"Oh, yis," said Koga, and, drunk with the joy of speech, he added: "I
sink so. Awe time nise in Jap-pon! I sink so."
"All the time nice in Japan?" echoed Sammy, lazily. "Oh, what a story!"
But Koga was convulsed with innocent mirth. However excruciating the
effort, he had produced a remark in English. He retired, repeating
between spasms of enjoyment: "Oh, I sink so. Awe time nise in Jap-pon!"
The day dragged on, to all outward seeming like all of Sammy's days.
Twilight made her close her book and straighten her bent shoulders.
Pong came in to set the table. The slamming of the hall door announced
her father.
Presently Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper, came downstairs. Lamps were
lighted; dinner loitered its leisurely way. After it the doctor set up
one of his endless chess problems on the end of the table, and Sammy
returned to David Copperfield.
"Father, you know Anthony Gayley--that young carpenter in Torney's
shop?"
"I do, my dear."
"Well, Clown ran away to-day, and he really saved me from a bad smash."
A long pause.
"Ha!" said the doctor, presently. "Set this down, will you, Sammy? Rook
to queen's fourth. Check. Now, knight--any move. No--hold on. Yes.
Knight any move. Now, rook--wait a minute!"
His voice fell, his eyes were fixed. Sammy sighed.
At eight she fell to mending the fire with such vigor that her
colorless little face burned. Then her spine felt chilly. Sammy turned
about, trying to toast evenly; but it couldn't be done. She thought
suddenly of her warm bed, put her finger in her book, kissed her
father's bald spot between two yawns, and went upstairs.
The dreams went, too. There was nothing in this neglected, lonely day,
typical of all her days, to check them. It was delicious, snuggling
down in the chilly sheets, to go on dreaming.
Again she was riding alone in the woods. Again Clown was running away.
Again, big gentle Anthony Gayley was galloping behind her. Again for
that breathless moment she was in his arms. Sammy shut her eyes....
Her father, coming upstairs, wakened her. She lay smiling in the dark.
What had she been thinking of? Oh, yes! And out came the dream horses
and their riders again....
The next day she rode over the same bit of road again, and the day
after, and the day after that. The rides were absolutely uneventful,
but sweet with dreams.
A week later Sammy teased Mrs. Moore into taking her to the Elks'
concert and dance at the Wheatfield Hall over the post-office. When
Mrs. Moore protested at this unheard-of proceeding, the girl used her
one unfailing threat: "Then I'll tell father I want another governess!"
Mrs. Moore hated governesses. There had been no governess at the
doctor's for two years. She looked uneasy. "You've nothing to wear,"
said she.
"I'll wear my embroidered linen," said Sammy, "and Mary's spangled
scarf."
"You oughtn't borrow your sister's things without permission," said
Mrs. Moore, half-heartedly.
"Mary's in New York," said Sammy, recklessly. "She's not been home for
two years, and she may not be back for two more! She won't care. I'm
eighteen, and I've never been to a dance, and I'm GOING--that's all
there is about it!"
And she burst into tears, and presently laughed herself out of them,
and went to her sister's orderly empty room to see what other treasures
besides the spangled scarf Mary had left behind her.
Three months later, on a burning July afternoon, the Wheatfield
"Terrors" played a team from the neighboring town of Copadoro.
Wheatfield's population was reputedly nine hundred, and certainly
almost that number of onlookers had gathered to watch the game. The
free seats were packed with perspiring women in limp summer gowns, and
restless, crimson-faced children; and a shouting, vociferous line of
men fringed the field. But in the "grand stand," where chairs rented
for twenty-five cents, there was still some room.
Three late-comers found seats there when the game was almost
over--Sammy's sister Mary, an extremely handsome young woman in a linen
gown and wide hat, her brother Tom, a correct young man whose ordinary
expression indicated boredom, and their aunt, a magnificent personage
in gray silk, with a gray silk parasol. Their arrival caused some
little stir.
"Well, for pit--!" exclaimed a stout matron seated immediately in front
of them. "If it ain't Mary Peneyre--an' Thomas too! An' Mrs. Bond--for
goodness' sake! Well, say, you folks ARE strangers. When 'jew all get
here? Sammy never told me you was coming!"
