The spring term was an interesting one and there were other interests as well. Crawford called more frequently, the plans for Commencement requiring a great deal of discussion. Mary's fondness for managing was, or should have been, gratified, for the talent was in constant demand. Sam Keith, who, after meeting Mary at his cousin's house, had at first developed an amazing fondness for that relative's society, now came less often. He was in the second stage of the pretty-girl disease mentioned by his aunt; the fever and delirium had passed, and he was now cooling off. It cannot be said that the fever had been in the least encouraged. Mary was pleasant and agreeable when he called, but she would not treat him as a confidant or an intimate; she did not accept any of his invitations to dances or the theater, and she would not flirt even the least little bit. The last was the most unsatisfactory drawback, because the susceptible Samuel was fond of flirtations and usually managed to keep at least three going at the same time. Therefore, the cooling-off process was, in this case, a bit more rapid than usual. Sam's calls and dinners at his cousin Emily's residence had decreased from two or three times a week to an uncertain once a fortnight. Mary, of course, noticed this, but she felt no regret. Crawford, Sam's roommate, must have noticed it also, but if he felt regret he managed to conceal the feeling remarkably well.
Early in May Captain Shadrach came up to the city to buy summer goods for the store. He positively refused to make his headquarters at Mrs. Wyeth's, although that lady sent an urgent invitation to him to do so. And, even when Mary added her own plea to that of her landlady, the Captain still refused.
Don't ask me, Mary-'Gusta [he wrote]. For the dear land sakes don't ask me to come to that place and stay. I'd do 'most anything for you, and I will do that if you are dead sot on it, but I do hope you ain't. I will come up there and see you of course and I'll even stay to supper if I get asked, but DON'T ask me to drop anchor and stay there night and day. I couldn't stand it. My backbone's sprung backwards now from settin' up so straight last time I was there.
So Mary had pity upon him and he took a room at the Quincy House where, as he said, he didn't have to keep his nose dead on the course every minute, but could “lay to and be comf'table” if he wanted to. He was invited to supper at the Wyeth house, however, and while there Mrs. Wyeth found an opportunity to take him aside and talk with him on a subject which he found interesting and a trifle disquieting.
“Now mind,” said the lady, “I am by no means convinced that the affair is anything but a mere boy and girl friendship, or that it is ever likely to be more than that. But I did think I ought to tell you about it and that you should meet the young man. You have met him, you say?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said Shadrach, “I've met him. 'Twan't much more'n that—he just came into our store down home, that's all. But I did meet him and I must say I thought he was a real likely young feller.”
“I am glad you thought so. So do I. Has Mary written you of his calls here?”
“Oh, yes, ma'am, she's written. She ain't the kind of girl to keep anything back from us; at least, if she is, she's changed a heap since she came away to school. She's told us about his comin' here and about you and him and her goin' to that—what-d'ye-call-it—hookey game. She wrote all about that 'way last February.”
“Yes, we did go to the hockey game. Samuel, my cousin John Keith's boy, played in it. Now, Captain Gould, I have a suggestion to make. It has been some years since you met Crawford Smith and I think, everything considered, you should meet him again and decide for yourself whether or not you still consider him a proper young person to call upon your niece. Suppose you dine with us again tomorrow evening and I invite young Smith also. Then—”
But the Captain interrupted. He had a plan of his own for the following evening and another meal at Mrs. Wyeth's was not a part of it.
“Er—er—excuse me, ma'am,” he cut in hastily, “but I had a—a kind of notion that Mary-'Gusta and me might get our supper at a—a eatin'-house or somewhere tomorrow night and then maybe we'd take in—I mean go to a show—a theater, I should say. I didn't know but I'd ask this young Smith feller to go along. And—and—” remembering his politeness, “of course we'd be real glad if you'd come, too,” he added.
But Mrs. Wyeth, although she thanked him and expressed herself as heartily in favor of the supper and theater party, refused to become a member of it. The Captain bore the shock of the refusal with, to say the least, manful resignation. He had a huge respect for Mrs. Wyeth, and he liked her because his beloved Mary-'Gusta liked her so well, but his liking was seasoned with awe and her no in this case was a great relief.
So the following evening at six Mary and her uncle met Crawford at the Quincy House and the three dined together, after which they saw the performance of “The Music Master” at the Tremont Theater. Crawford found the dinner quite as entertaining as the play. Captain Shadrach was in high good humor and his remarks during the meal were characteristic. He persisted in addressing the dignified waiter as “Steward” and in referring to the hotel kitchen as the “galley.” He consulted his young guests before ordering and accepted their selections gracefully if not always silently.
“All right, Mary-'Gusta,” he observed. “All right, just as you say. You're the skipper of this craft tonight, and me and Crawford here are just passengers. If you say we've got to eat—what is it?—consummer soup—why, I suppose likely we have. I'll take my chances if Crawford will. Course, if I was alone here, I'd probably stick to oyster stew and roast beef. I know what they are. And it's some comfort to be sure of what you're gettin', as the sick feller said when the doctor told him he had the smallpox instead of the measles. You don't mind my callin' you 'Crawford,' do you?” he added, turning to that young gentleman. “I'm old enough to be your father, for one thing, and for another a handle's all right on a jug or a sasspan, but don't seem as if 'twas necessary to take hold of a friend's name by. And I hope we're goin' to be friends, we three.”
Crawford said he hoped so, too, and he said it with emphasis.
