CONCERNING SALLY

BY

WILLIAM JOHN HOPKINS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge 1912

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY WILLIAM JOHN HOPKINS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Published September 1912

Contents

BOOK I CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV BOOK II CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII BOOK III CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX CHAPTER XXI CHAPTER XXII CHAPTER XXIII CHAPTER XXIV CHAPTER XXV CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER IToC

Professor Ladue sat at his desk, in his own room, looking out of the window. What he might have seen out of that window was enough, one would think, to make any man contented with his lot, especially a man of the ability of Professor Ladue. He had almost attained to eminence in his own line, which, it is to be presumed, is all that any of us can hope to attain to—each in his own line.

Out of Professor Ladue's window there might have been seen, first, a huge tree, the leaves upon which were fast turning from the deep green of late summer to a deep copper brown with spots of brilliant yellow. If his eyes were weary of resting in the shadow of that great tree, his gaze might go farther and fare no worse: to other trees, not too thickly massed, each in the process of turning its own particular color and each of them attaining to eminence in its own line without perceptible effort; to the little river which serenely pursued its winding and untroubled course; or to the distant hills.

But Professor Ladue, it is to be feared, saw none of these things. He was unconscious of the vista before his eyes. A slight smile was on his handsome face, but the smile was not altogether a pleasant one. He withdrew his gaze and glanced distastefully about the room: at the small bundle of papers on his desk, representing his work; at the skull which adorned the desk top; at the half-mounted skeleton of some small reptile of a prehistoric age lying between the windows; at his bed. It was an inoffensive bed; merely a narrow cot, tucked out of the way as completely as might [4]be. Professor Ladue did not care for luxury, at any rate not in beds, so long as they were comfortable, and the bed took up very little room, which was important.

As his glance took in these things, a slight expression of disgust took the place of the smile, for a moment; then the smile returned. All expressions in which Professor Ladue indulged were slight. There was nothing the matter with him. He was only tired of work—temporarily sick of the sight of it; which is not an unusual state of mind, for any of us. It may be deplored or it may be regarded as merely the normal state of rebellion of a healthy mind at too much work. That depends largely upon where we draw the line. We might not all draw it where Professor Ladue drew it. And he did not deplore the state of mind in which he found himself. It was a state of mind in which he was finding himself with growing frequency, and when he was in it his sole wish was to be diverted.

He opened a drawer in his desk, dumped therein the papers, and, removing from it a box of cigarettes, took one and slipped the box into his pocket. After various tappings and gentle thumpings in the manner of your cigarette-smoker, designed, I suppose, to remove some of the tobacco which the maker had carefully put into it, the cigarette seemed to be considered worthy of his lips. I have no doubt that it was. So he lighted it, cast the match thoughtfully into the empty grate, and rose slowly.

He dawdled a minute at the window, looked at his watch, muttered briefly, and went briskly out and down the stairs.

He took his overcoat from the rack in the hall and removed the cigarette from his lips for a moment.

"Sarah!" he called curtly.

His voice was clear and penetrating and full of authority. If I had been Sarah, the quality of that one word, as he uttered it, would have filled me with resentment. A door almost at his elbow opened quickly and a girl appeared. She was well grown and seemed to be about twelve. She was really ten.

[5]"What is it, father?" she asked; I had almost said that she demanded it, but there was no lack of respect in her voice. "Please don't disturb mother. She has a headache. I'm taking care of Charlie. What is it?"

"Oh, Sally," he said. It appeared as if he might even be afraid of her, just a little, with her seriousness and her direct ways and her great eyes that seemed to see right through a man. He gave a little laugh which he intended to be light. It wasn't. "Oh, all right, Sally. You're a very good girl, my dear."

Sally did not smile, but looked at him steadily, waiting for him to say what he had to say.

"Tell your mother, Sally," the professor went on, "that I find I have to go into town to attend to an important matter at the college. I may be late in getting out. In fact, she mustn't be worried if I don't come to-night. It is possible that I may be kept too late for the last train. I am sorry that she has a headache. They seem to be getting more frequent."

Sally bowed her head gravely. "Yes," she said, "they do."

