yes, excellent," Sally answered, looking at him and smiling in her amused way. "Why isn't it?"
"Nonsense! It's absurd; preposterous. It's positively shocking. Sally, I'm surprised at you."
Sally shook her head. "No," she said obstinately, "it's an excellent way to do. You can't say why it isn't. Why, just think, then I should feel that I could come there when I am old or when I break down from overwork. Teachers are apt to break down, I understand, and now, when they do, there seems to be no course open to them but to hire a hearse—if they've saved money enough. Think how much easier I should feel in my mind if Sanderson's Retreat were open to me." And Sally chuckled at the thought.
"But Sanderson's Retreat would be open to you in any case," Fox protested. "You would not have to hire a hearse. It is my business to prevent such excursions. Have I ever failed you, Sally?"
"Oh, Fox, never." There were tears in her eyes as she got up quickly and almost ran to him. "Never, never, Fox. That is why, don't you see? I want to do something for you, Fox. You have done so much for me—for us."
He was standing by the fire. As she came, he held out his hands and she gave him both of hers. Ah! Doctor Sanderson, you are in danger of forgetting your resolution; that resolution which you thought was so wise. In truth, the words trembled on the tip of his tongue. But Sally's "for us" brought him to his senses.
"Oh, Sally, Sally!" he said ruefully. "You don't know. You don't know."
"Well," Sally replied impatiently, after she had waited in vain for some moments for him to finish, "what don't I know? I don't know everything. I am aware of that, and that is the first step to knowledge."
"You come near enough to it," he returned, as if speakingto himself. He was looking down, as he spoke, into great gray eyes which, somehow, were very soft and tender. He looked away. "Sometime you will know."
"Everything?" asked Sally, smiling.
"Everything that is worth knowing," he answered gently. "Yes, everything that is worth knowing," he repeated, slowly.
Sally pondered for a brief instant; then flushed a little, but so little that you would scarcely have noticed it, especially if you had been looking away from her, as Fox was at some pains to do.
"We have not settled that question, Fox," she said. He still held her hands, but he scarcely glanced at her. "Fox,"—giving him a gentle shake,—"pay attention and look at me." He looked at her, trying not to let his eyes tell tales. Very likely Sally would think they told of no more than the brotherly affection which she had become used to, from him. Very likely that was what she did think. She gave no sign that she saw more than that, at any rate. "Pleaselet me give them to you," she pleaded, eagerly. "I want to."
He shook his head. "Oh, Sally, Sally!" he said again. "It is hard enough to refuse you anything; but I can't let you do this, for your own sake. What would people think?"
"Oh, fiddle! What business is it of theirs? And how would they know anything about it?"
"I have no doubt there are some who would at once institute inquiries. You probably know such people."
Sally chuckled. "Letty Lambkin might. But what would it matter if they did?"
"I should hate to think that I was responsible for making you talked about."
"Then you won't take them, Fox? Not even if I get down on my knees?" Again there were tears in her eyes.
Fox shook his head. "I can't," he said gently. "I can't take them on those terms."
Sally sighed and smiled. "So I am repulsed, then. My gifts are spurned."
Fox was very uncomfortable. "But, Sally—" he began.
She brightened suddenly. "I know!" she cried. "I'll lease them to you for ninety-nine years. Isn't that what they do when they can't do anything else? And you'll have to pay—oh, ever so much rent."
He laughed. "All right. I guess that'll be as long as I shall have use for them. But you'll have to charge me enough."
"Oh, I'll charge you enough," she said nodding; "never fear. I'll consult Dick and take his advice.Thenperhaps you'll be satisfied."
"I'll be satisfied," he replied. "I'm very grateful, Sally."
"Nonsense! You're not. You're only complacent because you think you've had your own way, and I didn't mean that you should have it." She took her hands away at last. "Here's Mrs. Morton," she said gently.
What Patty really thought about the provisions of her father's will is not recorded. Indeed, it is doubtful whether she had anything more nearly approaching consecutive thought on the subject than a vague resentment toward Sally and a querulous disposition to find fault with her. For, with the lapse of years, Patty was becoming less and less able to think rationally—to direct her thoughts—or to think consecutively on any subject. She had never been conspicuous for her ability in that direction. What she said was another matter. What business had Sally to benefit by her father's will? A poor relation whom she, Patty, had befriended, no more. It never occurred to her to blame her father any more than it occurred to her to tell the whole truth about that little matter of befriending. Patty thought that she told the truth. She meant to.