“Good!” exclaimed the Captain with enthusiasm. “And we'll cement the friendship—the book fellers are always tellin' about cementin' friendships—with this supper of ours, eh? If we only had some of Isaiah's last batch of mincemeat we could sartinly do it with that; it was the nighest thing to cement ever I saw put on a table. I asked him if he filled his pies with a trowel and you ought to have heard him sputter. You remember Isaiah, don't you, Crawford? Tall, spindlin' critter, sails cook for Zoeth and me at the house down home. He ain't pretty, but his heart's in the right place. That's kind of strange, too,” he added with a chuckle, “when you consider how nigh his shoulder-blades are to the top of his legs.”
Between his stories and jokes he found time to ask his male guest a few questions and these questions, although by no means offensively personal, were to the point. He inquired concerning the young man's home life, about his ambitions and plans for the future, about his friends and intimates at college. Crawford, without being in the least aware that he was being catechized, told a good deal, and Captain Shadrach's appraising regard, which had learned to judge men afloat and ashore, read more than was told. The appraisal was apparently satisfactory for, after the young man had gone and the Captain and Mary were saying good night in the Wyeth parlor, Shadrach said:
“A nice boy, I should say. Yes, sir, a real nice young feller, as young fellers go. I like him fust-rate.”
“I'm glad, Uncle Shad,” said Mary. “I like him, too.”
Shadrach regarded her with a little of the questioning scrutiny he had devoted to Crawford during dinner.
“You do, eh?” he mused. “How much?”
“How much?” repeated Mary, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean how much do you like him? More'n you do your Uncle Zoeth and me, for instance?”
She looked up into his face. What she saw there brought the color to her own. He might have said more, but she put her finger-tips upon his lips.
“Nonsense!” she said hotly. “What wicked, silly nonsense, Uncle Shad! Don't you ever, ever say such a thing to me again. You KNOW better.”
Shadrach smiled and shook his head.
“All right, Mary-'Gusta,” he said; “I won't say it again—not till you say it to me fust, at any rate. There, there, dearie! Don't blow me clean out of the water. I was only jokin', the same as Isaiah was tryin' to that night when you came home for your Christmas vacation.”
“I don't like that kind of joking. I think it's silly.”
“I guess maybe 'tis—for a spell, anyhow. We'll heave the jokes overboard. Yes, I like that Crawford Smith fust-rate. But the funniest thing about him is the way he reminds me of somebody else. Who that somebody is I can't make out nor remember. Maybe I'll think sometime or other, but anyhow I like him now for his own sake. I asked him to come down and see us sometime this summer. Wonder if he will.”
Mary-'Gusta wondered, too, but she would have wondered more had she known what that coming summer was to mean to her. The morning after the theater party Captain Shadrach called to say good-by to Mrs. Wyeth. That lady asked some questions and listened with interest and approval to his report concerning Crawford Smith.
“I'm glad you were so favorably impressed with the boy,” she said. “As I told you, I like him myself. And you approve of his friendship with your niece?”
The Captain rubbed his chin. “Why, yes, ma'am,” he said. “I approve of that, all right, and I cal'late Zoeth would, too. Fact is, where Mary-'Gusta's concerned 'tain't nothin' BUT friendship, so fur, and I guess likely 'tain't on his part, either. If it ever should be more, then—well, then, if he turned out to be all that he'd ought to be I can't see where we old folks have much right to put our oar in, do you, ma'am?”
Perhaps Mrs. Wyeth was tired of the subject; perhaps she objected to being addressed as one of the old folks; at any rate, she made no answer, but asked a question instead.
“Captain Gould,” she said, “what plans have you and Mr. Hamilton made for Mary this summer?”
“Plans, ma'am? Why, I don't know's we've made any. Of course, we're countin' on her comin' down to South Harniss when she gets through her school, and—”
“Just a moment, Captain. I have a friend who is very anxious to have you change that plan for one of hers. Come in, Letitia. Captain Gould, this is my friend, Miss Pease. Now, Letitia, tell the Captain your plan—the one you told me last night.”
Miss Pease told of her plan and Captain Shad listened, at first with astonishment, then with a troubled expression and at last with a combination of both.
“There,” said Miss Pease, in conclusion, “that is my plan. It means a great deal to me and I hope it may mean something to Mary.”
“It will be a wonderful opportunity for her,” declared Mrs. Wyeth emphatically.
“What do you think of it, Captain Gould?” asked Miss Pease.
Shadrach drew a long breath. “I—I don't know hardly what to say, ma'am,” he answered. “I can't hardly realize it yet, seems so. It sartinly would be a wonderful chance for her and it's somethin' me and Zoeth could never give her or think of givin'. But—but—”
“Of course,” said Miss Pease, as he hesitated, “if she is needed very much at home—if you feel you cannot spare her—”
“'Tain't that, ma'am,” interrupted the Captain quickly. “Land knows Zoeth and me would miss her awful, but we wouldn't let that stand in the way—not of anything like this. But—but—well, to be right down honest, ma'am, I don't know's we'd feel like havin' somebody else do so much for her. Course we ain't well off, Zoeth and I ain't, but we ain't right down poor, either. We've been used to doin' for ourselves and—”
And then Miss Pease had an inspiration.
“Oh, dear me!” she broke in hastily. “I do hope you haven't made a mistake, Captain Gould. I hope you don't think I am offering this as a charity or purely as a favor to Mary. No, indeed! I am asking it as a favor to myself. I must have a companion, otherwise I cannot go. And Mary is just the companion I need. I am very fond of her and I think she likes me. I am not going to urge too much, Captain Gould, but I do hope you will consider the matter with Mr. Hamilton and let me hear from you soon. And I am hoping you will consent. I promise to take good care of your girl and bring her back safe and sound in September. And I shall not say one word of my great plan to her until you write me that I may.”
