Gayley the Troubadour
Through the tremulous beauty of the California woods, in the silentApril afternoon, came Sammy Peneyre, riding Clown. The horse chosehis own way on the corduroy road, for the rider was lost in dreams.Clown was a lean old dapple gray so far advanced in years andailments that when Doctor Peneyre had bought him, the year before,the dealer had felt constrained to remark:"He's better'n he looks, Doc'. You'll get your seven dollars' worthout of him yet!"To which the doctor had amiably responded:"Your saying so makes me wonder if I will, Joe. However, I'll havemy boy groom him and feed him, and we'll see!"But, as Clown had stubbornly refused to respond to grooming andfeeding, he was, like other despised and discarded articles, votedby the Peneyre family quite good enough for Sammy, and Sammyaccepted him gratefully.The spirit of spring was affecting them both to-day--a brilliant dayafter long weeks of rain. Sammy whistled softly. Clown coquettedwith the bit, danced under the touch of the whip, and finally tookthe steep mountain road with such convulsive springs as jolted hisrider violently from dreams."Why, you fool, are you trying to run away?" said Sammy, suddenlyalive to the situation. The road here was a mere shelf on the slopeof the mountain, constantly used by descending lumber teams, anddangerous at all times. A runaway might easily be fatal. Sammypulled at the bit; but, at the first hard tug, the old bridle gaveway, and Clown, maddened by a stinging blow from the loose flyingend of the strap, bolted blindly ahead.Terrified now, Sammy clung to the pommel and shouted. The trees flewby; great clods of mud were flung up by the horse's feet. From farup the road could be heard the creaking of a lumber team and thecrack of the lumberman's long whip."My Lord!" said Sammy, aloud, in a curious calm, "we'll never passthat!"And then, like a flash, it was all over. Clown, suddenly freed fromhis rider, galloped violently for a moment, stopped, snortedsuspiciously, galloped another twenty feet, and stood still, hisbroken bridle dangling rakishly over one eye. Sammy, dragged fromthe saddle at the crucial instant to the safety of Anthony Gayley'sarms, as he brought his own horse up beside her, wriggled to theground."That was surely going some!" said Anthony, breathing hard. "Hurt?""No-o!" said Sammy. But she leaned against the tall, big fellow, ashe stood beside her, and was glad of his arm about her shoulders.They had known each other by sight for years, but this was the firstspeech between them. Anthony suddenly realized that the doctor'syoungest daughter, with her shy, dark eyes and loosened silkybraids, had grown from an awkward child into a very pretty girl.Sammy, glancing up, thought--what every other woman in Wheatfieldthought--that Anthony Gayley was the handsomest man she had everseen, in his big, loose corduroys, with a sombrero on the back ofhis tawny head."I was awfully afraid I'd grate against your leg," said the boy,with his sunny smile; "but I couldn't stop to figure it out. I justhad to hustle!""There's a lumber wagon ahead there," Sammy said. "I'm--I'm verymuch obliged to you!"They both laughed. Presently Anthony made the girl mount his ownbeautiful mare."Ride Duchess home. I'll take your horse," said he."Oh, no, indeed; please don't bother!" protested Sammy, eagerly.But Anthony only laughed and gave her a hand up. Sammy settledherself on the Spanish saddle with a sigh of satisfaction."I've always wanted to ride your horse!" said she, delightedly, asthe big muscles moved smoothly under her.Anthony smiled. "She's the handsomest mare here-abouts," said he. "Iwouldn't take a thousand dollars for her!"Sammy watched him deftly repair the broken bridle of the now docileand crestfallen Clown, and spring to the saddle."I'm taking you out of your way!" she pleaded, and he answeredgravely:"Oh, no; I'll be much happier seeing you safe home."When they reached her gate, the two changed horses, and Sammy rodeslowly up the dark driveway alone. Even on this brilliant afternoonthe old Peneyre place looked dull and gloomy. Dusty dark pines andeucalyptus trees grew close about the house. There was no garden,but here and there an unkempt geranium or rank great bush ofmarguerites sprawled in