It was a very lonely time that Sally had, standing there, leaning against the tree-guard and looking up and down the deserted street. The houses seemed to be all asleep or deserted as well as the street. She wondered idly what they were used for; then she thought that it was as well that she did not know, judging from the one of them that she did know about. What would the builders of those houses think if they could come back and see the uses to which their dignified old homes had been put?
She glanced up and down the street again. Yes, it seemed to be entirely deserted. She did not see the figure which lurked in the shadows on the other side. She had said that she would be all right; that she was not afraid. Well, she was not afraid, but she was getting just a bit nervous. She wished that Eugene would hurry with Charlie. She could not stand by that tree any longer anyway. She began to walk slowly up and down, watching the door out of which she expected Jane and Charlie to appear at any moment, and she wondered what she should say to Charlie. She had no set speech prepared. What was there to say that could possibly do any good? Probably she would say nothing at all and they would set off in silence, all three, to their hotel. She had other thoughts, too, but they need not concern us now. We are not thinking of Fox Sanderson and his silly speeches nor of Henrietta and her contentment; for she ought to be contented if ever a girl was. Sally's eyes filled with tears and her thoughts insensibly drifted away from Charlie and Jane as she paced slowly to and fro. And that lurking figure across the street was never very far away.
The sound of a door shutting reverberated after the manner of all sounds in that street and there were voices. Sallyhad turned at the sound of the door. Somebody was coming out of the house and she hurried forward and stopped short. The figure on the other side of the street started forward and stopped short also. There were three men coming out, and the joyous voices were not Jane's and Charlie's. Their voices would not be joyous—if they spoke at all. The three men passed her, arm in arm, and they looked at her curiously as they passed and the hand of the oldest instinctively went to his hat. Sally saw that he was an elderly man with a pleasant face and that his mustache was snow-white. They had got but a few steps beyond when their pace slackened and this man seemed to hesitate. He looked back at her doubtfully. Then he sighed and the three resumed their brisk walk.
"No use," he said. "Can't meddle. I wish I could. No good comes of it."
Once more Sally took up her slow walk to and fro. She was glad that the three men had gone, but she was sorry, too. That elderly man had seemed kind and sympathetic and a gentleman; and he had come from that house. But that, Sally, was no recommendation. She knew that he had done the wise thing; or that he had not done the unwise thing, and probably he was right and no good came of meddling. And the sound of their steps died away as they turned a corner. Again Sally had the street to herself; Sally and the man lurking in the shadows. She found herself growing more and more oppressed with the sense of loneliness. If only somebody were there to wait with her! A quiet, out-of-the-way street, poorly lighted, is not the most exhilarating place for a girl at half-past eleven at night. If only Fox—
Somebody else had turned the corner and was coming toward her with a step that was neither brisk nor loitering; that seemed as if it knew just where it was going, but was in no unseemly haste to get there. Sally stopped and looked about for some place in which she might conceal herself. None offered better than her tree. As the step drew near she seemed to know it, and she shrank as nearly out of sightas she could. She had no invisible cap; she wished she had.
The step which she knew stopped beside her. "Sally!" said a voice in unmistakable surprise. "Sally! What in the world are you doing here?"
Sally smiled as bravely as she could. "Nothing, Everett," she replied quietly. "Just waiting."
"Waiting?" he exclaimed. "For whom, may I ask?"
"For Charlie," she answered as quietly as before. "Jane has gone in to get him."
"Oh," said Everett coldly, "so Spencer has gone in to get him. To judge by appearances, he doesn't seem to make a success of it."
Sally shook her head. There did not seem to be anything else to say. Spencer didn't seem to be making much of a success of it.
"How long have you been waiting?"
"Two or three years," answered Sally, with a nervous laugh.
"You poor girl!" Everett exclaimed. "I was just going in to see if I couldn't get Charlie. It is curious how things happen." Sally smiled a little smile of amusement in spite of her nervousness. Itwascurious how things happened, when you came to think of it. "There isn't any use in your waiting any longer. It can't do any good, and it may be very unpleasant for you. Better let me take you to your hotel. Then I will come back. I may have as much success as Spencer, perhaps." And Everett began a little smile of his own; but, thinking that Sally might see it, he stopped before the smile was well born.
Sally shook her head again. "I told Eugene to tell Charlie that I should wait here until he came out. It isn't pleasant, but I shall wait."
"But, Sally," Everett remonstrated, "you don't understand. You—"
"I do understand," Sally interrupted. "I will take care of myself." She may not have realized how this would soundand how it would exasperate Everett. But perhaps she did realize.
Everett only shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Sally was an obstinate piece.
"If you want to do me a kindness," she continued, "you will help to get Charlie out as soon as you can."
"As you like," he returned. "I will certainly do what I can to get Charlie out. That's what I am here for." Again Sally smiled her peculiar little smile. She couldn't help it. That Everett should think she would believe that! "But you had much better let me take you to your hotel first," he added, persuasively. "I will explain to Spencer."
"I will wait."
Everett was irritated and quite out of patience with her. He shrugged his shoulders again and started on.
"You are very good, Everett," Sally called softly. "Thank you, and good night."
He made no reply unless a perfunctory touch of his hat and an impatient mutter could be called a reply; and he was swallowed up by the doorway and admitted by the doorman with a familiar nod and a grin which it was as well, he thought, that Sally did not see. She would not have been surprised if she had seen.
Everett had hardly disappeared when the lurking figure left its post in the shadows and advanced toward Sally. She saw it and braced herself for the encounter. In the matter of encounters that lonely street was doing pretty well. For an instant she meditated flight, but instantly decided against it. The man must have known, from her attitude, what was passing in her mind, for he spoke when he was but halfway across.