So Captain Shadrach, the troubled expression still on his face, returned on the afternoon train to South Harniss to tell his friend and partner of Miss Pease's plan. Mary, who accompanied him to the Boston station, wondered why he seemed so preoccupied and quiet. If she had known what his thoughts were she would have wondered no longer.
Miss Pease planned to travel through Europe during the summer months, and she had asked the Captain's permission to take Mary with her as her guest and friend and companion.
If time and space did not matter, and if even more important happenings in Mary-'Gusta's life were not as close at hand to claim attention, it would be interesting to describe at length those of that spring and the summer which followed it. Summarized in chronological order, they were these: First, the lengthy discussions between the partners concerning Miss Pease's plan, discussions which ended by Zoeth, as senior partner, writing Miss Pease:
Shadrach and I say yes. We ought to have said it afore but flesh is weak and we found it kind of hard to make up our minds to spare our girl all summer. But we know we ought to spare her and that it will be a splendid chance for her. So we say she shall go and we thank you more than we can say. She will need clothes and fixings to take with her and Shadrach and I wish to ask if you will be kind enough to help her pick out what she needs. Maybe Mrs. Wyeth will help too. It will be a great favor if you two will do this, Shadrach and I not being much good at such things. We will send the money and will pay for all.
Then came the breaking of the news to Mary herself. At first, after she could be made to believe the whole idea a perfectly serious one and realized that a trip to Europe—her dearest day-dream, even when a little girl, and the favorite play with the dolls in the attic at South Harniss—when she at last realized the opportunity that was hers, even then she hesitated to accept it. There were her uncles—they needed her so much in the store—they would miss her so dreadfully. She could not go and leave them. The united efforts of Miss Pease and Mrs. Wyeth could not alter her determination to remain at home; only a joint declaration, amounting to a command and signed by both partners of Hamilton and Company, had that effect. She consented then, but with reluctance.
The steamer sailed from Boston—Miss Pease's civic loyalty forbade her traveling on a New York boat—on the thirtieth of June, the week after Commencement. Mary and Mrs. Wyeth attended the Commencement exercises and festivities as Crawford's guest. Edwin Smith, Crawford's father, did not come on from Carson City to see his son receive his parchment from his Alma Mater. He had planned to come—Crawford had begun to believe he might come—but at the last moment illness had prevented. It was nothing serious, he wrote; he would be well and hearty when the boy came West after graduating.
God bless you, son [the letter ended]. If you knew what it means for your old dad to stay away you'd forgive him for being in the doctor's care. Come home quick when it's over. There's a four-pound trout waiting for one of us up in the lake country somewhere. It's up to you or me to get him.
Crawford showed the letter to Mary. He was disappointed, but not so much so as the girl expected.
“I never really dared to count on his coming,” he explained. “It has been this way so many times. Whenever Dad has planned to come East something happens to prevent. Now it has happened again; I was almost sure it would. It's a shame! I wanted you to meet him. And I wanted him to meet you, too,” he added.
Mary also was a little disappointed. She had rather looked forward to meeting Mr. Smith. He was her friend's father, of course, and that of itself made him an interesting personality, but there was something more—a sort of mystery about him, inspired in her mind by the photograph which Crawford had shown her, which made her curious. The man in the photograph resembled Crawford, of course, but she had the feeling that he resembled someone else even more—someone she had known or whose picture she had seen. She was sorry she was not to meet him.
Commencement was a wonderful time. Mary was introduced to dozens of young fellows, attended spreads and sings and proms, danced a great deal, was asked to dance ever so much more, chatted and laughed and enjoyed herself as a healthy, happy, and pretty girl should enjoy a college commencement. And on the following Tuesday she and Miss Pease, looking down from the steamer's deck, waved their handkerchiefs to Mrs. Wyeth and Zoeth and Captain Shadrach and Crawford who, standing on the wharf, waved theirs in return as the big ship moved slowly out of the dock and turned her nose toward Minot's Light and the open sea. For the first time since Hamilton and Company put up a sign both partners had come to Boston together.
“Annabel's keepin' store,” explained Shadrach, “and Isaiah's helpin'. It'll be the blind leadin' the blind, I cal'late, but we don't care, do we, Zoeth? We made up our mind we'd see you off, Mary-'Gusta, if we had to swim to Provincetown and send up sky-rockets from Race P'int to let you know we was there. Don't forget what I told you: If you should get as fur as Leghorn be sure and hunt up that ship-chandler name of Peroti. Ask him if he remembers Shad Gould that he knew in '65. If he ain't dead I bet you he'll remember.”
So Mary-'Gusta sailed away and for ten marvelous weeks daydreams came true and attic make-believes turned to realities. War had not yet come to sow its seed of steel and fire and reap its harvest of blood and death upon the fair valleys and hills of France, and the travelers journeyed leisurely from village to cathedral town and from the Seine to the Loire. They spent three weeks in Switzerland and two in Italy, returning for the final week to London where, under Miss Pease's expert guidance, Mary visited the shops, the big ones on Regent and Oxford Streets and the smaller, equally fascinating—and more expensive—ones on Bond Street and Piccadilly, buying presents and remembrances for the folks at home. And, at last, came the day when, leaning upon the rail, she saw the misty headlands of Ireland sink beneath the horizon and realized that her wonderful holiday was over and that she was homeward bound.
The voyage was rather rough and stormy, as westerly voyages are likely to be, but the ship was comfortable and speedy and they made good time. Mary spent but one day in Boston and, on the morning of the next, started for South Harniss. She had one week before school opened and that week was to be spent with her uncles; no one else, she vowed, should have a minute of it.
