That difficult letter was never written. In the afternoon, business at
the store being rather quiet and Mrs. Atkins, the nurse, desiring an
hour's leave to do an errand in the village, Mary had taken her place
in the sickroom. Zoeth was improving slowly, so the doctor said, but he
took very little interest in what went on, speaking but seldom,
asking few questions, and seeming to be but partially sensible of his
surroundings. Best not to try to rouse him, the physician said. Little
by little he would gain mentally as well as physically and, by and
by, there was reason to hope, would be up and about again. Probably,
however, he would never be so strong as he had been before his sudden
seizure, the cause of which--if there had been a definite cause--was
still unknown.
Just then he was asleep and Mary, sitting in the rocking-chair by the
bed, was thinking, thinking, thinking. If she could only stop thinking
for a little while! Uncle Zoeth, there on the bed, looked so calm and
peaceful. If only she might have rest and peace again! If she might be
allowed to forget!
The door opened gently and Mr. Chase appeared. He beckoned to her to
come out. With a glance at the patient, she tiptoed from the room into
the hall.
“What is it, Isaiah?” she asked.
Isaiah seemed to be excited about something.
“I've got a surprise for you, Mary-'Gusta,” he whispered. “There's
somebody downstairs to see you.”
His manner was so important and mysterious that Mary was puzzled.
“Someone to see me?” she repeated. “Who is it?”
Mr. Chase winked.
“It's somebody you wan't expectin' to see, I bet you!” he declared. “I
know I wan't. When I opened the door and see him standin' there I--”
“Saw him? Who? Who is it, Isaiah? Stop that ridiculous winking this
instant. Who is it?”
“It's that young Crawford Smith feller from way out West, that's who
'tis. Ah, ha! I told you you'd be surprised.”
She was surprised, there could be no doubt of that. For a moment she
stood perfectly still. Had it not been that the hall was almost dark in
the shadows of the late afternoon Isaiah would have noticed how pale
she had become. But it was evident that he did not notice it, for he
chuckled.
“I told you you'd be some surprised,” he crowed. “Well, ain't you comin'
on down to see him? Seems to me if I had a beau--excuse me, a gentleman
friend--who come a-cruisin' all the way from t'other side of creation to
see me I wouldn't keep him waitin' very long. Ho! ho!”
Mary did not answer at once. When she did she was surprised to find that
she was able to speak so calmly.
“I shall be down in a moment,” she said. “Isaiah, will you please go in
and stay with Uncle Zoeth until I come?”
Isaiah looked chagrined and disappointed. Visitors from the far West
were rare and especially rare was a young gentleman who Mr. Chase, with
what Captain Shadrach termed his “lovesick imagination,” surmised was
Mary-'Gusta's beau. He wished to see more of him.
“Aw, say, Mary-'Gusta,” he pleaded, “I'm awful busy. I don't see how I
can set along of Zoeth--Say, Mary'Gusta!”
But Mary had gone. She was hurrying along the hall toward her own room.
So Isaiah, remembering that the doctor had said Mr. Hamilton must not be
left alone, grumblingly obeyed orders and went in to sit beside him.
In her own room Mary stood, white and shaken, striving to regain her
composure. She must regain it, she must be cool and calm in order to go
through the ordeal she knew was before her. His coming could mean but
one thing: his father had still refused consent and he had come to tell
her so and to beg her to wait for him in spite of it. If only he had
written saying he was coming, if she had been forewarned, then she
might have been more ready, more prepared. Now she must summon all her
resolution and be firm and unwavering. Her purpose was as set and strong
as ever, but ah, it would be so hard to tell him! To write the letter
she had meant to write would have been easy compared to this. However,
it must be done--and done now. She went down the stairs and entered the
sitting-room.
He was sitting in the rocker by the window and when she came into the
room he sprang to his feet and came toward her. His face, or so it
seemed to her, showed some traces of the trouble and anxiety through
which he had passed so recently. He was a little thinner and he looked
less boyish. He held out his hands.
“Well, Mary,” he cried, eagerly, “here I am. Aren't you glad to see me?”
He seized both her hands in his. She disengaged them gently. Her manner
seemed odd to him and he regarded her in a puzzled way.
