The school term ended on a Saturday morning in mid-December. Mary's trunk was packed and ready, and she and it reached the South Station long before train time. She was going home, home for the holidays, and if she had been going on a trip around the world she could not have been more delighted at the prospect. And her delight and anticipations were shared in South Harniss. Her uncles' letters for the past fortnight had contained little except joyful announcements of preparations for her coming.
We are counting the minutes [wrote Zoeth]. The first thing Shadrach does every morning is to scratch another day off the calendar. I never saw him so worked up and excited and I calculate I ain't much different myself. I try not to set my heart on things of this world more than I ought to, but it does seem as if I couldn't think of much else but our girl's coming back to us. I am not going to worry the way Shadrach does about your getting here safe and sound. The Lord's been mighty good to us and I am sure He will fetch you to our door all right. I am contented to trust you in His hands.
P.S. One or both of us will meet you at the depot.
Captain Shad's epistle was more worldly but not more coherent.
Be sure and take the train that comes right on through [he wrote]. Don't take the one that goes to Woods Hole. Zoeth is so fidgety and nervous for fear you will make a mistake that he keeps me on pins and needles. Isaiah ain't much better. He swept out the setting-room twice last week and if he don't roast the cat instead of the chicken he is calculating to kill, it will be a mercy. I am the only one aboard the ship that keeps his head and I tell them not to worry. Be sure you take that through train. And look out for them electric cars, if you come to the depot in one. Better settle on the one you are going to take and then take the one ahead of it so as to be sure and not be late. Your train leaves the dock at quarter-past four. The Woods Hole one is two minutes earlier. Look out and not take that. Zoeth is afraid you will make a mistake, but I laugh at him. Don't take the wrong train.
Mary laughed when she read these letters, but there was a choke in the laugh. In spite of the perils of travel by the electrics and the New Haven railroad, she reached South Harniss safe, sound, and reasonably on time. The first person she saw on the platform of the station was Captain Shadrach. He had been pacing that platform for at least forty minutes.
He spied her at the same time and came rushing to greet her, both hands outstretched.
“And here you be!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm.
Mary laughed happily.
“Yes, Uncle Shad, here I am,” she said. “Are you glad to see me?”
Shadrach looked at her.
“JUMPIN'!” was the only answer he made, but it was fervent and sufficient.
They rode home together in the old buggy. As they reached the corner by the store Mary expected the vehicle to be brought to a halt at the curb, but it was not. The Captain chirruped to the horse and drove straight on.
“Why, Uncle Shad!” exclaimed the girl. “Aren't you going to stop?”
“Eh? Stop? What for?”
“Why, to see Uncle Zoeth, of course. He's at the store, isn't he?”
Shadrach shook his head.
“No, he ain't,” he said. “He's to home.”
Mary was amazed and a trifle alarmed. One partner of Hamilton and Company was there in the buggy with her. By all the rules of precedent and South Harniss business the other should have been at the store. She knew that her uncles had employed no clerk or assistant since she left.
“But—but is Uncle Zoeth sick?” she asked.
“Sick? No, no, course he ain't sick. If he didn't have no better sense than to get sick the day you come home I'd—I'd—I don't know's I wouldn't drown him. HE ain't sick—unless,” he added, as an afterthought, “he's got Saint Vitus dance from hoppin' up and down to look out of the window, watchin' for us.”
“But if he isn't sick, why isn't he at the store? Who is there?”
The Captain chuckled.
“Not a solitary soul,” he declared. “That store's shut up tight and it's goin' to stay that way this whole blessed evenin'. Zoeth and me we talked it over. I didn't know but we'd better get Abel Snow's boy or that pesky Annabel or somebody to stay while we was havin' supper. You see, we was both sot on eatin' supper with you tonight, no matter store or not, and Isaiah, he was just as sot as we was. But all to once Zoeth had an idea. 'Shadrach,' he says, 'in Scriptur' times when people was real happy, same as we are now, they used to make a sacrifice to the Almighty to show how glad and grateful they was. Let's you and me make a sacrifice; let's sacrifice this evenin's trade—let's shut up the store on account of our girl's comin' home.' 'Good idea!' says I, so we did it.”
Mary looked at him reproachfully.