Great were the rejoicings in the white house by the shore that day, and marvelous was the dinner Isaiah served in honor of the occasion. Mary was obliged to relate the story of her trip from start to finish, while three rapt listeners nodded and exclaimed in sympathy or broke in to ask questions. She had written faithfully, but, as Isaiah said, “writin' ain't tellin'.” So Mary told and her uncles and Mr. Chase listened and questioned. It was twelve o'clock that night before anyone thought of going to bed, and next morning at the breakfast table the questioning began all over again.
“Mrs. Wyeth was down at the dock, I presume likely, to meet you when your ship made port?” queried Zoeth.
“Yes, she was there,” replied Mary.
“Anybody else? How about that young Smith feller? Wa'n't he there, too?” asked Captain Shadrach with elaborate innocence.
Mary colored just a little. She knew it was foolish; there was no reason in the world why she should be embarrassed, but she could not help it.
“No, Uncle Shad,” she answered. “He wasn't there. He has not returned from the West yet, but he will be in Boston next week when the Medical College opens.”
“Been havin' a good time out West there, has he?” inquired the Captain, still with studied unconcern.
“Yes. At least he writes me that he has.” She looked from one to the other of her trio of listeners and then added: “I have some of his letters here with me. If you'd like to hear them I'll read them aloud.”
“No, no, you needn't do that,” protested Shadrach hastily. But after another look at him Mary said, “I think I will,” and departed in search of the letters.
Captain Shad, looking a trifle guilty, glanced at his partner.
“She needn't read 'em unless she wants to, need she, Zoeth?” he said. “I—I didn't mean for her to do that.”
Mr. Hamilton's face expressed doubt and disapproval.
“Humph!” he said and that was all.
Mary returned bearing the packet of letters, some of which she proceeded to read. Crawford had spent the summer either at his home in Carson City or in camping with his father in the Sierras, where he had shot and fished and apparently enjoyed himself hugely. The letters were frank and straightforward, full of fun and exuberance, the sort of letters a robust, clean-minded young fellow ought to write and sometimes does. They were not sentimental; even Isaiah, with what Captain Shadrach termed his “lovesick imagination,” would not have called them so.
The partners and Mr. Chase listened with interest to the reading of the letters and expressed their approval. Shadrach's applause was loudest of all, but he seemed to find difficulty in meeting his niece's eye. Just before bedtime, after Zoeth and Isaiah had gone upstairs and he was locking up for the night, Mary, whom he supposed had gone also, reentered the dining-room and stood before him.
“Uncle Shad,” she said severely, “come here a minute and sit down. I want to talk with you.”
She led him to the big rocker. Then she took the little one beside it.
“Now, look me in the face,” she commanded. “No,” not out of the window—here. Um . . . yes. I don't wonder you turn red. I should think you might be ashamed.”
“I—I—what's that?” stammered Shadrach, turning redder than ever. “What do you mean? Turnin' red! Who's turnin' red?”
“You are,” said the young lady, firmly, “and you know it. Now, look me straight in the eye. Uncle Shad Gould, don't you think it would have been more honorable, if you wished to know whether Crawford Smith and I corresponded, to have asked me instead of hinting? Don't you think it would?”
“Hintin'? Why—why, Mary-'Gusta, what-what—?”
His face was a study in expression. Mary bit her lip, but she managed to appear solemn.
“Yes, hinting,” she said. “Instead of asking if Crawford and I had written each other you hinted. Well, now you know that we did write, and have heard his letters to me, have you any objection?”
“Objection? No, no, course not. Why—I—I think 'twas a fine thing. I—I like to get letters; a heap better than I do to write 'em,” he added truthfully.
“Then why?”
“Well—well—I—I—”
“And aren't you ashamed?” repeated Mary.
“Why—why, yes, by the jumpin' fire, I am! There! I was ashamed when I done it.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Well—well, you see, Mary-'Gusta, I just wanted to know. Your Uncle Zoeth and me have been actin' as your pilots for a consider'ble spell. Course you're gettin' big enough now to cruise on your own hook—that is, in reason, you understand—but—but—well, we've got so used to takin' an observation every noontime, seein' how you're layin' your course, you know, that it's hard to lose the habit. Not that Zoeth was in on this,” he added honestly. “He didn't do any of the hintin', as you call it. I imagine he'll preach my head off for doin' it, when he gets me alone.”
“You deserve to have it preached off—or partly off, at any rate. Do you beg my pardon?”
“Sartin sure. I'd beg it on my bended knees if 'twa'n't for the rheumatiz.”
“And you won't hint any more?”
“Nary a hint.”
“That's right. If you want me to tell you anything, please ask. You must trust me, Uncle Shad. I shall always tell—when there is anything to tell.”
“I know you will, Mary-'Gusta. I'm ashamed of my hintin'. God bless you, dearie. Now kiss me good night.”
He kissed her and, holding her in his arms, looked fondly down into her eyes. And, as she returned his look, suddenly she blushed crimson and hid her face in his jacket. Then she broke away and with a good night ran from the room and up the stairs.
Shadrach looked after her, sighed, and, after finishing his locking up, went upstairs himself. There was a light in his partner's room and he entered to find Mr. Hamilton sitting at the little table with several sheets of paper covered with figures spread out before him. The Captain was so busy with his own thoughts that, for the moment, he did not notice the papers.
“Zoeth,” he said, “our Mary-'Gusta's changed into a grown-up woman. Even this last summer has changed her. She don't look any older, and she's prettier than ever, but she thinks different, and I have a notion that, no matter how much we may want to, you and me ain't goin' to be able to keep her to ourselves as we—Eh?” suddenly becoming aware of his friend's occupation. “Are you still fussin' over those things? Didn't I tell you not to worry any more, but to turn in and sleep?”
