IT was but a few steps from Henrietta's door to Sally's own. Sally, her ideas a little confused by that exclamation of Henrietta's and by what it implied, walked those few steps softly and had her hand upon the knob of her own door when she found herself sniffing and realized that she smelt smoke. It was a very faint smell and she hesitated, even then, and stood there in the dark hall, recalling the fires that had been left. There had been no wood fire.
She took her hand softly from the knob. "I believe I'll just look around," she told herself. "It's a terrible night for a fire. I hope nobody'll take me for a burglar."
She went downstairs quickly, taking no pains to be quiet. If she were not quiet, she thought, with an involuntary chuckle, Uncle John would not be likely to think she was the sort of person that had no business to be in the house at all. She looked into the back parlor. All was right there. Then she opened the door leading into the back hall. The smell of smoke was stronger. She glanced into the kitchen. The top of the range was red-hot, to be sure, but that was not unusual enough to excite surprise, and the great old chimney, with its brick oven and broad brick breast and the wide brick hearth reaching out well beyond the range were enough assurance. The smoke must come from the cellar.
The cellar door was in the back hall, just at Sally's hand as she stood. She opened it; and was almost stifled by the smoke that poured out. She gasped and shut the door again quickly, and ran and opened a kitchen window, fumbling a little at the fastening, and drew two or three long breaths of the crisp night air, thinking how cold it was. Then she opened the cellar door again, held her breath, and went down.
It was a little better when she got down, although thesmoke was thick up by the floor beams. Sally glanced in the direction of the furnace; and she saw, through the smoke, a dull red glow, with little licks of flame running up from it, now and then. The man had forgotten the furnace and had left it drawing. That pipe was perilously near the beams.
"The idiot!" Sally exclaimed. And she held her breath again while she ran up the cellar stairs.
She was angry with herself because her hands trembled as she lighted the gas in the kitchen and found the lantern and lighted it. The slight trembling of her hands did not matter so much in filling a pitcher with water and by the time the pitcher was full her hands were steady enough. She ran down cellar again, the lantern in one hand and the pitcher in the other; and she shut the drafts in the furnace as far as she could. She heard the flame roaring in the pipe and the damper was red-hot.
"Oh, dear!" she said, under her breath. "If there was only something to take hold of it with! And the beams are all afire. Well,—"
She threw the water from her pitcher upon the beams in little dashes.
"Oh, dear!" she said again. "I can't do it."
A quiet voice spoke behind her. "Better give it up, Sally, and rouse the people."
Sally was too intent upon her purpose to be startled. "Oh, Uncle John!" she cried. "You are a very present help in trouble. We could put it out if this was all, but I'm afraid it has already got up between the walls."
"Come up, then," Uncle John spoke calmly and without haste. "Never mind the lantern. I will rouse Patty and Doctor Sanderson and you get at Henrietta and your mother and the servants. Don't send Patty to the servants," he added, with a smile. "I will send in the alarm."
Mr. Hazen had forgotten Charlie. Sally ran upstairs. There was still a light showing under Henrietta's door and Sally went in.
"You'd better not undress, Henrietta," she said. "Thereis a fire and we may have to get out. You may have time to do a good deal, if you hurry—even to pack your trunk. You'd better put on your furs. It's terribly cold."
Henrietta was not flurried. "I'll be ready in a jiffy, Sally. Run along now."
Sally ran and woke her mother, telling her to get dressed quickly while she went for the servants. On her way up, she knocked at Charlie's door. She came downstairs presently, settled the servants in the hall, and went up to her room to help her mother.
Then the firemen came with a tremendous clanging of bells and shrieking of whistles, reveling in noise. Sally laughed when she heard them, and her mother laughed with her, rather nervously. The rest of it was a sort of nightmare to Sally and she had no very distinct recollection of any part of it. There was great confusion, and firemen in the most unexpected places, and hose through the halls and on the stairs. Fox and Henrietta had packed their trunks and Patty had two pillows and a wire hair-brush, which she insisted upon carrying about with her.
Then they were ordered out, and Sally found herself out in the night and the cold amid the confusion of firemen and engines and horses and ice. For both Appletree and Box Elder streets seemed full of hose, which leaked at every pore and sent little streams of water on high, to freeze as soon as they fell and form miniature cascades of ice on which an old man—a young man, for that matter—might more easily slip and fall than not. It was very dark out there, the darkness only made more dense by the light from the lanterns of the firemen and the sparks from an engine that was roaring near. They were throwing water on the outside of the house—two streams; and Sally wondered why in the world they did it. There was no fire visible. Perhaps Fox would know. And she looked around.
Their faces could just be made out, in the gloom; her mother and Charlie, Charlie with the bored look that he seemed to like to assume, copied after Everett; and Patty,still with her two pillows and her wire hair-brush, looking frightened, as she was; and Henrietta and Fox and the huddled group of the servants. She could not see Uncle John. There were not many spectators, which is not a matter for surprise. There is little interest in trying to watch a fire which one cannot see, late on a night which is cold enough to freeze one's ears or fingers, and the curbstone is but cold comfort.
Fox and Henrietta were talking together in low tones. "Fox," asked Sally, "do you know why they are throwing water on the outside of the house. For the life of me, I can't make out."
"For their own delectation, I suppose," he answered soberly. "It is a fireman's business—or part of it—to throw water on a building as well as all over the inside, when there is any excuse. Besides, the water, as it runs off the roof and all the little outs, forms very beautiful icicles which, no doubt, delight the fireman's professional eye. Think how pretty it will look to-morrow morning with the early sun upon it."
