Concerning Sally Part 66

Everett hesitated again and glanced at the man suspiciously. This was a more serious matter.

"Why do you ask? And, a.s.suming that I know, why should I tell you, Charlie?" If it had not been that he still smarted under Sally's treatment of him, he would not have gone as far as that.

The old dealer with the lined face smiled slowly and with a certain cunning.

"Possibly I can answer both questions at once. Conceivably, I can satisfy you. I am her father."

CHAPTER XXV

Sally and Eugene and Charlie had almost finished breakfast. It was a silent group; Eugene was quiet, for he had not got over the mortification at his miserable failure of the night before, and, besides, the very fact that he was eating breakfast with Sally was enough to make him quiet. Charlie was sulky and morose and penitent.

There had been very little said, but that little had been to the point, and Charlie had pleaded _nolo contendere_, which, in this case, was equivalent to a plea of guilty; guilty of the offense as charged and guilty of obtaining money from Patty under false pretenses, although Sally could not find out how much. He would only say that it was not so very much; he could not remember exactly how much. And Sally had promised to give him a reasonable allowance if he would honestly try to keep within it and would give up his bad habits, which would be his unfailing ruin if he kept on. It might be necessary to take him out of college. He was to go home with them and the council of war would decide about that. Charlie seemed somewhat anxious about the composition of that council, although he did not seem to care very much whether he left college or not. As Sally had not decided upon that point, she did not gratify his curiosity. And Charlie had given the required promises. He had even promised more than was required of him, for he agreed to reform permanently. Sally had her doubts about its being permanent. She had seen too much of the effects of the "bug," as Horry Carling had called it. But she could not ask more, and she sighed and expressed herself as satisfied and they went in to breakfast. That incident was closed.

Now she was leaning back in her chair, watching the others putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on a rather substantial breakfast. A call-boy was speaking to the head waiter; and that august official came with stately step to Sally's table.

"A gen'leman to see Miss Ladue," he announced privately in Sally's ear.

Sally looked up in surprise. "To see me?" she asked. "Are you sure?

Who is it? Do you know?"

"He asked was Miss Ladue staying here, but he didn't give no card and he wouldn't give no name. I could say that you've gone or that we can't find you," the man suggested, "if you don't care to see him."

"Oh, no," said Sally, with a quick smile. "I'll see him. He may have come to tell me of a long-lost fortune. But," she added with a puzzled wonder, "I can't imagine who it can be."

Eugene got up, pus.h.i.+ng aside his coffee. "Let me go, Sally."

Sally was already up. "Oh, no," she said again. "Thank you, Eugene, but you and Charlie may as well finish your breakfast in comfort.

There's plenty of time before our train goes and I will join you in a few minutes. I'm only wondering who in the world it is and what he wants. Perhaps it's Everett."

A look of annoyance came into Spencer's eyes at the mention of Everett. Why couldn't he let them alone? But Sally was rapidly vanis.h.i.+ng in the wake of the head waiter, who delivered her safely to the call-boy. At the door of a small reception room the boy paused, parted the hangings, and bowed Sally in.

As she entered, a man rose from a chair near the window and stood waiting. Although Sally could not see his face because of the light behind him, there was something vaguely familiar in his manner of rising from the chair and in his att.i.tude. It troubled her.

"You wished to see me?" she asked, wondering why he did not come forward to meet her.

"Miss Sallie Ladue?" he asked in return. Sally's hand went to her heart involuntarily; her mother's trick, exactly. The man seemed to be smiling, although Sally could not see that, either. "I want to make sure. It is sometime since--"

"Turn around to the light, so that I can see your face," Sally commanded. Her voice was hard and cold. It may have penetrated his armor. He turned obediently, giving a short laugh as he did so.

"My face may be a trifle the worse for wear since you have seen me,"

he remarked airily. "A trifle the worse for wear; which yours is not.

Has anybody ever told you, Sally, that you have become a lovely woman?

Or wouldn't you care for that tribute?"

