CHAPTER XXVI

Mrs. Ladue asked no troublesome questions. Perhaps she thought that she had no need to; that she knew, as well as if she had been told, what Charlie had been doing. Sally had been to see about it, of course, and now it was all right, equally of course. Sally always remedied wrongs as well as anybody could and made them right again. It was a great comfort. And Mrs. Ladue sighed happily and smiled.

Sally thought the smile somewhat ill-timed, but she was glad enough that her mother felt like smiling. That smile exasperated her a little. She had just come back and the past twenty-four hours had been rather crowded. But her mother did not know that. And she was glad enough that her mother had not asked questions, for, if she had been asked, she would have lied, if necessary, for the first time in her life. Her mother did make a remark which, as Sally thought, showed that she knew. Sally had her hand on the door and was on the point of going out.

She turned. "Why, mother!" she exclaimed. "So you knew, all the time, what the trouble was!" She laughed in derision; at herself, chiefly. "And I took such pains to keep the truth from you!"

"I didn't know, Sally. I only guessed. It's what I have been afraid of for years--the first thing I should have looked for. What else could you expect, with his--"

She did not go on. Sally, fresh from that interview with her father,--it had happened only that morning,--was almost overcome by the memory of it.

"Why, Sally, dear!" cried her mother. "I didn't suppose you felt so. Don't, dear. It's nothing that we can help--the wanting to, I mean. And I'm sure you have done more than anybody else could."

Sally regained her self-control with an effort. "I don't feel so bad about Charlie. I've done all that I can--now. But it's rather taken it out of me," she added, with a nervous little laugh.

"Of course, dear. I wish I were good for anything. I know," she said, laughing nervously, in her turn, "that I ought to feel troubled. But I can't, Sally, dear. As long as--" she hesitated and flushed. "I am rather ashamed to say it, but as long as--as your father hasn't turned up, I can't be anything but contented and happy. I find that I've had an absurd feeling--utterly absurd, dear, I know--that he was about to. It's only since you were on the way that that dread has left me and I've felt contented--so happy and contented. The change came with curious suddenness, about the time your train must have left."

Sally had turned away sharply. "I'm very glad, mother," she replied in a stifled little voice. "I'm glad you can feel so happy. There's no need to feel that dread any more, I think. I'm going out now. Don't be worried if I am late."

"Going to walk, Sally?" Mrs. Ladue asked diffidently. "You had better tell me what direction you will take--in case Fox comes in, you know. He always wants to know your direction if you are at all late."

"I'm going out to see him," Sally returned. "I promised to tell him about it."

If Sally had stopped to think of it at all she might have wondered why her mother seemed so glad that she was going to Fox's. But her mind was taken up with thoughts of her father, to the exclusion of everything and everybody else--but one, and Sally was not aware of the exception. Fox was the only person she was free to tell about her father and she was looking forward to it. When she had shared her knowledge--with somebody--it would be less of a burden. It never occurred to her that he might not be glad to know. Wasn't he always glad to know of anything which concerned her--anything at all? And as Sally thought these thoughts a vivid blush spread over her face and her throat. It was a pity that there was nobody to see it.

Fox met her at the door. There was a questioning smile on his face as he took her hand. He led the way into his office and Sally sank into an armchair that stood by the table. Fox drew another chair near and sat down. Then he took a little slip of paper from his pocket and laid it by her elbow.

"The rent," he said.

Sally laughed, but she let it lie there.

"Well?" Fox asked.

"Well!" She found that she had very little to say and that little did not come readily. "It is nice to get into a chair that is comfortable without swallowing you whole--as if it would never give you up." She patted an arm of the chair nervously. "I like these low arms."

"Yes," said Fox, "so do I. And--there is no hurry, Sally. Would you like to rest there--just sit and be comfortable for a while? You can have had very little real rest for some time and you must have had much to tire you. Just exactly as you please. I am entirely at your service--as I am always," he added, in a low voice. "I can be attending to my work, and you could begin whenever you were ready, or I will give my undivided attention now."

"Have you got work," Sally began hastily, "that--"

"Oh, there's no hurry about it." And Fox smiled quietly. "But there's enough to do. Routine, mostly."

"Could you do it with me here? Wouldn't you--"

"Couldn't I!" Fox smiled again. "It adds a great deal to my peace of mind to have you in the same room with me, even when you aren't saying anything. And peace of mind, Sally, is--"

"Yes, I know," said Sally, interrupting. "Well, let's try it. You go to your desk and work and I'll sit here and rest. And when the spirit moves me I'll speak."

