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CHAPTER XXVII
THE STARS AGAIN

Don went to the nearest telephone and rang up Frances.

“Your father lost his temper,” he explained. “He ordered me not to call again; so will you please to meet me on the corner right away?”

“I’ve just seen him,” she answered. “Oh, Don, it was awful!”

“It is the best thing that could have happened,” he said. “We have to meet in the park now. It’s the only place left.”

“Don, dear, he told me not to meet you anywhere again. He–he was quite savage about it.”

“He had no right to tell you that,” Don answered. “Anyhow, I must see you. We’ll talk it over under the stars.”

“But, Don–”

“Please to hurry,” he said.

She slipped a scarf over her hair and a cape over her shoulders, and walked to the corner, looking about fearfully. He gripped her arm and led her confidently away from the house and toward the park. The sky was clear, and just beyond the Big Dipper he saw shining steadily the star he had given Sally Winthrop. He smiled. It was as if she reassured him.

“What did you say to him, Don?” she panted.

“I told him I wished to marry you to-morrow,” he answered.

“And he–”

“He said I shouldn’t. He said he could give you more with his ten thousand than I could give you with my twelve hundred. I told him I could give you more with my twelve hundred than he could with his ten thousand.”

“I’ve never seen him so angry,” she trembled.

“I’d never before seen him angry at all,” he admitted. “But, after all, that isn’t important, is it? The important thing is whether or not he’s right. That’s what you and I must decide for ourselves.”

She did not quite understand. She thought her father had already decided this question. However, she said nothing. In something of a daze, she allowed herself to be led on toward the park–at night a big, shadowy region with a star-pricked sky overhead. Like one led in a dream she went, her thoughts quite confused, but with the firm grip of his hand upon her arm steadying her. He did not speak again until the paved street and the stone buildings were behind them–until they were among the trees and low bushes and gravel paths. He led her to a bench.

“See those stars?” he asked, pointing.

“Yes, Don.”

“I want you to keep looking at them while I’m talking to you,” he said.

Just beyond the Big Dipper he saw the star he had given Sally Winthrop. It smiled reassuringly at him.

“What I’ve learned this summer,” he said, “is that, after all, the clear sky and those stars are as much a part of New York as the streets and high buildings below them. And when you live up there a little while you forget about the twelve hundred or the ten thousand. Those details don’t count up there. Do you see that?”

“Yes, Don.”

“The trouble with your father, and the trouble with you, and the trouble with me, until a little while ago, is that we didn’t get out here in the park enough where the stars can be seen. I’m pretty sure, if I’d been sitting here with your father, he’d have felt different.”

She was doing as he bade her and keeping her eyes raised. She saw the steady stars and the twinkling stars and the vast purple depths. So, when she felt his arm about her, that did not seem strange.

“It’s up there we’ll be living most of the time,” he was saying.

“Yes, Don.”

“And that’s all free. The poorer you are, the freer it is. That’s true of a lot of things. You’ve no idea the things you can get here in New York if you haven’t too much money. Your father said that if you don’t have cash you go without, when as a matter of fact it’s when you have cash you go without.”

She lowered her eyes to his. What he was saying sounded topsy-turvy.

“It’s a fact,” he ran on. “Why, you can get hungry if you don’t have too much money; and, honest, I’ve had better things to eat this summer, because of that, than I ever had in my life. Then, if you don’t have too much money, you can work. It sounds strange to say there’s any fun in that, but there is. I want to get you into the game, Frances. You’re going to like it. Farnsworth is going to let me sell next month. It’s like making the ’Varsity. I’m going to have a salary and commission, so you see it will be partly a personal fight. You can help me. Why, the very things we were planning to get done with before we married are the very things that are worth while. We can stand shoulder to shoulder now and play the game together. You can have part of the fun.”

She thrilled with the magic of his voice, but his words were quite meaningless.

“You aren’t looking at the stars,” he reminded her. She looked up again.

