In any case, he would go away in the coach. He had spoken to Sadler, and now, whether he spoke to any one else or not, the sooner he left the better.
When he came to take the coach, Peter Sadler, who had rolled himself to the front of the house, handed him the letter he had written.
“I believe you are made of the right kind of stuff,” he said, “although you’ve got a little mouldy by bein’ lazy out there in the woods, but you’re all right now; and what you’ve got to do is to go ahead with a will, and, take my word for it, you’ll come out on top. Do you want any money? No? Very well, then, goodbye. You needn’t trouble yourself to write to me, I’ll hear about you from Hendricks; and I’d rather know what he thinks about you than what you think about yourself.”
“How little you know,” thought Martin, as he entered the coach, “what I am or what I think about myself. As if my purpose could be changed by words of yours!” And he smiled a smile which would have done justice to Arthur Raybold. The chill had gone out of him; he was warm again.
On the train he read the letter to Hendricks which Peter Sadler had given to him unsealed. It was a long letter, and he read it twice. Then he sat and gazed out of the window at the flying scenery for nearly half an hour, after which he read the letter again. Then he folded it up and put it into his pocket.
“If she had given me the slightest reason to hope,” he said to himself, “how easy it would be to tear this letter into scraps.”
Now an idea came into his mind. If he could see her mother quickly, and if she should ignore his honorable intentions and refuse to give him the opportunity to prove that he was worthy of a thought from her and her daughter, then it might not be too late to fall back on Peter Sadler’s letter. But he shook his head; that would be dishonorable and unworthy of him.
He shut his eyes; he could not bear to look at the brightness of the world outside the window of the car. Under his closed lids there came to him visions, sometimes of Margery and sometimes of the forests of New Mexico. Sometimes the visions were wavering, uncertain, and transitory, and again they were strong and vivid—so plain to him that he could almost hear the leaves rustle as some wild creature turned a startled look upon him.
That night he delivered his letter to Mr. Hendricks.