Henrietta's wedding was rather a quiet one, as weddings went in Whitby. That is, there were not many more people there than the old cream-colored house could accommodate comfortably, so that the overflow would not have more than half filled the yard; which was lucky, as the yard was already nearly half full of automobiles and carriages, tightly packed by the wall. There was a long string of them in the road, too. But as it was a lovely summer day, the first really warm day of the summer, and as the birds were singing madly in the orchard as though they knew it was a very special occasion and one to be celebrated accordingly, and as the orchard was a very inviting place with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the apple trees, and as the view over the little valley was more attractive than the most beautiful interior of old houses, and as—well, without continuing the catalogue of reasons, the people gradually drifted outside, two at a time. They formed a cluster around the well-sweep; a cluster whose composition was continually changing. Having given as much voice to their admiration of the well-sweep as they thought was expected of them, they wandered on and scattered and drew together into other groups and scattered again; and by a repetition of this process little clusters were formed, at last, that had no tendency to scatter.
There were two groups in particular whose composition was changing, even yet, and changing very rapidly. They were, for all the world, like swarms of ants, the component individuals continually coming and going like ants which were very busy and very intent on their business. These individuals would hurry up and join the group at its outer edge, and push and struggle to get to the centre, while othersseemed equally eager to get out. So that there was a continual movement and jostling. But if you could have looked into the centre of either of these groups, you would have seen—no, not the bride; you would have seen either a great bowl of punch or a table loaded with good things, or their remains—no more than the wrecks of things. As to the bride, she had slipped away.
There was another group which had formed after the manner of these stable groups already mentioned, and which had somewhat withdrawn itself to the very back edge of the orchard, away from the others. The members of this group were not concerning themselves with the punch or with the things to eat or with the ants coming and going so continuously, but they talked together in low voices as if they would escape observation. They were Sally and Fox and Mrs. Ladue; but they could not hope to escape for long. And Fox was somewhat serious, which is not to be wondered at, he having just lost a sister, if you care to look at it in that way. And Sally was rather serious, too, which is not to be wondered at, for she had just lost a friend, however you prefer to look at it. Mrs. Ladue was the only one of that group who looked other than serious and solemn, and there was, even in her look, something lacking to a perfect joy, for a person who cared enough to find it might have discovered something wistful there. It was as if she wanted something very much and knew that she could not get it. I leave it to you whether any person can be in that state of mind and be perfectly joyful. What it was that she wanted I do not know nor why she could not get it; although, if the thing concerned those other two, the only reason that she could not get it was that they were both as blind as bats—blinder than bats.
Sally was silent, gazing away at the deep woods behind them. Her mother gazed wistfully at Sally and said nothing either. And Fox looked at them and was as silent as they. Some one came up and exchanged a few words with Fox and went away again; but neither Mrs. Ladue nor Sally saidanything. Sally was still gazing off at the woods and seemed to be unaware of any new presence.
"Sally," said Fox.
She turned and looked at him, but still she said nothing.
"Didn't you know who that was?"
She shook her head. "Who what was?"
"The man who spoke to me? But I suppose you didn't know that anybody spoke to me. It was Horry Carling."
"Oh, was it?" She did not seem interested.
"He seemed to want to speak to you."
"Well, why didn't he?"
"Probably because you didn't seem to see him. Is there anything the matter, Sally?"
Sally smiled very slightly and very soberly. "Nothing much. Nothing worth mentioning."
They relapsed into silence again, but after a while Sally spoke.
"Would you—would you be much disappointed, Fox," she asked, without looking at him, "if I gave up teaching? Would it seem as if I were throwing away all these years of preparation?"
"No," he answered, meeting her serious mood, "I don't see that it would. And I don't see that it matters to anybody but yourself just when you give it up. There is no reason, now, for your keeping on with it unless you want to. You will have to give it up soon anyway."
Sally looked up at him quickly. "Why, Fox? Why will I have to?"
Fox evaded this question for the time, at any rate. "Why have you thought of giving it up now, Sally? Do the poor kids prove too trying?"
Sally nodded. "I am ashamed of it. I'm not fitted for it. I haven't patience enough—with stupidity. But what did you mean by saying that I would have to give it up soon?"
"Why," Fox replied, casting an embarrassed glance inMrs. Ladue's direction, "when you are married, you know—"
"Oh," Sally cried with a quick and vivid blush—a rush of blood to the head, no less,—"oh, but I shan't. I never shall."
Mrs. Ladue appeared to think it a fitting time to slip away quietly.
"I didn't mean," Sally went on rapidly, "to be idle. I—well, to tell you a secret, Fox, one that I didn't mean to tell yet—I have an idea."
"Behold me suitably surprised! Sally has an idea!"
Sally chuckled, which represented the height of Fox's ambition for the moment. "Don't make fun of me, or I won't tell you what it is."
