The Strange Proposal (14 page)

How that “My dear—!” thrilled her, as if she were again in his arms, his lips on hers. And then her heart began a song that lasted all through the letter, lilting on its lovely way through the precious sentences.

In all her favored life, Mary Elizabeth had never received a love letter like that. Such delicate admiration, expressed in phrases that a poet might have used! Such exquisite melody of love! What a man this was who had crossed her path and flung his heart down at her feet without warning! Who or what was she, to have won this great prize from life? But no, it was nothing she had won; it was a gift come straight out of the blue, and her heart stood still with the glory and the wonder of it.

But it was a mistake, of course, she told herself as she paused to look up and blink away the happy tears that came and interfered with her vision. He did not realize how superficial she was, how small and trifling, how shallow and earthly. He never would have picked her out if he had known. Already her love was humble, and she had put him high upon a pedestal. She had never met a man like this one before. Her men friends were all among the class who had no set purpose in life. They were rich; they had no need to work. They did not need to worry even about amassing more wealth, but only how to spend what they had. Their interests were to acquire better polo ponies, to race their yachts for more silver cups, to ride higher in the air, or drive a better ball over a fairway or across a net; their only cares were to escape the cold in winter, the heat in summer, and to buy their way out of all labor or waiting or unpleasantness of any sort. Even to acquire the woman of his choice, none of them would humble himself, or go seeking through literature or art or music for the words and colors and lilt to tell of it. Therefore she thrilled and thrilled to his words, and bright tears dimmed her eyes.

Perhaps, though, she thought, this was the only real love that had ever come her way. Perhaps real love was always humble, always thinking more of the other than of self? She put that by to consider later and went on with her letter.

The telephone interrupted. She looked at it like an intruder and let it ring on. She could not be interrupted now, and presently it hushed its clatter and let her go on.

There were words and phrases that stood out as she read slowly. “Years together!” Could it be possible that anything so heavenly could come to her as to have years together with a spirit like his? “Your eyes spoke to my eyes!” Was that true? Did she answer the look she had seen in his eyes when she first lifted her own and saw that strong bronzed man standing like a young god beside her cousin Jeff? The color deepened in her cheeks as she acknowledged to herself that an involuntary message had gone forth in her glance, and the acknowledgment made her heart beat the faster.

“I love you, love you, love you!”

She bent her head almost reverently and laid her lips on the words, as if she were drinking in the sweetness of their meaning.

“Eternity!” How long was that? She had never before had occasion to think in terms of the ages, but now it seemed good to do so, even necessary. For a thing as precious as this must last forever!

But when she came to the sentence that said there were things that she should know, at once her heart stood still with fear, and she hesitated to turn over the next page lest a specter should await her there that would destroy this newfound joy. So near to that word “eternity,” she could not bear it.

But when at last she turned that page and found him telling of his poverty and struggle, she drew a breath of relief, and a tender smile came upon her lips. Why, these were all things she knew already, through Sam’s boyish tale, and they were precious. They only made him more dear. And his people! Why, it wouldn’t matter, would it, about his people? He was the one that mattered. And she would love his people no matter what they were, just for his sake, wouldn’t she?

She drew in her breath as if it hurt when she read of the idea of his coming to her, and again sharply when she thought of him struggling away in sun-drenched Florida, alone in an orange grove, battling against such enemies as belonged to orange groves. Struggling alone. A wild, sweet, futile thought came that she would like to go and help him.

There was another page to turn when she came to that last thought, which should have come first because it was paramount to everything else in his life. She drew in a long, slow, sore breath of pain before she turned the page and came upon God! God, standing there in her room looking down upon that letter, knowing what was in it, having a right to know, and to come between her and this marvelous new beau of hers! God, watching her! And she
didn’t know God!

It was not that she resented His being there or that it astonished her, what John Saxon said, for she had heard all about it from young Sam, and it had rather pleased her. It seemed a unique part of this winsome man who was so strong and so sweet and so tender, and yet so true. It was not entirely that it frightened her, to have this Christ of John Saxon’s standing there in her room, judging her, whether she was fit for His man. It was that she had suddenly become so small in her own eyes, and so useless, so far away and utterly worthless. It was as if His presence, there watching her quietly as she read that letter, were judging her and setting her away back where she belonged, so far away from John Saxon that she could never, never catch up with him, and she found herself wondering pitifully about his disappointment in her when he found she was not what he had thought. All those lovely things he had said in the letter about her, how she wanted to live up to them! How she longed to be his equal mate. And yet she felt she could not be, because she did not know his God.

A long time she sat there staring at his name as signed to that first part of his letter, unable to go on because she had to stop and let His Christ search her life from beginning to end and show her how very small and useless it was. Full of just nothing but trying to please herself, that was all!

At last she roused to see what was after his name.

Then suddenly her heart, which had felt small but happy in spite of its smallness, went down, down, down with a thump, till it seemed that it could go no farther. What was this he was saying? That he had thought her another girl! That he was blaming himself for being attentive to her? Oh, the bitterness of humiliation that she had come to this, had grasped for this bright bubble of a dream and now saw it melt and fade away because it belonged to another!

For at first she did not see that it was her name, her honorable name, her wealth and position that had frightened him. She only saw that name of Camilla’s little absent friend whose place she had taken. Helen Foster! All that priceless love belonged to another? She sat speechless, humiliated, and stared!

Well, hadn’t she known that it wasn’t the thing to pick up a strange man that way? She had realized at the time that a Wainwright couldn’t do a thing like that! That a Wainwright, according to tradition, must meet a man formally, must know him well, and his position and eligibility, before she allowed him to speak of love to her. Yet she had not only listened but had taken a part in it, actually asking him if he wasn’t going to kiss her good-bye! How her cheeks burned with shame. How the kiss that he had given, and—yes, she had more than just
received
, scorched sweetly, bitterly on her lips, and she buried her face in the beloved letter and let hot tears flow down and wash away the sting. How that Helen Foster whom she had never seen had come and taken away her joy!