"Sally," he said gently, "you needn't be frightened. It—"
Whereupon Sally behaved in a most peculiar and reprehensible manner. At the sound of the voice she had stiffened; but now she cast herself at the man and seized his arm with both her hands.
"Fox, Fox," she said, with a quiver in her voice, for she was very near to crying. "I'm glad. You are an old comfort. You don't know how lonely it was, waiting by myself. I thought I could stand it, but I don't know whether I could have held out much longer. The street was getting on my nerves."
"I know, Sally," he replied. "I was afraid it would. And now what is the prospect? Is Charlie likely to come soon? And shall we go to your hotel or wait?"
"I must wait. But—but, Fox, it would provoke Jane and Charlie, too, to find you here."
Fox laughed. "Then I will vanish at the first sign of them. But I should really like to know how your enterprise comes out. Do you mind telling me, Sally? And how shall we manage it without telling your mother? I suppose she doesn't know the purpose of your coming."
"Not from me, although she may guess. I'll come out, in a day or two, to call on you, sir. Shall you feel honored?"
"You know I shall, Sally. But how will you account for your call?"
"I shall come to collect the rent," returned Sally promptly, "if any excuse is necessary. Be sure that you have it ready. And I shall give you a faithful account of all that has transpired." She had Fox's arm and she gave it a little squeeze. It was a very little squeeze and very brief, but it made his heart jump. "It was lucky for me that you—" And then she stopped short, realizing that Fox would not have happened to be in that street, leading to nowhere, at that time.
"Don't you know," he asked simply, with a laugh of content, "that I always keep track of you? Did you think that you could come to such a place as this without my being somewhere about?"
Sally changed the subject quickly. It was an unspeakable comfort to her to know—but Fox must not pursue that subject now. Fox had no intention of pursuing that subject; and they walked slowly to and fro over what had been Sally's beat, talking of anything or of nothing. Sally was content;and again she forgot Charlie and Jane and her errand, and she became almost gay. Those sombre old houses echoed quiet laughter, of a kind that they had not heard for goodness knows how many years, and low voices. Some more men came, singly, or in groups of two or three, and looked at them with curiosity. Sally hardly saw them. And the last group passed into the house and up the stairs and into the room where the table stood before the front windows and they stopped short at the sound of angry voices.
The game had stopped, for the moment, and the dealer was leaning back with his hand upon the pack, waiting. There was a look upon his face of languid interest under the mask of indifference, as he gazed at the young fellow opposite, his face flushed now with impotent rage, and at the man leaning over him. The face above was flushed with anger, too, but it was not impotent. If Sally had seen it she would have been reminded of her father. The sight seemed to remind the dealer of something, but it was impossible to guess whether that something was pleasant or otherwise. Many things had happened to him which were not pleasant to think of. Indeed, the pleasant things were very few. He did not think of his past when he could help it. It was a thing to be avoided.
"Come, Charlie," said Everett again, sharply. "You're to get up and go. We're all waiting."
Charlie seemed to be divided between his long admiration of Everett—of what he said and did and was—and his helpless anger. He wavered.
"You mean that I have got to leave the game?" he sputtered at last. "Why have I?" He hesitated a moment, looking from the cards to the dealer who still had that little look of languid interest upon his face. In fact, it was almost compelling a smile on the thin lips. Charlie could not have stood that. He looked away again quickly, but he did not look at Everett. He could not have stood that, either. "No," he said, with a sudden accession of courage, "I won't do it. The game can go on."
The dealer did not move a muscle. Everett smiled. "You see," he answered, "that it will not go on with you in it. I'm right, Charlie?" he added, glancing up at the dealer; but it was less a question than a command.
The dealer nodded. Still Charlie Ladue did not move.
"Come, Ladue," Everett ordered impatiently. "Don't make them put you out. Cash in and go along. You know very well why. I promised to start you and I'm going to. And, let me tell you, I can do it."
There was nothing else to do. Charlie muttered something and rose slowly and pushed his chair back violently in a fit of childish anger. Instantly the chair was taken and the game was going on almost before he had his back turned. Everett kept close beside him until he had his coat and hat, and he even went down to the door with him. Eugene was waiting there, but he said nothing. He was much mortified at his complete failure and at Everett's complete success. The grinning black opened the door.
"Good night, Spencer," said Everett. "And good night, Charlie. If you take my advice, you'll give it up."
The door shut behind the two and Everett went upstairs again. He paid no attention to the game, but walked into the dimly lighted back room and to the sideboard. He felt out of sorts with himself and with everybody and everything else. He must be thirsty; and he poured himself out a glass and stood sipping it and looking absently at the heavily curtained windows at the rear. There did not happen to be anybody else at the sideboard.
He was still sipping with his back toward the front room and the game when he felt a touch upon his arm. He turned quickly. There stood the dealer.
"Hello, Charlie!" he said in some surprise. "Your recess? Do you want me to apologize for taking that young cub out and making all that row?"
The dealer shook his head. "That was right enough. I've been thinking about him for some—" He stopped short and swallowed—something; possibly a lump or somethingof the kind. But it is not conceivable that such a man can have the more usual emotions of pity and charity. For they are the usual emotions, whatever you may say against it. If Everett had only known it, that was the very trouble with him. He had not been thirsty, primarily. His thirst was but a physical symptom of his mental state.
But I interrupted the dealer. He was speaking again. "I should like to ask you a question, Mr. Morton," he said.
"What is it, Charlie?" Everett felt but a passing interest in his question.
"I noticed that you called the young man Ladue."
"Did I? That was very thoughtless of me. I apologize."
The dealer did not smile, but went on, apparently pursuing his object, whatever that was. "And the other man spoke of Sally."
"Indeed! That was even more thoughtless."