"I am most seriously inclined, Sally. And a bank safe—or a strong box—is not so secret as I am. You observe that I do not use the ancient simile of the grave. There are many things that keep a secret better than a grave. I am listening."
With that, he inclined his head toward her.
"I might box your ear instead of telling you," said Sally lightly, "but I won't. You know," she continued, hesitating a little, "that Uncle John's business has been—well, just kept alive, until they should decide what to do with it."
Fox nodded, wondering what she was coming at.
"And I was in Uncle John's office every day for years. I got much interested. And I—I believe that I could do something with it, Fox, after I had served my apprenticeship at it. I think I should like to try. The clerks and things—the machinery of the business—are there." Fox wondered what the clerks and things would have thought of it. "I wish I had spoken to Dick about it. He'll be away, now, for a month. But I could write to him, couldn't I? I will."
"There is a good deal in this idea of yours, Sally," was Fox's only comment. He was looking at her with a little smile of amusement. "Don't you want to vote?" he asked abruptly.
"No, I don't," she answered as abruptly. "But I thoughtthat it would be a great pity to let an old established business just vanish. And they all seem so proud of it. And perhaps Charlie could get into it when he is through college. At least, if he was disposed to, it would—it might give us—mother and me—some control over him again. Don't you think so, Fox?"
Fox shook his head gravely. "I don't know, Sally. The idea strikes me as a good one; a good one for you. I think I should go rather slow about Charlie."
"Well—" Sally turned. "It is a secret, you know, Fox."
"Between you and me, Sally," Fox returned gently.
Sally returned to her contemplation of the woods. She seemed to note something.
"I believe," she said suddenly, "that those trees are good to climb."
"Why," said Fox, smiling, "I believe they are."
"Will you—" Sally began brightly; then she seemed to change her mind and she changed her question accordingly.
"Won't you keep this house open? It is a pity not to."
"Keep the house open?" Fox repeated, puzzled.
"Why, yes," she replied. "Don't you remember that you said—or intimated—that you were going to get married?"
Fox laughed. "I believe I did," he answered, "on a certain occasion. I believe I am, although I can't say exactly when it will be."
"I think, Fox," said Sally, turning to him and speaking with emphasis, "that we are old enough friends for you to—you might tell me who the girl is. I should like to congratulate her."
"You shall know, Sally, I promise you. I wouldn't even get engaged without your knowledge."
"Oh," said Sally then, brightening unconsciously, "then she hasn't given her answer yet?"
Fox had hard work to keep from laughing, but he did.
"Not yet," he said.
"It seems to me she takes her time about it," Sally observed.
"Should she give me her answer before she is asked?"
"Oh!" Sally cried. "So you haven't even asked her! Well, I think you're a slow poke."
"Do you?" Fox said slowly. "Do you? Well, perhaps I am. Perhaps I am. It had not occurred to me. I'll think it over."
"And Margaret—" said Sally.
"Margaret!" Fox interrupted, mystified.
"Considering the imminence of the—the catastrophe," Sally went on, smiling a little, "it might be just as well to climb while I have the chance."
"Now?"
Sally looked around. The crowd was thinning, but it was still a crowd.
"Perhaps not now. But on the first opportunity."
"There'll be a good many opportunities. Even after—"
Sally shook her head. "I couldn't come here, you know, and climb trees. Only think what Margaret would say—and think!"
"Margaret!" Fox exclaimed again. "Why, I don't remember intimating anything about—"
"Oh, Doctor Sanderson," cried a high and quavering voice; the voice of Miss Patty Havering Hazen, "here you are at last! I have been looking everywhere."
Ah! Doctor Sanderson; you are saved again! Good for you, Patty! Good on your head! But is it possible that the doctor did not want to be saved? Did we hear aright?
"Damn!" observed Doctor Sanderson quietly. It was a heartfelt observation made for his own satisfaction, so far as a mere remark could accomplish that desirable end, and was intended, we may be sure, for no other ears than his own. But Sally heard it and chuckled.
Yes, good for you, Patty! There is no knowing what he might have been led into saying if he had not been interrupted at this point; what unwise course he might have pursued. You were just in time, Patty, to save him from his folly.
That old office from whose windows one could see the rows of oil casks and the fence of old ships' sheathing and the black dust of the road and the yards of vessels—that old office which had been sleeping for something more than a year—that old office which had been left behind when the business centre of Whitby began to move uptown, so many years ago—that old office, as I started to say at the beginning, was waking up again.
One hot morning in early August, Horry Carling stood at the window, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and he gazed at a row of oil casks; gazed thoughtfully and for a long time. Then a smile began to curl the corners of his mouth. Presently he chuckled.
"I s—s—say, O—Ol—lie, c—c—come here; th—that is, if—f—f S—S—Sally c—can s—s—spare you."
Sally looked up from her papers. Her hair was in a pretty disorder; in a disorder that was very attractive, indeed, being somewhat rumpled in the front and running over with little ringlets, formed by the heat and the dampness, at her forehead and by the sides of her ears and down at her neck. She was busy, but she was interested and she was happy, for which I, for one, am thankful. She brushed the ringlets out of her eyes, impatiently, and smiled.