But it came to her that she had not yet finished reading the letter, and she lifted her face and read on, till she came to the place where he said, “I love you, Mary Elizabeth! I write your beautiful name reverently, Mary Elizabeth! How wonderful if I might someday say ‘
my
Mary Elizabeth’!”

Then suddenly the joy bloomed out again and her heart began to leap. His love was hers, after all, not that other unknown girl’s. He had never seen her. He did not want to see her. He had set his love upon herself, Mary Elizabeth, as soon as he had seen her, even before he had spoken to her! And all that was worrying him was her wealth and position! What foolishness! Wealth and position! What were they? She rose to her feet. She broke into smiles! She felt like singing.

She lifted shy eyes to where the vision of John Saxon’s Christ had seemed to stand, as if she would question whether she might rejoice, she, Mary Elizabeth, pampered daughter of wealth, who had wasted her bright days on nothings instead of getting ready to mate this wonderful man of God. Would John Saxon’s Christ let her have this precious jewel of love for hers? Could she ever walk softly enough before Him to be half good enough for a man like that?

She laughed out, gently, a little apologetic laugh. She, Mary Elizabeth, seeking to be religious! She didn’t even know how!

Presently she sat down again and read the letter over slowly, this time taking in every precious turn of sentence, till she felt as if her beloved were beside her. He loved her, yes, he loved her! She had to get used to it. She had to let it sing itself into her heart and her life. She couldn’t sit right down and answer that letter. It was too sacred a thing to do. It would take time to think out the answer. Could she ever put upon paper what she felt toward him? She had no poetry at her command that could fittingly reply to his.

The telephone broke in upon her meditations again, and with a sudden premonition that Boothby Farwell might be asking if she were yet returned, she gathered her precious letter into her handbag and fled, sending the maid up to answer the telephone and say that she was out. By the time the maid reached the telephone, Mary Elizabeth was out at the garage starting her car, joy singing a high song of praise in her heart, joy smiling on her pleasant lips. She wasn’t just sure where she was going now, or what she wanted to do, but she felt that somehow she had got to get away where Boothby Farwell could not reach her until life had taken on a more definite outline. Perhaps she
had
been laughing down a sunlit way ever since she had begun to grow up. Perhaps she had let people take too many things for granted. Could it be that she had unintentionally allowed Boothby to take too much for granted? He seemed to think she had. Perhaps she would have to write him a note pretty soon and ask his pardon for playing around so long when she was not serious. But that, too, would require thought, and she was too much shaken by her own new joy to think out what to say just now.

She decided to wheedle her father out to lunch with her someday soon and talk over the possibility of opening the old shore cottage.

She turned her car downtown and went singing on her way. And presently she laughed out loud at herself again, for the words she was singing were:

Mightn’t that be a reminder to her that even she might find that place someday and get her life changed so that it would more possibly fit into the life of the man who loved her, and who yet was bound to put his Christ first?

Second to Christ, only! In a way, a rather wonderful way, that was probably a great honor!

W
hy, no,” said Mary Elizabeth, over the very delicious luncheon she and her father were eating together a few days later in the quiet, old-fashioned restaurant on a backstreet where he usually went at noon. “No, I don’t see why it would need doing over. I want to open the house just as it is. I thought I’d like to be there, where I can remember Mother. I’d like to have the same furniture and the same arrangement and everything. I thought maybe you’d enjoy coming down nights, or at least weekends. You always liked the sea.”

Her father looked at her quizzically.

“You don’t realize,” he said half sadly, “that things deteriorate, especially by the sea, and that they get very old-fashioned. What do you think your fancy friends that you will gather about you will think of being invited to a shabby old place like that?”

“Well, in the first place,” said Mary Elizabeth, “I don’t intend to have any fancy friends down there. That’s the very thing I want to get away from. I don’t want weekend parties or a mob of people. I want to have a quiet, homey time. I thought maybe you’d like it.”

Her father’s face softened.

“I should,” he said, his eyes resting tenderly on her bright face, “but you wouldn’t like that long, you know, and what’s the use fixing up an old seashore cottage for a few days’ experiment?”

“I don’t mean a few days; I mean all summer,” said the girl eagerly, “and I don’t want to fix much. Don’t you keep it in repair?”

“Oh, somewhat,” said the father thoughtfully. “The roof doesn’t leak, and I had it painted last fall. There’s a man, of course, who keeps up the grounds to a certain extent, too, but you’ve forgotten how utterly out of date the old ark is.”

“No, I’m sure I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “I always loved it, that white, white building with the lovely fluted columns standing among the pines with the sea at its foot.”

“Yes, it was considered very fine when I built it, when you were a baby and your mother was with us!” He sighed heavily and looked thoughtfully down at his salad without attempting to eat it. “But you’ve forgotten, Mary Elizabeth, that none of your friends go to Seacrest anymore. It isn’t the thing to do. They will laugh you to scorn when they hear of it.”

“Let them laugh!” gurgled Mary Elizabeth gleefully. “Why tell them about it? We’ll just casually disappear, and when it leaks out where we are, the summer will be nearly over. Don’t you see it will be fun?”

“It sounds that way,” said her father cautiously, “but I’m sorely afraid you’ll be lonely and wish you hadn’t tried it. However, I suppose we can leave if you don’t like it.”

“We?” said Mary Elizabeth eagerly. “Then you’ll go, too?”

“Why, yes, of course, if you want me. I wouldn’t miss an opportunity like that. But remember, I may not be able to come down every night, though I’d enjoy it sometimes. It would be like the old days.”