"For what reason?" she said.
"Because you may save yourself lifelong unhappiness."
Sammy pondered, her lashes dropped, her hands clasped in her muff.
"Piet," she said gravely, "it's not as bad as that. No--I'll not be
unhappy. I love Wheatfield, and horses, and the old house, and--" she
hesitated, adding more brightly: "and you can MAKE happiness, you know!
Just because it's spring, or it's Thanksgiving, or you've got a good
book! Please go on," she urged suddenly. "We're very conspicuous here."
They moved slowly along under the bare trees. A sullen sunset colored
the western sky. The drive was filled with motor-cars, and groups of
riders galloped on the muddy bridle-path. It was just dusk. Suddenly,
as the lamplighters went their rounds, all the park bloomed with milky
disks of light.
"You see," Sammy went on presently, "I've thought this all out.
Anthony's a good man, and he loves me, and I--well, I've promised. What
RIGHT have I to say calmly that I've changed my mind, and to hurt him
and make him ridiculous before all the people he loves? He knows I'll
have money some day--no, Piet, you needn't look so! That has nothing to
do with it! But, of course, he KNOWS it; and I said we would have a
motor,--he's wild for one!--and entertain, don't you know, and that's
what he's waiting for and counting on. He doesn't DESERVE to be shamed
and humiliated. And, besides, it would break his mother's heart. She's
been awfully sweet to me. And it must be a BITTER thing to be told that
you're not good enough for the woman you love. Anthony saved my life,
you know, and I can't break my word. I said: 'On my oath, I'll come
back.' And just because there IS a difference between him--and us," she
hesitated, "he's all the prouder and more sensitive. And it's only a
difference in surface things!" finished Sammy, loyally.
Piet was silent.
"Why, Tom keeps telling me that mother was a Cabot, and grandfather a
judge, and talking Winthrop Colony and Copleys and Gilbert Stuarts to
me!" the girl burst out presently. "As if that wasn't the very REASON
for my being honorable! That's what blood's for!"
Still Piet was silent, his kind, ugly face set and dark.
"And then, you know," said Sammy, with sudden brightness, "when I get
back, and see the dear old place again, and get a good big breath of
AIR,--which we don't have here!--why, it'll all straighten out and seem
right again. My hope is," she added, turning her honest eyes to the
gloomy ones so near her, "my hope is that Anthony will be willing to
wait a while--"
"What makes you think he is likely to?" said Piet, dryly.
There was a silence. Then he added:
"When do you go?"
"The--the twenty-sixth, I believe. I've got aunty's consent--I go with
the Archibalds to San Francisco."
"And this is--?"
"The twentieth."
For some time after that they wove their way along the sweeping
Parkroads without speaking, and when they did begin to talk to one
another again, the subject was a different one and Mr. van Soop was
more cheerful. The tea hour was a fairly merry one. But when he left
Sammy, an hour later, at her aunt's door, he took off his big glove,
and grew a little white, and held out his hand to her and said:
"I won't see you again, Sammy. I've been thinking it over. You're
right; it's all my own fault. I was very wrong to attempt to persuade
you. But I won't see you again. Good-by."
"Why--!" began Sammy, in astonishment; then she looked down and
stammered, "Oh--," and finally she put her little hand in his and said
simply:
"Good-by."
Therefore it was a surprise to Mr. van Soop to find himself entering
Mrs. Bond's library just twenty-four hours later, and grasping the
hands of the slender young woman who rose from a chair by the fire.
"Sammy! You sent for me?"
Sammy looked very young in a little velvet gown with a skirt short
enough to show the big bows on her slippers. Her eyes had a childishly
bewildered expression.
"I wanted you," she said simply. "I--I've had a letter from Anthony. It
came only an hour ago. I don't know whether to be sorry or glad. Read
it! Read it!"
She sat on a little, low stool by the fire, and Piet flattened the many
loose pages of the letter on his knee and read.
Anthony had written on the glazed, ruled single sheets of the
"Metropolitan Star Hotel"--had covered some twenty of them with his
loose, dashing hand-writing.
MY DEAR SAMMY [wrote Anthony, with admirable directness]: The boys
wanted me to sit in a little game to-night, but the truth is I have
been wanting for a long time to speak to you of a certain matter, and
to-night seems a good chance to get it off my chest. A man feels pretty
rotten writing a letter like this, but I've thought it over for more
than a month now, and I feel that no matter how badly you and I both
feel, the thing to do is not to let things go too far before we think
the thing pretty thoroughly over and make sure that things--
"What the deuce is he getting at?" said Piet, breaking off suddenly.
"Go on!" said Sammy, bright color in her cheeks.
--make sure that things are best for the happiness of all parties
[resumed Piet]. You see, Sammy [the letter ran on], as far as I am
concerned, I never would have said a word, but I have been talking
things over with a party whose name I will tell you in a minute, and
they feel as if it would be better to write before you come on. I mean
Miss Alma Fay. You don't know her. She is Lucy Barbee's cousin. Lucy
and I had a great case years ago, and she and Tom asked me up to their
house a few weeks ago, and Alma was staying with Lucy. Well, I took her
to the Hallowe'en dance, and it was a keen dance, the swellest we ever
had at the hall. Some of us rowed the girls on the river between the
dances; we had a keen time. Well, after that I took her riding once or
twice. She rides the best of any girl I ever saw; her father has the
finest horses in East Wood--I guess he counts for quite a lot up there,
he has the biggest department store and runs his own motor. Well,
Sammy, I never would of written one word of this to you, but when Alma
came to go away we both realized how it was. You know I have often had
cases, as the boys call them, and a girl I was engaged to in Petrie
told me once she hoped some day I'd get MINE. Well, she would be
pleased if she knew that I HAVE. I have not slept since--
"Sammy!" said Piet, suddenly stopping.
"Go on!" said she, again.
But Piet couldn't go on. He glanced at the next page, read, "Now,
Sammy, it is up to you to decide," skipped another page or two and
read, "Neither Alma nor I would ever be happy if--" glanced at a third;
then the leaves fluttered in wild confusion to the floor, and, with
something between a sob and a shout, he caught Sammy in his arms.
"My darling," said Piet, an hour later, "if I release your right hand
for ten minutes, do you think you could write a line to Mr. Anthony
Gayley? I would like to mail it when I go home to dress."
"I was thinking I might wire--" said Sammy, dreamily.