"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."