Sally chuckled. "I see them dimly," she returned, "but very dimly. They ought to have a search-light on them."
"I believe there is one," he observed. "They will have it going presently."
"Oh," Sally exclaimed; and she chuckled again.
Thereupon, as if it had been a signal, a brilliant white light shone forth. It happened to be pointed exactly upon the little group, but shifted immediately so that it illuminated the roof. There were great rippling cascades of ice down the slope of it and icicles forming at each edge and the water streaming off them.
Sally was silent for a few moments. "It is certainly very pretty," she said then, "and should delight the fireman's professional eye. I suppose that I might enjoy it more if it were not our house."
The moment's illumination had served to point them out to somebody. Mrs. Ladue touched Sally on the arm.
"Sally, dear," she said, "I think that we may as well go now. Mrs. Torrington has asked us all to stay there. Won't you and Henrietta come?"
"She is very kind," Sally replied. "I had not thought about going anywhere, yet. I am warm, perfectly warm. I have my furs, you see. I think I will wait until I see Uncle John, mother, and we can go somewhere together. I don't like to leave him. But probably Fox and Henrietta will go." She looked around. "But where is Patty?"
"Gone to Mrs. Upjohn's a few minutes ago. Poor Patty! I am very glad to have her go."
Henrietta had gathered the drift of the talk, although she had not heard any names. She turned. "I could stay here with you, Sally, or I could go if it would be more convenient. I am warm enough. Who has asked us?"
Mrs. Ladue answered for Sally. "Mrs. Torrington sent Dick to find us," she said. "Here he is."
Henrietta's decision changed instantly. "Oh," she cried, "Mr. Torrington! It is very kind, and I accept gratefully. When shall we start, Mrs. Ladue?"
Sally barely repressed a chuckle. "I'll stay, thank you, Dick; for Uncle John, you know."
"Good girl, Sally. I hope I'll fare as well when I'm old. Come whenever you get ready. Somebody will be up and I think we have room for everybody. Will Doctor Sanderson come now?" Dick added.
Doctor Sanderson thanked him, but elected to stay with Sally, and Sally urged Dick not to expect them and on no account to stay up for them.
Dick and Henrietta and Mrs. Ladue had scarcely gone when the roaring engine choked, gave a few spasmodic snorts and its roaring stopped.
"What's the matter with it?" Sally asked. "Why has it stopped?"
"Colic," Fox replied briefly.
Sally chuckled again and took his arm. He made no objection. The engine seemed to be struggling heroically toresume its roaring and there was much running of firemen and shouting unintelligible orders, to which nobody paid any attention. In the midst of the confusion, Mr. Hazen appeared. He was evidently very tired and he shivered as he spoke to Sally.
"I have done all I could," he said. "That wasn't much. Where are the others, Sally?"
Sally told him. "You must be very tired, Uncle John," she went on, anxiously. "And you are wet through and colder than a clam. Your teeth are positively chattering."
He looked down at himself and felt of his clothes. The edge of his overcoat and the bottoms of his trousers were frozen stiff. "I guess I am tired," he replied, trying to call up a smile, "and I am a little cold. I've been so occupied that I hadn't noticed. And I slipped on one of their piles of ice. It didn't do any harm," he added hastily. "I think I'll go over to Stephen's—Captain Forsyth's. He won't mind being routed out. What will you do, Sally? Why don't you and Fox come, too?"
Sally hesitated. There was no object in their staying any longer, but she did not like to impose upon Captain Forsyth. If she had only known it, Captain Forsyth would have liked nothing better than to be imposed upon by Sally in any way that she happened to choose.
While she was hesitating she heard a voice behind her. "Mr. Hazen," said the voice, rather coldly and formally, "won't you and Sally—Miss Ladue—and—any others—"
Sally had turned and now saw that it was Everett. She knew that well enough as soon as he had begun to speak. And she saw, too, that he was looking at Fox. She hastened to introduce them. It was necessary, in Everett's case. They both bowed.
"My mother sent me," Everett resumed, in the same formal tone, "to find any of the family that I could and to say that we hope—my father and my mother and myself—we hope that they will come to-night and stay as long asthey find it convenient." He seemed to have no great liking for his errand. "It is very awkward," he added, with his bored smile, "to be burned out of your house at night and on such a very cold night, too."
"Oh, but think," said Sally, "how much worse it might be. It might have been at three o'clock in the morning, when everybody would have been sleeping soundly."
"That is very true," he returned. "I suppose you are thankful it was not at three o'clock in the morning." He looked at them all in turn questioningly. "Will you come? We should be very glad if you would."
Again Sally hesitated. Uncle John saved her the trouble of answering.
"I had just expressed my intention of going to Stephen Forsyth's, Everett," he said, "and I think I will. Stephen and I are old cronies, you know. We are very much obliged to you and I have no doubt that Sally and Dr. Sanderson will go, with pleasure. They must have had about enough of this."
Everett bowed. Sally could hear Uncle John's teeth chattering and his voice had been very shaky as he finished.
"Let Fox prescribe for you, Uncle John," she said. "I'm worried about you. What's the use of having a doctor in the family if he doesn't prescribe when there is need?" And then Sally was thankful that it was dark.
Uncle John smiled his assent and Fox prescribed. "I have no doubt that Captain Forsyth will have certain remedies at hand," he concluded, "and I should think there would be no harm in your taking them, in moderation."
Uncle John laughed. "He will press them upon me," he said. "I will observe Doctor Sanderson's prescription. Now, good-night. No, Sally, Stephen's is just around the corner, you know."
