Kitabı oku: «The Wall Street Girl», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XXX
DON EXPLAINS
It seemed that, in spite of her business training and the unsentimental outlook on life upon which she had rather prided herself, Sally Winthrop did not differ greatly from other women. Shut up in her room, a deep sense of humiliation overwhelmed her. He had asked this other girl to marry him, and when she refused he had come to her! He thought as lightly of her as that–a mere second choice when the first was made impossible. He had no justification for that. This other had sent him to her–doubtless with a smile of scorn upon her pretty lips.
But what was she crying about and making her nose all red? She should have answered him with another smile and sent him back again. Then he would have understood how little she cared–would have understood that she did not care enough even to feel the sting of such an insult as this. For the two days she had been here awaiting the announcement of his marriage she had said over and over again that she did not care–said it the first thing upon waking and the last thing upon retiring. Even when she woke up in the night, as she did many times, she said it to herself. It had been a great comfort to her, for it was a full and complete answer to any wayward thoughts that took her unaware.
She did not care about him, so what was she sniveling about and making her nose all red? She dabbed her handkerchief into her eyes and sought her powder-box. If he had only kept away from her everything would have been all right. Within the next ten or eleven days she would have readjusted herself and been ready to take up her work again, with another lesson learned. She would have gone back to her room wiser and with still more confidence in herself. And now he was downstairs, waiting for her. There was no way she could escape him. She must do all those things without the help of seclusion. She must not care, with him right before her eyes.
She began to cry again. It was not fair. It was the sense of injustice that now broke her down. She was doing her best, and no one would help her. Even he made it as hard for her as possible. On top of that he had added this new insult. He wished a wife, and if he could not have this one he would take that one–as Farnsworth selected his stenographers. He had come to her because she had allowed herself to lunch with him and dine with him and walk with him. He had presumed upon what she had allowed herself to say to him. Because she had interested herself in him and tried to help him, he thought she was to be as lightly considered as this. He had not waited even a decent interval, but had come to her direct from Frances–she of the scornful smile.
Once again Sally stopped crying. If only she could hold that smile before her, all might yet be well. Whenever she looked into his eyes and thought them tender, she must remember that smile. Whenever his voice tempted her against her reason, she must remember that–for to-night, anyhow; and to-morrow he must go back. Either that or she would leave. She could not endure this very long–certainly not for eleven days.
“Sally–where are you?”
It was Mrs. Halliday’s voice from downstairs.
“I’m coming,” she answered.
The supper was more of an epicurean than a social success. Mrs. Halliday had made hot biscuit, and opened a jar of strawberry preserves, and sliced a cold chicken which she had originally intended for to-morrow’s dinner; but, in spite of that, she was forced to sit by and watch her two guests do scarcely more than nibble.
“I declare, I don’t think young folks eat as much as they useter in my days,” she commented.
Don tried to excuse himself by referring to a late dinner at Portland; but Sally, as usual, had no excuse whatever. She was forced to endure in silence the searching inquiry of Mrs. Halliday’s eyes as well as Don’s. For the half-hour they were at table she heartily wished she was back again in her own room in New York. There, at least, she would have been free to shut herself up, away from all eyes but her own. Moreover, she had to look forward to what she should do at the end of the meal. For all she saw, she was going to be then in even a worse plight than she was now. For he would be able to talk, and she must needs answer and keep from crying. Above all things else, she must keep from crying. She did not wish him to think her a little fool as well as other things.
She was forced to confess that after the first five minutes Don did his best to relieve the tension. He talked to Mrs. Halliday about one thing and another, and kept on talking. And, though it was quite evident to her that he had no appetite, he managed to consume three of the hot biscuit. After supper, when she rose to help her aunt in the kitchen, he wished also to help. But Mrs. Halliday would have neither of them. That made it bad for her again, for it left her with no alternative but to sit again upon the front porch with him. So there they were again, right back where they started.