“Oh, Uncle Shad,” she said, “you shouldn't have done that. It was dear and sweet of you to think of it, but you shouldn't have done it. It didn't need any sacrifice to prove that you were glad to see me.”
Shadrach winked over his shoulder.
“Don't let that sacrifice worry you any,” he observed. “The sacrifice is mainly in Zoeth's eye. Fur's I'm concerned—well, Jabez Hedges told me yesterday that Rastus Young told him he cal'lated he'd have to be droppin' in at the store some of these nights to buy some rubber boots and new ileskins. We sold him the ones he's got four years ago and he ain't paid for 'em yet. No, no, Mary-'Gusta, don't you worry about that sacrifice. I can sacrifice Rastus Young's trade eight days in the week and make money by it. Course I didn't tell Zoeth that; have to humor these pious folks much as we can, you know.”
Mary smiled, but she shook her head. “It's no use your talking to me in that way, Uncle Shad,” she said. “I know you too well. And right in the Christmas season, too!”
Zoeth's welcome was as hearty, if not as exuberant, as Captain Shad's. He met her at the door and after the first hug and kiss held her off at arm's length and looked her over.
“My! my! my!” he exclaimed. “And this is our little Mary-'Gusta come back again! It don't seem as if it could be, somehow.”
“But it is, Uncle Zoeth,” declared Mary, laughing. “And ISN'T it good to be here! Well, Isaiah,” turning to Mr. Chase, who, aproned and shirtsleeved as usual, had been standing grinning in the background, “haven't you anything to say to me?”
Isaiah had something to say and he said it.
“Glad to see you,” he announced. “Feelin' pretty smart? Got a new hat, ain't you? Supper's ready.”
During the meal Mary was kept busy answering questions concerning school and her life at Mrs. Wyeth's. In her letters she had endeavored to tell every possible item of news which might be interesting to her uncles, but now these items were one by one recalled, reviewed, and discussed.
“'Twas kind of funny, that young Smith feller's turnin' up for dinner that time,” observed Mr. Hamilton. “Cal'late you was some surprised to see him, wan't you?”
Mary smiled. “Why, yes,” she said, “but I think he was more surprised to see me, Uncle Zoeth.”
Captain Shad laughed heartily. “Shouldn't wonder,” he admitted. “Didn't bring any fly paper along with him, did he? No? Well, that was an oversight. Maybe he thought fly time was past and gone. He seemed to be a real nice kind of young feller when he was down here that summer. He's older now; does he seem that way yet?”
“Why, yes, I think so. I only saw him for a little while.”
Isaiah seemed to think it time for him to put in a question.
“Good lookin' as ever, I cal'late, ain't he?” he observed.
Mary was much amused. “Why, I suppose he is,” she answered. “But why in the world are you interested in his good looks, Isaiah?”
Mr. Chase did his best to assume an expression of deep cunning. He winked at his employers.
“Oh, I ain't interested—not 'special,” he declared, “but I didn't know but SOME folks might be. Ho, ho!”
He roared at his own pleasantry. Captain Shadrach, however, did not laugh.
“Some folks?” he repeated, tartly. “What are you talkin' about? What folks?”
“Oh, I ain't sayin' what folks. I'm just sayin' SOME folks. Ho, ho! You know what I mean, don't you, Mary-'Gusta?”
Before Mary could reply the Captain cut in again.
“No, she don't know what you mean, neither,” he declared, with emphasis. “That's enough of that now, Isaiah. Don't be any bigger fool than you can help.”
The self-satisfied grin faded from Isaiah's face and was succeeded by a look of surprised and righteous indignation.
“Wha—what's that?” he stammered. “What's that you're callin' me?”
“I ain't callin' you nothin'. I'm givin' you some free advice, that's all. Well, Mary-'Gusta, I cal'late, if you've had supper enough, you and me and Zoeth will go into the settin'-room, where we can all talk and I can smoke. I can always talk better under a full head of steam. Come on, Zoeth, Isaiah wants to be clearin' the table.”
But Mr. Chase's thoughts were not concerned with table clearing just then. He stepped between Captain Shadrach and the door leading to the sitting-room.
“Cap'n Shad Gould,” he sputtered, “you—you said somethin' about a fool. Who's a fool? That's what I want to know—who's a fool?”