“AREN'T you glad?” he repeated. “Why, Mary, what is the matter?”
She smiled sadly and shook her head. “Oh, Crawford,” she said, “why did
you come? Or, at least, why didn't you write me you were coming?”
He laughed. “I didn't write,” he answered, “because I was afraid if I
did you would write me not to come.”
“I certainly should.”
“Of course you would. So I took no chances but just came instead.”
“But why did you come?”
“Why? To see you, of course.”
“Oh, Crawford, please don't joke. You know I asked you not to come here.
When we last spoke together, over the telephone, I told you that if you
came here I should not see you. And yet you came.”
His manner changed. He was serious enough now.
“I came,” he said, “because--well, because I felt that I must. I had
many things to tell you, Mary, and something to ask. And I could
neither tell nor ask in a letter. Dad and I have quarreled--we've parted
company.”
She had expected to hear it, but it shocked and grieved her,
nevertheless. She knew how he had loved his father.
“Sit down, Crawford,” she said gently. “Sit down and tell me all about
it.”
He told her. There was little more to tell than he had written. His
father had not become more reconciled to the idea of his marrying Mary.
Instead his opposition was just as violent and, to his son's mind, as
unreasonably absurd. Day after day Crawford waited, hoping that time
would bring a change or that his own arguments might have an effect, but
neither time nor argument softened Edwin Smith's obstinacy.
“He behaved like a madman at times,” declared Crawford. “And at others
he would almost beg me on his knees to give you up. I asked him why. I
told him over and over again that he should be proud to have such a girl
for his daughter-in-law. I said everything I could. I told him I would
do anything for him--anything he asked--except give you up. That I would
not do. And it was the only thing he seemed to wish me to do. Talked
about bringing shame and disgrace on his head and mine--and all sorts of
wild nonsense. When I asked what he meant by disgrace he could not tell
me. Of course he couldn't.”
That was true, of course he could not tell. Mary knew, and she realized
once more the tortures which the man must have suffered, must be
suffering at that moment.
“So at last we parted,” said Crawford. “I left word--left a letter
saying that, so far as I could see, it was best that I went away. We
could not agree apparently, he and I, upon the one point which, as I
saw it, was the most important decision of my life. And I had made that
decision. I told him how much I hated to leave him; that I loved him as
much as I ever did. 'But,' I said, 'I shall not give up my happiness and
my future merely to gratify your unreasonable whim.' Then I came away
and started East to you.”
He paused, evidently expecting Mary to make some comment or ask a
question, but she was silent. After a moment he went on.
“I haven't made any definite plans as yet,” he said. “I have another
year at the Medical School--or should have it. I am hoping that I may
be able to go back to the Harvard Med. here in Boston and work my
way through. Other chaps have done it and I'm sure I can. And after
that--well, after that I must take my chance at finding a location and
a practice, like any other young M.D. But first of all, Mary, I want
you to tell me that you will wait for me. It's a lot to ask; I know how
much. But will you, Mary dear? That's what I've come here for--to get
you to say that you will. After that I can face anything--yes, and win
out, too.”
Mary looked at him. His face was aglow with earnestness and his voice
shook as he finished speaking. He rose and held out his hands.
“Will you, Mary?” he begged.
She looked at him no longer. She was afraid to do so--afraid of her own
weakness. But no sign of that weakness showed itself in her tone as she
answered.
“I'm sorry, Crawford,” she said, gently. “I wish I could, but I can't.”
“Can't! Can't wait for me?”
“I could wait for you, it isn't that. If it were merely a question of
waiting--if that were all--how easy it would be! But it isn't. Crawford,
you must go back to your father. You must go back to him and forget all
about me. You must.”
He stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed.
“Forget you!” he repeated. “Mary, are you--”
“Oh, please, Crawford! Don't make this any harder for both of us than it
has to be. You must go back to your father and you must forget me. I can
not marry you, I can't.”
He came toward her.
“But, Mary,” he cried, “I--I--Of course I know you can't--now. I know
how you feel about your duty to your uncles. I know they need you. I am
not asking that you leave them. I ask only that you say you will wait
until--until by and by, when--”
“Please, Crawford! No, I can't.”
“Mary! You--Oh, but you must say it! Don't tell me you don't love me!”