“What did you run into the house for?” he demanded.
“Please let’s not talk any more, of that,” she pleaded.
“But it’s the nub of the whole matter,” he insisted.
“I went in because I did not want to talk any more.”
“Very well. Then you needn’t talk. But you can listen, can’t you?”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s exactly the opposite thing. You can listen, and just nod or shake your head. Then you won’t have to speak a word. Will you do that?”
It was an absurd proposition, but she was forced either to accept it or to run away again. Somehow, it did not appear especially dignified to keep on running away, when in the end she must needs come back again. So she nodded.
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” he suggested. “That’s somewhere toward the middle of my senior year. I’d known Frances before that, but about that time she came on to Boston, and we went to a whole lot of dances and things together.”
He paused a moment.
“I wish I’d brought a picture of her with me,” he resumed thoughtfully, “because she’s really a peach.”
Miss Winthrop looked up quickly. He was apparently serious.
“She’s tall and dark and slender,” he went on, “and when she’s all togged up she certainly looks like a queen. She had a lot of friends in town, and we kept going about four nights a week. Then came the ball games, and then Class Day. You ever been to Class Day?”
Miss Winthrop shook her head with a quick little jerk.
“It’s all music and Japanese lanterns, and if you’re sure of your degree it’s a sort of fairyland where nothing is quite real. You just feel at the time that it’s always going to be like that. It was then I asked her to marry me.”
Miss Winthrop was sitting with her chin in her hands, looking intently at the brick path leading to the house.
“You listening?”
She nodded jerkily.
“It seemed all right then. And it seemed all right after that. Stuyvesant was agreeable enough, and so I came on to New York. Then followed Dad’s death. Dad was a queer sort, but he was square as a die. I’m sorry he went before he had a chance to meet you. I didn’t realize what good pals we were until afterward. But, anyway, he died, and he tied the property all up as I’ve told you. Maybe he thought if he didn’t I’d blow it in, because I see now I’d been getting rid of a good many dollars. I went to Frances and told her all about it, and offered to cancel the engagement. But she was a good sport and said she’d wait until I earned ten thousand a year. You listening?”
She nodded.
“Because it’s right here you come in. I was going to get it inside a year, and you know just about how much chance I stood. But it looked easy to her, because her father was pulling down about that much a month, and not killing himself either. I didn’t know any more about it than she did; but the difference between us was that as soon as I was on the inside I learned a lot she didn’t learn. I learned how hard it is to get ten thousand a year; more than that, I learned how unnecessary it is to get it. That’s what you taught me.”
“I–I didn’t mean to,” she interrupted.
“You’re talking,” he reminded her.
She closed her lips firmly together.
“Whether you meant to or not isn’t the point. You did teach me that and a lot of other things. I didn’t know it at the time, and went plugging ahead, thinking everything was just the same when it wasn’t at all. Frances was headed one way and I was headed another. Then she went abroad, and after that I learned faster than ever. I learned what a home can be made to mean, and work can be made to mean, and life can be made to mean. All those things you were teaching me. I didn’t know it, and you didn’t know it, and Frances didn’t know it. That ten thousand grew less and less important to me, and all the while I thought it must be growing less and less important to her. I thought that way after the walks in the park and the walks in the country and that night at Coney.”
She shuddered.
“I thought it even after she came back–even after my talk with Stuyvesant. He told me I was a fool and that Frances wouldn’t listen to me. I didn’t believe him and put it up to her. And then–for the first time–I saw that what I had been learning she had not been learning.”
Don turned and looked at the girl by his side. It was growing dark now, so that he could not see her very well; but he saw that she was huddled up as he had found her that day in the little restaurant.
“Frances didn’t have the nerve to come with me,” he said. “Her father stood in the way, and she couldn’t get by him. I want to be fair about this. At the beginning, if she’d come with me I’d have married her–though Lord knows how it would have worked out. But she didn’t dare–and she’s a pretty good sport, too. There’s a lot in her she doesn’t know anything about. It would do her good to know you.”
