diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:36:06 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:36:06 -0700 |
| commit | dec64f02486278a4ee0ae52e6bc295c6451e21ce (patch) | |
| tree | 99954f7303aa9ca434a43a6c0fede7cb00d51916 | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 11143-0.txt | 7599 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/11143.txt | 8021 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/11143.zip | bin | 0 -> 141979 bytes |
6 files changed, 15636 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/11143-0.txt b/11143-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f07a2a --- /dev/null +++ b/11143-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7599 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11143 *** + +MARY MARIE + +BY + +ELEANOR H. PORTER + +_With Illustrations by Helen Mason Grose_ + +1920 + + +TO MY FRIEND + +ELIZABETH S. BOWEN + + + + +CONTENTS + +PREFACE, WHICH EXPLAINS THINGS + +I. I AM BORN + +II. NURSE SARAH'S STORY + +III. THE BREAK IS MADE + +IV. WHEN I AM MARIE + +V. WHEN I AM MARY + +VI. WHEN I AM BOTH TOGETHER + +VII. WHEN I AM NEITHER ONE + +VIII. WHICH IS THE REAL LOVE STORY + +IX. WHICH IS THE TEST + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +"IF I CONSULTED NO ONE'S WISHES BUT MY OWN, I +SHOULD KEEP HER HERE ALWAYS" + +"I TOLD HER NOT TO WORRY A BIT ABOUT ME" + +"WHY MUST YOU WAIT, DARLING?" + +THEN I TOLD HIM MY IDEA. + +From drawings by HELEN MASON GROSE + + + + +MARY MARIE + + + + + +PREFACE + +WHICH EXPLAINS THINGS + + +Father calls me Mary. Mother calls me Marie. Everybody else calls me +Mary Marie. The rest of my name is Anderson. + +I'm thirteen years old, and I'm a cross-current and a contradiction. +That is, Sarah says I'm that. (Sarah is my old nurse.) She says she +read it once--that the children of unlikes were always a cross-current +and a contradiction. And my father and mother are unlikes, and I'm the +children. That is, I'm the child. I'm all there is. And now I'm going +to be a bigger cross-current and contradiction than ever, for I'm +going to live half the time with Mother and the other half with +Father. Mother will go to Boston to live, and Father will stay here--a +divorce, you know. + +I'm terribly excited over it. None of the other girls have got a +divorce in their families, and I always did like to be different. +Besides, it ought to be awfully interesting, more so than just living +along, common, with your father and mother in the same house all the +time--especially if it's been anything like my house with my father +and mother in it! + +That's why I've decided to make a book of it--that is, it really will +be a book, only I shall have to call it a diary, on account of Father, +you know. Won't it be funny when I don't have to do things on account +of Father? And I won't, of course, the six months I'm living with +Mother in Boston. But, oh, my!--the six months I'm living here with +him--whew! But, then, I can stand it. I may even like it--some. +Anyhow, it'll be _different_. And that's something. + +Well, about making this into a book. As I started to say, he wouldn't +let me. I know he wouldn't. He says novels are a silly waste of time, +if not absolutely wicked. But, a diary--oh, he loves diaries! He keeps +one himself, and he told me it would be an excellent and instructive +discipline for me to do it, too--set down the weather and what I did +every day. + +The weather and what I did every day, indeed! Lovely reading that +would make, wouldn't it? Like this: + +"The sun shines this morning. I got up, ate my breakfast, went to +school, came home, ate my dinner, played one hour over to Carrie +Heywood's, practiced on the piano one hour, studied another hour. +Talked with Mother upstairs in her room about the sunset and the snow +on the trees. Ate my supper. Was talked _to_ by Father down in the +library about improving myself and taking care not to be light-minded +and frivolous. (He meant like Mother, only he didn't say it right out +loud. You don't have to say some things right out in plain words, you +know.) Then I went to bed." + + * * * * * + +Just as if I was going to write my novel like that! Not much I am. But +I shall call it a diary. Oh, yes, I shall call it a diary--till I take +it to be printed. Then I shall give it its true name--a novel. And +I'm going to tell the printer that I've left it for him to make the +spelling right, and put in all those tiresome little commas and +periods and question marks that everybody seems to make such a fuss +about. If I write the story part, I can't be expected to be bothered +with looking up how words are spelt, every five minutes, nor fussing +over putting in a whole lot of foolish little dots and dashes. + +As if anybody who was reading the story cared for that part! The +story's the thing. + +I love stories. I've written lots of them for the girls, too--little +short ones, I mean; not a long one like this is going to be, of +course. And it'll be so exciting to be living a story instead of +reading it--only when you're _living_ a story you can't peek over to +the back to see how it's all coming out. I shan't like that part. +Still, it may be all the more exciting, after all, _not_ to know +what's coming. + +I like love stories the best. Father's got--oh, lots of books in the +library, and I've read stacks of them, even some of the stupid old +histories and biographies. I had to read them when there wasn't +anything else to read. But there weren't many love stories. Mother's +got a few, though--lovely ones--and some books of poetry, on the +little shelf in her room. But I read all those ages ago. + +That's why I'm so thrilled over this new one--the one I'm living, I +mean. For of course this will be a love story. There'll be _my_ love +story in two or three years, when I grow up, and while I'm waiting +there's Father's and Mother's. + +Nurse Sarah says that when you're divorced you're free, just like you +were before you were married, and that sometimes they marry again. +That made me think right away: what if Father or Mother, or both +of them, married again? And I should be there to see it, and the +courting, and all! Wouldn't that be some love story? Well, I just +guess! + +And only think how all the girls would envy me--and they just living +along their humdrum, everyday existence with fathers and mothers +already married and living together, and nothing exciting to look +forward to. For really, you know, when you come right down to it, +there _aren't_ many girls that have got the chance I've got. + +And so that's why I've decided to write it into a book. Oh, yes, I +know I'm young--only thirteen. But I _feel_ really awfully old; and +you know a woman is as old as she feels. Besides, Nurse Sarah says I +am old for my age, and that it's no wonder, the kind of a life I've +lived. + +And maybe that is so. For of course it _has_ been different, living +with a father and mother that are getting ready to be divorced from +what it would have been living with the loving, happy-ever-after kind. +Nurse Sarah says it's a shame and a pity, and that it's the children +that always suffer. But I'm not suffering--not a mite. I'm just +enjoying it. It's so exciting. + +Of course if I was going to lose either one, it would be different. +But I'm not, for I am to live with Mother six months, then with +Father. + +So I still have them both. And, really, when you come right down to +it, I'd _rather_ take them separate that way. Why, separate they're +just perfectly all right, like that--that--what-do-you-call-it +powder?--sedlitzer, or something like that. Anyhow, it's that white +powder that you mix in two glasses, and that looks just like water +till you put them together. And then, oh, my! such a fuss and fizz and +splutter! Well, it's that way with Father and Mother. It'll be lots +easier to take them separate, I know. For now I can be Mary six +months, then Marie six months, and not try to be them both all at +once, with maybe only five minutes between them. + +And I think I shall love both Father and Mother better separate, too. +Of course I love Mother, and I know I'd just adore Father if he'd let +me--he's so tall and fine and splendid, when he's out among folks. +All the girls are simply crazy over him. And I am, too. Only, at +home--well, it's so hard to be Mary always. And you see, he named me +Mary-- + +But I mustn't tell that here. That's part of the story, and this +is only the Preface. I'm going to begin it to-morrow--the real +story--Chapter One. + +But, there--I mustn't call it a "chapter" out loud. Diaries don't have +chapters, and this is a diary. I mustn't forget that it's a diary. +But I can write it down as a chapter, for it's _going to be_ a novel, +after it's got done being a diary. + + + + +CHAPTER I + +I AM BORN + + +The sun was slowly setting in the west, casting golden beams of light +into the somber old room. + +That's the way it ought to begin, I know, and I'd like to do it, but +I can't. I'm beginning with my being born, of course, and Nurse Sarah +says the sun wasn't shining at all. It was night and the stars were +out. She remembers particularly about the stars, for Father was in the +observatory, and couldn't be disturbed. (We never disturb Father when +he's there, you know.) And so he didn't even know he had a daughter +until the next morning when he came out to breakfast. And he was late +to that, for he stopped to write down something he had found out about +one of the consternations in the night. + +He's always finding out _something_ about those old stars just when we +want him to pay attention to something else. And, oh, I forgot to say +that I know it is "constellation," and not "consternation." But I used +to call them that when I was a little girl, and Mother said it was a +good name for them, anyway, for they were a consternation to _her_ all +right. Oh, she said right off afterward that she didn't mean that, +and that I must forget she said it. Mother's always saying that about +things she says. + +Well, as I was saying, Father didn't know until after breakfast that +he had a little daughter. (We never tell him disturbing, exciting +things just _before_ meals.) And then Nurse told him. + +I asked what he said, and Nurse laughed and gave her funny little +shrug to her shoulders. + +"Yes, what did he say, indeed?" she retorted. "He frowned, looked kind +of dazed, then muttered: 'Well, well, upon my soul! Yes, to be sure!'" + +Then he came in to see me. + +I don't know, of course, what he thought of me, but I guess he didn't +think much of me, from what Nurse said. Of course I was very, very +small, and I never yet saw a little bit of a baby that was pretty, or +looked as if it was much account. So maybe you couldn't really blame +him. + +Nurse said he looked at me, muttered, "Well, well, upon my soul!" +again, and seemed really quite interested till they started to put me +in his arms. Then he threw up both hands, backed off, and cried, "Oh, +no, no!" He turned to Mother and hoped she was feeling pretty well, +then he got out of the room just as quick as he could. And Nurse said +that was the end of it, so far as paying any more attention to me was +concerned for quite a while. + +He was much more interested in his new star than he was in his new +daughter. We were both born the same night, you see, and that star was +lots more consequence than I was. But, then, that's Father all over. +And that's one of the things, I think, that bothers Mother. I heard +her say once to Father that she didn't see why, when there were so +many, many stars, a paltry one or two more need to be made such a fuss +about. And _I_ don't, either. + +But Father just groaned, and shook his head, and threw up his hands, +and looked _so_ tired. And that's all he said. That's all he says lots +of times. But it's enough. It's enough to make you feel so small +and mean and insignificant as if you were just a little green worm +crawling on the ground. Did you ever feel like a green worm crawling +on the ground? It's not a pleasant feeling at all. + +Well, now, about the name. Of course they had to begin to talk about +naming me pretty soon; and Nurse said they did talk a lot. But they +couldn't settle it. Nurse said that that was about the first thing +that showed how teetotally utterly they were going to disagree about +things. + +Mother wanted to call me Viola, after her mother, and Father wanted to +call me Abigail Jane after his mother; and they wouldn't either one +give in to the other. Mother was sick and nervous, and cried a lot +those days, and she used to sob out that if they thought they were +going to name her darling little baby that awful Abigail Jane, they +were very much mistaken; that she would never give her consent to +it--never. Then Father would say in his cold, stern way: "Very +well, then, you needn't. But neither shall I give my consent to +my daughter's being named that absurd Viola. The child is a human +being--not a fiddle in an orchestra!" + +And that's the way it went, Nurse said, until everybody was just about +crazy. Then somebody suggested "Mary." And Father said, very well, +they might call me Mary; and Mother said certainly, she would consent +to Mary, only she should pronounce it Marie. And so it was settled. +Father called me Mary, and Mother called me Marie. And right away +everybody else began to call me Mary Marie. And that's the way it's +been ever since. + +Of course, when you stop to think of it, it's sort of queer and funny, +though naturally I didn't think of it, growing up with it as I did, +and always having it, until suddenly one day it occurred to me that +none of the other girls had two names, one for their father, and one +for their mother to call them by. I began to notice other things then, +too. Their fathers and mothers didn't live in rooms at opposite ends +of the house. Their fathers and mothers seemed to like each other, and +to talk together, and to have little jokes and laughs together, and +twinkle with their eyes. That is, most of them did. + +And if one wanted to go to walk, or to a party, or to play some game, +the other didn't always look tired and bored, and say, "Oh, very well, +if you like." And then both not do it, whatever it was. That is, I +never saw the other girls' fathers and mothers do that way; and I've +seen quite a lot of them, too, for I've been at the other girls' +houses a lot for a long time. You see, I don't stay at home much, only +when I have to. We don't have a round table with a red cloth and a +lamp on it, and children 'round it playing games and doing things, and +fathers and mothers reading and mending. And it's lots jollier where +they do have them. + +Nurse says my father and mother ought never to have been married. +That's what I heard her tell our Bridget one day. So the first chance +I got I asked her why, and what she meant. + +"Oh, la! Did you hear that?" she demanded, with the quick look over +her shoulder that she always gives when she's talking about Father and +Mother. "Well, little pitchers do have big ears, sure enough!" + +"Little pitchers," indeed! As if I didn't know what that meant! I'm no +child to be kept in the dark concerning things I ought to know. And I +told her so, sweetly and pleasantly, but with firmness and dignity. I +made her tell me what she meant, and I made her tell me a lot of other +things about them, too. You see, I'd just decided to write the book, +so I wanted to know everything she could tell me. I didn't tell her +about the book, of course. I know too much to tell secrets to Nurse +Sarah! But I showed my excitement and interest plainly; and when she +saw how glad I was to hear everything she could tell, she talked a +lot, and really seemed to enjoy it, too. + +You see, she was here when Mother first came as a bride, so she knows +everything. She was Father's nurse when he was a little boy; then she +stayed to take care of Father's mother, Grandma Anderson, who was an +invalid for a great many years and who didn't die till just after +I was born. Then she took care of me. So she's always been in the +family, ever since she was a young girl. She's awfully old now--'most +sixty. + +First I found out how they happened to marry--Father and Mother, I'm +talking about now--only Nurse says she can't see yet how they did +happen to marry, just the same, they're so teetotally different. + +But this is the story. + +Father went to Boston to attend a big meeting of astronomers from all +over the world, and they had banquets and receptions where beautiful +ladies went in their pretty evening dresses, and my mother was one +of them. (Her father was one of the astronomers, Nurse said.) The +meetings lasted four days, and Nurse said she guessed my father saw +a lot of my mother during that time. Anyhow, he was invited to their +home, and he stayed another four days after the meetings were over. +The next thing they knew here at the house, Grandma Anderson had a +telegram that he was going to be married to Miss Madge Desmond, and +would they please send him some things he wanted, and he was going on +a wedding trip and would bring his bride home in about a month. + +It was just as sudden as that. And surprising!--Nurse says a +thunderclap out of a clear blue sky couldn't have astonished them +more. Father was almost thirty years old at that time, and he'd +never cared a thing for girls, nor paid them the least little bit of +attention. So they supposed, of course, that he was a hopeless old +bachelor and wouldn't ever marry. He was bound up in his stars, even +then, and was already beginning to be famous, because of a comet he'd +discovered. He was a professor in our college here, where his father +had been president. His father had just died a few months before, and +Nurse said maybe that was one reason why Father got caught in the +matrimonial net like that. (Those are _her_ words, not mine. The +idea of calling my mother a net! But Nurse never did half appreciate +Mother.) But Father just worshipped his father, and they were always +together--Grandma being sick so much; and so when he died my father +was nearly beside himself, and that's one reason they were so anxious +he should go to that meeting in Boston. They thought it might take his +mind off himself, Nurse said. But they never thought of its putting +his mind on a wife! + +So far as his doing it right up quick like that was concerned, Nurse +said that wasn't so surprising. For all the way up, if Father wanted +anything he insisted on having it, and having it right away then. He +never wanted to wait a minute. So when he found a girl he wanted, he +wanted her right then, without waiting a minute. He'd never happened +to notice a girl he wanted before, you see. But he'd found one now, +all right; and Nurse said there was nothing to do but to make the best +of it, and get ready for her. + +There wasn't anybody to go to the wedding. Grandma Anderson was sick, +so of course she couldn't go, and Grandpa was dead, so of course he +couldn't go, and there weren't any brothers or sisters, only Aunt Jane +in St. Paul, and she was so mad she wouldn't come on. So there was no +chance of seeing the bride till Father brought her home. + +Nurse said they wondered and wondered what kind of a woman it could be +that had captured him. (I told her I wished she _wouldn't_ speak of +my mother as if she was some kind of a hunter out after game; but +she only chuckled and said that's about what it amounted to in some +cases.) The very idea! + +The whole town was excited over the affair, and Nurse Sarah heard a +lot of their talk. Some thought she was an astronomer like him. Some +thought she was very rich, and maybe famous. Everybody declared she +must know a lot, anyway, and be wonderfully wise and intellectual; and +they said she was probably tall and wore glasses, and would be thirty +years old, at least. But nobody guessed anywhere near what she really +was. + +Nurse Sarah said she should never forget the night she came, and how +she looked, and how utterly flabbergasted everybody was to see her--a +little slim eighteen-year-old girl with yellow curly hair and the +merriest laughing eyes they had ever seen. (Don't I know? Don't I +just love Mother's eyes when they sparkle and twinkle when we're off +together sometimes in the woods?) And Nurse said Mother was so excited +the day she came, and went laughing and dancing all over the house, +exclaiming over everything. (I can't imagine that so well. Mother +moves so quietly now, everywhere, and is so tired, 'most all the +time.) But she wasn't tired then, Nurse says--not a mite. + +"But how did Father act?" I demanded. "Wasn't he displeased and +scandalized and shocked, and everything?" + +Nurse shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows--the way she does +when she feels particularly superior. Then she said: + +"Do? What does any old fool--beggin' your pardon an' no offense meant, +Miss Mary Marie--but what does any man do what's got bejuggled with a +pretty face, an' his senses completely took away from him by a chit of +a girl? Well, that's what he did. He acted as if he was bewitched. He +followed her around the house like a dog--when he wasn't leadin' her +to something new; an' he never took his eyes off her face except to +look at us, as much as to say: 'Now ain't she the adorable creature?'" + +"My father did that?" I gasped. And, really, you know, I just couldn't +believe my ears. And you wouldn't, either, if you knew Father. "Why, +_I_ never saw him act like that!" + +"No, I guess you didn't," laughed Nurse Sarah with a shrug. "And +neither did anybody else--for long." + +"But how long did it last?" I asked. + +"Oh, a month, or maybe six weeks," shrugged Nurse Sarah. "Then it came +September and college began, and your father had to go back to his +teaching. Things began to change then." + +"Right then, so you could see them?" I wanted to know. + +Nurse Sarah shrugged her shoulders again. + +"Oh, la! child, what a little question-box you are, an' no mistake," +she sighed. But she didn't look mad--not like the way she does when +I ask why she can take her teeth out and most of her hair off and I +can't; and things like that. (As if I didn't know! What does she take +me for--a child?) She didn't even look displeased--Nurse Sarah _loves_ +to talk. (As if I didn't know that, too!) She just threw that quick +look of hers over her shoulder and settled back contentedly in her +chair. I knew then I should get the whole story. And I did. And I'm +going to tell it here in her own words, just as well as I can remember +it--bad grammar and all. So please remember that I am not making all +those mistakes. It's Nurse Sarah. + +I guess, though, that I'd better put it into a new chapter. This +one is yards long already. How _do_ they tell when to begin and +end chapters? I'm thinking it's going to be some job, writing this +book--diary, I mean. But I shall love it, I know. And this is a _real_ +story--not like those made-up things I've always written for the girls +at school. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +NURSE SARAH'S STORY + + +And this is Nurse Sarah's story. + +As I said, I'm going to tell it straight through as near as I can in +her own words. And I can remember most of it, I think, for I paid very +close attention. + + * * * * * + +"Well, yes, Miss Mary Marie, things did begin to change right there +an' then, an' so you could notice it. _We_ saw it, though maybe your +pa an' ma didn't, at the first. + +"You see, the first month after she came, it was vacation time, an' he +could give her all the time she wanted. An' she wanted it all. An' she +took it. An' he was just as glad to give it as she was to take it. An' +so from mornin' till night they was together, traipsin' all over the +house an' garden, an' trampin' off through the woods an' up on the +mountain every other day with their lunch. + +"You see she was city-bred, an' not used to woods an' flowers growin' +wild; an' she went crazy over them. He showed her the stars, too, +through his telescope; but she hadn't a mite of use for them, an' +let him see it good an' plain. She told him--I heard her with my own +ears--that his eyes, when they laughed, was all the stars she wanted; +an' that she'd had stars all her life for breakfast an' luncheon +an' dinner, anyway, an' all the time between; an' she'd rather have +somethin' else, now--somethin' alive, that she could love an' live +with an' touch an' play with, like she could the flowers an' rocks an' +grass an' trees. + +"Angry? Your pa? Not much he was! He just laughed an' caught her +'round the waist an' kissed her, an' said she herself was the +brightest star of all. Then they ran off hand in hand, like two kids. +An' they _was_ two kids, too. All through those first few weeks your +pa was just a great big baby with a new plaything. Then when college +began he turned all at once into a full-grown man. An' just naturally +your ma didn't know what to make of it. + +"He couldn't explore the attic an' rig up in the old clothes there any +more, nor romp through the garden, nor go lunchin' in the woods, nor +none of the things _she_ wanted him to do. He didn't have time. An' +what made things worse, one of them comet-tails was comin' up in the +sky, an' your pa didn't take no rest for watchin' for it, an' then +studyin' of it when it got here. + +"An' your ma--poor little thing! I couldn't think of anything but a +doll that was thrown in the corner because somebody'd got tired of +her. She _was_ lonesome, an' no mistake. Anybody'd be sorry for her, +to see her mopin' 'round the house, nothin' to do. Oh, she read, an' +sewed with them bright-colored silks an' worsteds; but 'course there +wasn't no real work for her to do. There was good help in the kitchen, +an' I took what care of your grandma was needed; an' she always gave +her orders through me, so I practically run the house, an' there +wasn't anything _there_ for her to do. + +"An' so your ma just had to mope it out alone. Oh, I don't mean your +pa was unkind. He was always nice an' polite, when he was in the +house, an' I'm sure he meant to treat her all right. He said yes, yes, +to be sure, of course she was lonesome, an' he was sorry. 