The day after New Year's Mary went back to Boston and to school. The
long winter term--the term which Madeline Talbott, whose father was a
judge, called “the extreme penalty”--began. Boston's famous east winds,
so welcome in summer and so raw and penetrating in winter, brought their
usual allowance of snow and sleet, and the walks from Pinckney Street
to the school and back were not always pleasant. Mrs. Wyeth had a slight
attack of tonsillitis and Miss Pease a bronchial cold, but they united
in declaring these afflictions due entirely to their own imprudence
and not in the least to the climate, which, being like themselves,
thoroughly Bostonian, was expected to maintain a proper degree of chill.
Mary, fortunately, escaped colds and illness. The walks in all sorts of
weather did her good and her rosy cheeks and clear eyes were competent
witnesses to her state of health. She was getting on well with her
studies, and the Misses Cabot, not too easy to please, were apparently
pleased with her. At home--for she had come to consider Mrs. Wyeth's
comfortable house a home, although not of course to be compared with the
real home at South Harniss--at Mrs. Wyeth's she was more of a favorite
than ever, not only with the mistress of the house, but with Miss Pease,
who was considered eccentric and whose liking was reported hard to win.
The two ladies had many talks concerning the girl.
“She is remarkable,” declared Miss Pease on one occasion. “Considering
her lack of early advantages, I consider her ease of manner and
self-possession remarkable. She is a prodigy.”
Mrs. Wyeth sniffed. She enjoyed hearing Mary praised, but she objected
to her friend's choice of words.
“For mercy sake, Letitia,” she said, “don't call her that. The word
'prodigy' always reminds me of the Crummles infant, the one with the
green parasol and the white--er--lingerie, in 'Nicholas Nickleby.'”
Miss Pease smiled with the superiority of the corrected who is about to
correct.
“I don't see why that should bring the individual you mention to mind,”
she said. “If I remember correctly--and I was brought up on Dickens--she
was a 'phenomenon,' not a prodigy. However, it makes no material
difference what you and I call Mary Lathrop, the fact remains that she
is an exceptionally well-behaved, good-mannered, polite--”
“Sweet, healthy girl,” interrupted Mrs. Wyeth, finishing the sentence.
“I know that as well as you do, Letitia Pease. And you know I know
it. Now, what have you in your mind concerning Mary? I know there is
something, because you have been hinting at it for more than a week.
What is it?”
Miss Pease looked wise.
“Oh, I have a plan,” she said. “I can't tell even you, Emily, just what
it is as yet. You see, it isn't really a plan, but only an idea so far.
She doesn't know it herself, of course.”
“Hum! Is it a pleasant plan--or idea, whichever you call it? That is,
will she think it pleasant when she learns what it is?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Look here, Letitia,” with sudden suspicion, “you aren't planning some
ridiculous sentimental nonsense for that child, are you? You're not
trying to make a match for her, I hope?”
“Match? What are you talking about? If you mean am I trying to get her
married to some MAN,” with a scornful emphasis on the word, “I most
certainly am not.
“Humph! Well, if she ever is married, I presume it will be to a man, or
an imitation of one. All right, Letitia. I am glad your great idea isn't
that, whatever it is.”
“It is not. You know my opinion of marriage, Emily Wyeth. And, so far
as matchmaking is concerned, I should say you were a more likely subject
for suspicion. That young relative of yours, Sam Keith, appears to be
coming here a great deal of late. He MAY come solely to see you, but I
doubt it.”
Mrs. Wyeth smiled grimly.
“Samuel has been rather prevalent recently,” she admitted, “but don't
let that trouble you, Letitia. I have had my eye on the young man.
Samuel is as susceptible to pretty girls as children are to the measles.
And his attacks remind me of the measles as much as anything, sudden
outbreak, high fever and delirium, then a general cooling off and a
rapid recovery. This seizure isn't alarming and there is absolutely no
danger of contagion. Mary doesn't take him seriously at all.”
“And how about that other young man?--Smith, I think his name is. He has
called here twice since Christmas.”
Mrs. Wyeth seemed to be losing patience.
“Well, what of it?” she demanded.
“Why, nothing that I know of, except, perhaps--”
“There is no perhaps at all. The Smith boy appears to be a very nice
young fellow, and remarkably sensible for a young person in this
hoity-toity age. From what I can learn, his people, although they
do live out West--down in a mine or up on a branch or a ranch
or something--are respectable. Why shouldn't he call to see Mary
occasionally, and why shouldn't she see him? Goodness gracious! What
sort of a world would this be if young people didn't see each other?