"Go ahead, Ollie," she said. "What is it, Horry?"
"O—only a r—r—row of b—b—bar—r—rels," he replied. Ollie Pilcher was standing at his elbow now, looking over his shoulder. "D—d—do y—y—you rem—em—mmb—ber th—that r—r—row?" Horry asked. "M—m—might b—b—be the th—the v—v—very s—same b—b—b—barrels."
Ollie burst out laughing. He did remember. "How long ago was that, Horry?"
"S—s—sev—ven years," he answered. "Ab—b—bout th—this t—t—time o' y—year, w—w—wasn't it?"
Ollie nodded.
"Oh," Sally cried, "I remember that, too."
Horry turned. "Y—y—you d—do!" he spluttered in surprise. "Wh—wh—where w—w—were y—you?"
"Sitting at that very window," she returned. "Uncle John saw it, too,—some of it."
Horry chuckled again. "Y—y—your Un—n—cle"—here he winked and gave a peculiar twitch to his eyebrows, as though that last syllable hurt him—"J—J—John w—was a b—brick, S—S—Sally."
"He was, Horry. You don't know what a brick he was." She sighed lightly and then she laughed. "Whatever did you do with your jacket?"
"M—m—most s—set th—the h—house af—f—fire w—with it. I—it w—w—was a p—pretty n—n—new j—j—j—th—there!—c—coat, and m—m—moth—ther c—c—couldn't b—b—bear to th—throw it aw—w—way, s—so sh—sh—she k—k—kept it l—lying ar—r—round 'n—n—ntil w—w—winter. Th—then sh—she t—t—told m—me t—to p—p—put it in—n—to th—the f—f—furnace. M—m—most s—set th—the h—house af—f—f—fire. F—f—full o' o—o—oil, y' kn—n—now. H—h—hor—rid sm—sm—smoke."
Ollie and Sally were chuckling in little bursts.
Horry sighed. "Th—those t—t—times w—were f—f—fun, th—though," he said; "g—great—t—test f—f—fun th—that e—ever w—was. N—never c—c—come ag—g—gain, w—will th—they, Ol—Ollie?"
"Oh," Ollie replied lazily, grinning, "I don't know. I'd like to run 'em again, right now."
"You boys had better not," Sally remarked, with a shake of the head. "Those barrels belong to the firm, you know. You'd be the losers, as well as I—and the Hazen Estate."
"'T—t w—w—would b—be m—m—more f—f—fun th—than s—some th—things I kn—n—now ab—b—bout,"Horry observed cryptically, "an' l—l—less ex—x—xpen—s—sive."
Ollie looked at him and they both grinned and went back to their desks.
As may have been inferred, Horry Carling and Ollie Pilcher were, if not members of the firm of John Hazen, Inc., at least stockholders. Harry Carling would have liked to enter the Law School; but being debarred, for obvious reasons, from practising law, he had chosen engineering. Which, it may be remarked in passing, having been chosen rather from reasons of expedience than because he had any natural taste or aptitude in that direction, may not have been a wise choice. Horry, who had gone into what he liked the best and wanted the most, stood a much better chance of making a success of his life. Had not his grandfather been a great ship captain almost all the days of his life? And Ollie's grandfather, too? It was in their blood. If the salt is in a man's blood—or a boy's—it must come out, sooner or later, or engender a ferment which will trouble that man as long as he lives. And Horry and Ollie, having the natural taste for what they were doing and having had a pretty fair training for it all through their boyhood, fitted into the new firm of John Hazen, Inc., like new parts into a machine. It needed only a little polishing by wear for that machine to run as smoothly as it had been running for fifty years.
Sally worked hard at her new business. She had compounded with her conscience by not giving up her teaching yet—definitely. She would teach one more year, at least. Then, she said to herself, if she still felt as she did now, it would not be right for her to keep on with it. Meanwhile, she would have some time every afternoon, and, with Horry and Ollie,—really, it was going pretty well, much better than she had sometimes feared. And at this point she would sigh and smile and fall to looking out of the window at the yards of the ships—herships, she liked to think, although, of course, they were not all hers, but they belongedto the stockholders in John Hazen, Inc., according to their holdings, and that list included Patty and Dick and Horry Carling and Ollie Pilcher and some others; but she liked to look out at the vessels and imagine that they were all hers. And she saw the rows of oil-barrels and the black dust of the road, which was kept pretty well stirred up by the feet of the horses which dragged the heavy trucks in an almost continuous procession. At any rate, she could call the dust hers,—if she wanted to,—for it would not have been stirred up if it had not been for her, but would have lain quietly there until it ceased to be dust at all and became no more than the surface of a street that was almost abandoned; baked hard by the sun and gullied by the rain and somewhat grass-grown. Then she would laugh and decide that she did not want the dust anyway; she had quite enough of that. As for her method of compounding with her conscience, it pleased her better than it pleased Mr. MacDalie, who did not share her misgivings.