There was some excuse for Patty's disappointment. One does not easily rest content with but little more than half a fortune when one has, for years, had reason to expect the whole of it. It was a modest fortune enough, but the fact that it turned out to be nearly twice what Patty had counted upon, and that, consequently, she was left with just about what she had expected, did not make her disappointment any the lighter, but rather the reverse. And she did not stop to consider that she would be relieved of what she was pleased to term the burden of supporting the Ladues, and that she would have, at her own disposal, more money than she had ever had. Not at all. Even when Dick pointed out to her that very fact, it did not change her feeling. Somehow, she did not know exactly how, Sally had cheated her out of her birthright. She wouldn't call it stealing, but—
"No," Dick observed cheerfully. "I should think youhad better not call it that. It will be as well if you restrain your speech on the subject."
That was rather a strong remark for Dick Torrington to make, but he felt strongly where Sally was concerned. He felt strongly where Patty was concerned; but the feeling was different.
It was not strange that, in the face of such feeling on Patty's part, Sally should feel strongly, too. She did feel strongly. She was genuinely distressed about it and would have been glad to give up any benefits under the will, and she went to Dick and told him so. He tried to dissuade her from taking such a course. There were other aspects of such a case than the mere feeling of one of the heirs about another. Why, wills would be practically upset generally if any one heir, by making a sufficiently strong protest, could, to use Dick's own words, freeze out the others, and it would be of little use for a man to make a will if many were of Sally's mind. In this case, as usually in such cases, the will expressed the testator's own well-founded intention. Mr. Hazen had expected some such outburst from Patty. Was that to prevent his wish, his will from being carried out? He earnestly hoped not. All socialists to the contrary, notwithstanding, he was of the opinion that any man, living or dead, should be able to do as he liked with his own; that is, with certain reasonable reservations, which would not apply in the case of her Uncle John.
"I suppose, Sally," he concluded, "that if he had given it to you while he was living, you would have taken it, perhaps?"
"No, indeed," Sally replied indignantly. "Of course I wouldn't. What made you think that, Dick?"
"To tell the truth," he said, "I didn't think it. Well, would it make any difference in your feeling about it to know that he felt that Miss Patty was not competent to take care of it?"
She shook her head and sighed. "I don't see that it would; I can't unravel the right and wrong of it. If you think thatmy taking it would have pleased Uncle John, and if you tell me that Patty has as much as she can wish—"
"Oh, not that. But she has enough to enable her to live in luxury the rest of her life."
Sally laughed. "We have great possibilities when it comes to wishing, haven't we? And you advise my taking it?"
"Most certainly."
"Then I will."
"I wonder why," Dick asked, "you don't want it?"
She hesitated for an instant. "I do," she said, then, laughing again. "That's just the trouble. If I hadn't wanted it I might have been more ready to take it."
She met Captain Forsyth on the way home. She had just been thinking that, after all, she could let Fox go ahead with his Retreat. She would not have to back out of that bargain, for which she was glad. And there were other things—
It was at this point in her reflections that Captain Forsyth bore down and hailed her. She answered his hail with a smile and waited.
"I was just going into Dick Torrington's office," he began, in a gentle roar, "to get him to reason with you. I heard, Sally, that you were thinking of refusing the legacy of your Uncle John."
She nodded. "I was, but—"
"Don't you do it," he shouted earnestly. He could have been heard for a block, if there had been anybody to hear him. "Don't you do it, Sally! You mustn't let Patty scare you out of taking what he meant that you should have—what he wanted you to have. She'll have enough; more than she can take care of. Patty couldn't take proper care of a cat. And John Hazen was very fond of you, Sally. You do this much for him."
"I'm going to, Captain Forsyth," she answered gently. "I've just told Dick so."
"Well, I'm glad," he said, with satisfaction. "It's been on my mind for some days, and I thought I'd better seewhat I could do about it. Your Uncle John said a good deal about you, first and last. He'd be pleased. When you want anything, come to me; though you're not likely to be wanting anything unless it's advice. I've barrels of that ready. Good-bye, Sally."
