Читать книгу Concerning Sally - William John Hopkins - Страница 11

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Sally always remembered that winter, a winter of hard work and growing anxiety for her, enlivened by brief and occasional joys. She got to know Fox and Henrietta very well, which was a continual joy and enlivenment. Sally did not count dancing-school among the enlivenments. And the infrequent lessons with Fox and Henrietta and her father were enlivenments, too, usually; not always. After the times when they were not, Sally wanted to cry, but she didn't, which made it all the harder.

Her mother seemed steadily progressing toward permanent invalidism, while her father was doing much worse than that. And she took more and more of the burden of both upon her own small shoulders. Poor child! She should have known no real anxiety; none more real than the common anxieties of childhood. But perhaps they are real enough. Sally was not eleven yet.

It is hard to say whether her mother or her father caused Sally the more anxiety. Her mother's progress was so gradual that the change from day to day—or from week to week, for that matter—was not noticeable; while her father's was spasmodic. Sally did not see him during a spasm, so that she did not know how noticeable the change was from day to day or from hour to hour. We do not speak of weeks in such cases. But it was just after a spasm that he was apt to make his appearance again at home in a condition of greater or less dilapidation, with nerves on edge and his temper in such a state that Mrs. Ladue had grown accustomed, in those circumstances, to the use of great care when she was forced to address him. Lately, she had avoided him entirely at such times. Sally, on the contrary, made no effort to avoid him and did not use great care when she addressed him, although she was always respectful. This course was good for the shreds of the professor's soul and perhaps no harder for Sally. But that was not the reason why she did it. She could not have done differently.

There was the time in the fall, but that was over. And there was the time at Christmas which Sally nipped in the bud. Following the Christmas fiasco—a fiasco only from the point of view of the professor—was the Era of Good Behavior. That is begun with capitals because Sally was very happy about her father during that era, although her mother's health worried her more and more. Then there was the time late in the winter, after her father had broken down under the strain of Good Behavior for two months; and, again, twice in March. Professor Ladue must have been breaking rapidly during that spring, for there came that awful time when it seemed, even to Sally, as if the bottom were dropping out of everything and as if she had rather die than not. Dying seems easier to all of us when we are rather young, although the idea does not generally come to us when we are ten years old. But it must be remembered that Sally was getting rather more than her fair share of hard knocks. Later in life dying does not seem so desirable. It is a clear shirking of responsibility. Not that Sally ought to have had responsibility.

The time at Christmas happened on the last day of term time; and, because that day was only half a day for the professor and because Christmas was but two days off, Sally had persuaded her mother to take her into town. "Town" was half an hour's ride in the train; and, once there, Sally intended to persuade her mother further and to beard her father in his laboratory and to take him for an afternoon's Christmas shopping; very modest shopping. Whether Mrs. Ladue suspected the designs of Sally and was sure of their failure, I do not know. Sally had not told her mother of her complete plans. She was by no means certain of their success herself. In fact, she felt very shaky about it, but it was to be tried. Whatever her reason, Mrs. Ladue consented with great and very evident reluctance, and it may have been her dread of the occasion that gave her the headache which followed. So Sally had to choose between two evils. And, the evil to her father seeming the greater if she stayed at home with her mother, she elected to go.

She disposed of Charlie and knocked softly on her mother's door. There was a faint reply and Sally went in. The shades were pulled down and the room was rather dark. Sally went to her mother and bent over her and put her arms half around her. She did it very gently—oh, so gently—for fear of making the headache worse.

"Is your head better, mother, dear?" she asked softly.

Mrs. Ladue smiled wanly. "Having my dear little girl here makes it better," she answered.

"Does it, mother? Does it really?" The thought made Sally very happy. But then it suddenly came over her that, if she carried out her plans, she could not stay. She was torn with conflicting emotions, but not with doubts. She had considered enough and she knew what she intended to do. She did not hesitate.

"I'm very sorry, mother, dear, that I can't stay now. I'll come in when I get back, though, and I'll stay then, if it isn't too late and if you want me then. I truly will. I love to."

