Charlie stood by the mantel in Patty's room, in such an attitude as he imagined that Everett might take, under similar circumstances, and he was trying to look troubled. It was an imitation mantel by which he stood, being no more than a marble slab set upon iron brackets; for the real mantel, of wood, which had surrounded a real fireplace of generous proportions, had been removed when the fireplace had been bricked up and a register inserted. That register, of the regulation black, now stared at Miss Patty as she sat facing Charlie, and it emitted a thin column of faintly warm air. Altogether, it was a poor substitute for a fire and a gloomy thing to contemplate. Charlie's attitude, too, as has been intimated, was but an imitation. His trouble was no imitation, though, and his attempt to look troubled succeeded beyond his fondest hopes.
Patty had been looking at him for some time, growing more anxious every minute. Charlie had said nothing at all, but had kept his eyes fixed upon the distance; upon such distance as he could get through Patty's window. That was not so very much, the distance being limited by the house across the street, perhaps sixty feet away. At intervals he sighed heavily, the time between sighs apparently—to Patty, at least, his only hearer—apparently occupied by equally heavy thinking.
At last Patty could stand it no longer. "What is it, Charlie, dear?" she asked in a voice which trembled a little. "What is the matter, dear boy?"
Charlie forced a smile, his frown disappeared for an instant, and he brought his gaze back, with a great effort, a superhuman effort, to things near at hand: eventually to Patty herself.
"Oh, nothing," he said gently. "Nothing at all." And he resumed his gazing at the front of that house, sixty feet away, and his frowning and his sighing and his heavy thinking.
Patty was silent for some minutes. "Won't you tell me?" she asked then. "I am sure there must be something which troubles you. You know you can count on my sympathy."
Charlie went through the same process as before. It took time. "What did you say?" he said absently, when his look had, at last, come down to Patty. "Sympathy? I'm afraid that won't do me much good." He smiled; a smile that was meant to be pitiful. "But, no. There's nothing the matter. Nothing at all, I assure you. It's all my own fault anyway; my misfortune, rather," he added, so low that Patty barely heard, and she thought that the words were not meant for her ears. That was exactly in accordance with Charlie's intention.
"Charlie!" she cried. "Charlie! You've got to tell me. I heard those last words which you didn't mean me to hear. Now, you've got to tell me." Her voice trembled more than ever.
Charlie could not seem to resist this plea. He looked at her pityingly, and he drew a long breath.
"Well, Pat," he said—Pat was his pet name for her, used only under stress—"well, Pat, if you must have it, then here goes. I'm only out, for this vacation, on bail. I've got to—"
"Wh-what?" asked Patty faintly. Her heart was playing mad pranks and she put up her hand to steady it. At least, that seemed to be her idea. "What was that you said, Charlie? Oh, Charlie, dear!"
"Bail" and "jail" sound very much alike. They conveyed about the same idea to poor Patty. Under certain circumstances, they convey about the same idea to the one most intimately concerned.
Charlie did not appear to be affected. "I've got to show up day after to-morrow or forfeit my bail," he continuedunfeelingly. "Well," he said doggedly, "I will. I may have to go to jail, but what of it?"
"Oh, Charlie, dear!" Patty cried, more faintly than before. "Oh, Charlie, dear! Whatever have you done that you should talk of going to—to—Charlie, I feel faint. My salts, dear," she said hurriedly. "They are on the top of my bureau, in that green bottle."
"Charlie dear" obediently got the little green bottle, stifling a smile which would curl the corners of his mouth, in spite of himself, while his back was turned to Patty. When he came back to her he looked properly concerned; but Patty's eyes were closed. He removed the stopper and held the bottle close under her nose, to revive her, which happy event occurred with a suddenness that was a surprise to Patty, at least. She gasped and gave a little choking cry.
"Oh, Charlie! Not so cl-close."
"All right now, Pat?" he asked with a cheerfulness that was evidently assumed. He removed the bottle and put in the stopper.
"I—I think so," she replied, still faintly. "Now—go—on, Charlie. Tell me. I think I can bear it. I'll try to."
"Why," said Charlie, "there's nothing to tell. I got bail so that I could come home for my Easter vacation. Time's up day after to-morrow, and I've got to show up or forfeit my bail."
"Who is the—the bailer?" Patty inquired as if it were her last breath.
"One of the other men," Charlie returned glibly. "He isn't really rich either, so he couldn't very well afford to have me jump it."