He disappeared into the darkness and Sally, with much inward misgiving, prepared to follow Everett. She was really worried about Uncle John. He was an old man, justupon eighty, and he had gone through a great deal that night and was chilled through, she was afraid, and—
She stopped short. "Oh, Fox," she cried. "The servants! I had forgotten them. What in the world shall we do with them?"
Everett had stopped, too, and heard Sally's question. "That is not difficult," he said. "Send them to our house. It is a large house and there is room for them in the servants' wing. Perhaps I can find them."
Everett was back in a moment. "That was easy," he remarked. "You need give yourself no concern."
They walked in silence up the long driveway, between the rows of shadowing spruces, and up the broad granite steps. Everett had his key in the latch and threw open the door.
"My mother did not come down, apparently. You will see her in the morning."
As she took off her furs in the hall, Sally was very grateful for the warmth and the cheerfulness and the spaciousness of the great house. Everett slipped off his coat of sables and led the way up the stairs.
"Your room, Sally—I shall call you Sally?" He looked at her, but not as if in doubt.
"Why, of course," said Sally in surprise.
"Your room, Sally," he resumed, "is down that hall, just opposite my mother's. The door is open and there is a light. Doctor Sanderson's is this way, near mine. I will show him. Good-night, Sally."
"Good-night," she answered; "and good-night, Fox."
They turned and she went down the hall, her feet making no sound in the soft carpet. The door which Everett had pointed out as his mother's stood ajar, and, as Sally passed, it opened wider and Mrs. Morton stepped out.
"You are very welcome, Sally, dear," she said, kissing her; "as welcome as could be. I will see Doctor Sanderson in the morning. Come down whenever you feel like it. It has been a trying night for you."
Sally's eyes were full of tears as she softly closed her own door.
There were times when, in spite of disease, death, or disaster, Mrs. John Upjohn had to have clothes; more clothes, no doubt I should say, or other clothes. At any rate, when such occasions were imminent, Mrs. Upjohn was wont to summon the dressmaker to come to her house, and the dressmaker would come promptly and would camp in the house until the siege was over, going home only to sleep. One would think that Mrs. Upjohn might have offered Letty Lambkin a bed to sleep in, for Letty had been a schoolmate of hers before misfortune overtook her; and Mrs. Upjohn had beds to spare and Letty always arrived before breakfast and stayed until after supper. Perhaps such an offer would have offended a sensitive spirit. That is only a guess, of course, for I have no means of knowing what Mrs. Upjohn's ideas were upon that subject. At all events, she never gave Letty a chance of being offended at any such offer.
An occasion such as I have mentioned arose on the day of the Hazens' fire, and Mrs. Upjohn had accordingly sent John Junior around to Letty's house with the customary message. Which message John Junior had delivered with an air of great dejection and with the very evident hope that Miss Lambkin would be unable to come. But, alas! Miss Lambkin smiled at John cheerfully and told him to tell his mother that she would be there bright and early in the morning; that she had felt it in her bones that Alicia Upjohn would be wanting her on that day, and she had put off Mrs. Robbins and Mrs. Sarjeant on purpose so's Alicia wouldn't have to wait.
Whereupon John Junior muttered unintelligibly and turned away, leaving Miss Lambkin gazing fondly after him andcalling after him to know if it wasn't cold. John Junior muttered again, inaudibly to Miss Lambkin, but not unintelligibly. He was not fond of those sieges, to say the least.
"Darn it!" he muttered, kicking viciously at the ice. "That means two weeks and I can't stay at Hen's all the whole time for two weeks. A fellow has to be at home for meals. If she only wasn't there for breakfast and supper!" John Junior kicked viciously at the ice again; and, the ice proving refractory, he stubbed his toe and almost fell. "Ow!" he said; "darn it!" But that was an afterthought. He betook him to the harbor.
There is some reason to believe that the late John Senior had not regarded these visitations with more favor than did his son; there were some that did not hesitate to say that his end had been hastened by them and by the semiannual house-cleaning. Mrs. Upjohn was considered a notable housekeeper. "She takes it hard," he had said to Hen's father in an unguarded moment of confidence. Hen's father had laughed. Hen's mother was not a notable housekeeper. John Senior had sighed. At that time there was but one club in Whitby. He was not a member of that club. Such men as Hugh Morton and Gerrit Torrington were members; even John Hazen was said to be a member, although he was never at the club-rooms. So even that solace was denied to John Senior. He couldn't stay at Hen's house all the time either; and, there seeming to be no other way of escape, he up and had a stroke and died in two hours. At least, so rumor ran, the connection between cause and effect being of rumor's making. I have no wish to contradict it. I have no doubt that I should have wanted to do as John Senior had done. Very possibly Patty had some such wish.
The two weeks of Letty were now up and the end was not in sight. She and Mrs. Upjohn sat in Mrs. Upjohn's sewing-room, which was strewn with unfinished skirts and waists and scraps of cloth. Letty sewed rapidly on the skirt; Mrs. Upjohn sewed slowly—very, very slowly—on something. It really did not matter what. If the completion of Mrs.Upjohn's clothes had depended upon Mrs. Upjohn's unaided efforts she would never have had anything to wear.
"Where's Patty gone, Alicia?" asked Letty, a thread between her teeth. "Hospital?"
Mrs. Upjohn stopped sewing. "Yes," she replied in her deliberate way. "I believe her father is worse. She got a message this morning before you came, and I think it was unfavorable, to judge by her face."
"Land!" said Miss Lambkin. "I guess he's going to die. He's a pretty old man. Eighty, if he's a day, would be my guess."
