“I have not heard of that,” said Martha.
“Haven't you?” he asked. “But it's too likely to be true.”
“Why not go directly to Mary, yourself?”
“I will, Miss Martha, if you'll go with me, and maybe say a kind word now and then,—that is, if you think it isn't too soon for mercy!”
“It is never too soon to ask for mercy,” she said, coming to a sudden decision. “I will go with you; let it be tomorrow.”
“Martha,” warned Dr. Deane, “isn't thee a little hasty?”
“Father, I decide nothing. It is in Mary's hands. He thinks my presence will give him courage, and that I cannot refuse.”
The next morning, the people of Kennett Square were again startled out of their proprieties by the sight of Alfred Barton, pale, agitated, and avoiding the gaze of every one, waiting at Dr. Deane's gate, and then riding side by side with Martha down the Wilmington road. An hour before, she had dispatched Joe Fairthorn with a note to Gilbert, informing him of the impending visit. Once on the way, she feared lest she had ventured too far; it might be, as her father had said, too hasty; and the coming meeting with Gilbert and his mother disquieted her not a little. It was a silent, anxious ride for both.
When they readied the gate, Gilbert was on hand to receive them. His face always brightened at the sight of Martha, and his hands lifted her as tenderly as ever from the saddle. “Have I done right?” she anxiously whispered.
“It is for mother to say,” he whispered back.