256
There was only one woman in the world he knew who would care for a man like that––if she cared at all. That brought him to his feet again. He glared about as if searching for her in the dark. Why wasn’t she here now, so that he might ask her if she did care? She had no business to go off and leave him like this! He did not know where she was.
Don struck a match and looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. Somehow, he must find her. He had her old address, and it was possible that she had left word where she had gone. At any rate, this was the only clue he had.
He made his way back to the Avenue, and, at a pace that at times almost broke into a run, went toward the club and the first taxi he saw. In twenty minutes he was standing on the steps where he had last seen her. She had wished him to say “good-bye”; but he remembered that he had refused to say “good-bye.”
The landlady knew Miss Winthrop’s address, but she was not inclined to give it to him. At first she did not like the expression in his eyes. He was too eager.
“Seems to me,” she argued, “she’d have257told parties where she was going if she wanted them to know.”
“This is very important,” he insisted.
“Maybe it’s a lot more important to you than it is to her,” she replied.
“But––”
“You can leave your name and address, and I’ll write to her,” she offered.
“Look here,” Don said desperately. “Do you want to know what my business is with her?”
“It’s none of my business, but––”
“I want to ask her to marry me,” he broke in. “That’s a respectable business, isn’t it?”
He reached in his pocket and drew out a bill. He slipped it into her hand.
“Want to marry her?” exclaimed the woman. “Well, now, I wouldn’t stand in the way of that. Will you step in while I get the address?”
“I’ll wait here. Only hurry. There may be a late train.”
She was back in a few seconds, holding a slip of paper in her hand.
“It’s to Brenton, Maine, she’s gone.”
258
Don grabbed the paper.
“Thanks.”
He was halfway down the steps when she called after him:––
“Good luck to ye, sir.”
“Thanks again,” he called back.
Then he gave his order to the driver:––
“To the Grand Central.”
Don found that he could take the midnight train to Boston and connect there with a ten-o’clock train next morning. This would get him into Portland in time for a connection that would land him at Brenton at four that afternoon. He went back to the house to pack his bag. As he opened the door and went in, it seemed as if she might already be there––as if she might be waiting for him. Had she stepped forward to greet him and announce that dinner was ready, he would not have been greatly surprised. It was as if she had been here all this last year. But it was only Nora who came to greet him.
“I’m going away to-night for a few days––perhaps for two weeks,” he told Nora.
“Yes, sir.”
259
“I’ll wire you what my plans are––either to-morrow or next day.”
“And it is to be soon, sir?”
“I can’t tell you for sure, Nora, until I’ve cleared up one or two little matters; but––you can wish me luck, anyway.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“And the house is ready, isn’t it?”
“Everything is ready, sir.”
“That’s fine. Now I’m going to pack.”
His packing finished, Don went downstairs with still an hour or more on his hands before train-time. But he did not care to go anywhere. He was absolutely contented here. He was content merely to wander from room to room. He sat down at the piano in the dark, and for a long while played to her––played to her just the things he knew she would like.
It was half-past eleven before he left the house, and then he went almost reluctantly. She was more here than anywhere in the world except where he was going. He found himself quite calm about her here. The moment he came out on the street again he noticed a difference.260His own phrase came back to frighten him:––
“She’d care like that––if she cared at all.”
Supposing that after he found her, she did not care?
At the station he wondered if it were best to wire her, but decided against it. She might run away. It was never possible to tell what a woman might do, and Sally Winthrop was an adept at concealing herself. He remembered that period when, although he had been in the same office with her, she had kept herself as distant as if across the ocean. She had only to say, “Not at home,” and it was as if she said, “I am not anywhere.”
He went to his berth at once, and had, on the whole, a bad night of it. He asked himself a hundred questions that he could not answer––that Sally Winthrop alone could answer. Though it was only lately that he had prided himself on knowing her desires in everything, he was forced to leave all these questions unanswered.
At ten the next morning he took the train for Portland. At two he was on the train for261Brenton and hurrying through a strange country to her side.