Sally's efforts were not enough to induce Charlie to spend his vacation slaving in an office. Every one might not call the occupation of Horry and Ollie slaving. Sally mildly suggested that view of the matter.
"If I owned some stock in it, the matter would have a different aspect, no doubt," Charlie replied sarcastically. "As it is, I should be nothing but a clerk."
He was lucky to have the chance to start with that, Sally pointed out. It was possible that he was not fitted to be more than office boy.
With this shot, which may have been unduly hard upon Charlie, Sally turned away. Charlie, at any rate, thought it unduly hard, and felt much injured. Sally was always hard on him; unfair. What could she know against him? And, having procured a horse at a livery stable,—the liveliest young horse they had, with the most stylish rig, which, by the way, Sally would have the privilege of paying for,—Charlie took his way out to Doctor Sanderson's to see Patty and to be consoled and, incidentally, with thesecret hope that Patty had a few dollars to spare for a deserving and much misunderstood boy. For Patty managed to save up a few dollars for that purpose now and then, although Dick had greatly curtailed her sources of supply. No, they werehissources of supply which had been curtailed by Dick, Charlie said to himself. Damn Dick anyway! What right had he to do such a thing? Where should he, Charlie, get money in time of need? Where should he, indeed? Damn Dick! And Charlie gave the lively young horse a cut with the whip, as if the horse were responsible. The lively young horse resented cuts with the whip and proceeded to run; which gave Charlie so much occupation that he forgot, for the moment, about Dick.
Charlie was getting more and more into the habit of getting rigs at the livery stable, as the summer went on,—rigs which were invariably charged to Sally, she having made no objection to previous charges of a like nature—and of going out to see Patty. Doctor Sanderson's place was so indecently far out anyway that you had to have a horse or an automobile. He couldn't be expected to walk it, and, of course, he had to see Patty occasionally. You wouldn't have him so ungrateful as not to go to see her at all, would you? He supposed Sally would have to pay for the rigs, forhehadn't any of Uncle John's money, had he? The fact that this was not strictly true did not seem to occur to him; and the fact that Patty had put the stout horse at his disposal made no difference, so far as the livery stable was concerned. They—meaning Sally—might consider themselves lucky that he did not get an automobile to make the journey of two miles and a half. He couldn't be expected to drive a horse that was thirty years old and was only fit for the bone-yard, now, could he? You could make it in five minutes with an auto and he thought that they—meaning Sally again—might save money if he did get one. Of course he wasn't going to. He would defer to their absurd prejudice on that point. And more to the same effect.
It was no wonder that Sally turned away withoutspeaking. She was afraid to answer; afraid of what she might be led to say. And she would go down to the office and sit looking out of the window and wondering what was to become of Charlie and what she could do about it; wondering what it was that he did in college that it seemed to have such an unfortunate influence on him; wondering whether it would not be better for him, after all, to come out and be made to go to work. She almost decided that it would. Then she remembered that she had not the only word to say about that. There were others who would have something to say and the attempt would raise a storm. Sally was not afraid of storms, but—well—and she would look up to find Horry staring at her as if he wanted to tell her something.
"What is it, Horry?" she would ask, smiling.
Horry would be distinctly embarrassed. He always was: and he always made the same reply. "N—no—noth—th-thing, S—S—Sally," he would say, with a sigh. "I—i—it's n—n—noth—th—thing, o—only I h—h—hate t—to s—s—see you s—so b—b—both—thered ab—b—b—bout an—n—nyth—th—thing. Ch—er—n—n—nob—body's wo—worth it."
That was as much as she could get out of him, although, to tell the truth, she did not try very hard. She only asked her question for his sake, he seemed to want so much to tell something. It did not occur to her that what Horry wanted to say he wanted to say for her sake; and it was for her sake that he did not say it, although it trembled on the very tip of his tongue. Perhaps it trembled too much. Perhaps, if he had found speaking an easier matter, he would have told what he seemed to be on the point of telling.
Toward the last of August, Henrietta and Dick came back. Henrietta, of course, did not have much time, but she did manage to come and see Sally at the office, one afternoon, on which occasion she completely upset the business of John Hazen, Inc., and all the members of the firm, both present and prospective, fluttered about her and gave hertheir undivided attention. Naturally, this state of affairs pleased Henrietta, but it embarrassed her, too, for you can't—or a girl who has been recently married can't—speak out freely concerning the secrets which burden her bosom before two unmarried young fellows,—not that the fact of their being unmarried made any difference, of course,—but before two young fellows whom she had never seen before in her life. But Henrietta made an effort to see Sally alone, and on the occasion of that effort, which was successful, she talked a steady stream about Dick, to all of which Sally assented with a smile and with as much enthusiasm as even Henrietta could wish.
