CONCERNING SALLY
CHAPTER I[ToC]
Professor Ladue sat at his desk, in his own room, looking out of the window. What he might have seen out of that window was enough, one would think, to make any man contented with his lot, especially a man of the ability of Professor Ladue. He had almost attained to eminence in his own line, which, it is to be presumed, is all that any of us can hope to attain to—each in his own line.
Out of Professor Ladue's window there might have been seen, first, a huge tree, the leaves upon which were fast turning from the deep green of late summer to a deep copper brown with spots of brilliant yellow. If his eyes were weary of resting in the shadow of that great tree, his gaze might go farther and fare no worse: to other trees, not too thickly massed, each in the process of turning its own particular color and each of them attaining to eminence in its own line without perceptible effort; to the little river which serenely pursued its winding and untroubled course; or to the distant hills.
But Professor Ladue, it is to be feared, saw none of these things. He was unconscious of the vista before his eyes. A slight smile was on his handsome face, but the smile was not altogether a pleasant one. He withdrew his gaze and glanced distastefully about the room: at the small bundle of papers on his desk, representing his work; at the skull which adorned the desk top; at the half-mounted skeleton of some small reptile of a prehistoric age lying between the windows; at his bed. It was an inoffensive bed; merely a narrow cot, tucked out of the way as completely as might be. Professor Ladue did not care for luxury, at any rate not in beds, so long as they were comfortable, and the bed took up very little room, which was important.
As his glance took in these things, a slight expression of disgust took the place of the smile, for a moment; then the smile returned. All expressions in which Professor Ladue indulged were slight. There was nothing the matter with him. He was only tired of work—temporarily sick of the sight of it; which is not an unusual state of mind, for any of us. It may be deplored or it may be regarded as merely the normal state of rebellion of a healthy mind at too much work. That depends largely upon where we draw the line. We might not all draw it where Professor Ladue drew it. And he did not deplore the state of mind in which he found himself. It was a state of mind in which he was finding himself with growing frequency, and when he was in it his sole wish was to be diverted.
He opened a drawer in his desk, dumped therein the papers, and, removing from it a box of cigarettes, took one and slipped the box into his pocket. After various tappings and gentle thumpings in the manner of your cigarette-smoker, designed, I suppose, to remove some of the tobacco which the maker had carefully put into it, the cigarette seemed to be considered worthy of his lips. I have no doubt that it was. So he lighted it, cast the match thoughtfully into the empty grate, and rose slowly.
He dawdled a minute at the window, looked at his watch, muttered briefly, and went briskly out and down the stairs.
He took his overcoat from the rack in the hall and removed the cigarette from his lips for a moment.
"Sarah!" he called curtly.
His voice was clear and penetrating and full of authority. If I had been Sarah, the quality of that one word, as he uttered it, would have filled me with resentment. A door almost at his elbow opened quickly and a girl appeared. She was well grown and seemed to be about twelve. She was really ten.
"What is it, father?" she asked; I had almost said that she demanded it, but there was no lack of respect in her voice. "Please don't disturb mother. She has a headache. I'm taking care of Charlie. What is it?"
"Oh, Sally," he said. It appeared as if he might even be afraid of her, just a little, with her seriousness and her direct ways and her great eyes that seemed to see right through a man. He gave a little laugh which he intended to be light. It wasn't. "Oh, all right, Sally. You're a very good girl, my dear."
Sally did not smile, but looked at him steadily, waiting for him to say what he had to say.
"Tell your mother, Sally," the professor went on, "that I find I have to go into town to attend to an important matter at the college. I may be late in getting out. In fact, she mustn't be worried if I don't come to-night. It is possible that I may be kept too late for the last train. I am sorry that she has a headache. They seem to be getting more frequent."
Sally bowed her head gravely. "Yes," she said, "they do."
"Well, tell her that I am very sorry. If I could do anything for her, I should, of course, be only too happy. But I can't and there doesn't appear to be any good purpose served by my giving up my trip to town." In this the professor may, conceivably, have been wrong. "Give her my message, my dear, and take good care of Charlie. Good-bye, Sally."
The professor stooped and imprinted a cold kiss upon her forehead. Sally received it impassively without expressing any emotion whatever.
"Good-bye, father," she said. "I will tell mother."
Professor Ladue went out and walked jauntily down the road toward the station. No good purpose will be served, to use his own words, by following him farther at this time. Sally went soberly back to the library, where she had left Charlie; she went very soberly, indeed. No Charlie was to be seen; but, with a skill born of experience, she dived under the sofa and haled him forth, covered with dust and squealing at the top of his lungs.
"I hided," he shouted.
"Sh—h, Charlie. You'll disturb mother. Poor mother's got a pain in her head." The sombre gray eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she hugged the boy tight. "Oh, Charlie, Charlie! I'm afraid that father's going to do it again."
Charlie whimpered in sympathy. Perhaps, too, Sally had hugged him too tight for comfort. His whimper was becoming a wail when she succeeded in hushing him. Then she heard a soft step coming slowly down the stairs.
"Now, Charlie," she said reproachfully, "it's too bad. Here's mother coming down. I wish," she began, impatiently; then she checked herself suddenly, for the boy's lips were puckering. "Never mind. Laugh, now."
It is not strange that the boy could not accommodate himself to such sudden changes. He was only six. But he tried faithfully, and would have succeeded if he had been given more time. The door opened gently.
"Sally, dear," said a soft voice, "I thought that I heard the front door shut. Has your father gone out?"
Mrs. Ladue was gentle and pretty and sweet-looking; and with a tired look about the eyes that seldom left her now. She had not had that look about the eyes when she married young Mr. Ladue, thirteen years before. There were few women who would not have had it if they had been married to him for thirteen years. That had been a mistake, as it had turned out. For his own good, as well as hers, he should have had a different kind of a wife: none of your soft, gentle women, but a woman who could habitually bully him into subjection and enjoy the process. The only difficulty about that is that he would never have married a woman who habitually bullied. He wanted to do any bullying that there was to be done. Not that he actually did any, as it is usually understood, but there was that in his manner that led one to think that it was just beneath the surface; and by "one" I mean his wife and daughter,—no doubt, I should have said "two." As for Sally, the traditional respect that is due a father from a daughter was all that prevented her from finding out whether it was there. To be sure, his manner toward her was different. It seemed almost as if he were afraid of Sally; afraid of his own daughter, aged ten. Stranger things have happened.
If Mrs. Ladue knew that she had made a mistake, thirteen years before, she never acknowledged it to herself when she thought of her children. She beckoned Charlie to her now.
"Come here, darling boy," she said, stooping.
Charlie came, with a rush, and threw his arms about his mother's neck.
"Oh, Charlie," cried Sally quickly, "remember mother's head. Be careful!"
Mrs. Ladue smiled gently. "Never mind, Sally. Let him be as he is. It makes my head no worse to have my little boy hugging me. Has your father gone out?" she asked again.
Sally's eyes grew resentful. "Yes," she answered. "He left a message for you. He said I was to tell you that he was very sorry you had a headache and that if he could do anything for you he would be only too happy." Sally's voice insensibly took on a mocking quality. "And—and there was something about his being called into town by pressing matters and you were not to be worried if he missed the last train and—and—" She burst into a passion of tears. "Oh, mother, dear, I don't believe a word of it. I'm afraid he'll come back like—like—" Her whole form quivered with the energy of her utterance. There was no doubt that she meant what she said so violently. "I hate—"
"Hush, darling, hush! Never say that." Mrs. Ladue drew her little daughter close and patted her shoulder.
Sally's crying ceased abruptly, but the muscles were all tense under her mother's hand. She smiled bravely.
"Now, mother, dear," she said, "I have made it worse, haven't I? I didn't mean to do that—to cry. Truly, I didn't. I won't ever do it again." She put one arm about her mother's neck and stroked her forehead gently. "Mother, darling, doesn't it make your head just a little better to have your little daughter hu—hug—ging you, too?" And she hid her face in her mother's neck.
Mrs. Ladue's eyes filled with tears. "My dearest little daughter!" she murmured, kissing her. "If only you could be happy! If only you didn't take things so to heart! Mother's own dear little girl!" She rose and spoke brightly. "Now, let's all go out into this lovely day and be happy together."
Sally smiled. "Yes," she said, "we'll all be happy together. Don't you think, mother, that it will make your head better?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Ladue, "I think it will."
So they went out to the trees and the river and the hills. But Sally did not skip. Charlie, it is to be noted, did; Charlie, who had said nothing about being happy. It is to be presumed that they were all ecstatically happy; for had they not assured one another that they would be?
CHAPTER II[ToC]
It is to be feared that Professor Ladue had gone and done it again, as Sally said. Not that Sally knew what "it" was, nor did her mother know, either. Indeed, Mrs. Ladue made no inquiries concerning that point, being glad to put the most favorable construction possible upon the matter and, perhaps, afraid that she would not be able to do so if she knew any more. Perhaps, too, she realized that, unless she pursued her inquiries among comparative strangers, she would learn nothing. The professor would lie freely and skillfully, assuming that he considered it necessary or desirable to lie, and might be led to bully a little. Whatever course he might take, she would be no better off. So, as I said, she made no inquiries, which may have been wise or it may not; and she kept on hoping, although each occasion left her with less ground for any reasonable hope.
At all events, Professor Ladue came back early the next afternoon in the most fiendish temper, which may have been due to excess in any of its customary forms. Whatever the exact cause, the effect was, apparently, to make him hate himself and everybody with whom he came in contact. Mrs. Ladue was aware of the state of mind that he would be in, from experience, I suppose; an experience which she did not seem at all anxious to repeat. Sally was aware of it, too, and even Charlie seemed to realize that any meeting with his father was to be avoided. So it happened that Professor Ladue found the way into the house and to his room unobstructed. His wife and his children were nowhere to be seen; which circumstance, in itself, annoyed him exceedingly, although it is probable that he would have found their presence equally annoying.
Once in his room, he paced to and fro for a few minutes, nervously; then he took off his coat and bathed his head and face with cold water, pouring it over his head repeatedly. When he had rubbed his head partially dry he appeared to feel somewhat better, and he seated himself, frowning, at his desk, and tried to apply himself to his work. In this, as he undoubtedly expected, he was not very successful. He would not have expected one of his own students to be able to apply himself to work with any success under similar circumstances, whatever those circumstances were. So he pushed his work aside with some impatience, got up, took the skull from the desk and handled it absently. The feel of the skull seemed to suggest some ideas to him, for he put it down, went to the half-mounted skeleton of that ancient reptile that I have mentioned as lying between his windows, and began to work in earnest.
He soon became interested; so much interested that he was forgetting about his head, which felt as if it had been pounded with hammers,—tiny hammers which had not yet finished their work, whatever it was,—and he was forgetting about his eyes, which ached as if the pressure of blood behind the eyeballs was forcing them out of his head. He didn't know but it was; but it didn't matter. And he was forgetting about his body, every bone and muscle of which was crying out for rest and sleep. He sat there, on the floor under one of his windows, puzzling over a bone which he held in his hand, and completely absorbed.
Suddenly he glanced involuntarily out of the window. There sat Sally, astride a limb of the great tree, looking in at him intently. She was a most annoying child; yes, a most devilishly annoying child. He sprang to his feet and threw up the window, almost in one motion. Sally did not move a muscle; not even her eyes. He did not say the sharp things that were on the tip of his tongue, he could not have told why; he did not say anything for very nearly a minute. Under such circumstances, a minute is a long time. Nor did Sally say anything. She only gazed solemnly at him.
"Sally," he demanded at last, "what are you doing there?" The look in his eyes had softened. You might have mistaken it for a look of affection.
"Nothing, father," Sally answered, briefly and respectfully.
"Well, what the—" Professor Ladue was at a loss for words in which to express his exasperation. This was an unusual condition for him to be in. "Well, why don't you get down?"
"I don't want to get down," Sally returned. "I like being up here."
"You'll break your neck."
Sally made no reply.
"Can you get down safely?"
"Yes, father."
"Get down, then," said Professor Ladue, less sharply than he had meant to speak. "Don't you know that it must annoy me very much to have you spying in upon me in that way?"
"No, father, I didn't know it annoyed you," replied Sally in a colorless voice. "I beg your pardon. But I wasn't spying on you. I was only enjoying myself. I won't do it again."
Sally began slipping and sliding and scrambling down the tree. She seemed to have no fear and to be very familiar with the road she was taking. She knew every foothold. Her father watched her as she went from one insecure hold to another. It must have appeared to him a perilous descent, one would suppose; but I do not know what he thought. At all events, he called to her when she had swung off the lowest branch and dropped safely. He still had in his hand that prehistoric bone.
"Sally!" he called; "don't you want to come up here?"
Sally looked up, evidently greatly surprised. She was not easily surprised.
"To your room?" she asked.
"Yes," replied her father impatiently, "of course. To my room."
"Do you want me to?" Sally is to be excused for pressing the point. She did not wish to make any mistake. Mistakes had been made before.
"I should be greatly pleased," said the professor, smiling and bowing airily. "I should consider it a great honor if Miss Sally Ladue would favor me with her company at the present juncture." He leaned a little out of the window. "You know I am working on the skeleton."
"Yes," said Sally. "I'll come up right away."
It is to be noted that Sally had not answered the exact question which the professor had asked her. She may have been reluctant to answer it just as it was asked. It is to be supposed that she was aware of the question and that she knew the answer. Sally was a truthful young person, but she preferred to take the course that made for peace if it was consistent with truth. The professor did not press the matter.
He was again sitting on the floor when Sally knocked on the door and came in. His head was a little better. Perhaps the tiny hammers had nearly finished their work. At all events, he soon forgot it completely.
"Sally," he said, after he had been working for some minutes and Sally had been watching him in silence, "what do you think this is?"
"I don't know, father," she answered. "Is it a—an alligator?"
"No," he said, stopping and looking thoughtfully at the skeleton. "No, it is not an alligator, although you came nearer than I should have thought you would. You were just barely warm, Sally. It is a distant relative of the alligator; perhaps I should call it a connection. The thirteenth cousin of his hundred thousandth great-grandfather, or something like that. It is a sort of a lizard, Sally. It is a very small one."
"Oh!" cried Sally. "A small one! A small lizard! Why, father!"
Professor Ladue smiled. "It lived a great many thousands of years ago. Nobody knows how many thousands of years, although they will tell you very glibly. They don't know anything about it except that it was a long time. I know that. This little lizard is a kind that nobody has ever discovered; nobody except me. It is my lizard. It must be known by my name. What do you think of that, Sally?"
"It must be very fine," Sally murmured, "to discover things."
"At that far-off time," the professor continued, "there were lots of great horrid creeping and flying things. Even my little lizard may have been able to fly. See! These seem to be the beginning of his wing bones. There are some bones missing, so that I can't tell, yet, whether he had wings that would bear him up. But probably he had. Probably he had." And the professor relapsed into a thoughtful silence.
"Father," said Sally presently. She had been thinking and her interest in the skeleton was more active than it had been.
The professor looked up. "Any question that Miss Ladue has to ask," he observed, "will be cheerfully answered, provided that I know the answer. If I do not know the answer, and have the courage to say so, I trust she will not regard me as wholly ignorant of the subject."
Sally gave vent to a chuckle which was entirely unexpected; entirely unexpected by herself, at least.
"Father," she asked, as soon as she had managed to suppress her chuckles, "then could your little lizard fly up high?"
"Yep," he answered; "like a pigeon. Or, more probably, he flew more like a bat than like a pigeon."
"Right up into the tops of the trees?"
"Right up into the topmost branches of the coal trees."
"The coal trees!"
"The coal trees. Fed on the fruit. Large lizards customarily ate furnace coal, middle-sized lizards ate stove coal. Little lizards ate chestnut coal."
Sally burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. In all her experience of her father, she had never known him to be so amusing.
"Ate pea coal," replied the professor promptly, "and the tiniest babies ate buckwheat coal. Very nourishing, chestnuts and peas and buckwheat. Cracked it with their teeth."
Sally was still giggling.
"Seriously, Sally," said the professor, with a change of manner, "by the coal trees I meant the trees which have become the coal we are burning in the stove and the furnace and to make steam. I see no reason to doubt that this little lizard could fly up into the tops of the trees. Perhaps he actually alighted on some tree which we now have down cellar in the coal bin."
"Oh!" cried Sally. "Let's suppose he did. And what did he see from his topmost branch?"
"Very little," replied the professor, "except treetops and a swamp or two."
"Well," said Sally, "it's rather disappointing. But I wish I could have seen it."
"Then," said her father solemnly, "there would now be nothing left of you but a skeleton which I would be puzzling my brains over. It would be somewhat disconcerting, Sally, to find a skeleton of a little girl among these bones of a past age; very disconcerting, indeed, to find that of Miss Sally Ladue."
"But how would you know it was Miss Sally Ladue's skeleton?" asked Sally, her eyes twinkling.
"That is a poser," her father answered. "I should know it, though. If there were no other means of identifying it, I should know it for Miss Ladue's by the large bump of inquisitiveness on the skull."
"What's my bump of inquisitiveness?"
The professor turned towards her. "Hand me that skull on my desk, and I'll show you." Sally obediently handed him the skull. "There it is," he continued. "You can see it, although it is not as large as your own. Come here and let us see if it is."
Sally came.
"The phrenologists," he began, feeling of her head, "would—hello!"
"Ouch!" cried Sally, squirming but giggling irrepressibly, nevertheless.
"It is a very large bump," said the professor gravely; "unexpectedly large, even for you. What makes it so large, Sally?"
"I—I fell out of a tree yesterday," Sally said. "I suppose it was that."
"Ah, yes," the professor returned; "and because the bump was so large by nature it stuck out in a most inappropriate and uncomfortable way and was made more inappropriate and uncomfortable. It might be safer for you if you could fly, like my little lizard."
"I wish I could," said Sally; "I wish I could fly into the top of any tree I wanted to."
"You find the trees very attractive?"
"Yes, I do," Sally replied, simply. "You can see a lot from the top of a tall tree. The trouble is that you can't find big enough branches when you get nearly to the top."
"No," observed the professor, "I can't. If I could, I suppose I might climb trees oftener. It is very disconcerting to get almost up, just where the leaves are thickest, and find that I can't get any higher and can't see anything to speak of, either. And twigs that you wouldn't hesitate to trust yourself upon, Sally, are not nearly big enough for me. That," he finished, reflectively, "is, I think, the only reason why I have given up tree-climbing at such an early age."
Sally chuckled delightedly. "Did you climb trees when you were a boy, father?"
"Huh! Climb trees! Gracious, yes. Used to run right up one side and down the other. Tallest trees I could find, too. Hundreds of feet high. Did I use to climb trees!" The professor turned away in excess of scorn.
"Oh!" cried Sally, clapping her hands.
"Climb trees!" murmured the professor. "Why, there was one tree that I remember—"
He was interrupted, at this point, by a gentle knock at the door.
"That sounds like your mother's knock, Sally. Will you be kind enough to see?"