Mrs. Upjohn nodded. "Just eighty."
"Pretty good guess, I call it." Miss Lambkin laughed. "I thought he must be pretty sick, or Patty wouldn't be out of the house as soon as ever breakfast was over and not turn up again until dinner-time. Then, as like as not, she'd be gone the whole afternoon. I hear he's got pneumonia."
Mrs. Upjohn nodded again.
"And I hear," Letty continued, "that he got it getting chilled and wet the night of the fire. 'T was an awful cold night, and he would stay around the house and try to tell the firemen what they sh'd do. Of course, they couldn't help squirting on him some."
"I hope," said Mrs. Upjohn, "that they didn't mean to."
"I hope not," Miss Lambkin returned. "I sh'd think the ones that did it would have it on their consciences if they did. They tell me that Sally Ladue discovered the fire. She and that Doctor Sanderson have been at the Mortons' ever since and, if you can believe all you hear, neither of 'em likes it any too well. Mrs. Morton's nice to her—she can be as nice as nice to them that she likes, though you wouldn't always think it—but Everett's the trouble."
It was contrary to Mrs. Upjohn's principles to look surprised at any piece of information—and as if she had not heard it before. She gave a little laugh.
"A good many girls," she remarked, "would give their eyes to be at the Mortons' for two weeks."
"I guess that's what's the trouble with Everett," said Miss Lambkin pointedly. "Too much girl; and I guess he isn't any too particular about the kind either."
Mrs. Upjohn was curious. To be sure, she was always curious, which was a fact that she flattered herself she concealed very neatly. Other people were not of the same opinion.
"Why, Letty?" she asked frankly. She seldom allowed her curiosity to be so evident. "I've never heard of his being seen with any girls that he ought not to be with. Have you?"
"Oh, not in Whitby," replied Miss Lambkin. "Not for Joseph! As far's that goes, he isn't seen very often with girls that he ought to be with. But I hear that when he's in Boston it's a different story. Of course, I haven't seen him with my own eyes, but I have reliable information. You know he goes to Boston for weeks at a time."
"M-m," assented Mrs. Upjohn, rocking quietly and comfortably. "He stays at the best hotels, I believe."
"Registersat the most expensive," corrected Miss Lambkin, "I have no doubt. I s'pose he stays there some of the time. To tell the truth," she confessed, somewhat crestfallen at having to make the humiliating confession, "I didn't just hear what Everett does that Sally Ladue doesn't like."
"Oh," said Mrs. Upjohn. She did not look up and there was a certain air of triumph in the way she uttered that simple syllable which grated on Miss Lambkin's sensibilities.
"Sally's a sort of high-and-mighty girl," continued Miss Lambkin tentatively.
"Sally's a nice girl and a good girl," said Mrs. Upjohn cordially; "capable, I should say."
"No doubt she is," Letty returned without enthusiasm. "It's rather strange that she is all that, considering what her father did."
Mrs. Upjohn laughed comfortably. "I used to know her father. There was no telling what he would do."
"Ran off with another woman," said Letty, "and some money. That's what I heard."
Mrs. Upjohn laughed again. "He disappeared," she conceded. "I never heard that there was any other woman in the case and I'm reasonably sure there wasn't any money."
"He hasn't ever been heard of since?"
Mrs. Upjohn shook her head.
"And he left them without any money? I thought he stole it."
"I don't think so. Doctor Sanderson kept them afloat for some time, I believe, until Patty asked Sally here. Then he got Mrs. Ladue into Doctor Galen's hospital."
"M-m," Letty murmured slowly. She had a needle between her lips or she would have said "o-oh." She removed the needle for the purpose of speech. "So that's Doctor Sanderson's connection with the Ladues. I always wondered. It might have been 'most anything. His sister's up and coming. She'll have Dick Torrington if he don't look out. She's made the most of her visit."
Letty's murmur might have meant much or it might have meant nothing at all. At all events, Mrs. Upjohn let it go unchallenged, possibly because her curiosity was aroused by what Letty said later. She asked no questions, however. She only waited, receptively, for further communications on the subject of Henrietta and Dick. Miss Lambkin did not vouchsafe further information on that subject, but immediately branched off upon another.
"I'm told," she said, with the rapidity of mental change that marked her intellectual processes, "that John Hazen's house was in an awful state the morning after the fire. I went around there as soon's ever I could, to see what I could see, but the door was locked and I couldn't get in. I looked in the windows, though, and the furniture's all gone from some of the rooms, even to the carpets. There was a ladder there, and I went up it, and the bedroom was all stripped clean. I couldn't carry the ladder, so I didn't see the others. I made some inquiries and I was told that the furniture wasall stored in the stable. That wasn't burned at all, you know. I thought that perhaps Patty'd been and had it moved, though it don't seem hardly like her. It's more like John Hazen himself. But he wasn't able."
Mrs. Upjohn smiled and shook her head. "It wasn't Patty," she replied, "or I should have known it. I guess it was Sally. Perhaps Doctor Sanderson helped, but it is just like Sally. She's a great hand to take hold and do things."
"You don't tell me!" said Miss Lambkin. "But I don't suppose she did it with her own hands. I shouldn't wonder," she remarked, "if she'd find some good place to board, the first thing you know. She might go to Miss Miller's. She could take 'em, I know, but she wouldn't have room for Doctor Sanderson, only Sally and her mother and Charlie. Charlie's a pup, that's what he is. But I can't see, for the life of me, what Doctor Sanderson keeps hanging around here for. Why don't he go home?"