"And, you know, Sally," she said at the end of this eulogium—and otherwise, "you know, we are in a difficulty now. It is not a very great difficulty and yet it is, too. We don't know where to live."
"How terrible!" said Sally.
"There are so few houses that are—well, dignified enough; suited to Dick's position, you know."
"Why don't you build?"
"We might, of course, but that would take a long time, and—and, to tell the truth, I've set my—we have set our hearts on an old house; not too old, you know."
"I see," said Sally; "just old enough."
"Exactly," Henrietta agreed. "Just old enough. Now there's Miss Patty's house. It's restored and the work's done."
"Well?"
"And Miss Patty doesn't seem inclined to live in it. She doesn't like to leave Fox's. I saw her and spoke about it, and she said so."
"Well, then, where is the difficulty? Patty's house is a very pleasant, homelike house. I judge that it is just old enough. Can't you rent it?"
"No," said Henrietta in accents of despair. "Patty won't rent it. She says she may want to go back at any minute. She said she'd be glad to oblige me, as Doctor Sanderson'ssister, but my being Mr. Torrington's wife changes the aspect of the matter. She seems to have some grudge against Dick."
Sally laughed. "That isn't so strange. Knowing Patty, I should think you'd better give up the idea for the present."
"That's just it," Henrietta replied hastily. "For the present. That makes it unwise for us to build, when we may be able to get that house at any time almost. Of course, Dick must not seem to force Miss Patty in any way. He had to use his authority under the will, you know. Mr. Hazen would have expected him to and would havewishedhim to, or why should he have made his will that way? Hehadto—Dick, I mean, of course—Dick simplyhadto, don't you see, Sally, when he found that Patty had been using all that money and she wouldn't tell what she had used it for—wouldn't give a hint, you know. Dick only wanted a hint, so that he could keep his accounts straight, or something of that sort. It wasn't evident at all that Patty had used it for herself—Oh!" And Henrietta suddenly clapped her hand over her pretty mouth. "Have I been telling secrets, Sally? Have I?" She looked rather scared, as people were apt to be in any matter which concerned Sally, though I can't see why. Sally was as mild as a lamb in such cases.
She was mild now, but she was gazing at Henrietta with solemn and serious eyes, as if she had discovered a new country.
"I don't know, Henrietta," she replied, "whether you are telling secrets or not. What you were telling was news to me. If you are in any doubt about it, I should think you'd better not tell any more. But you can see why Patty is not inclined to do any favor for Dick."
"Well," returned Henrietta slowly—slowly for her, "I suppose I can, althoughIthink that Dick is doing her thegreatestfavor. As far as her house is concerned, Dick might feel at liberty to rent to any one else, but not to himself. I'm sure I hope he won't rent to anybody else, whatever he does or Patty doesn't do. He ought not to do anythingthat could be considered dishonorable, of course, but I can't quite see why this would be. But he simply won't."
"No," said Sally. "I should expect that of Dick."
"There doesn't seem to be anything to do about it," Henrietta continued, "unless—unless," she suggested with hesitation, "you would see Patty, Sally."
Sally smiled with amusement. "Of course I will if you want me to, Henrietta. But I'm not the one to make a successful emissary to Patty. I'm not in favor any more than Dick. You'd much better make up to Charlie if you want anything of Patty; much better."
"That seems to be a good idea," Henrietta murmured, gazing thoughtfully at Sally the while, "and easy too. I'll do it."
Henrietta had no great difficulty in doing it. She made a good beginning before Charlie went back to college, although she had only a little more than a fortnight, and she continued her attentions at frequent intervals thereafter. There was nothing crude about either Henrietta or her methods. She did not let him suspect her object or, indeed, that she had an object, and Charlie did not look for one. His own attractions were enough, goodness knows, to account for any attentions that might be lavished upon him, and he accepted those attentions almost as a matter of course. But as attentions and he had become, to a certain extent, strangers,—always excepting Patty's attentions, which did not count,—Charlie was very grateful in his inmost soul and he made the most of them. He came down to Whitby more often than he had been in the habit of doing and he invariably went to the Torringtons' at the first possible moment and spent as much time there as he could. He even developed a certain shyness which was very becoming. But he avoided Dick. He had a grudge against Dick and he was resolved not to forget it. Dick had done him an injury.
He did find himself forgetting that injury, in time. Who, in the face of Dick's leisurely cordiality and general good nature, could remember not to forget it? And in time—not so very long a time either—he perceived that Henrietta had a secret sorrow which gnawed like a worm at her heart. He set himself the task of pursuing this sorrow and plucking it out; and—marvel of marvels!—he succeeded in dragging from the unwilling Henrietta some information as to its nature. We can, perhaps, imagine the reluctance with which this information was given.
Charlie, although he may have been secretly disappointed that Henrietta's sorrow was not more serious,—he may have thought that it was of no less import than that she had found, too late, that she loved another man better than she did her husband,—Charlie, I say, although he may have been disappointed, managed to conceal whatever of disappointment he felt.