“So,” he said, “there’s no sense in waiting any longer, is there? The sooner we’re married, the sooner we can begin. If we’re married to-morrow, we’ll have almost two weeks in the mountains. And then–”

She appeared frightened.

“Oh, Don, we–we couldn’t get married like that, anyway.”

“Why not?” he demanded.

“It–it isn’t possible.”

“Certainly it’s possible.”

She shook her head.

“No, no. I–I couldn’t. Oh, Don, you’ll have to give me time to think.”

“There isn’t time,” he frowned.

“We must take time. I’m–I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of myself,” she answered quickly. “Afraid of Dad. Oh, I’m afraid of every one.”

“Of me?” He took her hand.

“When you speak of to-morrow I am,” she admitted. “While you were talking, there were moments when–when I could do as you wish. But they didn’t last.”

“That’s because you didn’t keep your eyes on the stars,” he assured her gently.

“That’s what I’m afraid of–that I shouldn’t be able to keep them there. Don, dear, you don’t know how selfish I am and–and how many things I want.”

She was seeing herself clearly now and speaking from the depths of her soul.

“Maybe it isn’t all my fault. And you’re wonderful, Don. It’s that which makes me see myself.”

He kissed her hand. “Dear you,” he whispered, “I know the woman ’way down deep in you, and it’s she I want.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she answered. “It’s some woman you’ve placed there–some woman who might have been there–that you see. But she isn’t there, because–because I can’t go with you.”

Some woman he had put there. He looked at the stars, and the little star by the Big Dipper was shining steadily at him. He passed his hand over his forehead.

“If she were really in me, she’d go with you to-morrow,” Frances ran on excitedly. “She’d want to get into the game. She’d want to be hungry with you, and she wouldn’t care about anything else in the world but you. She–she’d want to suffer, Don. She’d be almost glad that you had no money. Her father wouldn’t count, because she’d care so much.”

She drew her cape about her shoulders.

“Yes,” he answered in a hoarse whisper; “she’s like that.”

“So, don’t you see–”

“Good Lord, I do see!” he exclaimed.

Now he saw.

With his head swimming, with his breath coming short, he saw. But he was as dazed as a man suddenly given sight in the glare of the blazing sun.

Frances was frightened by his silence.

“I–I think we’d better go back now,” she said gently.

He escorted her to the house without quite knowing how he found the way. At the door she said:–

“Don’t you understand, Don?”

“Yes,” he answered; “for the first time.”

“And you’ll not think too badly of me?”

“It isn’t anything you can help,” he answered. “It isn’t anything I can help, either.”

“Don’t think too badly of Dad,” she pleaded. “He’ll cool down soon, and then–you must come and see me again.”

She held out her hand, and he took it. Then swiftly she turned and went into the house. He hurried back to the path–to the path where on Saturday afternoons he had walked with Sally Winthrop.

CHAPTER XXVIII
SEEING

He saw now. Blind fool that he had been, month after month! He sank on a bench and went back in his thoughts to the first time he had ever seen Sally Winthrop. She had reminded him that it was luncheon time, and when he had gone out she had been waiting for him. She must have been waiting for him, or he never would have found her. And she had known he was hungry.

“She’d want to be hungry with you,” Frances had said.

How had Sally Winthrop known that he was hungry? She had known, and had shared with him what she had.

Then incident after incident in the office came back to him. It was she who had taught him how to work. It was for her that he had worked.

Frances had used another phrase: “She’d be almost glad you had no money.”

There was only one woman in the world he knew who would care for a man like that–if she cared at all. That brought him to his feet again. He glared about as if searching for her in the dark. Why wasn’t she here now, so that he might ask her if she did care? She had no business to go off and leave him like this! He did not know where she was.

Don struck a match and looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. Somehow, he must find her. He had her old address, and it was possible that she had left word where she had gone. At any rate, this was the only clue he had.

He made his way back to the Avenue, and, at a pace that at times almost broke into a run, went toward the club and the first taxi he saw. In twenty minutes he was standing on the steps where he had last seen her. She had wished him to say “good-bye”; but he remembered that he had refused to say “good-bye.”