It was Mrs. Ladue. She had heard the unaccustomed sounds of merriment issuing from her husband's room and had come up—rather timidly, it must be confessed—to see what it was all about. If her heart was fluttering a little with symptoms of hope, as she came, it is not to be wondered at. There was another reason for her coming, although she was not conscious that it had weight with her.
She was half smiling as she entered; half smiling in a doubtful, hesitating sort of way, ready to let the smile develop in its own lovely manner or to check it and let it fade away, according to circumstances. Sally held tightly to her hand. Professor Ladue got upon his feet with more agility than would have been expected of him.
"Sally and I were having a session with my lizard," he said, "and were variously entertaining ourselves. I hope your head is better, Sarah."
Mrs. Ladue appeared to see some reason for letting her smile take its natural course. It was a very lovely smile, almost tender. Professor Ladue should have been a very proud and happy man that it was for him. There is no reason to think that he was.
"Thank you, Charlie," she replied. "It is all right, to-day. Won't you and Sally go on with your session and let me be a visitor? It must have been a very amusing session. I don't know when I have heard Sally laugh so much."
Sally clapped her hands again. "Oh, do," she said. "You were going to tell me about a tree, father. What about it?"
Professor Ladue talked much nonsense in the next half-hour and was surprisingly gay; and Sally sat, holding her mother's hand, and smiling and chuckling and enjoying it intensely. Of course Mrs. Ladue enjoyed it. The professor seemed so genial and care-free that she reproached herself for her doubts. She even thought, unfortunately, that it was a favorable time for asking for something that she was very much in need of. But she hesitated, even then.
"Charlie," she said timidly, as they were going, "can you—can you let me have this week's money for the house? Katie, you know,—we owe her for two weeks, and there's the—"
Professor Ladue interrupted her. "Money?" he said airily. "Money? What's money? Certainly, my dear. Help yourself. You're welcome to anything you find there."
He tossed her his pocketbook and turned back to his skeleton. Perhaps it was to hide some embarrassment; perhaps it was only to indicate that, so far as he was concerned, the incident was closed. For the pocketbook was empty.
Mrs. Ladue spoke low and tried hard to keep any hint of reproach out of her voice. "Did you—did you lose it?" she asked.
"I suppose I must have lost it, if there was anything to lose," Professor Ladue replied nonchalantly. He did not turn away from his work.
"And—and did you notify the police?"
"No, my dear, I have not notified the police, yet." He smiled dryly as he spoke. "I will take that matter under advisement."
Mrs. Ladue did not push the question further. There were tears in her eyes as she joined Sally.
"Oh, mother," cried Sally joyously, "wasn't it fun? Did you ever know that father could be so funny?"
"Yes, darling child. He was full of fun and nonsense before we were married, and for some years after."
She bent and kissed her daughter, but would say no more.
CHAPTER III[ToC]
Sally was not completely deprived of the society of other children, although her temperament made this question a rather difficult one. Her father did not bother himself about Sally's goings and comings, which was quite what would have been expected. Indeed, he bothered himself very little about the doings of his family; as a general thing, he did not know what they did, nor did he care, so long as they refrained from interference with his own actions. They had learned to do that.
Mrs. Ladue did bother herself about Sally's doings a good deal, in spite of the difficulty of the question; and one would have thought that she had her fill of difficult questions. She went to the door and looked out. She saw Charlie playing alone near the foot of a tree. He was tied to the tree by a long string, one end of which was about his body, under his arms.
"Charlie," she called, "where's Sally?"
Charlie looked up, impatiently, and shook his head. Mrs. Ladue repeated her question.
"Up there," he answered, pointing into the tree above his head. "And I'm a giraffe in a menagerie and giraffes can't talk, mother."
"Oh, excuse me, little giraffe," she said, smiling.
"Great, big giraffe. Not little giraffe."
Meanwhile there had been a sound of scrambling in the tree and Sally dropped to the ground.
"Did you want me, mother?" she asked.
"I only thought that you have had the care of Charlie for a long time. Don't you want to go up to Margaret Savage's and play with her?" This was, perhaps, the hundredth time that Mrs. Ladue had asked that question.
"No, mother," Sally replied, also for the hundredth time, "I don't. But if you want me to go, I will."
Mrs. Ladue laughed outright at her daughter's directness. "Why?" she asked. "I am really curious to know why you don't like to play with other little girls."
"They are so stupid, mother," Sally answered quietly. "I have a lot better time alone."
"Well, my dear little daughter," began Mrs. Ladue, laughing again; and there she stopped. "I should like, Sally,—I should like it very much, if I could manage to send you to dancing-school this winter."
"Very well, mother," said Sally again.
"But I don't know what your father would think of the idea."
"No," Sally returned. "You can't ever tell, can you?"
"Wouldn't you like to go and be with the other children and do what they do?"
Sally was quite serious. "I don't think it would be very interesting," she said. "But if you want me to go, I will."
Mrs. Ladue sighed; then she laughed. "Well, Sally, dear," she said, "run along and play in your own way. At any rate, I can trust you."
"Yes, mother, dear, you can."
And Sally ran out, quite happy, to untie the giraffe.
"What you goin' to do, Sally?" he asked.
"Giraffes can't talk," remarked Sally.
"Aren't a giraffe. I'm the keeper. But I'll turn into a giraffe again as soon as you answer me."
"I'm going down in that little clump by the wall, where there are plenty of things for giraffes to eat."
Reminded that he was hungry, Charlie began to cry.
"What's the matter?" asked Sally, stopping short.
"Don't want to be a giraffe and eat old leaves and things," Charlie wailed. "Can't I have some gingerbread, Sally?"
"Well, here," said Sally. She took from her pocket some little crackers, which she gave him. "I guess those won't hurt you."
Charlie made no reply, being busy with the crackers; and Sally led him into the clump by the wall and tied him.
"Sally," asked Charlie, somewhat anxiously, "what you goin' to do?"
"I'm going up in the tree, of course."
"Yes, but Sally, what will you be?"
"I haven't decided," replied Sally thoughtfully. "I'll be deciding while I go up." She turned and began to climb the tree, skillfully. She had got no farther than the lower branches when she stopped. "Oh, I'll tell you, Charlie," she cried. "It's just the thing. I'll be father's little lizard."
"What lizard?" Charlie demanded.
"Father's little lizard, that he's got the skeleton of, up in his room."
"Isn't any little lizard," Charlie returned, very positively. "That's a croc."
"It is, too, a lizard, Charlie. Father said so."
"Lizards are little weenty things," Charlie objected. "'Sides, they don't live in trees."
Sally did not feel sure on this point, so she evaded it.
"That little lizard lived millions of years ago." What were a few million years, more or less, to her? "And father said that it could fly like a bat. It used to fly right up into the coal trees and—and eat the coal that grew on them." Sally was giggling at the recollection. "Now, this is a coal tree and I'm that little lizard, and this is millions of years ago."
Charlie had been paralyzed into momentary silence by the information poured into him so rapidly. The silence was but momentary, but Sally took advantage of it and climbed swiftly.
"Sally!"
Sally paused. "What?" she asked.
"You that same lizard that father has the skeleton of?"
Sally acknowledged that she was.
"Then," Charlie retorted, "you haven't got any bones in you. They're up in father's room."
Sally chuckled, but she did not reply to this remark directly.
"Charlie," she called, "you be a saurus something."
"Don't want to be a—Sally, what's a—that thing that you said for me to be? What is it?"
"Well," replied Sally slowly, "it's an animal kind of like an alligator—and such things, you know. I guess I'm one. And Charlie, you can't talk. Animals—especially sauruses—never talked."
"Parrots can," returned Charlie sullenly.
Sally did not think it worth while to try to answer this objection.
"There wasn't any kind of a thing, millions of years ago, that could talk," she said calmly, "so, of course, they couldn't learn."
"Then you can't talk, either," said Charlie, in triumph. And he subsided and returned to the eating of crackers, of which, as everybody knows, the saurians were extremely fond.
Sally, meanwhile, was enjoying the prospect of treetops; an unbroken prospect of treetops, except for a swamp which, in historic times, became their own little valley.
Sally had ceased, for the moment, her flitting lightly from bough to bough, and there was no sign of her presence; and Charlie had come to the end of his crackers and was browsing around in the grass, picking up a crumb here and there.
"Hello!" said a strange voice; a strange voice, but a very pleasant one. "As I'm a living sinner, if here isn't a little pony!"
Charlie looked up into the eyes of a very serious young man. The eyes were twinkling over the wall and through the gap in the trees. Charlie decided not to be frightened. But he shook his head. He wasn't a pony.
"Well, well, of course not," the voice went on. "I was rather hasty, but it looked like a pony, at the first glance. I guess it's a fierce bull."
Charlie shook his head again, less positively. Now that it had been suggested, he yearned to be a fierce bull. He wished that he had thought of it before he shook his head.
"A camel?" asked the young man. "Can it be a camel?"
Once more Charlie shook his head, and he laughed.
"It sounds like a hyena," remarked the stranger solemnly, "but it can't be, for hyenas eat—" He put his hand to his forehead and seemed to be puzzling it out. "Aha!" he cried at last. "I have it. A giraffe!"
"No!" Charlie shouted. "I'm aren't a giraffe. I'm a saw-horse."
And he straddled his legs far apart and his arms far apart, and he looked as much like a saw-horse as he could. That isn't saying much.
At this last announcement of Charlie's, Sally exploded in a series of chuckles so sudden and so violent that she almost fell out of the tree.
An answering titter came from the other side of the wall and a pair of hands appeared, trying for a hold on the top stones; then the head of a very pretty little girl followed, until her chin was on a level with the top of the wall and she could look over it into Charlie's eyes.
The strange young man had looked up into the tree. "Hello!" he exclaimed. "If there isn't another! Is that a saw-horse, too?"
Charlie had considered himself the person addressed. "Yes," he replied, "it is. It's a flying one."
"Mercy on us!" cried the young man. "A flying saw-horse! What a lot of saw-horses you have about here; very interesting ones, too."
"Yes," said Charlie importantly, "we like to be 'em."
"It must be most exciting to be so extraordinary a thing. Do you suppose you could get that flying one to come down where we can see it? Do you know, I never have seen a flying saw-horse in all the nineteen years that I have lived."
"She won't come down unless she wants to," Charlie grumbled.
Sally was recovering, in a measure, from her fit of chuckling. She leaned far forward, below the screen of leaves.
"Oh, yes, I will," she called, in a low, clear voice. "Besides, I want to. Charlie was mistaken about the saw-horse. He meant saurus. And I was a flying lizard and this was a coal tree. From the top of the tree you can't see anything but treetops and swamps. It's millions of years ago, you know. And father's got the skeleton of this very lizard up in his room, and he said that it used to fly right up in the topmost branches of the coal trees and he told me about the sauruses that used to be." She had dropped to the ground. "Oh, it's very interesting."
"It must be," the young man smilingly replied; "and I should suppose that it must be rather interesting for your father to have such a pupil."
"It isn't," Sally returned. "That is—father only told me those things the other day."
The young man laughed. "I guess you must be Professor Ladue's little girl."
"Yes," said Sally, "we are. That is, I am, and this is my brother Charlie."
"The only and original saw-horse. You, I suppose, were a—we'll call it a gynesaurus—"
Sally clapped her hands and gave a little laugh of delight.
"And this," he continued, laying his hand affectionately upon the small head beside him, "is my small sister, Henrietta Sanderson, who would be happy to be any kind of a beast that you tell her about. She is ten years old and she dotes on being strange beasts."
"Oh," cried Sally, "and I'm ten years old, too. Would Henrietta like to come over the wall now? There's a gate farther along."
"Henrietta despises gates. But does your invitation include her brother? I'm Fox Sanderson and I was on my way to see your father."
"Father isn't at home to-day," said Sally; "and, if you could come over, too—"
At that, Fox Sanderson put his hands on the top of the wall and vaulted lightly over. He turned to help Henrietta.
"Now," he said, when she was safely on the right side, "here we all are. What'll we do?"
Henrietta had her brother's hand. "Fox tells lovely stories," she remarked.
"Does he?" asked Sally. "What about?"
"About any kind of a thing that you ask him," answered Henrietta.
"About sauruses?" Sally asked eagerly, turning to him.
"All right," he agreed, smiling; "about sauruses. But I'm afraid it's just a little too cold for you youngsters to sit still and listen to stories. I'll have to keep you moving a bit."
Sally told her mother about it that night. She thought that she never had had such a good time in all her life. Fox Sanderson! Well, he told the most wonderful stories that ever were.
"And, mother," said Sally, all interest, "he had me be a gynesaurus and Henrietta was a—— But what are you laughing at?"
For Mrs. Ladue had burst out laughing. "My dear little girl!" she cried softly. "My dear little girl! A gynesaurus! This Fox Sanderson must be interesting, indeed."
"Then I can play with Henrietta? And father wouldn't mind, do you think? And your head can't be hurting, mother, because you just laughed right out."
CHAPTER IV[ToC]
Professor Ladue again sat on the floor of his room before the skeleton of his lizard, absent-mindedly fingering a bone. Now and then he looked out of the window at the great tree; at that particular spot in the great tree upon which his daughter had been seated, one morning, not so very long before. He may have had a half-formed wish that he might again discover her there.
But I do not know what half-formed wishes he had, concerning the tree, his daughter, or anything else. At all events, Sally did not appear in the tree. Had not he expressed disapproval of that very performance? He could trust her. Perhaps, with a dim consciousness of that fact, and, perhaps, with a certain disappointment that she was to be trusted so implicitly,—she bore, in that respect, not the most remote resemblance to her father,—the professor sighed. Then, still holding the bone which bothered him, he went to his desk. There was a bone missing—possibly more than one—and he would try to draw the missing bone.
He had scarcely got to work when there was a knock at his door. It was a firm knock, but not loud, expressing a quiet determination. Professor Ladue seemed to know that knock. He seemed, almost, as if he had been waiting for it.
"Come!" he cried, with an alacrity which would not have been expected of him.
He pushed back his drawing-board and Sally came in.
"Ah, Miss Ladue!" he cried, with a certain spurious gayety which concealed—something. I don't know what it concealed, and neither did Sally, although she knew well enough that there was something behind it. She feared that it was anxiety behind it, and she feared the cause of that anxiety. "And what," continued the Professor, "can we do for Miss Ladue to-day? Will she have more about this lizard of mine?"
Sally's eyes lighted up and she smiled. "I should like that very much, father, thank you. But I can't, this morning, for I'm taking care of Charlie."
"And is Charlie concealed somewhere about you? Possibly you have him in your pocket?"
Sally giggled. "Charlie's tied to a tree."
"Tied to a tree! Does he submit gracefully?"
"He's an alligator; down by the wall, you know."
"Ah!" exclaimed the professor. "I am illumined. Do you think it is quite for the safety of the passers-by to keep an alligator so close to the road?"
Sally giggled again. "Yes," she returned, "if I'm not gone too long. I came on an errand."
Professor Ladue lost somewhat of his gayety. "State your errand, Sally. I hope—"
But the professor neglected to state what he had hoped. Sally stated her errand with her customary directness.
"Mother wants me to go to dancing-school. Can I?"
"I suppose," returned Professor Ladue airily, "that you can go wherever your legs will carry you. I see no indications of your inability in that direction or in any other. Whether you may go is another question."
Sally did not smile. "Well, then, may I? Have you any objection? Will you let me go?"
"That is a matter which deserves more consideration. Why do you wish to go?"
"Only because mother wants me to," Sally answered. "I like to please mother."
"Oh," said the professor. "Ah! And what, if I may ask, are your own inclinations in the matter?"
"Well," replied Sally slowly. "I—it doesn't seem to me that it would be very interesting to go there just because a lot of other children go. I could have a lot better time playing by myself. That is, I—of course, there's Henrietta, but Margaret Savage is stupid. But," she added hastily, "I do want to go because mother wants me to."
"Oh," the professor remarked, with a slight smile of amusement; "so Margaret Savage is stupid. But why didn't your mother ask me herself?"
"Perhaps she was afraid to," Sally said quietly. "I don't know what the reason was."
"But you think it was that she was afraid to." The smile on his face changed imperceptibly. The change made it a sneer. It is astonishing to see how much a slight change can accomplish. "Perhaps you know why she was afraid?"
"Yes," Sally acknowledged, "perhaps I do."
"Well, would you be good enough to give me the benefit of your ideas on that subject?"
Sally flushed a little, but she did not falter in the directness of her gaze any more than in her speech. "You generally make her cry when she asks you for anything."
The professor flushed in his turn. "Indeed!" said he. "A most observing child! A very observing child, indeed. And so your mother sent you in her place."
"She didn't," said Sally impassively, although with a rising color; "she doesn't know anything about my coming."
"Oh!" remarked the professor reflectively. "So you came on your own hook—off your own bat."
She nodded.
There was a long silence while Professor Ladue drummed on the table with his fingers. Sally waited.
At last he turned. "Sally," he said, with a slight return of that gayety he had shown on her entrance, "the high courage of Miss Sally Ladue shall receive the reward which it deserves. It is not fitting that it should not. Bearding the lion in his den is nothing to it. I am curious to know, Sally, whether you—" But there the professor stopped. He had been about to ask his daughter, aged ten, whether she was not afraid. He knew that she was not afraid. He knew that, if there was some fear, some hesitation, some doubt as to the exact outcome of the interview, it was not on Sally's part.
Sally was waiting for him to finish.
"Well, Sally," he continued, waving his hand airily, "make your arrangements. Miss Ladue is to go to dancing-school and dance her feet off if she wants to. Never mind the price." He waved his hand again. "Never mind the price. What are a few paltry dollars that they should interfere with pleasure? What is money to dancing?"
Sally was very solemn. "I think the price is ten dollars," she said.
Professor Ladue snapped his fingers in the air. "It doesn't matter. Poof! Ten dollars or ten hundred! Let us dance!"
Sally's eyes filled, but she choked the tears back.
"Thank you, father," she said gently. "Mother will be glad."
He rose and bowed, his hand on his heart. "That is important, of course."
"I think it is the only important thing about it," Sally returned promptly.
The professor bowed again, without reply, and Sally turned to go.
It may have been that the professor's heart smote him. It may have been that he had been aware of Sally's unshed tears. It may have been that he regretted that he should have been the cause—but I may be doing him an injustice. Very likely he was above such things as the tears of his wife and his daughter. It is quite possible that he was as proud of his ability to draw tears as of his ability to draw, correctly, a bone that he never saw. Whatever the reason, he spoke again as Sally was opening the door.
"Will Miss Ladue," he asked, with an elaborate politeness, "honor my poor study with her presence when she has more leisure? When she has not Charlie on her mind? We can, if she pleases, go farther into the matter of lizards or of coal trees."
"Thank you, father," Sally replied.
Professor Ladue was conscious of a regret that she spoke without enthusiasm. But it was too much to expect—so soon.
"I shall be pleased," he said.
An idea, which seemed just to have occurred to Sally, made her face brighten. The professor noted it.
"And can—may I bring Henrietta?"
"Bring Henrietta!" cried the professor. "That is food for thought. Who is this Henrietta? It seems to me that you mentioned her once before."