Again he paused. It was as if he were trying hard to keep his balance.
“I want her to know you,” he went on. “Because, after all, it was she who made me see you. There, in a second, in the park, she pointed you out to me, until you stood before me as clear as the star by the Big Dipper. She said, ‘It’s some other girl you’re seeing in me–a girl who would dare to go hungry with you.’ Then I knew. So I came right to you.”
She was still huddled up.
“And here I am,” he concluded.
There he was. He did not need to remind her of that. Even when she closed her eyes so that she might not see him, she was aware of it. Even when he was through talking and she did not hear his voice, she was aware of it. And, though she was miserable about it, she would have been more miserable had he been anywhere else.
“I’m here, little girl,” he said patiently.
“Even after I told you to go away,” she choked.
“Even after you told me to go away.”
“If you only hadn’t come at all!”
“What else was there for me to do?”
“You–you could have gone to that camp with her. She wanted you to go.”
“I told her I couldn’t go there–long before I knew why.”
“You could have gone–oh, there are so many other places you could go! And this is the only place I could go.”
“It’s the only place I could go, too. Honest, it was. I’d have been miserable anywhere else, and–well, you aren’t making it very comfortable for me here.”
It seemed natural to have him blame her for his discomfort when it was all his own fault. It seemed so natural, in the midst of the confusion of all the rest of the tangle, that it was restful.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That’s something,” he nodded.
“I–I guess the only thing for me to do is to go away myself.”
“Where?”
“Back to New York. Oh, I wish I hadn’t taken a vacation!”
“We’ll go back if you say so; but it seems foolish after traveling all this distance.”
“I meant to go back alone,” she hastened to correct him.
“And leave me with Mrs. Halliday?”
“Please don’t mix things all up!”
“It’s you who are mixing things all up,” he said earnestly. “That isn’t like you, little girl. It’s more like you to straighten things out. There’s a straight road ahead of us now, and if you’ll only take it we’ll never leave it again. All we’ve got to do is to hunt up a parson and get married, and then we’ll go anywhere you say, or not go anywhere at all. It’s as simple as that. Then, when our vacation is up, I’ll go back to Carter, Rand & Seagraves, and I’ll tell Farnsworth he’ll have to get a new stenographer. Maybe he’ll discharge me for that, but if he doesn’t I’ll tell him I want to get out and sell. And then there’s nothing more to it. With you to help–”
He tried to find her hands, but she had them pressed over her eyes.
“With you back home to help,” he repeated–“there’s not anything in the world we won’t get.”
And the dream woman in Sally answered to the woman on the steps:–
“There’s not anything more in the world we’ll want when we’re home.”
But Don did not hear that. All he heard was a sigh. To the dream woman what he said sounded like music; but the woman on the steps answered cynically:–
“All he is saying to you now he said to that other. There, where the music was playing and the Japanese lanterns were bobbing, he said it to her. That was a fairy world, as this is a fairy night; but back in New York it will all be different. There are no fairies in New York. Every time you have thought there were, you have been disappointed.”
She rose swiftly to her feet.
“Oh, we mustn’t talk about it!” she exclaimed.
He too rose, and he placed both his hands upon her shoulders.
“I don’t understand,” he said quickly. “What is it you don’t believe?”
“I don’t believe in fairies,” she answered bitterly.
“Don’t you believe that I love you?”
“To-night–perhaps,” she answered.
Her eyes were not meeting his.
“You don’t believe my love will last?”
“I–I don’t know.”
“Because of Frances?”
“Everything is so different in New York,” she answered.
“Because of Frances?”
She was not sure enough herself to answer that. She did not wish to be unfair. He removed his hands from her shoulders and stood back a little.
“I thought you’d understand about her. I thought you were the one woman in the world who’d understand.”
She looked up quickly.
“Perhaps it’s easier for men to understand those things than women,” she said.