The Captain grunted.
“Give it up,” he observed. “I never was any hand at riddles. Come, come, Isaiah! Get out of the channel and let us through.”
“You hold on, Cap'n Shad! You answer me afore you leave this room. Who's a fool? I want to know who's a fool.”
Captain Shad grinned.
“Well, go up to the post-office and ask some of the gang there,” he suggested. “Tell 'em you'll give 'em three guesses. There, there!” he added, good-naturedly, pushing the irate Mr. Chase out of the “channel.” “Don't block the fairway any longer. It's all right, Isaiah. You and me have been shipmates too long to fight now. You riled me up a little, that's all. Come on, folks.”
Two hours later, after Mary had answered the last questions even Captain Shad could think of, had received answers to all her own, and had gone to her room for the night, Mr. Hamilton turned to his partner and observed mildly:
“Shadrach, what made you so dreadful peppery to Isaiah this evenin'? I declare, I thought you was goin' to take his head off.”
The Captain grunted. “I will take it off some time,” he declared, “if he don't keep the lower end of it shut when he'd ought to. You heard what he said, didn't you?”
“Yes, I heard. That about the Smith boy's good looks, you mean?”
“Sartin. And about Mary-'Gusta's noticin' how good-lookin' he was. Rubbish!”
“Yes—yes, I know, but Isaiah was only jokin'.”
“Jokin'! Well, he may LOOK like a comic almanac, but he needn't try to joke like one while that girl of ours is around. Puttin' notions about fellers and good looks and keepin' company into her head! You might expect such stuff from them fool drummers that come to the store, but an old leather-skinned image like Isaiah Chase ought to have more sense. We don't want such notions put in her head, do we?”
Zoeth rubbed his chin. He did not speak and his silence seemed to irritate his partner.
“Well, do we?” repeated the latter, sharply.
Zoeth sighed. “No, Shadrach,” he admitted. “I guess likely we don't, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, we've got to realize that those kind of notions come—come sort of natural to young folks Mary-'Gusta's age.”
“Rubbish! I don't believe that girl's got a single one of 'em in her mind.”
“Maybe not, but they'll be there some day. Ah, well,” he added, “we mustn't be selfish, you and me, Shadrach. It'll be dreadful hard to give her up to somebody else, but if that somebody is a good man, kind and straight and honest, why, I for one will try not to complain. But, Oh, Shadrach! Suppose he should turn out to be the other thing. Suppose SHE makes the mistake that I—”
His friend interrupted.
“Shh! shh!” he broke in, quickly. “Don't talk so, Zoeth. Come on to bed,” he added, rising from his chair. “This very evenin' I was callin' Isaiah names for talkin' about 'fellers' and such, and here you and I have been sittin' talkin' nothin' else. If you hear me say 'fool' in my sleep tonight just understand I'm talkin' to myself, that's all. Come on aloft, Zoeth, and turn in.”
The following morning Mary astonished her uncles by announcing that as soon as she had helped Isaiah with the breakfast dishes and the bed making she was going up to the store.
“What for?” demanded Captain Shad. “Course we'll be mighty glad to have your company, but Zoeth and me presumed likely you'd be for goin' round callin' on some of the other girls today.”
“Well, I'm not. If they want to see me they can call on me here. I'm going up to the store with you and Uncle Zoeth. I want to help sell those Christmas goods of ours.”
The partners looked at each other. Even Zoeth was moved to protest.
“Now, Mary-'Gusta,” he said, “it ain't likely that your Uncle Shadrach and I are goin' to let you sell goods in that store. We won't hear of it, will we, Shadrach?”
“Not by a thunderin' sight!” declared Shadrach, vehemently. “The idea!”
“Why not? I've sold a good many there.”
“I don't care if you have. You shan't sell any more. 'Twas all right when you was just a—a girl, a South Harnisser like the rest of us, but now that you're a Boston young lady, up to a fin—er—what-d'ye-call-it —er—endin' school—”
“Finishin' school, Shadrach,” corrected Mr. Hamilton.
