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.
