Henrietta's wedding was rather a quiet one, as weddings went in
Whitby. That is, there were not many more people there than the old
cream-colored house could accommodate comfortably, so that the
overflow would not have more than half filled the yard; which was
lucky, as the yard was already nearly half full of automobiles and
carriages, tightly packed by the wall. There was a long string of them
in the road, too. But as it was a lovely summer day, the first really
warm day of the summer, and as the birds were singing madly in the
orchard as though they knew it was a very special occasion and one to
be celebrated accordingly, and as the orchard was a very inviting
place with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the apple trees, and
as the view over the little valley was more attractive than the most
beautiful interior of old houses, and as--well, without continuing the
catalogue of reasons, the people gradually drifted outside, two at a
time. They formed a cluster around the well-sweep; a cluster whose
composition was continually changing. Having given as much voice to
their admiration of the well-sweep as they thought was expected of
them, they wandered on and scattered and drew together into other
groups and scattered again; and by a repetition of this process little
clusters were formed, at last, that had no tendency to scatter.
There were two groups in particular whose composition was changing,
even yet, and changing very rapidly. They were, for all the world,
like swarms of ants, the component individuals continually coming and
going like ants which were very busy and very intent on their
business. These individuals would hurry up and join the group at its
outer edge, and push and struggle to get to the centre, while others
seemed equally eager to get out. So that there was a continual
movement and jostling. But if you could have looked into the centre of
either of these groups, you would have seen--no, not the bride; you
would have seen either a great bowl of punch or a table loaded with
good things, or their remains--no more than the wrecks of things. As
to the bride, she had slipped away.
There was another group which had formed after the manner of these
stable groups already mentioned, and which had somewhat withdrawn
itself to the very back edge of the orchard, away from the others. The
members of this group were not concerning themselves with the punch or
with the things to eat or with the ants coming and going so
continuously, but they talked together in low voices as if they would
escape observation. They were Sally and Fox and Mrs. Ladue; but they
could not hope to escape for long. And Fox was somewhat serious, which
is not to be wondered at, he having just lost a sister, if you care to
look at it in that way. And Sally was rather serious, too, which is
not to be wondered at, for she had just lost a friend, however you
prefer to look at it. Mrs. Ladue was the only one of that group who
looked other than serious and solemn, and there was, even in her look,
something lacking to a perfect joy, for a person who cared enough to
find it might have discovered something wistful there. It was as if
she wanted something very much and knew that she could not get it. I
leave it to you whether any person can be in that state of mind and be
perfectly joyful. What it was that she wanted I do not know nor why
she could not get it; although, if the thing concerned those other
two, the only reason that she could not get it was that they were both
as blind as bats--blinder than bats.
Sally was silent, gazing away at the deep woods behind them. Her
mother gazed wistfully at Sally and said nothing either. And Fox
looked at them and was as silent as they. Some one came up and
exchanged a few words with Fox and went away again; but neither Mrs.
Ladue nor Sally said anything. Sally was still gazing off at the
woods and seemed to be unaware of any new presence.
"Sally," said Fox.
She turned and looked at him, but still she said nothing.
"Didn't you know who that was?"
She shook her head. "Who what was?"
"The man who spoke to me? But I suppose you didn't know that anybody
spoke to me. It was Horry Carling."
"Oh, was it?" She did not seem interested.
"He seemed to want to speak to you."
"Well, why didn't he?"
"Probably because you didn't seem to see him. Is there anything the
matter, Sally?"
Sally smiled very slightly and very soberly. "Nothing much. Nothing
worth mentioning."
They relapsed into silence again, but after a while Sally spoke.
"Would you--would you be much disappointed, Fox," she asked, without
looking at him, "if I gave up teaching? Would it seem as if I were
throwing away all these years of preparation?"
"No," he answered, meeting her serious mood, "I don't see that it
would. And I don't see that it matters to anybody but yourself just
when you give it up. There is no reason, now, for your keeping on with
it unless you want to. You will have to give it up soon anyway."
Sally looked up at him quickly. "Why, Fox? Why will I have to?"
Fox evaded this question for the time, at any rate. "Why have you
thought of giving it up now, Sally? Do the poor kids prove too
trying?"
Sally nodded. "I am ashamed of it. I'm not fitted for it. I haven't
patience enough--with stupidity. But what did you mean by saying that
I would have to give it up soon?"
"Why," Fox replied, casting an embarrassed glance in Mrs. Ladue's
direction, "when you are married, you know--"
"Oh," Sally cried with a quick and vivid blush--a rush of blood to the
head, no less,--"oh, but I shan't. I never shall."