the uncut grass, and rose bushes, long grownwild, stood in spraying clusters that were higher than a man's head.Pampas trees, dirty and overgrown, outlined the drive at regularintervals, their shabby plumes uncut from year to year.The house was heavy, bay-windowed, three-storied. Ugly, immense,unfriendly, it struck an inharmonious note in the riotous freegrowth of the surrounding woods. The dark entrance-hall was flankedby a library full of obsolete, unread books, and by double drawing-rooms, rarely opened now. All the windows on the ground floor weredarkened by the shrubbery outside and by heavy red draperies within.Sammy, entering a side door, seemed to leave the day's brightnessbehind her. The air indoors was chill, flat. A half-hearted littlecoal fire flickered in the grate, and Koga was cleaning silver atthe table. Sammy took David Copperfield from the mantel and settledherself in a great chair."Koga, you go fix Clown now," she suggested.Koga beamed assent. Departing, he wrestled with a remark: "Oh! Niseday. I sink so."Sammy agreed. "You don't have weather like this in Japan in April!""Oh, yis," said Koga, and, drunk with the joy of speech, he added:"I sink so. Awe time nise in Jap-pon! I sink so.""All the time nice in Japan?" echoed Sammy, lazily. "Oh, what astory!"But Koga was convulsed with innocent mirth. However excruciating theeffort, he had produced a remark in English. He retired, repeatingbetween spasms of enjoyment: "Oh, I sink so. Awe time nise in Jap-pon!"The day dragged on, to all outward seeming like all of Sammy's days.Twilight made her close her book and straighten her bent shoulders.Pong came in to set the table. The slamming of the hall doorannounced her father.Presently Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper, came downstairs. Lamps werelighted; dinner loitered its leisurely way. After it the doctor setup one of his endless chess problems on the end of the table, andSammy returned to David Copperfield."Father, you know Anthony Gayley--that young carpenter in Torney'sshop?""I do, my dear.""Well, Clown ran away to-day, and he really saved me from a badsmash."A long pause."Ha!" said the doctor, presently. "Set this down, will you, Sammy?Rook to queen's fourth. Check. Now, knight--any move. No--hold on.Yes. Knight any move. Now, rook--wait a minute!"His voice fell, his eyes were fixed. Sammy sighed.At eight she fell to mending the fire with such vigor that hercolorless little face burned. Then her spine felt chilly. Sammyturned about, trying to toast evenly; but it couldn't be done. Shethought suddenly of her warm bed, put her finger in her book, kissedher father's bald spot between two yawns, and went upstairs.The dreams went, too. There was nothing in this neglected, lonelyday, typical of all her days, to check them. It was delicious,snuggling down in the chilly sheets, to go on dreaming.Again she was riding alone in the woods. Again Clown was runningaway. Again, big gentle Anthony Gayley was galloping behind her.Again for that breathless moment she was in his arms. Sammy shut hereyes....Her father, coming upstairs, wakened her. She lay smiling in thedark. What had she been thinking of? Oh, yes! And out came the dreamhorses and their riders again....The next day she rode over the same bit of road again, and the dayafter, and the day after that. The rides were absolutely uneventful,but sweet with dreams.A week later Sammy teased Mrs. Moore into taking her to the Elks'concert and dance at the Wheatfield Hall over the post-office. WhenMrs. Moore protested at this unheard-of proceeding, the girl usedher one unfailing threat: "Then I'll tell father I want anothergoverness!"Mrs. Moore hated governesses. There had been no governess at thedoctor's for two years. She looked uneasy. "You've nothing to wear,"said she."I'll wear my embroidered linen," said Sammy, "and Mary's spangledscarf.""You oughtn't borrow your sister's things without permission," saidMrs. Moore, half-heartedly."Mary's in New York," said Sammy, recklessly. "She's not been homefor two years, and she may not be back for two more! She won't care.I'm eighteen, and I've never been to a dance, and I'm going--that'sall there is about it!"And she burst into tears, and presently laughed herself out of them,and