CHAPTER VII

Miss Lambkin was right. Sally found a place to board--a nice place, to quote Letty Lambkin, although it was not Miss Miller's. No doubt Letty was sorry that Sally had not chosen Miss Miller's, for Miss Miller was an especial friend of Letty's; and, by choosing another place, Sally had cut off, at a blow, a most reliable source of information. Very possibly Sally did not think of this, but if she had, it would have been but one more argument in favor of her choice, for Mrs. Stump couldn't bear Letty, and she had vowed that she should never darken her door. Letty would not have darkened the door very much. She was a thin little thing. But, if Sally did not think of it, Letty did, and she regretted it. She even went so far as to mention it to Mrs. Upjohn.

"If Sally Ladue thinks she's getting ahead of me," she said, with sharp emphasis, "she'll find she's mistaken. I have my sources of information."

Mrs. Upjohn did not reprove her. She had an inordinate thirst for information which did not concern her, and Letty was the most unfailing source of it. So she only smiled sympathetically and said nothing. She was sorry to be deprived of such accurate information about Sally as Miss Miller would have supplied, but she still had Patty. In fact, Mrs. Upjohn was beginning to wonder how much longer she was to have Patty. Patty seemed to have no thought of going. Indeed, she would not have known where to go. Patty was entering upon some brand-new experiences, rather late in life. Already she was beginning to miss the pendulum.

Before Sally took this step which seemed to be so much more important to others than to herself, various things had happened, of which Miss Lambkin could have had no knowledge, even with her reliable sources of information. Everett Morton had had an interview with his mother, at her request. He would not have sought an interview, for he had a premonition of the subject of it.

Mrs. Morton was one of those rare women whom wealth had not spoiled; that is, not wholly; not very much, indeed. There was still left a great deal of her natural self, and that self was sweet and kind and yielding enough, although, on occasions, she could be as decided as she thought necessary. This was one of the occasions. The interview was nearly over. It had been short and to the point, which concerned Sally.

"Well, Everett," said Mrs. Morton decidedly, "your attitude towards Sally Ladue must be changed. I haven't been able to point out, as exactly as I should like to do, just where it fails to be satisfactory. But it does fail, and it must be changed."

Everett was standing by the mantel, a cigarette between his fingers. "You do not make your meaning clear, my dear mother," he replied coldly. "If you would be good enough to specify any speech of mine? Anything that I have said, at any time?" he suggested. "If there has been anything said or done for which I should apologize, I shall be quite ready to do so. It is a little difficult to know what you are driving at." And he smiled in his most exasperating way.

Mrs. Morton's color had been rising and her eyes glittered. Everett should have observed and taken warning. Perhaps he did.

"Everett," she said, as coldly as he had spoken and more incisively, "you exhibit great skill in evasion. I wish that you would use your skill to better advantage. I have no reason to think that there have been any words of yours with which I could find fault, although I do not know what you have said. But Sally could be trusted to take care of that. It is your manner."

Everett laughed. "But, my dear mother!" he protested, "I can't help my manner. As well find fault with the color of my eyes or--"

His mother interrupted him. "You can help it. It is of no use to pretend that you don't know what I mean. You have wit enough."

"Thank you."

"And your manner is positively insulting. You have let even me see that. Any woman would resent it, but she wouldn't speak of it. She couldn't. Don't compel me to specify more particularly. You put Sally in a very hard position, Everett, and in our own house, too. You ought to have more pride, to say the least; the very least."

Everett's color had been rising, too, as his mother spoke. "I am obliged for your high opinion. May I ask what you fear as the consequence of my insulting manner?"

"You know as well as I," Mrs. Morton answered; "but I will tell you, if you wish. Sally will go, of course, and will think as badly of us as we deserve."

"That," Everett replied slowly, "could perhaps be borne with equanimity if she takes Doctor Sanderson with her."

Mrs. Morton laughed suddenly. "Oh," she exclaimed, "so that is it! I must confess that that had not occurred to me. Now, go along, Everett, and for mercy's sake, be decent."

Everett's color was still high, but if he felt any embarrassment he succeeded in concealing it under his manner, of which his mother seemed to have so high an opinion.