When he reached Brenton he was disappointed not to find her when he stepped from the train. The station had been so closely identified with her through the long journey that he had lost sight of the fact that it existed for any other purpose. But only a few station loafers were there to greet him, and they revealed but an indifferent interest. He approached one of them.
“Can you tell me where Miss Winthrop is stopping?”
The man looked blank.
“No one of that name in this town,” he finally answered.
“Isn’t this Brenton?”
“It’s Brenton, right enough.”
“Then she’s here,” declared Don.
“Is she visitin’?” inquired the man.
Don nodded.
“A cousin, or something.”
A second man spoke up:––
“Ain’t she the one who’s stopping with Mrs. Halliday?”
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“Rather slight, with brown eyes,” volunteered Don.
“Dunno the color of her eyes,” answered the first man, with a wink at the second. “But thar’s some one stoppin’ thar. Been here couple days or so.”
“That’s she,” Don decided.
He drew a dollar bill from his pocket.
“I want one of you to take a note to her from me.”
He wrote on the back of a card:––
I’m at the station. I must see you at once.
DON.
DON.
“Take that to her right away and bring me an answer,” he ordered.
The man took both bill and card and disappeared.
263CHAPTER XXIXMOSTLY SALLY
It was an extremely frightened girl who within five minutes appeared upon the station platform. She was quite out of breath, for she had been running. As he came toward her with outstretched hands, she stared at him from head to foot, as if to make sure he was not minus an arm or a leg.
“Won’t you even shake hands with me?” he asked anxiously.
“You––you gave me such a fright,” she panted.
“How?”
“I thought––I thought you must have been run over.”
He seemed rather pleased.
“And you cared?” he asked eagerly.
She was fast recovering herself now.
“Well, it wouldn’t be unnatural to care, would it, if you expected to find a friend all run over?”
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“And, now that you find I’m not a mangled corpse, you don’t care at all.”
Of course he wouldn’t choose to be a corpse, because he would not have been able to enjoy the situation; but, on the whole, he was sorry that he did not have a mangled hand or something to show. Evidently his whole hand did not interest her––she had not yet offered to take it.
“How in the world did you get here?” she demanded.
“I took the train.”
“But––has anything happened?”
“Lots of things have happened,” he said. “That’s what I want to tell you about.”
He looked around. His messenger was taking an eager interest in the situation.
“That’s why I came to see you,” he explained. “Of course, if it’s necessary to confide also in your neighbor over there, I’ll do it; but I thought that perhaps you could suggest some less public place.”
She appeared frightened in a different sort of way now.
“But, Mr. Pendleton––”
265
“I’m going to remain here perhaps a day or two,” he interrupted.
To him the most obvious course was for her to ask him to meet her aunt and invite him to remain there.
“Is there a hotel in town?” he asked.
“I––I don’t think so,” she faltered.
“Then,” he decided, “I must find some sort of camping-place. If you know a bit of woods where I can spend the night, you might direct me.”
He was quite himself now. It was a relief to her. It put her quite off her guard.
“Won’t you come and meet my aunt?” she invited.
He picked up his suitcase at once.
“It will be a pleasure,” he answered.
She could not imagine what her aunt would think when she appeared so abruptly escorting a young man with a suitcase, but that did not seem to matter. She knew no better than her aunt what had brought him here; but, now that he was here, it was certain that she must take care of him. She could not allow him to wander homelessly around the village or permit266him to camp out like a gypsy. It did not occur to her to reason that this predicament was wholly his fault. All the old feeling of responsibility came back.
As they walked side by side down the street, he was amazed to see how much good even these two days in the country had done her. There was more color in her cheeks and more life in her walk. She was wearing a middy blouse, and that made her look five years younger.
She looked up at him.
“I––I thought you had something very important to do in these next few days,” she reminded him.
“I have,” he answered.
“Then––I don’t understand how you came here.”
On the train it had seemed to him that he must explain within the first five minutes; but, now that she was actually within sound of his voice, actually within reach, there seemed to be no hurry. In her presence his confidence increased with every passing minute. For one thing, he could argue with her, and whenever267in the past he had argued with her he had succeeded.