"Jump it?" Patty repeated. She was getting pretty well dazed.
"Yes," said Charlie impatiently. "Haven't you ever heard that expression? It's the legal expression for failing to show up and forfeiting your bail. If I should jump it, that other man would have to pay the amount of my bail."
"Ho-how much is it?" Patty asked in a trembling voice.
Charlie made a rapid mental calculation. "One thousand dollars," he said.
"One thousand dollars!" repeated poor Patty slowly. "One thou—but, Charlie," for a gleam of light had come to her,—"but, Charlie, what is it for? What ha-have you done? Oh, it is too terrible!"
"I haven't done much of anything, really," Charlie protested; "nothing worth mentioning if we hadn't had an accident."
"An accident!" Patty murmured.
"Yes, an accident. You see there were four of us that thought it would be fun—and no harm, Pat, really, if things hadn't gone wrong—to take a little run in a motor—an automobile. Fostrow has a car of his own at home, and he was to drive. In fact, he did." Charlie chuckled, as though at the recollection. "He did until he had got us arrested twice for speeding. But that was a small matter, only twenty-five dollars a time. Fostrow paid that himself. He said it was worth double the money to see those country-men get out of the way. And we ran over a dog. It turned out to be a very valuable dog. All that is in the day's work, though. We—"
"Oh, Charlie," Patty interrupted, "Iknewyou would get into trouble if you went in thosehorriblemachines, at any rate, without acompetentandreliabledriver. I have always thought that Edward would be the driver I should choose; so steady and—"
"Edward!" Charlie exclaimed. He had been about to add something further, in the way of comment, but he thought better of it. "No doubt, Edward would be very steady, but he is too old, to my way of thinking. Well, we had gone about fifty miles and began to think it was time to go back. So we filled up our gasoline tank, got something to eat, and started back. It was dark by that time. We were rather hurrying over the country roads, when something went wrong with the steering-gear and the next thing I knew I was lying on the other side of a stone wall—"
"O-oh!" shuddered Patty.
"—And the machine was completely smashed—crumpled up—with a telephone pole on top of it. Then the gasoline caught fire and the whole thing burned up, pole and all. The other men were more or less hurt, but I hadn't a scratch, only some bruises. Fostrow's in a hospital out there, now, with two ribs broken. The owner of the machine got after us. It was a new machine and a beauty; cost five thousand, he said. So that explains the bail."
"Oh, Charlie!" breathed Patty. "What a mercy you escaped!"
Charlie smiled complacently. He had really done pretty well. That story, he thought, would be a credit to anybody.
"But, Charlie," Patty continued, after a short silence, "why don't you tell Sally the whole story. She'd find some way to get you out of it. She—she is really very good at managing affairs."
Charlie shivered involuntarily. Sally was very good at managing affairs. He could see her pitying smile as she listened in silence to his string of plausible lies and the look from the gray eyes would be boring straight down into his soul as he talked, and he would be afraid. And his speech would grow more halting, and he would finish in some confusion and Sally would turn away with a quiet "Humph!" or she would say nothing at all, which would be almost worse. And she would not tell him what she was going to do, but she would go and do it, and it—whatever it was—would be most effective, and that was exactly what Charlie did not want. He shivered again as he thought of it. Sally managed affairs too well; that was the trouble. No, distinctly no; he did not want Sally to have any hand in this affair. He thought that he could manage it very well himself. It was going beautifully, so far.
"No, Pat," he said gently. "I prefer not to tell Sally. I—to tell the truth, Sally and mother don't seem very glad to see me. I think they'd rather I stayed away."
"Oh, you poor boy!" Patty's eyes shone with pity. "Youdear boy!I'mglad to see you, anyway, Charlie, dear. You have one friend who won't desert you."
"Thank you, Pat. I thought I could depend on you."
"I'll undertake the management of this affair." Patty spoke with pride. A faint smile began to curl the corners of Charlie's mouth. He suppressed it. Patty was deep in thought; or she flattered herself that she was.
She might as well have undertaken to add a cubit to her stature by taking thought. She was silent for some minutes, looking more worried with every minute that passed. At last she looked up.
"Oh, dear!" she said, sighing, "I can't think of anything. It wouldn't do any good for you to go away, would it?"
