CHAPTER XI

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."