Читать книгу Concerning Sally - William John Hopkins - Страница 13

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The next month passed very pleasantly for the Ladues. Sleet-storms cannot last forever and, the morning after Christmas, Sally heard the trains running with some regularity. She was anxious accordingly and she watched her father closely. But he did not seem to care whether trains ever ran or not. His pleasant mood lasted, too: the mood of light banter, in which he appeared to care something for his wife and children; something, if not enough. They were grateful for that little, although they knew very well that it was but a mood that might change utterly in five minutes. It did not change for a surprisingly long time, and Sally almost held her breath at first, while she waited for it to pass. It would have been a relief—yes, distinctly it would have been a relief, at first. But that feeling passed, too.

In short, the professor was good, and Sally was happy. After the tension of that first expectation was over she was very nearly as happy as she should have been always. Children have a right to happiness—to freedom from real worries—as far as we can compass that end; and Sally had been deprived of her birthright. I wonder whether the professor had ever realized that; whether he had ever given it a thought.

Mrs. Ladue was happy, too, because Sally was happy and because her husband was kind to her, temporarily. He was not as kind as he might have been, but then, he might have been so very much worse. He might have beaten her. He had been accustomed to beat her, figuratively, for some years. At first, too, her head seemed really better. At the end of a week of the new order of things, she spoke of it to Sally. She knew better than to mention the subject of headaches to the professor.

Sally was overjoyed. She buried her head in a pillow that happened to be handy, and wept. A strange thing to do! "Oh, mother, dear!" she cried. "Oh, mother, dear, if it only will stay so!"

Mrs. Ladue gathered the child into her arms. "There darling!" she said softly. "There, my dear little daughter! We'll hope it will."

But when, at the end of a month, Sally looked back and compared, she knew that it hadn't. It had been a happy month, though. Fox and Henrietta had been in every day, and, while Sally played—or was supposed to be playing—with Henrietta, Fox sometimes sat with her mother. Mrs. Ladue became very fond of Fox. He didn't talk much, nor did she. Indeed, Sally thought, in that fit of retrospection, that Fox had seemed to be watching her mother; at least, occasionally. And Fox, saying little, saw much. Sally knew. There was no telling how she knew it, but she did; so she went to him, rather troubled, and asked what he thought about her mother's health.

He considered, looking seriously at her for a long time.

"Well, Sally," he answered at last, "it isn't any better, on the whole. I should think she ought to consult some doctor about it—some good doctor."

"Oh," said Sally in a low voice, "you—I hope you don't think—"

"I don't think, Sally," Fox interrupted. "I know there is some cause beyond my limited knowledge, and some one who really knows should see your mother—if any one really knows. Doctors don't know much, after all."

Sally considered, in her turn, for a long time, her eyes searching Fox's face.

"Then," she concluded, sighing, "I shall have to speak to father about it. Well—I will."

"That's the best thing to do," he replied. "And, Sally, remember, if he doesn't receive the suggestion favorably, you are to let me know."

"He won't," said Sally, with a faint little smile; "that is, he never did. I let you know now. He may," she added doubtfully. "He has been nice for a long time." Sally flushed at this implied confession, but why should she not make it? Fox knew.

"You try it, Sally, and let me know how you come out."

So Sally tried it. It may have been a mistake, but how should Sally have foreseen? It was as likely that, at the worst, she but hastened her father's action; touched off the charge prematurely. The explosion would have come.

There was no beating about the bush. "Father," Sally began soberly, "don't you think that mother ought to see some good doctor? I do."

If her heart beat a little faster, as she spoke, there was no tremor in her voice.

Professor Ladue looked up. He had been prepared to throw back some light answer and to see Sally smile in response; perhaps to hear her chuckle. But, deuce take it, there was no knowing what that confounded child would say next. It was presuming upon his good nature. It occurred to the professor that he had been good-natured for an unreasonably long time. He was surprised and he was annoyed.

Meanwhile that confounded child was looking at him out of sombre gray eyes, waiting for his reply. As the professor's look met those eyes, they seemed to see right through him, and the sharp answer which trembled on the tip of his tongue was left unsaid. It was astonishing how often that happened. The professor was aware of it!—uncomfortably aware—and the knowledge annoyed him the more. The professor was to be excused. It is most unpleasant to have one's naked soul exposed to the view of one's little daughter. One's soul needs to be a pretty good sort of a soul to stand that, without making its owner squirm. And the professor's soul was—well, it was his; the only one he had. But he did squirm, actually and in the flesh.