"How d'you do, Mrs. Pidgeon?" said Sammy's aunt, cordially. "No,
Samantha didn't know it. We came--ah--rather suddenly. Yes, I've not
been in Wheatfield for ten years. We got here on the two o'clock train."
"Going to stay long, Mary?" said Mrs. Pidgeon, sociably.
"Only a few days," said Miss Peneyre, distantly. ("That's the worst of
growing up in a place," she said to herself. "Every one calls you
'Mary'!") "We are going to take Samantha back to New York with us," she
added.
"Look out you don't find you're a little late," said Mrs. Pidgeon, with
great archness. "I'm surprised you ain't asked me if there's any news
from Sammy. Whole village talking about it."
The three smiles that met her gaze were not so unconcerned as their
wearers fondly hoped. Mrs. Bond ended a tense moment when she
exclaimed, "There's Sammy now!" and indicated to the others the last
row of seats, where a girl in blue, with a blue parasol, was sitting
alone. Mrs. Pidgeon delivered a parting shot. "Sammy might do lots
worse than Anthony Gayley," said she, confidentially. "Carpenter or no
carpenter, he's an elegant fellow. I thought Lizzie Philliber was ace
high, an' then folks talked some of Bootsy White. I guess Bootsy'd like
to do some hair-pulling."
"I dare say it's just a boy-and-girl friendship," said Mrs. Bond,
lightly, but trembling a little and pressing Mary's foot with her own.
When they were climbing over the wooden seats a moment later, on their
way to join Sammy, she added:
"Oh, really, it's insufferable! I'd like to spank that girl!"
"Apparently the whole village is on," contributed Tom, bitterly.
A moment later Sammy saw them; and if her welcome was a little
constrained, it was merely because of shyness. She settled down
radiantly between her sister and aunt, with a hand for each.
"Well, this is FUN!" said Sammy. "Did you get my letter? Were you
surprised? Are you all going to stay until September?"
Her happy fusillade of questions distressed them all. Mary said the
unwise thing, trying to laugh, as she had always laughed, at Sammy:
"DON'T talk as if you were going to be married, Sammy! It's too
awful--you don't know how aunty and I feel about it! Why, darling, we
want you to go back with us to New York! Sammy--"
The firm pressure of her aunt's foot against her own stopped her.
"I knew you would feel that way about it, Mary," said Sammy, very
quietly, but with blazing cheeks; "but I am of age, and father says
that Anthony has as much right to ask for the girl he loves as any
other man, and that's all there is to it!"
"You have it all thought out," said Mary, very white; "but, I must say,
I am surprised that a sister of mine, and a granddaughter of Judge
Peters--a girl who could have EVERYTHING!--is content to marry an
ordinary country carpenter! You won't have grandmother's money until
you're twenty-one; there's three years that you will have to cook and
sweep and get your hands rough, and probably bring up--"
"Mary! MARY!" said Mrs. Bond.
"Well, I don't care!" said Mary, unreproved. "And when she DOES get
grandma's money," she grumbled, "what good will it do her?"
"We won't discuss it, if you please, Mary," said little Sammy, with
dignity.
There was a silence. Tom lighted a cigarette. They watched the game,
Mary fighting tears, Sammy defiant and breathing hard, Mrs. Bond with
absent eyes.
"Stunning fellow who made that run!" said the elder woman presently.
"Who is he, dear?"
"That's Anthony!" said Sammy, shortly, not to be won.
"Anthony!" Mrs. Bond's tone was all affectionate interest. She put up
her lorgnette. "Well, bless his heart! Isn't he good to look at!" she
said.
"He's all hot and dirty now," Sammy said, relenting a little.
"He's MAGNIFICENT," said Mrs. Bond, firmly. She cut Mary off from their
conversation with a broad shoulder, and pressed Sammy's hand. "We'll
all love him, I'm sure," said she, warmly.
Sammy's lip trembled.
"You WILL, Aunt Anne," said she, a little huskily. Pent up confidence
came with a rush. "I know perfectly well how Mary feels!" said Sammy,
eagerly. "Why, didn't you yourself feel a little sorry he's a
carpenter?"
"Just for a moment," said Aunt Anne.