"Well, tell her that I am very sorry. If I could do anything for her, I should, of course, be only too happy. But I can't and there doesn't appear to be any good purpose served by my giving up my trip to town." In this the professor may, conceivably, have been wrong. "Give her my message, my dear, and take good care of Charlie. Good-bye, Sally."

The professor stooped and imprinted a cold kiss upon her forehead. Sally received it impassively without expressing any emotion whatever.

"Good-bye, father," she said. "I will tell mother."

Professor Ladue went out and walked jauntily down the road toward the station. No good purpose will be served, to use his own words, by following him farther at this time. Sally went soberly back to the library, where she had left Charlie; she went very soberly, indeed. No Charlie was to be seen; but, with a skill born of experience, she dived under [6]the sofa and haled him forth, covered with dust and squealing at the top of his lungs.

"I hided," he shouted.

"Sh—h, Charlie. You'll disturb mother. Poor mother's got a pain in her head." The sombre gray eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she hugged the boy tight. "Oh, Charlie, Charlie! I'm afraid that father's going to do it again."

Charlie whimpered in sympathy. Perhaps, too, Sally had hugged him too tight for comfort. His whimper was becoming a wail when she succeeded in hushing him. Then she heard a soft step coming slowly down the stairs.

"Now, Charlie," she said reproachfully, "it's too bad. Here's mother coming down. I wish," she began, impatiently; then she checked herself suddenly, for the boy's lips were puckering. "Never mind. Laugh, now."

It is not strange that the boy could not accommodate himself to such sudden changes. He was only six. But he tried faithfully, and would have succeeded if he had been given more time. The door opened gently.

"Sally, dear," said a soft voice, "I thought that I heard the front door shut. Has your father gone out?"

Mrs. Ladue was gentle and pretty and sweet-looking; and with a tired look about the eyes that seldom left her now. She had not had that look about the eyes when she married young Mr. Ladue, thirteen years before. There were few women who would not have had it if they had been married to him for thirteen years. That had been a mistake, as it had turned out. For his own good, as well as hers, he should have had a different kind of a wife: none of your soft, gentle women, but a woman who could habitually bully him into subjection and enjoy the process. The only difficulty about that is that he would never have married a woman who habitually bullied. He wanted to do any bullying that there was to be done. Not that he actually did any, as it is usually understood, but there was that in his manner that led one to think that it was just beneath the surface; and by "one" [7]I mean his wife and daughter,—no doubt, I should have said "two." As for Sally, the traditional respect that is due a father from a daughter was all that prevented her from finding out whether it was there. To be sure,

his manner toward her was different. It seemed almost as if he were afraid of Sally; afraid of his own daughter, aged ten. Stranger things have happened.

If Mrs. Ladue knew that she had made a mistake, thirteen years before, she never acknowledged it to herself when she thought of her children. She beckoned Charlie to her now.

"Come here, darling boy," she said, stooping.

Charlie came, with a rush, and threw his arms about his mother's neck.

"Oh, Charlie," cried Sally quickly, "remember mother's head. Be careful!"

Mrs. Ladue smiled gently. "Never mind, Sally. Let him be as he is. It makes my head no worse to have my little boy hugging me. Has your father gone out?" she asked again.

Sally's eyes grew resentful. "Yes," she answered. "He left a message for you. He said I was to tell you that he was very sorry you had a headache and that if he could do anything for you he would be only too happy." Sally's voice insensibly took on a mocking quality. "And—and there was something about his being called into town by pressing matters and you were not to be worried if he missed the last train and—and—" She burst into a passion of tears. "Oh, mother, dear, I don't believe a word of it. I'm afraid he'll come back like—like—" Her whole form quivered with the energy of her utterance. There was no doubt that she meant what she said so violently. "I hate—"

"Hush, darling, hush! Never say that." Mrs. Ladue drew her little daughter close and patted her shoulder.

Sally's crying ceased abruptly, but the muscles were all tense under her mother's hand. She smiled bravely.