“I needed you to explain certain things to me,” he replied.
She looked away from him.
“About what?” she asked quickly.
“About getting me married.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
He could not tell what she meant by the little cry. He would have asked her had they not at that moment turned into a gate that led through an old-fashioned garden to a small white cottage.
“I’ll have to run ahead and prepare Mrs. Halliday,” she said.
So she left him upon the doorstep, and he took off his hat to the cool, pine-laden breeze that came from a mountain in the distance. He liked this town at once. He liked the elm-lined village street, and the snug white houses and the quiet and content of it. Then he found himself being introduced rather jerkily to Mrs. Halliday––a tall, thin New England type, with kindly eyes set in a sharp face. It was evident at once that after her first keen inspection268of this stranger she was willing to accept him with much less suspicion than Miss Winthrop.
“I told Sally this morning, when I spilled the sugar, that a stranger was coming,” she exclaimed. “Now you come right upstairs. I reckon you’ll want to wash up after that long ride.”
“It’s mighty good of you to take me in this way,” he said.
“Laws sake, what’s a spare room for?”
She led the way to a small room with white curtains at the windows and rag rugs upon the floor and a big silk crazy-quilt on an old four-poster bed. She hurried about and found soap and towels for him, and left him with the hope that he would make himself at home.
And at once he did feel at home. He felt at home just because Sally Winthrop was somewhere in the same house. That was the secret of it. He had felt at home in the station as soon as she appeared; he had felt at home in the village because she had walked by his side; and now he felt at home here. And by that he meant that he felt very free and very happy and269very much a part of any section of the world she might happen to be in. It had been so in New York, and it was so here.
He was downstairs again in five minutes, looking for Sally Winthrop. It seemed that Mrs. Halliday’s chief concern now was about supper, and that Sally was out in the kitchen helping her. He found that out by walking in upon her and finding her in a blue gingham apron. Her cheeks turned very red and she hurriedly removed the apron.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” he protested.
That was very easy to say, but he did disturb her. Then Mrs. Halliday shooed her out of the kitchen.
“You run right along now; I can attend to things myself.”
“I’d like to help, too,” said Don.
“Run along––both of you,” insisted Mrs. Halliday. “You’d be more bother than help.”
So the two found themselves on the front steps again, and Don suggested they remain there. The sun was getting low and bathing the street in a soft light.
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“I have something very important to say to you,” he began.
“To me?” she exclaimed.
Again there was the expression of astonishment and––something more.
“It’s about my getting married,” he nodded.
“But I thought that was all settled!”
“It is,” he admitted.
“Oh!”
“I think it was settled long before I knew it.”
“Then you’re to be married right away?”
“I hope so.”
“That will be nice.”
“It will be wonderful,” he exclaimed. “It will be the most wonderful thing in the world!”
“But why did you come ’way down here?”
“To talk it over with you. You see, a lot depends upon you.”
“Me?”
Again that questioning personal pronoun.
“A great deal depends upon you. You are to say when it is to be.”
271
“Mr. Pendleton!”
“I wish you’d remember I’m not in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves now. Can’t you call me just Don?”
She did not answer.
“Because,” he explained, “I mean to call you Sally.”
“You mustn’t.”
“I mean to call you that all the rest of my life,” he went on more soberly. “Don’t you understand how much depends upon you?”
Startled, she glanced up swiftly. What she saw in his eyes made her catch her breath. He was speaking rapidly now:––
“Everything depends upon you––upon no one else in all the world but you. I discovered that in less than a day after you left. It’s been like that ever since I met you. I love you, and I’ve come down here to marry you––to take you back with me to the house that’s all ready––back to the house you’ve made ready.”
She gave a little cry and covered her face with her hands.
“Don’t do that,” he pleaded.
“IT’S ABOUT MY GETTING MARRIED”
“IT’S ABOUT MY GETTING MARRIED”
272
She looked as if she were crying.
“Sally––Sally Winthrop, you aren’t crying?”
He placed a hand upon her arm.
“Don’t touch me!” she sobbed.
“Why shouldn’t I touch you?”