Charlie shook his head and looked very solemn. "No. That would mean giving up my college course and jumping my bail. I should become a fugitive from justice." That sounded rather impressive and Charlie repeated it, as impressively as he could. "A fugitive from justice."
"Charlie, don't!" cried Patty wildly. "It sounds as if you were a criminal." Charlie made no reply. "What would you suggest?"
"Nothing," he answered with resignation. "There is nothing to be done but for me to surrender myself to my bondsmen—" That sounded impressive, too. "Surrender myself to my bondsmen," he repeated, "and to the justice of the court."
"Oh, Charlie!" Patty wailed faintly. "Oh, Charlie, dear, isn't there some other way?"
He shook his head again. "No other way that I can see. No other way that wouldn't call for more money than I can possibly raise. For I won't ask you for it, Pat. I simplywon't."
Patty was lying back in her chair. She seemed to feel faint again, and Charlie hurried to her, the little green bottle once more in his hand. She waved it aside.
"H-how much," she asked, "must you have, Charlie?"
"Never mind that, Pat. That's settled. It's much morethan I should be willing to ask you to lend me, or to accept from you. I'll just surrender myself. It will soon be over." He spoke as cheerfully as though he were going to execution.
Patty looked at him. She thought that she had never seen any one so brave.
"Tell me. How much must you have?"
"I suppose that eight or nine hundred would settle it, since you insist." He swept it all aside with a wave of his hand. "But dismiss the matter from your mind. We'll consider it settled."
"We won't. It isn't settled." Poor Patty was having a last struggle with her conscience. It was really a hard struggle and it took some time. At last she drew a long shuddering breath. "Look in my top bureau drawer, Charlie," she said, raising haggard eyes to his, "in the front. There's a check there somewhere. It's for seven hundred and fifty dollars."
Charlie protested. Nevertheless, he moved with alacrity and rummaged until he found the check. It was signed by Richard Torrington, Executor. He presented it to Patty, folded, as he had found it.
"Is this it, Pat? It is folded, you see, so that it is impossible to know whether it is the one you wanted or not."
"And to think that you wouldn't look, Charlie! But I might have known it. I don't know what Richard would say," she murmured. "And I don't know what the carpenters will do—the builders. But never mind. It is my own money, anyway, and I'll do what I like with it. Charlie," she said louder, "you must take this. Perhaps I can raise fifty dollars more to-morrow morning. Do I have to write my name on the back?"
Charlie protested again, but his protests were fainter than they had been. He must not overdo it.
Patty had risen from her chair and had gone to her desk. "Perhaps," she said doubtfully, "it would be better—you would rather have me cash the check and give you the money." Charlie's protests were reduced to a mere murmur now. "Yes, that will be better."
Charlie looked perplexed. He frowned tremendously and was very solemn. He, too, seemed to be having a terrible struggle with his conscience. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that he wasn't. Patty watched him fearfully, the check clasped to her bosom and her eyes pitiful. At last he heaved a long, shivering sigh, looked up and met her eyes fixed upon him. There was fear in them and a great love. He had the grace to flush faintly.
"Am I to understand, Pat," he asked slowly, "that you insist upon letting me have this—this money?"
"You must take it, Charlie. Youshalltake it," she cried fiercely. "Please do."
"We-ell," he replied, "to please you, I will, since you insist. But I am very unwilling to take it and I wouldn't, from anybody else. I only do it now on condition that you will regard it as a loan which I will repay very soon." How? Did Patty ask herself that question?
"My dear boy!" exclaimed Patty softly. "My dear boy! Think what it is saving you from! You won't have to go to j—— Oh, I can't say it. But you won't have to, now, will you, Charlie? Say you won't."
"No," said he, sighing heavily again, "I guess I won't. But, as far as I am concerned, that is of very little consequence. It is you that I am thinking of. Mother and Sally wouldn't care, except as it would reflect on them, whether I was in jail or not. Of course," he added, with an apparent wish to be fair, "I may be doing them an injustice, but I don't think so. But it is different with you. Aside from the disgrace which I should be bringing down on your head, I think you would feel it, for my sake."
"Feel it!" she murmured. "Feel it! Oh, Charlie, dear! I believe I should die. I know it would kill me."
Charlie smiled sympathetically.
Tears stood in Patty's eyes. "You shall have eight hundred dollars to-morrow morning. I'll get it as soon as the bank is open. And you come here after it. Come early, Charlie. I want you all to myself for a little while."