The landlady knew Miss Winthrop’s address, but she was not inclined to give it to him. At first she did not like the expression in his eyes. He was too eager.

“Seems to me,” she argued, “she’d have told parties where she was going if she wanted them to know.”

“This is very important,” he insisted.

“Maybe it’s a lot more important to you than it is to her,” she replied.

“But–”

“You can leave your name and address, and I’ll write to her,” she offered.

“Look here,” Don said desperately. “Do you want to know what my business is with her?”

“It’s none of my business, but–”

“I want to ask her to marry me,” he broke in. “That’s a respectable business, isn’t it?”

He reached in his pocket and drew out a bill. He slipped it into her hand.

“Want to marry her?” exclaimed the woman. “Well, now, I wouldn’t stand in the way of that. Will you step in while I get the address?”

“I’ll wait here. Only hurry. There may be a late train.”

She was back in a few seconds, holding a slip of paper in her hand.

“It’s to Brenton, Maine, she’s gone.”

Don grabbed the paper.

“Thanks.”

He was halfway down the steps when she called after him:–

“Good luck to ye, sir.”

“Thanks again,” he called back.

Then he gave his order to the driver:–

“To the Grand Central.”

Don found that he could take the midnight train to Boston and connect there with a ten-o’clock train next morning. This would get him into Portland in time for a connection that would land him at Brenton at four that afternoon. He went back to the house to pack his bag. As he opened the door and went in, it seemed as if she might already be there–as if she might be waiting for him. Had she stepped forward to greet him and announce that dinner was ready, he would not have been greatly surprised. It was as if she had been here all this last year. But it was only Nora who came to greet him.

“I’m going away to-night for a few days–perhaps for two weeks,” he told Nora.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll wire you what my plans are–either to-morrow or next day.”

“And it is to be soon, sir?”

“I can’t tell you for sure, Nora, until I’ve cleared up one or two little matters; but–you can wish me luck, anyway.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“And the house is ready, isn’t it?”

“Everything is ready, sir.”

“That’s fine. Now I’m going to pack.”

His packing finished, Don went downstairs with still an hour or more on his hands before train-time. But he did not care to go anywhere. He was absolutely contented here. He was content merely to wander from room to room. He sat down at the piano in the dark, and for a long while played to her–played to her just the things he knew she would like.

It was half-past eleven before he left the house, and then he went almost reluctantly. She was more here than anywhere in the world except where he was going. He found himself quite calm about her here. The moment he came out on the street again he noticed a difference. His own phrase came back to frighten him:–

“She’d care like that–if she cared at all.”

Supposing that after he found her, she did not care?

At the station he wondered if it were best to wire her, but decided against it. She might run away. It was never possible to tell what a woman might do, and Sally Winthrop was an adept at concealing herself. He remembered that period when, although he had been in the same office with her, she had kept herself as distant as if across the ocean. She had only to say, “Not at home,” and it was as if she said, “I am not anywhere.”

He went to his berth at once, and had, on the whole, a bad night of it. He asked himself a hundred questions that he could not answer–that Sally Winthrop alone could answer. Though it was only lately that he had prided himself on knowing her desires in everything, he was forced to leave all these questions unanswered.

At ten the next morning he took the train for Portland. At two he was on the train for Brenton and hurrying through a strange country to her side.

When he reached Brenton he was disappointed not to find her when he stepped from the train. The station had been so closely identified with her through the long journey that he had lost sight of the fact that it existed for any other purpose. But only a few station loafers were there to greet him, and they revealed but an indifferent interest. He approached one of them.

“Can you tell me where Miss Winthrop is stopping?”

The man looked blank.

“No one of that name in this town,” he finally answered.

“Isn’t this Brenton?”

“It’s Brenton, right enough.”

“Then she’s here,” declared Don.

“Is she visitin’?” inquired the man.

Don nodded.

“A cousin, or something.”

A second man spoke up:–

“Ain’t she the one who’s stopping with Mrs. Halliday?”

“Rather slight, with brown eyes,” volunteered Don.