He cast his cigarette into the fire. "If you have no more to say to me, then, I will go," he said, smiling icily. His mother saying nothing, but smiling at him, he bowed--English model--and was going out.

Mrs. Morton laughed again, suddenly and merrily. "Oh, Everett, Everett!" she cried. "How old are you? I should think you were about twelve."

"Thank you," he replied; and he bowed again and left her.

So Mrs. Morton had not been surprised when Sally came to her, a day or two later, to say that she thought that they--Doctor Sanderson and she--had imposed upon Mrs. Morton's kindness long enough and that she had found a boarding-place for her mother and Charlie and herself.

"I am very sorry to say that I am not surprised, Sally, dear," Mrs. Morton returned, "although I am grievously disappointed. I had hoped that you would stay with us until the house was habitable again. I have tried," she added in some embarrassment, "to correct--"

Sally flushed quickly. "Please don't speak of it, dear Mrs. Morton," she said hastily. "It is--there has been nothing--"

"Nonsense, Sally! Don't you suppose I see, having eyes? But we won't speak of it, except to say that I am very sorry. And I think that you wouldn't be annoyed again. Won't you think better of your decision and stay until you can go to your own house?"

"Oh, but nobody knows when that will be," Sally replied, smiling. "Nothing has been done about it yet. Patty doesn't seem to know what to do. Uncle John was the moving spirit." There were tears in her eyes.

"I know, Sally, dear, I know. I am as sorry as I can be. I am afraid," she added with a queer little smile, "that I am sorrier for you than I am for Patty."

"Thank you. But you ought not to be, you know, for he rather--well, he steadied Patty."

Mrs. Morton laughed. "Yes, dear, I know. And you didn't need to be steadied. But I'm afraid that I am, just the same."

So it was settled, as anything was apt to be concerning which Sally had made up her mind. Mrs. Ladue did not receive the announcement with unalloyed joy. She smiled and she sighed.

"I suppose it is settled," she said, "or you would not have told me. Oh," seeing the distress in Sally's face, "it ought to be. It is quite time. We have made a much longer visit upon Mrs. Torrington than we ought to have made, but I can't help being sorry, rather, to exchange her house for Mrs. Stump's. But why, Sally, if you found it unpleasant--"

"Oh, mother, I didn't say it was unpleasant. Mrs. Morton was as kind as any one could possibly be."

"I am glad, dear. I was only going to ask why Fox stayed."

Fox murmured something about Christian martyrs and a den of lions, and Mrs. Ladue laughed. Then she sighed again.

"Well," she said, "all right, Sally. You will let me know, I suppose, when we are to go. We can't stay on here forever, although I'd like to."

At that moment Dick came in. "Why not?" he asked. "Why not stay, if you like it?"

"How absurd, Dick!" Sally protested. "You are very kind, but you know mother will have to go pretty soon. And I've found a very good place."

"If Sally says so, it's so," Dick retorted, "and there's no use in saying any more about it. Mrs. Stump's or Miss Miller's?"

Fox had been looking out of the window. He turned. "Mrs. Ladue," he asked suddenly, "will you go sleighing with me to-morrow? It will be about my last chance, for I go back when Sally leaves the Mortons'."

"Oh," cried Sally, "why not me, too? And Henrietta?"

Fox smiled at her. "There's a reason," he said. "I'll take you when the time is ripe. I have something to show your mother and we have to go after it."

"Can't you get it and show it to me, too?"

Fox shook his head. "I'm afraid not. It isn't mine, for one thing."

"Oh," said Sally, her head in the air. "And I suppose you'll go in the morning, when I'm in school."

"That might not be a bad idea. We might be followed. Can you go in the morning, Mrs. Ladue?"

She laughed and nodded. She would go at any time that suited him.

So it chanced that Fox and Mrs. Ladue started out, the next morning. Fox drove along Apple Tree Street and turned into another street.

"Isn't this Smith Street?" asked Mrs. Ladue doubtfully. "Where are we going, Fox?"

"I'm astonished at your question," he replied. "You ought to know that this is still Witch Lane for all the old families, in spite of the fact that it is known, officially, as Smith Street. I have yet a very distinct recollection of Miss Patty's lamentations over the change. That was ten years ago, when Sally first arrived."

Mrs. Ladue laughed. She would have laughed at anything that morning.