“There’s so little to understand.”
As he spoke, truly it seemed so. But it was always that way when she was with him. Always, if she was not very careful, he made her see exactly as he saw. It was so at Jacques’; it was so at Coney. But her whole life was at stake now. If she made a mistake, one way or the other, she must live it out–in New York. She must be by herself when she reached her decision.
“In the morning,” she gasped.
“All right,” he answered.
He took her hand–catching her unawares.
“See,” he said. “Up there is the star I gave you. It will always be there–always be yours. And, if you can, I want you to think of me as like that star.”
Upstairs in her room that night, Miss Winthrop sat by her window and tried to place herself back in New York–back in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. It was there, after all, and not up among the stars, that she had gained her experience of men.
From behind her typewriter she had watched them come and go, or if they stayed had watched them in the making. It was from behind her typewriter she had met Don. She remembered every detail of that first day: how he stood at the ticker like a boy with a new toy, waiting for Farnsworth; how he came from Farnsworth’s office and took a seat near her, and for the next half-hour watched her fingers until she became nervous. At first she thought he was going to be “fresh.” Her mind was made up to squelch him at the first opportunity. Yet, when it had come lunch-time and he sat on, not knowing what to do, she had taken pity on him. She knew he would sit on there until night unless some one showed an interest in him. She was glad now that she had, because he had been hungry. Had it not been for her, he would not have had anything to eat all day–possibly not all that week. She would never cease being glad that she had discovered this fact in time.
But she had intended that her interest should cease, once she had made sure that he was fed and in receipt of his first week’s salary. That much she would do for any man, good, bad, or indifferent. That was all she had intended. She could say that honestly. When he had appeared at her lunch-place the second and third time, she had resented it. But she had also welcomed his coming. And, when she had bidden him not to come, she had missed him.
Right here she marked a distinction between him and the others. She missed him outside the office–not only at noon, but at night. When she had opened that absurd box of flowers, she brought him into her room with her. She saw now that at the precise moment she opened that box she had lost her point of view. If she had wished to maintain it, she should have promptly done the box up again and sent it back to him.
After this their relation had changed. There could be no doubt about that. However, except for the initial fault of not returning the roses, she could not see where it was distinctly her fault. She had gone on day after day, unaware that any significant change was taking place. There had been the dinner at Jacques’, and then–
With her chin in her hands, she sat by the open window and lived over again those days. Her eyes grew afire and her cheeks grew rosy and a great happiness thrilled her. So–until they reached that night at Coney and Frances smiled through the dark at her.
Then she sprang to her feet and paced the floor, with the color gone from her cheeks. During all those glorious days this other girl had been in the background of his thoughts. It was for her he had been working–of her he had been thinking. She clenched her hands and faced the girl.
“Why didn’t you stay home with him, then?” she cried. “You left him to me and I took care of him. He’d have lost his position if it hadn’t been for me.
“I kept after him until he made good,” she went on. “I saw that he came to work on time, I showed him what to learn. It was I, not you, that made him.”
She was speaking out loud–fiercely. Suddenly she stopped. She raised her eyes to the window–to the little star by the Big Dipper. Gently, as a mother speaks, she said again:–
“I made him–not you.”
Sally Winthrop sank into a chair. She began to cry–but softly now.
“You’re mine, Don,” she whispered. “You’re mine because I took care of you.”
A keen breeze from the mountains swept in upon her. She rose and stole across the hall to Mrs. Halliday’s room. That good woman awoke with a start.
“What is it?” she exclaimed.
“Oh, I’m sorry if I woke you,” answered the girl. “But it’s turned cold, and I wondered if Don–if Mr. Pendleton had enough bedclothes.”
“Laws sake,” answered Mrs. Halliday. “I gave him two extra comforters, and if that ain’t enough he deserves to freeze.”