'T was too +bad he was so busy. An' he kissed her an' patted her. But he always +began right away to talk of the comet; an' ten to one he didn't +disappear into the observatory within the next five minutes. Then your +ma would look so grieved an' sorry an' go off an' cry, an' maybe not +come down to dinner, at all. + +"Well, then, one day things got so bad your grandma took a hand. She +was up an' around the house, though she kept mostly to her own rooms. +But of course she saw how things was goin'. Besides, I told her--some. +'T was no more than my duty, as I looked at it. She just worshipped +your pa, an' naturally she'd want things right for him. So one day she +told me to tell her son's wife to come to her in her room. + +"An' I did, an' she came. Poor little thing! I couldn't help bein' +sorry for her. She didn't know a thing of what was wanted of her, an' +she was so glad an' happy to come. You see, she _was_ lonesome, I +suppose. + +"'Me? Want me?--Mother Anderson?' she cried. 'Oh, I'm so glad!' Then +she made it worse by runnin' up the stairs an' bouncin' into the room +like a rubber ball, an' cryin': 'Now, what shall I do, read to you, or +sing to you, or shall we play games? I'd _love_ to do any of them!' +Just like that, she said it. I heard her. Then I went out, of course, +an' left them. But I heard 'most everything that was said, just the +same, for I was right in the next room dustin', and the door wasn't +quite shut. + +"First your grandmother said real polite--she was always polite--but +in a cold little voice that made even me shiver in the other room, +that she did not desire to be read to or sung to, and that she did not +wish to play games. She had called her daughter-in-law in to have a +serious talk with her. Then she told her, still very polite, that she +was noisy an' childish, an' undignified, an' that it was not only +silly, but very wrong for her to expect to have her husband's entire +attention; that he had his own work, an' it was a very important one. +He was going to be president of the college some day, like his +father before him; an' it was her place to help him in every way she +could--help him to be popular an' well-liked by all the college people +an' students; an' he couldn't be that if she insisted all the time on +keepin' him to herself, or lookin' sour an' cross if she couldn't have +him. + +"Of course that ain't all she said; but I remember this part +particular on account of what happened afterward. You see--your +ma--she felt awful bad. She cried a little, an' sighed a lot, an' said +she'd try, she really would try to help her husband in every way she +could; an' she wouldn't ask him another once, not once, to stay with +her. An' she wouldn't look sour an' cross, either. She'd promise she +wouldn't. An' she'd try, she'd try, oh, so hard, to be proper an' +dignified. + +"She got up then an' went out of the room so quiet an' still you +wouldn't know she was movin'. But I heard her up in her room cryin' +half an hour later, when I stopped a minute at her door to see if she +was there. An' she was. + +"But she wasn't cryin' by night. Not much she was! She'd washed her +face an' dressed herself up as pretty as could be, an' she never so +much as looked as if she wanted her husband to stay with her, when +he said right after supper that he guessed he'd go out to the +observatory. An' 't was that way right along after that. I know, +'cause I watched. You see, I knew what she'd _said_ she'd do. Well, +she did it. + +"Then, pretty quick after that, she began to get acquainted in the +town. Folks called, an' there was parties an' receptions where she +met folks, an' they began to come here to the house, 'specially them +students, an' two or three of them young, unmarried professors. An' +she began to go out a lot with them--skatin' an' sleigh-ridin' an' +snowshoein'. + +"Like it? Of course she liked it! Who wouldn't? Why, child, you never +saw such a fuss as they made over your ma in them days. She was all +the rage; an' of course she liked it. What woman wouldn't, that was +gay an' lively an' young, an' had been so lonesome like your ma had? +But some other folks didn't like it. An' your pa was one of them. This +time 't was him that made the trouble. I know, 'cause I heard what he +said one day to her in the library. + +"Yes, I guess I was in the next room that day, too--er--dustin', +probably. Anyway, I heard him tell your ma good an' plain what he +thought of her gallivantin' 'round from mornin' till night with them +young students an' professors, an' havin' them here, too, such a lot, +till the house was fairly overrun with them. He said he was shocked +an' scandalized, an' didn't she have any regard for _his_ honor an' +decency, if she didn't for herself! An', oh, a whole lot more. + +"Cry? No, your ma didn't cry this time. I met her in the hall right +after they got through talkin', an' she was white as a sheet, an' her +eyes was like two blazin' stars. So I know how she must have looked +while she was in the library. An' I must say she give it to him good +an' plain, straight from the shoulder. She told him _she_ was shocked +an' scandalized that he could talk to his wife like that; an' didn't +he have any more regard for _her_ honor and decency than to accuse her +of runnin' after any man living--much less a dozen of them! An' then +she told him a lot of what his mother had said to her, an' she said +she had been merely tryin' to carry out those instructions. She was +tryin' to make her husband and her husband's wife an' her husband's +home popular with the college folks, so she could help him to be +president, if he wanted to be. But he answered back, cold an' chilly, +that he thanked her, of course, but he didn't care for any more of +that kind of assistance; an' if she would give a little more time +to her home an' her housekeepin', as she ought to, he would be +considerably better pleased. An' she said, very well, she would see +that he had no further cause to complain. An' the next minute I met +her in the hall, as I just said, her head high an' her eyes blazin'. + +"An' things did change then, a lot, I'll own. Right away she began to +refuse to go out with the students an' young professors, an' she sent +down word she wasn't to home when they called. And pretty quick, of +course, they stopped comin'. + +"Housekeepin'? Attend to that? Well, y-yes, she did try to at first, +a little; but of course your grandma had always given the +orders--through me, I mean; an' there really wasn't anything your ma +could do. An' I told her so, plain. Her ways were new an' different +an' queer, an' we liked ours better, anyway. So she didn't bother +us much that way very long. Besides, she wasn't feelin' very well, +anyway, an' for the next few months she stayed in her room a lot, an' +we didn't see much of her. Then by an' by _you_ came, an'--well, I +guess that's all--too much, you little chatterbox!" + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE BREAK IS MADE + + +And that's the way Nurse Sarah finished her story, only she shrugged +her shoulders again, and looked back, first one way, then another. As +for her calling me "chatterbox"--she always calls me that when _she's_ +been doing all the talking. + +As near as I can remember, I have told Nurse Sarah's story exactly as +she told it to me, in her own words. But of course I know I didn't +get it right all the time, and I know I've left out quite a lot. But, +anyway, it's told a whole lot more than _I_ could have told why they +got married in the first place, and it brings my story right up to the +point where I was born; and I've already told about naming me, and +what a time they had over that. + +Of course what's happened since, up to now, I don't know _all_ about, +for I was only a child for the first few years. Now I'm almost a young +lady, "standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet." +(I read that last night. I think it's perfectly beautiful. So kind of +sad and sweet. It makes me want to cry every time I think of it.) But +even if I don't know all of what's happened since I was born, I know +a good deal, for I've seen quite a lot, and I've made Nurse tell me a +lot more. + +I know that ever since I can remember I've had to keep as still as a +mouse the minute Father comes into the house; and I know that I never +could imagine the kind of a mother that Nurse tells about, if it +wasn't that sometimes when Father has gone off on a trip, Mother and +I have romped all over the house, and had the most beautiful time. +I know that Father says that Mother is always trying to make me a +"Marie," and nothing else; and that Mother says she knows Father'll +never be happy until he's made me into a stupid little "Mary," with +never an atom of life of my own. And, do you know? it does seem +sometimes, as if Mary and Marie were fighting inside of me, and I +wonder which is going to beat. Funny, isn't it? + +Father is president of the college now, and I don't know how many +stars and comets and things he's discovered since the night the star +and I were born together. But I know he's very famous, and that he's +written up in the papers and magazines, and is in the big fat red +"Who's Who" in the library, and has lots of noted men come to see him. + +Nurse says that Grandma Anderson died very soon after I was born, but +that it didn't make any particular difference in the housekeeping; for +things went right on just as they had done, with her giving the orders +as before; that she'd given them all alone anyway, mostly, the last +year Grandma Anderson lived, and she knew just how Father liked +things. She said Mother tried once or twice to take the reins herself, +and once Nurse let her, just to see what would happen. But things got +in an awful muddle right away, so that even Father noticed it and said +things. After that Mother never tried again, I guess. Anyhow, she's +never tried it since I can remember. She's always stayed most of the +time up in her rooms in the east wing, except during meals, or when +she went out with me, or went to the things she and Father had to go +to together. For they did go to lots of things, Nurse says. + +It seems that for a long time they didn't want folks to know there was +going to be a divorce. So before folks they tried to be just as usual. +But Nurse Sarah said _she_ knew there was going to be one long ago. +The first I ever heard of it was Nurse telling Nora, the girl we had +in the kitchen then; and the minute I got a chance I asked Nurse what +it was--a divorce. + +My, I can remember now how scared she looked, and how she clapped her +hand over my mouth. She wouldn't tell me--not a word. And that's +the first time I ever saw her give that quick little look over each +shoulder. She's done it lots of times since. + +As I said, she wouldn't tell me, so I had to ask some one else. I +wasn't going to let it go by and not find out--not when Nurse Sarah +looked so scared, and when it was something my father and mother were +going to have some day. + +I didn't like to ask Mother. Some way, I had a feeling, from the way +Nurse Sarah looked, that it was something Mother wasn't going to like. +And I thought if maybe she didn't know yet she was going to have it, +that certainly _I_ didn't want to be the one to tell her. So I didn't +ask Mother what a divorce was. + +I didn't even think of asking Father, of course. I never ask Father +questions. Nurse says I did ask him once why he didn't love me like +other papas loved their little girls. But I was very little then, and +I don't remember it at all. But Nurse said Father didn't like it very +well, and maybe I _did_ remember that part, without really knowing it. +Anyhow, I never think of asking Father questions. + +I asked the doctor first. I thought maybe 't was some kind of a +disease, and if he knew it was coming, he could give them some sort +of a medicine to keep it away--like being vaccinated so's not to have +smallpox, you know. And I told him so. + +He gave a funny little laugh, that somehow didn't sound like a laugh +at all. Then he grew very, very sober, and said: + +"I'm sorry, little girl, but I'm afraid I haven't got any medicine +that will prevent--a divorce. If I did have, there'd be no eating or +drinking or sleeping for me, I'm thinking--I'd be so busy answering my +calls." + +"Then it _is_ a disease!" I cried. And I can remember just how +frightened I felt. "But isn't there any doctor anywhere that _can_ +stop it?" + +He shook his head and gave that queer little laugh again. + +"I'm afraid not," he sighed. "As for it's being a disease--there are +people that call it a disease, and there are others who call it a +cure; and there are still others who say it's a remedy worse than the +disease it tries to cure. But, there, you baby! What am I saying? +Come, come, my dear, just forget it. It's nothing you should bother +your little head over now. Wait till you're older." + +Till I'm older, indeed! How I hate to have folks talk to me like that! +And they do--they do it all the time. As if I was a child now, when +I'm almost standing there where the brook and river meet! + +But that was just the kind of talk I got, everywhere, nearly every +time I asked any one what a divorce was. Some laughed, and some +sighed. Some looked real worried 'cause I'd asked it, and one got mad. +(That was the dressmaker. I found out afterward that she'd _had_ a +divorce already, so probably she thought I asked the question on +purpose to plague her.) But nobody would answer me--really answer me +sensibly, so I'd know what it meant; and 'most everybody said, "Run +away, child," or "You shouldn't talk of such things," or, "Wait, my +dear, till you're older"; and all that. + +Oh, how I hate such talk when I really want to know something! How +do they expect us to get our education if they won't answer our +questions? + +I don't know which made me angriest--I mean angrier. (I'm speaking of +two things, so I must, I suppose. I hate grammar!) To have them talk +like that--not answer me, you know--or have them do as Mr. Jones, the +storekeeper, did, and the men there with him. + +It was one day when I was in there buying some white thread for Nurse +Sarah, and it was a little while after I had asked the doctor if a +divorce was a disease. Somebody had said something that made me think +you could buy divorces, and I suddenly determined to ask Mr. Jones if +he had them for sale. (Of course all this sounds very silly to me now, +for I know that a divorce is very simple and very common. It's just +like a marriage certificate, only it _un_marries you instead of +marrying you; but I didn't know it then. And if I'm going to tell this +story I've got to tell it just as it happened, of course.) + +Well, I asked Mr. Jones if you could buy divorces, and if he had them +for sale; and you ought to have heard those men laugh. There were six +of them sitting around the stove behind me. + +"Oh, yes, my little maid" (above all things I abhor to be called a +little maid!) one of them cried. "You can buy them if you've got money +enough; but I don't reckon our friend Jones here has got them for +sale." + +Then they all laughed again, and winked at each other. (That's another +disgusting thing--_winks_ when you ask a perfectly civil question! But +what can you do? Stand it, that's all. There's such a lot of things +we poor women have to stand!) Then they quieted down and looked +very sober--the kind of sober you know is faced with laughs in the +back--and began to tell me what a divorce really was. I can't remember +them all, but I can some of them. Of course I understand now that +these men were trying to be smart, and were talking for each other, +not for me. And I knew it then--a little. We know a lot more things +sometimes than folks think we do. Well, as near as I can remember it +was like this: + +"A divorce is a knife that cuts a knot that hadn't ought to ever been +tied," said one. + +"A divorce is a jump in the dark," said another. + +"No, it ain't. It's a jump from the frying-pan into the fire," piped +up Mr. Jones. + +"A divorce is the comedy of the rich and the tragedy of the poor," +said a little man who wore glasses. + +"Divorce is a nice smushy poultice that may help but won't heal," cut +in a new voice. + +"Divorce is a guidepost marked, 'Hell to Heaven,' but lots of folks +miss the way, just the same, I notice," spoke up somebody with a +chuckle. + +"Divorce is a coward's retreat from the battle of life." Captain +Harris said this. He spoke slow and decided. Captain Harris is old and +rich and not married. He's the hotel's star boarder, and what he says, +goes, 'most always. But it didn't this time. I can remember just how +old Mr. Carlton snapped out the next. + +"Speak from your own experience, Tom Harris, an' I'm thinkin' you +ain't fit ter judge. I tell you divorce is what three fourths of the +husbands an' wives in the world wish was waitin' for 'em at home this +very night. But it ain't there." I knew, of course, he was thinking of +his wife. She's some cross, I guess, and has two warts on her nose. + +There was more, quite a lot more, said. But I've forgotten the rest. +Besides, they weren't talking to me then, anyway. So I picked up my +thread and slipped out of the store, glad to escape. But, as I said +before, I didn't find many like them. + +Of course I know now--what divorce is, I mean. And it's all settled. +They granted us some kind of a decree or degree, and we're going to +Boston next Monday. + +It's been awful, though--this last year. First we had to go to that +horrid place out West, and stay ages and ages. And I hated it. Mother +did, too. I know she did. I went to school, and there were quite a lot +of girls my age, and some boys; but I didn't care much for them. I +couldn't even have the fun of surprising them with the divorce we were +going to have. I found _they_ were going to have one, too--every last +one of them. And when everybody has a thing, you know there's no +particular fun in having it yourself. Besides, they were very unkind +and disagreeable, and bragged a lot about their divorces. They said +mine was tame, and had no sort of snap to it, when they found Mother +didn't have a lover waiting in the next town, or Father hadn't run off +with his stenographer, or nobody had shot anybody, or anything. + +That made me mad, and I let them see it, good and plain. I told them +our divorce was perfectly all right and genteel and respectable; that +Nurse Sarah said it was. Ours was going to be incompatibility, for +one thing, which meant that you got on each other's nerves, and just +naturally didn't care for each other any more. But they only laughed, +and said even more disagreeable things, so that I didn't want to go +to school any longer, and I told Mother so, and the reason, too, of +course. + +But, dear me, I wished right off that I hadn't. I supposed she was +going to be superb and haughty and disdainful, and say things that +would put those girls where they belonged. But, my stars! How could I +know that she was going to burst into such a storm of sobs and clasp +me to her bosom, and get my face all wet and cry out: "Oh, my baby, my +baby--to think I have subjected you to this, my baby, my baby!" + +And I couldn't say a thing to comfort her, or make her stop, even when +I told her over and over again that I wasn't a baby. I was almost a +young lady; and I wasn't being subjected to anything bad. I _liked_ +it--only I didn't like to have those girls brag so, when our divorce +was away ahead of theirs, anyway. + +But she only cried more and more, and held me tighter and tighter, +rocking back and forth in her chair. She took me out of school, +though, and had a lady come to teach me all by myself, so I didn't +have to hear those girls brag any more, anyway. That was better. But +she wasn't any happier herself. I could see that. + +There were lots of other ladies there--beautiful ladies--only she +didn't seem to like them any better than I did the girls. I wondered +if maybe _they_ bragged, too, and I asked her; but she only began to +cry again, and moan, "What have I done, what have I done?"