"I wish MYSELF he wasn't," Sammy pursued; "but he likes it, and he's
making money, and he's liked by EVERY one. He's on the team, you know,
and sings in all the concerts. Wild horses couldn't drag him away from
Wheatfield. And why should he go away and study some profession he
hates," she rushed on resentfully, "when I'm PERFECTLY satisfied with
him as he is? Father asked him if he wouldn't like to study a
profession--I don't see why he SHOULD!"
"Surely," said Mrs. Bond, sympathetically, but quite at a loss. After a
thoughtful moment she added seriously: "But, darling, what about your
trousseau? Why not make it November, say, and take a flying trip to New
York with your old aunty? I want the first bride to have all sorts of
pretty things, you know. No delays,--everything ready-made, not a
moment lost--?"
Sammy hesitated. "You do like him, don't you, Aunt Anne?" she burst out.
"My dear, I HOPE I'm going to love him!"
"Do--do you mind my talking it over with him before I say I'll go?"
Sammy's eyes shone.
"My darling, no! Take a week to think it over!" Mrs. Bond had never
tried fishing, but she had some of the instincts of the complete angler.
A mad burst of applause interrupted her, and ended the game. Strolling
from the field in the level, pitiless sunshine, the Peneyres were
joined by young Gayley. He was quite the hero of the hour, stalwart in
his base-ball suit, nodding and shouting greetings in every direction.
He transferred a bat to his left hand to give Mrs. Bond a cheerfully
assured greeting, and, with the freedom of long-gone days when he had
played in the back lot with the Peneyre children, he addressed the
young people as "Mary" and "Tom." If three of the party thought him
decidedly "fresh," Sammy had no such criticism. She evidently adored
her lover.
It was at her suggestion, civilly indorsed by the others, that he came
to the house a few hours later for dinner. It was a painful meal. Mr.
Gayley did not hesitate to monopolize the conversation. He was
accustomed to admiration--too completely accustomed, in fact, to
perceive that on this occasion it was wanting.
After dinner he sang--having quite frankly offered to sing. Mary played
his accompaniments, and Sammy leaned on the closed cover of her
mother's wonderful old grand piano--sadly out of tune in these
days!--and watched him. Tom, frankly rude, went to bed. Mary,
determined that the engaged pair should not be encouraged any further
than was unavoidable, stuck gallantly to her post.
Mrs. Bond sat watching, useless regrets filling her heart. How sweet
the child was! How full of possibilities! How true the gray eyes were!
How stubborn the mouth might be! Sammy's power to do what she willed to
do, in the face of all obstacles, had been notable since her babyhood.
Her aunt looked from the ardent, virginal little head to the florid,
handsome face of the singer, and her heart was sick within her.
Anthony Gayley came to the train to see them off, two weeks later, and
Sammy kissed him good-by before the eyes of all Wheatfield. She had
made her own conditions in consenting to make the Eastern visit. She
was going merely to buy her trousseau; the subject of her engagement
was never to be discussed; and every one--EVERY one--she met was to
know at once that she was going back to Wheatfield immediately to be
married in December.
Anthony had agreed to wait until then.
"It isn't as if every one knew it, Kid," he said sensibly to his
fiancee; "it gives me a chance to save a little, and it's not so hard
on mother. Besides, I'm looking out for a partner, and I'll have to
work him in."
"I wonder you don't think of entering some other business, Anthony,"
Mrs. Bond said, to this remark. "You're young enough to try anything.
It's such a--it's such hard work, you know."
"I've often thought I'd like to be an actor," said Mr. Gayley,
carelessly; "but there's not much chance to break into that."
"You could take a course of lessons in New York," suggested Mary, and
Sammy indorsed the idea with an eager look. But Anthony laughed.
"Not for mine! No, sir. I'll stick to Wheatfield. I was a year in San
Francisco a while back, and it was one lonesome year, believe me. No
place like home and friends for your Uncle Dudley!"
"Don't you meet a bunch of swell Eastern fellows and forget me," he
said to Sammy, as they stood awaiting the train. "I'll be getting a
little home ready for you; I'll--I'll trust you, Kid."
"You may," said Sammy. She looked at the burning, dry little main
street, the white cottages that faced the station from behind their
blazing gardens; she looked at the locust trees that almost hid the
church spire, at the straggling line of eucalyptus trees that followed
the country road to the graveyard a mile away. It was home. It was all
she had known of the world--and she was going away into a terrifying
new life. Her eyes brimmed.