"Yes," said Sally eagerly. "I did. She is Henrietta Sanderson and Fox Sanderson is her brother. He came to see you the other day. You weren't at home."
"Fox Sanderson!"
"Yes," said Sally, again; "and when I told him that you weren't at home, he came over the wall. He brought Henrietta. He knows a lot about sauruses."
"He knows a lot about sauruses, does he?" the professor repeated thoughtfully. "It seems to me that I have some recollection of Fox Sanderson."
He turned and rummaged in a drawer of his desk. He seemed unable to find what he was looking for, and he extracted from the depths of the drawer many empty cigarette boxes, which he cast into the grate, and a handful of papers, which he dumped on the top of the desk, impatiently. He sorted these over, in the same impatient manner, and finally he found it. It was a letter and was near the bottom of the pile. He opened it and read it.
"H-mph!" he said, reading, "Thanks me for my kind permission, does he? Now, Miss Ladue, can you give me any light upon that? What permission does he refer to? Permission to do what?"
Sally shook her head. But her father was not looking.
"Oh," he said; "h-m. I must have said that I'd see him." He read on. "I must even have said that he could study with me; that I'd help him. Very thoughtless of me, very thoughtless, indeed! It must have been after—well. And he will be here in the course of three weeks." The professor turned the leaf. "This was written a month ago. So he's here, is he, Sally?"
"Yes," Sally answered, "he's here."
The professor stood, for a few moments, looking at Sally, the slight smile on his lips expressive of mingled disgust and amusement.
"Well," he observed, at last, "it appears to be one on me. I must have said it. I have a vague recollection of something of the kind, but the recollection is very vague. Do you like him, Sally?"
"Oh, yes." Sally seemed to feel that that was too sweeping. "That is," she added, "I—I like him."
Professor Ladue laughed lightly. Sally laughed, too, but in an embarrassed fashion.
"That is satisfactory. You couldn't qualify it, Sally, could you? Tried hard, didn't you?"
Sally flushed.
"Well," continued the professor, "if you chance to see this Fox Sanderson, or any relative of his, will you convey to him my deep sense of pleasure at his presence? I shall be obliged to Miss Ladue if she will do that."
"I will," said Sally gravely.
Professor Ladue bowed. So far as he was concerned, the interview was closed. So far as Sally was concerned, it was not.
"Well?" asked Sally. "May I bring Henrietta? You haven't answered that question, father."
"Dear me! What an incomprehensible omission! I must be getting old and forgetful. Old and forgetful, Sally. It is a state that we all attain if we do not die first."
"Yes," said Sally, "I suppose so. May I bring Henrietta, father?"
Professor Ladue laughed shortly. "What a persistent child you are, Sally!"
"I have to be," she replied, trying not to show her disappointment. "I suppose you mean that you don't want me to bring Henrietta. Well, I won't. Perhaps I may come in some day and hear about the lizard."
He did what he had not expected to do. "Oh, bring her, by all means," he cried, with an assumed cheerfulness which would not have deceived you or me. It did not deceive Sally. "Bring her." He waved his hand inclusively. "Bring Henrietta and Margaret Savage and any others you can think of. Bring them all. I shall be pleased—honored." And again he bowed.
Sally was just opening the door. "Margaret Savage would not be interested," she said in a low voice, without turning her head, "and there aren't—"
"Sally," the professor interrupted in cold exasperation, "will you be good enough to project in my direction, what voice you think it best to use, when you speak to me? Will you be so kind? I do not believe that I am growing deaf, but I don't hear you."
Sally turned toward him. "Yes, father, I beg your pardon. I said that Margaret Savage wouldn't be interested," she repeated quietly and clearly, "and that there aren't any others."
He made an inarticulate noise in his throat. Sally was on the point of shutting the door.
"Sally!" he called.
The door opened again just far enough to show proper respect. "Yes, father?"
"Would your friend Henrietta really be interested in—in what she would probably hear?"
The door opened wider. "Oh, yes, she would. I'm sure she would." There was a note of eagerness in Sally's voice.
"Well, then, you may bring her. I shall be glad to have you both when you find leisure. But no Margaret Savages, Sally."
"Oh, no, father. Thank you very much."
After which Sally shut the door and the professor heard her running downstairs. He seemed pleased to hear the noise, which really was not great, and seated himself at his desk again and took up his drawing.
And Sally, when she had got downstairs and out of doors, found her exhilaration oozing away rapidly and a depression of spirit taking its place. The interview, on the whole, had been well calculated—it may have been carefully calculated—to take the starch out of a woman grown. Professor Ladue had had much experience at taking the starch out of others. And Sally was not a woman grown, but a child of ten. Her powers of resistance had been equal to the task imposed, fortunately, but she found that the exercise of those powers had left her weak and shaky, and she was sobbing as she ran. If the professor had seen her then,—if he had known just what her feelings were as she sobbed,—would he have been proud of his ability to draw tears? I wonder.
"Anyway," Sally sobbed, "I know how he makes mother feel. I know. Oh, mother, mother! But I'll never give in. I won't!"
She stopped her convulsive sobbing by the simple process of shutting her teeth over her lower lip, and she dashed away the tears from her eyes as she ran toward the captive alligator, whose continuous roar was growing in her ears. The roar was one of rage.
"Oh, dear! I left him too long."
And Sally ran up to find Charlie fumbling at the knot of the rope by which he was tied. He cried out at her instantly.
"Sally! Don't want to be tied any more. Aren't an alligator. I'm a little boy. Don't want to be tied like an old cow."
Sally hastily untied him, comforting him, meanwhile, as well as she could. But Charlie, noticing something unusual in her voice, looked up into her face and saw traces of tears. He immediately burst into tears himself.
"Charlie!" cried Sally, fiercely; "Charlie! Laugh, now! Laugh, I tell you." She glanced over the wall. "Here come Fox Sanderson and Henrietta. Laugh!"
CHAPTER V[ToC]
Sally always remembered that winter, a winter of hard work and growing anxiety for her, enlivened by brief and occasional joys. She got to know Fox and Henrietta very well, which was a continual joy and enlivenment. Sally did not count dancing-school among the enlivenments. And the infrequent lessons with Fox and Henrietta and her father were enlivenments, too, usually; not always. After the times when they were not, Sally wanted to cry, but she didn't, which made it all the harder.
Her mother seemed steadily progressing toward permanent invalidism, while her father was doing much worse than that. And she took more and more of the burden of both upon her own small shoulders. Poor child! She should have known no real anxiety; none more real than the common anxieties of childhood. But perhaps they are real enough. Sally was not eleven yet.
It is hard to say whether her mother or her father caused Sally the more anxiety. Her mother's progress was so gradual that the change from day to day—or from week to week, for that matter—was not noticeable; while her father's was spasmodic. Sally did not see him during a spasm, so that she did not know how noticeable the change was from day to day or from hour to hour. We do not speak of weeks in such cases. But it was just after a spasm that he was apt to make his appearance again at home in a condition of greater or less dilapidation, with nerves on edge and his temper in such a state that Mrs. Ladue had grown accustomed, in those circumstances, to the use of great care when she was forced to address him. Lately, she had avoided him entirely at such times. Sally, on the contrary, made no effort to avoid him and did not use great care when she addressed him, although she was always respectful. This course was good for the shreds of the professor's soul and perhaps no harder for Sally. But that was not the reason why she did it. She could not have done differently.
There was the time in the fall, but that was over. And there was the time at Christmas which Sally nipped in the bud. Following the Christmas fiasco—a fiasco only from the point of view of the professor—was the Era of Good Behavior. That is begun with capitals because Sally was very happy about her father during that era, although her mother's health worried her more and more. Then there was the time late in the winter, after her father had broken down under the strain of Good Behavior for two months; and, again, twice in March. Professor Ladue must have been breaking rapidly during that spring, for there came that awful time when it seemed, even to Sally, as if the bottom were dropping out of everything and as if she had rather die than not. Dying seems easier to all of us when we are rather young, although the idea does not generally come to us when we are ten years old. But it must be remembered that Sally was getting rather more than her fair share of hard knocks. Later in life dying does not seem so desirable. It is a clear shirking of responsibility. Not that Sally ought to have had responsibility.
The time at Christmas happened on the last day of term time; and, because that day was only half a day for the professor and because Christmas was but two days off, Sally had persuaded her mother to take her into town. "Town" was half an hour's ride in the train; and, once there, Sally intended to persuade her mother further and to beard her father in his laboratory and to take him for an afternoon's Christmas shopping; very modest shopping. Whether Mrs. Ladue suspected the designs of Sally and was sure of their failure, I do not know. Sally had not told her mother of her complete plans. She was by no means certain of their success herself. In fact, she felt very shaky about it, but it was to be tried. Whatever her reason, Mrs. Ladue consented with great and very evident reluctance, and it may have been her dread of the occasion that gave her the headache which followed. So Sally had to choose between two evils. And, the evil to her father seeming the greater if she stayed at home with her mother, she elected to go.
She disposed of Charlie and knocked softly on her mother's door. There was a faint reply and Sally went in. The shades were pulled down and the room was rather dark. Sally went to her mother and bent over her and put her arms half around her. She did it very gently,—oh, so gently,—for fear of making the headache worse.
"Is your head better, mother, dear?" she asked softly.
Mrs. Ladue smiled wanly. "Having my dear little girl here makes it better," she answered.
"Does it, mother? Does it really?" The thought made Sally very happy. But then it suddenly came over her that, if she carried out her plans, she could not stay. She was torn with conflicting emotions, but not with doubts. She had considered enough and she knew what she intended to do. She did not hesitate.
"I'm very sorry, mother, dear, that I can't stay now. I'll come in when I get back, though, and I'll stay then, if it isn't too late and if you want me then. I truly will. I love to."
"Is it Charlie, Sally? You have too much of the care of Charlie. If I weren't so good for nothing!"
"I've left Charlie with Katie, and he's happy. It's father. I think I'd better go in and meet him. Don't you think I'd better?"
The tears came to Mrs. Ladue's eyes. "Bless you, dear child! But how can you, dear, all alone? No, Sally. If you must go, I'll get up and go with you."
"Oh, mother, you mustn't, you mustn't. I can get Fox to go with me. I know he will. I promise not to go unless I can get Fox—or some one—to go."
"Some grown person, Sally?" Mrs. Ladue asked anxiously.
"Yes," answered Sally, almost smiling, "some grown person. That is," she added, "if you call Fox Sanderson a grown person."
"Fox Sanderson is a dear good boy," replied Mrs. Ladue. "I wish you had a brother like him, Sally,—just like him."
"I wish I did," said Sally, "but I haven't. The next best thing is to have him just Fox Sanderson. Will you be satisfied with him, mother, dear,—if I can get him to go?"
Again Mrs. Ladue smiled. "Quite satisfied, dear. I can trust you, Sally, and you don't know what a relief that is."
"No," said Sally, "I s'pose I don't." Nevertheless she may have had some idea.
That thought probably occurred to her mother, for she laughed a little tremulously. "Kiss me, darling, and go along."
So Sally kissed her mother, tenderly and again and again, and turned away. But her mother called her back.
"Sally, there is a ticket in my bureau, somewhere. And, if you can find my purse, you had better take that, too. I think there is nearly two dollars in it. It is a pretty small sum for Christmas shopping, but I shall be glad if you spend it all."
Sally turned to kiss her mother again. "I shan't spend it all," she said.
She rummaged until she found the ticket and the purse; and, with a last good-bye to her mother, she was gone. Mrs. Ladue sighed. "The darling!" she said, under her breath.
Sally met Fox and Henrietta just outside her own gate. "Oh," she cried, "it's lucky, for you're exactly the persons I wanted to see."
Henrietta looked expectant.
"Well, Sally," Fox said, smiling, "what's up now?"
"I'm going to town," Sally answered, less calmly than usual. She laid her hand on his arm as she spoke. "That is, I'm going if I can find somebody to go with me."
Fox laughed. "Is that what you call a hint, Sally? Will we do?"
"It isn't a hint," said Sally, flushing indignantly. "That is,—it wasn't meant for one. I was going to ask you if you had just as lief go as not. I've got a ticket and there are—let's see"—she took out her ticket and counted—"there are seven trips on it. That's enough. Would you just as lief?"
"I'd rather," replied Fox promptly. "Come on, Henrietta. We're going to town." He looked at his watch. "Train goes in fourteen minutes, and that's the train we take. Step lively, now."
Henrietta giggled and Sally smiled; and they stepped lively and got to the station with two minutes to spare. Fox occupied that two minutes with a rattle of airy nothings which kept Sally busy and her mind off her errand; which may have been Fox's object or it may not. For Sally had not told her errand yet, and how could Fox Sanderson have known it? When they got into the car, Sally was a little disappointed because she had not been able to tell him. She had meant to—distinctly meant to during that two minutes.
She had no chance to tell him in the train. The cars made such a noise that she would have had to shout it in his ear and, besides, he talked steadily.
"I'll tell you what," he said, at the end of a stream of talk of which Sally had not heard half. "Let's get your father, Sally, and take him with us while you do your errands, whatever they are. He'll be through in the laboratory, and we'll just about catch him."
"All right," Sally murmured; and she sank back in her seat contentedly.
She had been sitting bolt upright. She felt that it was all right now, and she would not need to tell Fox or anybody. She felt very grateful to him, somehow. She felt still more grateful to him when he let the conductor take all their fares from her ticket without a protest. Fox was looking out of the window.
"It looks as if we might have some snow," he remarked. "Or it may be rain. I hope it will wait until we get home."
When they got to the laboratory, they found one of the cleaners just unlocking the door. She didn't know whether the professor had gone or not. He always kept the door locked after hours; but would they go in? They would and did, but could not find Professor Ladue. Fox found, on his desk, a beaker with a few drops of a liquid in it. He took this up and smelt of it. The beaker still held a trace of warmth.
"He has just this minute gone," he said. "If we hurry I think we can catch him. I know the way he has probably gone."
"How do you know he has just gone?" asked Sally, looking at him soberly and with her customary directness. "How can you tell?"
"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "You didn't know that I was a detective, did you, Sally?"
"No," said Sally. "Are you?"
"Seem to be," Fox returned. "Come on, or we'll lose him."
So they hurried, twisting and winding through streets that Sally did not know. They seemed to be highly respectable streets. Sally wondered where they were going. She wanted to ask Fox, but, evidently, he didn't want to take the time to talk. Henrietta's eyes were brighter than usual and she looked from Fox to Sally with a curiosity which she could not conceal; but Sally, at least, did not notice, and Henrietta said nothing.
"There he is," said Fox, at last.
They had just turned the corner of a street lined with what appeared to Sally to be rather imposing houses. It was a highly respectable street, like the others they had come through, and it was very quiet and dignified. Indeed, there was no one in sight except Professor Ladue, who was sauntering along with the manner of the care-free. His coat was unbuttoned and blowing slightly, although there was that chill in the air that always precedes snow and the wind was rising. Their steps echoed in the quiet street, and, instinctively, they walked more softly. Strangely enough, they all seemed to have the same feeling; a feeling that the professor might suddenly vanish if he heard them and looked around.
"Now, Sally," Fox continued, speaking somewhat hurriedly, "you run and catch him before he turns that next corner. The street around that corner is only a court with a dozen houses on it. If you don't catch him before he goes into the house in the middle of that block, give it up. Don't try to go in after him, but come back. Henrietta and I will be waiting for you. If you get him, we won't wait. But don't say anything about our being here unless he asks you. He might not like to know that I had followed him."
"But," protested Sally, bewildered, "aren't you going with us? I thought you were going shopping with us."
"If we had caught him before he had left the college. Now, it might be embarrassing—to both your father and to me."
"But your tickets!" wailed Sally in a distressed whisper. They had been speaking like conspirators.
Fox laughed softly. "I have a few cents about me. You can make that right some other time. Now, run!"
So Sally ran. She ran well and quietly and came up with her father just after he had turned that last corner. The professor must have been startled at the unexpectedness of the touch upon his arm, for he turned savagely, prepared, apparently, to strike.
"Father!" cried Sally; but she did not shrink back. "Father! It's only me!"
The look in Professor Ladue's eyes changed. Some fear may have come into it; a fear that always seemed to be latent where Sally was concerned. His look was not pleasant to see directed toward his own little daughter. The savage expression was still there, and a frown, denoting deep displeasure.
"Sally!" he exclaimed angrily. Then he was silent for a time; a time, it is to be presumed, long enough for him to collect his scattered faculties and to be able to speak as calmly as a professor should speak to his daughter, aged ten.
"Sally," he said at last, coldly, "may I ask how you came here?"
"Why," Sally replied, speaking hastily, "I was coming in town, this afternoon,—I planned it, long ago, with mother,—and—"
"Is your mother with you?" the professor interrupted.
To a careful observer he might have seemed more startled than ever; but perhaps Sally was not a careful observer. At all events, she gave no sign.
"Mother had a headache and couldn't come," said Sally quietly. She must have been afraid that her father would ask other questions. It was quite natural that he should want to know who did come with her. So she went on rapidly. "But I thought I'd come just the same, so I did, and I went to your laboratory, but you'd just gone and I followed on after and I caught you just as you turned this corner, and now I would like to have you go down to the shops with me. I want to buy something for mother and Charlie. Will you go with me, father?"
The professor did not ask any of the questions that Sally feared. Possibly he had as much fear of the answers as Sally had of the questions. So he asked none of the questions that one would think a father would ask of his little daughter in such circumstances. As Sally neared the end of her rapid speech, his eyes had narrowed.
"So," he said slowly, "I gather from what you have left unsaid that your mother sent you after me."
There was the faintest suspicion of a sneer in his voice, but he tried to speak lightly. As had happened many times before, he did not succeed.
"She didn't," answered Sally, trying to be calm. Her eyes burned. "She didn't want me to come. I came on my own hook."
"It might have been wiser, Sally," the professor observed judicially, "to do what your mother wished."
Sally made no reply. She would have liked to ask him if he did—if he ever did what her mother wished.
Sally saying nothing and seeming somewhat abashed, the professor found himself calmer. "So that course did not commend itself to your judgment? Didn't think it best to mind your mother. And you went to the laboratory and—who let you in?" he asked suddenly.
"One of the cleaners."
"Oh, one of the cleaners. A very frowzy lady in a faded black skirt and no waist worth mentioning, I presume." The professor seemed relieved. "And you went in, and didn't find me. Very natural. I was not there. And having made up your mind, from internal evidence, I presume, which way I had gone,—but who told you?—oh, never mind. It's quite immaterial. A very successful trail, Sally; or shall I say shadow? You must have the makings of a clever detective in you. I shouldn't have suspected it. Never in the world."
The professor was quite calm by this time; rather pleased with himself, especially as he had chanced to remark the tears standing in his little daughter's eyes.
"And I never suspected it!" he repeated. Then he laughed; but it was a mirthless laugh. If he had known how empty it would sound, the professor would never have done it.
At his laugh, two of the aforesaid tears splashed on the sidewalk, in spite of Sally's efforts to prevent. The tears may not have been wholly on her own account. She may have felt some pity for her father's pitiful pretense.
She bit her lip. "Will you go with me now, father?" she asked, as soon as she could trust herself to speak at all.