Zoeth shook his head. His usually placid, gentle face had lost some of its placidity. He looked worn and worried and the shadows thrown by the lamp deepened the lines in his forehead. He looked up over his spectacles.
“Shadrach,” he said, “I can't help it. I try not to worry and I try to heave my burdens onto the Almighty, same as we're commanded, but I can't seem to heave the whole of 'em there. If things don't pick up pretty soon, I don't know—I don't know—and I don't dare think,” he added despairingly.
The sheet of paper he was holding rattled as his hand shook. Captain Shad scowled.
“If we didn't have our winter goods to buy,” he muttered. “Our credit's good, that's one comfort.”
“It is up to now, because the Boston folks don't know. But WE know, or we're afraid we know, and that makes it worse. How can we go on buyin' from folks that has stood our friends ever since we went into business, knowin' as we do that—”
His partner interrupted.
“We don't know anything yet,” he declared. “Keep a stiff upper lip, Zoeth. Nine chances to one we'll weather it all right. WHAT a summer this has been! And when I think,” he added savagely, “of how well we got along afore those new stores came it makes me nigh crazy. I'll go out with a card of matches some night and burn 'em down. Damn pirates! Callin' themselves good Cape Cod names—names that don't belong to 'em! Baker's Bazaar! Ugh! Rheinstein's Robbers' Roost would be nigher the truth. . . . Say, Zoeth, we mustn't hint a word to Mary-'Gusta about this. We've got cash enough on hand to pay her clearance charges up there at school, ain't we?”
“Yes, Shadrach, I've looked out for that. I don't know's I'd ought to. The money maybe had ought to go somewheres else, but—but right or wrong it's goin' for her and I hope the Lord'll forgive me. And what you say's true, she mustn't know we're worried. She's so conscientious she might be for givin' up her schoolin' and comin' down here to help us. She'd be just as liable to do it as not.”
“You're right, she would. Good thing she thinks she's got money of her own and that that money is payin' her schoolin' bills. She'd be frettin' all the time about the expense if 'twa'n't for that. You and I must pretend everything's lovely and the goose hangin' high when she's around. And we mustn't let Isaiah drop any hints.”
“No. Isaiah has asked me two or three times lately if the new stores was hurtin' our trade. I shouldn't wonder if he had some suspicions down inside him.”
“Umph! Well, that's all right, so long as they stay inside. If I see signs of one of those suspicions risin' above his Adam's apple I'll choke 'em down again. I'll put a flea in Isaiah's ear, and I'll put mucilage on its feet so's 'twill stick there.”
So although Mary did notice that the two new shops in the village seemed to be prospering and that business at Hamilton and Company's was not rushing even for September, the answers to her questions were so reassuring that her uneasiness was driven away. Her Uncle Zoeth evaded direct reply and Captain Shadrach prevaricated whole-heartedly and cheerfully. Even Isaiah declared that “everything and all hands was doin' fine.” But Mary made him promise that should it ever be otherwise than fine he would write her immediately. He gave the promise with some reluctance.
“I cal'late if Cap'n Shad caught me tellin' tales out of school he'd go to work and turn to and bust me over the head with a marlinespike,” said Mr. Chase, with the air of one stating a fact.
Mary laughed. “Oh, no, he wouldn't,” she declared. “I'll stand back of you, Isaiah. Now mind, you are to keep me posted on JUST how things are here.”
Mary went back to Boston and to school, where old acquaintances were renewed and new ones made. The Misses Cabot welcomed her with fussy and dignified condescension. Barbara Howe hugged and kissed her and vowed she had not seen a girl all summer who was half so sweet.
“Why in the world someone doesn't run off with you and marry you this very minute I cannot see,” declared the vivacious young lady. “If I were a man I should.”
Mary, who was used to Miss Howe's outbursts, merely smiled.
“Oh, no, you wouldn't,” she replied. “I should hope you would be more sensible. No one will run off with me; at least I wouldn't run off with them.”
“Why not? Don't you think an elopement is perfectly splendid—so romantic and all that? Suppose you were head over heels in love with someone and his people were dead set against his marrying you, wouldn't you elope then?”
“I think I shouldn't. I think I should try to find out why they were so opposed to me. Perhaps there might be some good reason. If there were no good reason, then—why, then—well, I don't know. But I should hesitate a long while before I came between a person and his family. It must be dreadful to do that.”
Barbara laughed. “Nonsense!” she cried. “It's done every day in the best families, my dear. And then the reconciliation is all the sweeter. You just wait! Some of these days I expect to read: 'Elopement in South Harniss High Life. Beautiful Society Maiden Weds Famous Former Football—er—er—I want another F—Oh, yes, Famous Former Football Favorite.' Isn't that beautiful? Dear me, how you blush! Or is it sunburn? At any rate, it's very becoming.”
The Famous Former Football Favorite called at Mrs. Wyeth's on the evening following that of Mary's return to Boston. He was as big and brown as ever and declared that he had had a wonderful vacation.
“And you're looking awfully well, too,” he exclaimed, inspecting her from head to foot. “She is, isn't she, Mrs. Wyeth?”
Mrs. Wyeth admitted that she thought so. Crawford nodded emphatically.
“By George, you are!” he repeated.
There was no doubt of his sincerity. In fact, the admiration in his voice and look was so obvious and unconcealed that Mary, although she could not help being pleased, was a little embarrassed. The embarrassment wore away, however, when he began to tell of his summer in the Sierras and to ask for additional particulars concerning her European trip. He stayed longer than usual that evening and came again a few evenings later—to show them some photographs he had taken in the mountains, so he said. And the following Sunday he dropped in to accompany them to church. And—but why particularize? Perhaps it will be sufficient to say that during that fall and winter the boy and girl friendship progressed as such friendships are likely to do. Miss Pease, the romantic, nodded and looked wise and even Mrs. Wyeth no longer resented her friend's looks and insinuations with the same indignant certainty of denial.