Sally went home—if Mrs. Stump's could be called home—rather depressed in spirits. In spite of what people considered her good fortune, she continued in low spirits all through that spring and summer. Patty, to be sure, was covertly hostile, but that was hardly enough to account for it. Sally was aware of the unhealthy state of her mind and thought about it more than was good for her. It is a bad habit to get into; a very reprehensible habit, and she knew it, but she couldn't help it. You never can help doing it when you most shouldn't. It reminded her of the shiftless man's roof, which needed shingling.
Very likely she was only tired with her winter's teaching and with the events which had been crowded into those few weeks. They were important events for her and had been trying. She began to hesitate and to have doubts and to wonder. It was not like Sally to have doubts, and she who hesitates is lost. She said so to herself many times, with a sad little smile which would almost have broken Fox's heart if he had seen it, and would surely have precipitated an event which ought to have been precipitated.
But Fox was not there to see it and to help her in her time of doubt, and to be precipitate and unwise. She found herself wondering whether she had better keep on with her teaching, now that she did not have to. There was less incentive to it than there had been. Was it worth while? Was anything worth while, indeed? What had she to look forward to after years of teaching, when her enthusiasm was spent? Was it already spent? What was there in it but going over the same old round, year after year? What was there at the end? If the children could be carried on, year after year—if they were her own—and Sally blushed faintly and stopped there.
But she wondered whether Henrietta had been right. What Henrietta had said so lightly, the night of the fire, had sunk deeper than Sally knew or than Henrietta had intended. Sally was beginning to think that Henrietta was right and that girls, down at the bottom of their hearts, were looking for men. She didn't like to confess it to herself. She shrank from the whole subject; but why shouldn't they—the girls—provided it is only at the bottom of their hearts? They did; some of them did, at any rate. It is doubtful whether Sally probed as deep as the bottom of her heart. Perhaps she was afraid to.
Yes, as I started out by saying, no doubt she was only tired,—beat out, as Miss Lambkin would have said; and she was lonelier than she had ever been. She missed Uncle John. It seemed to her that there was nobody to whom she could turn. Probably Captain Forsyth had had some such idea when he made his clumsy offer of advice. But Captain Forsyth would not do. Sally would have been glad enough of somebody to turn to. It was a peculiarly favorable time for Fox, if he had only known it. It was a rather favorable time for anybody; for Jane Spencer, or even for Everett Morton. For Everett had begun, as anybody could see with half an eye, as Letty Lambkin put it briskly. Altogether Sally's affairs had become a fit topic of conversation for people who bother themselves about other people's business.
Miss Lambkin did. She had tried to talk with Mrs. Sarjeant about the matter, but Mrs. Sarjeant had promptly shut her up. Whereupon Miss Lambkin, with her head in the air, had betaken herself to Mrs. Upjohn.
Mrs. Upjohn did not shut her up. She wanted to hear what Letty had to tell and she wished to contribute whatever she could, that Letty did not know, to the fund of general information; without seeming to, of course.
"Well, Alicia," Letty began, as soon as she had got into the house and before she had had time to remove her hat, "I thought I'd come and do for you now, even if it is a weekbefore the time I set. Mrs. Sarjeant can wait awhile, I guess. She can't need me. She told me yesterday that she didn't care to listen to gossip. As if I gossiped, Alicia! Why, I was only saying that Sally Ladue and Everett seemed to be pretty thick now, and I shouldn't wonder if they hit it off. And I shouldn't, either, Mrs. Sarjeant or no Mrs. Sarjeant. Anybody can see he's paying her attention and she's letting him." Miss Lambkin shut her lips with a snap. "Now, isn't he?"
Mrs. Upjohn did not answer her directly. She only laughed comfortably and suggested that they go right up to the sewing-room.
"Patty made you quite a visit, didn't she?" Letty began again, while she hunted scissors and needles and a tape. "Did you have to send her off to Miss Miller's?"
Mrs. Upjohn shook her head.