"Thank you, Pat. I am very grateful."
She looked longingly at him; a look which he seemed not to see.
"Charlie," she said softly.
"Yes, Pat?"
She hesitated for a moment. "K-kiss me, Charlie." Her voice was so low that he scarcely heard her. "Kiss me, won't you, dear?"
And so he did. That was the least he could do.
The blow had fallen. It had fallen upon Patty. The builder had happened to come upon Dick in the bank; and, being rather pressed for money, he had remarked, half in joke, upon the slowness of the payments from the Hazen estate. Whereat Dick, very much surprised but trying not to show it, had asked for particulars which the builder was very willing to supply; and the matter having been sifted to the bottom, so far as the builder was concerned, Dick had, then and there, given him a check for all that was owing him, which was greatly to the builder's gratification and as it should be.
If the matter was sifted to the bottom, so far as the builder was concerned, it was very far from that satisfactory condition so far as Patty was concerned. Dick went to see Patty and asked her, as delicately and gently as was at all consistent with getting the information that he wanted, what had become of the checks which he had sent her, from time to time? Where had the money gone which was intended for the builder? But Patty stood by her guns and would not tell. They might suspect, but they should not know—from her. She insisted that it was her money, that her father had meant it for her, and she would use it as she pleased without being accountable to anybody.
Dick, patient, pleasant, but insistent, was unable to get anything more out of her, try as he would, and he had been forced to go away again, baffled and no wiser than he was when he came, except that it was evident that the money had been applied to some purpose which Patty wished to conceal. He was satisfied that it had not been applied to her personal use. Indeed, it was incredible that she could have used so much without having anything to show for it, unless she had fallen into the hands of one of those sharpers whosupply trusting women with the stocks and bonds of mythological mines guaranteed to produce a return of three hundred per cent a year. Even in that case, Miss Patty might have shown him the beautiful examples of the engraver's art with which the aforesaid corporations reward their victims.
No, such a condition was not probable. It was much more likely that Charlie Ladue had got it. And because he was morally certain of the use to which the money had been put—as far as Patty was concerned—he was careful not to say anything of his suspicions to anybody. He did not wish them to get to Sally's ears; not until they were something more than suspicions, at least. Supposing that Charlie had received the money, what had he done with it?
So Dick said nothing, but he drew the lines tighter and made his authority felt. What else could he do? What was his clear duty? It was to be presumed that Mr. Hazen had had such a condition clearly in mind when he drew his will. So Patty found herself with no more, at her immediate command, than her allowance, which Dick intimated would be made any reasonable amount that she wished; but all of her bills must be sent to him for payment. He thought it the part of wisdom to write this.
The state of mind into which Patty was thrown by this letter may be imagined. "The insolent puppy!" she cried, sitting alone in her room. It was rather a strong epithet to apply to Dick Torrington, who never in his life had been anything but kind and protecting. But people seldom wish to be protected against themselves. "Upstart!" That, Dick certainly was not. "Why, that means that I can't pay my own board. And Miss Miller will think—I don't know what she will think, but the whole town will know about it." Her face crimsoned with mortification. She thought deeply for some time. "I know what I'll do," she said to herself with determination when she had come to an end of her thinking, which, by the way, she seldom did; not to any logical end. "I know what I'll do. I will go right out toDoctor Sanderson's. He won't talk. It's a little early to go into the country, but I need a change."
So Patty was quite cheerful, for the time being, while she arranged the change which she needed so badly. Miss Miller was less cheerful and allowed herself to remark that perhaps it was just as well, as Patty didn't seem to be able to pay her bills promptly; able or willing, she didn't know which and it didn't matter much which it was, as far as she could see. But she might have stayed her season out, now that Dick Torrington was willing to undertake the job of looking after her, and a thankless job it was, as she, Mary Miller, could bear witness. And thereupon Miss Mary Miller turned her back upon Miss Patty and flounced out of the room before Patty should make any suitable reply.
Miss Miller need not have hurried out of the room, for Patty was too much astonished to think of any fitting reply for some time. She sat with her mouth open—a sight which it is to be presumed Miss Miller would have been glad to see—with her mouth open, which was very unusual for Miss Patty, and with her cheerfulness quite gone, which was not at all unusual. After a few minutes she remembered to close her mouth, but she did not resume her cheerfulness. So Miss Miller knew, after all. Patty wondered, vaguely, how she had found out. She did not suspect Dick, for Dick had a talent for keeping his own counsel. She could not guess, although she had tried, goodness knew! And Patty heaved a long sigh and gave it up. Then, if Mary Miller knew, Letty Lambkin knew, and one could be sure that everybody in town, of her acquaintance who would listen to her, would know, too.