--and I had +to try all over again to comfort her. But I couldn't. + +She got so she just stayed in her room lots and lots. I tried to make +her put on her pretty clothes, and do as the other ladies did, and go +out and walk and sit on the big piazzas, and dance, and eat at the +pretty little tables. She did, some, when we first came, and took +me, and I just loved it. They were such beautiful ladies, with their +bright eyes, and their red cheeks and jolly ways; and their dresses +were so perfectly lovely, all silks and satins and sparkly spangles, +and diamonds and rubies and emeralds, and silk stockings, and little +bits of gold and silver slippers. + +And once I saw two of them smoking. They had the cutest little +cigarettes (Mother said they were) in gold holders, and I knew then +that I was seeing life--real life; not the stupid kind you get back in +a country town like Andersonville. And I said so to Mother; and I was +going to ask her if Boston was like that. But I didn't get the chance. +She jumped up so quick I thought something had hurt her, and cried, +"Good Heavens, Baby!" (How I hate to be called "Baby"!) Then she just +threw some money on to the table to pay the bill and hurried me away. + +It was after that that she began to stay in her room so much, and not +take me anywhere except for walks at the other end of the town where +it was all quiet and stupid, and no music or lights, or anything. And +though I teased and teased to go back to the pretty, jolly places, she +wouldn't ever take me; not once. + +Then by and by, one day, we met a little black-haired woman with white +cheeks and very big sad eyes. There weren't any spangly dresses and +gold slippers about _her_, I can tell you! She was crying on a bench +in the park, and Mother told me to stay back and watch the swans while +she went up and spoke to her. (Why do old folks always make us watch +swans or read books or look into store windows or run and play all +the time? Don't they suppose we understand perfectly well what it +means--that they're going to say something they don't want us to +hear?) Well, Mother and the lady on the bench talked and talked ever +so long, and then Mother called me up, and the lady cried a little +over me, and said, "Now, perhaps, if I'd had a little girl like +that--!" Then she stopped and cried some more. + +We saw this lady real often after that. She was nice and pretty and +sweet, and I liked her; but she was always awfully sad, and I don't +believe it was half so good for Mother to be with her as it would have +been for her to be with those jolly, laughing ladies that were always +having such good times. But I couldn't make Mother see it that way at +all. There are times when it seems as if Mother just _couldn't_ see +things the way I do. Honestly, it seems sometimes almost as if _she_ +was the cross-current and contradiction instead of me. It does. + +Well, as I said before, I didn't like it very well out there, and I +don't believe Mother did, either. But it's all over now, and we're +back home packing up to go to Boston. + +Everything seems awfully queer. Maybe because Father isn't here, +for one thing. He wrote very polite and asked us to come to get our +things, and he said he was going to New York on business for several +days, so Mother need not fear he should annoy her with his presence. +Then, another thing, Mother's queer. This morning she was singing away +at the top of her voice and running all over the house picking up +things she wanted; and seemed so happy. But this afternoon I found her +down on the floor in the library crying as if her heart would break +with her head in Father's big chair before the fireplace. But she +jumped up the minute I came in and said, no, no, she didn't want +anything. She was just tired; that's all. And when I asked her if she +was sorry, after all, that she was going to Boston to live, she said, +no, no, no, indeed, she guessed she wasn't. She was just as glad as +glad could be that she was going, only she wished Monday would hurry +up and come so we could be gone. + +And that's all. It's Saturday now, and we go just day after to-morrow. +Our trunks are 'most packed, and Mother says she wishes she'd planned +to go to-day. I've said good-bye to all the girls, and promised to +write loads of letters about Boston and everything. They are almost as +excited as I am; and I've promised, "cross my heart and hope to die," +that I won't love those Boston girls better than I do them--specially +Carrie Heywood, of course, my dearest friend. + +Nurse Sarah is hovering around everywhere, asking to help, and +pretending she's sorry we're going. But she isn't sorry. She's glad. +I know she is. She never did appreciate Mother, and she thinks she'll +have everything her own way now. But she won't. _I_ could tell her a +thing or two if I wanted to. But I shan't. + +Father's sister, Aunt Jane Anderson, from St. Paul, is coming to keep +house for him, partly on account of Father, and partly on account of +me. "If that child is going to be with her father six months of the +time, she's got to have some woman there beside a meddling old nurse +and a nosey servant girl!" They didn't know I heard that. But I did. +And now Aunt Jane is coming. My! how mad Nurse Sarah would be if she +knew. But she doesn't. + +I guess I'll end this chapter here and begin a fresh one down in +Boston. Oh, I do so wonder what it'll be like--Boston, Mother's home, +Grandpa Desmond, and all the rest. I'm so excited I can hardly wait. +You see, Mother never took me home with her but once, and then I was a +very small child. I don't know why, but I guess Father didn't want me +to go. It's safe to say he didn't, anyway. He never wants me to do +anything, hardly. That's why I suspect him of not wanting me to go +down to Grandpa Desmond's. And Mother didn't go only once, in ages. + +Now this will be the end. And when I begin again it will be in Boston. +Only think of it--really, truly Boston! + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +WHEN I AM MARIE + + +BOSTON. + +Yes, I'm here. I've been here a week. But this is the first minute +I've had a chance to write a word. I've been so busy just being here. +And so has Mother. There's been such a lot going on since we came. But +I'll try now to begin at the beginning and tell what happened. + +Well, first we got into Boston at four o'clock Monday afternoon, and +there was Grandpa Desmond to meet us. He's lovely--tall and dignified, +with grayish hair and merry eyes like Mother's, only his are behind +glasses. At the station he just kissed Mother and me and said he was +glad to see us, and led us to the place where Peter was waiting with +the car. (Peter drives Grandpa's automobile, and _he's_ lovely, too.) + +Mother and Grandpa talked very fast and very lively all the way home, +and Mother laughed quite a lot. But in the hall she cried a little, +and Grandpa patted her shoulder, and said, "There, there!" and told +her how glad he was to get his little girl back, and that they were +going to be very happy now and forget the past. And Mother said, yes, +yes, indeed, she knew she was; and she was _so_ glad to be there, +and that everything _was_ going to be just the same, wasn't it? +Only--then, all of a sudden she looked over at me and began to cry +again--only, of course, things couldn't be "just the same," she +choked, hurrying over to me and putting both arms around me, and +crying harder than ever. + +Then Grandpa came and hugged us both, and patted us, and said, "There, +there!" and pulled off his glasses and wiped them very fast and very +hard. + +But it wasn't only a minute or two before Mother was laughing again, +and saying, "Nonsense!" and "The idea!" and that this was a pretty way +to introduce her little Marie to her new home! Then she hurried me to +the dearest little room I ever saw, right out of hers, and took off my +things. Then we went all over the house. And it's just as lovely as +can be--not at all like Father's in Andersonville. + +Oh, Father's is fine and big and handsome, and all that, of course; +but not like this. His is just a nice place to eat and sleep in, and +go to when it rains. But this--this you just want to live in all the +time. Here there are curtains 'way up and sunshine, and flowers in +pots, and magazines, and cozy nooks with cushions everywhere; and +books that you've just been reading laid down. (_All_ Father's books +are in bookcases, _always_, except while one's in your hands being +read.) + +Grandpa's other daughter, Mother's sister, Hattie, lives here and +keeps house for Grandpa. She has a little boy named Lester, six years +old; and her husband is dead. They were away for what they called a +week-end when we came, but they got here a little after we did Monday +afternoon; and they're lovely, too. + +The house is a straight-up-and-down one with a back and front, but no +sides except the one snug up to you on the right and left. And there +isn't any yard except a little bit of a square brick one at the back +where they have clothes and ash barrels, and a little grass spot in +front at one side of the steps, not big enough for our old cat to +take a nap in, hardly. But it's perfectly lovely inside; and it's +the insides of houses that really count just as it is the insides +of people--their hearts, I mean; whether they're good and kind, or +hateful and disagreeable. + +We have dinner at night here, and I've been to the theater twice +already in the afternoon. I've got to go to school next week, Mother +says, but so far I've just been having a good time. And so's Mother. +Honestly, it has just seemed as if Mother couldn't crowd the days full +enough. She hasn't been still a minute. + +Lots of her old friends have been to see her; and when there hasn't +been anybody else around she's taken Peter and had him drive us all +over Boston to see things;--all kinds of things; Bunker Hill and +museums, and moving pictures, and one play. + +But we didn't stay at the play. It started out all right, but pretty +soon a man and a woman on the stage began to quarrel. They were +married (not really, but in the play, I mean), and I guess it was some +more of that incompatibility stuff. Anyhow, as they began to talk +more and more, Mother began to fidget, and pretty soon I saw she was +gathering up our things; and the minute the curtain went down after +the first act, she says: + +"Come, dear, we're going home. It--it isn't very warm here." + +As if I didn't know what she was really leaving for! Do old folks +honestly think they are fooling us all the time, I wonder? But even if +I hadn't known then, I'd have known it later, for that evening I heard +Mother and Aunt Hattie talking in the library. + +No, I didn't listen. I _heard_. And that's a very different matter. +You listen when you mean to, and that's sneaking. You hear when you +can't help yourself, and that you can't be blamed for. Sometimes it's +your good luck, and sometimes it's your bad luck--just according to +what you hear! + +Well, I was in the window-seat in the library reading when Mother and +Aunt Hattie came in; and Mother was saying: + +"Of course I came out! Do you suppose I'd have had that child see that +play, after I realized what it was? As if she hasn't had enough of +such wretched stuff already in her short life! Oh, Hattie, Hattie, I +want that child to laugh, to sing, to fairly tingle with the joy of +living every minute that she is with me. I know so well what she _has_ +had, and what she will have--in that--tomb. You know in six months she +goes back--" + +Mother saw me then, I know; for she stopped right off short, and after +a moment began to talk of something else, very fast. And pretty quick +they went out into the hall again. + +Dear little Mother! Bless her old heart! Isn't she the ducky dear to +want me to have all the good times possible now so as to make up for +the six months I've got to be with Father? You see, she knows what it +is to live with Father even better than I do. + +Well, I guess she doesn't dread it for me any more than I do for +myself. Still, I'll have the girls there, and I'm dying to see them +again--and I won't have to stay home much, only nights and meals, of +course, and Father's always pretty busy with his stars and comets and +things. Besides, it's only for six months, then I can come back to +Boston. I can keep thinking of that. + +But I know now why I've been having such a perfectly beautiful time +all this week, and why Mother has been filling every minute so full of +fun and good times. Why, even when we're at home here, she's always +hunting up little Lester and getting him to have a romp with us. + +But of course next week I've got to go to school, and it can't be +quite so jolly then. Well, I guess that's all for this time. + + * * * * * + +_About a month later_. + +I didn't make a chapter of that last. It wasn't long enough. And, +really, I don't know as I've got much to add to it now. There's +nothing much happened. + +I go to school now, and don't have so much time for fun. School is +pretty good, and there are two or three girls 'most as nice as the +ones at Andersonville. But not quite. Out of school Mother keeps +things just as lively as ever, and we have beautiful times. Mother is +having a lovely time with her own friends, too. Seems as if there is +always some one here when I get home, and lots of times there are teas +and parties, and people to dinner. + +There are gentlemen, too. I suppose one of them will be Mother's lover +by and by; but of course I don't know which one yet. I'm awfully +interested in them, though. And of course it's perfectly natural that +I should be. Wouldn't _you_ be interested in the man that was going to +be your new father? Well, I just guess you would! Anybody would. Why, +most folks have only one father, you know, and they have to take that +one just as he is; and it's all a matter of chance whether they get +one that's cross or pleasant; or homely or fine and grand-looking; or +the common kind you can hug and kiss and hang round his neck, or the +stand-off-don't-touch-me-I-mustn't-be-disturbed kind like mine. I mean +the one I _did_ have. But, there! that doesn't sound right, either; +for of course he's still my father just the same, only--well, he isn't +Mother's husband any more, so I suppose he's only my father by order +of the court, same as I'm his daughter. + +Well, anyhow, he's the father I've grown up with, and of course I'm +used to him now. And it's an altogether different matter to think of +having a brand-new father thrust upon you, all ready-made, as you +might say, and of course I _am_ interested. There's such a whole lot +depends on the father. Why, only think how different things would have +been at home if _my_ father had been different! There were such a lot +of things I had to be careful not to do--and just as many I had to be +careful _to_ do--on account of Father. + +And so now, when I see all these nice young gentlemen (only they +aren't all young; some of them are quite old) coming to the house and +talking to Mother, and hanging over the back of her chair, and handing +her tea and little cakes, I can't help wondering which, if any, is +going to be her lover and my new father. And I am also wondering what +I'll have to do on account of him when I get him, if I get him. + +There are quite a lot of them, and they're all different. They'd make +very different kinds of fathers, I'm sure, and I'm afraid I wouldn't +like some of them. But, after all, it's Mother that ought to settle +which to have--not me. _She's_ the one to be pleased. 'T would be such +a pity to have to change again. Though she could, of course, same as +she did Father, I suppose. + +As I said, they're all different. There are only two that are anywhere +near alike, and they aren't quite the same, for one's a lawyer and the +other's in a bank. But they both carry canes and wear tall silk hats, +and part their hair in the middle, and look at you through the kind of +big round eyeglasses with dark rims that would make you look awfully +homely if they didn't make you look so stylish. But I don't think +Mother cares very much for either the lawyer or the bank man, and I'm +glad. I wouldn't like to live with those glasses every day, even if +they are stylish. I'd much rather have Father's kind. + +Then there's the man that paints pictures. He's tall and slim, and +wears queer ties and long hair. He's always standing back and looking +at things with his head on one side, and exclaiming "Oh!" and "Ah!" +with a long breath. He says Mother's coloring is wonderful. I heard +him. And I didn't like it very well, either. Why, it sounded as if +she put it on herself out of a box on her bureau, same as some other +ladies do! Still, he's not so bad, maybe; though I'm not sure but what +his paints and pictures would be just as tiresome to live with as +Father's stars, when it came right down to wanting a husband to live +with you and talk to you every day in the year. You know you have to +think of such things when it comes to choosing a new father--I mean +a new husband. (I keep forgetting that it's Mother and not me that's +doing the choosing.) + +Well, to resume and go on. There's the violinist. I mustn't forget +him. But, then, nobody could forget him. He's lovely: so handsome and +distinguished-looking with his perfectly beautiful dark eyes and white +teeth. And he plays--well, I'm simply crazy over his playing. I only +wish Carrie Heywood could hear him. She thinks her brother can play. +He's a traveling violinist with a show; and he came home once to +Andersonville. And I heard him. But he's not the real thing at all. +Not a bit. Why, he might be anybody, our grocer, or the butcher, up +there playing that violin. His eyes are little and blue, and his hair +is red and very short. I wish she could hear _our_ violinist play! + +And there's another man that comes to the parties and teas;--oh, of +course there are others, lots of them, married men with wives, and +unmarried men with and without sisters. But I mean another man +specially. His name is Harlow. He's a little man with a brown pointed +beard and big soft brown eyes. He's really awfully good-looking, too. +I don't know what he does do; but he's married. I know that. He never +brings his wife, though; but Mother's always asking for her, clear and +distinct, and she always smiles, and her voice kind of tinkles like +little silver bells. But just the same he never brings her. + +He never takes her anywhere. I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother so at the +very first, when he came. She said they weren't a bit happy together, +and that there'd probably be a divorce before long. But Mother asked +for her just the same the very next time. And she's done it ever +since. + +I think I know now why she does. I found out, and I was simply +thrilled. It was so exciting! You see, they were lovers once +themselves--Mother and this Mr. Harlow. Then something happened and +they quarreled. That was just before Father came. + +Of course Mother didn't tell me this, nor Aunt Hattie. It was two +ladies. I heard them talking at a tea one day. I was right behind +them, and I couldn't get away, so I just couldn't help hearing what +they said. + +They were looking across the room at Mother. Mr. Harlow was talking to +her. He was leaning forward in his chair and talking so earnestly to +Mother; and he looked just as if he thought there wasn't another soul +in the room but just they two. But Mother--Mother was just listening +to be polite to company. Anybody could see that. And the very first +chance she got she turned and began to talk to a lady who was standing +near. And she never so much as looked toward Mr. Harlow again. + +The ladies in front of me laughed then, and one of them said, with a +little nod of her head, "I guess Madge Desmond Anderson can look out +for herself all right." + +Then they got up and went away without seeing me. And all of a sudden +I felt almost sorry, for I wanted them to see me. I wanted them to see +that I knew my mother could take care of herself, too, and that I was +proud of it. If they had turned I'd have said so. But they didn't +turn. + +I shouldn't like Mr. Harlow for a father. I know I shouldn't. But +then, there's no danger, of course, even if he and Mother were lovers +once. He's got a wife now, and even if he got a divorce, I don't +believe Mother would choose him. + +But of course there's no telling which one she will take. As I said +before, I don't know. It's too soon, anyway, to tell. I suspect it +isn't any more proper to hurry up about getting married again when +you've been _un_married by a divorce than it is when you've been +unmarried by your husband's dying. I asked Peter one day how soon +folks did get married after a divorce, but he didn't seem to know. +Anyway, all he said was to stammer: "Er--yes, Miss--no, Miss. I mean, +I don't know, Miss." + +Peter is awfully funny. But he's nice. I like him, only I can't find +out much by him. He's very good-looking, though he's quite old. He's +almost thirty. He told me. I asked him. He takes me back and forth to +school every day, so I see quite a lot of him. And, really, he's +about the only one I _can_ ask questions of here, anyway. There isn't +anybody like Nurse Sarah used to be. Olga, the cook, talks so funny I +can't understand a word she says, hardly. Besides, the only two times +I've been down to the kitchen Aunt Hattie sent for me; and she told +me the last time not to go any more. She didn't say why. Aunt Hattie +never says _why_ not to do things. She just says, "Don't." Sometimes +it seems to me as if my whole life had been made up of "don'ts." +If they'd only tell us part of the time things to "_do_," maybe we +wouldn't have so much time to do the "_don'ts_." (That sounds funny, +but I guess folks'll know what I mean.) + +Well, what was I saying? Oh, I know--about asking questions. As I +said, there isn't anybody like Nurse Sarah here. I can't understand +Olga, and Theresa, the other maid, is just about as bad. Aunt Hattie's +lovely, but I can't ask questions of her. She isn't the kind. Besides, +Lester's always there, too; and you can't discuss family affairs +before children. Of course there's Mother and Grandpa Desmond. But +questions like when it's proper for Mother to have lovers I can't ask +of _them_, of course. So there's no one but Peter left to ask. Peter's +all right and very nice, but he doesn't seem to know _anything_ that I +want to know. So he doesn't amount to so very much, after all. + +I'm not sure, anyway, that Mother'll want to get married again. From +little things she says I rather guess she doesn't think much of +marriage, anyway. One day I heard her say to Aunt Hattie that it was +a very pretty theory that marriages were made in heaven, but that the +real facts of the case were that they were made on earth. And another +day I heard her say that one trouble with marriage was that the +husband and wife didn't know how to play together and to rest +together. And lots of times I've heard her say little things to Aunt +Hattie that showed how unhappy _her_ marriage had been. + +But last night a funny thing happened. We were all in the library +reading after dinner, and Grandpa looked up from his paper and said +something about a woman that was sentenced to be hanged and how a +whole lot of men were writing letters protesting against having a +woman hanged; but there were only one or two letters from women. And +Grandpa said that only went to prove how much more lacking in a sense +of fitness of things women were than men. And he was just going to say +more when Aunt Hattie bristled up and tossed her chin, and said, real +indignantly: + +"A sense of fitness of things, indeed! Oh, yes, that's all very well +to say. There are plenty of men, no doubt, who are shocked beyond +anything at the idea of hanging a woman; but those same men will think +nothing of going straight home and making life for some other woman so +absolutely miserable that she'd think hanging would be a lucky escape +from something worse." + +"Harriet!" exclaimed Grandpa in a shocked voice. + +"Well, I mean it!" declared Aunt Hattie emphatically. "Look at poor +Madge here, and that wretch of a husband of hers!" + +And just here is where the funny thing happened. Mother bristled +up--_Mother_--and even more than Aunt Hattie had. She turned red and +then white, and her eyes blazed. + +"That will do, Hattie, please, in my presence," she said, very cold, +like ice. "Dr. Anderson is not a wretch at all. He is an honorable, +scholarly gentleman. Without doubt he meant to be kind and +considerate. He simply did not understand me. We weren't suited to +each other. That's all." + +And she got up and swept out of the room. + +Now wasn't that funny? But I just loved it, all the same. I always +love Mother when she's superb and haughty and disdainful. + +Well, after she had gone Aunt Hattie looked at Grandpa and Grandpa +looked at Aunt Hattie. Grandpa shrugged his shoulders, and gave his +hands a funny little flourish; and Aunt Hattie lifted her eyebrows and +said: + +"Well, what do you know about that?" (Aunt Hattie forgot I was in the +room, I know, or she'd never in the world have used slang like that!) +"And after all the things she's said about how unhappy she was!" +finished Aunt Hattie. + +Grandpa didn't say anything, but just gave his funny little shrug +again. + +And it was kind of queer, when you come to think of it--about Mother, +I mean, wasn't it? + + * * * * * + +_One month later_. + +Well, I've been here another whole month, and it's growing nicer all +the time. I just love it here. I love the sunshine everywhere, and the +curtains up to let it in. And the flowers in the rooms, and the little +fern-dish on the dining-room table, the books and magazines just lying +around ready to be picked up; Baby Lester laughing and singing all +over the house, and lovely ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room +having music and tea and little cakes when I come home from school +in the afternoon. And I love it not to have to look up and watch and +listen for fear Father's coming in and I'll be making a noise. And +best of all I love Mother with her dancing eyes and her laugh, and her +just being happy, with no going in and finding her crying or looking +long and fixedly at nothing, and then turning to me with a great big +sigh, and a "Well, dear?" that just makes you want to go and cry +because it's so hurt and heart-broken. Oh, I do just love it all! + +And Mother _is_ happy. I'm sure she is. Somebody is doing something +for her every moment--seems so. They are so glad to get her back +again. I know they are. I heard two ladies talking one day, and they +said they were. They called her "Poor Madge," and "Dear Madge," and +they said it was a shame that she should have had such a wretched +experience, and that they for one should try to do everything they +could to make her forget. + +And that's what they all seem to be trying to do--to make her forget. +There isn't a day goes by but that somebody sends flowers or books +or candy, or invites her somewhere, or takes her to ride or to the +theater, or comes to see her, so that Mother is in just one whirl of +good times from morning till night. Why, she'd just have to forget. +She doesn't have any time to remember. I think she _is_ forgetting, +too. Oh, of course she gets tired, and sometimes rainy days or +twilights I find her on the sofa in her room not reading or anything, +and her face looks 'most as it used to sometimes after they'd been +having one of their incompatibility times. But I don't find her that +way very often, and it doesn't last long. So I really think she is +forgetting. + +About the prospective suitors--I found that "prospective suitor" in a +story a week ago, and I just love it. It means you probably will want +to marry her, you know. I use it all the time now--in my mind--when +I'm thinking about those gentlemen that come here (the unmarried +ones). I forgot and used it out loud one day to Aunt Hattie; but I +shan't again. She said, "Mercy!" and threw up her hands and looked +over to Grandpa the way she does when I've said something she thinks +is perfectly awful. + +But I was firm and dignified--but very polite and pleasant--and I said +that I didn't see why she should act like that, for of course they +were prospective suitors, the unmarried ones, anyway, and even some of +the married ones, maybe, like Mr. Harlow, for of course they could get +divorces, and-- + +"Ma_rie_!" interrupted Aunt Hattie then, before I could say another +word, or go on to explain that of course Mother couldn't be