Mrs. Ladue appeared to think it a fitting time to slip away quietly.
"I didn't mean," Sally went on rapidly, "to be idle. I--well, to tell
you a secret, Fox, one that I didn't mean to tell yet--I have an
idea."
"Behold me suitably surprised! Sally has an idea!"
Sally chuckled, which represented the height of Fox's ambition for the
moment. "Don't make fun of me, or I won't tell you what it is."
"I am most seriously inclined, Sally. And a bank safe--or a strong
box--is not so secret as I am. You observe that I do not use the
ancient simile of the grave. There are many things that keep a secret
better than a grave. I am listening."
With that, he inclined his head toward her.
"I might box your ear instead of telling you," said Sally lightly,
"but I won't. You know," she continued, hesitating a little, "that
Uncle John's business has been--well, just kept alive, until they
should decide what to do with it."
Fox nodded, wondering what she was coming at.
"And I was in Uncle John's office every day for years. I got much
interested. And I--I believe that I could do something with it, Fox,
after I had served my apprenticeship at it. I think I should like to
try. The clerks and things--the machinery of the business--are there."
Fox wondered what the clerks and things would have thought of it. "I
wish I had spoken to Dick about it. He'll be away, now, for a month.
But I could write to him, couldn't I? I will."
"There is a good deal in this idea of yours, Sally," was Fox's only
comment. He was looking at her with a little smile of amusement.
"Don't you want to vote?" he asked abruptly.
"No, I don't," she answered as abruptly. "But I thought that it would
be a great pity to let an old established business just vanish. And
they all seem so proud of it. And perhaps Charlie could get into it
when he is through college. At least, if he was disposed to, it
would--it might give us--mother and me--some control over him again.
Don't you think so, Fox?"
Fox shook his head gravely. "I don't know, Sally. The idea strikes me
as a good one; a good one for you. I think I should go rather slow
about Charlie."
"Well--" Sally turned. "It is a secret, you know, Fox."
"Between you and me, Sally," Fox returned gently.
Sally returned to her contemplation of the woods. She seemed to note
something.
"I believe," she said suddenly, "that those trees are good to climb."
"Why," said Fox, smiling, "I believe they are."
"Will you--" Sally began brightly; then she seemed to change her mind
and she changed her question accordingly.
"Won't you keep this house open? It is a pity not to."
"Keep the house open?" Fox repeated, puzzled.
"Why, yes," she replied. "Don't you remember that you said--or
intimated--that you were going to get married?"
Fox laughed. "I believe I did," he answered, "on a certain occasion. I
believe I am, although I can't say exactly when it will be."
"I think, Fox," said Sally, turning to him and speaking with emphasis,
"that we are old enough friends for you to--you might tell me who the
girl is. I should like to congratulate her."
"You shall know, Sally, I promise you. I wouldn't even get engaged
without your knowledge."
"Oh," said Sally then, brightening unconsciously, "then she hasn't
given her answer yet?"
Fox had hard work to keep from laughing, but he did.
"Not yet," he said.
"It seems to me she takes her time about it," Sally observed.
"Should she give me her answer before she is asked?"
"Oh!" Sally cried. "So you haven't even asked her! Well, I think
you're a slow poke."
"Do you?" Fox said slowly. "Do you? Well, perhaps I am. Perhaps I am.
It had not occurred to me. I'll think it over."
"And Margaret--" said Sally.
"Margaret!" Fox interrupted, mystified.
"Considering the imminence of the--the catastrophe," Sally went on,
smiling a little, "it might be just as well to climb while I have the
chance."
"Now?"
Sally looked around. The crowd was thinning, but it was still a crowd.
"Perhaps not now. But on the first opportunity."
"There'll be a good many opportunities. Even after--"
Sally shook her head. "I couldn't come here, you know, and climb
trees. Only think what Margaret would say--and think!"
"Margaret!" Fox exclaimed again. "Why, I don't remember intimating
anything about--"
"Oh, Doctor Sanderson," cried a high and quavering voice; the voice of
Miss Patty Havering Hazen, "here you are at last! I have been looking
everywhere."
Ah! Doctor Sanderson; you are saved again! Good for you, Patty! Good
on your head! But is it possible that the doctor did not want to be
saved? Did we hear aright?
"Damn!" observed Doctor Sanderson quietly. It was a heartfelt
observation made for his own satisfaction, so far as a mere remark
could accomplish that desirable end, and was intended, we may be sure,
for no other ears than his own. But Sally heard it and chuckled.
Yes, good for you, Patty! There is no knowing what he might have been
led into saying if he had not been interrupted at this point; what
unwise course he might have pursued. You were just in time, Patty, to
save him from his folly.