They walked in silence up the long driveway, between the rows of shadowing spruces, and up the broad granite steps. Everett had his key in the latch and threw open the door.

"My mother did not come down, apparently. You will see her in the morning."

As she took off her furs in the hall, Sally was very grateful for the warmth and the cheerfulness and the s.p.a.ciousness of the great house.

Everett slipped off his coat of sables and led the way up the stairs.

"Your room, Sally--I shall call you Sally?" He looked at her, but not as if in doubt.

"Why, of course," said Sally in surprise.

"Your room, Sally," he resumed, "is down that hall, just opposite my mother's. The door is open and there is a light. Doctor Sanderson's is this way, near mine. I will show him. Good-night, Sally."

"Good-night," she answered; "and good-night, Fox."

They turned and she went down the hall, her feet making no sound in the soft carpet. The door which Everett had pointed out as his mother's stood ajar, and, as Sally pa.s.sed, it opened wider and Mrs.

Morton stepped out.

"You are very welcome, Sally, dear," she said, kissing her; "as welcome as could be. I will see Doctor Sanderson in the morning. Come down whenever you feel like it. It has been a trying night for you."

Sally's eyes were full of tears as she softly closed her own door.

CHAPTER VI

There were times when, in spite of disease, death, or disaster, Mrs.

John Upjohn had to have clothes; more clothes, no doubt I should say, or other clothes. At any rate, when such occasions were imminent, Mrs.

Upjohn was wont to summon the dressmaker to come to her house, and the dressmaker would come promptly and would camp in the house until the siege was over, going home only to sleep. One would think that Mrs.

Upjohn might have offered Letty Lambkin a bed to sleep in, for Letty had been a schoolmate of hers before misfortune overtook her; and Mrs.

Upjohn had beds to spare and Letty always arrived before breakfast and stayed until after supper. Perhaps such an offer would have offended a sensitive spirit. That is only a guess, of course, for I have no means of knowing what Mrs. Upjohn's ideas were upon that subject. At all events, she never gave Letty a chance of being offended at any such offer.

An occasion such as I have mentioned arose on the day of the Hazens'

fire, and Mrs. Upjohn had accordingly sent John Junior around to Letty's house with the customary message. Which message John Junior had delivered with an air of great dejection and with the very evident hope that Miss Lambkin would be unable to come. But, alas! Miss Lambkin smiled at John cheerfully and told him to tell his mother that she would be there bright and early in the morning; that she had felt it in her bones that Alicia Upjohn would be wanting her on that day, and she had put off Mrs. Robbins and Mrs. Sarjeant on purpose so's Alicia wouldn't have to wait.

Whereupon John Junior muttered unintelligibly and turned away, leaving Miss Lambkin gazing fondly after him and calling after him to know if it wasn't cold. John Junior muttered again, inaudibly to Miss Lambkin, but not unintelligibly. He was not fond of those sieges, to say the least.

"Darn it!" he muttered, kicking viciously at the ice. "That means two weeks and I can't stay at Hen's all the whole time for two weeks. A fellow has to be at home for meals. If she only wasn't there for breakfast and supper!" John Junior kicked viciously at the ice again; and, the ice proving refractory, he stubbed his toe and almost fell.

"Ow!" he said; "darn it!" But that was an afterthought. He betook him to the harbor.

There is some reason to believe that the late John Senior had not regarded these visitations with more favor than did his son; there were some that did not hesitate to say that his end had been hastened by them and by the semiannual house-cleaning. Mrs. Upjohn was considered a notable housekeeper. "She takes it hard," he had said to Hen's father in an unguarded moment of confidence. Hen's father had laughed. Hen's mother was not a notable housekeeper. John Senior had sighed. At that time there was but one club in Whitby. He was not a member of that club. Such men as Hugh Morton and Gerrit Torrington were members; even John Hazen was said to be a member, although he was never at the club-rooms. So even that solace was denied to John Senior. He couldn't stay at Hen's house all the time either; and, there seeming to be no other way of escape, he up and had a stroke and died in two hours. At least, so rumor ran, the connection between cause and effect being of rumor's making. I have no wish to contradict it. I have no doubt that I should have wanted to do as John Senior had done. Very possibly Patty had some such wish.