CHAPTER XXXI
SALLY DECIDES
The clarion call of Mrs. Halliday’s big red rooster announcing fervently his discovery of a thin streak of silver light in the east brought Don to his elbow with a start. For a moment he could not place himself, and then, as he realized where he was and what this day meant for him, he took a long deep breath.
“In the morning,” she had said.
Technically it was now morning, though his watch informed him that it was not yet five. By now, then, she had made her decision. Somewhere in this old house, perhaps within sound of his voice, she was waiting with the verdict that was to decide whether he was going back to New York the happiest or the unhappiest man in all Christendom. No, that was not quite right either. Even if she said “No” that would not decide it. It would mean only another day of waiting, because he was going to keep right on trying to make her understand–day after day, all summer and next winter and the next summer if necessary. He was going to do that because, if he ever let go of this hope, then he would be letting go of everything.
He found it quite impossible to sleep again and equally impossible to lie there awake. Jumping from bed he dressed, shaved, and went downstairs, giving Mrs. Halliday the start of her life when he came upon her as she was kindling the kitchen fire.
“Land sakes alive,” she gasped, “I didn’t expect to see you for a couple hours.”
“I know it’s early,” he answered uncomfortably; “I don’t suppose Sally is up?”
Mrs. Halliday touched a match to the kindling and put the stove covers back in place.
“There isn’t anything lazy about Sally, but she generally does wait until the sun is up,” she returned.
She filled the teakettle and then, adjusting her glasses, took a more critical look at Don.
“Wasn’t ye warm enough last night?” she demanded.
“Plenty, thank you,” he answered.
“Perhaps bein’ in new surroundings bothered you,” she suggested; “I can’t ever sleep myself till I git used to a place.”
“I slept like a log,” he assured her.
“Is this the time ye ginerally git up in New York?”
“Not quite as early as this,” he admitted. “But, you see, that rooster–”
“I see,” she nodded. “And ye kind of hoped it might wake up Sally too?”
“I took a chance,” he smiled.
“Well, now, as long as ye seem so anxious I’ll tell ye something; maybe it did. Anyhow, I heard her movin’ round afore I came down. Draw a chair up to the stove and make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks.”
The dry heat from the burning wood was already warming the room. Outside he heard the morning songs of the birds. It no longer seemed early to him. It was as though the world were fully awake, just because he knew now that Sally was awake. For a few minutes Mrs. Halliday continued her tasks as though unmindful that he was about. It was such a sort of friendly acceptance of him as part of the household that he began to feel as much at home here as though it were his usual custom to appear at this hour. There was something more friendly about even Mrs. Halliday’s back than about the faces of a great many people he knew. It looked as though it had borne a great many burdens, but having borne them sturdily was ready for more. It invited confidences. Then the teakettle began to bubble and sing and that invited confidences too. He was choking with things he wished to say–preferably to Sally herself, but if that were not possible, then Mrs. Halliday was certainly the next best confidante. Besides, being the closest relative of Sally’s it was only fitting and proper that she should be told certain facts. Sooner or later she must know and now seemed a particularly opportune time. Don rose and moved his chair to attract her attention.
“Mrs. Halliday–” he began.
“Wal?” she replied, without turning. She was at that moment busy over the biscuit board.
“There’s something I think I ought to tell you.”
She turned instantly at that–turned, adjusted her spectacles, and waited.
“I–I’ve asked Sally to marry me,” he confessed.
For a moment her thin, wrinkled face remained immobile. Then he saw a smile brighten the shrewd gray eyes.
“You don’t say!” she answered. “I’ve been wonderin’ just how long ye’d be tellin’ me that.”
“You knew? Sally told you?” he exclaimed.
“Not in so many words, as ye might say,” she answered. “But laws sake, when a girl wakes me up to say she doesn’t think a young man has blankets enough on his bed in this kind of weather–”
“She did that?” interrupted Don.
“Thet’s jest what she did. But long afore thet you told me yourself.”
“I?”
“Of course. It’s jest oozin’ out all over you.”
