“He asked me to keep him informed of what went on here. He wasn’t a great hand at writin’, and Martha wasn’t either. And so after her father died he came back. She told him she wasn’t ready, though. An’ ’twas the same when Anne went. Martha said she liked him just as much as ever, and maybe more, but that her duty was with her mother. Jonas said then he’d marry her mother, too. He was always a great hand at his jokes, was Jonas. But Martha said her mother wanted to spend her last days at home, and so Jonas had to go off the third time. Seems like Martha knew her own mind better than most folks.”
Again Miss Cockerill paused a moment and contemplated the fateful grey house.
“That was twelve years ago,” she resumed. “And it’s hardly a fortnight since Mis’ Waring was laid in her grave, and here comes Jonas knocking again at Martha’s door. Guess she’ll have to let him in this time. Anyway, I’ll know as soon as anybody. Jonas always promised that he’d tell me first.”
It seemed to Mrs. Webster that she found a certain parallel between the decently painted clap-boards to which her attention had thus been drawn and the somewhat inscrutable exterior of her hostess. There was more within than appeared on the surface. As for Miss Cockerill, her gaze had an intensity which walls of brass could scarcely have withstood. And as if the house could keep its secret from her no longer, Jonas Lane suddenly emerged upon the veranda.
“He’s coming over now, I do believe!” exclaimed Miss Cockerill excitedly, endeavouring to make the most of the window without appearing from the outside to do so.
Jonas, however, strode down the path, untied his horse, threw the halter into the back of the buggy, got in with much less deliberation than he had got out, and drove rapidly away.
Miss Cockerill watched the buggy until it disappeared in the long elm vista. Then, after another glance at the grey house, she turned to her visitor.
“Well, I declare!” she burst forth. “If she hasn’t refused him again!”
II
When Jonas Lane knocked for the fourth time upon Martha Waring’s door his expectancy was a quaint blend of eagerness and humour.