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Gayley The Troubadour
by
It was at her suggestion, civilly indorsed by the others, that he came to the house a few hours later for dinner. It was a painful meal. Mr. Gayley did not hesitate to monopolize the conversation. He was accustomed to admiration–too completely accustomed, in fact, to perceive that on this occasion it was wanting.
After dinner he sang–having quite frankly offered to sing. Mary played his accompaniments, and Sammy leaned on the closed cover of her mother’s wonderful old grand piano–sadly out of tune in these days!–and watched him. Tom, frankly rude, went to bed. Mary, determined that the engaged pair should not be encouraged any further than was unavoidable, stuck gallantly to her post.
Mrs. Bond sat watching, useless regrets filling her heart. How sweet the child was! How full of possibilities! How true the gray eyes were! How stubborn the mouth might be! Sammy’s power to do what she willed to do, in the face of all obstacles, had been notable since her babyhood. Her aunt looked from the ardent, virginal little head to the florid, handsome face of the singer, and her heart was sick within 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. She had made her own conditions in consenting to make the Eastern visit. She was going merely to buy her trousseau; the subject of her engagement was never to be discussed; and every one–EVERY one–she met was to know at once that she was going back to Wheatfield immediately 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 his fiancee; “it gives me a chance to save a little, and it’s not so hard on mother. Besides, I’m looking out for a partner, and I’ll have 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 try anything. 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 in San Francisco a while back, and it was one lonesome year, believe me. No place like home and friends for your Uncle Dudley!”
“Don’t you meet a bunch of swell Eastern fellows and forget me,” he said to Sammy, as they stood awaiting the train. “I’ll be getting a little home ready for you; I’ll–I’ll trust you, Kid.”
“You may,” said Sammy. She looked at the burning, dry little main street, the white cottages that faced the station from behind their blazing gardens; she looked at the locust trees that almost hid the church spire, at the straggling line of eucalyptus trees that followed 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 a terrifying 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 pinned her new hat up in a pillow-case and taken it away, and Sammy was laughing because another porter quite seriously shouted: “Last call for 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 the Pullman to an enchanted table, from which one could see the glorious landscape flashing by.
It was all like a dream–the cities they fled through, the luxury of the big house at Sippican, the capped and aproned maids that were so eager to make one comfortable. The people she met were like dream people; the busy, useless days seemed too pleasant to be real.