expected +to stay unmarried _always_, though I was very sure she wouldn't +get married again until she'd waited long enough, and until it was +perfectly proper and genteel for her to take unto herself another +husband. + +But Aunt Hattie wouldn't even listen. And she threw up her hands and +said "Ma_rie_!" again with the emphasis on the last part of the name +the way I simply loathe. And she told me never, never to let her +hear me make such a speech as that again. And I said I would be very +careful not to. And you may be sure I shall. I don't want to go +through a scene like that again! + +She told Mother about it, though, I think. Anyhow, they were talking +very busily together when they came into the library after dinner that +night, and Mother looked sort of flushed and plagued, and I heard her +say, "Perhaps the child does read too many novels, Hattie." + +And Aunt Hattie answered, "Of course she does!" Then she said +something else which I didn't catch, only the words "silly" and +"romantic," and "pre-co-shus." (I don't know what that last means, but +I put it down the way it sounded, and I'm going to look it up.) + +Then they turned and saw me, and they didn't say anything more. But +the next morning the perfectly lovely story I was reading, that +Theresa let me take, called "The Hidden Secret," I couldn't find +anywhere. And when I asked Mother if she'd seen it, she said she'd +given it back to Theresa, and that I mustn't ask for it again. That I +wasn't old enough yet to read such stories. + +There it is again! I'm not old enough. When _will_ I be allowed to +take my proper place in life? Echo answers when. + +Well, to resume and go on. + +What was I talking about? Oh, I know--the prospective suitors. (Aunt +Hattie can't hear me when I just _write_ it, anyway.) Well, they all +come just as they used to, only there are more of them now--two fat +men, one slim one, and a man with a halo of hair round a bald spot. +Oh, I don't mean that any of them are really suitors yet. They just +come to call and to tea, and send her flowers and candy. And Mother +isn't a mite nicer to one than she is to any of the others. Anybody +can see that. And she shows very plainly she's no notion of picking +anybody out yet. But of course I can't help being interested and +watching. + +It won't be Mr. Harlow, anyway. I'm pretty sure of that, even if he +has started in to get his divorce. (And he has. I heard Aunt Hattie +tell Mother so last week.) But Mother doesn't like him. I'm sure she +doesn't. He makes her awfully nervous. Oh, she laughs and talks with +him--seems as if she laughs even more with him than she does with +anybody else. But she's always looking around for somebody else to +talk to; and I've seen her get up and move off just as he was coming +across the room toward her, and I'm just sure she saw him. There's +another reason, too, why I think Mother isn't going to choose him for +her lover. I heard something she said to him one day. + +She was sitting before the fire in the library, and he came in. There +were other people there, quite a lot of them; but Mother was all alone +by the fireplace, her eyes looking fixed and dreamy into the fire. I +was in the window-seat around the corner of the chimney reading; and +I could see Mother in the mirror just as plain as could be. She could +have seen me, too, of course, if she'd looked up. But she didn't. + +I never even thought of hearing anything I hadn't ought, and I was +just going to get down to go and speak to Mother myself, when Mr. +Harlow crossed the room and sat down on the sofa beside her. + +"Dreaming, Madge?" he said, low and soft, his soulful eyes just +devouring her lovely face. (I read that, too, in a book last week. I +just loved it!) + +Mother started and flushed up. + +"Oh, Mr. Harlow!" she cried. (Mother always calls him "Mr." That's +another thing. He always calls her "Madge," you know.) "How do you +do?" Then she gave her quick little look around to see if there wasn't +somebody else near for her to talk to. But there wasn't. + +"But you _do_ dream, of the old days, sometimes, Madge, don't you?" he +began again, soft and low, leaning a little nearer. + +"Of when I was a child and played dolls before this very fireplace? +Well, yes, perhaps I do," laughed Mother. And I could see she drew +away a little. "There was one doll with a broken head that--" + +"_I_ was speaking of broken hearts," interrupted Mr. Harlow, very +meaningfully. + +"Broken hearts! Nonsense! As if there were such things in the world!" +cried Mother, with a little toss to her head, looking around again +with a quick little glance for some one else to talk to. + +But still there wasn't anybody there. + +They were all over to the other side of the room talking, and paying +no attention to Mother and Mr. Harlow, only the violinist. He looked +and looked, and acted nervous with his watch-chain. But he didn't come +over. I felt, some way, that I ought to go away and not hear any +more; but I couldn't without showing them that I had been there. So +I thought it was better to stay just where I was. They could see me, +anyway, if they'd just look in the mirror. So I didn't feel that I was +sneaking. And I stayed. + +Then Mr. Harlow spoke again. His eyes grew even more soulful and +devouring. I could see them in the mirror. + +"Madge, it seems so strange that we should both have had to trail +through the tragedy of broken hearts and lives before we came to our +real happiness. For we _shall_ be happy, Madge. You know I'm to be +free, too, soon, dear, and then we--" + +But he didn't finish. Mother put up her hand and stopped him. Her face +wasn't flushed any more. It was very white. + +"Carl," she began in a still, quiet voice, and I was so thrilled. I +knew something was going to happen--this time she'd called him by his +first name. "I'm sorry," she went on. "I've tried to show you. I've +tried very hard to show you--without speaking. But if you make me say +it I shall have to say it. Whether you are free or not matters not to +me. It can make no difference in our relationship. Now, will you come +with me to the other side of the room, or must I be so rude as to go +and leave you?" + +She got up then, and he got up, too. He said something--I couldn't +hear what it was; but it was sad and reproachful--I'm sure of that by +the look in his eyes. Then they both walked across the room to the +others. + +I was sorry for him. I do not want him for a father, but I couldn't +help being sorry for him, he looked so sad and mournful and handsome; +and he's got perfectly beautiful eyes. (Oh, I do hope mine will have +nice eyes, when I find him!) + +As I said before, I don't believe Mother'll choose Mr. Harlow, anyway, +even when the time comes. As for any of the others--I can't tell. She +treats them all just exactly alike, as far as I can see. Polite and +pleasant, but not at all lover-like. I was talking to Peter one day +about it, and I asked him. But he didn't seem to know, either, which +one she will be likely to take, if any. + +Peter's about the only one I can ask. Of course I couldn't ask +Mother, or Aunt Hattie, after what _she_ said about my calling them +prospective suitors. And Grandfather--well, I should never think +of asking Grandpa a question like that. But Peter--Peter's a real +comfort. I'm sure I don't know what I should do for somebody to talk +to and ask questions about things down here, if it wasn't for him. As +I think I've said already, he takes me to school and back again every +day; so of course I see him quite a lot. + +Speaking of school, it's all right, and of course I like it, though +not quite so well as I did. There are some of the girls--well, they +act queer. I don't know what is the matter with them. They stop +talking--some of them--when I come up, and they make me feel, +sometimes, as if I didn't _belong_. Maybe it's because I came from a +little country town like Andersonville. But they've known that all +along, from the very first. And they didn't act at all like that at +the beginning. Maybe it's just their way down here. If I think of it +I'll ask Peter to-morrow. + +Well, I guess that's all I can think of this time. + + * * * * * + +'_Most four months later_. + +It's been ages since I've written here, I know. But there's nothing +special happened. Everything has been going along just about as it did +at the first. Oh, there is one thing different--Peter's gone. He went +two months ago. We've got an awfully old chauffeur now. One with gray +hair and glasses, and homely, too. His name is Charles. The very first +day he came, Aunt Hattie told me never to talk to Charles, or bother +him with questions; that it was better he should keep his mind +entirely on his driving. + +She needn't have worried. I should never dream of asking him the +things I did Peter. He's too stupid. Now Peter and I got to be real +good friends--until all of a sudden Grandpa told him he might go. I +don't know why. + +I don't see as I'm any nearer finding out who Mother's lover will be +than I was four months ago. I suppose it's still too soon. Peter +said one day he thought widows ought to wait at least a year, and he +guessed grass-widows were just the same. My, how mad I was at him for +using that name about my mother! Oh, I knew what he meant. I'd heard +it at school. (I know now what it was that made those girls act so +queer and horrid.) There was a girl--I never liked her, and I suspect +she didn't like me, either. Well, she found out Mother had a divorce. +(You see, _I_ hadn't told it. I remembered how those girls out West +bragged.) And she told a lot of the others. But it didn't work at all +as it had in the West. None of the girls in this school here had a +divorce in their families; and, if you'll believe it, they acted--some +of them--as if it was a _disgrace_, even after I told them good and +plain that ours was a perfectly respectable and genteel divorce. +Nothing I could say made a mite of difference, with some of the +girls, and then is when I first heard that perfectly horrid word, +"grass-widow." So I knew what Peter meant, though I was furious at him +for using it. And I let him see it good and plain. + +Of course I changed schools. I knew Mother'd want me to, when she +knew, and so I told her right away. I thought she'd be superb and +haughty and disdainful sure this time. But she wasn't. First she grew +so white I thought she was going to faint away. Then she began to cry, +and kiss and hug me. And that night I heard her talking to Aunt Hattie +and saying, "To think that that poor innocent child has to suffer, +too!" and some more which I couldn't hear, because her voice was all +choked up and shaky. + +Mother is crying now again quite a lot. You see, her six months are +'most up, and I've got to go back to Father. And I'm afraid Mother is +awfully unhappy about it. She had a letter last week from Aunt Jane, +Father's sister. I heard her read it out loud to Aunt Hattie and +Grandpa in the library. It was very stiff and cold and dignified, and +ran something like this: + + DEAR MADAM: Dr. Anderson desires me to say that he trusts you are + bearing in mind the fact that, according to the decision of the + court, his daughter Mary is to come to him on the first day of + May. If you will kindly inform him as to the hour of her expected + arrival, he will see that she is properly met at the station. + +Then she signed her name, Abigail Jane Anderson. (She was named for +her mother, Grandma Anderson, same as Father wanted them to name +me. Mercy! I'm glad they didn't. "Mary" is bad enough, but "Abigail +Jane"--!) + +Well, Mother read the letter aloud, then she began to talk about +it--how she felt, and how awful it was to think of giving me up six +whole months, and sending her bright little sunny-hearted Marie into +that tomb-like place with only an Abigail Jane to flee to for refuge. +And she said that she almost wished Nurse Sarah was back again--that +she, at least, was human. + +"'And see that she's properly met,' indeed!" went on Mother, with an +indignant little choke in her voice. "Oh, yes, I know! Now if it were +a star or a comet that he expected, he'd go himself and sit for hours +and hours watching for it. But when his daughter comes, he'll send +John with the horses, like enough, and possibly that precious Abigail +Jane of his. Or, maybe that is too much to expect. Oh, Hattie, I can't +let her go--I can't, I can't!" + +I was in the window-seat around the corner of the chimney, reading; +and I don't know as she knew I was there. But I was, and I heard. And +I've heard other things, too, all this week. + +I'm to go next Monday, and as it comes nearer the time Mother's +getting worse and worse. She's so unhappy over it. And of course that +makes me unhappy, too. But I try not to show it. Only yesterday, when +she was crying and hugging me, and telling me how awful it was that +her little girl should have to suffer, too, I told her not to worry +a bit about me; that I wasn't suffering at all. I _liked_ it. It was +ever so much more exciting to have two homes instead of one. But she +only cried all the more, and sobbed, "Oh, my baby, my baby!"--so +nothing I could say seemed to do one mite of good. + +But I meant it, and I told the truth. I _am_ excited. And I can't help +wondering how it's all going to be at Father's. Oh, of course, I know +it won't be so much fun, and I'll have to be "Mary," and all that; +but it'll be something _different_, and I always did like different +things. Besides, there's Father's love story to watch. Maybe _he's_ +found somebody. Maybe he didn't wait a year. Anyhow, if he did find +somebody I'm sure he wouldn't be so willing to wait as Mother would. +You know Nurse Sarah said Father never wanted to wait for anything. +That's why he married Mother so quick, in the first place. But if +there is somebody, of course I'll find out when I'm there. So that'll +be interesting. And, anyway, there'll be the girls. I shall have +_them_. + +[Illustration: "I TOLD HER NOT TO WORRY A BIT ABOUT ME"] + +I'll close now, and make this the end of the chapter. It'll be +Andersonville next time. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WHEN I AM MARY + + +ANDERSONVILLE. + +Well, here I am. I've been here two days now, and I guess I'd better +write down what's happened so far, before I forget it. + +First, about my leaving Boston. Poor, dear Mother did take on +dreadfully, and I thought she just wouldn't let me go. She went with +me to the junction where I had to change, and put me on the parlor car +for Andersonville, and asked the conductor to look out for me. (As +if I needed that--a young lady like me! I'm fourteen now. I had a +birthday last week.) + +But I thought at the last that she just wouldn't let me go, she clung +to me so, and begged me to forgive her for all she'd brought upon me; +and said it was a cruel, cruel shame, when there were children, and +people ought to stop and think and remember, and be willing to stand +anything. And then, in the next breath, she'd beg me not to forget +her, and not to love Father better than I did her. (As if there was +any danger of that!) And to write to her every few minutes. + +Then the conductor cried, "All aboard!" and the bell rang, and she +had to go and leave me. But the last I saw of her she was waving her +handkerchief, and smiling the kind of a smile that's worse than crying +right out loud. Mother's always like that. No matter how bad she +feels, at the last minute she comes up bright and smiling, and just as +brave as can be. + +I had a wonderful trip to Andersonville. Everybody was very kind to +me, and there were lovely things to see out the window. The conductor +came in and spoke to me several times--not the way you would look +after a child, but the way a gentleman would tend to a lady. I liked +him very much. + +There was a young gentleman in the seat in front, too, who was very +nice. He loaned me a magazine, and bought some candy for me; but I +didn't see much more of him, for the second time the conductor came in +he told me he'd found a nice seat back in the car on the shady side. +He noticed the sun came in where I sat, he said. (_I_ hadn't noticed +it specially.) But he picked up my bag and magazine--but I guess he +forgot the candy-box the nice young gentleman in front had just put +on my window-sill, for when I got into my new seat the candy wasn't +anywhere; and of course I didn't like to go back for it. But the +conductor was very nice and kind, and came in twice again to see if I +liked my new seat; and of course I said I did. It was very nice and +shady, and there was a lady and a baby in the next seat, and I played +with the baby quite a lot. + +It was heaps of fun to be grown up and traveling alone like that! I +sat back in my seat and wondered and wondered what the next six months +were going to be like. And I wondered, too, if I'd forgotten how to be +"Mary." + +"Dear me! How shall I ever remember not to run and skip and laugh loud +or sing, or ask questions, or do _anything_ that Marie wants to do?" I +thought to myself. + +And I wondered if Aunt Jane would meet me, and what she would be like. +She came once when I was a little girl, Mother said; but I didn't +remember her. + +Well, at last we got to Andersonville. John was there with the horses, +and Aunt Jane, too. Of course I knew she must be Aunt Jane, because +she was with John. The conductor was awfully nice and polite, and +didn't leave me till he'd seen me safe in the hands of Aunt Jane and +John. Then he went back to his train, and the next minute it had +whizzed out of the station, and I was alone with the beginning of my +next six months. + +The first beginning was a nice smile, and a "Glad to see ye home, +Miss," from John, as he touched his hat, and the next was a "How do +you do, Mary?" from Aunt Jane. And I knew right off that first minute +that I wasn't going to like Aunt Jane--just the way she said that +"Mary," and the way she looked me over from head to foot. + +Aunt Jane is tall and thin, and wears black--not the pretty, stylish +black, but the "I-don't-care" rusty black--and a stiff white collar. +Her eyes are the kind that says, "I'm surprised at you!" all the time, +and her mouth is the kind that never shows any teeth when it smiles, +and doesn't smile much, anyway. Her hair is some gray, and doesn't +kink or curl anywhere; and I knew right off the first minute she +looked at me that she didn't like mine, 'cause it did curl. + +I was pretty sure she didn't like my clothes, either. I've since found +out she didn't--but more of that anon. (I just love that word "anon.") +And I just knew she disapproved of my hat. But she didn't say +anything--not in words--and after we'd attended to my trunk, we went +along to the carriage and got in. + +My stars! I didn't suppose horses _could_ go so slow. Why, we were +_ages_ just going a block. You see I'd forgotten; and without thinking +I spoke right out. + +"My! Horses _are_ slow, aren't they?" I cried. "You see, Grandpa has +an auto, and--" + +"Mary!"--just like that she interrupted--Aunt Jane did. (Funny how +old folks can do what they won't let you do. Now if I'd interrupted +anybody like that!) "You may as well understand at once," went on Aunt +Jane, "that we are not interested in your grandfather's auto, or his +house, or anything that is his." (I felt as if I was hearing the +catechism in church!) "And that the less reference you make to your +life in Boston, the better we shall be pleased. As I said before, we +are not interested. Besides, while under your father's roof, it would +seem to me very poor taste, indeed, for you to make constant reference +to things you may have been doing while _not_ under his roof. The +situation is deplorable enough, however you take it, without making it +positively unbearable. You will remember, Mary?" + +Mary said, "Yes, Aunt Jane," very polite and proper; but I can tell +you that inside of Mary, _Marie_ was just boiling. + +Unbearable, indeed! + +We didn't say anything more all the way home. Naturally, _I_ was not +going to, after that speech; and Aunt Jane said nothing. So silence +reigned supreme. + +Then we got home. Things looked quite natural, only there was a new +maid in the kitchen, and Nurse Sarah wasn't there. Father wasn't +there, either. And, just as I suspected, 't was a star that was to +blame, only this time the star was the moon--an eclipse; and he'd gone +somewhere out West so he could see it better. + +He isn't coming back till next week; and when I think how he made me +come on the first day, so as to get in the whole six months, when all +the time he did not care enough about it to be here himself, I'm just +mad--I mean, the righteously indignant kind of mad--for I can't help +thinking how poor Mother would have loved those extra days with her. + +Aunt Jane said I was to have my old room, and so, as soon as I got +here, I went right up and took off my hat and coat, and pretty quick +they brought up my trunk, and I unpacked it; and I didn't hurry about +it either. I wasn't a bit anxious to get downstairs again to Aunt +Jane. Besides, I may as well own up, I was crying--a little. Mother's +room was right across the hall, and it looked so lonesome; and I +couldn't help remembering how different this homecoming was from the +one in Boston, six months ago. + +Well, at last I had to go down to dinner--I mean supper--and, by the +way, I made another break on that. I _called_ it dinner right out +loud, and never thought--till I saw Aunt Jane's face. + +"_Supper_ will be ready directly," she said, with cold and icy +emphasis. "And may I ask you to remember, Mary, please, that +Andersonville has dinner at _noon_, not at six o'clock." + +"Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite and proper again. (I shan't say +what Marie said inside.) + +We didn't do anything in the evening but read and go to bed at nine +o'clock. I _wanted_ to run over to Carrie Heywood's; but Aunt Jane +said no, not till morning. (I wonder why young folks _never_ can do +things when they _want_ to do them, but must always wait till morning +or night or noon, or some other time!) + +In the morning I went up to the schoolhouse. I planned it so as to get +there at recess, and I saw all the girls except one that was sick, and +one that was away. We had a perfectly lovely time, only everybody +was talking at once so that I don't know now what was said. But they +seemed glad to see me. I know that. Maybe I'll go to school next week. +Aunt Jane says she thinks I ought to, when it's only the first of May. +She's going to speak to Father when he comes next week. + +She was going to speak to him about my clothes; then she decided to +attend to those herself, and not bother him. As I suspected, she +doesn't like my dresses. I found out this morning for sure. She came +into my room and asked to see my things. My! But didn't I hate to show +them to her? Marie said she wouldn't; but Mary obediently trotted to +the closet and brought them out one by one. + +Aunt Jane turned them around with the tips of her fingers, all the +time sighing and shaking her head. When I'd brought them all out, +she shook her head again and said they would not do at all--not in +Andersonville; that they were extravagant, and much too elaborate for +a young girl; that she would see the dressmaker and arrange that I had +some serviceable blue and brown serges at once. + +Blue and brown serge, indeed! But, there, what's the use? I'm Mary +now, I keep forgetting that; though I don't see how I can forget +it--with Aunt Jane around. + +But, listen. A funny thing happened this morning. Something came +up about Boston, and Aunt Jane asked me a question. Then she asked +another and another, and she kept me talking till I guess I talked +'most a whole half-hour about Grandpa Desmond, Aunt Hattie, Mother, +and the house, and what we did, and, oh, a whole lot of things. And +here, just two days ago, she was telling me that she wasn't interested +in Grandpa Desmond, his home, or his daughter, or anything that was +his! + +There's something funny about Aunt Jane. + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +Father's come. He came yesterday. But I didn't know it, and I came +running downstairs, ending with a little bounce for the last step. And +there, right in front of me in the hall was--_Father_. + +I guess he was as much surprised as I was. Anyhow, he acted so. He +just stood stock-still and stared, his face turning all kinds of +colors. + +"You?" he gasped, just above his breath. Then suddenly he seemed to +remember. "Why, yes, yes, to be sure. You are here, aren't you? How do +you do, Mary?" + +He came up then and held out his hand, and I thought that was all he +was going to do. But after a funny little hesitation he stooped and +kissed my forehead. Then he turned and went into the library with very +quick steps, and I didn't see him again till at the supper-table. + +At the supper-table he said again, "How do you do, Mary?" Then he +seemed to