She was silent. He put his hands upon her shoulders. She could feel them
tremble.
“Don't you love me, Mary?” he repeated. “Look up! Look at me! DON'T you
love me?”
She did not look up, but she shook her head.
“No, Crawford,” she said. “I'm afraid not. Not enough.”
She heard him catch his breath, and she longed--Oh, how she longed!--to
throw her arms about him, tell him that it was all a lie, that she did
love him. But she forced herself not to think of her own love, only of
those whom she loved and what disgrace and shame and misery would come
upon them if she yielded.
“Not enough?” she heard him repeat slowly. “You--you don't love me? Oh,
Mary!”
She shook her head.
“I am sorry, Crawford,” she said. “I can't tell you how sorry.
Please--please don't think hardly of me, not too hardly. I wish--I wish
it were different.”
Neither spoke for a moment. Then he said:
“I'm afraid I don't understand. Is there someone else?”
“Oh, no, no! There isn't anyone.”
“Then--But you told me--You have let me think--”
“Please! I told you I was not sure of my own feelings. I--I am sure
now. I am so sorry you came. I should have written you. I had begun the
letter.”
Again silence. Then he laughed, a short, bitter laugh with anything but
mirth in it.
“I am a fool,” he said. “WHAT a fool I have been!”
“Please, Crawford, don't speak so. . . . Oh, where are you going?”
“I? I don't know. What difference does it make where I go? Good-by.”
“Stop, Crawford! Wait! It makes a difference to your father where you
go. It makes a difference to me. I--I value your friendship very highly.
I hoped I might keep that. I hoped you would let me be your friend, even
though the other could not be. I hoped that.”
The minute before she had asked him to forget her, but she did not
remember that, nor did he. He was standing by the door, looking out. For
a moment he stood there. Then he turned and held out his hand.
“Forgive me, Mary,” he said. “I have behaved like a cad, I'm afraid.
When a fellow has been building air castles and all at once they tumble
down upon his head he--well, he is likely to forget other things.
Forgive me.”
She took his hand. She could keep back the tears no longer; her eyes
filled.
“There is nothing for me to forgive,” she said. “If you will forgive me,
that is all I ask. And--and let me still be your friend.”
“Of course. Bless you, Mary! I--I can't talk any more now. You'll--”
with an attempt at a smile--“you'll have to give me a little time to get
my bearings, as your Uncle Shad would say.”
“And--and won't you go back to your father? I shall feel so much happier
if you do.”
He hesitated. Then he nodded.
“If you wish it--yes,” he said. “I suppose it is the thing I ought to
do. Dad will be happy, at any rate. Oh, Mary, CAN'T you?”
“No, Crawford, no. Yes, your father will be happy. And--and by and by
you will be, too, I know. Are you going?”
“Yes, I think I had better. I don't feel like meeting anyone and your
Uncle Shad will be here soon, I suppose. Your man here--Isaiah--told me
of Mr. Hamilton's sickness. I'm sorry.”
“Yes, poor Uncle Zoeth! He is gaining a little, however. Crawford, I
won't ask you to stay. Perhaps it will be best for both of us if you do
not. But won't you write me just once more? Just to tell me that you and
your father are reconciled? I should like to know that. And do forgive
me--Oh, do! I HAD to say it, Crawford!”
“I forgive you, Mary. Of course you had to say it. . . . But . . . Well,
never mind. Yes, I'll write, of course. I hope . . . No, I can't say
that, not now. I'd better go at once, I think, before I . . . Good-by.”
He seized her hand, pressed it tightly, took his hat from the table and
his bag from the floor and swung out of the door. In the doorway she
stood looking after him. At the gate he turned, waved his hand, and
hurried on. He did not look back again.
When at half-past six Captain Shadrach, having left Annabel and the boy
in charge of the store, came home for supper, Isaiah had some news to
tell him. It was surprising news.
“You don't say!” exclaimed the Captain. “Well, well, I want to know! All
the way from out West, eh? Sho! Where is he now?”