So Fox went to his desk and Sally watched him as he became more and more absorbed; and, as she watched, there came a light into her eyes which had not been there before. Still she said nothing; only leaned her head back against the chair and watched. Once he looked back at her and smiled. He almost caught that light--that look in her eyes, but Sally managed to quench it in time.

"Resting, Sally?" he asked.

She nodded and he turned back to his desk. The work did not seem difficult. Sally wondered, and in her wonder she forgot, for the moment.

"Couldn't I do that, Fox?"

"To be sure you could," he answered quickly, "if you only would. It isn't half as difficult as what you do at your office."

He had not looked around. Sally was glad of that, for she was blushing--at her own temerity, she told herself. Again there was silence in the room, except for the rustling of papers.

"Fox," said Sally, after five minutes of this, "what would you do with Charlie now? Would you send him back to college?"

He put his papers down and turned. "Does the spirit move you to talk now?"

Again she nodded. "I think so. The little rest has done me good. And I should like to have your advice."

He came to the chair near hers. "What happened after I left you last night?"

"Nothing in particular," she answered. "I don't remember that we said anything of consequence. I had a talk with Charlie, early this morning." She gave him the substance of it; if it could be said to have any substance. "This is the council of war," she added, smiling somewhat wearily, "that is to settle his fate."

Fox sat contemplating the wall. "It seems rather hard to say 'no' to your question," he said at last, slowly, "but I should be inclined to advise it. Have you any assurance--besides Charlie's promise, that is--that he will not return to his bad habits?"

"No, none of consequence. I am afraid he would. If--if he went into the office with me now, I could keep an eye on him. That is," she amended rather hopelessly, "I could try to. Charlie would probably have no trouble in deceiving me if he tried to. I thought that Henrietta might be willing to help about him. She might be able to do more with him than I could."

"Of course she would be willing."

"She seems to have influence with Charlie and I should think she would be willing to use it for his good. I haven't any influence," she continued, "except through his fear of being found out. I don't know how it happened--that doesn't matter especially--but he doesn't trust me. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is." She sighed and looked away.

Fox did not like to have her look away. He much preferred to have those gray eyes look trustingly into his.

"You may be sure that it's through no fault of yours, Sally."

"Perhaps," Sally returned, looking back at him. "Perhaps, but I'm not so sure. Very likely it is my fault. At any rate, it can't be helped. That's the way it's gone." She stopped and seemed to be considering; wondering, perhaps, how she should have done. She could not have done differently, being herself. There was always, at the bottom of her heart, an utter contempt for--well, she would not complete that thought. And she sighed again and resumed. Fox had said nothing.

"If we kept him in college, there would be relapses,--inevitably, I think,--and I should only have to do this over again. Not that I should mind," she interrupted herself hastily, "if it would do any good. But every relapse would make it harder. There seems to be no escape. I think he'll have to come out. That, I understand, is the sense of the meeting?" She looked at Fox again, smiling whimsically.

"That is my advice," said he, "if I am privileged to give advice on the subject. I'm sorry to be seeming to take away his opportunities. His regret will grow as he grows older."

Sally shook her head. "He doesn't seem to have any regret."

"He will have."

"He may. I should think he would. But it's his own fault and that's all there is to say about Charlie. I've done the best I could and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I'll have him come into the office to-morrow and I think he'll be glad to. It's a change, you know."

Sally looked at Fox and smiled again; but if there was anything humorous in her smile there was much more that was scornful.

"And now, Fox," Sally continued, very low--he could hardly hear the words--and looking away again, "I have something else to tell you. It is rather terrible, I think." Her voice was not steady and she stopped, trying to control it. She did not want to cry; she did not mean to. "I saw--" She choked, but went on bravely. "I saw my father this morning."

"What!" He cried in a voice as low as her own. The effect of her words was as great as she could have expected, if she thought of the effect at all. He put out his hand instinctively; but Sally withdrew hers. "Where, Sally?"

"He came to the hotel to see me." She spoke in a monotonous voice. She found that her only hope lay in using that voice. She might begin to cry at any moment. If she should--she was almost worn out and she was afraid. In that same monotonous voice she gave every detail of the interview. She did not omit anything. It was all burned into her memory. Fox did not speak. When she came to an end of her account she found that even her monotonous voice could not save her. She was perilously near to tears and her chin would quiver in spite of all that she could do.