forget all about me. At least he didn't say anything more to +me; but three or four times, when I glanced up, I found him looking at +me. But just as soon as I looked back at him he turned his eyes away +and cleared his throat, and began to eat or to talk to Aunt Jane. + +After dinner--I mean supper--he went out to the observatory, just as +he always used to. Aunt Jane said her head ached and she was going to +bed. I said I guessed I would step over to Carrie Heywood's; but Aunt +Jane said, certainly not; that I was much too young to be running +around nights in the dark. Nights! And it was only seven o'clock, and +not dark at all! But of course I couldn't go. + +Aunt Jane went upstairs, and I was left alone. I didn't feel a bit +like reading; besides, there wasn't a book or a magazine anywhere +_asking_ you to read. They just shrieked, "Touch me not!" behind the +glass doors in the library. I hate sewing. I mean _Marie_ hates it. +Aunt Jane says Mary's got to learn. + +For a time I just walked around the different rooms downstairs, +looking at the chairs and tables and rugs all _just so_, as if they 'd +been measured with a yardstick. Marie jerked up a shade and pushed a +chair crooked and kicked a rug up at one corner; but Mary put them all +back properly--so there wasn't any fun in that for long. + +After a while I opened the parlor door and peeked in. They used to +keep it open when Mother was here; but Aunt Jane doesn't use it. I +knew where the electric push button was, though, and I turned on the +light. + +It used to be an awful room, and it's worse now, on account of its +shut-up look. Before I got the light on, the chairs and sofas loomed +up like ghosts in their linen covers. And when the light did come on, +I saw that all the old shiver places were there. Not one was missing. +Great-Grandfather Anderson's coffin plate on black velvet, the wax +cross and flowers that had been used at three Anderson funerals, the +hair wreath made of all the hair of seventeen dead Andersons and five +live ones--no, no, I don't mean _all_ the hair, but hair from all +seventeen and five. Nurse Sarah used to tell me about it. + +Well, as I said, all the shiver places were there, and I shivered +again as I looked at them; then I crossed over to Mother's old piano, +opened it, and touched the keys. I love to play. There wasn't any +music there, but I don't need music for lots of my pieces. I know them +by heart--only they're all gay and lively, and twinkly-toe dancy. +_Marie_ music. I don't know a one that would be proper for _Mary_ to +play. + +But I was just tingling to play _something_, and I remembered that +Father was in the observatory, and Aunt Jane upstairs in the other +part of the house where she couldn't possibly hear. So I began to +play. I played the very slowest piece I had, and I played softly at +first; but I know I forgot, and I know I hadn't played two pieces +before I was having the best time ever, and making all the noise I +wanted to. + +Then all of a sudden I had a funny feeling as if somebody somewhere +was watching me; but I just couldn't turn around. I stopped playing, +though, at the end of that piece, and then I looked; but there wasn't +anybody in sight. But the wax cross was there, and the coffin plate, +and that awful hair wreath; and suddenly I felt as if that room was +just full of folks with great staring eyes. I fairly shook with +shivers then, but I managed to shut the piano and get over to the door +where the light was. Then, a minute later, out in the big silent hall, +I crept on tiptoe toward the stairs. I knew then, all of a sudden, why +I'd felt somebody was listening. There was. Across the hall in the +library in the big chair before the fire sat--_Father_! And for 'most +a whole half-hour I had been banging away at that piano on marches and +dance music! My! But I held my breath and stopped short, I can tell +you. But he didn't move nor turn, and a minute later I was safely by +the door and halfway up the stairs. + +I stayed in my room the rest of that evening; and for the second time +since I've been here I cried myself to sleep. + + * * * * * + +_Another week later_, + +Well, I've got them--those brown and blue serge dresses and the +calfskin boots. My, but I hope they're stiff and homely enough--all of +them! And hot, too. Aunt Jane did say to-day that she didn't know but +what she'd made a mistake not to get gingham dresses. But, then, she'd +have to get the gingham later, anyway, she said; then I'd have both. + +Well, they can't be worse than the serge. That's sure. I hate the +serge. They're awfully homely. Still, I don't know but it's just as +well. Certainly it's lots easier to be Mary in a brown serge and +clumpy boots than it is in the soft, fluffy things Marie used to wear. +You couldn't be Marie in _these_ things. Honestly, I'm feeling real +Maryish these days. + +I wonder if that's why the girls seem so queer at school. They _are_ +queer. Three times lately I've come up to a crowd of girls and heard +them stop talking right off short. They colored up, too; and pretty +quick they began to slip away, one by one, till there wasn't anybody +left but just me, just as they used to do in Boston. But of course it +can't be for the same reason here, for they've known all along about +the divorce and haven't minded it at all. + +I heard this morning that Stella Mayhew had a party last night. But +_I_ didn't get invited. Of course, you can't always ask everybody to +your parties, but this was a real big party, and I haven't found a +girl in school, yet, that wasn't invited--but me. But I guess it +wasn't anything, after all. Stella is a new girl that has come here to +live since I went away. Her folks are rich, and she's very popular, +and of course she has loads of friends she had to invite; and she +doesn't know me very well. Probably that was it. And maybe I just +imagine it about the other girls, too. Perhaps it's the brown serge +dress. Still, it can't be that, for this is the first day I've worn +it. But, as I said, I feel Maryish already. + +I haven't dared to touch the piano since that night a week ago, only +once when Aunt Jane was at a missionary meeting, and I knew Father was +over to the college. But didn't I have a good time then? I just guess +I did! + +Aunt Jane doesn't care for music. Besides, it's noisy, she says, and +would be likely to disturb Father. So I'm not to keep on with my music +lessons here. She's going to teach me to sew instead. She says sewing +is much more sensible and useful. + +Sensible and useful! I wonder how many times I've heard those words +since I've been here. And durable, too. And nourishing. That's another +word. Honestly, Marie is getting awfully tired of Mary's sensible +sewing and dusting, and her durable clumpy shoes and stuffy dresses, +and her nourishing oatmeal and whole-wheat bread. But there, what can +you do? I'm trying to remember that it's _different_, anyway, and that +I said I liked something different. + +I don't see much of Father. Still, there's something kind of queer +about it, after all. He only speaks to me about twice a day--just +"Good-morning, Mary," and "Good-night." And so far as most of his +actions are concerned you wouldn't think by them that he knew I was in +the house, Yet, over and over again at the table, and at times when I +didn't even know he was 'round, I've found him watching me, and with +such a queer, funny look in his eyes. Then, very quickly always, he +looks right away. + +But last night he didn't. And that's especially what I wanted to write +about to-day. And this is the way it happened. + +It was after supper, and I had gone into the library. Father had gone +out to the observatory as usual, and Aunt Jane had gone upstairs to +her room as usual, and as usual I was wandering 'round looking for +something to do. I wanted to play on the piano, but I didn't dare +to--not with all those dead-hair and wax-flower folks in the parlor +watching me, and the chance of Father's coming in as he did before. + +I was standing in the window staring out at nothing--it wasn't quite +dark yet--when again I had that queer feeling that somebody was +looking at me. I turned--and there was Father. He had come in and was +sitting in the big chair by the table. But this time he didn't look +right away as usual and give me a chance to slip quietly out of the +room, as I always had before. Instead he said: + +"What are you doing there, Mary?" + +"N-nothing." I know I stammered. It always scares me to talk to +Father. + +"Nonsense!" Father frowned and hitched in his chair. Father always +hitches in his chair when he's irritated and nervous. "You can't be +doing nothing. Nobody but a dead man does nothing--and we aren't so +sure about him. What are you doing, Mary?" + +"Just l-looking out the window." + +"Thank you. That's better. Come here. I want to talk to you." + +"Yes, Father." + +I went, of course, at once, and sat down in the chair near him. He +hitched again in his seat. + +"Why don't you do something--read, sew, knit?" he demanded. "Why do I +always find you moping around, doing nothing?" + +Just like that he said it; and when he had just told me-- + +"Why, Father!" I cried; and I know that I showed how surprised I was. +"I thought you just said I couldn't do nothing--that nobody could!" + +"Eh? What? Tut, tut!" He seemed very angry at first; then suddenly +he looked sharply into my face. Next, if you'll believe it, he +laughed--the queer little chuckle under his breath that I've heard him +give two or three times when there was something he thought was funny. +"Humph!" he grunted. Then he gave me another sharp look out of +his eyes, and said: "I don't think you meant that to be quite so +impertinent as it sounded, Mary, so we'll let it pass--this time. I'll +put my question this way: Don't you ever knit or read or sew?" + +"I do sew every day in Aunt Jane's room, ten minutes hemming, ten +minutes seaming, and ten minutes basting patchwork squares together. I +don't know how to knit." + +"How about reading? Don't you care for reading?" + +"Why, of course I do. I love it!" I cried. "And I do read lots--at +home." + +"At--_home_?" + +I knew then, of course, that I'd made another awful break. There +wasn't any smile around Father's eyes now, and his lips came together +hard and thin over that last word. + +"At--at _my_ home," I stammered. "I mean, my _other_ home." + +"Humph!" grunted Father. Then, after a minute: "But why, pray, can't +you read here? I'm sure there are--books enough." He flourished his +hands toward the bookcases all around the room. + +"Oh, I do--a little; but, you see, I'm so afraid I'll leave some of +them out when I'm through," I explained, + +"Well, what of it? What if you do?" he demanded. + +"Why, _Father_!" I tried to show by the way I said it that he knew--of +course he knew. But he made me tell him right out that Aunt Jane +wouldn't like it, and that he wouldn't like it, and that the books +always had to be kept exactly where they belonged. + +"Well, why not? Why shouldn't they?" he asked then, almost crossly, +and hitching again in his chair. "Aren't books down there--in +Boston--kept where they belong, pray?" + +It was the first time since I'd come that he'd ever mentioned Boston; +and I almost jumped out of my chair when I heard him. But I soon saw +it wasn't going to be the last, for right then and there he began to +question me, even worse than Aunt Jane had. + +He wanted to know everything, _everything_; all about the house, with +its cushions and cozy corners and curtains 'way up, and books left +around easy to get, and magazines, and Baby Lester, and the fun we had +romping with him, and everything. Only, of course, I didn't mention +Mother. Aunt Jane had told me not to--not anywhere; and to be +specially careful before Father. But what can you do when he asks you +himself, right out plain? And that's what he did. + +He'd been up on his feet, tramping up and down the room all the time +I'd been talking; and now, all of a sudden, he wheels around and stops +short. + +"How is--your mother, Mary?" he asks. And it was just as if he'd +opened the door to another room, he had such a whole lot of questions +to ask after that. And when he'd finished he knew everything: what +time we got up and went to bed, and what we did all day, and the +parties and dinners and auto rides, and the folks that came such a lot +to see Mother. + +Then all of a sudden he stopped--asking questions, I mean. He stopped +just as suddenly as he'd begun. Why, I was right in the middle of +telling about a concert for charity we got up just before I came away, +and how Mother had practiced for days and days with the young man who +played the violin, when all of a sudden Father jerked his watch from +his pocket and said: + +"There, there, Mary, it's getting late. You've talked enough--too +much. Now go to bed. Good-night." + +Talked too much, indeed! And who'd been making me do all the talking, +I should like to know? But, of course, I couldn't _say_ anything. +That's the unfair part of it. Old folks can say anything, _anything_ +they want to to _you_, but you can't say a thing back to them--not a +thing. + +And so I went to bed. And the next day all that Father said to me +was, "Good-morning, Mary," and, "Good-night," just as he had ever +since I came. And that's all he's said yesterday and to-day. But he's +looked at me. He's looked at me a lot. I know, because at mealtimes +and others, when he's been in the room with me, I've looked up and +found his eyes on me. Funny, isn't it? + + * * * * * + +_Two weeks later_. + +Well, I don't know as I have anything very special to say. Still, I +suppose I ought to write something; so I'll put down what little there +is. + +Of course, there doesn't so much happen here, anyway, as there does at +home--I mean in Boston. (I _must_ stop calling it home down to Boston +as if this wasn't home at all. It makes Aunt Jane very, very angry, +and I don't think Father likes it very well.) But, as I was saying, +there really doesn't so much happen here as there does down to Boston; +and it isn't nearly so interesting. But, there! I suppose I mustn't +expect it to be interesting. I'm Mary now, not Marie. + +There aren't any teas and dinners and pretty ladies and music and +soulful-eyed prospective suitors _here_. My! Wouldn't Aunt Jane have +four fits? And Father, too. But I'd just like to put one of Mother's +teas with the little cakes and flowers and talk and tinkling laughs +down in Aunt Jane's parlor, and then watch what happened. Oh, of +course, the party couldn't stand it long--not in there with the hair +wreath and the coffin plate. But they could stand it long enough for +Father to thunder from the library, "Jane, what in Heaven's name is +the meaning of all this?" And for Aunt Jane to give one look at the +kind of clothes _real_ folks wear, and then flee with her hands to her +ears and her eyes upraised to the ceiling. Wouldn't it be fun? + +But, there! What's the use of imagining perfectly crazy, impossible +things like that? We haven't had a thing here in that parlor since I +came but one missionary meeting and one Ladies' Aid Sewing Circle; and +after the last one (the Sewing Circle) Aunt Jane worked a whole day +picking threads off the carpet, and smoothing down the linen covers +because they'd got so mussed up. And I heard her tell the hired girl +that she shouldn't have that Sewing Circle here again in a hurry, and +when she did have them they'd have to sew in the dining-room with a +sheet spread down to catch the threads. My! but I would like to see +Aunt Jane with one of Mother's teas in her parlor! + +I can't see as Father has changed much of any these last two weeks. He +still doesn't pay much of any attention to me, though I do find him +looking at me sometimes, just as if he was trying to make up his mind +about something. He doesn't say hardly anything to me, only once or +twice when he got to asking questions again about Boston and Mother. + +The last time I told him all about Mr. Harlow, and he was so +interested! I just happened to mention his name, and he wanted to know +right away if it was Mr. Carl Harlow, and if I knew whether Mother had +ever known him before. And of course I told him right away that it +was--the same one she was engaged to before she was engaged to him. + +Father looked funny and kind of grunted and said, yes, yes, he knew. +Then he said, "That will do, Mary." And he began to read his book +again. But he never turned a page, and it wasn't five minutes before +he got up and walked around the room, picking out books from the +bookcases and putting them right back, and picking up things from the +mantel and putting _them_ right back. Then he turned to me and asked +with a kind of of-course-I-don't-care air: + +"Did you say you saw quite a little of--this Harlow fellow?" + +But he did care. I know he did. He was _real_ interested. I could see +that he was. And so I told him everything, all about how he came there +to the teas, and sent her flowers and candy, and was getting a divorce +himself, and what he said on the sofa that day, and how Mother +answered. As I said, I told him everything, only I was careful not to +call Mr. Harlow a prospective suitor, of course. I remembered too +well what Aunt Hattie had said. Father didn't say anything when I got +through. He just got up and left the room, and pretty quick I saw him +crossing the lawn to the observatory. + +I guess there aren't any prospective suitors here. I mean, I guess +Father isn't a prospective suitor--anyhow, not yet. (Of course, it's +the man that has to be the suitor.) He doesn't go anywhere, only over +to the college and out to the observatory. I've watched so to see. I +wanted specially to know, for of course if he was being a prospective +suitor to any one, she'd be my new mother, maybe. And I'm going to be +awfully particular about any new mother coming into the house. + +A whole lot more, even, depends on mothers than on fathers, you know; +and if you're going to have one all ready-made thrust upon you, you +are sort of anxious to know what kind she is. Some way, I don't think +I'd like a new mother even as well as I'd like a new father; and I +don't believe I'd like _him_ very well. + +Of course, there are quite a lot of ladies here that Father _could_ +have. There are several pretty teachers in the schools, and some nice +unmarried ladies in the church. And there's Miss Parmelia Snow. She's +Professor Snow's sister. She wears glasses and is terribly learned. +Maybe he _would_ like her. But, mercy! I shouldn't. + +Then there's Miss Grace Ann Sanborn. She's fat, and awfully jolly. She +comes here a lot lately to see Aunt Jane. I don't know why. They don't +belong to the same church, or anything. But she "runs over," as she +calls it, almost every afternoon just a little before dinner--I mean +supper. + +Mrs. Darling used to come then, too, when I first came; but she comes +over evenings now more. Maybe it's because she doesn't like Miss Grace +Ann. I don't think she _does_ like her, for every time she saw her, +she'd say: "Oh, _you_? So you're here!" And then she'd turn and talk +to Aunt Jane and simply ignore Miss Grace Ann. And pretty quick she'd +get up and go. And now she comes evenings. She's fixing over her +house, and she runs and asks Aunt Jane's advice about every little +thing. She asks Father's, too, every chance she gets, when she sees +him in the hall or on the front steps. I heard her tell Aunt Jane +she considered Professor Anderson a man of most excellent taste and +judgment. + +I suppose Mrs. Darling _could_ be my new mother. She's a widow. Her +husband died last year. She is very well off now that her husband +is dead, I heard Aunt Jane say one day. She meant well off in +money--quite a lot of it, you know. I _thought_ she meant well off +because he was dead and she didn't have to live with him any more, +and I said so to Aunt Jane. (He was a cross man, and very stern, as +everybody knew.) But, dear suz me! Aunt Jane was awfully shocked, and +said certainly not; that she meant Mr. Darling had left his wife a +great deal of money. + +Then she talked very stern and solemn to me, and said that I must not +think just because my poor dear father's married life had ended in +such a wretched tragedy that every other home had such a skeleton in +the closet. + +_I_ grew stern and dignified and solemn then. I knew, of course, what +she meant. I'm no child. She meant Mother. She meant that Mother, my +dear blessed mother, was the skeleton in their closet. And of course I +wasn't going to stand there and hear that, and not say a word. + +But I didn't say just a word. I said a good many words. I won't try to +put them all down here; but I told her quietly, in a firm voice, and +with no temper (showing), that I guessed Father was just as much of a +skeleton in Mother's closet as she was in his; and that if she could +see how perfectly happy my mother was now she'd understand a little of +what my father's skeleton had done to her all those years she'd had to +live with it. + +I said a lot more, but before I'd got half finished with what I wanted +to say, I got to crying, so I just had to run out of the room. + +That night I heard Aunt Jane tell Mrs. Darling that the worst feature +of the whole deplorable situation was the effect on the child's mind, +and the wretched conception it gave her of the sacredness of the +marriage tie, or something like that. And Mrs. Darling sighed, and +said, oh, and ah, and the pity of it. + +I don't like Mrs. Darling. + +Of course, as I said before, Mrs. Darling could be my new mother, +being a widow, so. But, mercy! I hope she won't. I'd rather have Miss +Grace Ann than her, and I shouldn't be crazy about having Miss Grace +Ann. + +Well, I guess there's nothing more to write. Things at school are just +the same, only more so. The girls are getting so they act almost +as bad as those down to Boston in the school where I went before I +changed. Of course, maybe it's the divorce here, same as it was there. +But I don't see how it can be that here. Why, they've known it from +the very first! + +Oh, dear suz me! How I do wish I could see Mother to-night and have +her take me in her arms and kiss me. I'm so tired of being Mary 'way +off up here where nobody cares or wants me. + +Even Father doesn't want me, not really want me. I know he doesn't. I +don't see why he keeps me, only I suppose he'd be ashamed not to take +me his six months as long as the court gave me to him for that time. + + * * * * * + +_Another two weeks later_. + +I'm so angry I can hardly write, and at the same time I'm so angry +I've just got to write. I can't talk. There isn't anybody to talk to; +and I've got to tell somebody. So I'm going to tell it here. + +I've found out now what's the matter with the girls--you know I said +there _was_ something the matter with them; that they acted queer +and stopped talking when I came up, and faded away till there wasn't +anybody but me left; and about the party Stella Mayhew had and didn't +invite me. + +Well, it's been getting worse and worse. Other girls have had parties, +and more and more often the girls have stopped talking and have looked +queer when I came up. We got up a secret society and called it the +"Tony Ten," and I was going to be its president. Then all of a sudden +one day I found there wasn't any Tony Ten--only Carrie Heywood and me. +The other eight had formed another society and Stella Mayhew was their +president. + +I told Carrie we wouldn't care; that we'd just change it and call +it the "Tony Two"; and that two was a lot more exclusive than ten, +anyway. But I did care, and Carrie did. I knew she did. And I know it +better now because last night--she told me. You see things have been +getting simply unbearable these last few days, and it got so it looked +as if I wasn't even going to have Carrie left. _She_ began to act +queer and I accused her of it, and told her if she didn't want to +belong to the Tony Two she needn't. That I didn't care; that I'd be a +secret society all by myself. But I cried. I couldn't help crying; and +she knew I did--care. Then she began to cry; and to-day, after school, +we went to walk up on the hill to the big rock; and there--she told +me. And it _was_ the divorce. + +And it's all that Stella Mayhew--the new girl. Her mother found out I +was divorced (I mean Mother was) and she told Stella not to play with +me, nor speak to me, nor have a thing to do with me. And I said to +Carrie, all right! Who cared? _I_ didn't. That I never had liked that +Mayhew girl, anyway. But Carrie said that wasn't all. She said Stella +had got to be real popular before I came; that her folks had lots of +money, and she always had candy and could treat to ice-cream and +auto rides, and everybody with her was sure of a good time. She had +parties, too--lots of them; and of course, all the girls and boys +liked that. + +Well, when I came everything was all right till Stella's mother found +out