"Charlie Ladue," the dealer continued in an even voice, "and Sally. It sounds as if Sally should be his sister. Is she?"
Everett hesitated for a moment. After all, what harm? "Well, yes, she is his sister. Much disturbed at hearing of his doings. You and I, Charlie," he said lightly, "know better."
The dealer smiled faintly. For a wonder his faint smile was not unpleasant.
"Can you tell me," he pursued, "where Miss Sally Ladue is to be found—say, in the morning?"
Everett hesitated again and glanced at the man suspiciously. This was a more serious matter.
"Why do you ask? And, assuming that I know, why should I tell you, Charlie?" If it had not been that he still smarted under Sally's treatment of him, he would not have gone as far as that.
The old dealer with the lined face smiled slowly and with a certain cunning.
"Possibly I can answer both questions at once. Conceivably, I can satisfy you. I am her father."
Sally and Eugene and Charlie had almost finished breakfast. It was a silent group; Eugene was quiet, for he had not got over the mortification at his miserable failure of the night before, and, besides, the very fact that he was eating breakfast with Sally was enough to make him quiet. Charlie was sulky and morose and penitent. There had been very little said, but that little had been to the point, and Charlie had pleadednolo contendere, which, in this case, was equivalent to a plea of guilty; guilty of the offense as charged and guilty of obtaining money from Patty under false pretenses, although Sally could not find out how much. He would only say that it was not so very much; he could not remember exactly how much. And Sally had promised to give him a reasonable allowance if he would honestly try to keep within it and would give up his bad habits, which would be his unfailing ruin if he kept on. It might be necessary to take him out of college. He was to go home with them and the council of war would decide about that. Charlie seemed somewhat anxious about the composition of that council, although he did not seem to care very much whether he left college or not. As Sally had not decided upon that point, she did not gratify his curiosity. And Charlie had given the required promises. He had even promised more than was required of him, for he agreed to reform permanently. Sally had her doubts about its being permanent. She had seen too much of the effects of the "bug," as Horry Carling had called it. But she could not ask more, and she sighed and expressed herself as satisfied and they went in to breakfast. That incident was closed.
Now she was leaning back in her chair, watching theothers putting the finishing touches on a rather substantial breakfast. A call-boy was speaking to the head waiter; and that august official came with stately step to Sally's table.
"A gen'leman to see Miss Ladue," he announced privately in Sally's ear.
Sally looked up in surprise. "To see me?" she asked. "Are you sure? Who is it? Do you know?"
"He asked was Miss Ladue staying here, but he didn't give no card and he wouldn't give no name. I could say that you've gone or that we can't find you," the man suggested, "if you don't care to see him."
"Oh, no," said Sally, with a quick smile. "I'll see him. He may have come to tell me of a long-lost fortune. But," she added with a puzzled wonder, "I can't imagine who it can be."
Eugene got up, pushing aside his coffee. "Let me go, Sally."
Sally was already up. "Oh, no," she said again. "Thank you, Eugene, but you and Charlie may as well finish your breakfast in comfort. There's plenty of time before our train goes and I will join you in a few minutes. I'm only wondering who in the world it is and what he wants. Perhaps it's Everett."
A look of annoyance came into Spencer's eyes at the mention of Everett. Why couldn't he let them alone? But Sally was rapidly vanishing in the wake of the head waiter, who delivered her safely to the call-boy. At the door of a small reception room the boy paused, parted the hangings, and bowed Sally in.
As she entered, a man rose from a chair near the window and stood waiting. Although Sally could not see his face because of the light behind him, there was something vaguely familiar in his manner of rising from the chair and in his attitude. It troubled her.
"You wished to see me?" she asked, wondering why he did not come forward to meet her.
"Miss Sallie Ladue?" he asked in return. Sally's hand wentto her heart involuntarily; her mother's trick, exactly. The man seemed to be smiling, although Sally could not see that, either. "I want to make sure. It is sometime since—"
"Turn around to the light, so that I can see your face," Sally commanded. Her voice was hard and cold. It may have penetrated his armor. He turned obediently, giving a short laugh as he did so.
"My face may be a trifle the worse for wear since you have seen me," he remarked airily. "A trifle the worse for wear; which yours is not. Has anybody ever told you, Sally, that you have become a lovely woman? Or wouldn't you care for that tribute?"
"We will not discuss my appearance, if you please." Sally's voice was still hard and cold; like steel. She came around in front of him and scrutinized his face closely. There could be no possible doubt. "Well, father?"
"You don't seem glad to see me, Sally. After an absence of—er—a hundred years or so, one would think that you might be. But, I repeat, you don't seem glad to see me."
"No," said Sally quietly. "I'm not."
He laughed. His laugh was unpleasant. "Truthful as ever, I see. Wouldn't it be better to mask the truth a little, when it must be as disagreeable as it is now? To draw even a thin veil over it, so that it can be perceived dimly—dimly if unmistakably?"
Sally shook her head and she did not smile. "I see no object in it. What is your purpose in seeing me now? I do not doubt that you have a purpose. What is it?"
He seemed to find a certain pleasure in tantalizing her. "Aren't you curious to know how I found out your whereabouts?"
"I am not interested in that. Tell me your purpose."
"What other purpose could I have than to see my daughter after so many years? Is it permitted, my dear Sally, to ask after the health of your mother?"
"She is well; as well as can be expected. It is not your fault that she did not die years ago. She was four yearsgetting over that trouble of hers. You laughed at her headaches, you remember. She was four years in Doctor Galen's sanitarium."
He waved his hand lightly, as of old. "A little misunderstanding, Sally, which I greatly regret. But four years of Doctor Galen! How did you manage to pay him?"
"That," replied Sally, "cannot possibly be any concern of yours."
