When Charlie went back, he was feeling rather elated, for he had two
hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket. That was all the cash Patty
could raise without making an appeal to Dick Torrington or making some
other arrangement which would have betrayed her, and that would not
have done. It would not have done at all. Sally might have heard of
it, and Patty, to tell the truth, was afraid of Sally. Sally was
so--so decided, you know, and so downright, and she could be so hard
about anything that concerned Charlie. Sally was not fair to
Charlie--the dear boy! What if he was a little extravagant? All young
men must have their fling. So Patty, with but the vaguest ideas of
what the fling was,--she could think only of fireworks and yelling,
although three hundred dollars will buy a great deal of fireworks and
yelling is cheap,--Patty, I say, feeling very low in pocket and in
spirits, bade Charlie an affectionate farewell and returned to Miss
Miller's. She spent the afternoon in casting up her accounts and in
biting the end of her pencil; occupations from which she derived but
little satisfaction. She could not seem to make the accounts come out
right and the end of a pencil, even the best, becomes a little cloying
to the taste in time.
Charlie's parting injunction had been really unnecessary. "Don't tell
Sally, will you, Patty?" he had said in a voice from which he tried in
vain to keep the note of exultation. There was little danger of that.
Patty was as anxious as Charlie was to keep all knowledge of the
transaction from Sally. And Patty sighed and cast up her accounts all
over again. There was no escape from it. She must look the matter in
the face. The absence of that two hundred and fifty would make a great
difference to her; it would leave her absolutely without ready money
for more than a month, or--or, perhaps,--and she stared out of the
window with unseeing eyes--she could manage to borrow--or ask Miss
Miller to trust her--or somebody--But that would not make up half and
everybody would know about it; and she sighed again and put down the
remains of the pencil with its chewed end and put the paper into her
waste-basket. She had given it up. She would trust to luck. She never
was any good at arithmetic anyway.
What specious arguments Charlie had used to persuade her I do not
know. It does not matter and she probably did not give them much
attention. Charlie wanted the money. That was the point with her as it
was the point with him. What were arguments and explanations? Mere
words. But she noted that his watch was gone. Patty, herself, had
given it to him only the year before. She could not help asking about
that, in a somewhat hesitating and apologetic way.
Charlie set her doubts at rest at once. "Oh, that?" he said
carelessly. "It needed cleaning and I left it." He gave the same
answer to Sally when she asked about it.
"Huh!" was Sally's only answer, as she turned away.
Charlie had not said anything in reply, although that monosyllable of
Sally's, which expressed much, had made him angry enough to say almost
anything, if only he knew what to say. He didn't; and the very fact
that he didn't made him angrier than ever. He stammered and stuttered
and finished by clearing his throat, at which performance Sally smiled
heartlessly.
Charlie had been badly shaken and had not had time to recover. But
neither Sally nor Patty had an idea of what Charlie had been through.
It was just as well that they had not; just as well for Charlie's
comfort and for Patty's. Sally had more imagination than Patty had and
she had had more experience. She could picture to herself any number
of scrapes that Charlie might have got himself into and they did not
consist solely of fireworks and yelling. They were much nearer the
truth than that vague image of Patty's, and if Sally did not hit upon
the exact situation it is to be remembered that she did not know about
the money which Charlie had succeeded in extracting from Patty.
But Sally's imaginings were bad enough. They were sufficient to
account for her heavy heart, although they were not necessary to
account for it. Sally usually had a heavy heart now, which was a great
pity and not necessary either. What had come over her? It troubled her
mother to see her so depressed. She may have attributed it to the
wrong cause or she may not. Mothers are very apt to be right about
such matters. Her anxious eyes followed Sally about. Finally she could
not refrain from speaking.
"Sally, dear," she asked, "what is the matter?"
Sally smiled a pitiful little smile. "Why, I don't know, mother. Is
anything the matter?"
"Something must be. A girl like you doesn't get so low-spirited for
nothing. It has been going on for nearly a year now. What is it,
Sally? Can't you tell me, dear?"
"I wish I could, mother. I wish I knew. If I knew, I would tell you. I
don't. I only know that nothing seems to be worth while and that I
can't care about anything. A pity, isn't it?" And Sally smiled again.
"Sally, don't! If you smile like that again you will make me cry."
"I won't make you cry, mother. It is no trouble for me to keep from
smiling."
"Are you--aren't you well, Sally?"
Sally stretched her arms above her head. She was getting to be rather
a magnificent woman. "I can't raise a single symptom," she said. "I'm
absolutely well, I think. You might get Doctor Beatty to prod me and
see if he can find anything wrong."
"I would rather have Fox."
Sally flushed very faintly. "Not Fox, mother. I didn't mean it,
really. I'm sure there is nothing the matter with my health. I could
give you a catalogue: appetite good--fairly good, I sleep well, I--I
can't think of anything else."
"Mind?" her mother asked, smiling.
"A blank," said Sally promptly, with a hint of her old brightness. "My
mind is an absolute blank. So there you are where you started."
"Is it your teaching, dear? Are you too tired?"