Isaiah shook his head. “That's the funny part of it, he's gone,” he
said.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“I don't know. All I know is he come and said he wanted to see
Mary-'Gusta--I went up and told her and she come down to see him. I
stayed up along of Zoeth until Debby T. came back from her shoppin'
cruise. Then I come downstairs again and his hat and bag was gone. There
wan't nobody here.”
“Where was Mary-'Gusta? Where is she now?”
“Up in her room, I cal'late. I heard her movin' round there a spell
ago.”
Shadrach went up the stairs, along the hall, and knocked at Mary's door.
“Who is it?” asked a faint voice within.
“It's your Uncle Shad, Mary-'Gusta. Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
He entered. There was no lamp and the room was dark.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“Here, by the window, Uncle Shad.”
She was sitting in the rocker by the window. He could not see her face,
but as he bent and kissed her cheek he found it wet.
“Mercy on us! You've been cryin'!” he declared.
“Oh--Oh, no, I haven't! I--”
“Rubbish! Yes, you have, too. Settin' alone up here in the dark and
cryin'! Mary-'Gusta Lathrop, come here!”
She had risen from the rocking-chair, but he seized her in his arms, sat
down in the chair himself, and lifted her to his knee just as he used to
do when she was the little Mary-'Gusta.
“Now there, dearie,” he said. “You'll tell your Uncle Shad. What is it?”
“Oh, nothing, Uncle Shad, dear. I was--I'm feeling just a little silly
this afternoon, I guess. You mustn't ask me.”
“All right, I won't ask--I'll tell. That young feller from out West,
the feller with the uncommon name--Brown--Jones--Oh, no, Smith, that was
it--he came cruisin' around here and--”
“Uncle Shad, how did you know?”
“A little bird told me. A long-legged bird without much hair on top--a
bald-headed eagle, I cal'late he must be. Hops round our kitchen
daytimes and roosts in the attic nights.”
“Isaiah! Of course he would tell.”
“Of course he would--BEIN' Isaiah. Well, this Smith critter, he came
and--and--well, I guess you'll have to tell me the rest.”
“There isn't much to tell. He came and--and then he went away again.”
“Went away--where?”
“Out to Carson City, I suppose.”
“Ain't he comin' back any more?”
“No.”
“Why? Don't you want him to come, Mary-'Gusta?”
“Oh, Uncle Shad, please don't. I don't feel as if I could answer. Don't
ask me.”
“There, there, dearie; don't you answer nothin'. You set still here and
be my baby. I ain't had a chance to baby you for a long spell and it
seems good.”
Silence. Suddenly the Captain felt the head which nestled against his
shoulder stir.
“Uncle Shadrach,” said Mary-'Gusta, “what do you do when you want to
forget?”
“Eh? Want to forget? Oh, I don't know! Cal'late I turn to and sail in
and work a little harder, maybe. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. . . But I am much obliged for the suggestion. Now I am
going to work. I shall begin tomorrow morning. I wish it was tomorrow
right now.”
“Don't. Jumpin' fire! Don't wish time away; some of us ain't got too
much to spare. But ain't you BEEN workin', for mercy sakes? I should say
you had.”
Another interval of silence. Then Mary said:
“Uncle Shad, a good while ago, when you asked me about--about him, I
promised you I would tell when there was anything to tell. I am going to
keep my promise. He came today and asked me--asked me to marry him--not
now, of course, but by and by.”
Shadrach was not greatly surprised. Nevertheless it was a moment before
he spoke. Mary felt his arms tighten about her and she realized a little
of the struggle he was making. Yet his tone was brave and cheerful.
“Yes,” he said. “Well, I--I kind of cal'lated that would come some day
or other. It's all right, Mary-'Gusta. Zoeth and me have talked it over
and all we want is to see you happy. If you said yes to him, Zoeth and
I'll say 'God bless you' to both of you.”
She reached for his hand and lifted it to her lips. “I know you would,”
she said. “All your lives you have been thinking of others and not
of yourselves. But I didn't say yes, Uncle Shad. I am not going to be
married now or by and by. I don't want to be. I am the silent partner
of Hamilton and Company. I am a business woman and I am going to
work--REALLY work--from now on. No, you mustn't ask me any more
questions. We'll try to forget it all. Kiss me, Uncle Shad, dear.
That's it. Now you go down to supper. I shall stay here; I am not hungry
tonight.”