The two weeks of Letty were now up and the end was not in sight. She and Mrs. Upjohn sat in Mrs. Upjohn's sewing-room, which was strewn with unfinished skirts and waists and sc.r.a.ps of cloth. Letty sewed rapidly on the skirt; Mrs. Upjohn sewed slowly--very, very slowly--on something. It really did not matter what. If the completion of Mrs.

Upjohn's clothes had depended upon Mrs. Upjohn's unaided efforts she would never have had anything to wear.

"Where's Patty gone, Alicia?" asked Letty, a thread between her teeth.

"Hospital?"

Mrs. Upjohn stopped sewing. "Yes," she replied in her deliberate way.

"I believe her father is worse. She got a message this morning before you came, and I think it was unfavorable, to judge by her face."

"Land!" said Miss Lambkin. "I guess he's going to die. He's a pretty old man. Eighty, if he's a day, would be my guess."

Mrs. Upjohn nodded. "Just eighty."

"Pretty good guess, I call it." Miss Lambkin laughed. "I thought he must be pretty sick, or Patty wouldn't be out of the house as soon as ever breakfast was over and not turn up again until dinner-time. Then, as like as not, she'd be gone the whole afternoon. I hear he's got pneumonia."

Mrs. Upjohn nodded again.

"And I hear," Letty continued, "that he got it getting chilled and wet the night of the fire. 'T was an awful cold night, and he would stay around the house and try to tell the firemen what they sh'd do. Of course, they couldn't help squirting on him some."

"I hope," said Mrs. Upjohn, "that they didn't mean to."

"I hope not," Miss Lambkin returned. "I sh'd think the ones that did it would have it on their consciences if they did. They tell me that Sally Ladue discovered the fire. She and that Doctor Sanderson have been at the Mortons' ever since and, if you can believe all you hear, neither of 'em likes it any too well. Mrs. Morton's nice to her--she can be as nice as nice to them that she likes, though you wouldn't always think it--but Everett's the trouble."

It was contrary to Mrs. Upjohn's principles to look surprised at any piece of information--and as if she had not heard it before. She gave a little laugh.

"A good many girls," she remarked, "would give their eyes to be at the Mortons' for two weeks."

"I guess that's what's the trouble with Everett," said Miss Lambkin pointedly. "Too much girl; and I guess he isn't any too particular about the kind either."

Mrs. Upjohn was curious. To be sure, she was always curious, which was a fact that she flattered herself she concealed very neatly. Other people were not of the same opinion.

"Why, Letty?" she asked frankly. She seldom allowed her curiosity to be so evident. "I've never heard of his being seen with any girls that he ought not to be with. Have you?"

"Oh, not in Whitby," replied Miss Lambkin. "Not for Joseph! As far's that goes, he isn't seen very often with girls that he ought to be with. But I hear that when he's in Boston it's a different story. Of course, I haven't seen him with my own eyes, but I have reliable information. You know he goes to Boston for weeks at a time."

"M-m," a.s.sented Mrs. Upjohn, rocking quietly and comfortably. "He stays at the best hotels, I believe."

"_Registers_ at the most expensive," corrected Miss Lambkin, "I have no doubt. I s'pose he stays there some of the time. To tell the truth," she confessed, somewhat crestfallen at having to make the humiliating confession, "I didn't just hear what Everett does that Sally Ladue doesn't like."

"Oh," said Mrs. Upjohn. She did not look up and there was a certain air of triumph in the way she uttered that simple syllable which grated on Miss Lambkin's sensibilities.

"Sally's a sort of high-and-mighty girl," continued Miss Lambkin tentatively.

"Sally's a nice girl and a good girl," said Mrs. Upjohn cordially; "capable, I should say."

"No doubt she is," Letty returned without enthusiasm. "It's rather strange that she is all that, considering what her father did."

Mrs. Upjohn laughed comfortably. "I used to know her father. There was no telling what he would do."

"Ran off with another woman," said Letty, "and some money. That's what I heard."

Mrs. Upjohn laughed again. "He disappeared," she conceded. "I never heard that there was any other woman in the case and I'm reasonably sure there wasn't any money."

"He hasn't ever been heard of since?"