"Is it Charlie, Sally? You have too much of the care of Charlie. If I weren't so good for nothing!"

"I've left Charlie with Katie, and he's happy. It's father. I think I'd better go in and meet him. Don't you think I'd better?"

The tears came to Mrs. Ladue's eyes. "Bless you, dear child! But how can you, dear, all alone? No, Sally. If you must go, I'll get up and go with you."

"Oh, mother, you mustn't, you mustn't. I can get Fox to go with me. I know he will. I promise not to go unless I can get Fox—or some one—to go."

"Some grown person, Sally?" Mrs. Ladue asked anxiously.

"Yes," answered Sally, almost smiling, "some grown person. That is," she added, "if you call Fox Sanderson a grown person."

"Fox Sanderson is a dear good boy," replied Mrs. Ladue. "I wish you had a brother like him, Sally—just like him."

"I wish I did," said Sally, "but I haven't. The next best thing is to have him just Fox Sanderson. Will you be satisfied with him, mother, dear—if I can get him to go?"

Again Mrs. Ladue smiled. "Quite satisfied, dear. I can trust you, Sally, and you don't know what a relief that is."

"No," said Sally, "I s'pose I don't." Nevertheless she may have had some idea.

That thought probably occurred to her mother, for she laughed a little tremulously. "Kiss me, darling, and go along."

So Sally kissed her mother, tenderly and again and again, and turned away. But her mother called her back.

"Sally, there is a ticket in my bureau, somewhere. And, if you can find my purse, you had better take that, too. I think there is nearly two dollars in it. It is a pretty small sum for Christmas shopping, but I shall be glad if you spend it all."

Sally turned to kiss her mother again. "I shan't spend it all," she said.

She rummaged until she found the ticket and the purse; and, with a last good-bye to her mother, she was gone. Mrs. Ladue sighed. "The darling!" she said, under her breath.

Sally met Fox and Henrietta just outside her own gate. "Oh," she cried, "it's lucky, for you're exactly the persons I wanted to see."

Henrietta looked expectant.

"Well, Sally," Fox said, smiling, "what's up now?"

"I'm going to town," Sally answered, less calmly than usual. She laid her hand on his arm as she spoke. "That is, I'm going if I can find somebody to go with me."

Fox laughed. "Is that what you call a hint, Sally? Will we do?"

"It isn't a hint," said Sally, flushing indignantly. "That is—it wasn't meant for one. I was going to ask you if you had just as lief go as not. I've got a ticket and there are—let's see"—she took out her ticket and counted—"there are seven trips on it. That's enough. Would you just as lief?"

"I'd rather," replied Fox promptly. "Come on, Henrietta. We're going to town." He looked at his watch. "Train goes in fourteen minutes, and that's the train we take. Step lively, now."

Henrietta giggled and Sally smiled; and they stepped lively and got to the station with two minutes to spare. Fox occupied that two minutes with a rattle of airy nothings which kept Sally busy and her mind off her errand; which may have been Fox's object or it may not. For Sally had not told her errand yet, and how could Fox Sanderson have known it? When they got into the car, Sally was a little disappointed because she had not been able to tell him. She had meant to—distinctly meant to during that two minutes.

She had no chance to tell him in the train. The cars made such a noise that she would have had to shout it in his ear and, besides, he talked steadily.

"I'll tell you what," he said, at the end of a stream of talk of which Sally had not heard half. "Let's get your father, Sally, and take him with us while you do your errands, whatever they are. He'll be through in the laboratory, and we'll just about catch him."

"All right," Sally murmured; and she sank back in her seat contentedly.

She had been sitting bolt upright. She felt that it was all right now, and she would not need to tell Fox or anybody. She felt very grateful to him, somehow. She felt still more grateful to him when he let the conductor take all their fares from her ticket without a protest. Fox was looking out of the window.

"It looks as if we might have some snow," he remarked. "Or it may be rain. I hope it will wait until we get home."