She came nearer. For a second Don felt as though those gray eyes were boring into his soul.
“Look here, young man,” she said. “What did Sally say?”
“She said she’d let me know this morning,” he answered.
“And you’ve been blamin’ my old rooster for gettin’ you up?”
“Not blaming him exactly,” he apologized.
“And you aren’t sure whether she’s goin’ to say yes or goin’ to say no?”
Don’s lips tightened.
“I’m not sure whether she’s going to say yes or no this morning. But, believe me, Mrs. Halliday, before she dies she’s going to say yes.”
Mrs. Halliday nodded approvingly. She went further; she placed a thin hand on Don’s shoulder. It was like a benediction. His heart warmed as though it had been his mother’s hand there.
“Don,” she said, as naturally as though she had been saying it all her life, “I don’t know much about you in one way. But I like your face and I like your eyes. I go a lot by a man’s eyes. More’n that, I know Sally, and there was never a finer, honester girl made than she is. If she has let you go as far as this, I don’t think I’d worry myself to death.”
“That’s the trouble,” he answered. “She didn’t let me go as far as this. I–I just went.”
Mrs. Halliday smiled again.
“Mebbe you think so,” she admitted.
“You see–” he stammered.
But at that moment he heard a rustle of skirts behind him. There stood Sally herself–her cheeks very red, with a bit of a frown above her eyes. It was Mrs. Halliday who saved the day.
“Here, now, you two,” she stormed as she went back to her biscuit board. “Both of you clear out of here until breakfast is ready. You belong outdoors where the birds are singing.”
“I’ll set the table, Aunty,” replied Sally grimly.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” replied Mrs. Halliday.
She crossed the room and, taking Sally by one arm she took Don by the other. She led them to the door.
“Out with you,” she commanded.
Alone with her Don turned to seek Sally’s eyes and saw the frown still there.
“I–I told her,” he admitted; “I couldn’t help it. I’ve been up for an hour and I had to talk to some one.”
He took her arm.
“You’ve decided?” he asked.
His face was so tense, his voice so eager, that it was as much as she could do to remain vexed. Still, she resented the fact that he had spoken to her aunt without authority. It was a presumption that seemed to take for granted her answer. It was as though he thought only one answer possible.
“Heart of me,” he burst out, “you’ve decided?”
“You–you had no right to tell her,” she answered.
“Come down the road a bit,” he pleaded.
He led her down the path and along the country road between fields wet with dew. The air was clean and sweet and the sky overhead a spotless blue. It was the freshest and cleanest world he had ever seen and she was one with it.
“I only told her what she already knew,” he said.
“She knew?”
He spoke in a lower voice–a voice gentle and trembling.
“She said you came in last night after she had gone asleep–”
Sally covered her face with her hands.
“Oh,” she gasped, “she–she told you that?”
He reached up and gently removed her hands. He held them tight in both of his.
“It was good of you to think of me like that. It was like you,” he said.
All the while he was drawing her nearer and nearer to him. She resisted. At least she thought she was resisting, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. Nearer his eyes came to hers; nearer his lips came to hers. She gave a quick gasp as one before sudden danger. Then she felt his warm lips against hers and swayed slightly. But his arms were about her. They were strong about her, so that, while she felt as though hanging dizzily over a precipice, she at the same moment never felt safer in her life. With his lips against her lips, she closed her eyes until, to keep from losing herself completely, she broke free. Her cheeks scarlet, her breath coming short, her eyes like stars, she stared at him a moment, and then like a startled fawn turned and ran for the house. He followed, but her feet were tipped with wings. He did not catch her until she had burst into the kitchen, where in some fear Mrs. Halliday gathered her into her arms.
“She hasn’t answered me even yet,” he explained to Mrs. Halliday.
“Oh, Don,” cried the trembling girl, her voice smothered in Mrs. Halliday’s shoulder. “You dare say that after–”
“Well, after what?” demanded Mrs. Halliday.