As a matter of fact, Letty Lambkin was bursting with information. She went to Mrs. Upjohn's early that year, ostensibly to make that lady some summer clothes, but really because Mrs. Upjohn let her talk freely; I wouldn't say that Mrs. Upjohn encouraged her to talk, for Letty did not need any actual encouragement. But she let her talk, freely, and that was equivalent to encouragement.
"Alicia," Letty began, almost as soon as she had got inside the door, "I s'pose you know about poor Patty. It's the common talk." Mrs. Upjohn had no chance to reply. "Dick Torrington's taken it upon himself to manage her affairs, and all Patty has is her allowance. But of course you know that. It seems rather a high-handed thing for Dick to do, and he only a little tow-headed shaver when Patty was a grown woman. I suppose he has the right to do it, or else he wouldn't. I'm told that Patty was getting into a terrible mess with her property. She used the checks that were meant for the builder for another purpose, I hear. Poor Mr. Means! And Mary Miller had to wait, too."
Mrs. Upjohn laughed comfortably. "I guess Charlie Ladue could tell something about those checks."
"Like enough he could," said Miss Lambkin, preparing to go to work. "Where's your cloth, Alicia? Oh, in your room? Don't you stir. I'll get it." She came back immediately. "Well, as I was saying, it's really too bad that Patty's mind is giving way."
"Her mind giving way!" echoed Mrs. Upjohn, surprised out of her usual caution. "Oh, I guess not. Who told you that, Letty?"
"Yes, indeed," said Miss Lambkin with a toss of her head. "Didn't you know that she's been sent out to Doctor Sanderson's Home for Incurables? Dick sent her out there nearly a month ago. She's as comfortable there as could be expected. I have it on the best of authority—some one connected with the institution," she added with a nod and a knowing look.
Mrs. Upjohn laughed again. "I can't believe it, Letty. You must have been misinformed. In the first place, Doctor Sanderson's place isn't a home for incurables."
"I know he doesn't call it that. To tell the truth, I can't find out just what he does call it."
"Can't your best of authority tell you that, too?" asked Mrs. Upjohn slyly.
"Now, Alicia," said Miss Lambkin with asperity, "youneedn't go to calling in question my authority. It was one of the nurses, if you must know."
"Doctor Sanderson wouldn't thank her for talking so freely," remarked Mrs. Upjohn. "I should really like to know what he would say about Patty. I understood that she had simply gone there to board."
"I suppose she can call it that, but I don't believe that Doctor Sanderson is running a boarding-house or a hotel either. I always thought that she was bound for the asylum. And, another thing, I had it from the same authority that Meriwether Beatty goes to see her regularly once or twice a week, and he's real kind, too. I leave it to you whether that isn't a sign that he thinks her mind is growing feeble. He always used to say the most brutal things."
"I should say it was rather a sign that Doctor Beatty was losing his mind than that Patty was losing hers," rejoined Mrs. Upjohn.
"Well," said Letty with an air of finality, "you just wait and see if I'm not right."
"I will," said Mrs. Upjohn.
Miss Lambkin glanced at her smiling face and thought it best to change the subject.
"Dick Torrington," she observed, "is going to be married to that Henrietta girl. But I suppose you know."
"Yes," said Mrs. Upjohn.
"I understood," Miss Lambkin resumed, "that the wedding was to be the last of June."
"The twenty-eighth," said Mrs. Upjohn.
"Oh," rejoined Miss Lambkin, somewhat taken aback by Mrs. Upjohn's ready replies. "And I understood that Henrietta was coming on here to visit right away."
"She came last night," said Mrs. Upjohn.
"To visit with Sally, I suppose?" Letty was consumed with curiosity as to the source of Mrs. Upjohn's accurate information. She always liked to be the source herself.
"She is the guest of Mrs. Torrington," said Mrs. Upjohn, raising her eyes at last.
"Dear me, Alicia," Letty exclaimed impatiently, "how you do snap a person up! I suppose that was why Dick was grinning so like a monkey when I saw him yesterday afternoon."