“Well, whatever 'tis; I know 'twould be the end of ME if I had to live up to the style of it. 'Anyhow, now that you're there, Mary-'Gusta, a young lady, same as I said, we ain't—”
But Mary interrupted. “Hush, Uncle Shad,” she commanded. “Hush, this minute! You're talking nonsense, I AM a South Harniss girl and I'm NOT a Boston young lady. My chief reasons for being so very happy at the thought of coming home here for my Christmas vacation were, first, that I should see you and Uncle Zoeth and Isaiah and the house and the horse and the cat and the hens, and, next, that I could help you with the Christmas trade at the store. I know perfectly well you need me. I'm certain you have been absolutely lost without me. Now, really and truly, haven't you?”
“Not a mite,” declared the Captain, stoutly, spoiling the effect of the denial, however, by adding, although his partner had not spoken: “Shut up, Zoeth! We ain't, neither.”
Mary laughed. “Uncle Shad,” she said, “I don't believe you. At any rate, I'm going up there this minute to see for myself. Come along!”
She made no comment on what she saw at the store, but for the remainder of the forenoon she was very busy. In spite of the partners' protests, in fact paying no more attention to those perturbed men of business than if they were flies to be brushed aside when bothersome, she went ahead, arranging, rearranging, dusting, writing price tickets, lettering placards, doing all sorts of things, and waiting on customers in the intervals. At noon, when she and her Uncle Zoeth left for home and dinner, she announced herself in a measure satisfied. “Of course there is a great deal to do yet,” she said, “but the stock looks a little more as if it were meant to sell and less as if it were heaped up ready to be carted off and buried.”
That afternoon the store of Hamilton and Company was visited by a goodly number of South Harniss residents. That evening there were more. The news that Mary-'Gusta Lathrop was at home and was “tendin' store” for her uncles spread and was much discussed. The majority of those who came did so not because they contemplated purchasing extensively, but because they wished to see what effect the fashionable finishing school had had upon the girl. The general opinion seemed to be that it “hadn't changed her a mite.” This result, however, was considered a desirable one by the majority, but was by some criticized. Among the critics was Mrs. Rebecca Mullet, whose daughter Irene also was away at school undergoing the finishing process.
“Well!” declared Mrs. Mullet, with decision, as she and her husband emerged from the store together. “Well! If THAT'S a sample of what the school she goes to does for them that spend their money on it, I'm mighty glad we didn't send our Rena there, ain't you, Christopher?”
Mr. Chris Mullet, who had received that very week a bill for his daughter's “extras,” uttered a fervent assent.
“You bet you!” he said. “It costs enough where Rena is, without sendin' her to no more expensive place.”
This was not exactly the reply his wife had expected.
“Umph!” she grunted, impatiently. “I do wish you could get along for two minutes without puttin' on poor mouth. I suppose likely you tell everybody that you can't afford a new overcoat account of Rena's goin' away to school. You'd ought to be prouder of your daughter than you are of an overcoat, I should think.”
Mr. Mullet muttered something to the effect that he was dum sure he was not proud of his present overcoat. His wife ignored the complaint.
“And you'll be proud of Irene when she comes home,” she declared. “She won't be like that Mary-'Gusta, standin' up behind the counter and sellin' goods.”
“Why, now, Becky, what's the matter with her doin' that? She always used to sell goods, and behind that very counter, too. And she certainly can SELL 'em!” with a reminiscent chuckle.
Mrs. Mullet glared at him. “Yes,” she drawled, with sarcasm, “so she can—to some folks. Look at you, with all that Christmas junk under your arm! You didn't need to buy that stuff any more'n you needed to fly. What did you buy it for? Tell me that.”
Chris shook his head. “Blessed if I know,” he admitted. “I hadn't any idea of buyin' it, but she and me got to talkin', and she kept showin' the things to me, and I kept lookin' at 'em and—”
“Yes, and kept lookin' at her, too! Don't talk to ME! There's no fool like an old fool—and an old man fool is the worst of all.”
Her husband, usually meek and long-suffering under wifely discipline, evinced unwonted spirit.
“Well, I tell you this, Becky,” he said. “Fur's I can see, Mary-'Gusta's all right. She's as pretty as a picture, to begin with; she's got money of her own to spend; and she's been away among folks that have got a lot more. All them things together are enough to spoil 'most any girl, but they haven't spoiled her. She's come home here not a mite stuck-up, not flirty nor silly nor top-lofty, but just as sensible and capable and common-folksy as ever she was, and that's sayin' somethin'. If our Rena turns out to be the girl Mary-'Gusta Lathrop is I WILL be proud of her, and don't you forget it!”