"Do I look as if I ought to be tired?" Sally returned scornfully. She
did not look so, certainly. She was taller than her mother and
long-limbed and lean, and she looked fit to run races or climb trees
or to do anything else that required suppleness and quickness and to
do it exceedingly well. "I ought to be ashamed of myself and I am, but
I feel as if I could murder those children and do it cheerfully;
without a single pang. It makes me wonder whether I am fitted to
teach, after all."
"Oh, Sally!"
Sally made no reply, but sat down on the bed and gazed out of the
window at nothing in particular. To be sure, she could not have seen
anything worth while: only the side of the next house, not fifty feet
away, and the window of a bedroom. She could have seen into the room,
if she had been at all curious, and have seen the chambermaid moving
about there.
Mrs. Ladue looked at her daughter sitting there so apathetically. She
looked long and her eyes grew more anxious than ever. Sally did not
seem to be aware of the scrutiny.
"Sally," she began hesitatingly.
Sally turned her head. "Well?"
"I have heard some rumors, Sally," Mrs. Ladue went on, hesitating more
than ever, "about--about Everett. I didn't believe there was any truth
in them and I have said so. I was right, wasn't I? There isn't
anything, is there?"
"What sort of thing?" Sally did not seem to care. "What were the
rumors, mother?"
"Why," said her mother, with a little laugh of embarrassment, "they
were most absurd; that Everett was paying you marked attention and
that you were encouraging him."
"No, that is not so. I have not encouraged him."
Her answer seemed to excite Mrs. Ladue. "Well, is it true that he
is--that he has been paying you attention for a long time?"
"I have seen him more or less, but it is nothing that I have been
trying to conceal from you. What does it matter?"
"It matters very much, dear; oh, very much." Mrs. Ladue was silent for
a moment. "Then I gather," she resumed in a low voice, "that you have
not discouraged his attentions?"
"No," Sally replied listlessly, "I have not discouraged them. Assuming
that they are anything more than accident, I--what do I care? It makes
no difference to me."
"Oh, Sally!" Tears came into Mrs. Ladue's eyes. "You must know better
than any one else whether he means anything or not; what his
intentions are."
"He may not have any intentions," Sally answered. "I don't know what
he means--but that is not true; not strictly. I know what he says, but
not what he thinks. I don't believe there is anybody who knows what
Everett thinks." And she gave a little laugh which was almost worse
than one of her smiles. "His intentions, assuming that he has any, are
well enough."
The situation seemed to be worse than Mrs. Ladue had imagined in her
most doubtful moments. "But, Sally," she said anxiously, "is
there--oh, I hate to ask you, but I must. Is there any kind of an
understanding between you and Everett?"
"Not on my part, mother," Sally replied rather wearily. "Now let's
talk about something else."
"Be patient with my questions just a little longer," said her mother
gently. "I can't drop the subject there. Has--do you think Everett has
any right to understand anything that you don't? Have you let him
understand anything?"
Sally did not answer for what seemed to her mother a long time. "I
don't know," she answered at last, "what he thinks. To be perfectly
plain, Everett has not asked me to marry him, but he may feel sure
what my answer would be if he did decide to. I don't know. He is a
very sure kind of a person, and he has reason to be. That is the
extent of the understanding, as you call it."
"But, surely, you know what your answer would be," remonstrated Mrs.
Ladue in a low voice. "It isn't right, Sally, to let him think one
thing when you mean to do the opposite. I hope," she added, struck by
a fresh doubt--a most uncomfortable doubt, "that you do mean to do the
opposite. There can be no question about that, can there?"
"I don't know," Sally replied slowly, "what I should do. I've thought
about it and I don't know."
Mrs. Ladue's hand went up to her heart involuntarily, and she made no
reply for some time. "Drifting?" she asked at last.
Sally looked toward her mother and smiled. "Drifting, I suppose. It's
much the easiest."
Mrs. Ladue's hand was still at her heart, which was beating somewhat
tumultuously.
"Don't, Sally! Don't, I beg of you. Your whole life's happiness
depends upon it. Remember your father. Everett's principles are no
better than his, I feel sure. You have been so--so sturdy, Sally.
Don't spoil your life now. You will find your happiness." She was on
the verge of telling her, but she checked herself in time. That was
Fox's business. He might be right, after all. "This mood of yours will
pass, and then you would wear your life out in regrets. Say that you
won't do anything rash, Sally."
"Don't worry, mother. It really doesn't matter, but I won't do
anything rash. There!" She laughed and kissed her mother. "I hope that
satisfies you. You were getting quite excited."
Mrs. Ladue had been rather excited, as Sally said. Now she was crying
softly.
"You don't know what this means to me, Sally, and I can't tell you. I
wish--oh, I wish that I had your chance! You may be sure that I
wouldn't throw it away. You may be sure I wouldn't." She wiped her
eyes and smiled up at Sally. "There! Now I am all right and very much
ashamed of myself. Run along out, dear girl. You don't get enough of
out-of-doors, Sally."
So Sally went out. She meant to make the most of what was left of the
short winter afternoon. She hesitated for a moment at the foot of the
steps. "It's Fisherman's Cove," she said then quite cheerfully. "And I
don't care when it gets dark or anything."