"Now, mother, dear," she said, "I have made it worse, haven't I? I didn't mean to do that—to cry. Truly, I [8]didn't. I won't ever do it again." She put one arm about her mother's neck and stroked her forehead gently. "Mother, darling, doesn't it make your head just a little better to have your little daughter hu—hug—ging you, too?" And she hid her face in her mother's neck.

Mrs. Ladue's eyes filled with tears. "My dearest little daughter!" she murmured, kissing her. "If only you could be happy! If only you didn't take things so to heart! Mother's own dear little girl!" She rose and spoke brightly. "Now, let's all go out into this lovely day and be happy together."

Sally smiled. "Yes," she said, "we'll all be happy together. Don't you think, mother, that it will make your head better?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Ladue, "I think it will."

So they went out to the trees and the river and the hills. But Sally did not skip. Charlie, it is to be noted, did; Charlie, who had said nothing about being happy. It is to be presumed that they were all ecstatically happy; for had they not assured one another that they would be?

CHAPTER IIToC

It is to be feared that Professor Ladue had gone and done it again, as Sally said. Not that Sally knew what "it" was, nor did her mother know, either. Indeed, Mrs. Ladue made no inquiries concerning that point, being glad to put the most favorable construction possible upon the matter and, perhaps, afraid that she would not be able to do so if she knew any more. Perhaps, too, she realized that, unless she pursued her inquiries among comparative strangers, she would learn nothing. The professor would lie freely and skillfully, assuming that he considered it necessary or desirable to lie, and might be led to bully a little. Whatever course he might take, she would be no better off. So, as I said, she made no inquiries, which may have been wise or it may not; and she kept on hoping, although each occasion left her with less ground for any reasonable hope.

At all events, Professor Ladue came back early the next afternoon in the most fiendish temper, which may have been due to excess in any of its customary forms. Whatever the exact cause, the effect was, apparently, to make him hate himself and everybody with whom he came in contact. Mrs. Ladue was aware of the state of mind that he would be in, from experience, I suppose; an experience which she did not seem at all anxious to repeat. Sally was aware of it, too, and even Charlie seemed to realize that any meeting with his father was to be avoided. So it happened that Professor Ladue found the way into the house and to his room unobstructed. His wife and his children were nowhere to be seen; which circumstance, in itself, annoyed him exceedingly, although it is probable that he would have found their presence equally annoying.

Once in his room, he paced to and fro for a few minutes, [10]nervously; then he took off his coat and bathed his head and face with cold water, pouring it over his head repeatedly. When he had rubbed his head partially dry he appeared to feel somewhat better, and he seated himself, frowning, at his desk, and tried to apply himself to his work. In this, as he undoubtedly expected, he was not very successful. He would not have expected one of his own students to be able to apply himself to work with any success under similar circumstances, whatever those circumstances were. So he pushed his work aside with some impatience, got up, took the skull from the desk and handled it absently. The feel of the skull seemed to suggest some ideas to him, for he put it down, went to the half-mounted skeleton of that ancient reptile that I have mentioned as lying between his windows, and began to work in earnest.

He soon became interested; so much interested that he was forgetting about his head, which felt as if it had been pounded with hammers,—tiny hammers which had not yet finished their work, whatever it was,—and he was forgetting about his eyes, which ached as if the pressure of blood behind the eyeballs was forcing them out of his head. He didn't know but it was; but it didn't matter. And he was forgetting about his body, every bone and muscle of which was crying out for rest and sleep. He sat there, on the floor under one of his windows, puzzling over a bone which he held in his hand, and completely absorbed.

Suddenly he glanced involuntarily out of the window. There sat Sally, astride a limb of the great tree, looking in at him intently. She was a most annoying child; yes, a most devilishly annoying child. He sprang to his feet and threw up the window, almost in one motion. Sally did not move a muscle; not even her eyes. He did not say the sharp things that were on the tip of his tongue, he could not have told why; he did not say anything for very nearly a minute. Under such circumstances, a minute is a long time. Nor did Sally say anything. She only gazed solemnly at him.

"Sally," he demanded at last, "what are you doing [11]there?" The look in his eyes had softened. You might have mistaken it for a look of affection.

"Nothing, father," Sally answered, briefly and respectfully.