"Oh," he said magnanimously and with sufficient indifference, "don't you worry about that. I can fix that. I'll just speak to Patty about it the very next time I go out there."
He did; and he reported to Henrietta that he had prevailed upon Patty to consent to any arrangement she liked. He had also prevailed upon Patty—not reported to Henrietta—to scrape together as many dollars as she could conveniently manage to scrape—conveniently or inconveniently, it was all one to Charlie—and to hand them over to him for some purpose. It really does not matter what the purpose was. Charlie was very fertile in invention, and if it was not one thing it was another. Any excuse was good enough. But the strain was telling upon Patty. Charlie should have been more careful.
Henrietta was so pleased with the report that she redoubled her attentions. This may not have been wise, but there seems to be no doubt that it was good for Charlie, on the whole. He went in to number seven but once before Christmas, and there might have been some ground for hope that, between Henrietta's attentions and his devotion to automobiles, he might be induced to give it up altogether. Harry Carling, who was keeping as close a watch upon Charlie as he could, hoped so, at all events.
For Charlie, in his sophomore year, ran to motor cars. Indulgence of a fine fancy for motors is apt to be expensive, as Patty was finding out, but it is not as expensive as Charlie's one other diversion is apt to be, on occasion. That his one experience of it, in his first term, was not more expensive must be set down solely to luck.
Automobiles were bad enough, as a diversion, for a boy who could afford them no better than Charlie Ladue. Patty learned of them with horror. She had hoped, fondly, that Charlie had given them up after his experience with them only last Easter; oh, shehopedhe had. She said it with tears in her eyes and with an agonized expression that would have melted a heart less hard than Charlie's. But Charlie merely smiled. That phantom car had done him no harm, although he did not call it a phantom car to Patty. Motor cars were not for the Hazens; not for people of the older régime. And Charlie smiled again and remarked that they might not have come to motors yet, but they would. Patty said, with some spirit, that they were vulgar and that they—they had a bad smell. For her part, she was satisfied to go no faster than nature intended. The horse, as Charlie might be aware, was the fastest animal that goes.
Having delivered this shot with evident pride, Patty sat back in her chair and waited to see if Charlie would be able to make any reply. She considered that last argument unanswerable. Charlie apparently did not. He observed that Pat's horse, rising thirty and rather fat, could hardly be called the fastest animal that goes. He never was very fast. But he contented himself with that, for Patty had just turned over to him all the ready money that she could raise and was feeling really impoverished in consequence. So Charlie, having got what he came for, took his leave, bidding Pat not to be anxious on his account, for he wasn't going to get smashed up again—he almost forgot to put in the "again"—and he wasn't going to spend much money on machines in the future. They always cost more at first, before you got used to them. With this comforting assurance, at which poor Patty sighed and said that she hoped he was right, Charlie went out cheerfully to sit behind one of the fastest animals that go, and to take the rig, for which Sally would have to pay, back to the livery stable.
Nothing in particular happened that winter, except that Dick and Henrietta moved into Miss Patty's house early inFebruary. Patty was getting to be considered—and to consider herself—one of Doctor Sanderson's patients. And the Retreat was filling up and she did not want to give up her comfortable room, with the probable chance that she would be unable to get it again when she came back. In fact, it looked as if anybody had better hold on to what she had at Doctor Sanderson's.
So Sally saw but little of Fox that winter. They were both very busy, and Sally had her hands and her head full, with the office and her school, too. But she liked the office in spite of the work which, between you and me, was not very hard. There was a good deal of it, but it was interesting and Sally went home at night, tired and happy and with her head full of schemes. Sometimes Everett was waiting for her. She did not know whether she liked that or not, but there did not seem to be reason enough for sending him away. She did not quite know what her relations were with Everett; friendly, she hoped, no more. For there was a difference between Sally's state of mind now and her state of mind the year before. She was not indifferent now, she was happy and things mattered in a wholesome way. But Sally knew that Fox had not opened the cream-colored house again; not since Henrietta's wedding. He had not even made any preparations to open it. Sally was watching that house, out of the corner of her eye, and she knew. What an old slow poke he was, wasn't he? The winter was gone before she knew it and it was almost Easter. Then, one afternoon, Charlie made his appearance, suddenly and unexpectedly, and went up to see Henrietta almost immediately.
Sally was vaguely worried by this sudden appearance of Charlie, she could not tell why. She had felt, all along, a great relief that he had taken so readily to the Henrietta treatment and she had felt some surprise at it. Having worried about it for an hour, she put it aside. It would be time enough to worry when she knew there was something to worry about. When that time did come, she would not have time to worry, for she would probably be too busydoing something about it. It was inaction that worried Sally, which is the case with most of us. At any rate, Charlie was all right for the present. He had only gone up to Henrietta's. Then Harry Carling came in: "J—j—just c—c—came d—d—down t—to s—s—see H—H—Ho—orry, y—y—you kn—n—now, S—S—Sally, f—f—for a m—m—min—n—nute." And Sally smiled and shook hands with Harry and hastened to say—to save Horry the painful experience of mentioning the matter—that he could go whenever he wanted to, so far as she knew. And they went out together.