"We will not discuss my appearance, if you please." Sally's voice was still hard and cold; like steel. She came around in front of him and scrutinized his face closely. There could be no possible doubt. "Well, father?"

"You don't seem glad to see me, Sally. After an absence of--er--a hundred years or so, one would think that you might be. But, I repeat, you don't seem glad to see me."

"No," said Sally quietly. "I'm not."

He laughed. His laugh was unpleasant. "Truthful as ever, I see.

Wouldn't it be better to mask the truth a little, when it must be as disagreeable as it is now? To draw even a thin veil over it, so that it can be perceived dimly--dimly if unmistakably?"

Sally shook her head and she did not smile. "I see no object in it.

What is your purpose in seeing me now? I do not doubt that you have a purpose. What is it?"

He seemed to find a certain pleasure in tantalizing her. "Aren't you curious to know how I found out your whereabouts?"

"I am not interested in that. Tell me your purpose."

"What other purpose could I have than to see my daughter after so many years? Is it permitted, my dear Sally, to ask after the health of your mother?"

"She is well; as well as can be expected. It is not your fault that she did not die years ago. She was four years getting over that trouble of hers. You laughed at her headaches, you remember. She was four years in Doctor Galen's sanitarium."

He waved his hand lightly, as of old. "A little misunderstanding, Sally, which I greatly regret. But four years of Doctor Galen! How did you manage to pay him?"

"That," replied Sally, "cannot possibly be any concern of yours."

"Ah, true. It is not any concern of mine. But is it not possible to see your mother? She is still my wife, I presume, and you are still my daughter."

"She is still your wife and I am your daughter. But you shall not see her if I can prevent it."

"And--I gather from the tenor of your remarks that you would resist any attempt at--er--reuniting a family long separated by circ.u.mstances."

Sally smiled disdainfully. "I am of age. As to my mother, I should resist. No court would compel it."

"Ah," he said, smiling, "how well you meet my points! You are of age, and no doubt you are right about the courts. There is no law that will prohibit my trying, I think. And Charlie is not of age, if my recollection serves me."

Before Sally could frame an answer, there was a slight noise in the hall and Charlie burst in. "I beg your pardon," he said hastily. The two were standing, and he had not recognized Sally. But an instant's gaze was enough. "Sally!" he exclaimed. He looked at the man. A wave of red rushed into his face. "Charlie!" he cried involuntarily. Then he recovered. "What are you doing here? What do you mean by coming to see my sister?"

Sally was inexpressibly distressed. She started to speak. She would have said something--told him the truth, of course--to save them both; but a quiet movement of her father's hand stopped her. He seemed to be waiting patiently for the next stone.

"Do you know, Sally," Charlie continued, "who this man is? He is the dealer in number seven. He has no right--no business to try to see you. I insist on his leaving at once."

Sally spoke with surprising gentleness, considering her mode of speech to her father only a few minutes before. "We have some business, Charlie," she said. "He will go as soon as that is done. Now, leave us, please, to finish it, for we have not a great deal of time. It is all right."

And Charlie withdrew slowly, with many a glance from one to the other and many a misgiving as to the business which seemed to be of so private a nature. They heard his steps retreating down the hall.

Sally turned her shocked face to her father, "Won't you sit down?" she asked gently. "I am very sorry; sorrier than I can tell you--for--everything, but especially for that speech of Charlie's. But Charlie did not know."

"And I prefer that he shouldn't," her father replied. He had seated himself with his face half turned away from the light. "I have many hard things to bear, Sally, and, strange as it may seem to you, I try to bear them with patience. I have to, so why make a virtue of necessity? That speech of Charlie's--made in ignorance--was less hard for me than your own."

"I am sorry," Sally said again, "but I meant what I said, most emphatically. You are not to suppose that I didn't. But I am sorry for my manner--if it hurt you."

He smiled faintly. "It was not intended to soothe or to amuse, I take it," he remarked. And he lapsed into silence, fingering his hat nervously and turning it around in his hands.