"Well, what the—" Professor Ladue was at a loss for words in which to express his exasperation. This was an unusual condition for him to be in. "Well, why don't you get down?"

"I don't want to get down," Sally returned. "I like being up here."

"You'll break your neck."

Sally made no reply.

"Can you get down safely?"

"Yes, father."

"Get down, then," said Professor Ladue, less sharply than he had meant to speak. "Don't you know that it must annoy me very much to have you spying in upon me in that way?"

"No, father, I didn't know it annoyed you," replied Sally in a colorless voice. "I beg your pardon. But I wasn't spying on you. I was only enjoying myself. I won't do it again."

Sally began slipping and sliding and scrambling down the tree. She seemed to have no fear and to be very familiar with the road she was taking. She knew every foothold. Her father watched her as she went from one insecure hold to another. It must have appeared to him a perilous descent, one would suppose; but I do not know what he thought. At all events, he called to her when she had swung off the lowest branch and dropped safely. He still had in his hand that prehistoric bone.

"Sally!" he called; "don't you want to come up here?"

Sally looked up, evidently greatly surprised. She was not easily surprised.

"To your room?" she asked.

"Yes," replied her father impatiently, "of course. To my room."

[12]"Do you want me to?" Sally is to be excused for pressing the point. She did not wish to make any mistake. Mistakes had been made before.

"I should be greatly pleased," said the professor, smiling and bowing airily. "I should consider it a great honor if Miss Sally Ladue would favor me with her company at the present juncture." He leaned a little out of the window. "You know I am working on the skeleton."

"Yes," said Sally. "I'll come up right away."

It is to be noted that Sally had not answered the exact question which the professor had asked her. She may have been reluctant to answer it just as it was asked. It is to be supposed that she was aware of the question and that she knew the answer. Sally was a truthful young person, but she preferred to take the course that made for peace if it was consistent with truth. The professor did not press the matter.

He was again sitting on the floor when Sally knocked on the door and came in. His head was a little better. Perhaps the tiny hammers had nearly finished their work. At all events, he soon forgot it completely.

"Sally," he said, after he had been working for some minutes and Sally had been watching him in silence, "what do you think this is?"

"I don't know, father," she answered. "Is it a—an alligator?"

"No," he said, stopping and looking thoughtfully at the skeleton. "No, it is not an alligator, although you came nearer than I should have thought you would. You were just barely warm, Sally. It is a distant relative of the alligator; perhaps I should call it a connection. The thirteenth cousin of his hundred thousandth great-grandfather, or something like that. It is a sort of a lizard, Sally. It is a very small one."

"Oh!" cried Sally. "A small one! A small lizard! Why, father!"

Professor Ladue smiled. "It lived a great many thousands [13]of years ago. Nobody knows how many thousands of years, although they will tell you very glibly. They don't know anything about it except that it was a long time. I know that. This little lizard is a kind that nobody has ever discovered; nobody except me. It is my lizard. It must be known by my name. What do you think of that, Sally?"

"It must be very fine," Sally murmured, "to discover things."

"At that far-off time," the professor continued, "there were lots of great horrid creeping and flying things. Even my little lizard may have been able to fly. See! These seem to be the beginning of his wing bones. There are some bones missing, so that I can't tell, yet, whether he had wings that would bear him up. But probably he had. Probably he had." And the professor relapsed into a thoughtful silence.

"Father," said Sally presently. She had been thinking and her interest in the skeleton was more active than it had been.

The professor looked up. "Any question that Miss Ladue has to ask," he observed, "will be cheerfully answered, provided that I know the answer. If I do not know the answer, and have the courage to say so, I trust she will not regard me as wholly ignorant of the subject."

Sally gave vent to a chuckle which was entirely unexpected; entirely unexpected by herself, at least.

"Father," she asked, as soon as she had managed to suppress her chuckles, "then could your little lizard fly up high?"

"Yep," he answered; "like a pigeon. Or, more probably, he flew more like a bat than like a pigeon."

"Right up into the tops of the trees?"

"Right up into the topmost branches of the coal trees."

"The coal trees!"