“I don't know, Letitia,” she admitted. “I don't know. I'm beginning to think he cares for her and may be really serious about it. Whether or not she cares for him is quite another thing and I am sure I shan't presume to guess. If she does she keeps it to herself, as she does so many other things. She knows how to mind her own business and that is a gift possessed by few, Letitia Pease.”
Mary went home for the Christmas vacation and spent the holidays, as she had spent those of the previous year, in helping her uncles at the store. The Christmas trade, although not so brisk as she had seen it, was not so bad as to alarm her, and the partners were optimistic as ever. Isaiah, who had been talked to like a Dutch uncle by Captain Shad and was consequently in deadly fear of the latter's wrath, declared that as far as he could see everything was all right. So Mary left South Harniss and returned to school and the duties of the winter term with few misgivings concerning matters at home. Crawford met her at the train and came to the Pinckney Street house that evening to hear the news from the Cape. It was surprising, the interest in Cape Cod matters manifested of late by that young man.
On a day in early April, Mary, hurrying to Mrs. Wyeth's after school, found a letter awaiting her. She glanced at the postmark, which was South Harniss, and the handwriting, which was Isaiah's, and then laid it aside to be read later on at her leisure. After many postponements and with considerable reluctance she had accepted an invitation to dine with Barbara Howe at the latter's home in Brookline and this evening was the time appointed. It would be her first plunge into society—the home life of society, that is. The Howes were an old family, wealthy and well-connected, and Mary could not help feeling somewhat nervous at the ordeal before her. She knew something of the number and variety of expensive gowns possessed by her young hostess and her own limited wardrobe seemed doubly limited and plain by comparison. But she summoned her unfailing common sense to her rescue and found consolation in the fact that Barbara and her people knew she was, comparatively speaking, a poor girl, and therefore could hardly have invited her with the expectation of seeing her arrayed in fine clothes. And if they had done so—here was a bit of the old Mary-'Gusta philosophy—their opinion was not worth consideration anyhow, and the sooner they and she reached mutual disgust and parting the better.
But although her best gown was not new nor expensive, and her jewels were conspicuous by their absence, the picture she made as she stood before the mirror giving the last touches to her hair was distinctly not an unpleasing one. Maggie, the maid, who entered the room to announce a caller, was extravagant in her praises.
“Ah, sure, Miss, you look fine,” she declared. “You're that sweet one look at you would sugar a cup of tea. Ah, he'll be that proud of you and he ought to be, too. But he's a fine young man, and—”
“Who? What are you talking about, Maggie?” interrupted Mary. “Who will be proud of me and who is a fine young fellow?”
“Who? Why, Mr. Smith, of course; who else? He's down in the parlor waitin' for you now. I'll tell him you'll be down.”
Before Mary could stop her she had left the room and was on her way downstairs. Mary followed a moment later. She had not expected a visit from Crawford, who had called already that week. She wondered why he had come.
She found him in the parlor. Mrs. Wyeth was out shopping with Miss Pease, and he and she were alone. He rose to meet her as she entered.
“Why, Crawford,” she said, “what is the matter? Has anything happened? Why do you look so serious?”
He smiled ruefully. “I guess because I am rather serious,” he answered. “I've had some news and I came to tell you about it.” Then, noticing her gown, he added: “But you're going out, aren't you?”
“I am going out by and by. I am going to dine and spend the evening with Barbara Howe. But I am not going yet. Won't you sit down?”
“I will if you're sure you can spare the time. I hope you can, because—well, because I do want to talk to you. I've had bad news from home. My father is ill—and in the doctor's care.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry. I hope it isn't serious.”
“I don't know whether it is or not. It can't be desperately serious, because he wrote the letter himself. But at any rate it's serious enough for me. He wants me to give up my work here at the Harvard Medical and come West.”
Mary gasped. “Give it up!” she repeated. “Give up your studies? Give up medicine? Surely he doesn't want you to do that!”
Crawford shook his head. “No, not quite that,” he replied. “I wouldn't do that, even for him. But he writes that he is not well and is not likely to be better for a good while, if ever, and he would be very much happier if I were nearer at hand. He wants me to give up here at the Harvard Med. and take up my work again at Denver or Salt Lake City or somewhere out there. Even Chicago would seem much nearer, he says. It's a pitiful sort of letter. The old chap seems dreadfully down in the dumps. He wants me, that's plain enough, and he seems to think he needs me. Says if I were at Denver I could come home every little while, whereas here I can't. What ought I to do? I hate to say no, and I hate just as much to say yes.”
Mary considered.
“I think you must decide for yourself,” she said after a moment. “You have your career to consider, of course.”
“Yes, I have. But, to be perfectly honest, I suppose my career would not be influenced greatly if I went. There are plenty of good medical colleges in the West. It is only that I am a Harvard man and I hoped to finish at the Harvard school, that is all. But I COULD go. What do you advise?”
Again Mary took time for consideration. Her face now was as grave as his. At last she said, without raising her eyes: “I think you ought to go.”
He groaned. “I was afraid you would say that,” he admitted. “And I suppose you are right.”
“Yes, I think I am. If your father needs you and wants you, and if your career will not be influenced for harm, I—well, I think you should do as he wishes.”
“And my own wishes shouldn't count, I suppose?”
“Why, no, not in this case; not much, at any rate. Do you think they should?”
“Perhaps not. But—but yours?”