"Sally! Sally!" said Fox tenderly. He saw her condition. "Don't tell me any more now if it distresses you."

"I may as well," she replied as well as she could. She smiled up at him, but her chin quivered more and more. "I may as well--now as well as another time. For--for I've got to tell you, Fox." She looked at him imploringly. "I've got to tell somebody, and the somebody is always you." She smiled again tearfully, and looked away again. Fox could not stand many such smiles. He would--would do something, he did not know just what; but he sat gazing at her with infinite tenderness and pity, saying nothing.

"My father is employed in--in the house that we went to," she resumed at last; "the house where Charlie has been playing. He deals the cards--or something. He must have known!" Two tears fell into her lap. "To think that my father has fallen to that!--has fallen so low! And when Charlie said that to him," she cried desperately, "it almost b--broke my heart."

Her voice shook and suddenly she bowed her head upon her arms, which were resting on the table, and broke into a passion of tears; wild weeping, such as Fox had never known--had never supposed could come from her. She had always seemed so beautifully poised, so steady and so sturdy; like a rock, on which others built their foundations. But the rod had smitten her and the springs were unbound. He had a wild desire to take her in his arms.

But he didn't--then. He only murmured something meant to be comforting. God knew he wanted to comfort her; wanted to as he had never wanted anything in his life before. He would, if he only knew how. But the wild weeping had given way to a subdued sobbing.

"And--it--it alm--most b--broke my heart," she sobbed, "to re--refuse what he asked. B--but I had to do it. I h--had to do it, Fox. I c--couldn't do anything else." She caught her breath. She could not go on for a minute.

Only an inarticulate murmur came from Fox.

"Father was such a pathetic figure!" Sally went on a soon as she could speak. "Of course I know that he is not always so--that he is seldom so. There were mother and Charlie to think of. But it seemed so terrible! And he was so patient under Charlie's--treatment--his own father! I can't get him out of my--"

Her wild weeping, restrained for a moment, broke out again.

"Sally!" Fox murmured, leaning forward and laying a hand upon her knee. "Sally, dear!"

There was a great distress and a great longing in his look, but Sally had her head down and she did not see it. But it was in his voice and she may have heard it. He rose impulsively from his chair and went to her quickly--it was only a step--and he sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm around her.

"Sally, dear!" he implored. "Don't cry so! Please don't."

She did not repulse him, as he had feared she would, gently, of course, but firmly; but she did not yield either. It was as if, for the moment, he was nothing to her--nothing more than a brother; not _her_ brother, thank heaven! She only sobbed, there, for some minutes--in his arms. That was enough.

She became more quiet in time. She still had her head down upon one arm, but she was feeling up her sleeve and under her belt, searching for something.

"Forgive me, F--Fox," she said, "I didn't mean to do it, but I'm t--tired out and--and I can't find my handkerchief." She laughed a little hysterically. "Have you got one to l--lend me, Fox? I c--can't lift my head be--because I'm crying and I've cried all over your table and into your chair--"

"Drat the table! What do you suppose I care about it, Sally?"

"You--you ought to. I--it's a very pretty table."

"I value it only because it holds your tears." Fox was unfolding a handkerchief. It was a very large handkerchief. He put it into her seeking hand. "I remember another occasion when you had to borrow a handkerchief," he said. "Do you remember it, Sally?"

She nodded and began to mop her eyes. "Mercy! I--I didn't want a sheet, Fox," she said.

Fox smiled. "I didn't know. You might." His voice was not steady as he went on. "Sally," he whispered, "I--I want you. I want you!"

She gave another hysterical laugh. "Well," she cried, "anybody w--would th--think that y--you had me."

"Have I, Sally dear?" he asked, still in that low whisper. "Have I?" He bent over her neck. That was the only part of her that he could reach--that neck with its little tendrils of waving hair.

"Oh, don't!" she cried hastily. "Don't, Fox. You haven't got me--yet," she added in a whisper which was barely audible. But Fox heard it. "It--it isn't because--because you are sorry for me?" she asked in a very small voice.

"No," Fox was smiling again; but, as Sally had her eyes hidden, of course she did not see it. "I am sorry for you as I can be, but that isn't the reason. Guess again."

"Are you _sure_, Fox? _Very_ sure?" she asked. "Say that you are, Fox," she whispered. "Can't you please say that you are?"

"I am sure."

"And it isn't be--because m--my father," the small voice asked again, "because my father is a--"

"No. That isn't the reason either. I'm quite sure, Sally."