Don't tell me that you never had any young male acquaintances when you
were a girl, Letitia, because I shan't believe you.”
Miss Pease straightened in her chair.
“It is not likely that I shall make any such preposterous statement,”
she snapped.
So the “young male acquaintance” called occasionally--not too
often--Mrs. Wyeth saw to that; probably not so often as he would
have liked; but he did call and the acquaintanceship developed into
friendship. That it might develop into something more than friendship
no one, except possibly the sentimental Miss Pease, seemed to suspect.
Certainly Mary did not, and at this time it is doubtful if Crawford did,
either. He liked Mary Lathrop. She was a remarkably pretty girl but,
unlike other pretty girls he had known--and as good-looking college
football stars are privileged beyond the common herd, he had known at
least several--she did not flirt with him, nor look admiringly up into
his eyes, nor pronounce his jokes “killingly funny,” nor flatter him in
any way. If the jokes WERE funny she laughed a healthy, genuine laugh,
but if, as sometimes happened, they were rather feeble, she was quite
likely to tell him so. She did not always agree with his views, having
views of her own on most subjects, and if he asked her opinion the
answer he received was always honest, if not precisely what he expected
or hoped.
“By George! You're frank, at any rate,” he observed, rather ruefully,
after asking her opinion as to a point of conduct and receiving it
forthwith.
“Didn't you want me to be?” asked Mary. “You asked me what I thought you
should have done and I told you.”
“Yes, you did. You certainly told me.”
“Well, didn't you want me to tell you?”
“I don't know that I wanted you to tell me just that.”
“But you asked me what I thought, and that is exactly what I think.
Don't YOU think it is what you should have done?”
Crawford hesitated; then he laughed. “Why yes, confound it, I do,” he
admitted. “But I hoped you would tell me that what I did do was right.”
“Whether I thought so or not?”
“Why--well--er--yes. Honestly now, didn't you know I wanted you to say
the other thing?”
It was Mary's turn to hesitate; then she, too, laughed.
“Why, yes, I suppose--” she began; and finished with, “Yes, I did.”
“Then why didn't you say it? Most girls would.”
“Perhaps that is why. I judge that most girls of your acquaintance say
just about what you want them to. Don't you think it is good for you to
be told the truth occasionally?”
It was good for him, of course, and, incidentally, it had the
fascination of novelty. Here was a girl full of fun, ready to take a
joke as well as give one, neither flattering nor expecting flattery, a
country girl who had kept store, yet speaking of that phase of her life
quite as freely as she did of the fashionable Misses Cabot's school,
not at all ashamed to say she could not afford this or that, simple and
unaffected but self-respecting and proud; a girl who was at all times
herself and retained her poise and common sense even in the presence of
handsome young demigod who had made two touchdowns against Yale.
It was extremely good for Crawford Smith to know such a girl. She helped
him to keep his feet on the ground and his head from swelling. Not that
there was much danger of the latter happening, for the head was a
pretty good one, but Mary Lathrop's common sense was a stimulating--and
fascinating--reenforcement to his own. As he had said on the Sunday
afternoon of their first meeting in Boston, it was a relief to have
someone to talk to who understood and appreciated a fellow's serious
thoughts as well as the frivolous ones. His approaching graduation from
Harvard and the work which he would begin at the Medical School in the
fall were very much in his mind just now. He told Mary his plans and she
and he discussed them. She had plans of her own, principally concerning
what she meant to do to make life easier for her uncles when her school
days were over, and these also were discussed.
“But,” he said, “that's really nonsense, after all, isn't it?”
“What?”
“Why, the idea of your keeping store again. You'll never do that.”
“Indeed I shall! Why not?”
“Why, because--”
“Because what?”
“Because--well, because I don't think you will, that's all. Girls like
you don't have to keep a country store, you know--at least, not for
long.”
The remark was intended to please; it might have pleased some girls,
but it did not please this one. Mary's dignity was offended. Anything
approaching a slur upon her beloved uncles, or their place of business,
or South Harniss, or the Cape Cod people, she resented with all her
might. Her eyes snapped.
“I do not HAVE to keep store at any time,” she said crisply, “in the
country or elsewhere. I do it because I wish to and I shall continue to
do it as long as I choose. If my friends do not understand that fact and
appreciate my reasons, they are not my friends, that is all.”
Crawford threw up both hands. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “Don't shoot; I'll
come down! Great Scott! If you take a fellow's head off like that when
he pays you a compliment what would you do if he dared to criticize?”
“Was that remark of yours intended as a compliment?”
