MOSTLY SALLY
It was an extremely frightened girl who within five minutes appeared
upon the station platform. She was quite out of breath, for she had
been running. As he came toward her with outstretched hands, she
stared at him from head to foot, as if to make sure he was not minus
an arm or a leg.
"Won't you even shake hands with me?" he asked anxiously.
"You--you gave me such a fright," she panted.
"How?"
"I thought--I thought you must have been run over."
He seemed rather pleased.
"And you cared?" he asked eagerly.
She was fast recovering herself now.
"Well, it wouldn't be unnatural to care, would it, if you expected to
find a friend all run over?"
"And, now that you find I'm not a mangled corpse, you don't care at
all."
Of course he wouldn't choose to be a corpse, because he would not have
been able to enjoy the situation; but, on the whole, he was sorry that
he did not have a mangled hand or something to show. Evidently his
whole hand did not interest her--she had not yet offered to take it.
"How in the world did you get here?" she demanded.
"I took the train."
"But--has anything happened?"
"Lots of things have happened," he said. "That's what I want to tell
you about."
He looked around. His messenger was taking an eager interest in the
situation.
"That's why I came to see you," he explained. "Of course, if it's
necessary to confide also in your neighbor over there, I'll do it; but
I thought that perhaps you could suggest some less public place."
She appeared frightened in a different sort of way now.
"But, Mr. Pendleton--"
"I'm going to remain here perhaps a day or two," he interrupted.
To him the most obvious course was for her to ask him to meet her aunt
and invite him to remain there.
"Is there a hotel in town?" he asked.
"I--I don't think so," she faltered.
"Then," he decided, "I must find some sort of camping-place. If you
know a bit of woods where I can spend the night, you might direct
me."
He was quite himself now. It was a relief to her. It put her quite off
her guard.
"Won't you come and meet my aunt?" she invited.
He picked up his suitcase at once.
"It will be a pleasure," he answered.
She could not imagine what her aunt would think when she appeared so
abruptly escorting a young man with a suitcase, but that did not seem
to matter. She knew no better than her aunt what had brought him here;
but, now that he was here, it was certain that she must take care of
him. She could not allow him to wander homelessly around the village
or permit him to camp out like a gypsy. It did not occur to her to
reason that this predicament was wholly his fault. All the old feeling
of responsibility came back.
As they walked side by side down the street, he was amazed to see how
much good even these two days in the country had done her. There was
more color in her cheeks and more life in her walk. She was wearing a
middy blouse, and that made her look five years younger.
She looked up at him.
"I--I thought you had something very important to do in these next few
days," she reminded him.
"I have," he answered.
"Then--I don't understand how you came here."
On the train it had seemed to him that he must explain within the
first five minutes; but, now that she was actually within sound of his
voice, actually within reach, there seemed to be no hurry. In her
presence his confidence increased with every passing minute. For one
thing, he could argue with her, and whenever in the past he had
argued with her he had succeeded.
"I needed you to explain certain things to me," he replied.
She looked away from him.
"About what?" she asked quickly.
"About getting me married."
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
He could not tell what she meant by the little cry. He would have
asked her had they not at that moment turned into a gate that led
through an old-fashioned garden to a small white cottage.
"I'll have to run ahead and prepare Mrs. Halliday," she said.
So she left him upon the doorstep, and he took off his hat to the
cool, pine-laden breeze that came from a mountain in the distance. He
liked this town at once. He liked the elm-lined village street, and
the snug white houses and the quiet and content of it. Then he found
himself being introduced rather jerkily to Mrs. Halliday--a tall, thin
New England type, with kindly eyes set in a sharp face. It was evident
at once that after her first keen inspection of this stranger she was
willing to accept him with much less suspicion than Miss Winthrop.
"I told Sally this morning, when I spilled the sugar, that a stranger
was coming," she exclaimed. "Now you come right upstairs. I reckon
you'll want to wash up after that long ride."
"It's mighty good of you to take me in this way," he said.
"Laws sake, what's a spare room for?"
She led the way to a small room with white curtains at the windows and
rag rugs upon the floor and a big silk crazy-quilt on an old
four-poster bed. She hurried about and found soap and towels for him,
and left him with the hope that he would make himself at home.
And at once he did feel at home. He felt at home just because Sally
Winthrop was somewhere in the same house. That was the secret of it.
He had felt at home in the station as soon as she appeared; he had
felt at home in the village because she had walked by his side; and
now he felt at home here. And by that he meant that he felt very free
and very happy and very much a part of any section of the world she
might happen to be in. It had been so in New York, and it was so
here.
He was downstairs again in five minutes, looking for Sally Winthrop.
It seemed that Mrs. Halliday's chief concern now was about supper, and
that Sally was out in the kitchen helping her. He found that out by
walking in upon her and finding her in a blue gingham apron. Her
cheeks turned very red and she hurriedly removed the apron.
"Don't let me disturb you," he protested.
That was very easy to say, but he did disturb her. Then Mrs. Halliday
shooed her out of the kitchen.
"You run right along now; I can attend to things myself."
"I'd like to help, too," said Don.
"Run along--both of you," insisted Mrs. Halliday. "You'd be more
bother than help."
So the two found themselves on the front steps again, and Don
suggested they remain there. The sun was getting low and bathing the
street in a soft light.
"I have something very important to say to you," he began.
"To me?" she exclaimed.
Again there was the expression of astonishment and--something more.
"It's about my getting married," he nodded.
"But I thought that was all settled!"
"It is," he admitted.
"Oh!"
"I think it was settled long before I knew it."
"Then you're to be married right away?"
"I hope so."
"That will be nice."
"It will be wonderful," he exclaimed. "It will be the most wonderful
thing in the world!"
"But why did you come 'way down here?"
"To talk it over with you. You see, a lot depends upon you."
"Me?"
Again that questioning personal pronoun.
"A great deal depends upon you. You are to say when it is to be."
"Mr. Pendleton!"
"I wish you'd remember I'm not in the office of Carter, Rand &
Seagraves now. Can't you call me just Don?"
She did not answer.
"Because," he explained, "I mean to call you Sally."
"You mustn't."
"I mean to call you that all the rest of my life," he went on more
soberly. "Don't you understand how much depends upon you?"
Startled, she glanced up swiftly. What she saw in his eyes made her
catch her breath. He was speaking rapidly now:--
"Everything depends upon you--upon no one else in all the world but
you. I discovered that in less than a day after you left. It's been
like that ever since I met you. I love you, and I've come down here to
marry you--to take you back with me to the house that's all
ready--back to the house you've made ready."
She gave a little cry and covered her face with her hands.
"Don't do that," he pleaded.
[Illustration: "IT'S ABOUT MY GETTING MARRIED"]
She looked as if she were crying.
"Sally--Sally Winthrop, you aren't crying?"
He placed a hand upon her arm.
"Don't touch me!" she sobbed.
"Why shouldn't I touch you?"
"Because--because this is all a horrible mistake."
"I'm trying to correct a horrible mistake," he answered gently.
"No--no--no. You must go back to her--right away."
"To Frances?"
She nodded.
"You don't understand. She doesn't want to marry me."
"You asked her?"
"Yes."
"And then--and then you came to me?"
"Yes, little girl. She sent me to you. She--why, it was she that made
me see straight!"
Her face was still concealed.
"I--I wish you'd go away," she sobbed.
"You don't understand!" he answered fiercely. "I'm not going away. I
love you, and I've come to get you. I won't go away until you come
with me."
She rose to her feet, her back toward him.
"Go away!" she cried.
Then she ran into the house, leaving him standing there dazed.