"Ah, true. It is not any concern of mine. But is it not possible to see your mother? She is still my wife, I presume, and you are still my daughter."
"She is still your wife and I am your daughter. But you shall not see her if I can prevent it."
"And—I gather from the tenor of your remarks that you would resist any attempt at—er—reuniting a family long separated by circumstances."
Sally smiled disdainfully. "I am of age. As to my mother, I should resist. No court would compel it."
"Ah," he said, smiling, "how well you meet my points! You are of age, and no doubt you are right about the courts. There is no law that will prohibit my trying, I think. And Charlie is not of age, if my recollection serves me."
Before Sally could frame an answer, there was a slight noise in the hall and Charlie burst in. "I beg your pardon," he said hastily. The two were standing, and he had not recognized Sally. But an instant's gaze was enough. "Sally!" he exclaimed. He looked at the man. A wave of red rushed into his face. "Charlie!" he cried involuntarily. Then he recovered. "What are you doing here? What do you mean by coming to see my sister?"
Sally was inexpressibly distressed. She started to speak. She would have said something—told him the truth, of course—to save them both; but a quiet movement of her father's hand stopped her. He seemed to be waiting patiently for the next stone.
"Do you know, Sally," Charlie continued, "who this man is? He is the dealer in number seven. He has noright—no business to try to see you. I insist on his leaving at once."
Sally spoke with surprising gentleness, considering her mode of speech to her father only a few minutes before. "We have some business, Charlie," she said. "He will go as soon as that is done. Now, leave us, please, to finish it, for we have not a great deal of time. It is all right."
And Charlie withdrew slowly, with many a glance from one to the other and many a misgiving as to the business which seemed to be of so private a nature. They heard his steps retreating down the hall.
Sally turned her shocked face to her father, "Won't you sit down?" she asked gently. "I am very sorry; sorrier than I can tell you—for—everything, but especially for that speech of Charlie's. But Charlie did not know."
"And I prefer that he shouldn't," her father replied. He had seated himself with his face half turned away from the light. "I have many hard things to bear, Sally, and, strange as it may seem to you, I try to bear them with patience. I have to, so why make a virtue of necessity? That speech of Charlie's—made in ignorance—was less hard for me than your own."
"I am sorry," Sally said again, "but I meant what I said, most emphatically. You are not to suppose that I didn't. But I am sorry for my manner—if it hurt you."
He smiled faintly. "It was not intended to soothe or to amuse, I take it," he remarked. And he lapsed into silence, fingering his hat nervously and turning it around in his hands.
Sally sat gazing at the lined old face before her a long time without speaking. As she looked, her eyes softened even more and grew tender—and those eyes could be wonderfully tender. He bore her gaze as well as he could, but he was ill at ease. If the truth must be told, his mood had softened, too, and the very fact embarrassed him. Perhaps he remembered the days of the little lizard and the coal-trees and the occasions when the gynesaurus had climbed to thetopmost branch and gazed forth upon a wide prospect of tree-tops and swamps. It could not have been pleasant to recollect those days. For him, they were no more and could be never again. He was roused by Sally's low voice.
"Oh, father," she said impulsively, "why do you do it? Why can't you give it up? I could get your lizard for you. Why not return to your old life? You might do something yet. At least, it would be a comfort to be respectable."
He laughed at that. "No doubt it would," he observed, "be a great comfort to be respectable. And no doubt it would be a great comfort to you to have a respectable father; reformed; dragged from the depths." The tears came to Sally's eyes. "Does your programme," he asked then, nonchalantly, "include—er—reuniting a family long separated by circumstances? You may remember that I mentioned the matter once before."
She shook her head slowly and regretfully. "I'm afraid not. I couldn't consent to exposing mother to the—" She hesitated and stopped.
"The dangers incident to such an arrangement?" he suggested. "Pardon me for supplying what you were considerate enough to omit. Perhaps you are wise. And Charlie?"
"And Charlie." She nodded. "You see, yourself, that such a thing could not be—at any rate, until you have proved that you could do it."
"I couldn't," he answered promptly. "Don't think that I haven't tried. I have tried, repeatedly. I hate the life, but I can't give it up. But," he added, "you need not have been afraid for Charlie."
"I am very much afraid for Charlie," said Sally simply, "in any case. He is sick of it now. How long the present mood will last, I do not know. Could you manage that he is not allowed to play at—at your—"
He bowed gravely. "That can be arranged, I think."
"Thank you, father."
Once more there was silence between them. Finally he made a movement as if to go. "I was—I wanted—wascurious to see how you had come out, Sally. That was the main reason for my troubling you. If there were other reasons, they no longer exist. I—"
"Don't go yet, father," Sally interrupted. "I have more to say."
He sat down again and waited. She was considering—trying to consider the problem before her in every aspect. But she could not get the point of view of her father and Charlie, and she wanted to.
"Father," she resumed, "whatisthe attraction? I have been trying hard to get a sympathetic view of it and I can't. I can't see anything except what is sordid and repulsive. The life is—is not desirable—"
"Not very desirable," he broke in, with a horrible, dry laugh.
"And it can hardly be simply covetousness. If it is, you miss your mark. What I—"
"It is not covetousness. I may as well say that it is not a sin of covetousness," he corrected, "in deference to the generally received opinion. I have no desire to gloss over and to try to excuse by a form of words, although I, personally, am not convinced that it is a sin according to natural law. However, we need not discuss that aspect of it."
He waved that view aside with a familiar motion of his hand. How familiar they were—those little tricks of the hand and of the voice! They made Sally's eyes fill and a lump come in her throat. She raised her hand to her forehead and leaned upon it. It half concealed her eyes. She said nothing. The professor went on in his old lecture-room manner; a judicial manner.