Which terminated conversation in the Mullet family for that evening.
But if the few, like Mrs. Mullet, were inclined to criticize, the many, like her husband, united in declaring Mary to be “all right.” And her rearranging and displaying of the Christmas goods helped her and her uncles to dispose of them. In fact, for the three days before Christmas it became necessary to call in the services of Annabel as assistant saleslady. The store was crowded, particularly in the evenings, and Zoeth and Captain Shad experienced for the first time in months the sensation of being the heads of a prosperous business.
“Looks good to see so many young folks in here, don't it, Zoeth?” observed the Captain. “And not only girls, but fellers, too. Don't know when I've seen so many young fellers in here. Who's that young squirt Mary-'Gusta's waitin' on now? The one with the whittled-in back to his overcoat. Say, Solomon in all his glory wasn't arrayed like one of him! Must be some city feller, eh? Nobody I know.”
Zoeth looked at his niece and her customer.
“Humph!” he said. “Guess you ain't rubbed your glasses lately, Shadrach. That's Dan Higgins.”
Mr. Higgins it was, home for a few days' relaxation from the fatigues of coffin selling, and garbed as usual in city clothes the splendor of which, as Captain Shad said afterwards, “would have given a blind man eyestrain.” Daniel's arms were filled with purchases and he and Mary were standing beside the table where the toys and games were displayed. Mary was gazing at the toys; Mr. Higgins was—not.
The partners regarded the pair for a moment. Shadrach frowned.
“Humph!” he grunted.
“Daniel's tryin' to find somethin' his little brother'll like,” explained Zoeth.
“Yes,” observed the Captain, dryly. “Well, he looks as if he'd found somethin' HE liked pretty well. Here, Mary-'Gusta, I'll finish waitin' on Dan. You just see what Mrs. Nickerson wants, will you, please?”
Christmas Eve ended the rush of business for Hamilton and Company. The following week, the last of Mary's vacation, was certain to be dull enough. “Nothin' to do but change presents for folks,” prophesied Captain Shad. “Give them somethin' they want and take back somethin' we don't want. That kind of trade is like shovelin' fog up hill, more exercise than profit.”
Christmas was a happy day at the white house by the shore, a day of surprises. To begin with, there were the presents which were beside the plates at breakfast. Mary had brought gifts for all, Captain Shadrach, Zoeth, and Isaiah. There was nothing expensive, of course, but each had been chosen to fit the taste and liking of the recipient and there was no doubt that each choice was a success. Isaiah proudly displayed a jacknife which was a small toolchest, having four blades, a corkscrew, a screwdriver, a chisel, a button-hook and goodness knows what else besides.
“Look at that!” crowed Isaiah, exhibiting the knife, bristling like a porcupine, on his open palm. “Look at it! By time, there ain't nothin' I can't do with that knife! Every time I look at it I find somethin' new. Now, I wonder what that is,” pointing to a particularly large and ferocious-looking implement which projected from the steel tangle. “I cal'late I've sized up about everything else, but I can't seem to make out what that's for. What do you cal'late 'tis, Cap'n Shad?”
Shadrach looked.
“Why, that's simple,” he said, gravely. “That's a crust crowbar.”
“A what?”
“A crust crowbar. For openin' one of them cast-iron pies same as you made for us last week. You drill a hole in the crust nigh the edge of the plate and then put that thing in and pry the upper deck loose. Good idea, Isaiah! I—”
“Aw, go to grass!” interrupted the indignant Mr. Chase. “I notice you always eat enough of my pies, decks—yes, and hull and riggin', too.”
Then there was THE great surprise, that which the partners had prepared for their idolized niece. Mary found beside her plate a small, oblong package, wrapped in tissue paper and labeled, “To Mary-'Gusta, from Uncle Shadrach and Uncle Zoeth, with a Merry Christmas.” Inside the paper was a pasteboard box, inside that a leather case, and inside THAT a handsome gold watch and chain. Then there was much excited exclaiming and delighted thanks on Mary's part, and explanations and broad grins on that of the givers.