"Because I snap a person up?"
"Because Henrietta was coming. He seemed to be on his way to the station."
"Possibly. He didn't tell me the reason. But Henrietta didn't come until nearly ten o'clock."
"Well!" The discomfited Letty devoted herself to her work for some minutes in silence. But she could not keep silent long. "So Dick gave you all that information, I suppose. I wondered how you got it all so pat."
"No," returned Mrs. Upjohn calmly. "I haven't seen Dick, to speak to, for a good while."
Miss Lambkin laid down her work. "Well, Alicia," she said slowly, "will you be good enough to tell me how you found out all that—right up to last night?"
"Better than that, Letty," Mrs. Upjohn replied. "I know what happened this morning, about half past seven."
"They ate their breakfast, I suppose," snapped Letty. "I could have told you that."
"They didn't have breakfast until eight," said Mrs. Upjohn.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Miss Lambkin in utter disgust. She had been tried beyond the bounds of reason.
Mrs. Upjohn laughed until the tears stood in her eyes. "As to my information, Letty," she said as soon as she could speak, "I pick it up here and there, and I use my eyes."
"As much as to say that you give a good guess. I thought I was pretty good at picking up information. But you have me beat, Alicia, I'm free to confess."
Mrs. Upjohn made no reply.
"It's rather a pity that Dick didn't choose nearer home," Miss Lambkin resumed, after pausing long enough for the reply which did not come. "There's Sally, now."
"They'd have made a good match," Mrs. Upjohnobserved, sighing reminiscently, "but there's no accounting for tastes in such matters."
"Meaning Everett?" asked Letty, looking up sharply.
Mrs. Upjohn shook her head. "Not especially."
"I suppose you know," said Miss Lambkin pointedly, "with your sources of accurate information, that he's hanging around again. There was a time when it seemed to be all off for a few weeks."
Mrs. Upjohn nodded.
"There are some cases where you can't even give a good guess," Letty continued maliciously. "Aren't there, Alicia?"
Mrs. Upjohn nodded again; but she only rocked gently and said nothing.
Miss Lambkin seemed to be following out a train of thought, but in silence. That was not her custom. She usually pursued thought with a wild halloa.
Presently she gave a sort of a cackle, which with her did duty for a chuckle of amusement. "I'd give something to have seen Charlie Ladue when he first heard of Patty's fix. I'll warrant he didn't like it. I wonder whether Sally knows. It seems to me that she ought to be told."
"Told what, Letty? A pack of stories that are no more than guessing? And who's to tell her? When we know anything about Charlie it'll be time enough to be thinking about telling Sally."
"All the same," Letty pursued obstinately, "Sally ought to know."
"Humph!" said Mrs. Upjohn.
Henrietta sat on the edge of Sally's bed, swinging her little feet, which hardly touched the floor,—she had only to raise the tips and they swung clear,—and she was as smiling, as pretty, as dainty, as inconsequent, and as charming as ever. At least, Sally seemed to find her charming and so, it is to be presumed, did Dick. Sally, with a little smile upon her lips, leaned against the window casing and looked at her. She feasted her eyes; she looked so long and she stared so hard that Henrietta dammed, for a moment, the stream of talk that flowed from her lips and flushed a little, faintly.
"What's the matter, Sally? I know my hair's in a mess. Is there anything wrong with my dress? Have I got a dirty face? I washed it, but if there is a smudge on my nose I think it is the part of a friend to tell me and not let me go out looking like a fright."
Sally shook her head slowly. "There's nothing the matter, Henrietta. I was only thinking what a lucky man Dick is."
The flush on Henrietta's face deepened. "Oh, do you think so, Sally?" she asked softly. "Do you really think so? I was a little bit afraid you didn't approve. And how about me? Don't you think I'm a lucky girl?"
"Very," answered Sally, smiling still. "Dick is everything that's good. He's the one best man for you. But why did you think that I might not approve?"
"We—ll," said Henrietta with some hesitation, bending forward to look at her swinging feet, then looking up at Sally, "I—I went after him in such a barefaced manner, and you knew it." Sally shook her head again. "Oh, yes, you did. It's no use to shake your gory locks at me. You knew I did; the very night of your fire. I don't deny it. I did go afterhim with all my might and I got him." She spoke triumphantly. "I'm glad I went after him, for—for I never should have got him at all if I had not. I'm proud of it, but I don't advertise it, generally. I confess it to you, but I should deny the fact to anybody else. Wild horses shouldn't drag it out of me. Not ever! And then, Sally, another reason why I was a little afraid you wouldn't approve—" Henrietta hesitated again, stopped, and once more regarded her feet.