“Mine?”
“Yes. Do YOU want me to go away?” He leaned forward in his chair and repeated earnestly: “Do you, Mary?”
She looked at him and her eyes fell before the look in his. Her heart began to beat quickly and she glanced apprehensively toward the partly opened door. He rose and closed it. Then he came close to her.
“Mary,” he said, earnestly, “do you know why this appeal of Dad's has hit me so very hard? Why it is going to be so mighty difficult to say yes and leave here? It isn't because I hate to give up Harvard. I do hate that, of course, but I'd do it in a minute for Dad. It isn't that. It's because I can't—I just can't think of leaving you. You have come to be—”
She interrupted. “Please don't,” she begged. “Please!”
He went on, unheeding:
“You have come to mean about all there is in life for me,” he declared. “It isn't money or success or reputation I've been working and plugging for these last few months; it's just you. I didn't think so once—I used to think such things were just in books—but now I know. I love you, Mary.”
Again she protested. “Oh, Crawford,” she begged, “please!”
“No; you've got to hear me. It's true; I love you, and if you can care for me, I am going to marry you. Not now, of course; I've got my way to make first; but some day, if I live.”
His teeth set in the determined fashion she had learned to know meant unswerving purpose. She looked up, saw the expression of his face, and for the instant forgot everything except her pride in him and her joy that she should have awakened such feelings. Then she remembered other things, things which she had spent many hours of many nights in debating and considering. As he bent toward her she evaded him and rose.
“Don't, Crawford! Please!” she said again. “You mustn't say such things to me. It isn't right that you should.”
He looked puzzled. “Why not?” he asked. “At any rate, right or wrong, I must say them, Mary. I've been holding them in for months and now I've just got to say them. I love you and I want to marry you. May I?”
“Oh, no, Crawford! No! It is impossible.”
“Impossible! Why? Is it—is it because you don't care for me? Don't you, Mary?”
She did not answer.
“Don't you?” he repeated. “Look at me! Can't you care, Mary?”
She was silent. But when he took a step toward her she raised her hands in protest.
“Please don't!” she pleaded. “No, you mustn't—we mustn't think—Oh, no, it is impossible!”
“It isn't impossible. If you love me as I do you it is the only possible thing in the world. Listen, dear—”
“Hush! I mustn't listen. Be sensible, Crawford! think! We are both so young. You are only beginning your studies. It will be years before you can—before you should consider marrying.”
“But we can wait. I am willing to wait if you will only promise to wait for me. I'll work—HOW I'll work!—and—”
“I know, but we both have others besides ourselves to consider. I have my uncles. They have done everything for me. And you have your father. Does he know—about me—about what you have just said to me?”
And now Crawford hesitated. Not long, but long enough for Mary to know what the answer would be before it was spoken.
“He doesn't know,” she said. “I thought not. Do you think he will approve?”
“I hope he will. There is every reason why he should and absolutely none why he shouldn't. Of course he'll approve; he's sensible.”
“Yes, but he may have plans of his own for you, and your marrying an Eastern girl may not be one of them. You have often told me how prejudiced he is against the East and Eastern people. He may disapprove strongly.”
Crawford squared his shoulders. There was no hesitation or doubt in his next speech.
“If he does it will make no difference,” he declared. “I care a whole lot for Dad and I'd do anything on earth for him—anything but the one thing, that is: I won't give you up—provided you care for me—for him or for anyone else. That's final.”
He certainly looked as if it were. But Mary only shook her head. In the new thoughts and new imaginings which had come to her during the past winter there had been a vague foreshadowing of a possible situation somewhat like this. She had her answer ready.
“Oh, no, it isn't,” she said. “You are his son, his only child, Crawford. He cares so much for you. You have often told me that, and—and I know he must. And you and he have been so happy together. Do you think I would be the cause of breaking that relationship?”
He waved the question aside and asked one of his own.
“Do you love me, Mary?” he asked.
“You mustn't ask me, Crawford. Write your father. Tell him everything. Will you?”
“Yes, I will. I should have done it, anyway. If I go home, and I suppose I must, I shall tell him; it will be better than writing. But I want your answer before I go. Won't you give it to me?”
He looked very handsome and very manly, as he stood there pleading. But Mary had made up her mind.
“I can't, Crawford,” she said. “Perhaps I don't know. I do know that it would not be right for me to say what you want me to say—now. Go home to your father; he needs you. Tell him everything and then—write me.”
He looked at her, a long, long look. Then he nodded slowly.
“All right,” he said; “I will. I will tell him that I mean to marry you. If he says yes—as he will, I'm sure—then I'll write you that. If he says no, I'll write you that. But in either case, Mary Lathrop, I shall marry you just the same. Your own no will be the only thing that can prevent it. And now may I come and see you tomorrow evening?”
“Not tomorrow, Crawford. When will you start for home?”
“Saturday, I think. May I come the day after tomorrow? Just to say good-by, you know.”
Mary was troubled. She could not deny him and yet she was certain it would be better for them both if he did not come.
“Perhaps,” she said doubtfully. “But only to say good-by. You must promise that.”
There was a ring at the bell. Then Maggie, the maid, appeared to announce that the Howe motor car was waiting at the curb. A few moments later Mary was in her room adjusting her new hat before the mirror. Ordinarily, adjusting that hat would have been an absorbing and painstaking performance; just now it was done with scarcely a thought. How devoutly she wished that the Howe car and the Howe dinner were waiting for anyone in the wide world but her! She did not wish to meet strangers; she did not wish to go anywhere, above all she did not wish to eat. That evening, of all evenings in her life, she wished to be alone. However, accepted invitations are implied obligations and Mary, having adjusted the hat, gave her eyes a final dab with a handkerchief and cold water and hastened down to answer the call to social martyrdom.