John Upjohn Junior ran into the house just in time for supper. He was so excited and his entrance was so precipitate that he almost collided with his mother, who had just reached the foot of the stairs; and only by the exercise of almost superhuman agility he managed to avoid that catastrophe. It was just as well, for many reasons; the reason which influenced John Junior being that such an accident was likely to result, then and thereafter, in more damage to himself than to his mother.
He flung his cap down on the hall table with such violence that it slid off and fell upon the floor; but he could not pick it up at the moment because he was engaged in shedding his overcoat, which immediately slipped off of his arms upon a chair. He began to speak at once.
"M—m—m—moth—ther!" he exclaimed explosively. "I—I—'v—ve—darn it all!"
Mrs. Upjohn rebuked her offspring mildly. "John, what is the matter with you? Is your name Carling, that you can't speak without stuttering so? And I should think you would do well to moderate your language, at any rate when you speak to your mother. And you must learn to come into the house less like a tornado. Come in quietly, like a gentleman."
John Junior gave a contemptuous grunt. "J—just been h—hearing the Carlings talking. That's wh—why I can't talk 'n' wh—why I st—st—stut—t—ter so. Gosh darn it! I mean hang it!"
"Pick up your cap, John," Mrs. Upjohn commanded sternly. "And hang it, if you will." This pun of Mrs. Upjohn's somewhat softened her stern command. She could not help smiling.
John kicked his cap out from behind the table and, picking it up, threw it at the hat-rack, where it happened to catch and stick. He began again.
"I—I—I'v—ve g—g—got s—s—s—"
"Suppose you go up and wash your face and hands," Mrs. Upjohn suggested, "and come down to supper. The bell rang before you came in. When you come down you may be able to talk intelligibly."
So John Junior rushed upstairs and, after an incredibly short period, during which we must suppose that he went through some sort of an operation which he regarded as sufficient, he appeared again, slid down the balusters like lightning, landed at the bottom with an appalling thump, and ran into the dining-room.
"Guess I can talk now," he announced, taking his chair by the back and sliding it under him. "I was hurrying home, so's not to be late to supper, when I came up behind the Carlings. They—Letty ain't here, is she?" he added, looking about doubtfully.
"No," Mrs. Upjohn replied. "You know that Letty won't come again for more than a month."
"Huh!" growled John Junior. "She will if she feels like it. Never can tell when she'll be here. She's always here."
Mrs. Upjohn was a little slow about taking anything in. She had been puzzling over John's former speech and had just the full import of it.
"Did you say the Carlings, John?" she asked. "I don't see how that can be, for Harry's in Cambridge."
"He ain't either," John replied amiably. "Don't you s'pose I'd know those freaks? I guess I would."
"Well," said Mrs. Upjohn doubtfully.
"And they were talking together," John continued, "or trying to talk. They didn't know I was behind 'em, and I kept still as I could so's I could hear what they said. They ought to have an interpreter. But I got most of it, and then I slid out for fear they'd see me. What d'you s'pose they were talking about?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Mrs. Upjohn curiously.
"What?"
John kept his mother in suspense while he disposed of his mouthful. He swallowed twice, then took a drink of water. At last he was ready and he looked at his mother, suspending operations for that purpose.
"Charlie Ladue's a gambler," he announced abruptly.
"What!" Mrs. Upjohn exclaimed. But she was pleased in spite of herself. What would Letty say to that? "Are you sure you heard it right?"
"'Course I'm sure."
"Well, John, I'm grieved to hear it. You must be careful not to talk about it."
"'Course I won't talk about it. I'll stop now if you want me to."
"No," said Mrs. Upjohn judicially. "No, I think you ought to tell me all you heard. How long has it been going on and where does Charlie go?"
So John Junior retailed at some length all that he had heard, rather to the neglect of his supper. Certain important details were lacking and he had to fill them in from his imaginings, which were rather defective as to the points under discussion.
"Well," said Mrs. Upjohn, when the recital and the supper were both finished, "I think somebody ought to be told. I don't just like to tell Sally, but she ought to know."
"They didn't want to tell Sally either. Horry Carling's in her office and he could tell her easy enough if he wanted to."
"That's so," Mrs. Upjohn agreed. "I guess I'll tell Patty. I have a pretty good idea where Charlie's money came from. Patty won't thank me, but somebody ought to open her eyes. I'll go out there to-morrow. I wonder if I couldn't find somebody who's going out. You look around, early to-morrow, before school, and see if you can't find somebody that's going and send him up here. There's no need to hire a horse, for that."