"I swear to you that I'll be faithful, Anthony," she said solemnly. "On
my sacred oath, I will!"
And ten minutes later they were on their way. The porter had pinned her
new hat up in a pillow-case and taken it away, and Sammy was laughing
because another porter quite seriously shouted: "Last call for luncheon
in the dining-car!"
"I always knew they did it, but I never supposed they really DID!" said
Sammy, following her aunt through the shaded brightness of the Pullman
to an enchanted table, from which one could see the glorious landscape
flashing by.
It was all like a dream--the cities they fled through, the luxury of
the big house at Sippican, the capped and aproned maids that were so
eager to make one comfortable. The people she met were like dream
people; the busy, useless days seemed too pleasant to be real.
August flashed by, September was gone. With the same magic lack of
effort, they were all in the New York house. Sammy wore her first
dinner gown, wore her first furs, made her youthful conquests right and
left.
From the first, she told every one of her engagement. The thought of
it, always in her mind, helped to give her confidence and poise.
"You must have heard of me, you know," said her first dinner partner,
"for your sister's told me a lot about YOU. Piet van Soop."
"Piet van SOOP!" ejaculated Sammy, seriously.
"Certainly. Don't you think that's a pretty name?"
"But--but that can't be your name," argued Sammy, smilingly.
"Why can't it?"
"Why, because no one with a name like van Soop to begin with would name
a little darling baby PIET," submitted Sammy.
"Oh, come," said Mr. van Soop. "Your own name, now! Sammy, as Mary
always calls you--that's nothing to boast of, you know, and I'll bet
you were a very darling little baby yourself!"
Sammy laughed joyously, and a dozen fellow guests glanced
sympathetically in the direction of the fresh, childish sound.
"Well, if that's really your name, of course you can't help it," she
conceded, adding, with the naivete that Mr. van Soop already found
delightful: "Wouldn't the COMBINATION be awful, though! Sammy van Soop!"
"If you'll consider it, I'll endeavor to make it the only sorrow you
have to endure," said Mr. van Soop; and the ensuing laughter brought
them the attention of the whole table.
"No danger!" said Sammy, gayly. "I'm going home in December, you know,
to be married!"
Every one heard it. Mary winced. Mrs. Bond flushed. Tom said a word
that gave his pretty partner a right to an explanation. But Sammy was
apparently cheerful.
Only apparently, however. For that night, when she found herself in her
luxurious room again, she took Anthony's picture from the bureau and
studied it gravely under the lights.
"I said that right out," she said aloud, "and I'll KEEP ON saying it.
Then, when the time comes to go, I simply CAN'T back out!"
She put the picture back, and sat down at her dressing-table and stared
at her own reflection. Her hair was filleted with silver and tiny
roses; her gown was of exquisite transparent embroidery, and more tiny
roses rumpled the deep lace collar. But even less familiar than this
finery were the cheeks that blazed with so many remembered compliments,
the scarlet lips that had learned to smile so readily, the eyes
brilliant with new dreams.
"I feel as if sorrow--SORROW," said little Sammy, shivering, "were just
about two feet behind me, and as if--if it ever catches up--I'll be the
most unhappy girl in the world!"
And she gave herself a little shake and put a firm little finger-tip on
Gabrielle's bell.
"Sammy," said Mr. van Soop, one dull gray afternoon some weeks later,
"I've brought you out for a special purpose to-day."
"Tea?" said Sammy, contentedly.
"Tea, gluttonous one," he admitted, turning his big car into the park.
"But, seriously, I want to ask you about your going away."
"I don't know that there's anything to say about it," said Sammy,
carelessly. "I've had a wonderful time, and every one's been charming.
And now I've got to go back."
"Sammy, I've no right to ask you a favor, but I've a REASON," Piet
began. He halted. Both were crimson.
"Yes, yes; I know, Piet," said Sammy, fluttered.
The car slackened, stopped. Their faces were not two feet apart.
"Well! Will you let me BEG you--for your aunt, and sister, and
for--well, for me, and for your own sake, Sammy--will you let me BEG
you just to wait? Here, or there, or anywhere else--will you just WAIT
a while?"