"But, do you mind telling me where we are going?"

"I can't tell you exactly, as I am not very familiar with the country here. I know where I am going," he explained hastily, "but I doubt if I could tell you. We shall come to the end of the built-up part pretty soon, and then it takes us out into the country. There'll be a turn or two, and what I want you to see is about two miles out. Mr. Morton," he added, "put a horse at my service, and I have been exploring. I have not wasted my time."

Mrs. Ladue made no reply. She was happy enough, without the need of speech. They drove on, past the built-up part, as Fox had said, past more thinly scattered houses, with little gardens, the corn-stubble already beginning to show above the snow, here and there, for it had been thawing. Then they began to pass small farms, and then, as they made the first of the turn or two, the farms were larger, and there were rows of milk-cans on their pegs in the sun.

Suddenly Mrs. Ladue laughed. "Now I know where I am," she exclaimed. "That is, I remember that Uncle John Hazen brought me out here one day, nearly two years ago. He wanted to show me something, too."

Fox turned and looked at her. "That is interesting," he said. "I wonder if he showed you the same place that I am going to show you."

Mrs. Ladue only smiled mysteriously; and when, at last, Fox stopped his horse and said "There!" she was laughing quietly. He looked puzzled.

"The same," she said. "The very same."

"Well," Fox replied slowly, "I admire his taste. It is worth looking at."

It was a very large house, looking out from beneath its canopy of elms over a wide valley; a pleasant prospect of gentle hills and dales, with the little river winding quietly below.

"It is worth looking at," said Fox again. He looked at her, then. She was not laughing, but there was a merry look in her eyes. "What amuses you? I should rather like to know. Isn't my hat on straight?"

She shook her head. "I'll tell you before long. But it is really nothing." Truly it didn't need much to amuse her on that day.

He looked at her again, then looked away. "The house looks as if it might have been a hotel," he remarked; "a little hotel, with all the comforts of home. It is very homelike. It seems to invite you."

"Yes," she replied, "it does."

"And the barn," he went on, "is not too near the house, but yet near enough, and it is very well ordered and it has all the modern improvements. All the modern improvements include a tiled milking-room and, next to it, a tiled milk-room with all the most improved equipment, and a wash-room for the milkers and a herd of about twenty-five registered Guernseys. I know, for I have been over it."

"That sounds very good. I know very little about such things."

"I have had to know. It is a part of my business. That barn and that outfit would be very convenient if the house were--for instance--a private hospital. Now, wouldn't it?"

She made no reply and he turned to her again. She was looking at him in amazement, and her face expressed doubt and a dawning gladness.

"Oh, Fox!"

"Now, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," she murmured, in a low voice.

"And the house seems not unsuitable for such a purpose. I have not been over the house."

"Fox! Will you tell me what you mean?"

He laughed out. "The old skinflint who lives there says he can't sell it. He seemed very intelligent, too; intellect enough to name a price if he wanted to. And I would not stick at the price if it were within the bounds of reason."

"I think," Mrs. Ladue remarked, "that I could tell you why your old skinflint couldn't sell it."

"Why?" Fox asked peremptorily.

"When you have shown me all you have to show," she answered, the look of quiet amusement again about her eyes and mouth, "I will tell you; that is, if you tell me first what you mean."

He continued looking for a few moments in silence. She bore his scrutiny as calmly as she could. Then he turned, quickly, and drew the reins tight.

"Get up, you ancient scion of a livery stable." The horse started reluctantly. "There is something else," he added, "just down the road a bit."

"I thought so," she said. "It is a square house, painted a cream color, with a few elms around it, and quite a grove at a little distance behind it."

"It is. But you forgot the barn and the chicken-houses."

She laughed joyously. "I didn't think of them."

"And the well-sweep."

"I'm afraid I didn't think of that, either."

"I should really like to know how you knew," he observed, as if wondering. "Perhaps it is not worth while going there. But I want to see it again, if you don't."

"Oh, I do. I am very much interested, and you know you are to tell me what you are planning."

"Yes," he replied. "I meant to tell you. That was what I brought you for. But I thought you would be surprised and I hoped that you might be pleased."

"Trust me for that, Fox, if your plans are what I hope they are. If they are, I shall be very happy."