went to her sister's orderly empty room to see what othertreasures besides the spangled scarf Mary had left behind her.Three months later, on a burning July afternoon, the Wheatfield"Terrors" played a team from the neighboring town of Copadoro.Wheatfield's population was reputedly nine hundred, and certainlyalmost that number of onlookers had gathered to watch the game. Thefree seats were packed with perspiring women in limp summer gowns,and restless, crimson-faced children; and a shouting, vociferousline of men fringed the field. But in the "grand stand," wherechairs rented for twenty-five cents, there was still some room.Three late-comers found seats there when the game was almost over--Sammy's sister Mary, an extremely handsome young woman in a linengown and wide hat, her brother Tom, a correct young man whoseordinary expression indicated boredom, and their aunt, a magnificentpersonage in gray silk, with a gray silk parasol. Their arrivalcaused some little stir."Well, for pit--!" exclaimed a stout matron seated immediately infront of them. "If it ain't Mary Peneyre--an' Thomas too! An' Mrs.Bond--for goodness' sake! Well, say, you folks are strangers. When'jew all get here? Sammy never told me you was coming!""How d'you do, Mrs. Pidgeon?" said Sammy's aunt, cordially. "No,Samantha didn't know it. We came--ah--rather suddenly. Yes, I've notbeen in Wheatfield for ten years. We got here on the two o'clocktrain.""Going to stay long, Mary?" said Mrs. Pidgeon, sociably."Only a few days," said Miss Peneyre, distantly. ("That's the worstof growing up in a place," she said to herself. "Every one calls you'Mary'!") "We are going to take Samantha back to New York with us,"she added."Look out you don't find you're a little late," said Mrs. Pidgeon,with great archness. "I'm surprised you ain't asked me if there'sany news from Sammy. Whole village talking about it."The three smiles that met her gaze were not so unconcerned as theirwearers fondly hoped. Mrs. Bond ended a tense moment when sheexclaimed, "There's Sammy now!" and indicated to the others the lastrow of seats, where a girl in blue, with a blue parasol, was sittingalone. Mrs. Pidgeon delivered a parting shot. "Sammy might do lotsworse than Anthony Gayley," said she, confidentially. "Carpenter orno carpenter, he's an elegant fellow. I thought Lizzie Philliber wasace high, an' then folks talked some of Bootsy White. I guessBootsy'd like to do some hair-pulling.""I dare say it's just a boy-and-girl friendship," said Mrs. Bond,lightly, but trembling a little and pressing Mary's foot with herown. When they were climbing over the wooden seats a moment later,on their way to join Sammy, she added:"Oh, really, it's insufferable! I'd like to spank that girl!""Apparently the whole village is on," contributed Tom, bitterly.A moment later Sammy saw them; and if her welcome was a littleconstrained, it was merely because of shyness. She settled downradiantly between her sister and aunt, with a hand for each."Well, this is fun!" said Sammy. "Did you get my letter? Were yousurprised? Are you all going to stay until September?"Her happy fusillade of questions distressed them all. Mary said theunwise thing, trying to laugh, as she had always laughed, at Sammy:"Don't talk as if you were going to be married, Sammy! It's tooawful--you don't know how aunty and I feel about it! Why, darling,we want you to go back with us to New York! Sammy--"The firm pressure of her aunt's foot against her own stopped her."I knew you would feel that way about it, Mary," said Sammy, veryquietly, but with blazing cheeks; "but I am of age, and father saysthat Anthony has as much right to ask for the girl he loves as anyother man, and that's all there is to it!""You have it all thought out," said Mary, very white; "but, I mustsay, I am surprised that a sister of mine, and a granddaughter ofJudge Peters--a girl who could have everything!