about the divorce, and then--well, then things were different. +First Stella contented herself with making fun of me, Carrie said. She +laughed at the serge dresses and big homely shoes, and then she began +on my name, and said the idea of being called Mary by Father and Marie +by Mother, and that 't was just like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (That's +a story, Carrie says. I'm going to read it, if Father's got it. If +there ever was another Mary and Marie all in one in the world I want +to know what she did.) But Carrie says the poking fun at me didn't +make much difference with the girls, so Stella tried something else. +She not only wouldn't speak to me herself, or invite me, or anything, +but she told all the girls that they couldn't go with her and me, too. +That they might take their choice. And Carrie said some of them did +choose and stayed with me; but they lost all the good times and +ice-cream and parties and rides and everything; and so one by one they +dropped me and went back to Stella, and now there wasn't anybody left, +only her, Carrie. And then she began to cry. + +And when she stopped speaking, and I knew all, and saw her crying +there before me, and thought of my dear blessed mother, I was so angry +I could scarcely speak. I just shook with righteous indignation. +And in my most superb, haughty, and disdainful manner I told Carrie +Heywood to dry her tears; that she needn't trouble herself any +further, nor worry about losing any more ice-cream nor parties. That I +would hereto declare our friendship null and void, and this day set +my hand and seal to never speak to her again, if she liked, and +considered that necessary to keeping the acquaintance of the precious +Stella. + +But she cried all the more at that, and flung herself upon me, and, of +course, I began to cry, too--and you can't stay superb and haughty and +disdainful when you're all the time trying to hunt up a handkerchief +to wipe away the tears that are coursing down your wan cheeks. And of +course I didn't. We had a real good cry together, and vowed we loved +each other better than ever, and nobody could come between us, not +even bringing a chocolate-fudge-marshmallow college ice--which we both +adore. But I told her that she would be all right, just the same, +for of course I should never step my foot inside of that schoolhouse +again. That I couldn't, out of respect to Mother. That I should tell +Aunt Jane that to-morrow morning. There isn't any other school here, +so they can't send me anywhere else. But it's 'most time for school to +close, anyway. There are only two weeks more. + +But I don't think that will make any difference to Aunt Jane. It's the +principle of the thing. It's always the principle of the thing with +Aunt Jane. She'll be very angry, I know. Maybe she'll send me home. +Oh, I _hope_ she will! + +Well, I shall tell her to-morrow, anyway. Then--we'll see. + + * * * * * + +_One day later_. + +And, dear, dear, what a day it has been! + +I told her this morning. She was very angry. She said at first: +"Nonsense, Mary, don't be impertinent. Of course you'll go to school!" +and all that kind of talk. But I kept my temper. I did not act angry. +I was simply firm and dignified. And when she saw I really meant what +I said, and that I would not step my foot inside that schoolroom +again--that it was a matter of conscience with me--that I did not +think it was _right_ for me to do it, she simply stared for a minute, +as if she couldn't believe her eyes and ears. Then she gasped: + +"Mary, what do you mean by such talk to me? Do you think I shall +permit this sort of thing to go on for a moment?" + +I thought then she was going to send me home. Oh, I did so hope she +was. But she didn't. She sent me to my room. + +"You will stay there until your father comes home this noon," she +said. "This is a matter for him to settle." + +_Father_! And I never even thought of her going to _him_ with it. She +was always telling me never to bother Father with anything, and I knew +she didn't usually ask him anything about me. She settled everything +herself. But _this_--and the very thing I didn't want her to ask him, +too. But of course I couldn't help myself. That's the trouble. Youth +is _so_ helpless in the clutches of old age! + +Well, I went to my room. Aunt Jane told me to meditate on my sins. But +I didn't. I meditated on other people's sins. _I_ didn't have any to +meditate on. Was it a sin, pray, for me to stand up for my mother and +refuse to associate with people who wouldn't associate with _me_ on +account of _her_? I guess not! + +I meditated on Stella Mayhew and her mother, and on those silly, +faithless girls that thought more of an ice-cream soda than they did +of justice and right to their fellow schoolmate. And I meditated on +Aunt Jane and her never giving me so much as a single kiss since I +came. And I meditated on how much better Father liked stars and +comets than he did his own daughter; and I meditated on what a cruel, +heartless world this is, anyway, and what a pity it was that I, so +fair and young, should have found it out so soon--right on the bank, +as it were, or where that brook and river meet. And I wondered, if I +died if anybody would care; and I thought how beautiful and pathetic I +would look in my coffin with my lily-white hands folded on my breast. +And I _hoped_ they 'd have the funeral in the daytime, because if it +was at night-time Father'd be sure to have a star or something to keep +_him_ from coming. And I _wanted_ him to come. I _wanted_ him to feel +bad; and I meditated on how bad he would feel--when it was too late. + +But even with all this to meditate on, it was an awfully long time +coming noon; and they didn't call me down to dinner even then. Aunt +Jane sent up two pieces of bread without any butter and a glass of +water. How like Aunt Jane--making even my dinner a sin to meditate on! +Only she would call it _my_ sin, and I would call it hers. + +Well, after dinner Father sent for me to come down to the library. So +I knew then, of course, that Aunt Jane had told him. I didn't know +but she would wait until night. Father usually spends his hour after +dinner reading in the library and mustn't be disturbed. But evidently +to-day Aunt Jane thought I was more consequence than his reading. +Anyhow, she told him, and he sent for me. + +My, but I hated to go! Fathers and Aunt Janes are two different +propositions. Fathers have more rights and privileges, of course. +Everybody knows that. + +Well, I went into the library. Father stood with his back to the +fireplace and his hands in his pockets. He was plainly angry at being +disturbed. Anybody could see that. He began speaking at once, the +minute I got into the room--very cold and dignified. + +"Mary, your aunt tells me you have been disobedient and disrespectful +to her. Have you anything to say?" + +I shook my head and said, "No, sir." + +What could I say? Old folks ask such senseless questions, sometimes. +Naturally I wasn't going to say I _had_ been disrespectful and +disobedient when I hadn't; and of course, I couldn't say I _hadn't_ +been when Aunt Jane said I _had_. That would be just like saying Aunt +Jane lied. So, of course, I had nothing to say. And I said so. + +"But she declares you refused to go back to school, Mary," said Father +then. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Then you did refuse?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Well, you may go and tell her now, please, that you are sorry, and +that you will go to school this afternoon. You may go now." And he +turned to the table and picked up his book. + +I didn't go, of course. I just stood there twisting my handkerchief +in my fingers; and, of course, right away he saw me. He had sat down +then. + +"Mary, didn't you hear me?" he demanded. + +"Yes, sir, but--Father, I _can't_ go back to that school," I choked. +And I began to cry. + +"But I tell you that you must." + +I shook my head. + +"I can't." + +"Do you mean that you defy me as you did your Aunt Jane this +morning?--that you refuse to go back to school?" + +"Yes, sir." + +For a minute he sat and stared at me just as Aunt Jane had done; then +he lifted his head and threw back his shoulders as if he was throwing +off a heavy weight. + +"Come, come, Mary," he said sternly. "I am not a patient man, and my +temper has reached the breaking point. You will go back to school and +you will go now. I mean that, Mary." + +"But, Father, I _can't_" I choked again; and I guess there was +something in my face this time that made even him see. For again he +just stared for a minute, and then said: + +"Mary, what in the world does this mean? Why can't you go back? Have +you been--expelled?" + +"Oh, no, sir." + +"Then you mean you won't go back." + +"I mean I _can't_--on account of Mother." + +I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't had to. I didn't want to tell him, +but I knew from the very first that I'd have to tell him before I +got through. I could see it in his face. And so, now, with his eyes +blazing as he jumped almost out of his chair and exclaimed, "Your +mother!" I let it out and got it over as soon as possible. + +"I mean, on account of Mother--that not for you, or Aunt Jane, or +anybody will I go back to that school and associate with folks that +won't associate with me--on account of Mother." + +And then I told it--all about the girls, Stella Mayhew, Carrie, and +how they acted, and what they said about my being Dr. Jekyll and Mr. +Hyde because I was a Mary and a Marie, and the ice-cream, and the +parties they had to give up if they went with _me_. And I know I was +crying so I could hardly speak before I finished; and Father was on +his feet tramping up and down the room muttering something under his +breath, and looking--oh, I can't begin to tell how he looked. But it +was awful. + +"And so that's why I wish," I finished chokingly, "that it would hurry +up and be a year, so Mother could get married." + +"_Married!_" Like a flash he turned and stopped short, staring at me. + +"Why, yes," I explained; "for if she _did_ get married, she wouldn't +be divorced any longer, would she?" + +But he wouldn't answer. With a queer little noise in his throat he +turned again and began to walk up and down, up and down, until I +thought for a minute he'd forgotten I was there. But he hadn't. For +after a while he stopped again right in front of me. + +"So your mother is thinking of getting married," he said in a voice so +queer it sounded as if it had come from away off somewhere. + +But I shook my head and said no, of course; and that I was very sure +she wouldn't till her year was up, and even then I didn't know which +she'd take, so I couldn't tell for sure anything about it. But I hoped +she'd take one of them, so she wouldn't be divorced any longer. + +"But you don't know _which_ she'll take," grunted Father again. He +turned then, and began to walk up and down again, with his hands in +his pockets; and I didn't know whether to go away or to stay, and I +suppose I'd have been there now if Aunt Jane hadn't suddenly appeared +in the library doorway. + +"Charles, if Mary is going to school at all to-day it is high time she +was starting," she said. But Father didn't seem to hear. He was still +tramping up and down the room, his hands in his pockets. + +"Charles!" Aunt Jane raised her voice and spoke again. "I said if Mary +is going to school at all to-day it is high time she was starting." + +"Eh? What?" If you'll believe it, that man looked as dazed as if he'd +never even _heard_ of my going to school. Then suddenly his face +changed. "Oh, yes, to be sure. Well, er--Mary is not going to school +to-day," he said. Then he looked at his watch, and without another +word strode into the hall, got his hat, and left the house, leaving +Aunt Jane and me staring into each other's faces. + +But I didn't stay much longer than Father did. I strode into the hall, +too, by Aunt Jane. But I didn't leave the house. I came up here to my +own room; and ever since I've been writing it all down in my book. + +Of course, I don't know now what's going to happen next. But I _wish_ +you could have seen Aunt Jane's face when Father said I wasn't going +to school to-day! I don't believe she's sure yet that she heard +aright--though she didn't try to stop me, or even speak when I left +and came upstairs. But I just know she's keeping up a powerful +thinking. + +For that matter, so am I. What _is_ going to happen next? Have I got +to go to school to-morrow? But then, of course, I shan't do that. +Besides, I don't believe Father'll ask me to, after what I said about +Mother. _He_ didn't like that--what those girls said--any better than +I did. I'm sure of that. Why, he looked simply furious. But there +isn't any other school here that I can be sent to, and-- + +But what's the use? I might surmise and speculate all day and not +come anywhere near the truth. I must await--what the night will bring +forth, as they say in really truly novels. + + * * * * * + +_Four days later_. + +And what did the night bring forth? Yes, what did it bring! Verily +it brought forth one thing I thought nothing ever could have brought +forth. + +It was like this. + +That night at the supper-table Aunt Jane cleared her throat in the +I-am-determined-I-will-speak kind of a way that she always uses when +she speaks to Father. (Aunt. Jane doesn't talk to Father much more +than Mother used to.) + +"Charles," she began. + +Father had an astronomy paper beside his plate, and he was so busy +reading he didn't hear, so Aunt Jane had to speak again--a little +louder this time. + +"Charles, I have something to say to you." + +"Eh? What? Oh--er--yes. Well, Jane, what is it?" Father was looking up +with his I'll-be-patient-if-it-kills-me air, and with his forefinger +down on his paper to keep his place. + +As if anybody could talk to a person who's simply tolerating you for a +minute like that, with his forefinger holding on to what he _wants_ to +tend to! Why, I actually found myself being sorry for Aunt Jane. + +She cleared her throat again. + +"It is understood, of course, that Mary is to go to school to-morrow +morning, I suppose," she said. + +"Why, of course, of course," began Father impatiently, looking down at +his paper. "Of course she'll go to--" he stopped suddenly. A complete +change came to his face. He grew red, then white. His eyes sort of +flashed. "School?" he said then, in a hard, decided voice. "Oh, no; +Mary is not going to school to-morrow morning." He looked down to his +paper and began to read again. For him the subject was very evidently +closed. But for Aunt Jane it was _not_ closed. + +"You don't mean, Charles, that she is not to go to school at all, any +more," she gasped. + +"Exactly." Father read on in his paper without looking up. + +"But, Charles, to stop her school like this!" + +"Why not? It closes in a week or two, anyway." + +Aunt Jane's lips came together hard. + +"That's not the question at all," she said, cold like ice. "Charles, +I'm amazed at you--yielding to that child's whims like this--that she +doesn't want to go to school! It's the principle of the thing that I'm +objecting to. Do you realize what it will lead to--what it--" + +"Jane!" With a jerk Father sat up straight. "I realize some things +that perhaps you do not. But that is neither here nor there. I do not +wish Mary to go to school any more this spring. That is all; and I +think--it is sufficient." + +"Certainly." Aunt Jane's lips came together again grim and hard. +"Perhaps you will be good enough to say what she _shall_ do with her +time." + +"Time? Do? Why--er--what she always does; read, sew, study--" + +"Study?" Aunt Jane asked the question with a hateful little smile that +Father would have been blind not to have understood. And he was equal +to it--but I 'most fell over backward when I found _how_ equal to it +he was. + +"Certainly," he says, "study. I--I'll hear her lessons myself--in the +library, after I come home in the afternoon. Now let us hear no more +about it." + +With that he pushed back his plate, stuffed his astronomy paper into +his pocket, and left the table, without waiting for dessert. And Aunt +Jane and I were left alone. + +I didn't say anything. Victors shouldn't boast--and I was a victor, of +course, about the school. But when I thought of what Father had said +about my reciting my lessons to him every day in the library--I wasn't +so sure whether I'd won out or not. Recite lessons to my father? Why, +I couldn't even imagine such a thing! + +Aunt Jane didn't say anything either. I guess she didn't know what to +say. And it was kind of a queer situation, when you came right down to +it. Both of us sitting there and knowing I wasn't going back to school +any more, and I knowing why, and knowing Aunt Jane didn't know why. +(Of course I hadn't told Aunt Jane about Mother and Mrs. Mayhew.) It +would be a funny world, wouldn't it, if we all knew what each other +was thinking all the time? Why, we'd get so we wouldn't do anything +_but_ think--for there wouldn't any of us _speak_ to each other, I'm +afraid, we'd be so angry at what the other was thinking. + +Well, Aunt Jane and I didn't speak that night at the supper-table. We +finished in stern silence; then Aunt Jane went upstairs to her room +and I went up to mine. (You see what a perfectly wildly exciting life +Mary is living! And when I think of how _full_ of good times Mother +wanted every minute to be. But that was for Marie, of course.) + +The next morning after breakfast Aunt Jane said: + +"You will spend your forenoon studying, Mary. See that you learn well +your lessons, so as not to annoy your father." + +"Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite and proper, and went upstairs +obediently; but even Mary didn't know exactly how to study those +lessons. + +Carrie had brought me all my books from school. I had asked her to +when I knew that I was not going back. There were the lessons that had +been assigned for the next day, of course, and I supposed probably +Father would want me to study those. But I couldn't imagine Father +teaching _me_ all alone. And how was I ever going to ask him +questions, if there were things I didn't understand? Besides, I +couldn't imagine myself reciting lessons to Father--_Father_! + +But I needn't have worried. If I could only have known. Little did I +think--But, there, this is no way to tell a story. I read in a book, +"How to Write a Novel," that you mustn't "anticipate." (_I_ thought +folks always anticipated novels. I do. I thought you wanted them to.) + +Well, to go on. + +Father got home at four o'clock. I saw him come up the walk, and I +waited till I was sure he'd got settled in the library, then I went +down. + +_He wasn't there_. + +A minute later I saw him crossing the lawn to the observatory. Well, +what to do I didn't know. Mary said to go after him; but Marie said +nay, nay. And in spite of being Mary just now, I let Marie have her +way. + +Rush after him and tell him he'd forgotten to hear my lessons? +_Father_? Well, I guess not! Besides, it wasn't my fault. _I_ was +there all ready. It wasn't my blame that he wasn't there to hear me. +But he might remember and come back. Well, if he did, _I'd_ be there. +So I went to one of those bookcases and pulled out a touch-me-not +book from behind the glass door. Then I sat down and read till the +supper-bell rang. + +Father was five minutes late to supper. I don't know whether he looked +at me or not. I didn't dare to look at him--until Aunt Jane said, in +her chilliest manner: + +"I trust your daughter had good lessons, Charles." + +I _had_ to look at him then. I just couldn't look anywhere else. So I +was looking straight at him when he gave that funny little startled +glance into my eyes. And into his eyes then there crept the funniest, +dearest little understanding twinkle--and I suddenly realized that +Father, _Father_, was laughing with me at a little secret between +_us_. But 't was only for a second. The next moment his eyes were very +grave and looking at Aunt Jane. + +"I have no cause to complain--of my daughter's lessons to-day," he +said very quietly. Then he glanced over at me again. But I had to look +away _quick_, or I would have laughed right out. + +When he got up from the table he said to me: "I shall expect to see +you to-morrow in the library at four, Mary." + +And Mary answered, "Yes, Father," polite and proper, as she should; +but Marie inside was just chuckling with the joke of it all. + +The next day I watched again at four for Father to come up the walk; +and when he had come in I went down to the library. He was there in +his pet seat before the fireplace. (Father always sits before the +fireplace, whether there's a fire there or not. And sometimes he looks +_so_ funny sitting there, staring into those gray ashes just as if it +was the liveliest kind of a fire he was watching.) + +As I said, he was there, but I had to speak twice before he looked up. +Then, for a minute, he stared vaguely. + +"Eh? Oh! Ah--er--yes, to be sure," he muttered then, "You have come +with your books. Yes, I remember." + +But there wasn't any twinkle in his eyes, nor the least little bit of +an understanding smile; and I _was_ disappointed. I _had_ been looking +for it. I knew then, when I felt so suddenly lost and heart-achey, +that I had been expecting and planning all day on that twinkly +understanding smile. You know you feel worse when you've just found a +father and then lost him! + +And I had lost him. I knew it the minute he sighed and frowned and +got up from his seat and said, oh, yes, to be sure. He was just Dr. +Anderson then--the man who knew all about the stars, and who had +been unmarried to Mother, and who called me "Mary" in an +of-course-you're-my-daughter tone of voice. + +Well, he took my books and heard my lessons, and told me what I was to +study next day. He's done that two days now. + +Oh, I'm so tired of being Mary! And I've got more than four whole +months of it left. I didn't get Mother's letter to-day. Maybe that's +why I'm specially lonesome to-night. + + * * * * * + +_July first_. + +School is done, both the regular school and my school. Not that my +school has amounted to much. Really it hasn't. Oh, for three or four +days he asked questions quite like just a teacher. Then he got to +talking. Sometimes it would be about something in the lessons; +sometimes it would be about a star, or the moon. And he'd get so +interested that I'd think for a minute that maybe the understanding +twinkle would come into his eyes again. But it never did. + +Sometimes it wasn't stars and moons, though, that he talked about. It +was Boston, and Mother. Yes, he did. He talked a lot about Mother. As +I look back at it now, I can see that he did. He asked me all over +again what she did, and about the parties and the folks that came to +see her. He asked again about Mr. Harlow, and about the concert, and +the young man who played the violin, and what was his name, and how +old was he, and did I like him. And then, right in the middle of some +question, or rather, right in the middle of some _answer_ I was giving +_him_, he would suddenly remember he was hearing my lessons, and he +would say, "Come, come, Mary, what has this to do with your lessons?" + +Just as if I was to blame! (But, then, we women always get the blame, +I notice.) And then he'd attend strictly to the books for maybe five +whole minutes--before he asked another question about that party, or +the violinist. + +Naturally the lessons haven't amounted to much, as you can imagine. +But the term was nearly finished, anyway; and my _real_ school is in +Boston, of course. + +It's vacation now. I do hope _that_ will amount to something! + + * * * * * + +_August first._ + +It hasn't, so far--I mean vacation. Really, what a world of +disappointment this is! How on earth I'm going to stand being Mary for +three months more I don't know. But I've got to, I suppose. I've been +here May, June, and July; and that leaves August, September, and +October yet to come. And when I think of Mother and Boston and Marie, +and the darling good times down there where you're really _wanted_, I +am simply crazy. + +If Father wanted me, really wanted me, I wouldn't care a bit. I'd be +willing to be Mary six whole months. Yes, I'd be _glad_ to. But he +doesn't. I'm just here by order of the court. And what can you do when +you're nothing but a daughter by order of the court? + +Since the lessons have stopped, Father's gone back to his +"Good-morning, Mary," and "Good-night," and nothing else, day in and +day out. Lately he's got so he hangs around the house an awful lot, +too, so I can't even do the things I did the first of the month. I +mean that I'd been playing some on the piano, along at the first, +after school closed. Aunt Jane was out in the garden a lot, and Father +out to the observatory, so I just reveled in piano-playing till I +found almost every time I did it that he had come back, and was in the +library with the door open. So I don't dare to play now. + +And there isn't a blessed thing to do. Oh, I have to sew an hour, and +now I have to weed an hour, too; and Aunt Jane tried to have me learn +to cook; but Susie (in the kitchen) flatly refused to have me "messing +around," so Aunt Jane had to give that up. Susie's the one person Aunt +Jane's afraid of, you see. She always threatens to leave if anything +goes across her wishes. So Aunt Jane has to be careful. I heard her +tell Mrs. Small next door that good hired girls were awfully scarce in +Andersonville. + +As I said before, if only there was somebody here that wanted me. But +there isn't. Of course Father doesn't. That goes without saying. And +Aunt Jane doesn't. That goes, too, without saying. Carrie Heywood has +gone away for all summer, so I can't have even her; and of course, I +wouldn't associate with any of the other girls, even if they would +associate with me--which they won't. + +That leaves only Mother's letters. They are dear, and I love them. I +don't know what I'd do without them. And yet, sometimes I think maybe +they're worse than if I didn't have them. They make me so homesick, +and I always cry so after I get them. Still, I know I just couldn't +live a minute if 'twasn't for Mother's letters. + +Besides being so lonesome there's another thing that worries me, too; +and that is, _this_--what I'm writing, I mean. The novel. It's getting +awfully stupid. Nothing happens. _Nothing!