"That's a good thing. It wouldn't have been pleasant," Miss Lambkin resumed. "I hear that she's feeling real bitter towards Sally and that Sally means to live somewhere else, whether Patty repairs the house or not, but Patty won't hear to it. I notice, though, that nothing's been done to the house yet. I'm told that Patty's going right at it. She'd better, if she wants to live there before next summer, for this is September and the builders are awful deliberate. Now that Doctor Sanderson doesn't let the grass grow under his feet. Did you know that his new hospital's going to be ready before cold weather? And he hasn't been here, himself, more 'n a day at a time. Where's that little cutting-table, Alicia? In your room? I'll just run in and get it. You sit still."
Mrs. Upjohn did not like to trust Letty alone in her room, for she had the eye of a hawk; but Letty was gone before she could prevent her. She was back in a moment, and Mrs. Upjohn breathed more freely.
"As I was saying," Miss Lambkin continued, "that Doctor Sanderson had better be looking out if he wants Sally Ladue. Maybe he don't, but I notice that Eugene Spencer'sfluttering around her again and Everett's doing more'n flutter.
"It seems queer to think of Everett as anything but what he has been for some years. He isn't much in favor with some of the older men. I heard that Cap'n Forsyth said that he wouldn't trust him with a slush-bucket. And that pup of a brother of Sally's is copying after Everett as well as he can. He's going to college in a couple of weeks and there's no telling what he'll be up to there. I'm glad I don't have the running of him. Everett's no pattern to cutmygoods to."
"No," agreed Mrs. Upjohn soberly. "I can't think what has come over Sally. I never thought she would be dazzled, though I won't deny that Everett can be attractive."
"Come to that," snapped Miss Lambkin, "Everett's handsome and rich and, as you say, he knows how to be attractive. Anyway, there's a plenty that would be only too glad to have a chance at him. Now, if you were of a suitable age, Alicia, you'd snap him up quick enough if you had the chance, and you know it."
Mrs. Upjohn only murmured an unintelligible protest, but her color rose. She would have snapped him up, and she knew it. Letty Lambkin was really getting to be unbearable.
Charlie Ladue was a bright boy and a handsome boy, and he had good enough manners. His attempts at seeming bored and uninterested only amused certain intelligent persons in Cambridge, to whom he had introductions, and attracted them. He was very young and rather distinguished looking and these were the hallmarks of youth; of youth which wishes to be thought of an experience prehistoric; of youth which dreads nothing else so much as to appear young. He would get over these faults quickly; and these intelligent persons laughed quietly to themselves and continued to ask him to their houses—for a time. But the faults rather grew upon him than lessened, so that he became a nuisance and seemed likely to become worse, and they quietly dropped him, before he was half through his freshman year.
His faults were his own, of course. Faults always are one's own when all is said and done, and they usually come home to roost; but that they had developed to such an extent was largely due to Patty's indulgence and over-fondness. She was to blame, but not wholly. It is hard to fix the blame, even supposing that it would help the matter to fix it. When they came to Whitby, Sally was too young to oppose Miss Patty, and for four years Charlie had no mother; much longer, indeed. The circumstances may have been Charlie's undoing, but it is a little difficult to see why the circumstances did not do the same for Sally, and she was not undone yet. No, I am forced to the conclusion, that, in Charlie's case, circumstances could not be held responsible for anything more than hurrying things up a little.
As I said, Charlie was very young. He had passed his finals with flying colors in the preceding June, nearly twomonths before his seventeenth birthday, and he was but just seventeen when he began his college career. Whatever may be said, seventeen is too young for a boy to enter college and to be given the large liberties which a boy—a college "man"—has in any of our large colleges. Eighteen or nineteen is a much safer age, especially for a boy like Charlie Ladue. The faults which I have mentioned soon disgusted and repelled the most desirable elements in college and left him with—not one of—the least desirable. Even with them he was only tolerated, never liked, and they got out of him what they could. With them there was no incentive to study, which was a pity, for Charlie did very well with a surprisingly small amount of work, and would have done exceedingly well with a little more, but he needed compulsion in some form. As it was, he very soon got to doing just enough to keep himself afloat. He could study hard when he had to, and he did.