“Because––because this is all a horrible mistake.”
“I’m trying to correct a horrible mistake,” he answered gently.
“No––no––no. You must go back to her––right away.”
“To Frances?”
She nodded.
“You don’t understand. She doesn’t want to marry me.”
“You asked her?”
“Yes.”
“And then––and then you came to me?”
“Yes, little girl. She sent me to you. She––why, it was she that made me see straight!”
Her face was still concealed.
“I––I wish you’d go away,” she sobbed.
“You don’t understand!” he answered fiercely. “I’m not going away. I love you, and273I’ve come to get you. I won’t go away until you come with me.”
She rose to her feet, her back toward him.
“Go away!” she cried.
Then she ran into the house, leaving him standing there dazed.
274CHAPTER XXXDON EXPLAINS
It seemed that, in spite of her business training and the unsentimental outlook on life upon which she had rather prided herself, Sally Winthrop did not differ greatly from other women. Shut up in her room, a deep sense of humiliation overwhelmed her. He had asked this other girl to marry him, and when she refused he had come to her! He thought as lightly of her as that––a mere second choice when the first was made impossible. He had no justification for that. This other had sent him to her––doubtless with a smile of scorn upon her pretty lips.
But what was she crying about and making her nose all red? She should have answered him with another smile and sent him back again. Then he would have understood how little she cared––would have understood that she did not care enough even to feel the sting of such an insult as this. For the two days she had275been here awaiting the announcement of his marriage she had said over and over again that she did not care––said it the first thing upon waking and the last thing upon retiring. Even when she woke up in the night, as she did many times, she said it to herself. It had been a great comfort to her, for it was a full and complete answer to any wayward thoughts that took her unaware.
She did not care about him, so what was she sniveling about and making her nose all red? She dabbed her handkerchief into her eyes and sought her powder-box. If he had only kept away from her everything would have been all right. Within the next ten or eleven days she would have readjusted herself and been ready to take up her work again, with another lesson learned. She would have gone back to her room wiser and with still more confidence in herself. And now he was downstairs, waiting for her. There was no way she could escape him. She must do all those things without the help of seclusion. She must not care, with him right before her eyes.
She began to cry again. It was not fair. It276was the sense of injustice that now broke her down. She was doing her best, and no one would help her. Even he made it as hard for her as possible. On top of that he had added this new insult. He wished a wife, and if he could not have this one he would take that one––as Farnsworth selected his stenographers. He had come to her because she had allowed herself to lunch with him and dine with him and walk with him. He had presumed upon what she had allowed herself to say to him. Because she had interested herself in him and tried to help him, he thought she was to be as lightly considered as this. He had not waited even a decent interval, but had come to her direct from Frances––she of the scornful smile.
Once again Sally stopped crying. If only she could hold that smile before her, all might yet be well. Whenever she looked into his eyes and thought them tender, she must remember that smile. Whenever his voice tempted her against her reason, she must remember that––for to-night, anyhow; and to-morrow he must go back. Either that or she would leave. She277could not endure this very long––certainly not for eleven days.
“Sally––where are you?”
It was Mrs. Halliday’s voice from downstairs.
“I’m coming,” she answered.
The supper was more of an epicurean than a social success. Mrs. Halliday had made hot biscuit, and opened a jar of strawberry preserves, and sliced a cold chicken which she had originally intended for to-morrow’s dinner; but, in spite of that, she was forced to sit by and watch her two guests do scarcely more than nibble.
“I declare, I don’t think young folks eat as much as they useter in my days,” she commented.
Don tried to excuse himself by referring to a late dinner at Portland; but Sally, as usual, had no excuse whatever. She was forced to endure in silence the searching inquiry of Mrs. Halliday’s eyes as well as Don’s. For the half-hour they were at table she heartily wished she was back again in her own room in New York. There, at least, she would have been free to278shut herself up, away from all eyes but her own. Moreover, she had to look forward to what she should do at the end of the meal. For all she saw, she was going to be then in even a worse plight than she was now. For he would be able to talk, and she must needs answer and keep from crying. Above all things else, she must keep from crying. She did not wish him to think her a little fool as well as other things.