"No, it is not a sin of covetousness, but simply a passion to which any man who is subject to it can't help giving way. It is a passion as old as humanity—perhaps older. There are no more inveterate gamblers than the savages. Possibly," he added, smiling, "my little lizard had it; possibly it goes back to those ancient days that you know about, Sally. It may be that the saurians had their own games ofchance and their own stakes—and, I may add, their own methods of enforcing payment. Indeed, their life was one great gamble. For that matter, life is no more than that now."
Sally made an inarticulate protest.
"As for getting the other man's money," the professor continued, unheeding, "that is merely incidental. We feel better, it's true, when we win, but that is for another reason. It has nothing to do with the game—keeping his money. The other man can keep his money—or, as far as the game is concerned, I would give it back to him—for all the happiness it brings him or would bring me. The distinction which I mean to draw is a little subtle, but I flatter myself that you can appreciate it."
He looked at her and she nodded. The tears still stood in her eyes.
"Happiness, Sally," he resumed, absently gazing at the wall, "is—but you probably do not care for my views on the subject of happiness," he said, interrupting himself and glancing at her with a smile. The smile was rather pleasant to contemplate; a thing sufficiently remarkable—for him. "Probably you think I am better qualified to tell you what it is not than what it is; how to avoid it than how to get it. I can give advice, but I cannot follow it."
Sally smiled quickly. "Your views are interesting," she said. She stirred a little. She did not know how he would take what she was about to say. "You would—would you feel hurt, father, if I should offer you an allowance?"
A quarter of an hour before, he would not have felt hurt or embarrassed in the least. In fact, that was the very thing he had come there for. At the moment, it was different. A flush crept into his face slowly.
"Why should I feel hurt?" His voice had changed. It had lost that intimate quality which it had had during the last few minutes, when he had been on the point of telling Sally about happiness. "It is Uncle John's money, I suppose? Why should I feel any compunctions about taking it?And—er—there are conditions incident to the acceptance of this—er—this gift, I suppose?"
"I'm afraid there are," she replied; "at least, tacitly understood."
He considered for a few moments. "I think," he said then, "that it will conduce to happiness, on the whole, if we are not too tacit about those conditions. What are they?"
"I hoped," she answered gently, "that you would not insist on my repeating them. You must understand, from what I have said, what they are."
"I prefer that they should be stated as conditions."
"Very well." Sally's voice was harder and colder. "As you like. You are not to take any steps whatever, even to reveal your existence to my mother and Charlie. Charlie is not to be allowed to play at your house—not to be allowed to enter it."
"But, Sally, I may be unable to prevent that," he protested. "The house is not mine. I am only—only an employé and an underling. I will do what I can, but there is no use in promising what I can't perform."
Sally smiled a little. It was something new for him to stick at promising.
"Those are the conditions which I must make in self-defense," she said.
"May I venture to ask what is offered on the other side?"
She made a rapid calculation. "The most that I can offer you is seven hundred a year. I'd like to make it a thousand; but I have mother and Charlie to take care of, and I must pay Patty what she had let him have—without my knowledge," she added apologetically. "I agree to send you sixty dollars a month on those conditions."
He was leaning back in his chair and spoke in his old manner, lightly.
"And if the conditions are violated?"
"The allowance stops," Sally replied promptly.
"And further?"
There was a suspicion of moisture again in Sally's eyes."You make it unnecessarily hard, father," she said gently. "I shall act further if you compel me to." She was reminded of the time when she had asked his permission to go to dancing-school. Her feelings, she found, were much the same as they had been on that occasion. "I am ready to put it in writing if you wish."
"Oh, no," said the professor airily. "It is not necessary, Sally. Your word would be all that anybody could require; anybody who knew you."
"Thank you," she murmured. It was very low and he gave no sign of having heard it.
Again he was silent; then he turned to her. A smile of amusement curled his lip. "There is, at least, no question of sentiment in all this, is there, Sally?"
"Oh, I don't know," she murmured more gently than ever. She was not looking at him, but down at the arm of her chair. "There may be, but I must not let it interfere with my judgment—in this matter. There is mother to think of."
"Ah! I infer that your mother would not welcome an occasion for reuniting that family which I mentioned."
It was not a question and Sally said nothing. After a pause, the professor sighed and spoke again.
"I accept your munificent offer, Sally. There is nothing else to do."
It was his way—it had always been his way to put the giver in the wrong, by a simple turn of words; to make her feel as if it were he who was conferring the favor. Sally felt somehow guilty and apologetic.
"Will you give me your address?" she asked, diffidently—"the address to which you would like your money sent?"
He wrote on a slip of paper with an old stub of a pencil which he pulled from his pocket and handed her the paper. She read it and looked up at him quickly.
"Am I to make them out in this name?" she asked. "It is not—"
"It is not Ladue," he interrupted deliberately, butshowing more emotion than he had shown hitherto. "Professor Charles Ladue, I would have you know, Sally, died about ten years ago, in extreme poverty and distress—of mind as well as of body."
Sally's tears overflowed and dropped, unheeded. She put out her hand impulsively, and laid it upon his.
"Oh, father!" she whispered. "I am sorry."
"I believe you are," he said. He rose. "Now I will go back to obscurity. Don't be too sorry for me," he added quickly. "I cultivate it."
Mrs. Ladue asked no troublesome questions. Perhaps she thought that she had no need to; that she knew, as well as if she had been told, what Charlie had been doing. Sally had been to see about it, of course, and now it was all right, equally of course. Sally always remedied wrongs as well as anybody could and made them right again. It was a great comfort. And Mrs. Ladue sighed happily and smiled.