It was always somewhat difficult to account for the professor's actions and to assign the motive which really guided. The professor, himself, was probably unaware, at the time, of having any motive. So why seek one? It need not concern us.
"Go with you, Sally? Why, yes, indeed. Certainly. Why not?" he agreed with an alacrity which was almost unseemly; as if he challenged anybody to say that that was not just what he had meant to do, all along. "I have some presents to buy—for your mother and Charlie. And for somebody else, too," he murmured, in a tone that was, no doubt, meant for Sally to hear. She heard it.
Sally smiled up at him and took his hand, which she seldom did. It is true that she seldom had the chance. Then she glanced quickly around, to see whether Fox and Henrietta were in sight. The street was deserted.
Professor Ladue buttoned his coat; but the wind was rising still, and the chill increasing, and his coat was rather light for the season. What more natural than that he should wish it buttoned? But Sally would have unbuttoned her coat gladly. She would not have felt the chill; and she almost skipped beside him, as they walked rapidly down toward streets which were not deserted, but crowded with people. As they went, he talked more and more light nonsense, and Sally was happy; which was a state much to be desired, but unusual enough to be worthy of remark.
They were very late in getting home. With the crowds and the snow which had begun to fall, there was no knowing what the trains would be up to. Trains have an unpleasant habit of being late whenever there is any very special reason for wishing to get in promptly. But I suppose there is always somebody on any train who has a very special reason for wishing to get in promptly. There was on this train. Sally had a bad case of the fidgets, thinking of her mother, who must be waiting and waiting and wondering why her little daughter didn't come. It would be bad for her head. The professor, too,—but I don't know about the professor; he may have been in no hurry.
When at last they did get home, after a long wade through snow up to her shoetops, Sally ran up to her mother's room, shedding her wet and snowy things as she ran. She knocked softly and, at the first sound of her mother's voice, she went in and shut the door gently behind her. The room was nearly pitch dark, but she could see the bed, dimly, and she ran to it and ran into her mother's arms.
"Bless you, Sally, darling!" Mrs. Ladue cried softly. "You don't know how glad I am to have you back."
"I got him, mother, dear," Sally whispered. "I got him. But it was only by the skin of my teeth."
CHAPTER VI[ToC]
If Sally did get the professor only by the skin of her teeth, she had no need to keep that precarious hold upon him. Providence or the elements, or whatever you wish to call it, took that matter in hand and attended to it with the thoroughness usual in cases in which it undertakes to attend to anything. For Sally awoke the next morning to find her world bound fast in ice. Every twig bore its load except such as had refused to bear it. The birches, in scattered clumps, bowed down to the ground, and the hard crust of the snow was littered with broken branches.
Sally stood at her window, looking out. It was beautiful, there was no denying it; but, as she looked at the birches, every one of them bent to the ground, with the freshly fallen snow covering it, and its top held fast under the crust, her lip curled a little. She didn't think much of a tree which couldn't hold itself up. It seemed to her too much like saving yourself at the price of your self-respect. Better be a self-respecting, upstanding tree, even if you did lose an arm or two; better to go down altogether, if need be, but fighting. Yes, in spite of their beauty, she despised the birches. And, with some such thoughts as these, she turned from the window and dressed quickly.
Nothing came that morning. A horse could hardly get through that crust with safety to his legs. In consequence, the professor had no cream. Sally fully expected an outburst of rage, which, with the professor, took the form of acidly sarcastic remarks. His remarks, while preserving outward forms of politeness, usually resulted in reducing Mrs. Ladue to tears as soon as she had gained the seclusion of her own room. It was not that Professor Ladue held his wife accountable for such things as heavy snowstorms or sleet-storms—upon full consideration. Such things are usually denominated "acts of God," and, in contracts, the contractors are expressly relieved from responsibility for failure of performance in consequence. The professor himself, upon full consideration, would have held such exemption quite proper. But his wife was not a contractor and was entitled to no such exemptions. A professor was entitled to cream for his breakfast.
Sally, coming down with Charlie, found her father eating his breakfast in solitude and in apparent content, and without cream; certainly without cream. Mrs. Ladue had not appeared. Perhaps she was tired of being reduced to tears on such occasions and had more confidence in Sally than she had in herself. Certainly the professor was less apt to indulge his taste for acid sarcasm with Sally. There is little satisfaction to be got out of it when the only effect upon the hearer is a barely perceptible rise in color and a tightening of the lips. At all events, he did not do what was expected of him.
"Good-morning, Sally," he said pleasantly.
Sally was much surprised. She was so much surprised that the blood surged into her cheeks in a flood. That was a greater effect than could have been produced by acid sarcasm in any amount. The professor might have noted that. Perhaps he did.
"Good-morning, father," Sally replied, smiling. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then, yielding to her impulse, she put her arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "Good-morning." And she went quickly to her seat, her cheeks blazing.
The professor was so astonished at this act of Sally's,—an act as difficult to foresee and to provide against as an act of God,—he was so thoroughly astonished, I say, that he spilled some of the coffee which had no cream in it. But let us hope he would not have wanted to provide against that act of God.
"Well, Sally," he said, laughing lightly, "it's surprising to think what the weather can do when it tries. Only yesterday afternoon, bare ground and scarcely a hint of what was coming. Now, here we are, tied up."
"Tied up?" Sally asked.
"Tied up," he repeated. "There's little doubt about it. No milkman." He waved his hand. "And there'll be no grocer and no anybody else. You'll see. No butcher—meat man—we don't have butchers, now. Just think of that, Sally. No meat until spring. How will you like that? We should have been keeping chickens and pigs and we ought to have cows and a calf or two. Then I would take my axe in my hand and my knife and I would sally out to the barn. You would hear sounds of murder and we should have fresh meat. Fresh meat!" The professor looked ferocious.
"And no trains," he added meditatively. "I haven't heard a train this morning and I don't expect to."
"Well," said Sally, "you don't have to take them. What do you care?"
"Ah, true," he replied in the same meditative tone. "Very just, Sally. I don't have to take them, and what do I care? What do I? Answer, nothing."
The professor waved his hand again and drank his coffee. An irrepressible chuckle came from Sally. She said nothing, but waited for her father to resume. He always did resume when he was in this mood, which was not often.
He put down his empty cup. "And what do we do? We finish our breakfast, which may be a matter of some time, judging from quantity alone." He pointed to Sally's plate and to Charlie's. Charlie had been eating industriously ever since he sat down. "We finish our breakfast and we loaf awhile, and then we bundle up and try to shovel out; you, Sally, and I and Charlie."
Here he pointed a finger at Charlie, who emitted a roar of delight.
"An' can I shovel with my little snow-shovel? Can I?"
The professor poured for himself another cup of coffee. "You are to have the felicity of shoveling with your little snow-shovel, Charlie. See that you do good work with it. And Sally shall take the middle-sized snow-shovel, and I will take the GREAT BIG snow-shovel."
Another roar from Charlie, who began to eat faster.
"This coffee, Sally," continued the professor, "would be better if the storm had been less severe. But it does very well. It is most excellent coffee. It is probably better for my health than it would be with cream. For, do you know, Sally, I am well convinced that cream with coffee forms quite another substance, which is deleterious to health and destructive of the ability to sleep, although affecting in no way the desire to do so. And that, Sally, is most unpleasant."
Professor Ladue was speaking in his lecture-room voice and very seriously. Sally was smiling. As he finished, the smile grew into a chuckle and she choked. Charlie, having taken an extraordinarily large mouthful, and being diverted from the ensuing process by the choking of Sally, also choked.
"Sally," said the professor calmly, "your little brother needs your attention. He needs it rather badly, it seems to me." For Charlie had his mouth open and was getting red in the face.
Sally got up hastily and pounded Charlie on the back. That measure being ineffective, she shook him violently. He gasped twice.
"Want to race," he exploded.
The professor looked surprised. "An eating race, Charlie?" he asked. "Why, my dear boy, I shouldn't stand a ghost of a chance with you. We might make it a handicap, but, even then—"
"Shoveling race," Charlie explained. "You have the great big snow-shovel an' Sally have the middle-sized shovel an' I have the little snow-shovel, an' we race to see who can get the most done."
"Brilliant idea, Charlie, positively glittering," his father returned. "But it would hardly be fair to start us all from scratch, I am afraid. Better make it a handicap, eh?"
"Yes," Charlie replied, not knowing in the least what a handicap was.
Neither did Sally. "What is a handicap, father?" she asked.
Her father explained.
"Oh," she said, approving, "then it makes the race fair, doesn't it? Every one has as much chance of winning as everybody else. I think that is nice."
"It is an attempt in that direction, Sally. But there are many things about it, about—er—racing—of any kind, that it is just as well you shouldn't know. So I will not try to explain. If every one concerned acts fairly, Sally, and with good judgment, it is nice, as you say."
Sally was not going to be put off. "Why doesn't everybody act fairly?"
The professor waved his hand and shrugged his shoulders; but before he could make any other reply, the door opened softly. He welcomed the opening of the door. It put a stop to Sally's questioning, which was apt to become embarrassing, in certain cases.
A glance at Sally's face would have told Professor Ladue who had opened the door, but it is to be supposed that he knew. Sally jumped up and ran; and the professor rose—rose with some alacrity—and turned.
"Good morning, Sarah," he said pleasantly. "We are all glad to see you. I hope you are feeling better."
Mrs. Ladue smiled happily. One would have thought that Professor Ladue would have tried that manner oftener. It produced much effect with little effort; but I spoke hastily. I do not know how much effort it was.
"Thank you, Charlie—Charlie, dear," she answered, hesitating a little; "I do feel very much better. I heard all the happy noise down here and I had to come down."
"Don't apologize, my dear," he protested; "don't apologize, or we shall have to believe that you didn't mean to come because you didn't want to."
Mrs. Ladue took her seat, but made no reply. There was a faint color in her cheeks and she looked almost shyly at her husband. Sally was gazing at her mother, but not in wonder. There was no fathoming Sally. She reached out and pressed her mother's hand.
"You look so very pretty, mother," she whispered.
The color in Mrs. Ladue's cheeks became deeper. "Hush, dear," she whispered in return. "It must be because I am happy."
"I wish we could always be happy," Sally whispered again; "all of us."
There was no way of knowing whether her father had heard these whispers. He might have heard, but he gave no sign, looking into his empty cup and playing with the spoon.
"Sally," he said suddenly, "what do you suppose my little lizard would have done if he had waked up some morning and found his swamp covered with this?" The professor waved his hand toward the window.
Sally was much interested. "Would he have flown away?"
"Wrong," cried the professor, getting up and walking to the window. "Guess again."
Sally gave the question some thought. "I don't know," she said at last.
"Wrong again. Next! Charlie!"
Charlie had his mouth full. He looked up in surprise. "What?" he spluttered.
"What would my little lizard have done this morning?"
Charlie was no Fletcherite. He swallowed his mouthful very nearly whole. Then he gasped a little which is not to be wondered at.
"Little lizard would take his little snow-shovel and shovel a great big place—" he began. Then an idea seemed to strike him and he stopped with his mouth open. "No," he cried; "little lizard would be dead."
"Very possibly, Charlie. That's the nearest answer, so far." The professor turned and regarded his son curiously. "I should really like to know how you arrived at that conclusion."
"Lizard died a long time ago," Charlie answered. "Couldn't wake up this morning because you've got the bones upstairs."
The professor laughed. "A very just observation," he remarked. "You have a logical mind, Charles."
Charles slid down from his chair. "I'm through my breakfast," he announced. "Want to shovel."
"You forget our programme, Charlie," said his father. "We are to loaf now. It is always best to eat slowly, masticate your food well, refrain from drinking when you are thirsty, and stand for half an hour after eating. There are other things which I forget. But we will loaf now."
The professor lit a cigarette, after due preliminaries. Mrs. Ladue had finished, apparently. She had come down rather to enjoy the rare occasion than to eat. Perhaps it was a knowledge of that fact which had kept the professor going and a desire—an inexplicable desire—on his part to keep her in her state of happiness. It was seldom possible to account for his actions. At all events, he was accomplishing that end. It was a great pity that his desires did not always run in that direction. It would have been so easy; so very easy for him, and it would have made his wife so very happy. But the time when that would have done any great good may have passed already.
The professor followed out his programme religiously, talking when he felt like it, always a pleasant and cheerful flow of irresponsible talk, and loafing conscientiously for half an hour. Mrs. Ladue sat still, saying little, afraid to move lest the movement break the spell. Charlie had slipped out, unnoticed.
Presently there was a great noise on the cellar stairs, sounding like distant thunder. The noise stopped for a moment.
"What's going on?" asked the professor casually. "Socialists in the cellar? Not that I care," he added, with a wave of his cigarette. "Mere curiosity. I should be glad to meet any socialists; but not in the cellar."
Mrs. Ladue laughed gently. It was a long time since the professor had heard her laugh. That thought occurred to him.
"You will, I think. They are opening the cellar door now. There they come."
For the noise had resumed, and was approaching along the hall. The door of the dining-room swung open suddenly and Charlie entered, earnest and intent and covered with dust and cobwebs. Behind him dragged three snow-shovels, also covered with dust and cobwebs.
Sally sprang for him. "Oh, Charlie—"
He brushed her aside. "I brung your shovel, father," he said, "an' Sally's. I couldn't lift 'em all at once, an' so I dragged 'em."
The professor bowed. "So I gathered," he replied. "I thank you, Charles."
"But, Charlie," Sally cried, "you're all over dust and so are the shovels. They ought to have been dusted."
Charlie had dropped the shovels on the floor, thinking his mission ended. Now he leaned over and thoughtfully wiped the shovels, one after another, with his hand.
"They are," he said, gazing at his grimy hand, "aren't they? But it was dark an' I couldn't see. Besides, the snow'll clean 'em. I want to shovel an' race, father," he added, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't it time yet?"
"Charlie," said his father, throwing away his cigarette, "in the words of Friar Bacon's brass head, time is. Come on."
CHAPTER VII[ToC]
The next month passed very pleasantly for the Ladues. Sleet-storms cannot last forever and, the morning after Christmas, Sally heard the trains running with some regularity. She was anxious accordingly and she watched her father closely. But he did not seem to care whether trains ever ran or not. His pleasant mood lasted, too: the mood of light banter, in which he appeared to care something for his wife and children; something, if not enough. They were grateful for that little, although they knew very well that it was but a mood that might change utterly in five minutes. It did not change for a surprisingly long time, and Sally almost held her breath at first, while she waited for it to pass. It would have been a relief—yes, distinctly it would have been a relief, at first. But that feeling passed, too.
In short, the professor was good, and Sally was happy. After the tension of that first expectation was over she was very nearly as happy as she should have been always. Children have a right to happiness—to freedom from real worries—as far as we can compass that end; and Sally had been deprived of her birthright. I wonder whether the professor had ever realized that; whether he had ever given it a thought.
Mrs. Ladue was happy, too, because Sally was happy and because her husband was kind to her, temporarily. He was not as kind as he might have been, but then, he might have been so very much worse. He might have beaten her. He had been accustomed to beat her, figuratively, for some years. At first, too, her head seemed really better. At the end of a week of the new order of things, she spoke of it to Sally. She knew better than to mention the subject of headaches to the professor.
Sally was overjoyed. She buried her head in a pillow that happened to be handy, and wept. A strange thing to do! "Oh, mother, dear!" she cried. "Oh, mother, dear, if it only will stay so!"
Mrs. Ladue gathered the child into her arms. "There darling!" she said softly. "There, my dear little daughter! We'll hope it will."
But when, at the end of a month, Sally looked back and compared, she knew that it hadn't. It had been a happy month, though. Fox and Henrietta had been in every day, and, while Sally played—or was supposed to be playing—with Henrietta, Fox sometimes sat with her mother. Mrs. Ladue became very fond of Fox. He didn't talk much, nor did she. Indeed, Sally thought, in that fit of retrospection, that Fox had seemed to be watching her mother; at least, occasionally. And Fox, saying little, saw much. Sally knew. There was no telling how she knew it, but she did; so she went to him, rather troubled, and asked what he thought about her mother's health.
He considered, looking seriously at her for a long time.
"Well, Sally," he answered at last, "it isn't any better, on the whole. I should think she ought to consult some doctor about it—some good doctor."
"Oh," said Sally in a low voice, "you—I hope you don't think—"
"I don't think, Sally," Fox interrupted. "I know there is some cause beyond my limited knowledge, and some one who really knows should see your mother—if any one really knows. Doctors don't know much, after all."
Sally considered, in her turn, for a long time, her eyes searching Fox's face.
"Then," she concluded, sighing, "I shall have to speak to father about it. Well,—I will."
"That's the best thing to do," he replied. "And, Sally, remember, if he doesn't receive the suggestion favorably, you are to let me know."
"He won't," said Sally, with a faint little smile; "that is, he never did. I let you know now. He may," she added doubtfully. "He has been nice for a long time." Sally flushed at this implied confession, but why should she not make it? Fox knew.
"You try it, Sally, and let me know how you come out."
So Sally tried it. It may have been a mistake, but how should Sally have foreseen? It was as likely that, at the worst, she but hastened her father's action; touched off the charge prematurely. The explosion would have come.
There was no beating about the bush. "Father," Sally began soberly, "don't you think that mother ought to see some good doctor? I do."
If her heart beat a little faster, as she spoke, there was no tremor in her voice.
Professor Ladue looked up. He had been prepared to throw back some light answer and to see Sally smile in response; perhaps to hear her chuckle. But, deuce take it, there was no knowing what that confounded child would say next. It was presuming upon his good nature. It occurred to the professor that he had been good-natured for an unreasonably long time. He was surprised and he was annoyed.
Meanwhile that confounded child was looking at him out of sombre gray eyes, waiting for his reply. As the professor's look met those eyes, they seemed to see right through him, and the sharp answer which trembled on the tip of his tongue was left unsaid. It was astonishing how often that happened. The professor was aware of it!—uncomfortably aware—and the knowledge annoyed him the more. The professor was to be excused. It is most unpleasant to have one's naked soul exposed to the view of one's little daughter. One's soul needs to be a pretty good sort of a soul to stand that, without making its owner squirm. And the professor's soul was—well, it was his; the only one he had. But he did squirm, actually and in the flesh.
He tried to speak lightly, but his look shifted. He could not meet Sally's eyes without speaking the truth. "What is the matter with your mother, Sally?" he asked. "Stomach-ache or toothache?"
Sally did not smile. "Her headaches. They are getting worse."
"Pouf!" said the professor, with a wave of his hand. "Everybody has headaches. What's a headache?"
"I don't know," Sally replied, "and she doesn't and I think she ought to."
"The definition," remarked the professor coldly, "is to be found in the dictionary, I have no doubt. You might look it up and tell her."
"And so I think," Sally continued, as if he had not spoken, "that mother ought to see a doctor; a doctor that knows about headaches."
"Oh," said the professor, more coldly than before. "So you would like to have a specialist called in; a specialist in headaches."
"I don't know whether that's what you call them," Sally returned bravely. "If it is, then I would."