When they got to the laboratory, they found one of the cleaners just unlocking the door. She didn't know whether the professor had gone or not. He always kept the door locked after hours; but would they go in? They would and did, but could not find Professor Ladue. Fox found, on his desk, a beaker with a few drops of a liquid in it. He took this up and smelt of it. The beaker still held a trace of warmth.

"He has just this minute gone," he said. "If we hurry I think we can catch him. I know the way he has probably gone."

"How do you know he has just gone?" asked Sally, looking at him soberly and with her customary directness. "How can you tell?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "You didn't know that I was a detective, did you, Sally?"

"No," said Sally. "Are you?"

"Seem to be," Fox returned. "Come on, or we'll lose him."

So they hurried, twisting and winding through streets that Sally did not know. They seemed to be highly respectable streets. Sally wondered where they were going. She wanted to ask Fox, but, evidently, he didn't want to take the time to talk. Henrietta's eyes were brighter than usual and she looked from Fox to Sally with a curiosity which she could not conceal; but Sally, at least, did not notice, and Henrietta said nothing.

"There he is," said Fox, at last.

They had just turned the corner of a street lined with what appeared to Sally to be rather imposing houses. It was a highly respectable street, like the others they had come through, and it was very quiet and dignified. Indeed, there was no one in sight except Professor Ladue, who was sauntering along with the manner of the care-free. His coat was unbuttoned and blowing slightly, although there was that chill in the air that always precedes snow and the wind was rising. Their steps echoed in the quiet street, and, instinctively, they walked more softly. Strangely enough, they all seemed to have the same feeling; a feeling that the professor might suddenly vanish if he heard them and looked around.

"Now, Sally," Fox continued, speaking somewhat hurriedly, "you run and catch him before he turns that next corner. The street around that corner is only a court with a dozen houses on it. If you don't catch him before he goes into the house in the middle of that block, give it up. Don't try to go in after him, but come back. Henrietta and I will be waiting for you. If you get him, we won't wait. But don't say anything about our being here unless he asks you. He might not like to know that I had followed him."

"But," protested Sally, bewildered, "aren't you going with us? I thought you were going shopping with us."

"If we had caught him before he had left the college. Now, it might be embarrassing—to both your father and to me."

"But your tickets!" wailed Sally in a distressed whisper. They had been speaking like conspirators.

Fox laughed softly. "I have a few cents about me. You can make that right some other time. Now, run!"

So Sally ran. She ran well and quietly and came up with her father just after he had turned that last corner. The professor must have been startled at the unexpectedness of the touch upon his arm, for he turned savagely, prepared, apparently, to strike.

"Father!" cried Sally; but she did not shrink back. "Father! It's only me!"

The look in Professor Ladue's eyes changed. Some fear may have come into it; a fear that always seemed to be latent where Sally was concerned. His look was not pleasant to see directed toward his own little daughter. The savage expression was still there, and a frown, denoting deep displeasure.

"Sally!" he exclaimed angrily. Then he was silent for a time; a time, it is to be presumed, long enough for him to collect his scattered faculties and to be able to speak as calmly as a professor should speak to his daughter, aged ten.

"Sally," he said at last, coldly, "may I ask how you came here?"

"Why," Sally replied, speaking hastily, "I was coming in town, this afternoon—I planned it, long ago, with mother—and—"

"Is your mother with you?" the professor interrupted.

To a careful observer he might have seemed more startled than ever; but perhaps Sally was not a careful observer. At all events, she gave no sign.

"Mother had a headache and couldn't come," said Sally quietly. She must have been afraid that her father would ask other questions. It was quite natural that he should want to know who did come with her. So she went on rapidly. "But I thought I'd come just the same, so I did, and I went to your laboratory, but you'd just gone and I followed on after and I caught you just as you turned this corner, and now I would like to have you go down to the shops with me. I want to buy something for mother and Charlie. Will you go with me, father?"

The professor did not ask any of the questions that Sally feared. Possibly he had as much fear of the answers as Sally had of the questions. So he asked none of the questions that one would think a father would ask of his little daughter in such circumstances. As Sally neared the end of her rapid speech, his eyes had narrowed.