Sally's head was still down on the table and she was wiping away her tears.

"But, Fox," she protested, "you ought not to, you know."

"I ought," he replied indignantly. "I ought to have done it long ago. Why not?"

Sally smiled at the table. "M--my father," she returned, not at all dismally, "would disgrace you--very likely. He's a d--"

He interrupted her. "I don't care what he is, Sally," he said softly. "I don't care about anything--but this."

"And my brother is a gambler," she went on, in a disgracefully happy voice, considering what she was saying,--"with not much hope that he will be anything else. I don't deceive myself."

"Only the greater reason," he said, more softly yet. "I want you, Sally."

"Do you? After that?"

"You may believe it--dearest."

She gave a sudden, happy little cry. "Oh, I believe it. I want to believe it. I have wanted to for more than two years--ever--since the night of the fire." She lifted her head, the tears shining in her eyes; something else shining there. "Then I don't care for--for Margaret--or--or anybody else; or any--any--thing"--her voice sank to a whisper once more--"but you."

Sally raised her eyes slowly to his. They were shy eyes, and very tender. And Fox looked into their depths and saw--but what he saw concerns only him and Sally. He seemed satisfied with what he saw. He held her closer. Sally's eyes filled slowly and overflowed at last, and she shut them.

"I'm crying because I'm so happy," she whispered.

Fox bent and kissed her. "I don't care for Margaret or for anybody else but you," he murmured, "and I never have cared for anybody else. I don't know what you mean. Who is Margaret?"

Sally opened her eyes. "You don't know?" she asked in surprise.

"I don't know. You have spoken of her before--as if I ought to know all about her. Who is she and why must I know about her?"

She did not answer at once. Her eyes were deep and shining and, her eyes searching his, she put up her arms--slowly--slowly--about his neck. "Oh, Fox, dear!" she cried softly. "Oh, Fox, dear! And you don't know!"

She laughed low and happily. Then she drew his head down--it came readily enough--

When Sally emerged, a minute or two later, she was blushing. She seemed burning up. She hid her burning cheeks in Fox's shoulder.

"Fox," she murmured from her hiding place, "don't you remember Margaret Savage?"

"Oh, yes," he answered quite cheerfully. "She is very pretty now--very attractive to the young men--but she's as much of a fool as ever."

Sally laughed again. "And Henrietta told me," she said, "that you might succumb. So you see that, when you spoke of getting married--"

"Why, I meant you, all the time."

"Ye--es, but I didn't know that--and--and I thought that you meant Margaret and--and Henrietta's remarks set me to thinking and then--then, pretty soon, I knew that--that I loved you, Fox, and I was very unhappy. Oh, Fox, I _was_ unhappy!"

"I'm sorry, darling. I'm very sorry. Sally!"

She looked up at him and, as she looked, the red once more mounted slowly, flooding her throat and then her cheeks. Again she put her arms up and drew his head down.

The crimson flood had left her face and there was in it only a lovely color as she lay back in his arms. "Don't you love me, Fox?"

He laughed. "Love you! Love you! I should think it was--"

"Then," she asked, "why don't you say so, sir? You haven't said so yet--not once." His arms tightened about her. "Close, Fox, dear!" she whispered. "Hold me closer. I don't want to get away, ever."

It was getting late when they finally stood at a window from which they could see the little cream-colored house--they had got as far as that--and the grove behind it.

"I want to open that house," Fox was saying. "I want to live in it."

"_I_ want to live in it," Sally said.

"But," he returned quickly, "you know what must happen first. How soon, Sally?"

"Just as soon as ever I can manage it, dear. You may depend upon that. And now I must go. I'm disgracefully late, even now."

She hastily rearranged her hair, which, strangely enough, was much disordered, and she put on her hat. Then she stood before him.

"Now, don't you be troubled about your father, Sally, or about Charlie, or anything. We will take care of those troubles together."

"As if you hadn't always tried to take those troubles off my shoulders!" She raised her radiant eyes to his. "If this is what you meant by 'paying in kind,' you shall be paid, Fox. Oh, you _shall_ be paid. And, dear, nothing troubles me now. Do you understand? _Nothing_. Now I must run. Don't come with me. People couldn't help noticing something. Good night."

Once more she kissed him, and she was gone, walking buoyantly and turning more than once to wave to him. Fox's eyes were wet as he watched her.

"Bless you, Sally! God go with you!"

God go with you, Sally!

THE END

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End of Project Gutenberg's Concerning Sally, by William John Hopkins