They stopped in the road before the square house that was painted cream color. Fox gazed at it longingly. It seemed to be saying, "Come in! Come in!" and reaching out arms to him. There was the old well at one side, with its great sweep. The ground about the well was bare of snow and there was a path from it to the kitchen door. Thin curls of smoke were coming lazily from each of the great chimneys.

He sighed, at last, and turned to Mrs. Ladue. "I should like to live there," he said.

"You would find it rather a hardship, I am afraid," she returned, watching him closely, "depending upon that well, picturesque as it is."

He laughed. "Easy enough to lay pipes from the hotel, back there." He nodded in the direction of the larger house, the one of the twenty-five Guernseys and the model barn. "They have a large supply and a power pump. Ask me something harder."

"The heating," she ventured. "Fires--open fires--are very nice and necessary. But they wouldn't be sufficient."

He laughed again. "It is not impossible to put in a heating-system. One might even run steam pipes along with the water pipes and heat from their boilers. I press the button, they do the rest."

"Well, I can't seem to think of any other objection. And there is a very good view."

"A very good view," he repeated. He was silent for a while. "I have done very well in the past five or six years," he said then, "and the wish that has been growing--my dearest wish, if you like--has been to establish a sort of private hospital about here somewhere. It wouldn't be a hospital, exactly; anyway, my patients might not like the word. And I should hate to call it a sanitarium. Call it Sanderson's Retreat." He smiled at the words. "That's it. We'll call it Sanderson's Retreat."

It would have warmed his heart if he could have seen her face; but he was not looking.

"I am very glad, Fox," she murmured. "That makes me very happy."

"Sanderson's Retreat?" he asked, turning to her. "But I haven't got it. Just as I thought I had found it I found that I couldn't get it."

"Perhaps that old skinflint who lives there doesn't own it," she suggested.

"Of course I thought of that," he answered, with some impatience. "But how am I to find out about it without exciting the cupidity of the native farmers? Once aroused, it is a terrible thing. I might advertise: 'Wanted, a place of not less than fifty acres, with large house commanding a good view over a valley, a herd of about twenty-five Guernseys, a barn with all the modern improvements, and a power pump. Price no object.' Rather narrows it down a trifle."

Mrs. Ladue almost chuckled. "I won't keep you in suspense," she said. "Uncle John owned it when he brought me out here. He told me so. And he owned this house, too."

"Uncle John!" cried Fox. "He knew a thing or two, didn't he? I wish I had found it while he was living. Now, I suppose I shall have to buy it of Miss Patty; that is, if I can. Who is the executor of the will? Do you know?"

She shook her head. "I haven't heard anything about the will, yet. I think it's likely to be Dick Torrington. Uncle John seemed to like Dick very much and he thought very well of him."

"I'll see Dick Torrington to-day. We may as well go back." He turned the horse about; then stopped again, looking back at the cream-colored house. He looked for a long time. "It's very pleasant," he said, at last, sighing. "Those trees, now--those in the grove--do they strike you as being suitable for a gynesaurus to climb? Do they?" he asked softly.

His eyes looked into hers for a moment. His eyes were very gentle--oh, very gentle, indeed, and somewhat wistful; windows of the soul. At that moment he was laying bare his heart to her. She knew it; it was a thing she had never known him to do before.

She put her hand to her heart; an involuntary movement. "Oh, Fox!" she breathed. "Oh, Fox!" Then she spoke eagerly. "Will you--are you going to--"

He smiled at her, and his smile was full of gentleness and patience. "I hope so," he answered. "In the fullness of time. It is a part of my dearest wish. Yes, when the time is ripe, I mean to. Not yet. She is not ready for it yet."

"She is nearly twenty-one," Mrs Ladue said anxiously, "and beginning to be restless under her teaching. Don't wait too long, Fox. Don't wait too long."

"I have your blessing, then? I have your best wishes for my success?"

"You know you have," she murmured, a little catch in her voice.

"I thought that I could count on them," he replied gratefully, "but I thank you for making me certain of it."

She seemed as if about to speak; but she said nothing, after all. Fox smiled and took up the reins again. The drive back was a silent one. Fox was busy with his own thoughts; and Mrs. Ladue, it is to be supposed, was busy with hers.