Patty had got to work, at last, upon the repairs to her house. It was October before she made up her mind and well into November before work began; and builders are awful deliberate, as Miss Lambkin had remarked. As the work went on, the time when the house would be ready retreated gradually into the future. But Miss Patty consoled herself with the thought that Charlie would not be able to help her occupy it before the next summer anyway. Although she had insisted that Mrs. Ladue and Sally should live there as soon as it was ready,—it was a question of pride with Miss Patty, not a question of her wish in the matter,—and although she was expecting them to live there, it was by no means sure that Sally would consent to come. Miss Patty did not trouble herself greatly about that. But the thought that Charlie might not would have filled her with consternation. She was looking forward to the Christmas recess, and to having Charlie with her for two weeks, at least.
But when the Christmas recess arrived and work was over, Charlie, feeling much relieved, sat down to a quiet eveningwith four congenial spirits who also felt much relieved and who wished to celebrate their temporary freedom in the only way they knew. I was wrong in calling it the only way. It was one of the few ways they knew in which to celebrate anything. When Charlie rose from the table, about midnight, he felt rather desperate, for he had lost heavily. He could not afford to lose heavily.
One of the congenial spirits saw the look upon his face and laughed. "Don't you care, Ladue," he cried. "All is not lost. You needn't commit suicide yet. We'll stake you. Haven't you got a dollar left?"
Charlie forced a sickly smile, which disappeared the instant he ceased to force it. He pulled out the contents of his pockets. "I've got," he answered, counting soberly, "just fifty-four cents in cash. They'll expect me home to-night—they expected me last night," he corrected himself, "I can't go, for I haven't got the price of a ticket. And I've given you fellows my IOU's," he went on, looking up with an attempt to face it out,—a pitiful attempt,—"for—how much, Ned?"
"Two hundred for mine," Ned replied, spreading Charlie's poor little notes on the table. "Anybody else got 'em?" He looked around, but the others shook their heads. "It seems to be up to me to lend you, Ladue." Carelessly, he tossed a ten-dollar bill across the table. "Go home on that and see if you can't work the house for three hundred or so and take these up. Don't thank me." Charlie had taken the bill and begun to speak. "I'm doing it for cash, not sentiment. What do you suppose these IOU's are worth if you can't work somebody for the money?"
Charlie, reduced to silence, pocketed the bill.
"I've a notion," Ned continued, "that I'll go to town and look in at number seven. Luck's with me to-night. May do something there. Who goes with me?"
The others professed the intention of going to bed.
"You know, don't you," Ned threw out as an inducement, "that some man back in the nineties paid his way throughcollege on number seven? Made an average of three thousand a year."
"What's that story?" Charlie asked. "I haven't heard it."
Ned enlightened him. "It's nothing much," he said carelessly, "only that some man—it may have been Jones or Smith—in the class of ninety-something, used to go in to number seven regularly, two or three times a week all through his four years here, and he made an average of three thousand a year. Broke the bank twice."
Charlie was wide-eyed with amazement. "Why," he began, "if he could do that, I don't see why—"
Ned laughed. "They have," he said. "Don't you run away with the idea that number seven hasn't made a profit out of Davis or Jones or whatever his name was. They advertise it all right. That story has brought them in a great deal more than three thousand a year. But this man had a system; a very simple one, and a very good one."
"What was it?" Charlie asked. "Can you tell me?"
"Certainly I can," Ned answered, smiling. "He had a cool head and he knew when to stop. And there isn't one in three thousand that knows when to stop, if they've got the bug."
"I don't see," Charlie remarked loftily, "why anybody wouldn't know when to stop."
"Well, they don't, kid," Ned replied sharply.
Charlie was silent for a while, digesting the information he had acquired. Ned got up to go.
"Will—will you take me, Ned?" Charlie asked hesitatingly.
Ned looked him over scornfully. The idea did not appeal to him. "You don't want to go, Ladue," he said pityingly. At the bottom of his heart he did not wish to be responsible in the remotest degree for Charlie's career. It did not need a seer to guess at Charlie's weakness. "Number seven is no place for you and I'd advise you to keep out of it. It's a regular game, there; a man's game. They'd skinyou alive without a quiver. They won't take any of your pieces of paper and they won't give you back any ten dollars, either. I wouldn't advise you to go there, kid."
That "kid" settled it, if there was anything needed to settle what may have been ordained from his birth. At any rate, it was ordained that he should not overcome the inclination to that particular sin of his father without a struggle, and if there was one special thing which Charlie was not fitted to do it was to struggle in such a cause. He flushed.