Not knowing, Mrs. Upjohn, for a wonder, did not undertake to say. Miss Lambkin hazarded the guess that the doctor might be sparking around Sally; but Mrs. Upjohn did not seem to think so.
"Well," Letty went on, "I wonder what the Hazens'll do. It'd cost an awful sight to repair that house; almost as much as to build a new one. What insurance did you hear they had? Has Patty said?—This skirt is about ready to try on, Alicia. I want to drape it real nice. Can't you stand on the table?"
She spread a folded newspaper on the top of the table.
"There! Now, you won't mar the top. Take your skirt right off and climb up."
Mrs. Upjohn was a heavy woman and she obeyed with some difficulty. Miss Lambkin continued in her pursuit of information while she draped the skirt.
"You haven't answered about the insurance, Alicia. What did Patty say about it? I don't suppose Patty'd know exactly and I wouldn't trust her guess anyway. JohnHazen never seemed to, to any extent. Patty's kind o' flighty, isn't she, and cracked on the men, although you wouldn't think it from her highty-tighty manner. She used to think she was going to marry Meriwether Beatty, I remember. Land! He had no more idea of marrying her than I had. And she's been cracked on every man that's more'n spoken to her since. She's got the symptoms of nervous prostration; all the signs of it. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she went crazy, one o' these days. If Doctor Sanderson is looking for patients for his sanitarium he needn't look any farther. Patty's it. Turn around, Alicia. I don't get a good light on the other side. Why, Patty's—"
Mrs. Upjohn had heard the front door shut. "Sh-h-h!" she cautioned. "Here's Patty now."
They heard Patty come slowly up the stairs and, although there were no sounds of it, she seemed to be weeping.
"Now, I wonder," whispered Miss Lambkin, "what's the matter. Do you s'pose her—"
"Sh, Letty! She'll hear you. I'll get down and go to her."
"Without a skirt, Alicia?"
But Mrs. Upjohn did not heed. She got down from the table, clumsily enough, and went to the door. Patty had just passed it.
"Patty!" Mrs. Upjohn called softly. "Is there anything the matter?"
Patty turned a miserable, tear-stained face. "It—it's all o-over," she said dully.
"Your father?" asked Mrs. Upjohn. She spoke in an awe-struck whisper in spite of herself. Did not Death deserve such an attitude?
Patty nodded silently. "I'm so sorry, Patty," Mrs. Upjohn's sympathy was genuine. "Iamso sorry."
"Oh, Alicia," Patty cried in a burst of grief, "my father's d-dead."
Mrs. Upjohn folded ample arms about her and patted her on the shoulder as if she had been a child. "There, there, Patty! I'm just as sorry as I can be; and so will everybodybe as soon as they hear of it. But you just cry as much as you want to. It'll do you good."
So they stood, Mrs. Upjohn unmindful of the fact that she had no skirt and Patty crying into a lavender silk shoulder.
"Land!" The voice was the voice of Miss Lambkin and it proceeded from the doorway. "I'm awfully sorry to hear your father's dead, Patty. How did—"
Patty lifted her head majestically from the lavender silk shoulder. "My grief is sacred," she murmured; and fled to her room.
"Mercy me!" muttered Miss Lambkin. "I didn't have my kid gloves on. I ought to have known better'n to speak to Patty without 'em. You may as well come back, Alicia," she continued in a louder voice, "and finish with that skirt. Perhaps, now, you'll be wanting a new black dress. Your old one's pretty well out of fashion."
She filled her mouth with pins while Mrs. Upjohn again mounted the table.
Mrs. Upjohn shook her head slowly. "No," she answered, "I guess the old one will do for a while yet. I shouldn't want one for anything but the funeral anyway, and you couldn't begin to get one done by that time. It would be different if it was a relative."
"It's curious," remarked Miss Lambkin, as well as she could with her mouth full of pins, "how things go. Now, there's many of our relatives—mine, anyway—that we could spare as well as not; better than some of those that are no kin to us. And we have to wear black for them and try to look sorry. Black isn't becoming to some, but it seems to me you'd look full as well in it as you do in that lavender, and that place on your shoulder where Patty cried tears is going to show anyway. But, as I was going to say, a man like John Hazen is going to be missed. I wonder who was there, at his death-bed. Patty, of course, and Sally Ladue, I s'pose, and maybe Mrs. Ladue and Meriwether Beatty. Sally was real fond of her Uncle John and he of her. It's my opinion that Sally'll be sorrier than Pattywill. Come right down to it, Patty isn't so broken-hearted as she likes to think, though she'll miss him."
To this Mrs. Upjohn agreed, but Letty did not wait for her reply.
"And I wonder," she went on, working rapidly while she talked, "how much he's left. Patty hasn't said, I s'pose. I don't s'pose she'd have much of an idea anyway, and I don't know's anybody could tell until his business is all settled up. He had quite a number of vessels, and it seems a great pity that there isn't anybody to take his business up where he left it. He did well with it, I'm told. It's my guess that you'll find that John Hazen's left Sally a good big slice."
"I hope so, with all my heart." Mrs. Upjohn spoke cordially, as she did invariably of Sally.
"My!" Letty exclaimed with an anticipatory squeal of delight. "Wouldn't it put Patty in a proper temper if he had! Now, Alicia," she said, standing back and looking the skirt up and down, "we'll call that skirt right. It hangs well, if I do say it. Take it off and I'll finish it right up. You can come down now."