“Not exactly; more as a statement of fact. I meant--I meant--Oh, come
now, Mary! You know perfectly well what I meant. Own up.”
Mary tried hard to be solemn and severe, but the twinkle in his eye was
infectious and in spite of her effort her lips twitched.
“Own up, now,” persisted Crawford. “You know what I meant. Now, don't
you?”
“Well--well, I suppose I do. But I think the remark was a very silly
one. That is the way Sam Keith talks.”
“Eh? Oh, does he!”
“Yes. Or he would if I would let him. And he does it much better than
you do.”
“Well, I like that!”
“I don't. That is why I don't want you to do it. I expect you to be
more sensible. And, besides, I won't have you or anyone making fun of my
uncles' store.”
“Making fun of it! I should say not! I have a vivid and most respectful
memory of it, as you ought to know. By the way, you told me your uncles
had sent you their photographs. May I see them?”
Mary brought the photographs from her room. They had been taken by the
photographer at Ostable in compliance with what amounted to an order
on her part, and the results showed two elderly martyrs dressed in
respectable but uncomfortable Sunday clothes and apparently awaiting
execution. On the back of one mournful exhibit was written, “Mary
Augusta from Uncle Shadrach,” and on the other, “Uncle Zoeth to Mary
Augusta, with much love.”
“Now, don't laugh,” commanded Mary, as she handed the photographs to
Crawford. “I know they are funny, but if you laugh I'll never forgive
you. The poor dears had them taken expressly to please me, and I am
perfectly sure either would have preferred having a tooth out. They ARE
the best men in the world and I am more certain of it every day.”
Crawford did not laugh at the photographs. He was a young gentleman of
considerable discretion and he did not smile, not even at Captain Shad's
hands, the left with fingers separated and clutching a knee as if to
keep it from shaking, the right laid woodenly upon a gorgeously bound
parlor-table copy of “Lucille.” Instead of laughing he praised the
originals of the pictures, talked reminiscently of his own visit
in South Harniss, and finally produced from his pocketbook a small
photographic print, which he laid upon the table beside the others.
“I brought that to show you,” he said. “You were asking about my father,
you know, and I told you I hadn't a respectable photograph of him. That
was true; I haven't. Dad has another eccentricity besides his dislike of
the East and Eastern ways of living; he has a perfect horror of having
his photograph taken. Don't ask me why, because I can't tell you. It
isn't because he is ugly; he's a mighty good-looking man for his age, if
I do say it. But he has a prejudice against photographs of himself
and won't even permit me to take a snapshot if he can prevent it. Says
people who are always having their pictures taken are vain, conceited
idiots, and so on. However, I catch him unawares occasionally, and this
is a snap I took last summer. He and I were on a fishing trip up in the
mountains. We're great pals, Dad and I--more than most fathers and sons,
I imagine.”
Mary took the photograph and studied it with interest. Mr. Smith,
senior, was a big man, broad-shouldered and heavy, with a full gray
beard and mustache. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, which shaded his
forehead somewhat, but his eyes and the shape of his nose were like his
son's.
Mary looked at the photograph and Crawford looked at her.
“Well, what do you think of him?” asked the young man after an interval.
“Think?” repeated Mary absently, still staring at the photograph. “Why,
I--I don't know what you mean.”
“I mean what is your opinion of my respected dad? You must have one
by this time. You generally have one on most subjects and you've been
looking at that picture for at least five minutes.”
“Have I? I beg your pardon; I didn't realize. The picture interested me.
I have never seen your father, have I? No, of course I haven't. But it
almost seems as if I had. Perhaps I have seen someone who looks like
him.”
“Shouldn't wonder. Myself, for instance.”
“Of course. That was stupid of me, wasn't it? He looks like an
interesting man, one who has had experiences.”
“He has. Dad doesn't talk about himself much, even to me, but he had
some hard rubs before he reached the smooth places. Had to fight his
way, I guess.”
“He looks as if he had. But he got his way in the end, I should imagine.
He doesn't look like one who gives up easily.”
“He isn't. Pretty stubborn sometimes, Dad is, but a brick to me, just
the same.”
“Was your mother an Eastern woman?”
“No. She was a Westerner, from California. Dad was married twice. His
first wife came from New England somewhere, I believe. I didn't know
there had been another wife until I was nearly fifteen years old, and
then I found it out entirely by accident. She was buried in another
town, you see. I saw her name first on the gravestone and it made an
impression on me because it was so odd and old-fashioned--'Patience,
wife of Edwin Smith.' I only mention this to show you how little Dad
talks about himself, but it was odd I should find it out that way,
wasn't it? But there! I don't suppose you're interested in the Smith
genealogy. I apologize. I never think of discussing my family affairs
with anyone but you, not even Sam. But you--well, somehow I seem to tell
you everything. I wonder why?”