"Only to look on," he pleaded. "It was just to look on that I wanted to go. I didn't mean to play, of course."
"No, of course not. They never do," Ned retorted cynically. Then he considered briefly, looking at Charlie the while with a certain disgust. Having given him advice which was certainly good, he had no further responsibility in the matter. "All right," he said. "If you're bound to go, I can get you by the nigger at the door, although he'd probably let you in anyway. You're a very promising subject."
So it happened that Patty waited in vain for Charlie. For a day she thought only that he must have been delayed—he was—and that, perhaps, he was staying in Cambridge to finish something in connection with his studies. She did not get so far as to try to imagine what it was, but she wondered and felt some resentment against the college authorities for keeping such a good boy as Charlie. On the second day she began to wonder if he could have gone to Mrs. Stump's to see his mother. She gave that question mature consideration and decided that he had. On the third day she was anxious about him and would have liked to go to Mrs. Ladue or to Sally and find out, but she did not like to do that. And on the morning of the next day Sally saved her the trouble by coming to ask about him.
Patty was too much frightened to remember her grievance against Sally. "Why, Sally," she said in a voice that trembled and with her hand on her heart, which had seemed to stop its beating for a moment, "I thought he was with you."
Sally shook her head. "We thought he must be here."
"He hasn't been here," wailed poor Patty. "What can be keeping him? Oh, do you suppose anything has happened to him?"
Sally's lip curled almost imperceptibly and the look in her eyes was hard.
"I don't know, Patty, any more than you do."
"But I don't know anything," Patty cried. Sally gave a little laugh in spite of herself. "What shall we do? Oh, what shall we do, Sally?"
Sally thought for an instant, and then she turned to Patty. "I will take the noon train up."
"Oh, Sally!" It was a cry of relief. "Couldn't you telegraph first? And couldn't you ask Doctor Beatty to go, instead, or Doctor Sanderson?"
"I could ask Doctor Beatty to go, but I don't intend to," she said finally, "and Fox is not here. His hospital isn't ready yet, you know. They couldn't get him any more easily than I can. And as to telegraphing, I don't think that would help."
"Well," said Patty doubtfully, "I don't—do you think you ought to go alone?"
Sally turned and looked at her. "Why not?"
Before the gray eyes Patty's eyes fell. "I—I don't know, exactly. But it hardly seems quite—quite proper for a girl to go alone to—to a college room."
Sally chuckled. "I must risk it," she said. "I think I can. And if Charlie is in any trouble I'll do my best to get him out of it."
"Oh, Sally!" It was not a cry of relief.
Sally paid no attention to that cry of Patty's. "I must go back to get ready," she said. "I haven't any too much time."
But Sally did not take the noon train up. Just as she was leaving Mrs. Stump's, she met Charlie coming in. He looked rather seedy and quite forlorn.
When Charlie went back, he was feeling rather elated, for he had two hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket. That was all the cash Patty could raise without making an appeal to Dick Torrington or making some other arrangement which would have betrayed her, and that would not have done. It would not have done at all. Sally might have heard of it, and Patty, to tell the truth, was afraid of Sally. Sally was so—so decided, you know, and so downright, and she could be so hard about anything that concerned Charlie. Sally was not fair to Charlie—the dear boy! What if he was a little extravagant? All young men must have their fling. So Patty, with but the vaguest ideas of what the fling was,—she could think only of fireworks and yelling, although three hundred dollars will buy a great deal of fireworks and yelling is cheap,—Patty, I say, feeling very low in pocket and in spirits, bade Charlie an affectionate farewell and returned to Miss Miller's. She spent the afternoon in casting up her accounts and in biting the end of her pencil; occupations from which she derived but little satisfaction. She could not seem to make the accounts come out right and the end of a pencil, even the best, becomes a little cloying to the taste in time.
Charlie's parting injunction had been really unnecessary. "Don't tell Sally, will you, Patty?" he had said in a voice from which he tried in vain to keep the note of exultation. There was little danger of that. Patty was as anxious as Charlie was to keep all knowledge of the transaction from Sally. And Patty sighed and cast up her accounts all over again. There was no escape from it. She must look the matter in the face. The absence of that two hundred and fifty would make a great difference to her; it would leave herabsolutely without ready money for more than a month, or—or, perhaps,—and she stared out of the window with unseeing eyes—she could manage to borrow—or ask Miss Miller to trust her—or somebody—But that would not make up half and everybody would know about it; and she sighed again and put down the remains of the pencil with its chewed end and put the paper into her waste-basket. She had given it up. She would trust to luck. She never was any good at arithmetic anyway.