Miss Lambkin was right. Sally found a place to board—a nice place, to quote Letty Lambkin, although it was not Miss Miller's. No doubt Letty was sorry that Sally had not chosen Miss Miller's, for Miss Miller was an especial friend of Letty's; and, by choosing another place, Sally had cut off, at a blow, a most reliable source of information. Very possibly Sally did not think of this, but if she had, it would have been but one more argument in favor of her choice, for Mrs. Stump couldn't bear Letty, and she had vowed that she should never darken her door. Letty would not have darkened the door very much. She was a thin little thing. But, if Sally did not think of it, Letty did, and she regretted it. She even went so far as to mention it to Mrs. Upjohn.
"If Sally Ladue thinks she's getting ahead of me," she said, with sharp emphasis, "she'll find she's mistaken. I have my sources of information."
Mrs. Upjohn did not reprove her. She had an inordinate thirst for information which did not concern her, and Letty was the most unfailing source of it. So she only smiled sympathetically and said nothing. She was sorry to be deprived of such accurate information about Sally as Miss Miller would have supplied, but she still had Patty. In fact, Mrs. Upjohn was beginning to wonder how much longer she was to have Patty. Patty seemed to have no thought of going. Indeed, she would not have known where to go. Patty was entering upon some brand-new experiences, rather late in life. Already she was beginning to miss the pendulum.
Before Sally took this step which seemed to be so much more important to others than to herself, various things hadhappened, of which Miss Lambkin could have had no knowledge, even with her reliable sources of information. Everett Morton had had an interview with his mother, at her request. He would not have sought an interview, for he had a premonition of the subject of it.
Mrs. Morton was one of those rare women whom wealth had not spoiled; that is, not wholly; not very much, indeed. There was still left a great deal of her natural self, and that self was sweet and kind and yielding enough, although, on occasions, she could be as decided as she thought necessary. This was one of the occasions. The interview was nearly over. It had been short and to the point, which concerned Sally.
"Well, Everett," said Mrs. Morton decidedly, "your attitude towards Sally Ladue must be changed. I haven't been able to point out, as exactly as I should like to do, just where it fails to be satisfactory. But it does fail, and it must be changed."
Everett was standing by the mantel, a cigarette between his fingers. "You do not make your meaning clear, my dear mother," he replied coldly. "If you would be good enough to specify any speech of mine? Anything that I have said, at any time?" he suggested. "If there has been anything said or done for which I should apologize, I shall be quite ready to do so. It is a little difficult to know what you are driving at." And he smiled in his most exasperating way.
Mrs. Morton's color had been rising and her eyes glittered. Everett should have observed and taken warning. Perhaps he did.
"Everett," she said, as coldly as he had spoken and more incisively, "you exhibit great skill in evasion. I wish that you would use your skill to better advantage. I have no reason to think that there have been any words of yours with which I could find fault, although I do not know what you have said. But Sally could be trusted to take care of that. It is your manner."
Everett laughed. "But, my dear mother!" he protested,"I can't help my manner. As well find fault with the color of my eyes or—"
His mother interrupted him. "You can help it. It is of no use to pretend that you don't know what I mean. You have wit enough."
"Thank you."
"And your manner is positively insulting. You have let even me see that. Any woman would resent it, but she wouldn't speak of it. She couldn't. Don't compel me to specify more particularly. You put Sally in a very hard position, Everett, and in our own house, too. You ought to have more pride, to say the least; the very least."
Everett's color had been rising, too, as his mother spoke. "I am obliged for your high opinion. May I ask what you fear as the consequence of my insulting manner?"
"You know as well as I," Mrs. Morton answered; "but I will tell you, if you wish. Sally will go, of course, and will think as badly of us as we deserve."
"That," Everett replied slowly, "could perhaps be borne with equanimity if she takes Doctor Sanderson with her."
Mrs. Morton laughed suddenly. "Oh," she exclaimed, "so that is it! I must confess that that had not occurred to me. Now, go along, Everett, and for mercy's sake, be decent."
Everett's color was still high, but if he felt any embarrassment he succeeded in concealing it under his manner, of which his mother seemed to have so high an opinion.
He cast his cigarette into the fire. "If you have no more to say to me, then, I will go," he said, smiling icily. His mother saying nothing, but smiling at him, he bowed—English model—and was going out.
Mrs. Morton laughed again, suddenly and merrily. "Oh, Everett, Everett!" she cried. "How old are you? I should think you were about twelve."
"Thank you," he replied; and he bowed again and left her.
So Mrs. Morton had not been surprised when Sally came to her, a day or two later, to say that she thought that they—Doctor Sanderson and she—had imposed upon Mrs.Morton's kindness long enough and that she had found a boarding-place for her mother and Charlie and herself.
"I am very sorry to say that I am not surprised, Sally, dear," Mrs. Morton returned, "although I am grievously disappointed. I had hoped that you would stay with us until the house was habitable again. I have tried," she added in some embarrassment, "to correct—"
Sally flushed quickly. "Please don't speak of it, dear Mrs. Morton," she said hastily. "It is—there has been nothing—"
"Nonsense, Sally! Don't you suppose I see, having eyes? But we won't speak of it, except to say that I am very sorry. And I think that you wouldn't be annoyed again. Won't you think better of your decision and stay until you can go to your own house?"
"Oh, but nobody knows when that will be," Sally replied, smiling. "Nothing has been done about it yet. Patty doesn't seem to know what to do. Uncle John was the moving spirit." There were tears in her eyes.
"I know, Sally, dear, I know. I am as sorry as I can be. I am afraid," she added with a queer little smile, "that I am sorrier for you than I am for Patty."
"Thank you. But you ought not to be, you know, for he rather—well, he steadied Patty."