“But you shouldn't have done it! Of course you shouldn't!” protested Mary. “It's perfectly lovely and I wanted a watch more than anything; but I KNOW this must have cost a great deal.”
“Never, neither,” protested the Captain. “We got it wholesale. Edgar Emery's nephew is in the business up to Providence and he picked it out for us. Didn't begin to cost what we cal'lated 'twould, did it, Zoeth? When you buy things wholesale that way you can 'most always cal'late to get 'em lower than you cal'late to.”
Mary smiled at this somewhat involved statement, but she shook her head.
“I'm sure it cost a great deal more than you should have spent,” she said.
“But you like it, don't you?” queried Zoeth, hopefully.
“Like it! Oh, Uncle Zoeth, don't you KNOW I like it! Who could help liking such a beautiful thing?”
“How's it show up alongside the watches the other girls have up to that Boston school?” asked Shadrach, with ill-concealed anxiety. “We wouldn't want our girl's watch to be any cheaper'n theirs, you know.”
The answer was enthusiastic enough to satisfy even the Captain and Mr. Hamilton.
“I'm sure there isn't another girl in the school whose watch means to her what this will mean to me,” declared Mary. “I shall keep it and love it all my life.”
The partners heaved a sigh of relief. Whether or not the watch was fine enough for their Mary-'Gusta had been a source of worriment and much discussion. And then Isaiah, with his customary knack of saying the wrong thing, tossed a brickbat into the puddle of general satisfaction.
“That's so,” he said; “that's so, Mary-'Gusta. You can keep it all your life, and when you get to be an old woman and married and have grandchildren then you can give it to them.”
Captain Shadrach, who had taken up his napkin preparatory to tucking it under his chin, turned in his chair and glared at the unconscious steward.
“Well, by the jumpin' fire!” he exclaimed, with conviction. “The feller is sartinly possessed. He's lovesick, that's what's the matter with him. All he can talk about is somebody's gettin' married. Are YOU cal'latin' to get married, Isaiah?”
“Me? What kind of fool talk is that?”
“Who's the lucky woman?”
“There ain't no lucky woman. Don't talk so ridic'lous! All I said was that when Mary-'Gusta was old and married and had—”
“There you go again! Married and children! Say, did it ever run acrost your mind that you was a little mite previous?”
“I never said children. What I said was when she was old and had grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren! Well, that's a dum sight MORE previous. Let's have breakfast, all hands, for the land sakes! Isaiah'll have us cruisin' along with the third and fourth generation in a few minutes. I'M satisfied with this one!”
That evening, at bedtime, as the partners separated in the upper hall to go to their respective rooms, Zoeth said:
“Shadrach, this has been a mighty nice Christmas for us all, ain't it?”
Captain Shad nodded emphatically. “You bet!” he declared. “Don't seem to me I ever remember a nicer one.”
“Nor I, neither. I—I wonder—”
“Well, heave ahead. What are you waitin' for? What do you wonder?”
“I was just wonderin' if 'twas right for us to be so happy.”
“Right?”
“Yes. Have we been—well, good enough this past year to deserve happiness like this?”
Shadrach grinned.
“I ain't puttin' in any testimony on my own hook,” he said, dryly, “but I don't seem to remember your bein' desperately wicked, Zoeth. Course you MAY have got drunk and disorderly that time when Mary-'Gusta and I left you and went to Boston, but I kind of doubt it.”
“Hush, hush, Shadrach! Don't joke about serious things. What I mean is have you and I walked the Lord's way as straight as we'd ought to? We've tried—that is, seems 's if we had—but I don't know. Anyhow, all this afternoon I've had a funny feelin' that you and me and Mary-'Gusta was—well was as if the tide had been comin' in for us all these years since she's been livin' with us, and as if now 'twould begin to go out again.”
The Captain laughed. “And that's what you call a FUNNY feelin'!” he exclaimed. “Zoeth, I've got a funny feelin', too, but I know what's the reason for it—the reason is turkey and plum puddin' and mince pie and the land knows what. When a couple of old hulks like you and me h'ist in a cargo of that kind it's no wonder we have feelin's. Good night, shipmate.”
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.