It was not excruciating torture, that dinner in the Howe dining-room, even to a young lady who had just listened to a proposal of marriage and desired to think of nothing less important. Mr. Howe was big and jolly. Mrs. Howe was gray-haired and gracious and Barbara was—Barbara. Also, there was a friend of Mr. Howe's, an elderly gentleman named Green, who it seemed was one of a firm of wholesale grocers downtown, and who told funny stories and, by way of proving that they were funny, laughed heartiest of all at the ending of each. He sat next Mrs. Howe during dinner, but later, when they were all in the handsome drawing-room, he came over and seated himself upon the sofa next Mary and entered into conversation with her.
“You are not a born Bostonian, I understand, Miss Lathrop,” he observed. “An importation, eh? Ho, ho! Yes. Well, how do you like us?”
Mary smiled. “Oh, I like Boston very much, Mr. Green,” she answered. “I know it better than any other American city, perhaps that is why. It was the only city I had ever seen until quite recently. I am imported—as you call it—from not so far away. My home is on Cape Cod.”
Mr. Green regarded her with interest.
“So?” he said. “From Cape Cod, eh? That's rather peculiar. I have been very much interested in the Cape for the past day or so. Something has occurred in connection with my business which brought the Cape to mind. My attention has been—er—as you may say, gripped by the strong right arm of Massachusetts. Eh? Ho, ho!”
He chuckled at his own joke. Mary was rather bored, but she tried not to show it.
“What part of the Cape has interested you, Mr. Green?” she inquired for the sake of saying something.
“Eh? Oh—er—South Harniss. Little town down near the elbow. Do you know it?”
Mary was surprised, of course. The answer which was on the tip of her tongue was naturally, “Why, yes, I live there.” But she did not make that answer, although she has often wondered, since, why. What she said was: “Yes, I know South Harniss.”
“Do you, indeed?” went on Green. “Well, I don't, but I have known some people who live there for ever so long. My father knew them before me. They were customers of his and they have been buying of our firm for years. Two old chaps who keep what I believe they would call a 'general store.' Fine old fellows, both of them! Different as can be, and characters, but pure gold inside. I have had some bad news concerning them. They're in trouble and I'm mighty sorry.”
Mary was bored no longer. She leaned forward and asked breathlessly:
“What are their names, Mr. Green?”
“Eh? Oh, the firm name is Hamilton and Company. That is simple and sane enough, but the names of the partners were cribbed from the book of Leviticus, I should imagine—Zoeth and Shadrach! Ho, ho! Think of it! Think of wishing a name like Shadrach upon a helpless infant. The S. P. C. A. or C. C. or something ought to be told of it. Ho, ho!”
He laughed aloud. Mary did not laugh.
“They—you said they were in trouble,” she said slowly. “What sort of trouble?”
“Eh? Oh, the usual kind. The kind of goblin, young lady, which is likely to get us business men if we don't watch out—financial trouble. The firm of Hamilton and Company has not kept abreast of the times, that's all. For years they did a good business and then some new competitors with up-to-date ideas came to town and—puff!—good-by to the old fogies. They are in a bad way, I'm afraid, and will have to go under, unless—eh? But there! you aren't particularly interested, I dare say. It was your mention of Cape Cod which set me going.”
“Oh, but I am interested; I am, really. They must go under, you say? Fail, do you mean?”
“Yes, that is what I mean. I am very sorry. Our firm would go on selling them goods almost indefinitely for, as I have said, they are old customers and in a way old friends. But they are absolutely honest and they will not buy what they cannot pay for. We have some pitiful letters from them—not whining, you know, but straightforward and frank. They don't ask favors, but tell us just where they stand and leave it to us to refuse credit if we see fit. It is just one of the little tragedies of life, Miss Lathrop, but I'm mighty sorry for those two old friends of my father's and mine. And the worst of it is that, from inquiries I have made, it would seem that they have been sacrificing themselves by spending their money lavishly and uselessly on someone else. They have a girl in the family, a sort of adopted niece, whatever that is, and, not content with bringing her up like a sensible, respectable country girl, they must dress her like a millionaire's daughter and send her off to some extravagantly expensive seminary where—Why, what is the matter? Eh? Good heavens! What have I been saying? You don't know these people, do you?”
Mary turned a very white face toward his.
“They are my uncles,” she said. “My home is at South Harniss. Please excuse me, Mr. Green.”
She rose and walked away. A few minutes later, when Mr. Howe approached the sofa, he found his friend sitting thereon, staring at nothing in particular and fervently repeating under his breath, “The devil! The devil! The devil!”
Mary got away as soon as she could. Her looks attracted Barbara's attention and the young lady asked if she were not feeling well. Mary replied that she was not, and although it was not serious please might she be permitted to go home at once? She was sent home in the automobile and when she reached her own room her first act was to find and open Isaiah's letter which had arrived that afternoon. With trembling fingers she held it beneath the gas jet and this is what she read:
DEAR MARY AUGUSTA:
I had not ought to write you this and your Uncles would pretty nigh kill me if they knew I done so but I am going to just the same. Busines has gone to rack and ruin. Hamilton & Co. thanks to those and other darned stores, ain't making enough to keep boddy and soul together and they are making themselves sick over it. I don't know what will become of them to if something or someboddy does not think up some way to help them over the shoals. They do not tell anyone and least of all they wouldent want you to be told, but I think you ought to be. They have done a whole lot for you. Can't you think up some way to do something for them. For god Sakes write right off.
Yours truly,
ISAIAH CHASE.