Mrs. Morton laughed. "Yes, dear, I know. And you didn't need to be steadied. But I'm afraid that I am, just the same."
So it was settled, as anything was apt to be concerning which Sally had made up her mind. Mrs. Ladue did not receive the announcement with unalloyed joy. She smiled and she sighed.
"I suppose it is settled," she said, "or you would not have told me. Oh," seeing the distress in Sally's face, "it ought to be. It is quite time. We have made a much longer visit upon Mrs. Torrington than we ought to have made, but I can't help being sorry, rather, to exchange her house for Mrs. Stump's. But why, Sally, if you found it unpleasant—"
"Oh, mother, I didn't say it was unpleasant. Mrs. Morton was as kind as any one could possibly be."
"I am glad, dear. I was only going to ask why Fox stayed."
Fox murmured something about Christian martyrs and a den of lions, and Mrs. Ladue laughed. Then she sighed again.
"Well," she said, "all right, Sally. You will let me know, I suppose, when we are to go. We can't stay on here forever, although I'd like to."
At that moment Dick came in. "Why not?" he asked. "Why not stay, if you like it?"
"How absurd, Dick!" Sally protested. "You are very kind, but you know mother will have to go pretty soon. And I've found a very good place."
"If Sally says so, it's so," Dick retorted, "and there's no use in saying any more about it. Mrs. Stump's or Miss Miller's?"
Fox had been looking out of the window. He turned. "Mrs. Ladue," he asked suddenly, "will you go sleighing with me to-morrow? It will be about my last chance, for I go back when Sally leaves the Mortons'."
"Oh," cried Sally, "why not me, too? And Henrietta?"
Fox smiled at her. "There's a reason," he said. "I'll take you when the time is ripe. I have something to show your mother and we have to go after it."
"Can't you get it and show it to me, too?"
Fox shook his head. "I'm afraid not. It isn't mine, for one thing."
"Oh," said Sally, her head in the air. "And I suppose you'll go in the morning, when I'm in school."
"That might not be a bad idea. We might be followed. Can you go in the morning, Mrs. Ladue?"
She laughed and nodded. She would go at any time that suited him.
So it chanced that Fox and Mrs. Ladue started out, the next morning. Fox drove along Apple Tree Street and turned into another street.
"Isn't this Smith Street?" asked Mrs. Ladue doubtfully. "Where are we going, Fox?"
"I'm astonished at your question," he replied. "You ought to know that this is still Witch Lane for all the old families, in spite of the fact that it is known, officially, as Smith Street. I have yet a very distinct recollection of Miss Patty's lamentations over the change. That was ten years ago, when Sally first arrived."
Mrs. Ladue laughed. She would have laughed at anything that morning.
"But, do you mind telling me where we are going?"
"I can't tell you exactly, as I am not very familiar with the country here. I know where I am going," he explained hastily, "but I doubt if I could tell you. We shall come to the end of the built-up part pretty soon, and then it takes us out into the country. There'll be a turn or two, and what I want you to see is about two miles out. Mr. Morton," he added, "put a horse at my service, and I have been exploring. I have not wasted my time."
Mrs. Ladue made no reply. She was happy enough, without the need of speech. They drove on, past the built-up part, as Fox had said, past more thinly scattered houses, with little gardens, the corn-stubble already beginning to show above the snow, here and there, for it had been thawing. Then they began to pass small farms, and then, as they made the first of the turn or two, the farms were larger, and there were rows of milk-cans on their pegs in the sun.
Suddenly Mrs. Ladue laughed. "Now I know where I am," she exclaimed. "That is, I remember that Uncle John Hazen brought me out here one day, nearly two years ago. He wanted to show me something, too."
Fox turned and looked at her. "That is interesting," he said. "I wonder if he showed you the same place that I am going to show you."
Mrs. Ladue only smiled mysteriously; and when, at last, Fox stopped his horse and said "There!" she was laughing quietly. He looked puzzled.
"The same," she said. "The very same."
"Well," Fox replied slowly, "I admire his taste. It is worth looking at."
It was a very large house, looking out from beneath its canopy of elms over a wide valley; a pleasant prospect of gentle hills and dales, with the little river winding quietly below.
"It is worth looking at," said Fox again. He looked at her, then. She was not laughing, but there was a merry look in her eyes. "What amuses you? I should rather like to know. Isn't my hat on straight?"
She shook her head. "I'll tell you before long. But it is really nothing." Truly it didn't need much to amuse her on that day.
He looked at her again, then looked away. "The house looks as if it might have been a hotel," he remarked; "a little hotel, with all the comforts of home. It is very homelike. It seems to invite you."
"Yes," she replied, "it does."
"And the barn," he went on, "is not too near the house, but yet near enough, and it is very well ordered and it has all the modern improvements. All the modern improvements include a tiled milking-room and, next to it, a tiled milk-room with all the most improved equipment, and a wash-room for the milkers and a herd of about twenty-five registered Guernseys. I know, for I have been over it."
"That sounds very good. I know very little about such things."
"I have had to know. It is a part of my business. That barn and that outfit would be very convenient if the house were—for instance—a private hospital. Now, wouldn't it?"
She made no reply and he turned to her again. She was looking at him in amazement, and her face expressed doubt and a dawning gladness.
"Oh, Fox!"
"Now, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," she murmured, in a low voice.
"And the house seems not unsuitable for such a purpose. I have not been over the house."
"Fox! Will you tell me what you mean?"