Sally thought the smile somewhat ill-timed, but she was glad enough that her mother felt like smiling. That smile exasperated her a little. She had just come back and the past twenty-four hours had been rather crowded. But her mother did not know that. And she was glad enough that her mother had not asked questions, for, if she had been asked, she would have lied, if necessary, for the first time in her life. Her mother did make a remark which, as Sally thought, showed that she knew. Sally had her hand on the door and was on the point of going out.
She turned. "Why, mother!" she exclaimed. "So you knew, all the time, what the trouble was!" She laughed in derision; at herself, chiefly. "And I took such pains to keep the truth from you!"
"I didn't know, Sally. I only guessed. It's what I have been afraid of for years—the first thing I should have looked for. What else could you expect, with his—"
She did not go on. Sally, fresh from that interview with her father,—it had happened only that morning,—was almost overcome by the memory of it.
"Why, Sally, dear!" cried her mother. "I didn't suppose you felt so. Don't, dear. It's nothing that we can help—the wanting to, I mean. And I'm sure you have done more than anybody else could."
Sally regained her self-control with an effort. "I don't feel so bad about Charlie. I've done all that I can—now. But it's rather taken it out of me," she added, with a nervous little laugh.
"Of course, dear. I wish I were good for anything. I know," she said, laughing nervously, in her turn, "that I ought to feel troubled. But I can't, Sally, dear. As long as—" she hesitated and flushed. "I am rather ashamed to say it, but as long as—as your father hasn't turned up, I can't be anything but contented and happy. I find that I've had an absurd feeling—utterly absurd, dear, I know—that he was about to. It's only since you were on the way that that dread has left me and I've felt contented—so happy and contented. The change came with curious suddenness, about the time your train must have left."
Sally had turned away sharply. "I'm very glad, mother," she replied in a stifled little voice. "I'm glad you can feel so happy. There's no need to feel that dread any more, I think. I'm going out now. Don't be worried if I am late."
"Going to walk, Sally?" Mrs. Ladue asked diffidently. "You had better tell me what direction you will take—in case Fox comes in, you know. He always wants to know your direction if you are at all late."
"I'm going out to see him," Sally returned. "I promised to tell him about it."
If Sally had stopped to think of it at all she might have wondered why her mother seemed so glad that she was going to Fox's. But her mind was taken up with thoughts of her father, to the exclusion of everything and everybody else—but one, and Sally was not aware of the exception. Fox was the only person she was free to tell about her father and she was looking forward to it. When she had shared her knowledge—with somebody—it would be less of a burden. It never occurred to her that he might not be glad to know. Wasn't he always glad to know of anything which concerned her—anything at all? And as Sally thought these thoughtsa vivid blush spread over her face and her throat. It was a pity that there was nobody to see it.
Fox met her at the door. There was a questioning smile on his face as he took her hand. He led the way into his office and Sally sank into an armchair that stood by the table. Fox drew another chair near and sat down. Then he took a little slip of paper from his pocket and laid it by her elbow.
"The rent," he said.
Sally laughed, but she let it lie there.
"Well?" Fox asked.
"Well!" She found that she had very little to say and that little did not come readily. "It is nice to get into a chair that is comfortable without swallowing you whole—as if it would never give you up." She patted an arm of the chair nervously. "I like these low arms."
"Yes," said Fox, "so do I. And—there is no hurry, Sally. Would you like to rest there—just sit and be comfortable for a while? You can have had very little real rest for some time and you must have had much to tire you. Just exactly as you please. I am entirely at your service—as I am always," he added, in a low voice. "I can be attending to my work, and you could begin whenever you were ready, or I will give my undivided attention now."
"Have you got work," Sally began hastily, "that—"
"Oh, there's no hurry about it." And Fox smiled quietly. "But there's enough to do. Routine, mostly."
"Could you do it with me here? Wouldn't you—"
"Couldn't I!" Fox smiled again. "It adds a great deal to my peace of mind to have you in the same room with me, even when you aren't saying anything. And peace of mind, Sally, is—"
"Yes, I know," said Sally, interrupting. "Well, let's try it. You go to your desk and work and I'll sit here and rest. And when the spirit moves me I'll speak."
So Fox went to his desk and Sally watched him as he became more and more absorbed; and, as she watched, therecame a light into her eyes which had not been there before. Still she said nothing; only leaned her head back against the chair and watched. Once he looked back at her and smiled. He almost caught that light—that look in her eyes, but Sally managed to quench it in time.
"Resting, Sally?" he asked.
She nodded and he turned back to his desk. The work did not seem difficult. Sally wondered, and in her wonder she forgot, for the moment.
"Couldn't I do that, Fox?"
"To be sure you could," he answered quickly, "if you only would. It isn't half as difficult as what you do at your office."
He had not looked around. Sally was glad of that, for she was blushing—at her own temerity, she told herself. Again there was silence in the room, except for the rustling of papers.
"Fox," said Sally, after five minutes of this, "what would you do with Charlie now? Would you send him back to college?"
He put his papers down and turned. "Does the spirit move you to talk now?"
Again she nodded. "I think so. The little rest has done me good. And I should like to have your advice."
He came to the chair near hers. "What happened after I left you last night?"
"Nothing in particular," she answered. "I don't remember that we said anything of consequence. I had a talk with Charlie, early this morning." She gave him the substance of it; if it could be said to have any substance. "This is the council of war," she added, smiling somewhat wearily, "that is to settle his fate."
Fox sat contemplating the wall. "It seems rather hard to say 'no' to your question," he said at last, slowly, "but I should be inclined to advise it. Have you any assurance—besides Charlie's promise, that is—that he will not return to his bad habits?"
"No, none of consequence. I am afraid he would. If—if he went into the office with me now, I could keep an eye on him. That is," she amended rather hopelessly, "I could try to. Charlie would probably have no trouble in deceiving me if he tried to. I thought that Henrietta might be willing to help about him. She might be able to do more with him than I could."
