he’s poor, and–”
“Oh, I don’t care anything about that. That’s neither here nor there.
Will you bring him to me?”
“I’ll do it. When?–”
“Oh, dear, it’s getting toward dark, now, and so you’ll have to put it
off till morning. But you will find him in the morning, won’t you?
Promise.”
“I’ll have him here by daylight.”
“Oh, now you’re your own old self again–and lovelier than ever!”
“I couldn’t ask fairer than that. Good-bye, dear.”
Sally mused a moment alone, then said earnestly, “I love him in spite of
his name!” and went about her affairs with a light heart.
CHAPTER XXV.
Hawkins went straight to the telegraph office and disburdened his
conscience. He said to himself, “She’s not going to give this galvanized
cadaver up, that’s plain. Wild horses can’t pull her away from him.
I’ve done my share; it’s for Sellers to take an innings, now.” So he
sent this message to New York:
“Come back. Hire special train. She’s going to marry the materializee.”
Meantime a note came to Rossmore Towers to say that the Earl of Rossmore
had just arrived from England, and would do himself the pleasure of
calling in the evening. Sally said to herself, “It is a pity he didn’t
stop in New York; but it’s no matter; he can go up to-morrow and see my
father. He has come over here to tomahawk papa, very likely–or buy out
his claim. This thing would have excited me, a while back; but it has
only one interest for me now, and only one value. I can say to–to–
Spine, Spiny, Spinal–I don’t like any form of that name!–I can say to
him to-morrow, ‘Don’t try to keep it up any more, or I shall have to tell
you whom I have been talking with last night, and then you will be
embarrassed.'”
Tracy couldn’t know he was to be invited for the morrow, or he might have
waited. As it was, he was too miserable to wait any longer; for his last
hope–a letter–had failed him. It was fully due to-day; it had not
come. Had his father really flung him away? It looked so. It was not
like his father, but it surely looked so. His father was a rather tough
nut, in truth, but had never been so with his son–still, this implacable
silence had a calamitous look. Anyway, Tracy would go to the Towers and
–then what? He didn’t know; his head was tired out with thinking–
he wouldn’t think about what he must do or say–let it all take care of
itself. So that he saw Sally once more, he would be satisfied, happen
what might; he wouldn’t care.
He hardly knew how he got to the Towers, or when. He knew and cared for
only one thing–he was alone with Sally. She was kind, she was gentle,
there was moisture in her eyes, and a yearning something in her face and
manner which she could not wholly hide–but she kept her distance. They
talked. Bye and bye she said–watching his downcast countenance out of
the corner of her eye–
“It’s so lonesome–with papa and mamma gone. I try to read, but I can’t
seem to get interested in any book. I try the newspapers, but they do
put such rubbish in them. You take up a paper and start to read
something you thinks interesting, and it goes on and on and on about how
somebody–well, Dr. Snodgrass, for instance–”
Not a movement from Tracy, not the quiver of a muscle. Sally was amazed
–what command of himself he must have! Being disconcerted, she paused
so long that Tracy presently looked up wearily and said:
“Well?”
“Oh, I thought you were not listening. Yes, it goes on and on about this
Doctor Snodgrass, till you are so tired, and then about his younger son–
the favorite son–Zylobalsamum Snodgrass–”
Not a sign from Tracy, whose head was drooping again. What supernatural
self-possession! Sally fixed her eye on him and began again, resolved to
blast him out of his serenity this time if she knew how to apply the
dynamite that is concealed in certain forms of words when those words are