He laughed out. "The old skinflint who lives there says he can't sell it. He seemed very intelligent, too; intellect enough to name a price if he wanted to. And I would not stick at the price if it were within the bounds of reason."
"I think," Mrs. Ladue remarked, "that I could tell you why your old skinflint couldn't sell it."
"Why?" Fox asked peremptorily.
"When you have shown me all you have to show," she answered, the look of quiet amusement again about her eyes and mouth, "I will tell you; that is, if you tell me first what you mean."
He continued looking for a few moments in silence. She bore his scrutiny as calmly as she could. Then he turned, quickly, and drew the reins tight.
"Get up, you ancient scion of a livery stable." The horse started reluctantly. "There is something else," he added, "just down the road a bit."
"I thought so," she said. "It is a square house, painted a cream color, with a few elms around it, and quite a grove at a little distance behind it."
"It is. But you forgot the barn and the chicken-houses."
She laughed joyously. "I didn't think of them."
"And the well-sweep."
"I'm afraid I didn't think of that, either."
"I should really like to know how you knew," he observed, as if wondering. "Perhaps it is not worth while going there. But I want to see it again, if you don't."
"Oh, I do. I am very much interested, and you know you are to tell me what you are planning."
"Yes," he replied. "I meant to tell you. That was what I brought you for. But I thought you would be surprised and I hoped that you might be pleased."
"Trust me for that, Fox, if your plans are what I hope they are. If they are, I shall be very happy."
They stopped in the road before the square house that was painted cream color. Fox gazed at it longingly. It seemed to be saying, "Come in! Come in!" and reaching out arms to him. There was the old well at one side, with its great sweep. The ground about the well was bare of snow and there was a path from it to the kitchen door. Thin curls of smoke were coming lazily from each of the great chimneys.
He sighed, at last, and turned to Mrs. Ladue. "I should like to live there," he said.
"You would find it rather a hardship, I am afraid," she returned, watching him closely, "depending upon that well, picturesque as it is."
He laughed. "Easy enough to lay pipes from the hotel, back there." He nodded in the direction of the larger house, the one of the twenty-five Guernseys and the model barn. "They have a large supply and a power pump. Ask me something harder."
"The heating," she ventured. "Fires—open fires—are very nice and necessary. But they wouldn't be sufficient."
He laughed again. "It is not impossible to put in a heating-system. One might even run steam pipes along with the water pipes and heat from their boilers. I press the button, they do the rest."
"Well, I can't seem to think of any other objection. And there is a very good view."
"A very good view," he repeated. He was silent for a while. "I have done very well in the past five or six years," he said then, "and the wish that has been growing—my dearest wish, if you like—has been to establish a sort of private hospital about here somewhere. It wouldn't be a hospital, exactly; anyway, my patients might not like the word. And I should hate to call it a sanitarium. Call it Sanderson's Retreat." He smiled at the words. "That's it. We'll call it Sanderson's Retreat."
It would have warmed his heart if he could have seen her face; but he was not looking.
"I am very glad, Fox," she murmured. "That makes me very happy."
"Sanderson's Retreat?" he asked, turning to her. "But I haven't got it. Just as I thought I had found it I found that I couldn't get it."
"Perhaps that old skinflint who lives there doesn't own it," she suggested.
"Of course I thought of that," he answered, with some impatience. "But how am I to find out about it without exciting the cupidity of the native farmers? Once aroused, it is a terrible thing. I might advertise: 'Wanted, a place of not less than fifty acres, with large house commanding a good view over a valley, a herd of about twenty-five Guernseys, a barn with all the modern improvements, and a power pump. Price no object.' Rather narrows it down a trifle."
Mrs. Ladue almost chuckled. "I won't keep you in suspense," she said. "Uncle John owned it when he brought me out here. He told me so. And he owned this house, too."
"Uncle John!" cried Fox. "He knew a thing or two, didn't he? I wish I had found it while he was living. Now, I suppose I shall have to buy it of Miss Patty; that is, if I can. Who is the executor of the will? Do you know?"
She shook her head. "I haven't heard anything about the will, yet. I think it's likely to be Dick Torrington. Uncle John seemed to like Dick very much and he thought very well of him."
"I'll see Dick Torrington to-day. We may as well go back." He turned the horse about; then stopped again, looking back at the cream-colored house. He looked for a long time. "It's very pleasant," he said, at last, sighing. "Those trees, now—those in the grove—do they strike you as being suitable for a gynesaurus to climb? Do they?" he asked softly.
His eyes looked into hers for a moment. His eyes werevery gentle—oh, very gentle, indeed, and somewhat wistful; windows of the soul. At that moment he was laying bare his heart to her. She knew it; it was a thing she had never known him to do before.
She put her hand to her heart; an involuntary movement. "Oh, Fox!" she breathed. "Oh, Fox!" Then she spoke eagerly. "Will you—are you going to—"
He smiled at her, and his smile was full of gentleness and patience. "I hope so," he answered. "In the fullness of time. It is a part of my dearest wish. Yes, when the time is ripe, I mean to. Not yet. She is not ready for it yet."
"She is nearly twenty-one," Mrs Ladue said anxiously, "and beginning to be restless under her teaching. Don't wait too long, Fox. Don't wait too long."
"I have your blessing, then? I have your best wishes for my success?"
"You know you have," she murmured, a little catch in her voice.
"I thought that I could count on them," he replied gratefully, "but I thank you for making me certain of it."
She seemed as if about to speak; but she said nothing, after all. Fox smiled and took up the reins again. The drive back was a silent one. Fox was busy with his own thoughts; and Mrs. Ladue, it is to be supposed, was busy with hers.