Her father had turned toward her, but he did not look at her. "Most interesting!" He got a cigarette from the drawer and proceeded to beat out some of the tobacco. "Doctor—er—what's-his-name, from the village, wouldn't do, then?"
"No, he wouldn't." There was just a suspicion of a quiver in Sally's voice. "He doesn't know enough."
"Indeed! You have not communicated your opinion of his knowledge, or his lack of it, to him, I take it?"
Sally shook her head. She could not have spoken, even if the question had called for a reply.
"Do you know what a specialist charges, Sally?"
She shook her head again.
"For taking a case like your mother's, Sally," he said slowly, "which would be nuts to him, I have no doubt, his charge would be more, in a week, than I could pay in ten years."
"It is very important," Sally urged. "It is very important for mother."
The professor rose. "Much as I regret the necessity, I feel obliged to decline." He made her a bow. "No specialists for this family. If your mother feels the need of a physician, let her call Doctor what's-his-name from the village."
Sally turned to go without a word.
"And, Sally," her father added, "be kind enough to tell your mother that important matters at the college require my attention. She is not to be alarmed if I fail to come in my usual train. I may be kept late."
The phrase sounded familiar. It was the old formula which Sally had hoped would not be used again. She went out quietly, feeling responsible. It was absurd, of course, but she could not help it. She meant to find Fox and tell him; but not quite yet. She couldn't bear it yet.
The matters at the college must have been very important, for they—or something—kept Professor Ladue late, as he had seemed to fear; the important matters—or something—must have kept him too late for the last train that night. To be sure, Sally did not know anything about it, at the time. She had not indulged a hope of anything else, and had gone to bed and to sleep as usual. For Sally was a healthy little animal, and she was asleep in a very few minutes after her head had touched the pillow. Her eyes may have been wet. Mrs. Ladue went to bed, too. Her eyes were not wet, but there was an ache in her head and another just above her heart. She may have gone to sleep at once or she may not. It is conceivable that she lay there, with her two aches, until after the last train had got in.
It was the middle of the next forenoon before Sally got a chance to tell Fox about it; and Fox listened, not too sympathetically. That seemed to him to be the best way to treat it. He would have made light of it, even, for Sally was oppressed by the sense of her own responsibility; but Sally would have none of it.
"Don't, Fox, please," she said.
"Well," he replied, "I won't, then. But don't you worry, Sally. We'll have your mother fixed up, all right, yet."
"I haven't decided. But I'm going to bend the whole power of a great mind to the question. When I've found the best way to do it, I'm going to do it. You'll see."
Sally sighed with relief. She had not got beyond the stage of thinking that Fox could do anything that he tried to do. Perhaps he could.
They were down by the gate, Fox leaning upon it and Sally standing on a bar and swinging it gently. Occasionally she looked down the road.
"Here comes father," she said suddenly, in a low voice.
"Stay where you are, Sally." Fox checked her impulse to run.
The professor was walking fast and he came in at the gate almost immediately. Sally had dismounted. He looked annoyed and would have passed without a word.
"Good-morning," said Fox cheerfully.
The professor turned, giving Fox one of his smiles which was not a smile at all. If the professor had chanced to turn one of those smiles upon a too confiding dog, the dog would have put his tail between his legs and run. Vivisection came after.
"Good-morning," said the professor acidly. "I shall be obliged to delay our session for an hour."
"Very well, sir, whenever it is convenient for you." And Fox smiled cheerfully again.
The professor turned once more. His eyes were bloodshot, he was unshaven, and—well, tousled. In short, the professor looked as if he had been sitting up all night. He had.
"You see," said Sally solemnly. Her father was out of hearing, as may be supposed.
CHAPTER VIII[ToC]
Professor Ladue had had a relapse. There was no doubt about it. It was rather serious, too, as relapses are apt to be; but what could be expected? He had been good for a long time, a very long time for him. It was even an unreasonably long time for him, as had occurred to him, you will remember, in the course of his conversation with Sally, and nobody had any right to expect more. What Mrs. Ladue and her daughter Sally thought they expected was really what they hoped. They did not expect it, although they thought that they did; and the proof is that, when the first relapse happened, they were not surprised. They were deeply discouraged. The future looked pretty black to Sally as she swung there on the gate. It looked blacker yet when the professor did it twice again in one month. That was in March. But the worst was to come. It was lucky that Sally did not know it. It is always lucky that we do not know, at one blow, all that is to happen to us. Our courage might not survive that blow. Instead, it has a chance to grow with what it feeds upon.
So Sally went her daily round as cheerfully as she could. That was not any too cheerfully, and her unexpected chuckles became as rare as roses in December. Even her smiles seemed to be reserved for her mother and to be tender rather than merry. She watched the progress of her mother's disease, whatever it was, with solicitude and anxiety, although she tried desperately hard not to show her mother how anxious she was.
Mrs. Ladue's progress was very slow; imperceptible, from day to day, and she had her ups and downs. It was only when she could look back for a month or more that Sally was able to say to herself, with any certainty, that her mother was worse—that the downs had it. But always, when Sally could look back and compare, she had to confess to herself that that was so. The headaches were no more frequent nor did they seem to be harder to bear; but her mother seemed—it was a struggle for Sally to have to acknowledge it, even to herself—her mother seemed to be growing stupid. Her intelligence seemed to be diminishing. What was Fox thinking of, to let that happen?
When this question presented itself, Sally was again swinging moodily upon the gate, regarding the muddy road that stretched out before her. Charlie was playing somewhere behind her, equipped with rubber boots and a heavy coat. It is to be feared that Sally had forgotten Charlie. It was not her habit to forget Charlie. And it is to be feared that she was forgetting that the last day of March had come and that it was warm and springlike, and that there were a number of birds about. It was not her habit to forget any of those things either, especially the birds. There was a flash of blue under a tree near by and, a few seconds later, a clear song rang out. Charlie stopped his play and looked, but Sally did not see the blue wings nor the ruddy breast nor did she seem to hear the song.
That question had brought her up short. She stopped her rhythmic swinging to and fro.
"I'll ask him," she said. Her faith in Fox was absolute.
She opened the gate quickly, and started to run.
There was a roar from Charlie. "Sally! Where you goin'? Wait for me! I want to go, too. I'm awful hot. Can't I take off my coat? An' these boots are hot. I want to take 'em off."
Sally sighed and waited. "I'm afraid I forgot you, Charlie. Take off your coat, if you're too hot, and leave it by the gate."
Charlie had the overcoat off and he dropped it by the side of the footpath.
"Not there, Charlie," Sally said impatiently. "Inside the gate. We don't leave overcoats by the side of the road."
"You didn't say inside," Charlie returned sulkily. "I left it where you said." He opened the gate and cast the offending garment inside. "And these boots—can I take 'em off?"
"No," said Sally sharply, "of course not. If your feet are hot they'll have to stay hot. You can't go in your stocking feet in March."
"I don't see why not," grumbled Charlie. "I could take my stockings off, too."
Sally made no reply to this protest. She took his hand in hers. "Now, run, Charlie. I'm in a hurry."
So Charlie ran as well as a small boy can run in rubber boots and along a path that is just muddy enough to be exceedingly slippery. When they came to the corner that they had to turn to go to Fox's, he was almost crying and Sally was dragging him. They turned the corner quickly and almost ran into Henrietta.
"Oh!" cried Henrietta, startled. "Why, Sally!"
Charlie laughed. "Why didn't you go faster, Sally? Then we might have run into her—plump."
He laughed again, but got no attention from Sally.
"Where's Fox?" she asked.
"He went into town this morning," Henrietta answered. "He told me to tell you to cheer up. I don't know what it's about, but probably you do. I was just on my way to tell you. Come on. Let's go back to your house."
Sally gave a sigh of relief. Fox had not forgotten, after all. There was nothing to do but to wait; but Sally was rather tired of waiting.
"Well, Henrietta," she said, "then we will. But I want to see Fox as soon as ever I can."
Fox at that moment was sitting in the private office of a physician—a specialist in headaches—and was just finishing his story. He had mentioned no names and it was hardly conceivable that he was talking about himself. Fox did not look like a person who was troubled with any kind of aches.
That seemed to be the opinion of the doctor, at any rate. It would have been your opinion or mine.
"I take it that you are not the patient," he said, smiling.
That doctor was not the type of the grasping specialist; he did not seem to be the kind of man who would charge as much as a patient would be likely to be able to pay—all that the traffic would bear. But who is, when you come to know them? Probably the doctors of that type, in any large city, could be counted on the fingers of one hand. I know of one conspicuous example, and one only, and he is dead now. But he squeezed out large fees while he lived, and became very rich; and he was so busy with his squeezing that he had no time to enjoy his gains—I had almost said his ill-gotten gains. But that is by the way.
This doctor of Fox's—we will call him Doctor Galen, for the sake of a name—this Doctor Galen was a kindly man, who had sat leaning one elbow on the table and looking out at Fox under a shading hand and half smiling. That half smile invited confidence, and, backed by the pleasant eyes, it usually got it. Whether that was the sole reason for its being is beside the question; but probably it was not.
In response to the doctor's remark, Fox smiled, too, and shook his head.
"Am I to see this patient of yours?" asked Doctor Galen casually.
Fox was distinctly embarrassed. "Is it absolutely necessary, Doctor?" he asked, in return. "It is difficult to arrange that—without a complete change of base," he added. "It might be done, I suppose, but I don't see how, at this minute."
"The only reason that it might be necessary," said the doctor, speaking slowly, "is that you may have neglected some symptom that is of importance, while seeming to you to be of no consequence whatever. It is always desirable to see a patient. I have to take into account, for example, the whole life history, which may be of importance—and it may not."
Fox made no answer to this, but he looked troubled and he drummed with his fingers upon his knee.
"Can't we assume the patient to be—merely for the sake of fixing our ideas—" Doctor Galen continued, looking away and searching for his example, "well—er—Professor Ladue? Or, no, he won't do, for I saw him a few days ago, in quite his usual health. Quite as usual."
"You know Professor Ladue, then, Doctor?"
"Oh, yes, I know him," the doctor replied dryly. "Well, as I said, he won't do. Let us suppose that this case were that of—er—Mrs. Ladue." The doctor looked at Fox and smiled his pleasant smile. "She will answer our purpose as well as another."
"Do you know Mrs. Ladue, too?"
"No," said Doctor Galen. "No, I have not that pleasure. But I know her husband. That," he added, "may be of more importance, in the case we have assumed—with the symptoms as you have related them."
Fox smiled very slightly. "Well, suppose that it were Mrs. Ladue, then,—as an instance. Assuming that I have given all the symptoms, what should you say was the matter with her?"
Doctor Galen did not answer for some minutes. "Well," he said at last, "assuming that you have given all the symptoms correctly—but you can't have given them all. I have no means of knowing whether there is any tendency to hardening of the walls of the arteries. How old is she?" he asked suddenly.
Fox was startled. "I'm sure I don't know," he answered. "Say that she is thirty-odd—not over thirty-five."
"That is not likely, then," the doctor resumed, "although it is possible. I should have to see her to be sure of my ground. But, assuming that there are no complications,—no complications,—there is probably a very slight lesion in the brain. Or, it may be that the walls of the arteries in this neighborhood"—the doctor tapped his head—"are very thin and there is a gradual seepage of blood through them. To tell the truth, Mr. Sanderson, we can't know very exactly what is happening until skulls are made of plate glass. But the remedy is the same, in this case, whatever is happening, exactly."
"What is the treatment?"
"Oh," said Doctor Galen, apparently in surprise, "there is no treatment. In the hypothetical case which we have assumed, I should prescribe rest—absolute rest, physical and mental. We must give those arteries a chance, you know; a chance to build up and grow strong again. There is the clot to be absorbed, too. It is likely to be very slight. It may be completely absorbed in a short time. Given time enough, I should expect a complete recovery."
"How much time?" Fox asked.
"That depends upon how far she has progressed and upon how complete a mental rest she can get. It might be any time, from a few weeks to a few years."
Fox hesitated a little. "Then, I suppose, any—er—anxiety might interfere?"
"Any mental disturbance," Doctor Galen replied decidedly, "would most certainly retard her recovery. It might even prevent it altogether. Why, she ought not to think. I hope she has not got so far that she is unable to think?"
"No, not yet," Fox sighed and rose. "It's not so simple as you might suppose. But I'm grateful to you, Doctor. I'll see what can be done and I may call upon you again." He put his hand to his pocket. "Shall I pay you now?"
Doctor Galen smiled as he checked Fox's motion. "Hadn't you better wait until you get my bill? Yes, wait if you please."
That smile of Doctor Galen's seemed to envelop Fox in an atmosphere of kindliness. "You'll send one, Doctor?" he asked doubtfully.
"How do you suppose, sir," said the doctor, smiling more than ever,—he seemed really amused, that doctor,—"how do you suppose, sir, that I should pay my grocer, otherwise? You have put yourself into the clutches of a specialist, Mr. Sanderson. We are terrible fellows. You are lucky to escape with your life."
"Well," Fox replied, laughing, "I thank you again, Doctor, at any rate; and for letting me escape with my life."
The doctor let him out by a door that did not open into the outer office.
"Let me know how you come on with your schemes," the doctor said. "I am really interested. And, if you find it possible to give me a half-hour with your patient, I hope you will do so. It will be much better. Good-bye, Mr. Sanderson."
"I will," said Fox. "Good-bye, Doctor."
The doctor shut the door and touched a button on his desk. He was still smiling. A nurse appeared noiselessly.
"A nice boy, that, Miss Mather, and a deserving case," he commented. "I should be glad to be able to believe that all my patients were as deserving. But I shouldn't make much," he added.
Miss Mather smiled, but made no other reply. The doctor was looking over a little pile of cards. He took up the card from the top of the pile.
"Mrs. Van Hoofe, Miss Mather."
The nurse disappeared as noiselessly as she had come; and the doctor proceeded to smooth out his smile and to assume a properly sympathetic expression. Mrs. Van Hoofe would, perhaps, help him with his grocer's bills.
CHAPTER IX[ToC]
Fox was not immediately able to compass the end that was so much to be desired, but he did it, at last, not without misgivings. If Professor Ladue had known, what would he have thought—and said—about such interference with his domestic affairs? There were misgivings on Mrs. Ladue's part, too, and Fox had to overcome those. She was in no condition to combat Fox's wish, poor lady!—especially as it was her own wish, so far as she had any wish in the matter; and she knew that Sally had her heart set upon it. This is the way it happened.
Sally had been regular in her attendance at the dancing-class, all winter, and she had applied herself conscientiously to learn what she went to learn, with more or less success. There is no doubt that she learned the steps, but there is no less doubt that she failed to get the Spirit of Dancing. Indeed,—I speak with hesitation,—the Spirit of Dancing is born, not made. And how should Sally get it if she did not have it already? How should she get it if she did have it already, for that matter? It is not a thing that can be bought; it resembles happiness in that respect. And, although one may buy a very fair kind of an imitation of either, the real thing comes from within. Henrietta had had the Spirit of Dancing born in her; in regard to Sally there is some doubt.
So, if Sally's success was not glittering, it was better than Henrietta had feared it would be, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the close of the last day. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, too. She was unaffectedly glad that it was over. Mrs. Ladue, then experiencing one of her ups, planned a party for Sally and invited the whole dancing-class to it. It was to be a birthday party and was to be on the nineteenth of April, when Sally would have completed her eleventh year. Sally had always been glad that her birthday happened to come on the nineteenth of April, for it was a great help in remembering Leading Dates in American History—or one of them, at least.
They neglected to apprise the professor of the plan, no doubt through forgetfulness. For, how could he fail to be pleased that his daughter was to have a birthday party? He did not find it out until the seventeenth, two days before the event, and then only through the inadvertence of the caterer, who asked him some question about it. The caterer was a new man. He had been employed by Mr. Sanderson. Upon hearing this announcement and without giving the man any reply to his questions, Professor Ladue rushed off to town. He did not even leave word, at home, that Mrs. Ladue must not be alarmed if he failed to make his train. Fox happened to see him walking to and fro on the station platform, evidently fuming, and to guess where he was going and why.
We may be very sure that Fox did not tell Mrs. Ladue, but she found it out the next morning and immediately proceeded to have a down. The up having had its turn, the down was due, of course, but it was a very bad down. Fox telephoned for Doctor Galen.
Doctor Galen came out that afternoon. Sally had not been told, but she knew, somehow, and she was waiting for him by the gate.
"Doctor," she said, "will you let me get you anything that you want and—and wait on mother? Will you?"
The doctor smiled down at her. "Why, my dear little girl—" he began, looking into the earnest gray eyes. He did not finish as he had intended. "I thank you," he said. "If I need anything, you shall get it for me. And you shall wait upon your mother to your heart's content. But I can't tell how much waiting upon she will need until I have seen her."
"Thank you!" Sally cried softly. "I'm glad. I'll take you to mother." They started towards the house together. "Oh, I forgot," she added, turning toward him. "I'm Sally Ladue."
The doctor smiled down at her once more. "I gathered as much," he replied, "putting this and that together. I guess that your mother and your father are proud of their little girl."
"I don't think that father is," Sally returned soberly.
The doctor's eyes twinkled. "Why, that would be very strange. By the way, where is your father? In town, at the college?"
Sally flushed to the roots of her hair. "I think he is in town," she answered, looking carefully straight before her.
"Of course, he must have classes." The doctor had noted that fiery flush and had drawn his inference. "One would think," he continued, more to himself than to Sally, "that—er—one would think—" It was none of his business, he reflected, and he could not see, for the life of him, how—"Which is your mother's room, Sally?"
They were just entering the house and the doctor was pulling off his gloves.
"Oh, I'll take you up."
Doctor Galen came out after about half an hour. "Now, Sally," he said cheerfully, "we'll have her all right again, in time. It may take quite a long time, so don't you get impatient if it seems slow, will you, Sally?"
"I'll try not to." Her lip quivered and she began to sob.
"I'm c—crying bec—cause I'm g—glad." Then her sobs stopped suddenly and she looked up at the doctor; but the tears rolled down her cheeks. "Mother can't hear me?"
"No, you blessed child. You come with me, Sally, and cry as much as you like. It'll do you good. And I'll stay until you get through."
So it happened that Fox found them behind a big tree, out of sight from the house, Sally contentedly crying into the doctor's coat. Henrietta had gone on.
"She's all right, Mr. Sanderson. It has done her good to cry. I think she's about through, now."
Sally stopped crying and smiled at them both. "I'm so glad, Fox," she said.
Fox looked inquiringly at the doctor. "Your opinion, then, is that she will get well?"
"Yes, if there are no complications. I shouldn't expect any."
Sally, who had been waiting, apparently, to hear the doctor say this once more, murmured something about her mother and started for the house, running. She overtook Henrietta.
"Sally," continued the doctor, "seems to be a dear child—"
"She is."
"And her father seems to be—well, it isn't necessary for us to say what."
Fox laughed.
"There is only one thing—only one which looms up plainly. You and I have got to think of some way to get Mrs. Ladue away from her present surroundings. It would answer the purpose quite as well—perhaps better," the doctor added thoughtfully,—"if her husband could be removed from the environment. I am speaking rather plainly."