"Well?" Sally asked, amused.
"Well." Henrietta looked up and smiled. "To tell the truth, I couldn't believe that you didn't want him yourself. There! It's out. Just a little, Sally."
Sally laughed. "Not even just a little, Henrietta. Dick is a dear friend—he has been that to me always, ever since his kite and Everett's broke my foot—and I hope he always will be; but the idea of falling in love with each other never entered either of our heads. So you may be quite easy in your mind. My heart isn't even bent."
"But you know," Henrietta insisted, "that you could have got him if you had tried as hard as I did."
"I guess not," Sally replied; "not after you appeared, anyway. You needn't distress yourself. I remember that I used to look upon Dick and Everett with adoration, as a little girl. They were my ideals. When they carried me home, after the kite accident, I was in the seventh heaven. But there was nothing, even then. No, Dick is all yours, as far as I am concerned."
Henrietta breathed a sigh. "Well, I'm glad to be sure of it. But, Sally," she continued, with a doubtful glance, as if she were a little afraid of Sally and of what she was about to ask, "how about Everett? Was there ever—?"
Sally laughed again suddenly. "No, there wasn't. Everett never looked at me."
"But, Sally," Henrietta persisted, "it isn't so now. Does he—you aren't engaged, are you, Sally?" she asked softly, glancing up timidly under her long lashes.
Sally seemed to be in haste to reply. "Oh, no," she said. "Oh, no. I am not likely to be. I suppose you mean Everett."
"Yes, I did," returned Henrietta. She showed some surprise. "Why? Is there anybody else?"
"No, oh, no," Sally answered more hastily than before. "There isn't. As far as I can see, I am scheduled to teach for the rest of my life."
"Are you quite sure, Sally?" Henrietta urged. "Isn't thereanybody? Not even somebody that you wish—"
Sally was getting rather red. "No, no, Henrietta," she said, interrupting. "Now that's enough about my affairs of the heart. It's a little embarrassing to be questioned so closely, dear."
"I'm sure I beg your pardon, Sally," cried Henrietta impulsively. "I didn't mean to be. Now,Iam just dying to be questioned closely. Try me."
"I don't know what to ask," said Sally, smiling. "I would if I did."
Henrietta sighed. "You're very disappointing, Sally. If you were really interested you would know." She sighed again. "But, anyway, you'll be what I want you to be at my wedding, won't you?"
"Indeed, I will. I'll be anything you want me to be." She laughed a little. "But I warn you that I shall need coaching. What do I have to do?"
"Nothing much. You'll have all the coaching you need. You know it's going to be at Fox's house. He's going to open it for the occasion."
"Only for the occasion?" Sally spoke coldly; so coldly that her voice did not sound natural. "I rather gathered, from a remark that he made a while ago, that he contemplated matrimony, too."
"Fox get married?" Henrietta was genuinely surprised. "Well, it's news to me. Who's to be my sister-in-law? Did he say?"
Sally shook her head. "I supposed it was probably Margaret Savage."
"Oh!" cried Henrietta. "I hope not." Then she seemed to be ashamed of her outburst and sat, swinging her feet and looking wistfully at Sally. "I had hoped," she observed at last, "that, when Fox's time came, it would be—" She stopped and considered. "I hoped that it would be—not Margaret Savage, Sally."
Sally made no reply.
"Margaret Savage is so—soempty, you see," Henrietta went on. "She would not be exhilarating. But I won't say any more about her."
"It isn't really necessary," Sally returned, laughing.
"And the less said the better," Henrietta concluded. "I don't know why, but it reminds me of your Cousin Patty. Dick hasn't told me much of anything," Henrietta lowered her voice. "Do you suppose it is true that she is losing her mind?"
"Did Dick tell you that?" asked Sally, startled.
Henrietta shook her head. "I heard it talked about."
"I have no reason to think so. She gets queerer and more cranky every year. She has changed a good deal since Uncle John died. Poor Patty! She has very little comfort in life—except Charlie." Sally laughed shortly. "I hope she finds him a comfort."
Henrietta did not know what to say. Consequently she said nothing, which was, no doubt, just the right thing.