_ Of course, if 'twas just +a story I could make up things--lots of them--exciting, interesting +things, like having Mother elope with the violinist, and Father shoot +him and fall in love with Mother all over again, or else with somebody +else, and shoot that one's lover. Or maybe somebody'd try to shoot +Father, and I'd get there just in time to save him. Oh, I'd _love_ +that! + +But this is a real story, so, of course, I can't put in anything only +just what happens; and _nothing happens_. + +And that's another thing. About the love story--I'm afraid there isn't +going to be one. Anyway, there isn't a bit of a sign of one, yet, +unless it's Mother. And of course, I haven't seen her for three +months, so I can't say anything about that. + +Father hasn't got one. I'm sure of that. He doesn't like ladies. I +know he doesn't. He always runs away from them. But they don't run +away from him! Listen. + +As I said before, quite a lot of them call here to see Aunt Jane, and +they come lots of times evenings and late afternoons, and I know now +why they do it. They come then because they think Father'll be at home +at that time; and they want to see him. + +I know it now, but I never thought of it till the other day when +I heard our hired girl, Susie, talking about it with Bridget, the +Smalls' hired girl, over the fence when I was weeding the garden one +day. Then I knew. It was like this: + +Mrs. Darling had been over the night before as usual, and had stayed +an awfully long time talking to Aunt Jane on the front piazza. Father +had been there, too, awhile. She stopped him on his way into the +house. I was there and I heard her. She said: + +"Oh, Mr. Anderson, I'm so glad I saw you! I wanted to ask your advice +about selling poor dear Mr. Darling's law library." + +And then she went on to tell him how she'd had an offer, but she +wasn't sure whether it was a good one or not. And she told him how +highly she prized his opinion, and he was a man of such splendid +judgment, and she felt so alone now with no strong man's shoulder to +lean upon, and she would be so much obliged if he only would tell her +whether he considered that offer a good one or not. + +Father hitched and ahemmed and moved nearer the door all the time she +was talking, and he didn't seem to hear her when she pushed a chair +toward him and asked him to please sit down and tell her what to do; +that she was so alone in the world since poor dear Mr. Darling had +gone. (She always calls him poor dear Mr. Darling now, but Susie +says she didn't when he was alive; she called him something quite +different. I wonder what it was.) + +Well, as I said, Father hitched and fidgeted, and said he didn't know, +he was sure; that she'd better take wiser counsel than his, and that +he was very sorry, but she really must excuse him. And he got through +the door while he was talking just as fast as he could himself, so +that she couldn't get in a single word to keep him. Then he was gone. + +Mrs. Darling stayed on the piazza two whole hours longer, but Father +never came out at all again. + +It was the next morning that Susie said this over the back-yard fence +to Bridget: + +"It does beat all how popular this house is with the ladies--after +college hours!" + +And Bridget chuckled and answered back: + +"Sure it is! An' I do be thinkin' the Widder Darlin' is a heap fonder +of Miss Jane now than she would have been had poor dear Mr. Darlin' +lived!" + +And she chuckled again, and so did Susie. And then, all of a sudden, +I knew. It was Father all those ladies wanted. It was Father Mrs. +Darling wanted. They came here to see him. They wanted to marry him. +_They_ were the prospective suitors. As if I didn't know what Susie +and Bridget meant! I'm no child! + +But all this doesn't make Father like _them_. I'm not sure but it +makes him dislike them. Anyhow, he won't have anything to do with +them. He always runs away over to the observatory, or somewhere, and +won't see them; and I've heard him say things about them to Aunt Jane, +too--words that sound all right, but that don't mean what they say, +and everybody knows they don't. So, as I said before, I don't see any +chance of Father's having a love story to help out this book--not +right away, anyhow. + +As for _my_ love story--I don't see any chance of that's beginning, +either. Yet, seems as if there ought to be the beginning of it by this +time--I'm going on fifteen. Oh, there have been _beginnings_, lots of +them--only Aunt Jane wouldn't let them go on and be endings, though I +told her good and plain that I thought it perfectly all right; and I +reminded her about the brook and river meeting where I stood, and all +that. + +But I couldn't make her see it at all. She said, "Stuff and +nonsense"--and when Aunt Jane says _both_ stuff and nonsense I know +there's nothing _doing_. (Oh, dear, that's slang! Aunt Jane says she +does wish I would eliminate the slang from my vocabulary. Well, I +wish _she'd_ eliminate some of the long words from _hers_. Marie said +that--not Mary.) + +Well, Aunt Jane said stuff and nonsense, and that I was much too young +to run around with silly boys. You see, Charlie Smith had walked home +from school with me twice, but I had to stop that. And Fred Small +was getting so he was over here a lot. Aunt Jane stopped _him_. Paul +Mayhew--yes, _Paul Mayhew_, Stella's brother!--came home with me, too, +and asked me to go with him auto-riding. My, how I did want to go! I +wanted the ride, of course, but especially I wanted to go because he +was Mrs. Mayhew's son. I just wanted to show Mrs. Mayhew! But Aunt +Jane wouldn't let me. That's the time she talked specially about +running around with silly boys. But she needn't have. Paul is no silly +boy. He's old enough to get a license to drive his own car. + +But it wasn't just because he was young that Aunt Jane refused. I +found out afterward. It was because he was any kind of a man paying +me attention. I found that out through Mr. Claude Livingstone. Mr. +Livingstone brings our groceries. He's a _real_ young gentleman--tall, +black mustache, and lovely dark eyes. He goes to our church, and +he asked me to go to the Sunday-School picnic with him. I was _so_ +pleased. And I supposed, of course, Aunt Jane would let me go with +_him. He's_ no silly boy! Besides, I knew him real well, and liked +him. I used to talk to him quite a lot when he brought the groceries. + +But did Aunt Jane let me go? She did not. Why, she seemed almost more +shocked than she had been over Charlie Smith and Fred Small, and the +others. + +"Mercy, child!" she exclaimed. "Where in the world do you pick +up these people?" And she brought out that "these people" _so_ +disagreeably! Why, you'd think Mr. Livingstone was a foreign Japanese, +or something. + +I told her then quietly, and with dignity, and with no temper +(showing), that Mr. Livingstone was not a foreign Japanese, but was a +very nice gentleman; and that I had not picked him up. He came to her +own door himself, almost every day. + +"My own door!" exclaimed Aunt Jane. And she looked absolutely +frightened. "You mean to tell me that that creature has been coming +here to see you, and I not know it?" + +I told her then--again quietly and with dignity, and without temper +(showing)--that he had been coming, not to see me, but in the natural +pursuance of his profession of delivering groceries. And I said +that he was not a creature. On the contrary, he was, I was sure, an +estimable young man. He went to her own church and Sunday-School. +Besides, I could vouch for him myself, as I knew him well, having seen +and talked with him almost every day for a long while, when he came to +the house. + +But nothing I could say seemed to have the least effect upon her at +all, only to make her angrier and angrier, if anything. In fact _I_ +think she showed a great deal of temper for a Christian woman about a +fellow Christian in her own church. + +But she wouldn't let me go to the picnic; and not only that, but I +think she changed grocers, for Mr. Livingstone hasn't been here for a +long time, and when I asked Susie where he was she looked funny, and +said we weren't getting our groceries where Mr. Livingstone worked any +longer. + +Well, of course, that ended that. And there hasn't been any other +since. That's why I say _my_ love story doesn't seem to be getting +along very well. Naturally, when it gets noised around town that your +Aunt Jane won't let you go anywhere with a young man, or let a young +man come to see you, or even walk home with you after the first +time--why, the young men aren't going to do very much toward making +your daily life into a love story. + + * * * * * + +_Two weeks later._ + +A queer thing happened last night. It was like this: + +I think I said before what an awfully stupid time Mary is having of +it, and how I couldn't play now, or make any noise, 'cause Father has +taken to hanging around the house so much. Well, listen what happened. + +Yesterday Aunt Jane went to spend the day with her best friend. She +said for me not to leave the house, as some member of the family +should be there. She told me to sew an hour, weed an hour, dust the +house downstairs and upstairs, and read some improving book an hour. +The rest of the time I might amuse myself. + +Amuse myself! A jolly time I could have all by myself! Even Father +wasn't to be home for dinner, so I wouldn't have _that_ excitement. He +was out of town, and was not to come home till six o'clock. + +It was an awfully hot day. The sun just beat down, and there wasn't +a breath of air. By noon I was simply crazy with my stuffy, +long-sleeved, high-necked blue gingham dress and my great clumpy +shoes. It seemed all of a sudden as if I couldn't stand it--not +another minute--not a single minute more--to be Mary, I mean. And +suddenly I determined that for a while, just a little while, I'd be +Marie again. Why couldn't I? There wasn't anybody going to be there +but just myself, _all day long_. + +I ran then upstairs to the guest-room closet where Aunt Jane had made +me put all my Marie dresses and things when the Mary ones came. Well, +I got out the very fluffiest, softest white dress there was there, and +the little white slippers and the silk stockings that I loved, and the +blue silk sash, and the little gold locket and chain that Mother gave +me that Aunt Jane wouldn't let me wear. And I dressed up. My, didn't +I dress up? And I just _threw_ those old heavy shoes and black cotton +stockings into the corner, and the blue gingham dress after them +(though Mary went right away and picked the dress up, and hung it in +the closet, of course); but I had the fun of throwing it, anyway. + +Oh, how good those Marie things did feel to Mary's hot, tired flesh +and bones, and how I did dance and sing around the room in those light +little slippers! Then Susie rang the dinner-bell and I went down to +the dining-room feeling like a really truly young lady, I can tell +you. + +Susie stared, of course and said, "My, how fine we are to-day!" But I +didn't mind Susie. + +After dinner I went out into the hall and I sang; I sang all over the +house. And I ran upstairs and I ran down; and I jumped all the last +three steps, even if it was so warm. Then I went into the parlor and +played every lively thing that I could think of on the piano. And I +sang there, too--silly little songs that Marie used to sing to Lester. +And I tried to think I was really down there to Boston, singing to +Lester; and that Mother was right in the next room waiting for me. + +Then I stopped and turned around on the piano-stool. And there was the +coffin plate, and the wax cross, and the hair wreath; and the room was +just as still as death. And I knew I wasn't in Boston. I was there in +Andersonville, And there wasn't any Baby Lester there, nor any mother +waiting for me in the next room. And all the fluffy white dresses and +silk stockings in the world wouldn't make me Marie. I was really just +Mary, and I had got to have three whole months more of it. + +And then is when I began to cry. And I cried just as hard as I'd been +singing a minute before. I was on the floor with my head in my arms on +the piano-stool when Father's voice came to me from the doorway. + +"Mary, Mary, what in the world does this mean?" + +I jumped up and stood "at attention," the way you have to, of course, +when fathers speak to you. I couldn't help showing I had been +crying--he had seen it. But I tried very hard to stop now. My first +thought, after my startled realization that he was there, was to +wonder how long he had been there--how much of all that awful singing +and banging he had heard. + +"Yes, sir." I tried not to have my voice shake as I said it; but I +couldn't quite help that. + +"What is the meaning of this, Mary? Why are you crying?" + +I shook my head. I didn't want to tell him, of course; so I just +stammered out something about being sorry I had disturbed him. Then +I edged toward the door to show him that if he would step one side I +would go away at once and not bother him any longer. + +But he didn't step one side. He asked more questions, one right after +another. + +"Are you sick, Mary?" + +I shook my head. + +"Did you hurt yourself?" + +I shook my head again. + +"It isn't--your mother--you haven't had bad news from her?" + +And then I blurted it out without thinking--without thinking at all +what I was saying: "No, no--but I wish I had, I wish I had; 'cause +then I could go to her, and go away from here!" The minute I'd said +it I _knew_ what I'd said, and how awful it sounded; and I clapped my +fingers to my lips. But 'twas too late. It's always too late, when +you've once said it. So I just waited for him to thunder out his +anger; for, of course, I thought he _would_ thunder in rage and +righteous indignation. + +But he didn't. Instead, very quietly and gently he said: + +"Are you so unhappy, then, Mary--here?" + +And I looked at him, and his eyes and his mouth and his whole face +weren't angry at all. They were just sorry, actually sorry. And +somehow, before I knew it, I was crying again, and Father, with his +arm around me--_with his arm around me!_ think of that!--was leading +me to the sofa. + +And I cried and cried there, with my head on the arm of the sofa, till +I'd made a big tear spot on the linen cover; and I wondered if it +would dry up before Aunt Jane saw it, or if it would change color +or leak through to the red plush underneath, or some other dreadful +thing. And then, some way, I found myself telling it all over to +Father--about Mary and Marie, I mean, just as if he was Mother, or +some one I loved--I mean, some one I loved and _wasn't afraid of_; for +of course I love Father. Of course I do! + +Well, I told him everything (when I got started there was no +stopping)--all about how hard it was to be Mary, and how to-day I had +tried to be Marie for just a little while, to rest me. He interrupted +here, and wanted to know if that was why I looked so different +to-day--more as I had when I first came; and I said yes, that these +were Marie things that Mary couldn't wear. And when he asked, "Why, +pray?" in a voice almost cross, I told him, of course, that Aunt Jane +wouldn't let me; that Mary had to wear brown serge and calfskin boots +that were durable, and that would wear well. + +And when I told him how sorry I was about the music and such a noise +as I'd been making, he asked if _that_ was Marie's fault, too; and I +said yes, of course--that Aunt Jane didn't like to have Mary play at +all, except hymns and funeral marches, and Mary didn't know any. And +he grunted a queer little grunt, and said, "Well, well, upon my soul, +upon my soul!" Then he said, "Go on." And I did go on. + +I told him how I was afraid it _was_ going to be just like Dr. Jekyll +and Mr. Hyde. (I forgot to say I've read it now. I found it in +Father's library.) Of course not _just_ like it, only one of me was +going to be bad, and one good, I was afraid, if I didn't look out. I +told him how Marie always wanted to kick up rugs, and move the chairs +out of their sockets in the carpet, and leave books around handy, and +such things. And so to-day it seemed as if I'd just got to have a +vacation from Mary's hot gingham dresses and clumpy shoes. And I told +him how lonesome I was without anybody, not _anybody_; and I told +about Charlie Smith and Paul Mayhew and Mr. Claude Livingstone, +and how Aunt Jane wouldn't let me have them, either, even if I was +standing where the brook and river meet. + +Father gave another funny little grunt here, and got up suddenly and +walked over to the window. I thought at first he was angry; but he +wasn't. He was even more gentle when he came back and sat down again, +and he seemed interested, very much interested in everything I told +him. But I stopped just in time from saying again how I wished I could +go back to Boston; but I'm not sure but he knew I was going to say it. + +But he was very nice and kind and told me not to worry about the +music--that he didn't mind it at all. He'd been in several times and +heard it. And I thought almost, by the way he spoke, that he'd come in +on purpose to hear it; but I guess that was a mistake. He just put it +that way so I wouldn't worry over it--about its bothering him, I mean. + +He was going to say more, maybe; but I don't know, I had to run. I +heard Aunt Jane's voice on the piazza saying good-bye to the lady that +had brought her home; so, of course, I had to run and hang Marie in +the closet and get out Mary from the corner before she saw me. And I +did. + +By dinner-time I had on the gingham dress and the hot clumpy shoes +again; and I had washed my face in cold water so I had got most of the +tear spots off. I didn't want Aunt Jane to see them and ask questions, +of course. And I guess she didn't. Anyway, she didn't say anything. + +Father didn't say anything either, but he acted queer. Aunt Jane tried +to tell him something about the missionary meeting and the heathen, +and a great famine that was raging. At first he didn't say anything; +then he said, oh, yes, to be sure, how very interesting, and he was +glad, very glad. And Aunt Jane was so disgusted, and accused him +of being even more absent-minded than usual, which was entirely +unnecessary, she said. + +But even that didn't move Father a mite. He just said, yes, yes, very +likely; and went on scowling to himself and stirring his coffee after +he'd drank it all up--I mean, stirring where it had been in the cup. + +I didn't know but after supper he'd speak to me and ask me to come to +the library. I _hoped_ he would. There were lots more things I'd like +to have said to him. But he didn't. He never said a word. He just kept +scowling, and got up from the table and went off by himself. But he +didn't go out to the observatory, as he most generally does. He went +into the library and shut the door. + +He was there when the telephone message came at eight o'clock. And +what do you think? He'd _forgotten_ he was going to speak before the +College Astronomy Club that evening! Forgotten his old stars for once. +I don't know why. I did think, for a minute, 'twas 'cause of me--what +I'd told him. But I knew, of course, right away that it couldn't be +that. He'd never forget his stars for _me_! Probably he was just +reading up about some other stars, or had forgotten how late it was, +or something. (Father's always forgetting things.) But, anyway, when +Aunt Jane called him he got his hat and hurried off without so much +as one word to me, who was standing near, or to Aunt Jane, who was +following him all through the hall, and telling him in her most +I'm-amazed-at-you voice how shockingly absent-minded he was getting to +be. + + * * * * * + +_One week later._ + +Father's been awfully queer this whole week through. I can't make him +out at all. Sometimes I think he's glad I told him all those things in +the parlor that day I dressed up in Marie's things, and sometimes I +think he's sorry and wished I hadn't. + +The very next morning he came down to breakfast with such a funny look +on his face. He said good-morning to me three times, and all through +breakfast he kept looking over at me with a kind of scowl that was not +cross at all--just puzzled. + +After breakfast he didn't go out to the observatory, not even into the +library. He fidgeted around the dining-room till Aunt Jane went out +into the kitchen to give her orders to Susie; then he burst out, all +of a sudden: + +"Well, Mary, what shall we do to-day?" Just like that he said it, as +if we'd been doing things together every day of our lives. + +"D-do?" I asked; and I know I showed how surprised I was by the way I +stammered and flushed up. + +"Certainly, do," he answered, impatient and scowling. "What shall we +do?" + +"Why, Father, I--I don't know," I stammered again. + +"Come, come, of course you know!" he cried. "You know what you want to +do, don't you?" + +I shook my head. I was so astonished I couldn't even think. And when +you can't think you certainly can't talk. + +"Nonsense, Mary," scowled Father again. "Of course you know what +you want to do! What are you in the habit of doing with your young +friends--your Carries and Charlies, and all the rest?" + +I guess I just stood and stared and didn't say anything; for after a +minute he cried: "Well--well--well? I'm waiting." + +"Why, we--we walk--and talk--and play games," I began; but right away +he interrupted. + +"Good! Very well, then, we'll walk. I'm not Carrie or Charlie, but I +believe I can walk and talk--perhaps even play games. Who knows? Come, +get your hat." + +And I got my hat, and we went. + +But what a funny, funny walk that was! He meant to make it a good one; +I know he did. And he tried. He tried real hard. But he walked so +fast I couldn't half keep up with him; then, when he saw how I was +hurrying, he'd slow down, 'way down, and look so worried--till he'd +forget and go striding off again, way ahead of me. + +We went up on the hill through the Benton woods, and it was perfectly +lovely up there. He didn't say much at first. Then, all of a sudden, +he began to talk, about anything and everything. And I knew, by the +way he did it, that he'd just happened to think he'd got to talk. + +And how he talked! He asked me was I warmly clad (and here it is +August!), and did I have a good breakfast, and how old was I, and did +I enjoy my studies--which shows how little he was really thinking what +he was saying. He knows school closed ages ago. Wasn't he teaching me +himself the last of it, too? All around us were flowers and birds, and +oh, so many, many lovely things. But he never said a word about them. +He just talked--because he'd got to talk. I knew it, and it made me +laugh inside, though all the while it made me sort of want to cry, +too. Funny, wasn't it? + +After a time he didn't talk any more, but just walked on and on; and +by and by we came home. + +Of course, it wasn't awfully jolly--that walk wasn't; and I guess +Father didn't think it was either. Anyhow, he hasn't asked me to +go again this week, and he looked tired and worried and sort of +discouraged when he got back from that one. + +But he's asked me to do other things. The next day after the walk he +asked me to play to him. Yes, he _asked_ me to; and he went into the +parlor and sat down on one of the chairs and listened while I played +three pieces. Of course, I didn't play loud ones, nor very fast ones, +and I was so scared I'm afraid I didn't play them very well. But he +was very polite and said, "Thank you, Mary," and, "That that was very +nice"; then he stood up and said, "Thank you" again and went away into +the library, very polite, but stiff, like company. + +The next evening he took me out to the observatory to see the stars. +That was lovely. Honestly I had a perfectly beautiful time, and I +think Father did, too. He wasn't stiff and polite one bit. Oh, I don't +mean that he was _impolite_ or rude. It's just that he wasn't stiff +as if I was company. And he was so happy with his stars and his +telescope, and so glad to show them to me--oh, I had a beautiful time, +and I told him so; and he looked real pleased. But Aunt Jane came for +me before I'd had half enough, and I had to go to bed. + +The next morning I thought he'd be different, somehow, because we'd +had such a lovely time together the night before. But he wasn't. He +just said, "Good-morning, Mary," and began to read his paper. And he +read his paper all through breakfast without saying another word to +me. Then he got up and went into the library, and I never saw him +again all day except at dinner-time and supper-time, and _then_ he +didn't talk to me. + +But after supper he took me out again to see the stars, and he was +just as nice and friendly as could be. Not a bit like a man that's +only a father by order of the court. But the next day--! + +Well--and that's the way it's been all the week. And that's why I say +he's been so queer. One minute he'll be just as nice and folksy as you +could ask anybody to be, and the very next he's looking right through +you as if he didn't see you at all, and you wonder and wonder what's +the matter, and if you've done anything to displease him. + +Sometimes he seems almost glad and happy, and then he'll look so sorry +and sad! + +I just can't understand my father at all. + + * * * * * + +_Another week later_. + +I'm so excited I don't know what to do. The most wonderful thing has +happened. I can't hardly believe it yet myself. Yet it's so. My trunk +is all packed, and I'm to go home to-morrow. _To-morrow!