CHAPTER XVII

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was another group which had formed after the manner of these stable groups already mentioned, and which had somewhat withdrawn itself to the very back edge of the orchard, away from the others.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.