What specious arguments Charlie had used to persuade her I do not know. It does not matter and she probably did not give them much attention. Charlie wanted the money. That was the point with her as it was the point with him. What were arguments and explanations? Mere words. But she noted that his watch was gone. Patty, herself, had given it to him only the year before. She could not help asking about that, in a somewhat hesitating and apologetic way.
Charlie set her doubts at rest at once. "Oh, that?" he said carelessly. "It needed cleaning and I left it." He gave the same answer to Sally when she asked about it.
"Huh!" was Sally's only answer, as she turned away.
Charlie had not said anything in reply, although that monosyllable of Sally's, which expressed much, had made him angry enough to say almost anything, if only he knew what to say. He didn't; and the very fact that he didn't made him angrier than ever. He stammered and stuttered and finished by clearing his throat, at which performance Sally smiled heartlessly.
Charlie had been badly shaken and had not had time to recover. But neither Sally nor Patty had an idea of what Charlie had been through. It was just as well that they had not; just as well for Charlie's comfort and for Patty's. Sally had more imagination than Patty had and she had had more experience. She could picture to herself any number of scrapes that Charlie might have got himself into and they did not consist solely of fireworks and yelling. Theywere much nearer the truth than that vague image of Patty's, and if Sally did not hit upon the exact situation it is to be remembered that she did not know about the money which Charlie had succeeded in extracting from Patty.
But Sally's imaginings were bad enough. They were sufficient to account for her heavy heart, although they were not necessary to account for it. Sally usually had a heavy heart now, which was a great pity and not necessary either. What had come over her? It troubled her mother to see her so depressed. She may have attributed it to the wrong cause or she may not. Mothers are very apt to be right about such matters. Her anxious eyes followed Sally about. Finally she could not refrain from speaking.
"Sally, dear," she asked, "what is the matter?"
Sally smiled a pitiful little smile. "Why, I don't know, mother. Is anything the matter?"
"Something must be. A girl like you doesn't get so low-spirited for nothing. It has been going on for nearly a year now. What is it, Sally? Can't you tell me, dear?"
"I wish I could, mother. I wish I knew. If I knew, I would tell you. I don't. I only know that nothing seems to be worth while and that I can't care about anything. A pity, isn't it?" And Sally smiled again.
"Sally, don't! If you smile like that again you will make me cry."
"I won't make you cry, mother. It is no trouble for me to keep from smiling."
"Are you—aren't you well, Sally?"
Sally stretched her arms above her head. She was getting to be rather a magnificent woman. "I can't raise a single symptom," she said. "I'm absolutely well, I think. You might get Doctor Beatty to prod me and see if he can find anything wrong."
"I would rather have Fox."
Sally flushed very faintly. "Not Fox, mother. I didn't mean it, really. I'm sure there is nothing the matter with my health. I could give you a catalogue: appetitegood—fairly good, I sleep well, I—I can't think of anything else."
"Mind?" her mother asked, smiling.
"A blank," said Sally promptly, with a hint of her old brightness. "My mind is an absolute blank. So there you are where you started."
"Is it your teaching, dear? Are you too tired?"
"Do I look as if I ought to be tired?" Sally returned scornfully. She did not look so, certainly. She was taller than her mother and long-limbed and lean, and she looked fit to run races or climb trees or to do anything else that required suppleness and quickness and to do it exceedingly well. "I ought to be ashamed of myself and I am, but I feel as if I could murder those children and do it cheerfully; without a single pang. It makes me wonder whether I am fitted to teach, after all."
"Oh, Sally!"
Sally made no reply, but sat down on the bed and gazed out of the window at nothing in particular. To be sure, she could not have seen anything worth while: only the side of the next house, not fifty feet away, and the window of a bedroom. She could have seen into the room, if she had been at all curious, and have seen the chambermaid moving about there.
Mrs. Ladue looked at her daughter sitting there so apathetically. She looked long and her eyes grew more anxious than ever. Sally did not seem to be aware of the scrutiny.