Fox nodded. "I understand," he said. "It is not impossible that Providence and Professor Ladue, working together, may accomplish that. I don't know how," he admitted, seeing the question in the doctor's eyes, "but I think there is going to be an explosion in that college, some day, soon. Professor Ladue—"
"Pig!" murmured Doctor Galen, under his breath.
"Had better look out," Fox finished. "By the way, Doctor, shall we have the party that we had planned for to-morrow—Sally's birthday—or had we better call it off?"
"If you can keep them out of the house," answered the doctor slowly, "and if they don't make too much noise, I see no objection to it. Mrs. Ladue will probably sleep through it. I have left a mild sleeping-potion—I want to keep her dozing, at any rate, for some days. Arrangements all made, I suppose?"
"They can be unmade easily enough."
"No, no. It isn't worth while. Let Sally have her party. I'll come to it, myself. You tell her so, will you, Mr. Sanderson?"
So Sally had her party. The knowledge that she had it was some comfort to Mrs. Ladue, who, in her comfortable, half-asleep condition, was dimly conscious—and glad—that her illness had made no difference in the plans for Sally. And Doctor Galen had come; ostensibly to the party. To be sure, he spent more than half the time with Mrs. Ladue, mounting the stairs silently, once in a while. Then, if she was sleeping, he would stand and watch her, observing every movement, voluntary and involuntary. They all meant something to him; most of them told him something. If she was not sleeping, she would open her eyes and smile vaguely, being still in that comfortable, dozing state when nothing seems to matter much. Then the doctor would enjoin silence by raising his hand, and she would smile again and close her eyes while he took a turn about the room, quietly, but not so quietly as to make his patient nervous.
It was fortunate that the day was pleasant and warm, for that made it possible to spread the table at some distance from the house, where the noise would not disturb Mrs. Ladue. Doctor Galen leaned against a tree and looked on at the happy crew. When they seemed to be about through their eating and talking, he beckoned to Sally, who came to him at once.
"I must go now, Sally," he said. "Your guests will be going pretty soon, I suppose. You won't let them make too much noise near the house?"
"Why," Sally asked, startled, "is mother—"
"Your mother is doing just what I want her to do," the doctor replied, interrupting her. "She is doing very well, indeed. It's only a precaution, my dear little girl. I don't want you to worry, Sally. I'll look out for your mother. You needn't do anything but follow the directions I gave you. You can do that easily. And don't worry, Sally, whatever happens."
The quick tears had rushed to Sally's eyes as Doctor Galen spoke. "Oh, yes, indeed, I can," she said, "and I won't." This speech was not as clear as it might have been, and Sally realized it. "Oh, I mean—"
"I know what you mean," the doctor returned, patting her shoulder. "You're a good girl, Sally. Now, I must go."
When the doctor went out at the gate, a few minutes later, he was smiling. I don't know what he was smiling at, but it may have been at the recollection of a kiss which Sally had just bestowed upon him. It had taken him somewhat by surprise. It had been almost as much of a surprise to Sally.
"Well," he said to himself, "that was pretty good pay, considering. But it's just as well that the Mrs. Van Hoofes don't—Hello!"
For there, before him, was Professor Ladue, walking rapidly, his eyes red and bloodshot, and looking generally tousled. The doctor glanced at him, took in these details, and decided quickly that it would be wiser not to speak. Accordingly, he passed the professor with no more than a bow. The professor glared at him, bowed shortly, then half turned.
"A lovely spring afternoon, Doctor," he said, clearly and coldly, with the grimace which did duty for a smile. It was even less like one than usual.
"Charming!" the doctor replied.
"I should not suppose," continued the professor, almost snarling, "that a man of your engagements would have time for profitless excursions into the country."
"Ah," the doctor returned, smiling, "but it was not profitless. I have been to a birthday party; the party of Miss Sally Ladue."
What reply should the professor have made to that? The professor, at least, did not know. He turned, again, without a word.
Doctor Galen looked after him, still smiling. Then he, too, turned again. "I am sorry for Sally," he murmured, sighing. "But Sanderson is there. He must get her out of it somehow."
Sanderson could not get her out of it, as it happened. The little bunch of guests was halfway down the walk, laughing and talking; even Sally laughed a little, although she did not talk much, and her eye was alert for anybody who might come in at the gate. She hoped, fervently, that nobody would come in at that gate until the girls were out of it and safe at home. Then her father emerged from behind the screen of bushes along the wall and swung the gate wide.
Sally gave one look. "Oh, Fox!" she cried.
But Fox had seen and had run forward.
"Why such haste, Mr. Sanderson?" sneered the professor. "Why such haste? I require no assistance."
He went on toward the house, smiling at the girls as he passed. The way opened quickly before that smile of the professor's, and the laughter and the talk died. The effect was astonishing. And while he made his way rapidly onward, closely followed by Fox, the group of Sally's guests fairly melted away. Once outside the gate, and behind the sheltering screen, they ran.
Sally met Fox just coming out.
"It's all right, Sally," he said. "I persuaded him that no noise is to be made. I persuaded him."
Sally looked at Fox in wonder. "It didn't take long."
"No, it didn't take long." There were curious firm lines about Fox's mouth and his voice was not quite steady. What the nature of the persuasion was, which was so effective and in so short a time, Sally was not likely to know.
CHAPTER X[ToC]
Professor Ladue was rather more out of sorts with the world in general than was usual on such occasions. He was very much out of sorts with the world in general and with three of its inhabitants in particular: with his wife, because he was unable, for reasons which Fox had made clear to him in a very short time, to wreak his ill temper upon her; with Fox, because he had succeeded so well in making those reasons clear; and with Doctor Galen, because he was sure that the doctor was attending Mrs. Ladue. Perhaps I should have said that the professor was out of sorts with four persons in particular. The fourth person was Sally. It is hard to see why he should have been put out with her, who had done nothing to deserve it. But she was good and dutiful and she saw through him clearly enough; and by so doing she kindled in him a feeling of helpless resentment.
Of course, we know very well that the professor's behavior was, itself, the real cause of his feeling. The professor knew that well enough. He was not dull-witted, whatever else he was. And, because he knew it, he raged; and, because there was no outlet for his rage, he raged the more, coldly. Those cold rages of his fairly scared Sally, and she was not easily scared.
His rage was not any the less because of a letter that Sally brought up to him, late in the afternoon. She had shrunk from seeing him, but the letter was from the college, bearing the university arms in the corner, and it was for special delivery. So Sally thought that it might be very important. There was no one else to take it to her father, so she took it, and, in obedience to his brief command, and with great inward relief, she tucked it under his door.
The letter was important, although not in the way that Sally had surmised. It was from the provost of the university of which the professor's college was a part, written with the venerable provost's own hand and apparently in some haste. It stated that Mr. Ladue had, that very day, been seen, by the provost and by one other member of the governing body, to issue from a well-known gambling-house. That fact, coupled with the rumors which had persisted for a year or two past, made it imperative that Mr. Ladue should appear before the Board of Governors, at their next meeting, to clear himself; or, if he preferred, Mr. Ladue might send in his resignation at once, such resignation to take effect at the close of the college year.
That was all. One would think that it was quite enough. Professor Ladue looked up from his brief reading.
"Ah!" he cried airily. "The honorable provost addresses me as Mr. Ladue. Mr. Ladue. And so I am to appear before the Board of Governors for the purpose of clearing myself—of what? I am accused of coming out of a house. After all, it is a very quiet, respectable-looking house, indeed, in a quiet street, rubbing elbows with other quiet, respectable-looking houses. Does it happen that the honorable provost and that other member of the governing body have seen more than the outside of that house? Do I appear before the Board of Governors? I do not. And do I send in my resignation like a good little boy? I think not. The honorable provost is a fool. I will write him a letter and tell him so."
So saying, the professor—we may call him the professor for almost the last time—the professor went to his desk and wrote the letter. He was in just the mood to write such a letter and it is to be remembered that he dealt naturally in caustics. Consequently, the letter was an excellent letter; it was exactly what it was meant to be. It was a model of its kind. There is little doubt that it was a poor kind and that it was very unwise to send it. Having been written, it should have been burned—utterly destroyed. It would have served its purpose better. But the professor was in no mood to do what was merely wise. He was pleased with the letter, proud of it. He was so pleased with it that he read it over three times. Then he laughed and signed it.
"That will, perhaps, make them sit up. It would give me some pleasure to be present when he reads it." The professor gazed out into the great tree, musing pleasantly. "No, it can't be done. It is a matter of regret that it cannot."
He sealed the letter and went out, at once, to mail it. He was quite cheerful as he took his hat and his stick from the rack in the hall; so cheerful that Charlie, who happened to catch sight of him, was encouraged to hail him. He answered pleasantly, even buoyantly, so that Sally was sure that she had been right and that the letter which she had carried up had been important.
The cheerfulness of the professor was spurious, but, such as it was, it lasted, unimpaired, until the letter was posted. The mail was just going out, and the postmaster, obliging as postmasters invariably are, held it long enough to slip in the letter to the provost. The professor saw it go; then doubts began to assail him, and his cheerfulness ebbed. He stood irresolute until he heard the train. It was useless to stand irresolute longer. It is always useless to stand irresolute for any length of time whatever. The professor knew that very well. With a quick compression of the lips, he turned homeward. He was no longer cheerful.
No doubt I was wrong in speaking of him as the professor that last time. He was, henceforth, to be Mr. Ladue. His professorial career had been cut off by that letter to the provost as cleanly and as suddenly as by a sharp axe. That would be true of any college. Mr. Ladue did not deceive himself about that. There was a need of adjustment to the new conditions, and he set himself the task of thinking out just what the new conditions were. He was so busy with his thinking that he nearly ran into a young man. The young man had just issued from Mr. Ladue's own gate. But was it his gate? Mr. Ladue happened to have got to that very matter. There seemed to be a reasonable doubt of it; indeed, as he progressed farther in his thinking-out process and his recollection emerged from the fog of habit, there seemed to be no doubt that it was not his gate at all and that he had been allowed to think of it as his and to call it his, purely on sufferance.
For he remembered, with a shock, a thoughtless moment, a moment of inadvertence,—a moment of insanity,—in which he had made over the place to his wife, Sarah. He had got into the habit of forgetting all about it. Now it was necessary that he should get out of that habit. He had never regretted that act more keenly than at that moment. It was the act of a madman, he told himself impatiently.
As these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, the aforesaid young man had gone on his way. If he was to speak, he must speak quickly.
He turned. "Oh, Fox," he said casually, "I am afraid I was rather abrupt a short time ago. Pray accept my apologies."
It was a new rôle for Mr. Ladue. It cost him something to assume it, but it was necessary to his purposes that he should. This was one of the new conditions which must be faced. It was an opportunity which must be seized before it ceased to be. For Fox it was a totally new experience to receive an apology from a man like Mr. Ladue. The experience was so new that he blushed with embarrassment and stammered.
"Oh,—er—that's all right. Certainly. Don't apologize." He managed to pull himself together, knowing that what he had said was not the right thing at all. "And, Professor," he added, "shall we resume our studies when Mrs. Ladue is better?—when she will not be disturbed?"
Fox did not know as much about Mr. Ladue's affairs as we know, or he might not have called him by that title. But yet he might.
"To be sure," answered Mr. Ladue, apparently in surprise; "why not? Is she in a condition to be disturbed by such little matters? I had rather expected to see her, to talk over an important question." If Fox chose to infer that the important question related to certain delinquencies of his own, why, let him think so.
"I am afraid that will be impossible for some time," Fox replied firmly. "Dr. Galen left instructions that she is, on no account, to be disturbed. She is not to be compelled to think. It seems to be important. His instructions were explicit and emphatic on that point."
"Ah," Mr. Ladue remarked calmly. "So Dr. Galen is running my house."
"Yes." There was no lack of firmness in Fox's voice, although he was not flushing now. "Dr. Galen is running your house. That is the situation exactly."
"And may I ask," Mr. Ladue inquired coldly,—"may I venture to ask how it happens that a specialist—one of the most expensive in the city—is in such a position that he can assume to do so?"
"Certainly you may. I will try to make it clear that it was necessary, but it will not alter the situation if I fail. Immediately after your leaving for town, Mrs. Ladue had one of her attacks. It seemed to Sally—and to me—essential that she should have expert advice at once. So—in your absence—I sent for Dr. Galen. I am very glad that I did."
"Do you know what his price will be?"
"I do not. What difference does it make? Mrs. Ladue's life may depend upon her having the best advice there is to be had."
Mr. Ladue did not answer immediately. He could not well say to Fox that that was a matter of less importance to himself than the price that would be charged. Besides, he was not sure that it mattered to him what Dr. Galen charged. He had no intention of paying it. They ought to have known that they could not saddle him with their bills without his consent. Further than that——
"It's all right, of course, Fox," said Mr. Ladue pleasantly, looking up. "I didn't realize that Mrs. Ladue's condition was serious. Thank you. Come in as soon as you think it advisable and we will continue our studies. Good-night."
"Good-night." Fox turned away with a curious mingling of feeling toward Mr. Ladue. He could not help feeling grateful to him, yet he did not trust him. What next?
That was precisely the question Mr. Ladue was asking himself as he walked slowly toward the house. What next? It was most unfortunate that he could not see his wife, most unfortunate. If he could have the chance to talk to his wife, Sarah, now, he thought he could persuade her. Give him but five minutes and he was sure he could persuade her. He would do better to have the papers ready. He wondered whether he dared; and, for an instant, he entertained the idea of having that talk, in spite of Fox and of Dr. Galen. He thought upon it.
"No," he said to himself, "it wouldn't do, under the circumstances. It wouldn't do. We'll have to give that up."
Mr. Ladue deserved no credit for deciding to give that up. It is to be feared that the possibility of evil consequences to his wife, Sarah, played no part in forcing him to that decision. The important thing is that he did so decide. In the short time that remained before dinner, he walked to and fro in his room, thinking hard. He could do that very well when he applied himself to it. At dinner he was unexpectedly pleasant, giving Sally a sense of security that was not at all justified by the event. In that, no doubt, he was doing just what he intended.
That evening, having devoted a certain brief time to thinking to some purpose, he packed his bag and wrote a short note to his wife. It is immaterial what he said in that note, but he ended it with these words: "So you may keep your place, madam, and much good may it do you. In fact, I think that you will have to keep it. You could not give a good deed or a good mortgage without my signature." It seemed an entirely uncalled-for evidence of his ill humor. What had Mrs. Ladue done to deserve it?
In the morning he came to breakfast as usual, and again he was very pleasant. Indeed, he was so pleasant that the fact excited Sally's suspicions. He was not usually so pleasant on the morning after. And when he had gone to his customary train—carrying a bag, Sally noted—she found his note, sealed, and addressed, in her father's well-known scrawling hand, to her mother. She took possession of the note. Of only one thing was she sure and that was that no note written by her father—and sealed—was going to be delivered to her mother; at least, not without advice.
Later she showed the note to Fox; and he, being as uncertain what ought to be done as Sally was, showed it to Dr. Galen. They three decided, much against their will, to see what Mr. Ladue had said.
"For," Dr. Galen observed, "Mrs. Ladue is not in condition to read a note of any kind. She will not be in that condition for a week, at least. It seems to me, Sally, that you should know what your father says, especially in view of the circumstances. I advise you to open it."
"You do it," said Sally.
So the doctor did it. "Of course," he remarked, as he slid the blade of his knife under the flap, "if, on glancing at it, I see that it is improper for me to read, I shall not read it. But if, as I fear—"
He was reading it. "The cur!" he muttered, as he finished. He handed it to Fox. "You read it, Mr. Sanderson."
Fox read it and chuckled. "I ought not to laugh," he explained, "but it is so—so futile. Delivery to Mrs. Ladue seems out of the question. And, Sally," he went on, "you shall see this if you want to, but I wish that you would not want to. Your father has gone, apparently."
"Yes," said Sally, somewhat puzzled, "I know it; to the university?"
"Not to the university, I think. He seems to have lit out. He says something about getting another position suited to him. He says some other things that it would give you only pain to read."
Sally's face expressed a curious mingling of anxiety and relief. "I won't read it if you don't want me to," she said. "But—but what—how shall we get any money?"
"Don't you worry about that. We'll manage to raise a few cents when we need to."
Fox had said "we" and that seemed to comfort Sally. Fox turned to the doctor.
"The environment has taken care of itself," he remarked; and the doctor smiled.
CHAPTER XI[ToC]
It was in all the papers. The honorable provost seemed to wish that the fact of Professor Ladue's break with the authorities of the university should be known, and he graciously allowed himself to be interviewed on the subject once a week. As was to be expected, but one side of the question was presented in these interviews, but that may have worked no injury to Mr. Ladue, who received undeserved credit for his silence. It was just as well. In none of those interviews did the honorable provost give out the letter that Mr. Ladue had written. That letter contained certain pointed passages which the press should not get hold of, if he could help it. Mr. Ladue had some reason to be proud.
Then the reporters began to come out to Mr. Ladue's house, in the hope of an interview with him. They did manage to get a few words with Sally, but the words were very few and then Fox came in. So it came about that Fox Sanderson spent most of his time, from breakfast-time until bedtime, at the Ladues'. Naturally, Henrietta was there, too. Sally was well content with any arrangement which brought them both there all the time.
Those would have been hard times with the Ladues if it had not been for Fox Sanderson. Mrs. Ladue owned the place, to be sure, but she owned very little else; hardly more than enough to pay the taxes. And if Mr. Ladue had been a hard man to extract money from, at least he had kept the tradesmen satisfied; or, if not satisfied, they were never sufficiently dissatisfied to refuse to supply the necessities. It was a different case now, and Sally wondered a good deal how they contrived to get along. She knew that Fox was managing their affairs, but things had been going on in this way for a long time before she got to the point of wondering whether he was supplying the money. She reached that point at last, and she asked Fox about it.
She had waited until she got him alone and was sure that they would not be interrupted.
"Fox," she asked without preamble, "where do we get our money?"
Fox was taken by surprise. He had not been expecting any question of the kind. He found himself embarrassed and hesitating.
"Why," he answered, not looking at her, "why—our money? Er—what do you want to know for?"
Sally was regarding him steadily. "Because," she replied, "I think I ought to. Where do we get it?"
"Oh, don't you care, Sally," said Fox carelessly. "We get it honestly."
Sally's earnest regard did not waver. "Of course we get it honestly. But where? I think you ought to tell me, Fox. Do you give it to us?"
Sally, bent upon the one purpose, had not thought of sitting down. She stood squarely before Fox, her fingers interlocked before her, and gazed up into his face. Fox shifted his weight to the other foot as she asked the question. Then he laughed a little.
"I give it to you! What an idea!"
"But do you?" Sally insisted. "You haven't said you don't."
"Let's sit down, Sally," said Fox, attempting a diversion. "Aren't you tired?"
"No, I'm not. But you sit down if you want to. Excuse me for keeping you standing."
Fox found a chair and seated himself comfortably. Sally again faced him, still standing.