She was forced to confess that after the first five minutes Don did his best to relieve the tension. He talked to Mrs. Halliday about one thing and another, and kept on talking. And, though it was quite evident to her that he had no appetite, he managed to consume three of the hot biscuit. After supper, when she rose to help her aunt in the kitchen, he wished also to help. But Mrs. Halliday would have neither of them. That made it bad for her again, for it left her with no alternative but to sit again upon the front porch with him. So there they were again, right back where they started.
“What did you run into the house for?” he demanded.
279
“Please let’s not talk any more, of that,” she pleaded.
“But it’s the nub of the whole matter,” he insisted.
“I went in because I did not want to talk any more.”
“Very well. Then you needn’t talk. But you can listen, can’t you?”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s exactly the opposite thing. You can listen, and just nod or shake your head. Then you won’t have to speak a word. Will you do that?”
It was an absurd proposition, but she was forced either to accept it or to run away again. Somehow, it did not appear especially dignified to keep on running away, when in the end she must needs come back again. So she nodded.
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” he suggested. “That’s somewhere toward the middle of my senior year. I’d known Frances before that, but about that time she came on to Boston, and we went to a whole lot of dances and things together.”
280
He paused a moment.
“I wish I’d brought a picture of her with me,” he resumed thoughtfully, “because she’s really a peach.”
Miss Winthrop looked up quickly. He was apparently serious.
“She’s tall and dark and slender,” he went on, “and when she’s all togged up she certainly looks like a queen. She had a lot of friends in town, and we kept going about four nights a week. Then came the ball games, and then Class Day. You ever been to Class Day?”
Miss Winthrop shook her head with a quick little jerk.
“It’s all music and Japanese lanterns, and if you’re sure of your degree it’s a sort of fairyland where nothing is quite real. You just feel at the time that it’s always going to be like that. It was then I asked her to marry me.”
Miss Winthrop was sitting with her chin in her hands, looking intently at the brick path leading to the house.
“You listening?”
She nodded jerkily.
281
“It seemed all right then. And it seemed all right after that. Stuyvesant was agreeable enough, and so I came on to New York. Then followed Dad’s death. Dad was a queer sort, but he was square as a die. I’m sorry he went before he had a chance to meet you. I didn’t realize what good pals we were until afterward. But, anyway, he died, and he tied the property all up as I’ve told you. Maybe he thought if he didn’t I’d blow it in, because I see now I’d been getting rid of a good many dollars. I went to Frances and told her all about it, and offered to cancel the engagement. But she was a good sport and said she’d wait until I earned ten thousand a year. You listening?”
She nodded.
“Because it’s right here you come in. I was going to get it inside a year, and you know just about how much chance I stood. But it looked easy to her, because her father was pulling down about that much a month, and not killing himself either. I didn’t know any more about it than she did; but the difference between us was that as soon as I was on the inside I learned a lot she didn’t learn. I learned282how hard it is to get ten thousand a year; more than that, I learned how unnecessary it is to get it. That’s what you taught me.”
“I––I didn’t mean to,” she interrupted.
“You’re talking,” he reminded her.
She closed her lips firmly together.
“Whether you meant to or not isn’t the point. You did teach me that and a lot of other things. I didn’t know it at the time, and went plugging ahead, thinking everything was just the same when it wasn’t at all. Frances was headed one way and I was headed another. Then she went abroad, and after that I learned faster than ever. I learned what a home can be made to mean, and work can be made to mean, and life can be made to mean. All those things you were teaching me. I didn’t know it, and you didn’t know it, and Frances didn’t know it. That ten thousand grew less and less important to me, and all the while I thought it must be growing less and less important to her. I thought that way after the walks in the park and the walks in the country and that night at Coney.”
She shuddered.
283
“I thought it even after she came back––even after my talk with Stuyvesant. He told me I was a fool and that Frances wouldn’t listen to me. I didn’t believe him and put it up to her. And then––for the first time––I saw that what I had been learning she had not been learning.”