“Perhaps because I ask too many questions.”
“No, it isn't that. It is because you act as if you really cared to have
me talk about my own affairs. I never met a girl before that did. Now, I
want to ask you about that club business. There's going to be the deuce
and all to pay in that if I'm not careful. Have you thought it over?
What would you do if you were I?”
The matter in question was a somewhat delicate and complicated one,
dealing with the admission or rejection of a certain fellow to one of
the Harvard societies. There was a strong influence working to get him
in and, on the other hand, there were some very good objections to
his admission. Crawford, president of the club and one of its most
influential members, was undecided what to do. He had explained the
case to Mary upon the occasion of his most recent visit to the
Pinckney Street house, and had asked her advice. She had taken time
for consideration, of course--she was the old Mary-'Gusta still in
that--and now the advice was ready.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that I should try to settle it like this.”
She explained her plan. Crawford listened, at first dubiously and then
with steadily growing enthusiasm.
“By George!” he exclaimed, when she had finished. “That would do it, I
honestly believe. How in the world did you ever think of that scheme?
Say, you really are a wonder at managing. You could manage a big
business and make it go, I'm sure. How do you do it? Where do you get
your ideas?”
Mary laughed. His praise pleased her.
“I don't know,” she answered. “I just think them out, I guess. I do
like to manage things for people. Sometimes I do it more than I should,
perhaps. Poor Isaiah Chase, at home in South Harniss, says I boss him to
death. And my uncles say I manage them, too--but they seem to like it,”
she added.
“I don't wonder they do. I like it, myself. Will you help manage my
affairs between now and Commencement? There'll be a whole lot to manage,
between the club and the dance and all the rest of it. And then when you
go to Commencement you can see for yourself how they work out.”
“Go to Commencement? Am I going to Commencement?”
“Of course you are! You're going with me, I hope. I thought that was
understood. It's a long way off yet, but for goodness' sake don't say
you won't come. I've been counting on it.”
Mary's pleasure showed in her face. All she said, however, was:
“Thank you very much. I shall be very glad to come.”
But Commencement was, as Crawford said, still a good way off and in the
meantime there were weeks of study. The weeks passed, some of them, and
then came the Easter vacation. Mary spent the vacation in South Harniss,
of course, and as there was no Christmas rush to make her feel that
she was needed at the store, she rested and drove and visited and had a
thoroughly happy and profitable holiday. The happiness and profit were
shared by her uncles, it is unnecessary to state. When she questioned
them concerning business and the outlook for the coming summer, they
seemed optimistic and cheerful.
“But Isaiah says there are two new stores to be opened in the village
this spring,” said Mary. “Don't you think they may hurt your trade a
little?”
Captain Shadrach dismissed the idea and his prospective competitors with
a condescending wave of the hand. “Not a mite,” he declared scornfully.
“Not a mite, Mary-'Gusta. Hamilton and Company's a pretty able old
craft. She may not show so much gilt paint and brass work as some of the
new ones just off the ways, but her passengers know she's staunch and
they'll stick by her. Why, Isaiah was sayin' that a feller was tellin'
him only yesterday that it didn't make any difference how many new
stores was started in this town, he'd never trade anywheres but with
Hamilton and Company. That shows you, don't it?”
“Who was it said that, Uncle Shad?” asked Mary.
“Eh? Why, I don't know. Isaiah was tellin' me about it and we was
interrupted. Who was it, Isaiah?”
“'Twas Rastus Young,” replied Mr. Chase promptly.
Even the Captain was obliged to laugh, although he declared that Mr.
Young's constancy was a proof that the firm's prospects were good.
“Rats'll always leave a sinkin' ship,” he said, “and if Zoeth and me was
goin' under Rat Young would be the first to quit.”
Zoeth, when his niece questioned him, expressed confidence that the new
competitors would not prove dangerous. “The Almighty has looked after
us so far,” he added, “unworthy as we be, and I guess he'll carry us the
rest of the way. Put your trust in Him, Mary-'Gusta; I hope they teach
you that up to school.”
So Mary, who had been rather troubled at the news of Hamilton and
Company's rivals in the field, dismissed her fears as groundless. Her
uncles were old-fashioned and a little behind the times in business
methods, but no doubt those methods were suited to South Harniss and
there was no cause for worry concerning the firm's future. She made
Isaiah promise to keep her posted as to developments and went back to
Boston and her schoolwork.