He had added the last line of a postscript begging her to name an early hour at which he might call, and sat in dull moody reverie unconscious of the flight of time.
A gentle knock on his door roused him. He opened it and stared blankly at Susie’s gentle face.
“I trust you’re not sick, Mr. John,” she said. “Everybody is through breakfast. I’ve kept yours warm.”
“Thank you, Miss Susie. I’ve only a little headache. I won’t eat any breakfast. I’ve important work at the office. I’m going down at once.”
As he passed her at the head of the stairs she said with a wistful look:
“Mama says she heard you stirring all night. If I can help you, won’t you let me?”
“Yes, little comrade, I will. I’ll let you know,” he answered, swinging quickly down the stairs and out the front door.
He found a boy on the street and sent him to Stella with his letter. He stood at his office door and watched him until out of sight and counted the minutes until he reappeared. He had paid him a dime on dispatching the letter and promised to double it if he came back in a hurry. Fifteen minutes later he smiled as he saw the boy coming in a run, his swift bare feet making the dirt fly in the middle of the street.
“I knew it! Of course, she will see me!” he exclaimed as he bounded up his stairs two rounds at a jump. He gave the astonished boy a quarter instead of another dime, hurried into his office, and slammed the door. He felt the weight of the letter with faint misgivings. It was large to have been written so quickly. Yet it was addressed with her own dear hand. He tore it open, and from his trembling fingers dropped his own letter with the seal unbroken. Not a line from her. Her meaning could not be misunderstood. She could have offered him no deeper insult. He sank to his seat with a groan and sat for an hour in a stupor of wounded pride. “I won’t accept such an answer from her!” he cried bitterly. “And I won’t stand on ceremony.”
He walked down the street to the gate of the driveway of the Graham house, hoping he might find Aunt Julie Ann at her cottage. The door was closed and he could get no response to his knock. He looked longingly at the old house shining with its snow white doors and windows against the dark fresh green of the rain-soaked trees, and thought with a pang of his quarrel over its possession. What did houses matter if the heart was sick unto death! The humblest Negro cabin would be a palace if only her face would shine from the doorway!