“But she can’t be in love with him when she knows how he acted to your father!”
“We can’t be sure of that. I know how he acted to father; but at this minute I pity him so that I could take his part against father. And I can understand how Ellen—Anyway, I must make a clean breast of it. What day is this Thursday? And they sail Saturday! I must write—”
He lifted himself on his elbow, and made as if to throw off the shawl she had spread upon him.
“No, no! I will write, Dick! I will write to your mother. What shall I say?” She whirled about, and got the paper and ink out of her writing-desk, and sat down near him to keep him from getting up, and wrote the date, and the address, “Dear Mother Kenton,” which was the way she always began her letters to Mrs. Kenton, in order to distinguish her from her own mother. “Now what shall I say?”
“Simply this,” answered Richard. “That I knew of what had happened in New York, and when I met him this morning I cowhided him. Ugh!”
“Well, that won’t do, Dick. You’ve got to tell all about it. Your mother won’t understand.”
“Then you write what you please, and read it to me. It makes me sick to think of it.” Richard closed his eyes, and Mary wrote:
“DEAR MOTHER KENTON,—I am sitting by Richard, writing at his
request, about what he has done. He received a letter from New York
telling him of the Bittridges’ performances there, and how that
wretch had insulted and abused you all. He bought a cowhide;
meaning to go over to Ballardsville, and use it on him there, but B.
came over on the Accommodation this morning, and Richard met him at
the station. He did not attempt to resist, for Richard took him
quite by surprise. Now, Mother Kenton, you know that Richard
doesn’t approve of violence, and the dear, sweet soul is perfectly
broken-down by what he had to do. But he had to do it, and he
wishes you to know at, once that he did it. He dreads the effect
upon Ellen, and we must leave it to your judgment about telling her.
Of course, sooner or later she must find it out. You need not be
alarmed about Richard. He is just nauseated a little, and he will
be all right as soon as his stomach is settled. He thinks you ought
to have this letter before you sail, and with affectionate good-byes
to all, in which Dick joins,
“Your loving daughter,
“Mary KENTON.”
“There! Will that do?”
“Yes, that is everything that can be said,” answered Richard, and Mary kissed him gratefully before sealing her letter.