"Aren't you going to sit down?" asked Fox, seemingly surprised. "Please do. I can't be satisfied to sit, with you standing." He placed a chair for her.
"All right," Sally moved the chair around so that she would face him, and sat down.
"What a lovely summer day, Sally!" he said. "Isn't it, now?"
Sally laughed. She would not be diverted. "Yes," she said. "But you haven't answered my question."
"Well," asked Fox, sighing, "what is the question?" There seemed to be no escape.
"Where do we get our money? Do you give it to us?"
"But that," he remonstrated, "makes two questions."
The quick tears rushed into Sally's eyes. "Oh, Fox, won't you tell me?"
Fox glanced at her and gave in at once. He told the strict truth, for nothing less would do, for Sally. He couldn't have told anything else, with those solemn, appealing gray eyes looking at him.
"I'll tell you, Sally," he said quickly. "Just trust me."
Sally smiled. It was like a burst of sunshine. "I do."
"I know it," he returned, "and I'm proud of it. Well, I have been advancing what money has been needed for the past three months. You can't say I've given it to you. I'd rather say us, Sally. So you see, you can't say I've given it to us, for we—Henrietta and I—have been here so very much that we ought to pay something. We ought to contribute. I don't like to call it board, but—"
"Why not?" Sally asked, interrupting. "Why don't you like to call it board?"
"Well," Fox answered, rather lamely, "you don't take boarders, you know."
"I don't see," said Sally, brightening distinctly, "I can't see why we don't—why we shouldn't, if mother's well enough. I've been thinking."
"But that's just it. Your mother is not well enough for you to take regular, ordinary boarders. You mustn't think of it."
"Would you call you and Henrietta regular, ordinary boarders?" Sally asked, after a few moments of silence.
Fox laughed. "On the contrary, we are most irregular, extraordinary boarders. But why, Sally? Would you like to have—"
"Oh, yes," cried Sally at once. "I should like it very much. But I don't know whether you would."
"Yes, I should like it very much, too. But there have seemed to be certain reasons why it wasn't best to live here."
"But you live here now," Sally objected; "all but sleeping. We've got rooms enough."
"I'll think it over; and, if I think we can come, we will."
"I hope you will. I should feel comfortabler. Because I don't see how we can ever pay you back; at any rate, not for a long time. We should have to wait until I'm old enough to earn money, or until Charlie is. And I'm four years older."
Fox smiled at the idea of waiting for Charlie. But Sally went on.
"And there's another thing. There's Doctor Galen."
"Oh, so the doctor's the other thing. I'll tell him."
"The money that we have to pay him is the other thing." Sally was very earnest. "Will it be much, do you think?"
"Sally, don't you worry. I asked the doctor just that question and he told me I had better wait until he sent his bill. He hasn't sent it yet."
"Well—will it be as much as a hundred dollars?"
"It is possible that it may be as much as that."
"Oh, will it be more?" Sally was distressed. When should she be able to save—even to earn a hundred dollars. "We can't ever pay it, Fox; not for years and years."
Again Fox told her not to worry. She did not seem to hear him. She was following her thought.
"And, Fox, if you have to pay it, we shall owe you an awful lot of money. Have—have you got money enough?"
Fox Sanderson did not have an "awful lot" of money. That very question had been giving him some anxiety. But he would not let Sally suspect it.
"I guess I'll be able to manage, Sally."
"I hope so. And I've been thinking, Fox, that I ought to help."
"Why, Sally, you do help. Just think of the things you do, every day, helping about your mother, and about the house."
"Yes," she returned, "but I mean about earning money. Those things don't earn money. Couldn't I learn typewriting and go into somebody's office? Or couldn't I teach? Do you have to know a lot of things, to teach, Fox?"
Fox smiled. "Some teachers that I have known," he answered, "haven't known such an awful lot of things. But if you really want to teach, Sally, you ought to be trained for it. At least," he added, more to himself than to Sally, "that is the popular opinion."
Again Sally was distressed. "Do you have to go to college, Fox?"
"Well," answered Fox, smiling, "not exactly, but something of the sort. There's a normal school or the training school for teachers, or whatever they call it."
"Oh, dear!" Sally wailed. "Everything takes so long! I wanted to do something right away. Can't you think of anything, Fox?"
"Not right off the bat. I'll see what thoughts I can raise on that subject. But if I don't think of anything, would you like to plan to be a teacher, Sally?"
"If it would help mother, I would. If that's the best thing we can think of. I'd do anything to help mother. I'd go out scrubbing or I'd sell papers or—or anything."
"Bless your heart!" Fox exclaimed under his breath. "Bless your dear heart, Sally! You needn't go out scrubbing or washing dishes or selling papers or anything of the kind. You can do better than that. And your mother is likely to need your help about as much when you are fitted for teaching as she does now."
"Is—isn't mother getting better?" asked Sally, hesitating.
"Yes," said Fox, "but very slowly; very slowly indeed. Doctor Galen thinks it will be some years before she is herself again. Think, Sally, how much better it will be for you to be getting ready. Suppose she was well now. What would you and she do? How would the conditions be different?"
Sally murmured something about taking boarders.
"Well," Fox observed, "I never have taken 'em and so I have no experience with that end of it. But Henrietta and I have been boarding for a good many years now—ever since mother died—and we have seen a good deal of all kinds of boarders. On the average, they seem to be an unmannerly and ungrateful lot. Don't you be a party to making 'em worse, Sally. Don't you do it."
Sally laughed.
"Besides," he went on, "it's pretty apt to be humiliating."
"I suppose that's something unpleasant," Sally said quietly, "and, of course, it wouldn't be pleasant. I shouldn't expect it to be."
"I don't believe there's any money in it."
Sally paused a moment to digest that phrase. Then she sighed.
"You know more about it than I do. I'll do just what you say, Fox."
The gate clicked and they both looked around.
"Here comes Henrietta," said Fox. "Now we'll all go out in the shade and play. But, Sally," he added hastily, "have you got any rich relatives?"
"Rich relatives!" Sally exclaimed. "Not that I know of. Or, wait. There's Miss Hazen—Martha Hazen. She's a cousin of father's, but I don't know how rich she is. I've never seen her."
"Where does she live?"
"Up in Massachusetts, somewhere. I think she's queer."
"The queerer the better. Your father's cousin, is she? It wouldn't be strange. Can you find out where she lives, Sally?"
Sally thought she could. "And, Fox," she reminded him,—she was afraid he might forget,—"you see if you can't come here to live. Will you, Fox?"
He nodded. Henrietta was at the piazza steps. "I'll ask Doctor Galen about it."
"What'll you ask Doctor Galen about, Fox?" inquired Henrietta. "Are you and Sally talking secrets?"
"I'll ask the doctor what should be done with a very troublesome little sister," he answered, smiling at her.
"You might get rid of her by sending her off to boarding-school," Henrietta remarked. "Not that she wants to go."
"No boarding-school for you yet, young lady. There are one hundred reasons why, and the first is—is so important that the ninety-nine others don't matter."
Fox had caught himself just in time. He had intended to say that he didn't have the money. Well, he hadn't; but he didn't mean to tell Sally so.
"I suppose that first reason," said Henrietta, "is that you can't spare me."
"Wrong. That is the second. And the third is that you are too young. Never mind the others. We are going out to play now, Henrietta." Sally darted into the house. "Where are you going, Sally?"
"After Charlie," she called softly. "I'll be right back. And let's be sauruses!"
"Sauruses it is," Fox returned. "I say, Henrietta, can you climb trees as well as Sally?"
"Well, not quite"—hesitating—"but I'm learning."
"You live in a cave with Charlie," he said decidedly.
CHAPTER XII[ToC]
To tell the truth, the question of money had been troubling Fox somewhat, for he did not have an "awful lot," to use Sally's words. There was enough for him and Henrietta to live upon in great comfort; but when the amount which will support two people in comfort has to take care of five, it needs to be spread pretty thin. To be sure, there was no particular reason why Fox should have felt obliged to look out for the Ladues. One wonders why he did it. That question had occurred to him, naturally, but only to be dismissed at once, unanswered. He could not leave that little family in their misfortunes without visible means of support, and that was the end of it.
These considerations will serve to explain Fox's state of mind: why he felt it to be necessary to provide for Sally's future; to see to it that she should have a future of any kind. They may also explain his inquiries about rich relatives. Not that he had, at the moment, any definite idea as to his course of action in the event that she had such desirable and convenient appendages. In fact, it remained to be seen whether they were either desirable or convenient. And he wished very much that it might be considered no impropriety for him and Henrietta to live at the Ladues'. It would simplify many matters.
Doctor Galen, to whom he spoke, with some hesitation, of this wish of his, reassured him.
"I should say that it would be a very wise move," said the doctor, smiling. "Where is the impropriety?"
Fox murmured something about Professor Ladue and about his seeming to take the management of his family out of the professor's hands. He felt a little delicate about making any further move in the same direction.
"Pouf!" the doctor exclaimed scornfully. "Ladue has relinquished all right to management, and it's a very fortunate thing that he has. Mrs. Ladue will be very much of an invalid for a number of years, unless all signs fail. There may be some prying people—but there are always. You had better tell Sally that you will come at once. I think it most necessary."
Fox was distinctly relieved. He went on to tell the doctor of his conversation with Sally. "And the other children—except Henrietta—have fought shy of coming to see her since that day of the party," he continued. "I suppose they were frightened. They have scarcely been near her. Not that Sally seems to care. I think she is glad when she thinks of them at all. But she has too much care. She takes life too seriously. Why, that party was on her eleventh birthday, and she wants to go out scrubbing or selling papers. Anything to earn money. We can't let her feel so, Doctor; we just can't."
"Bless her!" said the doctor; "of course we can't. She needn't worry about my bill, and you needn't. Between us, Sanderson, we must look out for these three babes in the wood."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"And, Sanderson," the doctor pursued confidentially, "if you find yourself short of money,—you might, you know,—just let me know. But don't tell anybody, or the Assyrians will be upon me, like the wolf on the fold; and their cohorts won't be gleaming with purple and gold. Not of mine, they won't."
Fox laughed. "Thank you again, Doctor. Thank you very much. But I think I shall be able to carry my end, on that basis."
Fox did carry his end. He and Henrietta moved to the Ladues' as soon as they could, Fox into the professor's old room, with the skeleton of the professor's little lizard on the floor, under the window, and with the professor's desk to work at. He seemed to have been pushed by chance into the professor's shoes, and he did not like it, altogether. He made a faint-hearted protest at the room.
Sally's eyes filled. "Why, Fox," she said, "it's the best room we've got. Isn't it good enough?"
"It's much too good, Sally. I don't expect or want such a good room."
"Oh, is that all!" Sally was smiling now. "If it's good enough, I guess you'll have to be satisfied. It's ever so much convenienter to give you father's room."
So Fox had to be satisfied. Henrietta had the room next Sally's own. That arrangement was "convenienter," too.
One of the first things he did at the professor's desk was to write a letter to Miss Martha Havering Hazen. Sally had succeeded in finding her address.
"She lives in Whitby, Massachusetts," she announced. "I don't know the name of the street, and I don't know how rich she is."
With this, the affairs of Miss Martha Havering Hazen passed from Sally's mind. She had other things to attend to. Fox wrote Miss Hazen a letter in which he set forth, in a very business-like way, the plight in which the Ladue family found themselves, his desire, and Sally's, that Sally's future should be provided for, and the manner in which it was proposed to provide for the aforesaid future. He finished with the statement that the funds at his command were insufficient for all the purposes which it was desired to accomplish, and he inquired whether she were disposed to give any aid and comfort. Then, having posted this, he waited for the answer.
He waited for the answer so long that he began to fear that his letter might not have reached Miss Hazen; then he waited until, at last, he was convinced that she never received it, and he had begun to think that she must be a myth. When he reached this conclusion, he was sitting on the piazza and Sally and Henrietta and Doctor Galen were coming up the path together. Sally had her hands behind her. She came and stood before Fox, her eyes twinkling.
But Fox would not wait. "Sally," he said, interrupting her, "what makes you think that Miss Martha Hazen is in existence at all. You've never seen her. I'll bet there's no such a person and never was. She's a myth."
"What'll you bet?" she asked promptly.
"Anything you like."
"No, I won't bet, for it wouldn't be fair." This settled it for Sally. In that respect she was different from her father. She was different from her father in some other important respects, too. "Which hand will you have, Fox?"
"I guess I'd better have both."
So Sally brought both hands around into view and cast a letter into his lap. Her eyes danced. "There!" she said. "Now, what'll you bet?"
Doctor Galen was leaning against the railing and Henrietta could not keep still.
"Oh, Fox," she cried, "open it and let's hear what she says. Sally showed it to us and we know about it."
"Open it, Sanderson," the doctor put in; "don't keep us all in the dark. It's suspense that kills."
So Sanderson opened it and read it. It was not a long letter.
The others grew impatient. "Come, come," said the doctor, "tell us. It doesn't matter what you wrote to her. What does she say?"
"She says," said Fox, smiling, "that, as of course she didn't know me, she has been obliged to have all my statements investigated. That accounts for the delay. She has found them all to be true. Gratifying, isn't it? But the important thing is that she offers to take Sally to live with her and agrees to educate her properly—if Sally will go."
They were all very sober and nobody spoke. Sally was solemn and the tears came slowly. None of them had contemplated this, Sally least of all. She felt as if there had been an earthquake or some such convulsion of nature.
"Well, Sally," Fox went on at last, in a low voice, "it seems to be up to you. Will you go?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sally's eyes were wide with anxiety and with doubt, and the tears dropped slowly, one by one. "How can I, all of a sudden? It's a tremendous surprise. I don't want to, but if it will help more than staying at home, I'll go." Suddenly an idea seemed to have struck her. It must have given her great relief, for the tears stopped and she looked happy once more. "But," she said eagerly, "how can I? Who will take care of mother? And what would we do with Charlie? Really, Fox, I don't see how I can go."
Strangely enough, Fox seemed to be relieved, too. At any rate, he smiled as though he were.
"Sure enough," he replied, "how can you? We might possibly manage about your mother," he added, with a glance at the doctor, "but Charlie is a problem."
Doctor Galen had nodded, in answer to that glance of Fox's. "You needn't worry about your mother, Sally," he said then. "We would take good care of her. Do you know that I have a sanitarium for just such patients? There are nurses and everything to make it convenient. And there are no bothering children—with their brothers—always underfoot." As he said that, the doctor smiled and rested his hand, for a moment, on Henrietta's shoulder. Henrietta turned and laughed up at him.
"A base libel," Fox remarked. "But all that doesn't take care of Charlie."
"Might farm him out," the doctor suggested. "What do you think of that idea, Sally?"
"I don't believe I know what you mean," she answered. "Charlie wouldn't be much good on a farm, although I suppose a farm would be a good place for him. Some farms would," she added.
"It depends on the farm, doesn't it?" said Fox. "It generally does. But don't you care what the doctor meant, Sally. He didn't mean anything, probably. We aren't going to farm Charlie out anyway. What shall I say to Martha? That's the immediate point."
Sally chuckled. "I'll write to Martha," she said, as soon as she could speak; "that is, if you'll let me. I'll thank her ever so much for offering to take me, and I'll tell her why I can't come. May I, Fox?"
"All right." Fox tossed her the letter. "And, Sally," he called softly, for she had started into the house, meaning to write her letter at once. "Sally, if Martha answers your letter, you tell me what she says."
So Sally wrote to Martha. It took her a long time and she used up several sheets of her mother's best note-paper before she got a letter written that she was satisfied to send. Miss Hazen was longer in replying, although she was not so long as she had been in replying to Fox. Sally did not care. Indeed, she did not give the matter a thought. She considered the question settled.
It was not. Miss Hazen must have liked Sally's letter, for she grudgingly consented to have Charlie come, too, if that was all that stood in the way of Sally's acceptance of her offer. This was a surprise to everybody; to none of them more than to Miss Hazen herself. She had no liking for young children. But she did it. There seemed to be no escape for Sally now, and she put the letter in Fox's hand without a word.
"What's the matter, Sally?" he asked, shocked at her tragic face. "Has the bottom dropped out?"
Sally smiled, but her chin quivered. "It seems to me that it has. You read it, Fox."
So Fox read it. He was very sober when he looked up and it was a long time before he spoke.
"Well," he said at last, whimsically, "Martha's put her foot in it this time, hasn't she? What do you think you're going to do?"
"I don't see how I can refuse any longer," Sally answered, her voice quivering as well as her chin. "Charlie was the only objection that I could think of; the only real objection. I s'pose I'll have to go now, and take Charlie."
Fox did not reply immediately.
Sally's chin quivered more and more, and her tears overflowed. "Oh, Fox," she wailed, "I don't want to. I don't want to leave mother and home and—and everybody."
Fox drew her toward him and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Sally," he said gently. "You shan't go if you don't want to. We'll manage somehow. Don't feel so badly, Sally. Don't."
Sally's fit of crying was already over. Her tears ceased and she felt for her handkerchief.
"I won't," she said, with a pitiful little attempt at a smile. "I'm not going to cry any more. Have—have you got a handkerchief, Fox?"
Fox wiped her eyes. "We'll call a council of war," he said; "you and Doctor Galen and I will talk it over and decide what shall be done. Not about Martha," he added hastily. "That's settled, Sally, if you don't want to go. I'll write to her and tell her that you can't come."
"No," Sally protested earnestly, "it's not settled; at least, not that way. I'll go if—if that's the best thing for us. I was only crying because—because I hate to think of leaving. I can't help that, you know, Fox."
"I know, Sally. I've been through it all."
"And so our council of war," Sally continued, "will decide about that, too."
The council of war held a long and earnest session and eventually decided that it was best for Sally to accept Miss Hazen's offer and to go to Whitby. Sally acquiesced in the decision, but it seemed to Fox necessary to do a little explaining.
"You know, Sally," he said, "your mother is likely to be a long time in getting back her health. She won't be herself for a number of years. It would only be painful to you—"
"I know all that, Fox," Sally interrupted, a little impatiently. She had had it pretty thoroughly drummed into her. "I know all that, and it doesn't make any difference whether I think so or not. I see that it's the best thing for us all that Charlie and I should go, and we will go. That's settled. But you will write to me often, and let me know how mother gets along—and tell me the news, won't you?"
"Why, of course I am going to," Fox cried with emphasis. "What did you think—that we were going to let you slip away from us suddenly, altogether? Not much. I'm going to write you every blessed week. And see that you answer my letters every week, too."
Sally felt comparatively cheerful once more. "I will," she answered, smiling.
"Bless your heart!" said Fox.
Doctor Galen looked aggrieved.
"And where do I come in?" he asked. "Aren't you going to promise to write me, too? Your mother will be at my sanitarium and I have a good mind to give orders that Fox Sanderson is to be told nothing about her. Then you would have to get your information from me."
"I didn't s'pose you'd care to have me, you're so busy." Sally was pleased. "But I'd love to, Doctor, I'd love to. Do you really want me to?"
"If you don't, I'll never forgive you. I'm a very cruel man, and that is the only way to insure good treatment for your mother. You'd better, Sally." And the doctor wagged his head in a threatening manner.