"Of course she would be willing."
"She seems to have influence with Charlie and I should think she would be willing to use it for his good. I haven't any influence," she continued, "except through his fear of being found out. I don't know how it happened—that doesn't matter especially—but he doesn't trust me. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is." She sighed and looked away.
Fox did not like to have her look away. He much preferred to have those gray eyes look trustingly into his.
"You may be sure that it's through no fault of yours, Sally."
"Perhaps," Sally returned, looking back at him. "Perhaps, but I'm not so sure. Very likely it is my fault. At any rate, it can't be helped. That's the way it's gone." She stopped and seemed to be considering; wondering, perhaps, how she should have done. She could not have done differently, being herself. There was always, at the bottom of her heart, an utter contempt for—well, she would not complete that thought. And she sighed again and resumed. Fox had said nothing.
"If we kept him in college, there would be relapses,—inevitably, I think,—and I should only have to do this over again. Not that I should mind," she interrupted herself hastily, "if it would do any good. But every relapse would make it harder. There seems to be no escape. I think he'll have to come out. That, I understand, is the sense of the meeting?" She looked at Fox again, smiling whimsically.
"That is my advice," said he, "if I am privileged to give advice on the subject. I'm sorry to be seeming to take away his opportunities. His regret will grow as he grows older."
Sally shook her head. "He doesn't seem to have any regret."
"He will have."
"He may. I should think he would. But it's his own fault and that's all there is to say about Charlie. I've done the best I could and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I'll have him come into the office to-morrow and I think he'll be glad to. It's a change, you know."
Sally looked at Fox and smiled again; but if there was anything humorous in her smile there was much more that was scornful.
"And now, Fox," Sally continued, very low—he could hardly hear the words—and looking away again, "I have something else to tell you. It is rather terrible, I think." Her voice was not steady and she stopped, trying to control it. She did not want to cry; she did not mean to. "I saw—" She choked, but went on bravely. "I saw my father this morning."
"What!" He cried in a voice as low as her own. The effect of her words was as great as she could have expected, if she thought of the effect at all. He put out his hand instinctively; but Sally withdrew hers. "Where, Sally?"
"He came to the hotel to see me." She spoke in a monotonous voice. She found that her only hope lay in using that voice. She might begin to cry at any moment. If she should—she was almost worn out and she was afraid. In that same monotonous voice she gave every detail of the interview. She did not omit anything. It was all burned into her memory. Fox did not speak. When she came to an end of her account she found that even her monotonous voice could not save her. She was perilously near to tears and her chin would quiver in spite of all that she could do.
"Sally! Sally!" said Fox tenderly. He saw her condition. "Don't tell me any more now if it distresses you."
"I may as well," she replied as well as she could. She smiled up at him, but her chin quivered more and more. "I may as well—now as well as another time. For—for I'vegot to tell you, Fox." She looked at him imploringly. "I've got to tell somebody, and the somebody is always you." She smiled again tearfully, and looked away again. Fox could not stand many such smiles. He would—would do something, he did not know just what; but he sat gazing at her with infinite tenderness and pity, saying nothing.
"My father is employed in—in the house that we went to," she resumed at last; "the house where Charlie has been playing. He deals the cards—or something. He must have known!" Two tears fell into her lap. "To think that my father has fallen to that!—has fallen so low! And when Charlie said that to him," she cried desperately, "it almost b—broke my heart."
Her voice shook and suddenly she bowed her head upon her arms, which were resting on the table, and broke into a passion of tears; wild weeping, such as Fox had never known—had never supposed could come from her. She had always seemed so beautifully poised, so steady and so sturdy; like a rock, on which others built their foundations. But the rod had smitten her and the springs were unbound. He had a wild desire to take her in his arms.
But he didn't—then. He only murmured something meant to be comforting. God knew he wanted to comfort her; wanted to as he had never wanted anything in his life before. He would, if he only knew how. But the wild weeping had given way to a subdued sobbing.
"And—it—it alm—most b—broke my heart," she sobbed, "to re—refuse what he asked. B—but I had to do it. I h—had to do it, Fox. I c—couldn't do anything else." She caught her breath. She could not go on for a minute.
Only an inarticulate murmur came from Fox.
"Father was such a pathetic figure!" Sally went on a soon as she could speak. "Of course I know that he is not always so—that he is seldom so. There were mother and Charlie to think of. But it seemed so terrible! And he was so patient under Charlie's—treatment—his own father! I can't get him out of my—"
Her wild weeping, restrained for a moment, broke out again.
"Sally!" Fox murmured, leaning forward and laying a hand upon her knee. "Sally, dear!"
There was a great distress and a great longing in his look, but Sally had her head down and she did not see it. But it was in his voice and she may have heard it. He rose impulsively from his chair and went to her quickly—it was only a step—and he sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm around her.
"Sally, dear!" he implored. "Don't cry so! Please don't."
She did not repulse him, as he had feared she would, gently, of course, but firmly; but she did not yield either. It was as if, for the moment, he was nothing to her—nothing more than a brother; notherbrother, thank heaven! She only sobbed, there, for some minutes—in his arms. That was enough.
She became more quiet in time. She still had her head down upon one arm, but she was feeling up her sleeve and under her belt, searching for something.
"Forgive me, F—Fox," she said, "I didn't mean to do it, but I'm t—tired out and—and I can't find my handkerchief." She laughed a little hysterically. "Have you got one to l—lend me, Fox? I c—can't lift my head be—because I'm crying and I've cried all over your table and into your chair—"
"Drat the table! What do you suppose I care about it, Sally?"
"You—you ought to. I—it's a very pretty table."