He tried to speak lightly, but his look shifted. He could not meet Sally's eyes without speaking the truth. "What is the matter with your mother, Sally?" he asked. "Stomach-ache or toothache?"

Sally did not smile. "Her headaches. They are getting worse."

"Pouf!" said the professor, with a wave of his hand. "Everybody has headaches. What's a headache?"

"I don't know," Sally replied, "and she doesn't and I think she ought to."

"The definition," remarked the professor coldly, "is to be found in the dictionary, I have no doubt. You might look it up and tell her."

"And so I think," Sally continued, as if he had not spoken, "that mother ought to see a doctor; a doctor that knows about headaches."

"Oh," said the professor, more coldly than before. "So you would like to have a specialist called in; a specialist in headaches."

"I don't know whether that's what you call them," Sally returned bravely. "If it is, then I would."

Her father had turned toward her, but he did not look at her. "Most interesting!" He got a cigarette from the drawer and proceeded to beat out some of the tobacco. "Doctor—er—what's-his-name, from the village, wouldn't do, then?"

"No, he wouldn't." There was just a suspicion of a quiver in Sally's voice. "He doesn't know enough."

"Indeed! You have not communicated your opinion of his knowledge, or his lack of it, to him, I take it?"

Sally shook her head. She could not have spoken, even if the question had called for a reply.

"Do you know what a specialist charges, Sally?"

She shook her head again.

"For taking a case like your mother's, Sally," he said slowly, "which would be nuts to him, I have no doubt, his charge would be more, in a week, than I could pay in ten years."

"It is very important," Sally urged. "It is very important for mother."

The professor rose. "Much as I regret the necessity, I feel obliged to decline." He made her a bow. "No specialists for this family. If your mother feels the need of a physician, let her call Doctor what's-his-name from the village."

Sally turned to go without a word.

"And, Sally," her father added, "be kind enough to tell your mother that important matters at the college require my attention. She is not to be alarmed if I fail to come in my usual train. I may be kept late."

The phrase sounded familiar. It was the old formula which Sally had hoped would not be used again. She went out quietly, feeling responsible. It was absurd, of course, but she could not help it. She meant to find Fox and tell him; but not quite yet. She couldn't bear it yet.

The matters at the college must have been very important, for they—or something—kept Professor Ladue late, as he had seemed to fear; the important matters—or something—must have kept him too late for the last train that night. To be sure, Sally did not know anything about it, at the time. She had not indulged a hope of anything else, and had gone to bed and to sleep as usual. For Sally was a healthy little animal, and she was asleep in a very few minutes after her head had touched the pillow. Her eyes may have been wet. Mrs. Ladue went to bed, too. Her eyes were not wet, but there was an ache in her head and another just above her heart. She may have gone to sleep at once or she may not. It is conceivable that she lay there, with her two aches, until after the last train had got in.

It was the middle of the next forenoon before Sally got a chance to tell Fox about it; and Fox listened, not too sympathetically. That seemed to him to be the best way to treat it. He would have made light of it, even, for Sally was oppressed by the sense of her own responsibility; but Sally would have none of it.

"Don't, Fox, please," she said.

"Well," he replied, "I won't, then. But don't you worry, Sally. We'll have your mother fixed up, all right, yet."

"How?" she asked.

"I haven't decided. But I'm going to bend the whole power of a great mind to the question. When I've found the best way to do it, I'm going to do it. You'll see."

Sally sighed with relief. She had not got beyond the stage of thinking that Fox could do anything that he tried to do. Perhaps he could.

They were down by the gate, Fox leaning upon it and Sally standing on a bar and swinging it gently. Occasionally she looked down the road.

"Here comes father," she said suddenly, in a low voice.

"Stay where you are, Sally." Fox checked her impulse to run.

The professor was walking fast and he came in at the gate almost immediately. Sally had dismounted. He looked annoyed and would have passed without a word.

"Good-morning," said Fox cheerfully.

The professor turned, giving Fox one of his smiles which was not a smile at all. If the professor had chanced to turn one of those smiles upon a too confiding dog, the dog would have put his tail between his legs and run. Vivisection came after.

"Good-morning," said the professor acidly. "I shall be obliged to delay our session for an hour."

"Very well, sir, whenever it is convenient for you." And Fox smiled cheerfully again.

The professor turned once more. His eyes were bloodshot, he was unshaven, and—well, tousled. In short, the professor looked as if he had been sitting up all night. He had.

"You see," said Sally solemnly. Her father was out of hearing, as may be supposed.