--is content to marryan ordinary country carpenter! You won't have grandmother's moneyuntil you're twenty-one; there's three years that you will have tocook and sweep and get your hands rough, and probably bring up--""Mary! Mary!" said Mrs. Bond."Well, I don't care!" said Mary, unreproved. "And when she does getgrandma's money," she grumbled, "what good will it do her?""We won't discuss it, if you please, Mary," said little Sammy, withdignity.There was a silence. Tom lighted a cigarette. They watched the game,Mary fighting tears, Sammy defiant and breathing hard, Mrs. Bondwith absent eyes."Stunning fellow who made that run!" said the elder woman presently."Who is he, dear?""That's Anthony!" said Sammy, shortly, not to be won."Anthony!" Mrs. Bond's tone was all affectionate interest. She putup her lorgnette. "Well, bless his heart! Isn't he good to look at!"she said."He's all hot and dirty now," Sammy said, relenting a little."He's magnificent," said Mrs. Bond, firmly. She cut Mary off fromtheir conversation with a broad shoulder, and pressed Sammy's hand."We'll all love him, I'm sure," said she, warmly.Sammy's lip trembled."You will, Aunt Anne," said she, a little huskily. Pent upconfidence came with a rush. "I know perfectly well how Mary feels!"said Sammy, eagerly. "Why, didn't you yourself feel a little sorryhe's a carpenter?""Just for a moment," said Aunt Anne."I wish myself he wasn't," Sammy pursued; "but he likes it, and he'smaking money, and he's liked by every one. He's on the team, youknow, and sings in all the concerts. Wild horses couldn't drag himaway from Wheatfield. And why should he go away and study someprofession he hates," she rushed on resentfully, "when I'm perfectlysatisfied with him as he is? Father asked him if he wouldn't like tostudy a profession--I don't see why he should!""Surely," said Mrs. Bond, sympathetically, but quite at a loss.After a thoughtful moment she added seriously: "But, darling, whatabout your trousseau? Why not make it November, say, and take aflying trip to New York with your old aunty? I want the first brideto have all sorts of pretty things, you know. No delays,--everythingready-made, not a moment lost--?"Sammy hesitated. "You do like him, don't you, Aunt Anne?" she burstout."My dear, I hope I'm going to love him!""Do--do you mind my talking it over with him before I say I'll go?"Sammy's eyes shone."My darling, no! Take a week to think it over!" Mrs. Bond had nevertried fishing, but she had some of the instincts of the completeangler.A mad burst of applause interrupted her, and ended the game.Strolling from the field in the level, pitiless sunshine, thePeneyres were joined by young Gayley. He was quite the hero of thehour, stalwart in his base-ball suit, nodding and shouting greetingsin every direction. He transferred a bat to his left hand to giveMrs. Bond a cheerfully assured greeting, and, with the freedom oflong-gone days when he had played in the back lot with the Peneyrechildren, he addressed the young people as "Mary" and "Tom." Ifthree of the party thought him decidedly "fresh," Sammy had no suchcriticism. She evidently adored her lover.It was at her suggestion, civilly indorsed by the others, that hecame to the house a few hours later for dinner. It was a painfulmeal. Mr. Gayley did not hesitate to monopolize the conversation. Hewas accustomed to admiration--too completely accustomed, in fact, toperceive that on this occasion it was wanting.After dinner he sang--having quite frankly offered to sing. Maryplayed his accompaniments, and Sammy leaned on the closed cover ofher mother's wonderful old grand piano--sadly out of tune in thesedays!--and watched him. Tom, frankly rude, went to bed. Mary,determined that the engaged pair should not be encouraged anyfurther than was unavoidable, stuck gallantly to her post.Mrs. Bond sat watching, useless regrets filling her heart. How sweetthe child was! How full of possibilities! How true the gray eyeswere! How stubborn the mouth might be! Sammy's power to do what shewilled to do, in the face of all obstacles, had been notable sinceher babyhood. Her aunt looked from the ardent, virginal little headto the florid, handsome face of the singer, and her heart was sickwithin her.Anthony Gayley came to the train to see them off, two weeks later,and Sammy kissed him good-by before the eyes of all Wheatfield. Shehad made her own conditions in consenting to make the Eastern visit.She was going merely to buy her trousseau; the subject of herengagement was never to be discussed; and every one--every one--shemet was to know at once that she was going back to