“Dunno the color of her eyes,” answered the first man, with a wink at the second. “But thar’s some one stoppin’ thar. Been here couple days or so.”

“That’s she,” Don decided.

He drew a dollar bill from his pocket.

“I want one of you to take a note to her from me.”

He wrote on the back of a card:–

I’m at the station. I must see you at once.

DON.

“Take that to her right away and bring me an answer,” he ordered.

The man took both bill and card and disappeared.

CHAPTER XXIX
MOSTLY SALLY

It was an extremely frightened girl who within five minutes appeared upon the station platform. She was quite out of breath, for she had been running. As he came toward her with outstretched hands, she stared at him from head to foot, as if to make sure he was not minus an arm or a leg.

“Won’t you even shake hands with me?” he asked anxiously.

“You–you gave me such a fright,” she panted.

“How?”

“I thought–I thought you must have been run over.”

He seemed rather pleased.

“And you cared?” he asked eagerly.

She was fast recovering herself now.

“Well, it wouldn’t be unnatural to care, would it, if you expected to find a friend all run over?”

“And, now that you find I’m not a mangled corpse, you don’t care at all.”

Of course he wouldn’t choose to be a corpse, because he would not have been able to enjoy the situation; but, on the whole, he was sorry that he did not have a mangled hand or something to show. Evidently his whole hand did not interest her–she had not yet offered to take it.

“How in the world did you get here?” she demanded.

“I took the train.”

“But–has anything happened?”

“Lots of things have happened,” he said. “That’s what I want to tell you about.”

He looked around. His messenger was taking an eager interest in the situation.

“That’s why I came to see you,” he explained. “Of course, if it’s necessary to confide also in your neighbor over there, I’ll do it; but I thought that perhaps you could suggest some less public place.”

She appeared frightened in a different sort of way now.

“But, Mr. Pendleton–”

“I’m going to remain here perhaps a day or two,” he interrupted.

To him the most obvious course was for her to ask him to meet her aunt and invite him to remain there.

“Is there a hotel in town?” he asked.

“I–I don’t think so,” she faltered.

“Then,” he decided, “I must find some sort of camping-place. If you know a bit of woods where I can spend the night, you might direct me.”

He was quite himself now. It was a relief to her. It put her quite off her guard.

“Won’t you come and meet my aunt?” she invited.

He picked up his suitcase at once.

“It will be a pleasure,” he answered.

She could not imagine what her aunt would think when she appeared so abruptly escorting a young man with a suitcase, but that did not seem to matter. She knew no better than her aunt what had brought him here; but, now that he was here, it was certain that she must take care of him. She could not allow him to wander homelessly around the village or permit him to camp out like a gypsy. It did not occur to her to reason that this predicament was wholly his fault. All the old feeling of responsibility came back.

As they walked side by side down the street, he was amazed to see how much good even these two days in the country had done her. There was more color in her cheeks and more life in her walk. She was wearing a middy blouse, and that made her look five years younger.

She looked up at him.

“I–I thought you had something very important to do in these next few days,” she reminded him.

“I have,” he answered.

“Then–I don’t understand how you came here.”

On the train it had seemed to him that he must explain within the first five minutes; but, now that she was actually within sound of his voice, actually within reach, there seemed to be no hurry. In her presence his confidence increased with every passing minute. For one thing, he could argue with her, and whenever in the past he had argued with her he had succeeded.

“I needed you to explain certain things to me,” he replied.

She looked away from him.

“About what?” she asked quickly.

“About getting me married.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

He could not tell what she meant by the little cry. He would have asked her had they not at that moment turned into a gate that led through an old-fashioned garden to a small white cottage.

“I’ll have to run ahead and prepare Mrs. Halliday,” she said.

So she left him upon the doorstep, and he took off his hat to the cool, pine-laden breeze that came from a mountain in the distance. He liked this town at once. He liked the elm-lined village street, and the snug white houses and the quiet and content of it. Then he found himself being introduced rather jerkily to Mrs. Halliday–a tall, thin New England type, with kindly eyes set in a sharp face. It was evident at once that after her first keen inspection of this stranger she was willing to accept him with much less suspicion than Miss Winthrop.