"Sally," she began hesitatingly.
Sally turned her head. "Well?"
"I have heard some rumors, Sally," Mrs. Ladue went on, hesitating more than ever, "about—about Everett. I didn't believe there was any truth in them and I have said so. I was right, wasn't I? There isn't anything, is there?"
"What sort of thing?" Sally did not seem to care. "What were the rumors, mother?"
"Why," said her mother, with a little laugh of embarrassment, "they were most absurd; that Everett was payingyou marked attention and that you were encouraging him."
"No, that is not so. I have not encouraged him."
Her answer seemed to excite Mrs. Ladue. "Well, is it true that he is—that he has been paying you attention for a long time?"
"I have seen him more or less, but it is nothing that I have been trying to conceal from you. What does it matter?"
"It matters very much, dear; oh, very much." Mrs. Ladue was silent for a moment. "Then I gather," she resumed in a low voice, "that you have not discouraged his attentions?"
"No," Sally replied listlessly, "I have not discouraged them. Assuming that they are anything more than accident, I—what do I care? It makes no difference to me."
"Oh, Sally!" Tears came into Mrs. Ladue's eyes. "You must know better than any one else whether he means anything or not; what his intentions are."
"He may not have any intentions," Sally answered. "I don't know what he means—but that is not true; not strictly. I know what he says, but not what he thinks. I don't believe there is anybody who knows what Everett thinks." And she gave a little laugh which was almost worse than one of her smiles. "His intentions, assuming that he has any, are well enough."
The situation seemed to be worse than Mrs. Ladue had imagined in her most doubtful moments. "But, Sally," she said anxiously, "is there—oh, I hate to ask you, but I must. Is there any kind of an understanding between you and Everett?"
"Not on my part, mother," Sally replied rather wearily. "Now let's talk about something else."
"Be patient with my questions just a little longer," said her mother gently. "I can't drop the subject there. Has—do you think Everett has any right to understand anything that you don't? Have you let him understand anything?"
Sally did not answer for what seemed to her mother a long time. "I don't know," she answered at last, "what he thinks. To be perfectly plain, Everett has not asked me to marry him, but he may feel sure what my answer would be if he did decide to. I don't know. He is a very sure kind of a person, and he has reason to be. That is the extent of the understanding, as you call it."
"But, surely, you know what your answer would be," remonstrated Mrs. Ladue in a low voice. "It isn't right, Sally, to let him think one thing when you mean to do the opposite. I hope," she added, struck by a fresh doubt—a most uncomfortable doubt, "that you do mean to do the opposite. There can be no question about that, can there?"
"I don't know," Sally replied slowly, "what I should do. I've thought about it and I don't know."
Mrs. Ladue's hand went up to her heart involuntarily, and she made no reply for some time. "Drifting?" she asked at last.
Sally looked toward her mother and smiled. "Drifting, I suppose. It's much the easiest."
Mrs. Ladue's hand was still at her heart, which was beating somewhat tumultuously.
"Don't, Sally! Don't, I beg of you. Your whole life's happiness depends upon it. Remember your father. Everett's principles are no better than his, I feel sure. You have been so—so sturdy, Sally. Don't spoil your life now. You will find your happiness." She was on the verge of telling her, but she checked herself in time. That was Fox's business. He might be right, after all. "This mood of yours will pass, and then you would wear your life out in regrets. Say that you won't do anything rash, Sally."
"Don't worry, mother. It really doesn't matter, but I won't do anything rash. There!" She laughed and kissed her mother. "I hope that satisfies you. You were getting quite excited."
Mrs. Ladue had been rather excited, as Sally said. Now she was crying softly.
"You don't know what this means to me, Sally, and I can't tell you. I wish—oh, I wish that I had your chance! You may be sure that I wouldn't throw it away. You may be sure I wouldn't." She wiped her eyes and smiled up at Sally. "There! Now I am all right and very much ashamed of myself. Run along out, dear girl. You don't get enough of out-of-doors, Sally."
So Sally went out. She meant to make the most of what was left of the short winter afternoon. She hesitated for a moment at the foot of the steps. "It's Fisherman's Cove," she said then quite cheerfully. "And I don't care when it gets dark or anything."