Wheatfieldimmediately to be married in December.Anthony had agreed to wait until then."It isn't as if every one knew it, Kid," he said sensibly to hisfiancee; "it gives me a chance to save a little, and it's not sohard on mother. Besides, I'm looking out for a partner, and I'llhave to work him in.""I wonder you don't think of entering some other business, Anthony,"Mrs. Bond said, to this remark. "You're young enough to tryanything. It's such a--it's such hard work, you know.""I've often thought I'd like to be an actor," said Mr. Gayley,carelessly; "but there's not much chance to break into that.""You could take a course of lessons in New York," suggested Mary,and Sammy indorsed the idea with an eager look. But Anthony laughed."Not for mine! No, sir. I'll stick to Wheatfield. I was a year inSan Francisco a while back, and it was one lonesome year, believeme. No place like home and friends for your Uncle Dudley!""Don't you meet a bunch of swell Eastern fellows and forget me," hesaid to Sammy, as they stood awaiting the train. "I'll be getting alittle home ready for you; I'll--I'll trust you, Kid.""You may," said Sammy. She looked at the burning, dry little mainstreet, the white cottages that faced the station from behind theirblazing gardens; she looked at the locust trees that almost hid thechurch spire, at the straggling line of eucalyptus trees thatfollowed the country road to the graveyard a mile away. It was home.It was all she had known of the world--and she was going away into aterrifying new life. Her eyes brimmed."I swear to you that I'll be faithful, Anthony," she said solemnly."On my sacred oath, I will!"And ten minutes later they were on their way. The porter had pinnedher new hat up in a pillow-case and taken it away, and Sammy waslaughing because another porter quite seriously shouted: "Last callfor luncheon in the dining-car!""I always knew they did it, but I never supposed they really did!"said Sammy, following her aunt through the shaded brightness of thePullman to an enchanted table, from which one could see the gloriouslandscape flashing by.It was all like a dream--the cities they fled through, the luxury ofthe big house at Sippican, the capped and aproned maids that were soeager to make one comfortable. The people she met were like dreampeople; the busy, useless days seemed too pleasant to be real.August flashed by, September was gone. With the same magic lack ofeffort, they were all in the New York house. Sammy wore her firstdinner gown, wore her first furs, made her youthful conquests rightand left.From the first, she told every one of her engagement. The thought ofit, always in her mind, helped to give her confidence and poise."You must have heard of me, you know," said her first dinnerpartner, "for your sister's told me a lot about you. Piet van Soop.""Piet van Soop!" ejaculated Sammy, seriously."Certainly. Don't you think that's a pretty name?""But--but that can't be your name," argued Sammy, smilingly."Why can't it?""Why, because no one with a name like van Soop to begin with wouldname a little darling baby Piet," submitted Sammy."Oh, come," said Mr. van Soop. "Your own name, now! Sammy, as Maryalways calls you--that's nothing to boast of, you know, and I'll betyou were a very darling little baby yourself!"Sammy laughed joyously, and a dozen fellow guests glancedsympathetically in the direction of the fresh, childish sound."Well, if that's really your name, of course you can't help it," sheconceded, adding, with the naivete that Mr. van Soop already founddelightful: "Wouldn't the combination be awful, though! Sammy vanSoop!""If you'll consider it, I'll endeavor to make it the only sorrow youhave to endure," said Mr. van Soop; and the ensuing laughter broughtthem the attention of the whole table."No danger!" said Sammy, gayly. "I'm going home in December, youknow, to be married!"Every one heard it. Mary winced. Mrs. Bond flushed. Tom said a wordthat gave his pretty partner a right to an explanation. But Sammywas apparently cheerful.Only apparently, however. For that night, when she found herself inher luxurious room again, she took Anthony's picture from the bureauand studied it gravely under the lights."I said that right out," she said aloud, "and I'll keep on sayingit. Then, when