"So," he said slowly, "I gather from what you have left unsaid that your mother sent you after me."

There was the faintest suspicion of a sneer in his voice, but he tried to speak lightly. As had happened many times before, he did not succeed.

"She didn't," answered Sally, trying to be calm. Her eyes burned. "She didn't want me to come. I came on my own hook."

"It might have been wiser, Sally," the professor observed judicially, "to do what your mother wished."

Sally made no reply. She would have liked to ask him if he did—if he ever did what her mother wished.

Sally saying nothing and seeming somewhat abashed, the professor found himself calmer. "So that course did not commend itself to your judgment? Didn't think it best to mind your mother. And you went to the laboratory and—who let you in?" he asked suddenly.

"One of the cleaners."

"Oh, one of the cleaners. A very frowzy lady in a faded black skirt and no waist worth mentioning, I presume." The professor seemed relieved. "And you went in, and didn't find me. Very natural. I was not there. And having made up your mind, from internal evidence, I presume, which way I had gone—but who told you?—oh, never mind. It's quite immaterial. A very successful trail, Sally; or shall I say shadow? You must have the makings of a clever detective in you. I shouldn't have suspected it. Never in the world."

The professor was quite calm by this time; rather pleased with himself, especially as he had chanced to remark the tears standing in his little daughter's eyes.

"And I never suspected it!" he repeated. Then he laughed; but it was a mirthless laugh. If he had known how empty it would sound, the professor would never have done it.

At his laugh, two of the aforesaid tears splashed on the sidewalk, in spite of Sally's efforts to prevent. The tears may not have been wholly on her own account. She may have felt some pity for her father's pitiful pretense.

She bit her lip. "Will you go with me now, father?" she asked, as soon as she could trust herself to speak at all.

It was always somewhat difficult to account for the professor's actions and to assign the motive which really guided. The professor, himself, was probably unaware, at the time, of having any motive. So why seek one? It need not concern us.

"Go with you, Sally? Why, yes, indeed. Certainly. Why not?" he agreed with an alacrity which was almost unseemly; as if he challenged anybody to say that that was not just what he had meant to do, all along. "I have some presents to buy—for your mother and Charlie. And for somebody else, too," he murmured, in a tone that was, no doubt, meant for Sally to hear. She heard it.

Sally smiled up at him and took his hand, which she seldom did. It is true that she seldom had the chance. Then she glanced quickly around, to see whether Fox and Henrietta were in sight. The street was deserted.

Professor Ladue buttoned his coat; but the wind was rising still, and the chill increasing, and his coat was rather light for the season. What more natural than that he should wish it buttoned? But Sally would have unbuttoned her coat gladly. She would not have felt the chill; and she almost skipped beside him, as they walked rapidly down toward streets which were not deserted, but crowded with people. As they went, he talked more and more light nonsense, and Sally was happy; which was a state much to be desired, but unusual enough to be worthy of remark.

They were very late in getting home. With the crowds and the snow which had begun to fall, there was no knowing what the trains would be up to. Trains have an unpleasant habit of being late whenever there is any very special reason for wishing to get in promptly. But I suppose there is always somebody on any train who has a very special reason for wishing to get in promptly. There was on this train. Sally had a bad case of the fidgets, thinking of her mother, who must be waiting and waiting and wondering why her little daughter didn't come. It would be bad for her head. The professor, too—but I don't know about the professor; he may have been in no hurry.

When at last they did get home, after a long wade through snow up to her shoetops, Sally ran up to her mother's room, shedding her wet and snowy things as she ran. She knocked softly and, at the first sound of her mother's voice, she went in and shut the door gently behind her. The room was nearly pitch dark, but she could see the bed, dimly, and she ran to it and ran into her mother's arms.

"Bless you, Sally, darling!" Mrs. Ladue cried softly. "You don't know how glad I am to have you back."

"I got him, mother, dear," Sally whispered. "I got him. But it was only by the skin of my teeth."