Accordingly the grocer's delivery wagon stopped at the house the next forenoon, and the boy asked for Mrs. Upjohn. That lady came to the door, looking a little puzzled. It seemed that John had—
Mrs. Upjohn laughed. "And he's gone to school," she said. "I didn't mean that he should ask you." She laughed again. "But I don't know why I shouldn't go in a grocery wagon. It's perfectly respectable."
"Yes, ma'am," the boy replied, grinning. "And it's a very nice wagon, almost new, and it's very comfortable."
Patty was sitting at her window when the grocer's wagon stopped at the door and Mrs. Upjohn got out.
"Mercy on us!" Patty exclaimed. "If there isn't Alicia Upjohn! She'll break her neck. Come in a grocer's wagon! Alicia was always queer, but there is a point beyond which—yes, thereisa point beyond which she should not allow herself to go." And Miss Patty gasped faintly and leaned back, and in a few minutes she heard Mrs. Upjohn at her door.
That interview was painful to Patty, at least. Mrs. Upjohn was rather pressed for time, as the grocer's boy could not wait more than fifteen minutes. It is a little difficult to break unwelcome news gently in fifteen minutes. It might have been difficult to break this particular news, which was very unwelcome, even if there had been no time limit set by a grocer's boy. But within ten minutes Mrs. Upjohn had Patty in tears and protesting her belief in Charlie's innocence and exhibiting all her characteristic obstinacy in the face of proof. Had not Charlie been there that very morning to see her? He had just left, indeed, and he had been as loving as the most exacting of doting aunts could wish. Didn't Alicia suppose that she, Patty, would be able to detect any signs of wrong-doing on his part? At which Alicia smiled and made a reply which made Patty almost frantic and within the five minutes which remained Patty had told Alicia that she would do well to mind her own business and she wished she would go and never come near her again. So, the fifteenminutes being almost up, Alicia went, with what dignity she could summon. She met Doctor Beatty in the lower hall and told him that he had better see to Patty, who seemed beside herself. He went at once; and Mrs. Upjohn seized that opportunity to climb into her seat beside the grocer's boy.
Doctor Beatty was with Patty a long time and used every art he had—he hadn't many, but he used all he had with a degree of patience that was surprising—to quiet Patty, who needed quieting if ever anybody did. He was more alarmed by that disturbance of Patty's than he would have acknowledged; more than he had expected, he found, although he had been in daily expectation of something of the kind.
He found her muttering to herself and exclaiming brokenly. She looked at him with wild eyes. "Go away!" she cried as he entered. "He's not, I tell you. He never did!"
"No," Doctor Beatty agreed calmly. "Certainly not. But there! You don't want me to go away, Patty." He pulled up a chair and sat down.
"Not that chair!" she cried. "Not that chair! That's the chair she sat in—Alicia Upjohn. If you sit in it you'll say so, too. Take any other, but not that one."
"Oh, very well," he said. And he drew up another chair and sat down. "Now, tell me what's the matter."
At this Patty began to weep violently. Her sentences were broken, and now and then she gave a loud cry that seemed to be wrung from her heart.
"Alicia oughtn't to have said it. She might have known how—that I—how I would f-f—Oh!" She could not speak for a moment. "She just wanted me to think that that was where my money went. She's a spiteful thing. Oh, how could she? How could she? Cruel! Cruel!" Patty fell to weeping again. She seemed to lose all control over herself. She rocked to and fro and leaned so far over, in her new fit of crying, that Doctor Beatty put out his hand to save her from falling. He was glad to have her cry so.
She seized his hand and pressed it and looked up at him appealingly, her eyes raining tears. "Oh, Meriwether," she sobbed, "you don't think he does, do you? Tell me that you don't."
He looked down into those faded eyes. "Certainly I don't, Patty," he answered gently. Out of the pity which he felt for her, he may have pressed her hand a little. He had but the faintest idea what she was talking about.
Patty flushed and relaxed her hold upon his hand. "You are a c-c-comfort, Meriwether," she said more calmly. "It is a great deal to know that I have one friend, at least, who understands me. I—I—have so few, Meriwether!" She began to sob again. "S-so f-f-few, and I used to have so so many!"
"Cry quietly as much as you like, Patty. It will do you good."
He made a slight movement, at which Patty cried out.
"Don't go! Don't go yet!" She put out her hand blindly, as if to stop him.
"I'll stay until you are yourself again. Never fear." He sighed faintly.
It was a new rôle for Doctor Beatty, but he played it better than would have been expected. Patty turned to the window and he heard the sound of sobbing steadily for some time. At last the sound ceased. She was sitting with her chin resting on her hand, which held her wet handkerchief crumpled up into a tight ball; and she was looking out through her tears, but seeing nothing, and she seemed to have difficulty in breathing.
"He's such a good boy—to me!" she said, without turning. "Such a good boy! I am so fond of him that it almost breaks my heart to have anybody say—say such things. How can they? How can they have the heart?" She gave a single sob.