Sally laughed. "It'll be your own fault if you get too many letters. But you needn't answer them, if you don't have time."
"We'll see. We'll see. I guess I shall manage to find a few minutes, now and then, to write to Miss Sally Ladue."
CHAPTER XIII[ToC]
It was September before Sally was ready to go to Whitby. Indeed, it cannot be said that she was ready then, or that she ever would have been ready, if her wishes only had been involved. But by the middle of September she had done all the things that she had to do, her belongings and Charlie's were packed in two small trunks, and there did not seem to be any excuse for delaying her departure longer.
She had gone, with Doctor Galen, one memorable day, to see the sanitarium. He, I suppose, had thought that perhaps Sally would feel better about going if she saw for herself just the way in which her mother would be taken care of. So he took her all over the building, himself acting as her guide, and she saw it all. She did feel better. When she had seen the whole thing and had absorbed as much as the doctor thought was good for her, they went into town again and had lunch with Mrs. Galen. There weren't any children and there never had been. So much the worse for the doctor and for Mrs. Galen. They had missed the best thing in life, and they knew that they had and regretted it. After lunch, the doctor went home with Sally. She thought, with some wonder at it, that the doctor could not have had much to do that day, for he had given the whole of it to her. There were many of his patients who thought otherwise—a whole office full of them; and they waited in vain for the doctor.
A few days later Sally had bidden a last mournful farewell to all her favorite haunts. She had been devoting her spare time for a week to that melancholy but pleasant duty. The little lizard would never more sit high in the branches of the coal trees and look out over the prospect of treetops and swamp. Never again would the gynesaurus feed on stove coal plucked, ripe, from the branches whereon it grew. Sally laughed, in spite of her melancholy, as this thought passed through her mind; and the gynesaurus stopped eating coal and incontinently slid and scrambled down the tree, landing on the ground with a thump which was more like that made by a little girl than that a lizard would make. And she ran into the house in rather a cheerful frame of mind. It was almost time for the man to come for their trunks.
Fox met her as she came in. "It's a good chance to say good-bye to your mother, Sally. She's wandering about in her room."
All of Sally's cheerfulness vanished at that. She knew just how she should find her mother: aimlessly wandering from one part of the room to another, intending, always, to do something, and always forgetting what it was she intended to do. But Sally found Charlie and, together, they went to their mother.
It was the same sweet, gentle voice that called to them to come in. It was the same sweet, gentle woman who greeted them. But in her dull eyes there was scarcely recognition. To Sally it was as though a thick veil hung always before her mother, through which she could neither see clearly nor be seen. Her processes of mind were as vague and as crude as those of a baby. If she was better than she had been, how very ill she must have been!
Mrs. Ladue did not realize what Sally's good-bye meant. She was utterly incapable of taking in the changes which were before Sally or before herself. She returned Sally's good-bye impassively, as though Sally were going no farther than downstairs; and when Charlie, impatient and a little frightened, fretted and pulled at Sally's hand, Mrs. Ladue did not seem to mind. It was as if Charlie were some strange child, in whom she had no interest. Poor lady!
"Why don't you take him away?" she asked. "He wants to go."
So Sally, choking with tenderness, took him away. She cried a little on Fox's shoulder.
"It seems to me that I can't bear it, Fox," she sobbed. "To see mother so—is she really better?"
"You know she is, Sally."
"Yes, I s'pose I do." Sally's sobs gradually ceased. "But it's terribly slow. She'll have forgotten us by the time she gets well."
"No fear, Sally," Fox replied, with a gentle smile. "No fear of that. Come, here's the man for our things."
Fox was going with them. Sally dried her eyes while he went to see about the trunks.
As they walked out at the gate, Fox glanced at Sally. Her lips were tightly shut and she did not look back once, but she kept her gaze firmly fixed ahead, as if she were afraid of being turned into a pillar of salt. Nobody knew how much determination it took for her to do so. She would have liked to cry again and kiss every tree in the place. But she wouldn't cry again. She just would not.
Henrietta met them before they had gone far, and rattled on as though she had been talking on a wager. Sally couldn't talk. And Henrietta went to the station with them, still talking fast, and stayed with Sally and Charlie while Fox checked the trunks. Then the train came and Sally lingered at the door of the car.
"Good-bye, Sally," Henrietta called. "Perhaps I could come to visit you if you asked me."
"I will if I can," said Sally. "You know it won't be my house and I'm afraid that Cousin Martha may not find it convenient. If it was my house I'd ask you now."
The train started. "Good-bye, Sally," Henrietta called again as she ran along the platform; "I wish I were going with you."
"I wish you were," Sally answered. "Oh, I do wish you were, Henrietta. Good-bye."
For Henrietta had come to the end of the platform and had stopped. The train was going almost too fast for her anyway.
"You'd better come inside, Sally." And Fox drew her inside and shut the door.
Doctor Galen met the little party upon its arrival in the city. There was nearly an hour before their train left for New York, and the doctor suggested that they all have lunch together in the station. Sally started to protest, for did they not have a package containing cold chicken, hard-boiled eggs, and bread-and-butter? But the doctor observed that he had never yet seen the time when a cold lunch did not come in handy, and they might find use for it later; and, besides, he had the lunch ordered and a table reserved. A feeling almost of cheerfulness stole over Sally's spirits; and when, lunch over, they were parting from the doctor at the steps of the car, Sally looked up at him somewhat wistfully. He interpreted her look rightly, and bent down.
"Would you, Sally?" he asked. "And one for Mrs. Galen, too. Remember, we haven't any children of our own."
At that, Sally threw her arms around his neck and gave him two for himself and two for Mrs. Galen. The doctor straightened again.
"Bless you, Sally!" he said softly. "I wish you belonged to us. Don't forget your promise."
CHAPTER XIV[ToC]
It was very early, as the habits of the Ladue family went, when the train pulled into the station at Whitby. For Professor Ladue had not been an early riser. College professors of certain types are not noted for their earliness. One of these types had been well represented by Professor Ladue. He had not, to be sure, ever met his classes clad in his evening clothes; but, no doubt, he would have done so, in time, if his career had not been cut short.
The train did not go beyond Whitby. One reason why it did not was that there was nothing beyond but water and no stations of permanence. There was plenty of time to get out of the train without feeling hurried. Fox got out and helped Charlie down the steps; and Sally got out, feeling as if she had already been up half the night. Indeed, she had, almost, for she had been so afraid of oversleeping that she had been only dozing since midnight.
"I wonder, Fox," she said as she came down the steps, "whether there will be any one here to meet us."
"Cast your eye over the crowd," Fox whispered, "and if you see a thin, haughty lady standing somewhat aloof from the common herd, I'll bet my hat that's Martha."
Sally chuckled involuntarily, and she cast her eye over the crowd as Fox had told her to do. There was a lady, who seemed to be somewhat haughty, standing back by the wall of the station, aloof from the common herd, but she was not as thin as Sally had expected Cousin Martha to be. This lady was evidently expecting somebody—or somebodies—and was watching, with a shadow of anxiety on her face, as the crowd poured out of the doors and flowed down the steps. Then her gaze happened to alight upon Sally and her eyebrows lifted, quickly, and she smiled. Sally smiled as quickly in return and made up her mind, on the spot, that, if that was Cousin Martha, she should rather like Cousin Martha.
The lady had come forward at once, with a rapid, nervous walk, and met them as soon as the crowd would let her.
"Sarah Ladue?" she asked.
"Sally, Cousin Martha," Sally replied. "Everybody calls me Sally."
"Well, I am very glad to see you, Sally." Cousin Martha kissed her on the cheek; a quick, nervous peck. Sally tried to kiss Cousin Martha while she had the chance, but she succeeded in getting no more than a corner of a veil. "How did you know me?"
"I didn't. I only saw that you were looking for somebody, and I thought it might be me you were looking for."
"Oh, so that was it!" Miss Hazen smiled faintly and sighed. "I thought that perhaps you might have recognized me from the photograph I once gave your father. But I forgot that that was a great many years ago." She sighed again.
Sally tried in vain to remember any photograph of Miss Martha Hazen. She did remember something else.
"This is Fox Sanderson," she said, holding on to Fox's arm, "who has just come on to bring us. Fox is very kind. And here is Charlie."
She dragged Charlie forward by the collar. He had been behind her, absorbed in the movements of the engine.
"Oh, what a pretty boy!" exclaimed Cousin Martha. "How do you do, Charlie?"
"Not a pretty boy!" cried Charlie.
Sally shook him. "Say very well, I thank you," she whispered.
"Very-well-I-thank-you," Charlie repeated sulkily. "I'm hungry."
Miss Hazen laughed. "Mercy on us!" she said. "We must be getting home to give you something to eat." She extended the tips of her fingers to Fox. "I'm very glad to see you, too, Mr. Sanderson. You will come home with us, too? The carriage is waiting."
"Thank you, Miss Hazen. I must see about the trunks, I suppose; Sally's and Charlie's. I didn't bring any, for I must go back to-night."
"Then, perhaps, you will spend the day with us?"
Fox thanked her again and Cousin Martha told him what to do about the trunks. There was one baggageman, in particular, whom the Hazens had employed for years when there had been trunks to go or to come. That that baggageman was now old and nearly as decrepit as his horse and wagon made no difference.
They were soon in Miss Hazen's stout carriage, behind a single stout horse. Sally had not noticed, before, that the water was so near. They went through some very dirty streets, past saloons and tenement-houses. Miss Hazen regarded them sadly.
"One gets a poor impression of Whitby from the entrance into it," she observed. "This part of the city has changed very much since my young days; changed much for the worse. It is a great pity that the railroad does not come in at some different place. On the hill, now, one would get a very different impression. But there are parts of the city which have not changed so very much. Although," she added thoughtfully, "all the change is for the worse, it seems to me."
There did not seem to be anything to be said that would be of any comfort. Fox murmured something, and then they drove up an extraordinarily steep hill. The horse had all he could do to drag them at a walk. But, looking up the hill, Sally saw a pleasant street with elms arching over it.
"Oh, how lovely!" she cried. "Do you live in this part of the city, Cousin Martha?"
"No," Cousin Martha replied, with rather more than a suspicion of pride in her voice. "Where we live, it is prettier than this."
"Oh," said Sally. Then she recollected.
"There was a very nice man on the boat," she remarked. "He was some sort of an officer, but I don't know exactly what. He said he lived in Whitby, and he had several children. The youngest girl is about my age. Do you know them, Cousin Martha? Their name is Wills."
"Wills? Wills? I don't think I know any Willses."
"He seemed to know who you were," Sally prompted. "He knew right away, as soon as ever I told him where I was going."
"It is likely enough," said Miss Hazen, trying to speak simply. The attempt was not a conspicuous success. "Many people, whom we don't know, know who we are. The Willses are very worthy people, I have no doubt, but you are not likely to know them."
"He said that, too," Sally observed.
Miss Hazen looked as if she would have liked to commend Mr. Wills's discrimination; but she did not and they continued their drive in silence. The streets seemed all to be arched over with elms; all that they drove through, at all events. Presently they reached the top of the hill and turned into a street that was as crooked as it could be. It turned this way and that and went, gently, uphill and down; but, always, it seemed to be trying to keep on the top of the ridge. Sally remarked upon it.
"You might call this the Ridge Road," she said; "like Ridge Road in Philadelphia. I have never been on the Ridge Road in Philadelphia," she added hastily, fearing that Cousin Martha might think she was pretending to be what she was not, "but I have always imagined that it was something like this."
Fox and Miss Hazen laughed. "Not much like it, Sally," said Fox.
"Or," Sally resumed, "you might call it the Cow Path. It is crooked enough to be one."
"That is just what it used to be called," said Miss Hazen. "It was not a very poetical name, but we liked it. They changed the name, some years ago."
"What?" Sally asked. "What did they change it to?"
"Washington Street," answered Cousin Martha plaintively. "It seemed to us that it was not necessary to call it Washington Street. There is no individuality in the name."
Fox laughed again. "Not a great deal," he agreed.
Miss Hazen smiled and sighed.
"We cling to the old names," she continued. "We still call this street, among ourselves, the Cow Path, and Parker Street is still West India Lane, and Smith Street is Witch Lane. The old names are more picturesque and romantic. There seemed to be no sufficient reason for changing them. For us, they are not changed."
Washington Street—the Cow Path, as Miss Hazen preferred to call it—had upon it a great many handsome places. They were big houses, of stone, for the most part, or covered with stucco, although a few of them were of wood; and they were set well back from the street, behind well-kept lawns with clumps of shrubbery or of trees scattered at careful random. Sally did not see one of these old places with the rather formal garden, with its box hedges, in front of the house, but she saw a good many with gorgeous gardens at the side, and many with the gardens, apparently, at the back.
They were very different, these great places, from her own home. Her own home might have occupied a whole square, as many of these did, if it had been in a city. It was not in a city, but in what was scarcely more than a village and the trees were where nature had set them. The whole place—Sally's own place—had an atmosphere of wildness quite in keeping with coal trees and sauri. These places, if they had had no more care than the professor had been accustomed to give to his, would have a pathetic air of abandon and desolation. What would a poor little gynesaurus do here?
They turned off of the Cow Path and Miss Hazen brightened perceptibly.
"We are getting near home," she remarked. "Our house is on the next corner."
"Oh, is it?" Sally asked. "What street is this?"
"This is Box Elder and our house is on the corner of Apple Tree."
Sally laughed. "How funny!" she said. "And what pretty names!"
"We think they are pretty names. Now, here we are."
They were just turning in between granite gateposts that were green with dampness, and Sally looked up with a lively interest. She caught a glimpse of a wooden front fence of three octagonal rails; but it was only a glimpse, for the view was cut off, almost immediately, by the row of great evergreens which stood just back of the fence. There were two other evergreens in the middle of the plot of lawn, and the elms on the streets stretched their branches far over, nearly to the house. Altogether, it gave a depressing effect of gloom and decay, which the aspect of the house itself did not tend to relieve.
It was a wooden house, large and square, although not so large as those on the Cow Path. It had a deeply recessed doorway with four wooden columns extending up two stories to support the gable. The house was not clap-boarded, but was smooth and sanded and its surface was grooved to look like stone. It might once have been a fair imitation of granite, but the time was in the distant past when the old house would have fooled even the most casual observer. And it gave them no welcome; nobody opened the door at their approach, or, at least, nobody on the inside. The door did not open until Cousin Martha opened it herself, disclosing a dark and gloomy interior.
"Come in, Sally," she said; "and you, too, Mr. Sanderson, if you please. If you will wait in the parlor for a moment, I will see about some breakfast for you. I have no doubt you are both hungry as well as Charlie. We have had our breakfast."
Sally wondered who the "we" might be. It had not occurred to her until that moment that there might be somebody else in that great gloomy house besides Cousin Martha.
"Sally," cried Charlie fretfully as they entered the dark parlor. "I want to go home. I want to go to my own home, Sally."
"Hush, Charlie," said Sally. "This is our home now. Hush. Cousin Martha may hear you."
Charlie would not hush. He was tired and hungry, although they had had an apology for a breakfast, the remains of their cold lunch, before six o'clock.
"Isn't my home. This old house isn't—"
The words died on his lips; for there was a sound behind the half-opened folding-doors at the end of the long room, and an old man appeared there. He seemed to Sally to be a very old man. He had a long white beard and stooped slightly as he made his way slowly toward them.
"Is this Sarah Ladue?" he asked as he came forward. He came near Sally and held out his hand.
"Yes, sir," answered Sally doubtfully, laying her hand in his. "It's Sally."
The old man must have detected the doubt. "Well, Sally," he said kindly, "I am your father's uncle, your Cousin Patty's father." So Cousin Martha and Cousin Patty were one.
"Oh!" returned Sally quickly. "I thought—that is, I'm very glad to see you."
The old gentleman smiled quietly. "And I'm very glad to see you. Don't you want to come into the back parlor? There's a fire in there. You, too, sir," turning to Fox.
"I forgot," interrupted Sally. "I am always forgetting to do it. This is Mr. Sanderson. He is a very kind friend of ours. He came all the way with us just to see that we got here safely. And this is Charlie, sir."
"I am happy to meet a very kind friend of Sally's," the old gentleman said, shaking hands with Fox. "From what I hear, she is in need of kind friends." He held his hand out to Charlie. "Will this little boy shake hands with his Uncle John?"
That appeared to be the last thing that Charlie wished to do, but he did it, sulkily, without a word. Then the old gentleman led the way slowly into the back parlor.
Sally remembered, now, that she had heard her father speak of John Hazen—John Hazen, Junior—with that sneering laugh of his; that cold, mirthless laugh with which he managed to cast ridicule upon anything or anybody. This nice old gentleman must be John Hazen, Junior. But why should a stooping old man with a long white beard be called Junior? Why, on earth, Sally wondered. Surely, such an old man—she would speak to Cousin Martha about it. Perhaps Cousin Martha had a brother who was John, Junior. As for Cousin Martha's father, she had always taken it for granted that he was a disembodied spirit.
There was a coal fire bubbling in the grate in the back parlor. A great easy-chair was drawn up to the fire, and beside it, on the floor, lay the morning paper, where Uncle John had dropped it. There were other easy-chairs in the room, and books and magazines were scattered over the centre table. The centre table had a much-stained green cloth top, Sally noticed. Altogether, this room was cheerful, in its own way, as any room which is lived in must be; as the great front parlor was not. Its way was not the way Sally had been used to. It was too dark, to begin with, and the heavy curtains only half drawn back from the windows kept out most of the light which managed to straggle past the trees.
The old gentleman began to place other chairs, but Fox did it for him.
"Thank you," he said. "And now, as soon as Patty comes back, I shall have to leave you, if you will excuse me. I usually go downtown earlier than this, but I wished to see Sally before I went. I hope you will make yourselves quite at home."
Consideration of just this kind was a new thing for Sally.
"Oh, thank you," she cried, flushing with pleasure. "It was very nice of you to want to wait for me."
The old gentleman again smiled his quiet smile; but before he could say anything, Cousin Martha came in.
"I have some breakfast for you," she announced. "Will you go to your rooms first, or have something to eat first?"
There was no room for doubt as to Charlie's preference in the matter. Miss Hazen smiled.
"Very well, then," she said. "I think that will be better. Have your breakfast while it is hot. Then I can take you up and get you settled. The trunks will have got here by that time."
"I will go now, Patty," said her father, "if you will be good enough to help me with my overcoat."
So she stopped in the hall and held his coat and he bade good-bye to every one by name, and went out slowly.
"Does Uncle John go downtown every day?" Sally asked, soon after. She was busy with her breakfast.
"Oh, mercy, yes," Miss Hazen replied. "He is as well able to attend to his business as ever. And he always walks, unless it is very bad walking: icy or very muddy. I am afraid that he might slip and fall, and old bones, you know, do not mend easily."
"Is he—is he," Sally went on, hesitating, "John Hazen, Junior?"
"Yes," answered Cousin Martha. "He has kept the Junior."
Sally did not know just what she meant by that. "I've heard my father speak of John Hazen, Junior," she remarked, "and I didn't know but, perhaps, I might have a Cousin John."