CHAPTER XXIII
One evening, about a week after Mr. Hamilton's sudden seizure, Mary was in her room alone. She had again reread Crawford's latest letter and was sitting there trying to imagine the scene as he had described it. She was trying to picture Edwin Smith, the man who—as his son had so often told her—indulged that son's every whim, was kindness and parental love personified, and yet had raved and stormed like a madman because the boy wished to marry her, Mary Lathrop.
She rose, opened the drawer of her bureau, and took out the photograph of Mr. Smith, the one which showed him without his beard, the one taken since his illness. Crawford had written that this photograph, too, had been taken on the sly.
“Dad's prejudice against photos is as keen as ever,” he wrote. “He would slaughter me on the spot if he knew I had snapped him.”
The face in the picture was not that of the savage, unrelenting parent of the old plays, who used to disinherit his sons and drive his daughters out into blinding snowstorms because they dared thwart his imperial will. Edwin Smith was distinctly a handsome man, gray-haired, of course, and strong-featured, but with a kind rather than a stern expression. As Mary had said when she first saw his likeness, he looked as if he might have had experiences. In this photograph he looked very grave, almost sad, but possibly that was because of his recent sickness.
She was looking at the picture when Isaiah's voice was heard outside the door.
“Hi, Mary-'Gusta,” whispered Mr. Chase. “Ain't turned in yet, have you? Can I speak with you a minute?”
“Certainly, Isaiah,” said Mary. “Come in!”
Isaiah entered. “'Twan't nothin' special,” he said. “I was just goin' to tell you that Debby T. cal'lates Zoeth is a little mite easier tonight. She just said so and I thought you'd like to know.”