Don turned and looked at the girl by his side. It was growing dark now, so that he could not see her very well; but he saw that she was huddled up as he had found her that day in the little restaurant.
“Frances didn’t have the nerve to come with me,” he said. “Her father stood in the way, and she couldn’t get by him. I want to be fair about this. At the beginning, if she’d come with me I’d have married her––though Lord knows how it would have worked out. But she didn’t dare––and she’s a pretty good sport, too. There’s a lot in her she doesn’t know anything about. It would do her good to know you.”
Again he paused. It was as if he were trying hard to keep his balance.
“I want her to know you,” he went on.284“Because, after all, it was she who made me see you. There, in a second, in the park, she pointed you out to me, until you stood before me as clear as the star by the Big Dipper. She said, ‘It’s some other girl you’re seeing in me––a girl who would dare to go hungry with you.’ Then I knew. So I came right to you.”
She was still huddled up.
“And here I am,” he concluded.
There he was. He did not need to remind her of that. Even when she closed her eyes so that she might not see him, she was aware of it. Even when he was through talking and she did not hear his voice, she was aware of it. And, though she was miserable about it, she would have been more miserable had he been anywhere else.
“I’m here, little girl,” he said patiently.
“Even after I told you to go away,” she choked.
“Even after you told me to go away.”
“If you only hadn’t come at all!”
“What else was there for me to do?”
“You––you could have gone to that camp with her. She wanted you to go.”
285
“I told her I couldn’t go there––long before I knew why.”
“You could have gone––oh, there are so many other places you could go! And this is the only place Icouldgo.”
“It’s the only place I could go, too. Honest, it was. I’d have been miserable anywhere else, and––well, you aren’t making it very comfortable for me here.”
It seemed natural to have him blame her for his discomfort when it was all his own fault. It seemed so natural, in the midst of the confusion of all the rest of the tangle, that it was restful.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That’s something,” he nodded.
“I––I guess the only thing for me to do is to go away myself.”
“Where?”
“Back to New York. Oh, I wish I hadn’t taken a vacation!”
“We’ll go back if you say so; but it seems foolish after traveling all this distance.”
“I meant to go back alone,” she hastened to correct him.
“And leave me with Mrs. Halliday?”
286
“Please don’t mix things all up!”
“It’s you who are mixing things all up,” he said earnestly. “That isn’t like you, little girl. It’s more like you to straighten things out. There’s a straight road ahead of us now, and if you’ll only take it we’ll never leave it again. All we’ve got to do is to hunt up a parson and get married, and then we’ll go anywhere you say, or not go anywhere at all. It’s as simple as that. Then, when our vacation is up, I’ll go back to Carter, Rand & Seagraves, and I’ll tell Farnsworth he’ll have to get a new stenographer. Maybe he’ll discharge me for that, but if he doesn’t I’ll tell him I want to get out and sell. And then there’s nothing more to it. With you to help––”
He tried to find her hands, but she had them pressed over her eyes.
“With you back home to help,” he repeated––“there’s not anything in the world we won’t get.”
And the dream woman in Sally answered to the woman on the steps:––
“There’s not anything more in the world we’ll want when we’re home.”
287
But Don did not hear that. All he heard was a sigh. To the dream woman what he said sounded like music; but the woman on the steps answered cynically:––
“All he is saying to you now he said to that other. There, where the music was playing and the Japanese lanterns were bobbing, he said it to her. That was a fairy world, as this is a fairy night; but back in New York it will all be different. There are no fairies in New York. Every time you have thought there were, you have been disappointed.”
She rose swiftly to her feet.
“Oh, we mustn’t talk about it!” she exclaimed.
He too rose, and he placed both his hands upon her shoulders.
“I don’t understand,” he said quickly. “What is it you don’t believe?”
“I don’t believe in fairies,” she answered bitterly.
“Don’t you believe that I love you?”
“To-night––perhaps,” she answered.
Her eyes were not meeting his.
“You don’t believe my love will last?”
288
“I––I don’t know.”
“Because of Frances?”
“Everything is so different in New York,” she answered.
“Because of Frances?”