“I told Sally this morning, when I spilled the sugar, that a stranger was coming,” she exclaimed. “Now you come right upstairs. I reckon you’ll want to wash up after that long ride.”

“It’s mighty good of you to take me in this way,” he said.

“Laws sake, what’s a spare room for?”

She led the way to a small room with white curtains at the windows and rag rugs upon the floor and a big silk crazy-quilt on an old four-poster bed. She hurried about and found soap and towels for him, and left him with the hope that he would make himself at home.

And at once he did feel at home. He felt at home just because Sally Winthrop was somewhere in the same house. That was the secret of it. He had felt at home in the station as soon as she appeared; he had felt at home in the village because she had walked by his side; and now he felt at home here. And by that he meant that he felt very free and very happy and very much a part of any section of the world she might happen to be in. It had been so in New York, and it was so here.

He was downstairs again in five minutes, looking for Sally Winthrop. It seemed that Mrs. Halliday’s chief concern now was about supper, and that Sally was out in the kitchen helping her. He found that out by walking in upon her and finding her in a blue gingham apron. Her cheeks turned very red and she hurriedly removed the apron.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” he protested.

That was very easy to say, but he did disturb her. Then Mrs. Halliday shooed her out of the kitchen.

“You run right along now; I can attend to things myself.”

“I’d like to help, too,” said Don.

“Run along–both of you,” insisted Mrs. Halliday. “You’d be more bother than help.”

So the two found themselves on the front steps again, and Don suggested they remain there. The sun was getting low and bathing the street in a soft light.

“I have something very important to say to you,” he began.

“To me?” she exclaimed.

Again there was the expression of astonishment and–something more.

“It’s about my getting married,” he nodded.

“But I thought that was all settled!”

“It is,” he admitted.

“Oh!”

“I think it was settled long before I knew it.”

“Then you’re to be married right away?”

“I hope so.”

“That will be nice.”

“It will be wonderful,” he exclaimed. “It will be the most wonderful thing in the world!”

“But why did you come ’way down here?”

“To talk it over with you. You see, a lot depends upon you.”

“Me?”

Again that questioning personal pronoun.

“A great deal depends upon you. You are to say when it is to be.”

“Mr. Pendleton!”

“I wish you’d remember I’m not in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves now. Can’t you call me just Don?”

She did not answer.

“Because,” he explained, “I mean to call you Sally.”

“You mustn’t.”

“I mean to call you that all the rest of my life,” he went on more soberly. “Don’t you understand how much depends upon you?”

Startled, she glanced up swiftly. What she saw in his eyes made her catch her breath. He was speaking rapidly now:–

“Everything depends upon you–upon no one else in all the world but you. I discovered that in less than a day after you left. It’s been like that ever since I met you. I love you, and I’ve come down here to marry you–to take you back with me to the house that’s all ready–back to the house you’ve made ready.”

She gave a little cry and covered her face with her hands.

“Don’t do that,” he pleaded.

She looked as if she were crying.

“Sally–Sally Winthrop, you aren’t crying?”

He placed a hand upon her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she sobbed.

“Why shouldn’t I touch you?”

“Because–because this is all a horrible mistake.”

“I’m trying to correct a horrible mistake,” he answered gently.

“No–no–no. You must go back to her–right away.”

“To Frances?”

She nodded.

“You don’t understand. She doesn’t want to marry me.”

“You asked her?”

“Yes.”

“And then–and then you came to me?”

“Yes, little girl. She sent me to you. She–why, it was she that made me see straight!”

Her face was still concealed.

“I–I wish you’d go away,” she sobbed.

“You don’t understand!” he answered fiercely. “I’m not going away. I love you, and I’ve come to get you. I won’t go away until you come with me.”

She rose to her feet, her back toward him.

“Go away!” she cried.

Then she ran into the house, leaving him standing there dazed.