"I value it only because it holds your tears." Fox was unfolding a handkerchief. It was a very large handkerchief. He put it into her seeking hand. "I remember another occasion when you had to borrow a handkerchief," he said. "Do you remember it, Sally?"
She nodded and began to mop her eyes. "Mercy! I—I didn't want a sheet, Fox," she said.
Fox smiled. "I didn't know. You might." His voice wasnot steady as he went on. "Sally," he whispered, "I—I want you. I want you!"
She gave another hysterical laugh. "Well," she cried, "anybody w—would th—think that y—you had me."
"Have I, Sally dear?" he asked, still in that low whisper. "Have I?" He bent over her neck. That was the only part of her that he could reach—that neck with its little tendrils of waving hair.
"Oh, don't!" she cried hastily. "Don't, Fox. You haven't got me—yet," she added in a whisper which was barely audible. But Fox heard it. "It—it isn't because—because you are sorry for me?" she asked in a very small voice.
"No," Fox was smiling again; but, as Sally had her eyes hidden, of course she did not see it. "I am sorry for you as I can be, but that isn't the reason. Guess again."
"Are yousure, Fox?Verysure?" she asked. "Say that you are, Fox," she whispered. "Can't you please say that you are?"
"I am sure."
"And it isn't be—because m—my father," the small voice asked again, "because my father is a—"
"No. That isn't the reason either. I'm quite sure, Sally."
Sally's head was still down on the table and she was wiping away her tears.
"But, Fox," she protested, "you ought not to, you know."
"I ought," he replied indignantly. "I ought to have done it long ago. Why not?"
Sally smiled at the table. "M—my father," she returned, not at all dismally, "would disgrace you—very likely. He's a d—"
He interrupted her. "I don't care what he is, Sally," he said softly. "I don't care about anything—but this."
"And my brother is a gambler," she went on, in a disgracefully happy voice, considering what she was saying,—"with not much hope that he will be anything else. I don't deceive myself."
"Only the greater reason," he said, more softly yet. "I want you, Sally."
"Do you? After that?"
"You may believe it—dearest."
She gave a sudden, happy little cry. "Oh, I believe it. I want to believe it. I have wanted to for more than two years—ever—since the night of the fire." She lifted her head, the tears shining in her eyes; something else shining there. "Then I don't care for—for Margaret—or—or anybody else; or any—any—thing"—her voice sank to a whisper once more—"but you."
Sally raised her eyes slowly to his. They were shy eyes, and very tender. And Fox looked into their depths and saw—but what he saw concerns only him and Sally. He seemed satisfied with what he saw. He held her closer. Sally's eyes filled slowly and overflowed at last, and she shut them.
"I'm crying because I'm so happy," she whispered.
Fox bent and kissed her. "I don't care for Margaret or for anybody else but you," he murmured, "and I never have cared for anybody else. I don't know what you mean. Who is Margaret?"
Sally opened her eyes. "You don't know?" she asked in surprise.
"I don't know. You have spoken of her before—as if I ought to know all about her. Who is she and why must I know about her?"
She did not answer at once. Her eyes were deep and shining and, her eyes searching his, she put up her arms—slowly—slowly—about his neck. "Oh, Fox, dear!" she cried softly. "Oh, Fox, dear! And you don't know!"
She laughed low and happily. Then she drew his head down—it came readily enough—
When Sally emerged, a minute or two later, she was blushing. She seemed burning up. She hid her burning cheeks in Fox's shoulder.
"Fox," she murmured from her hiding place, "don't you remember Margaret Savage?"
"Oh, yes," he answered quite cheerfully. "She is very pretty now—very attractive to the young men—but she's as much of a fool as ever."
Sally laughed again. "And Henrietta told me," she said, "that you might succumb. So you see that, when you spoke of getting married—"
"Why, I meant you, all the time."
"Ye—es, but I didn't know that—and—and I thought that you meant Margaret and—and Henrietta's remarks set me to thinking and then—then, pretty soon, I knew that—that I loved you, Fox, and I was very unhappy. Oh, Fox, Iwasunhappy!"
"I'm sorry, darling. I'm very sorry. Sally!"
She looked up at him and, as she looked, the red once more mounted slowly, flooding her throat and then her cheeks. Again she put her arms up and drew his head down.
The crimson flood had left her face and there was in it only a lovely color as she lay back in his arms. "Don't you love me, Fox?"
He laughed. "Love you! Love you! I should think it was—"
"Then," she asked, "why don't you say so, sir? You haven't said so yet—not once." His arms tightened about her. "Close, Fox, dear!" she whispered. "Hold me closer. I don't want to get away, ever."
It was getting late when they finally stood at a window from which they could see the little cream-colored house—they had got as far as that—and the grove behind it.
"I want to open that house," Fox was saying. "I want to live in it."
"Iwant to live in it," Sally said.
"But," he returned quickly, "you know what must happen first. How soon, Sally?"
"Just as soon as ever I can manage it, dear. You may depend upon that. And now I must go. I'm disgracefully late, even now."
She hastily rearranged her hair, which, strangely enough,was much disordered, and she put on her hat. Then she stood before him.
"Now, don't you be troubled about your father, Sally, or about Charlie, or anything. We will take care of those troubles together."
"As if you hadn't always tried to take those troubles off my shoulders!" She raised her radiant eyes to his. "If this is what you meant by 'paying in kind,' you shall be paid, Fox. Oh, youshallbe paid. And, dear, nothing troubles me now. Do you understand?Nothing. Now I must run. Don't come with me. People couldn't help noticing something. Good night."
Once more she kissed him, and she was gone, walking buoyantly and turning more than once to wave to him. Fox's eyes were wet as he watched her.
"Bless you, Sally! God go with you!"
God go with you, Sally!