She was not sure enough herself to answer that. She did not wish to be unfair. He removed his hands from her shoulders and stood back a little.
“I thought you’d understand about her. I thought you were the one woman in the world who’d understand.”
She looked up quickly.
“Perhaps it’s easier for men to understand those things than women,” she said.
“There’s so little to understand.”
As he spoke, truly it seemed so. But it was always that way when she was with him. Always, if she was not very careful, he made her see exactly as he saw. It was so at Jacques’; it was so at Coney. But her whole life was at stake now. If she made a mistake, one way or the other, she must live it out––in New York. She must be by herself when she reached her decision.
289
“In the morning,” she gasped.
“All right,” he answered.
He took her hand––catching her unawares.
“See,” he said. “Up there is the star I gave you. It will always be there––always be yours. And, if you can, I want you to think of me as like that star.”
Upstairs in her room that night, Miss Winthrop sat by her window and tried to place herself back in New York––back in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. It was there, after all, and not up among the stars, that she had gained her experience of men.
From behind her typewriter she had watched them come and go, or if they stayed had watched them in the making. It was from behind her typewriter she had met Don. She remembered every detail of that first day: how he stood at the ticker like a boy with a new toy, waiting for Farnsworth; how he came from Farnsworth’s office and took a seat near her, and for the next half-hour watched her fingers until she became nervous. At first she thought he was going to be “fresh.” Her mind was made up to squelch him at the first opportunity.290Yet, when it had come lunch-time and he sat on, not knowing what to do, she had taken pity on him. She knew he would sit on there until night unless some one showed an interest in him. She was glad now that she had, because he had been hungry. Had it not been for her, he would not have had anything to eat all day––possibly not all that week. She would never cease being glad that she had discovered this fact in time.
But she had intended that her interest should cease, once she had made sure that he was fed and in receipt of his first week’s salary. That much she would do for any man, good, bad, or indifferent. That was all she had intended. She could say that honestly. When he had appeared at her lunch-place the second and third time, she had resented it. But she had also welcomed his coming. And, when she had bidden him not to come, she had missed him.
Right here she marked a distinction between him and the others. She missed him outside the office––not only at noon, but at night. When she had opened that absurd box of291flowers, she brought him into her room with her. She saw now that at the precise moment she opened that box she had lost her point of view. If she had wished to maintain it, she should have promptly done the box up again and sent it back to him.
After this their relation had changed. There could be no doubt about that. However, except for the initial fault of not returning the roses, she could not see where it was distinctly her fault. She had gone on day after day, unaware that any significant change was taking place. There had been the dinner at Jacques’, and then––
With her chin in her hands, she sat by the open window and lived over again those days. Her eyes grew afire and her cheeks grew rosy and a great happiness thrilled her. So––until they reached that night at Coney and Frances smiled through the dark at her.
Then she sprang to her feet and paced the floor, with the color gone from her cheeks. During all those glorious days this other girl had been in the background of his thoughts. It was for her he had been working––of her292he had been thinking. She clenched her hands and faced the girl.
“Why didn’t you stay home with him, then?” she cried. “You left him to me and I took care of him. He’d have lost his position if it hadn’t been for me.
“I kept after him until he made good,” she went on. “I saw that he came to work on time, I showed him what to learn. It was I, not you, that made him.”
She was speaking out loud––fiercely. Suddenly she stopped. She raised her eyes to the window––to the little star by the Big Dipper. Gently, as a mother speaks, she said again:––
“I made him––not you.”
Sally Winthrop sank into a chair. She began to cry––but softly now.
“You’re mine, Don,” she whispered. “You’re mine because I took care of you.”
A keen breeze from the mountains swept in upon her. She rose and stole across the hall to Mrs. Halliday’s room. That good woman awoke with a start.
“What is it?” she exclaimed.
“Oh, I’m sorry if I woke you,” answered293the girl. “But it’s turned cold, and I wondered if Don––if Mr. Pendleton had enough bedclothes.”
“Laws sake,” answered Mrs. Halliday. “I gave him two extra comforters, and if that ain’t enough he deserves to freeze.”