the time comes to go, I simply can't back out!"She put the picture back, and sat down at her dressing-table andstared at her own reflection. Her hair was filleted with silver andtiny roses; her gown was of exquisite transparent embroidery, andmore tiny roses rumpled the deep lace collar. But even less familiarthan this finery were the cheeks that blazed with so many rememberedcompliments, the scarlet lips that had learned to smile so readily,the eyes brilliant with new dreams."I feel as if sorrow--sorrow," said little Sammy, shivering, "werejust about two feet behind me, and as if--if it ever catches up--I'll be the most unhappy girl in the world!"And she gave herself a little shake and put a firm little finger-tipon Gabrielle's bell."Sammy," said Mr. van Soop, one dull gray afternoon some weekslater, "I've brought you out for a special purpose to-day.""Tea?" said Sammy, contentedly."Tea, gluttonous one," he admitted, turning his big car into thepark. "But, seriously, I want to ask you about your going away.""I don't know that there's anything to say about it," said Sammy,carelessly. "I've had a wonderful time, and every one's beencharming. And now I've got to go back.""Sammy, I've no right to ask you a favor, but I've a reason," Pietbegan. He halted. Both were crimson."Yes, yes; I know, Piet," said Sammy, fluttered.The car slackened, stopped. Their faces were not two feet apart."Well! Will you let me beg you--for your aunt, and sister, and for--well, for me, and for your own sake, Sammy--will you let me beg youjust to wait? Here, or there, or anywhere else--will you just wait awhile?"Sammy was silent a moment. Then--"For what reason?" she said."Because you may save yourself lifelong unhappiness."Sammy pondered, her lashes dropped, her hands clasped in her muff."Piet," she said gravely, "it's not as bad as that. No--I'll not beunhappy. I love Wheatfield, and horses, and the old house, and--"she hesitated, adding more brightly: "and you can make happiness,you know! Just because it's spring, or it's Thanksgiving, or you'vegot a good book! Please go on," she urged suddenly. "We're veryconspicuous here."They moved slowly along under the bare trees. A sullen sunsetcolored the western sky. The drive was filled with motor-cars, andgroups of riders galloped on the muddy bridle-path. It was justdusk. Suddenly, as the lamplighters went their rounds, all the parkbloomed with milky disks of light."You see," Sammy went on presently, "I've thought this all out.Anthony's a good man, and he loves me, and I--well, I've promised.What right have I to say calmly that I've changed my mind, and tohurt him and make him ridiculous before all the people he loves? Heknows I'll have money some day--no, Piet, you needn't look so! Thathas nothing to do with it! But, of course, he knows it; and I saidwe would have a motor,--he's wild for one!--and entertain, don't youknow, and that's what he's waiting for and counting on. He doesn'tdeserve to be shamed and humiliated. And, besides, it would breakhis mother's heart. She's been awfully sweet to me. And it must be abitter thing to be told that you're not good enough for the womanyou love. Anthony saved my life, you know, and I can't break myword. I said: 'On my oath, I'll come back.' And just because thereis a difference between him--and us," she hesitated, "he's all theprouder and more sensitive. And it's only a difference in surfacethings!" finished Sammy, loyally.Piet was silent."Why, Tom keeps telling me that mother was a Cabot, and grandfathera judge, and talking Winthrop Colony and Copleys and Gilbert Stuartsto me!" the girl burst out presently. "As if that wasn't the veryreason for my being honorable! That's what blood's for!"Still Piet was silent, his kind, ugly face set and dark."And then, you know," said Sammy, with sudden brightness, "when Iget back, and see the dear old place again, and get a good bigbreath of air,--which we don't have here!