"Charlie will be home to-morrow," Sally added; then she corrected herself. "I should have said that Charlie is due to-morrow. He may not come."
"Oh, Sally!" Henrietta cried. "What makes you speak so? It—it sounds horrible."
"It's the simple fact, Henrietta."
"Why don't you do something about it? I would."
Sally gave a little shrug. "What would you do? There is nothing to be done. Charlie's a headstrong boy and he seems to have slipped away altogether from mother's control. Patty indulges him and I don't see how I can do anything. If he had really done anything wrong and I knew it, it would bea different matter. I don't know that he has—but," she added in a low voice, "I don't know that he hasn't."
Henrietta chanced to glance at the watch upon her wrist. "Oh, mercy me!" she cried, springing to her feet. "I didn't know it was so late. I've got to meet Dick in five minutes. Good bye, Sally."
Henrietta was gone, running down the stairs. She need not have hurried so, for Dick was late. He was so late that she had become hotly impatient and then angry with him. Indeed, she was just going away, hurt and angry, when Dick appeared, hurrying as if he were pursued by devils and smiling propitiatingly.
"I'm awfully sorry to be so late, Henrietta," he began. "I simply could not get away from those two bores. I came just as soon as I could without throwing them out of the office."
Henrietta's anger was dissolved like a morning mist. "Who was it, Dick?"
"The Carling twins. It took them a long time to say what they wanted to, for you know they still stutter."
"I've never seen them, although I've heard of them. What were they trying to say?"
"Oh, I don't know. To tell the truth, I was so afraid of being late that I didn't pay as much attention as I ought to have."
This confession would have been a great comfort to the Carlings, for they had taken especial pains and made this trip for the sole purpose of seeing Dick. What they had to say concerned Charlie Ladue. It is not to be supposed that they would be so concerned about the acts of Charlie Ladue, if he were the only one. But his acts would involve Sally, sooner or later, and, so long as that was inevitable, it had better be sooner. In fact, the sooner the better. And, each of the Carlings knowing a thing or two, as was to be expected of them, they had had a long deliberation on the subject, only the night before.
"S—s—ssomeb—b—body ought t—to kn—n—nowab—bout it," Harry observed. "I w—w—wouldn't b—bother m—myself ab—b—out wh—wh—what t—that l—l—lemon of a k—kid d—did 'f—f it w—wasn't for S—S—Sally. D—d—don't l—like t—to b—be the one t—to t—tell on h—h—him, b—but wh—wh—who d—does? Wh—wh—who'll we t—tell? Th—that's the q—q—question."
"C—c—can't t—tell S—S—Sally," Horry remarked.
"C—c—course we c—c—can't," Harry replied scornfully. "An—ny f—f—fool'd kn—n—now th—that."
"N—n—nor P—P—Patty," Horry remarked further.
They both grinned. Harry did not think the observation worthy of a reply.
"M—m—might t—tell D—D—Doc—Doc—tor S—S—San—n—damn it. You kn—now."
Harry nodded. He did not care to try the name. They both knew. "N—no," he said.
"D—D—Dick?" The name came from Horry's lips with the force of an explosion.
"D—D—Dick's n—no g—good," Harry replied gloomily. "G—goin' t—to be m—m—married 'n a l—little m—more'n a w—w—week."
They both relapsed into silence.
After some minutes of silence, Horry heaved a sigh. "N—n—no use," he said. "It's D—D—Dick. C—c—can't th—think of an—nybody else. I'm g—g—goin' d—down to—m—m—morrow. C—c—come b—back s—same d—day; 'll—ll—ll y—you go?"
Harry nodded. "'R—r—right," he said. The Carlings were to graduate within a week, which explains their anxiety to get back.
Horry rose. Their deliberations were ended. "Th—that d—d—damned f—f—fool m—m—must ha—ha—have d—dropped m—m—more'n f—f—fif—f—teen hundred 'n n—numbers—s—seven th—th—this y—year. I w—wonder wh—wh—whose?"
Horry's information was surprisingly accurate.
"G—guess it's P—P—Patty's," Harry observed.
Accordingly they went down to see Dick. Their story was shot off at him in little puffs, like a bunch of firecrackers. Dick, being diverted by the manner of telling and being much concerned about his engagement with Henrietta, did not take it all in, perhaps, and if he forgot all about it during the next ten days, he is to be excused.