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قراءة كتاب Concerning Sally

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‏اللغة: English
Concerning Sally

Concerning Sally

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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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 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" 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 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, nervously; then he took off his coat and bathed his head and face with cold water, pouring it over his

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