--why, it'll all straightenout and seem right again. My hope is," she added, turning her honesteyes to the gloomy ones so near her, "my hope is that Anthony willbe willing to wait a while--""What makes you think he is likely to?" said Piet, dryly.There was a silence. Then he added:"When do you go?""The--the twenty-sixth, I believe. I've got aunty's consent--I gowith the Archibalds to San Francisco.""And this is--?""The twentieth."For some time after that they wove their way along the sweepingParkroads without speaking, and when they did begin to talk to oneanother again, the subject was a different one and Mr. van Soop wasmore cheerful. The tea hour was a fairly merry one. But when he leftSammy, an hour later, at her aunt's door, he took off his big glove,and grew a little white, and held out his hand to her and said:"I won't see you again, Sammy. I've been thinking it over. You'reright; it's all my own fault. I was very wrong to attempt topersuade you. But I won't see you again. Good-by.""Why--!" began Sammy, in astonishment; then she looked down andstammered, "Oh--," and finally she put her little hand in his andsaid simply:"Good-by."Therefore it was a surprise to Mr. van Soop to find himself enteringMrs. Bond's library just twenty-four hours later, and grasping thehands of the slender young woman who rose from a chair by the fire."Sammy! You sent for me?"Sammy looked very young in a little velvet gown with a skirt shortenough to show the big bows on her slippers. Her eyes had achildishly bewildered expression."I wanted you," she said simply. "I--I've had a letter from Anthony.It came only an hour ago. I don't know whether to be sorry or glad.Read it! Read it!"She sat on a little, low stool by the fire, and Piet flattened themany loose pages of the letter on his knee and read.Anthony had written on the glazed, ruled single sheets of the"Metropolitan Star Hotel"--had covered some twenty of them with hisloose, dashing hand-writing.My Dear Sammy [wrote Anthony, with admirable directness]: The boyswanted me to sit in a little game to-night, but the truth is I havebeen wanting for a long time to speak to you of a certain matter,and to-night seems a good chance to get it off my chest. A man feelspretty rotten writing a letter like this, but I've thought it overfor more than a month now, and I feel that no matter how badly youand I both feel, the thing to do is not to let things go too farbefore we think the thing pretty thoroughly over and make sure thatthings--"What the deuce is he getting at?" said Piet, breaking off suddenly."Go on!" said Sammy, bright color in her cheeks.--make sure that things are best for the happiness of all parties[resumed Piet]. You see, Sammy [the letter ran on], as far as I amconcerned, I never would have said a word, but I have been talkingthings over with a party whose name I will tell you in a minute, andthey feel as if it would be better to write before you come on. Imean Miss Alma Fay. You don't know her. She is Lucy Barbee's cousin.Lucy and I had a great case years ago, and she and Tom asked me upto their house a few weeks ago, and Alma was staying with Lucy.Well, I took her to the Hallowe'en dance, and it was a keen dance,the swellest we ever had at the hall. Some of us rowed the girls onthe river between the dances; we had a keen time. Well, after that Itook her riding once or twice. She rides the best of any girl I eversaw; her father has the finest horses in East Wood--I guess hecounts for quite a lot up there, he has the biggest department storeand runs his own motor. Well, Sammy, I never would of written oneword of this to you, but when Alma came to go away we both realizedhow it was. You know I have often had cases, as the boys call them,and a girl I was engaged to in Petrie told me once she hoped someday I'd get mine. Well, she would be pleased if she knew that Ihave. I have not slept since--"Sammy!" said Piet, suddenly stopping."Go on!" said she, again.But Piet couldn't go on. He glanced at the next page, read, "Now,Sammy, it is up to you to decide," skipped another page or two andread, "Neither Alma nor I would ever be happy if--" glanced at athird; then the leaves fluttered in wild confusion to the floor,and, with something between a sob and a shout, he caught Sammy inhis arms."My darling," said Piet, an hour later, "if I release your righthand for ten minutes, do you think you could write a line to Mr.Anthony Gayley? I would like to mail it when I go home to dress.""I was thinking I might wire--" said Sammy, dreamily.
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