_ + +This is the way it happened. + +Mother wrote Aunt Jane and asked if I might not be allowed to come +home for the opening of school in September. She said she understood +quite well that she had no _right_ to ask this, and, of course, if +they saw fit, they were entirely within their rights to refuse to +allow me to go until the allotted time. But that she could not help +asking it for my sake, on account of the benefit to be derived from +being there at the opening of the school year. + +Of course, I didn't know Mother was going to write this. But she knew +all about the school here, and how I came out, and everything. I've +always told Mother everything that has happened. Oh, of course, I +haven't written "every few minutes," as she asked me to. (That was a +joke, anyway, of course.) But I have written every few days, and, as I +said before, I told her everything. + +Well, when the letter came I took it to Aunt Jane myself; and I was +_crazy_ to know what was in it, for I recognized the writing, of +course. But Aunt Jane didn't tell me. She opened it, read it, kind of +flushed up, and said, "Humph! The idea!" under her breath, and put the +letter in her pocket. + +Marie wanted to make a scene and insist on knowing what was in her own +mother's letter; but Mary contented herself with looking superb and +haughty and disdainful, and marching out of the room without giving +Aunt Jane the satisfaction of even being asked what was in that +letter. + +But at the table that noon Aunt Jane read it to Father out loud. So +that's how I came to know just what was in it. She started first to +hand it over to him to read; but as he put out his hand to take it I +guess he saw the handwriting, for he drew back quickly, looking red +and queer. + +"From Mrs. Anderson to you?" he asked. And when Aunt Jane nodded her +head he sat still farther back in his chair and said, with a little +wave of his hand, "I never care to read--other people's letters." + +Aunt Jane said, "Stuff and nonsense, Charles, don't be silly!" But she +pulled back the letter and read it--after giving a kind of an uneasy +glance in my direction. + +Father never looked up once while she was reading it. He kept his eyes +on his plate and the baked beans he was eating. I watched him. You +see, I knew, by Aunt Jane's reading the letter to him, that it was +something he had got to decide; and when I found out what it was, of +course, I was just crazy. I wanted to go so. So I watched Father's +face to see if he was going to let me go. But I couldn't make out. I +couldn't make out at all. It changed--oh, yes, it changed a great deal +as she read; but I couldn't make out what kind of a change it was at +all. + +Aunt Jane finished the letter and began to fold it up. I could see she +was waiting for Father to speak; but he never said a word. He kept +right on--eating beans. + +Then Aunt Jane cleared her throat and spoke. + +"You will not let her go, of course, Charles; but naturally I had to +read the letter to you. I will write to Mrs. Anderson to-night." + +Father looked up then. + +"Yes," he said quietly; "and you may tell her, please, that Mary +_will_ go." + +"Charles!" + +Aunt Jane said that. But I--I almost ran around the table and hugged +him. (Oh, how I wish he was the kind of a father you could do that +to!) + +"Charles!" said Aunt Jane again. "Surely you aren't going to give in +so tamely as this to that child and her mother!" + +"I'm not giving in at all, Jane," said Father, very quietly again. "I +am consulting my own wishes in the matter. I prefer to have her go." + +_I_ 'most cried out then. Some way, it _hurt_ to have him say it like +that, right out--that he _wanted_ me to go. You see, I'd begun to +think he was getting so he didn't mind so very much having me here. +All the last two weeks he'd been different, really different. But more +of that anon. I'll go on with what happened at the table. And, as I +said, I did feel bad to have him speak like that. And I can remember +now just how the lump came right up in my throat. + +Then Aunt Jane spoke, stiff and dignified. + +"Oh, very well, of course, if you put it that way. I can quite well +understand that you would want her to go--for _your_ sake. But I +thought that, under the circumstances, you would manage somehow to put +up with the noise and--" + +"Jane!" Just like that he interrupted, and he thundered, too, so that +Aunt Jane actually jumped. And I guess I did, too. He had sprung to +his feet. "Jane, let us close this matter once for all. I am not +letting the child go for _my_ sake. I am letting her go for her own. +So far as I am concerned, if I consulted no one's wishes but my own, I +should--keep her here always." + +With that he turned and strode from the room, leaving Aunt Jane and me +just staring after him. + +But only for a minute did _I_ stare. It came to me then what he had +said--that he would like to keep me here _always_. For I had heard it, +even if he had said the last word very low, and in a queer, indistinct +voice. I was sure I had heard it, and I suddenly realized what it +meant. So I ran after him; and that time, if I had found him, I think +I _would_ have hugged him. But I didn't find him. He must have gone +quite away from the house. He wasn't even out to the observatory. I +went out to see. + +He didn't come in all the afternoon. I watched for that, too. And when +he did come--well, I wouldn't have dared to hug him then. He had his +very sternest I-am-not-thinking-of-you-at-all air, and he just came +in to supper and then went into the library without saying hardly +anything. Yet, some way, the look on his face made me cry. I don't +know why. + +The next day he was more as he has been since we had that talk in the +parlor. And he _has_ been different since then, you know. He really +has. He has talked quite a lot with me, as I have said, and I think +he's been trying, part of the time, to find something I'll be +interested in. Honestly, I think he's been trying to make up +for Carrie Heywood and Stella Mayhew and Charlie Smith and Mr. +Livingstone. I think that's why he took me to walk that day in the +woods, and why he took me out to the observatory to see the stars +quite a number of times. Twice he's asked me to play to him, and once +he asked me if Mary wasn't about ready to dress up in Marie's clothes +again. But he was joking then, I knew, for Aunt Jane was right there +in the house. Besides, I saw the twinkle in his eyes that I've seen +there once or twice before. I just love that twinkle in Father's eyes! + +But that hasn't come any since Mother's letter to Aunt Jane arrived. +He's been the same in one way, yet different in another. Honestly, if +it didn't seem too wildly absurd for anything, I should say he was +actually sorry to have me go. But, of course, that isn't possible. Oh, +yes, I know he said that day at the dinner-table that he should like +to keep me always. But I don't think he really meant it. He hasn't +acted a mite like that since, and I guess he said it just to hush up +Aunt Jane, and make her stop arguing the matter. + +Anyway, I'm _going_ to-morrow. And I'm so excited I can hardly +breathe. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +WHEN I AM BOTH TOGETHER + + +BOSTON AGAIN. + +Well, I came last night. Mother and Grandfather and Aunt Hattie and +Baby Lester all met me at the station. And, my! wasn't I glad to see +them? Well, I just guess I was! + +I was specially glad on account of having such a dreadful time with +Father that morning. I mean, I was feeling specially lonesome and +homesick, and not-belonging-anywhere like. + +You see, it was this way: I'd been sort of hoping, I know, that at +the last, when I came to really go, Father would get back the +understanding smile and the twinkle, and show that he really _did_ +care for me, and was sorry to have me go. But, dear me! Why, he +never was so stern and solemn, and +you're-my-daughter-only-by-the-order-of-the-court sort of way as he +was that morning. + +He never even spoke at the breakfast-table. (He wasn't there hardly +long enough to speak, anyway, and he never ate a thing, only his +coffee--I mean he drank it.) Then he pushed his chair back from the +table and stalked out of the room. + +He went to the station with me; but he didn't talk there much, only to +ask if I was sure I hadn't forgotten anything, and was I warmly clad. +Warmly clad, indeed! And there it was still August, and hot as it +could be! But that only goes to show how absent-minded he was, and how +little he was really thinking of _me_! + +Well, of course, he got my ticket and checked my trunk, and did all +those proper, necessary things; then we sat down to wait for the +train. But did he stay with me and talk to me and tell me how glad he +had been to have me with him, and how sorry he was to have me go, and +all the other nice, polite things 'most everybody thinks they've got +to say when a visitor goes away? He did not. He asked me again if I +was sure I had not left anything, and was I warmly clad; then he took +out his newspaper and began to read. That is, he pretended to read; +but I don't believe he read much, for he never turned the sheet once; +and twice, when I looked at him, he was looking fixedly at me, as if +he was thinking of something. So I guess he was just pretending to +read, so he wouldn't have to talk to me. + +But he didn't even do that long, for he got up and went over and +looked at a map hanging on the wall opposite, and at a big time-table +near the other corner. Then he looked at his watch again with a +won't-that-train-ever-come? air, and walked back to me and sat down. + +And how do you suppose _I_ felt, to have him act like that before all +those people--to show so plainly that he was just longing to have me +go? I guess he wasn't any more anxious for that train to come than _I_ +was. And it did seem as if it never would come, too. And it didn't +come for ages. It was ten minutes late. + +Oh, I did so hope he wouldn't go down to the junction. It's so hard to +be taken care of "because it's my duty, you know"! But he went. I told +him he needn't, when he was getting on the train with me. I told him I +just knew I could do it beautifully all by myself, almost-a-young lady +like me. But he only put his lips together hard, and said, cold, like +ice: "Are you then so eager to be rid of me?" Just as if _I_ was the +one that was eager to get rid of somebody! + +Well, as I said, he went. But he wasn't much better on the train than +he had been in the station. He was as nervous and fidgety as a witch, +and he acted as if he did so wish it would be over and over quick. But +at the junction--at the junction a funny thing happened. He put me on +the train, just as Mother had done, and spoke to the conductor. (How +I hated to have him do that! Why, I'm six whole months older, 'most, +than I was when I went up there!) And then when he'd put me in my +seat (Father, I mean; not the conductor), all of a sudden he leaned +over and kissed me; _kissed me--Father_! Then, before I could speak, +or even look at him, he was gone; and I didn't see him again, though +it must have been five whole minutes before that train went. + +I had a nice trip down to Boston, though nothing much happened. This +conductor was not near so nice and polite as the one I had coming up; +and there wasn't any lady with a baby to play with, nor any nice young +gentleman to loan me magazines or buy candy for me. But it wasn't a +very long ride from the junction to Boston, anyway. So I didn't mind. +Besides, I knew I had Mother waiting for me. + +And wasn't I glad to get there? Well, I just guess I was! And _they_ +acted as if they were glad to see me--Mother, Grandfather, Aunt +Hattie, and even Baby Lester. He knew me, and remembered me. He'd +grown a lot, too. And they said I had, and that I looked very nice. (I +forgot to say that, of course, I had put on the Marie clothes to come +home in--though I honestly think Aunt Jane wanted to send me home in +Mary's blue gingham and calfskin shoes. As if I'd have appeared in +Boston in _that_ rig!) + +My, but it was good to get into an automobile again and just _go_! And +it was so good to have folks around you dressed in something besides +don't-care black alpaca and stiff collars. And I said so. And Mother +seemed so pleased. + +"You did want to come back to me, darling, didn't you?" she cried, +giving me a little hug. And she looked so happy when I told her all +over again how good it seemed to be Marie again, and have her and +Boston, and automobiles, and pretty dresses and folks and noise again. + +She didn't say anything about Father then; but later, when we were up +in my pretty room alone, and I was taking off my things, she made me +tell her that Father _hadn't_ won my love away from her, and that I +_didn't_ love him better than I did her; and that I _wouldn't_ rather +stay with him than with her. + +Then she asked me a lot of questions about what I did there, and Aunt +Jane, and how she looked, and Father, and was he as fond of stars as +ever (though she must have known 'most everything, 'cause I'd already +written it, but she asked me just the same). And she seemed real +interested in everything I told her. + +And she asked was he lonesome; and I told her no, I didn't think so; +and that, anyway, he could have all the ladies' company he wanted by +just being around when they called. And when she asked what I meant, I +told her about Mrs. Darling, and the rest, and how they came evenings +and Sundays, and how Father didn't like them, but would flee to the +observatory. And she laughed and looked funny, for a minute. But right +away she changed and looked very sober, with the kind of expression +she has when she stands up in church and says the Apostles' Creed on +Sunday; only this time she said she was very sorry, she was sure; that +she hoped my father would find some estimable woman who would make a +good home for him. + +Then the dinner-gong sounded, and she didn't say any more. + +There was company that evening. The violinist. He brought his violin, +and he and Mother played a whole hour together. He's awfully handsome. +I think he's lovely. Oh, I do so hope he's _the_ one! Anyhow, I hope +there's _some_ one. I don't want this novel to all fizzle out without +there being _any_ one to make it a love story! Besides, as I said +before, I'm particularly anxious that Mother shall find somebody to +marry her, so she'll stop being divorced, anyway. + + * * * * * + +_A month later_. + +Yes, I know it's been _ages_ since I've written here in this book; but +there just hasn't been a minute's time. + +First, of course, school began, and I had to attend to that. And, of +course, I had to tell the girls all about Andersonville--except the +parts I didn't want to tell, about Stella Mayhew, and my coming out of +school. I didn't tell _that_. And right here let me say how glad I was +to get back to this school--a real school--so different from that one +up in Andersonville! For that matter, _everything's_ different here +from what it is in Andersonville. I'd so much rather be Marie than +Mary. I know I won't ever be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde here. I'll be the +good one all the time. + +It's funny how much easier it is to be good in silk stockings and a +fluffy white dress than it is in blue gingham and calfskin. Oh, I'll +own up that Marie forgets sometimes and says things Mary used to say; +like calling Olga a hired girl instead of a maid, as Aunt Hattie +wants, and saying dinner instead of luncheon at noon, and some other +things. + +I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother one day that it was going to take +about the whole six months to break Mary Marie of those outlandish +country ways of hers. (So, you see, it isn't all honey and pie even +for Marie. This trying to be Mary and Marie, even six months apart, +isn't the easiest thing ever was!) I don't think Mother liked it very +well--what Aunt Hattie said about my outlandish ways. I didn't hear +all Mother said, but I knew by the way she looked and acted, and the +little I did hear, that she didn't care for that word "outlandish" +applied to her little girl--not at all. + +Mother's a dear. And she's so happy! And, by the way, I think it _is_ +the violinist. He's here a lot, and she's out with him to concerts +and plays, and riding in his automobile. And she always puts on her +prettiest dresses, and she's very particular about her shoes, and her +hats, that they're becoming, and all that. Oh, I'm so excited! And I'm +having such a good time watching them! Oh, I don't mean watching them +in a disagreeable way, so that they _see_ it; and, of course, I don't +listen--not the sneak kind of listening. But, of course, I have to get +all I can--for the book, you know; and, of course, if I just happen +to be in the window-seat corner in the library and hear things +accidentally, why, that's all right. + +And I have heard things. + +He says her eyes are lovely. He likes her best in blue. He's very +lonely, and he never found a woman before who really understood him. +He thinks her soul and his are tuned to the same string. (Oh, dear! +That sounds funny and horrid, and not at all the way it did when _he_ +said it. It was beautiful then. But--well, that is what it meant, +anyway.) + +She told him she was lonely, too, and that she was very glad to +have him for a friend; and he said he prized her friendship above +everything else in the world. And he looks at her, and follows her +around the room with his eyes; and she blushes up real pink and pretty +lots of times when he comes into the room. + +Now, if that isn't making love to each other, I don't know what _is_. +I'm sure he's going to propose. Oh, I'm so excited! + +Oh, yes, I know if he does propose and she says yes, he'll be my new +father. I understand that. And, of course, I can't help wondering how +I'll like it. Sometimes I think I won't like it at all. Sometimes I +almost catch myself wishing that I didn't have to have any new father +or mother. I'd _never_ need a new mother, anyway, and I wouldn't need +a new father if my father-by-order-of-the-court would be as nice as he +was there two or three times in the observatory. + +But, there! After all, I must remember that I'm not the one that's +doing the choosing. It's Mother. And if she wants the violinist I +mustn't have anything to say. Besides, I really like him very much, +anyway. He's the best of the lot. I'm sure of that. And that's +something. And then, of course, I'm glad to have something to make +this a love story, and best of all I would be glad to have Mother stop +being divorced, anyway. + +Mr. Harlow doesn't come here any more, I guess. Anyway, I haven't seen +him here once since I came back; and I haven't heard anybody mention +his name. + +Quite a lot of the others are here, and there are some new ones. But +the violinist is here most, and Mother seems to go out with him most +to places. That's why I say I think it's the violinist. + +I haven't heard from Father. + +Now just my writing that down that way shows that I _expected_ to hear +from him, though I don't really see why I should, either. Of course, +he never _has_ written to me; and, of course, I understand that I'm +nothing but his daughter by order of the court. But, some way, I did +think maybe he'd write me just a little bit of a note in answer to +mine--my bread-and-butter letter, I mean; for of course, Mother had me +write that to him as soon as I got here. + +But he hasn't. + +I wonder how he's getting along, and if he misses me any. But of +course, he doesn't do _that_. If I was a star, now--! + + * * * * * + +_Two days after Thanksgiving_. + +The violinist has got a rival. I'm sure he has. It's Mr. Easterbrook. +He's old--much as forty--and bald-headed and fat, and has got lots of +money. And he's a very estimable man. (I heard Aunt Hattie say that.) +He's awfully jolly, and I like him. He brings me the loveliest boxes +of candy, and calls me Puss. (I don't like _that_, particularly. I'd +prefer him to call me Miss Anderson.) He's not nearly so good-looking +as the violinist. The violinist is lots more thrilling, but I +shouldn't wonder if Mr. Easterbrook was more comfortable to live with. + +The violinist is the kind of a man that makes you want to sit up and +take notice, and have your hair and finger nails and shoes just right; +but with Mr. Easterbrook you wouldn't mind a bit sitting in a big +chair before the fire with a pair of old slippers on, if your feet +were tired. + +Mr. Easterbrook doesn't care for music. He's a broker. He looks +awfully bored when the violinist is playing, and he fidgets with his +watch-chain, and clears his throat very loudly just before he +speaks every time. His automobile is bigger and handsomer than the +violinist's. (Aunt Hattie says the violinist's automobile is a hired +one.) And Mr. Easterbrook's flowers that he sends to Mother are +handsomer, too, and lots more of them, than the violinist's. Aunt +Hattie has noticed that, too. In fact, I guess there isn't anything +about Mr. Easterbrook that she doesn't notice. + +Aunt Hattie likes Mr. Easterbrook lots better than she does the +violinist. I heard her talking to Mother one day. She said that any +one that would look twice at a lazy, shiftless fiddler with probably +not a dollar laid by for a rainy day, when all the while there was +just waiting to be picked an estimable gentleman of independent +fortune and stable position like Mr. Easterbrook--well, she had her +opinion of her; that's all. She meant Mother, of course. _I_ knew +that. I'm no child. + +Mother knew it, too; and she didn't like it. She flushed up and bit +her lip, and answered back, cold, like ice. + +"I understand, of course, what you mean, Hattie; but even if I +acknowledged that this very estimable, unimpeachable gentleman was +waiting to be picked (which I do not), I should have to remind you +that I've already had one experience with an estimable, unimpeachable +gentleman of independent fortune and stable position, and I do not +care for another." + +"But, my dear Madge," began Aunt Hattie again, "to marry a man without +_any_ money--" + +"I haven't married him yet," cut in Mother, cold again, like ice. "But +let me tell you this, Hattie. I'd rather live on bread and water in +a log cabin with the man I loved than in a palace with an estimable, +unimpeachable gentleman who gave me the shivers every time he came +into the room." + +And it was just after she said this that I interrupted. I was right in +plain, sight in the window-seat reading; but I guess they'd forgotten +I was there, for they both jumped a lot when I spoke. And yet I'll +leave it to you if what I said wasn't perfectly natural. + +"Of course, you would, Mother!" I cried. "And, anyhow, if you did +marry the violinist, and you found out afterward you didn't like him, +that wouldn't matter a mite, for you could _un_marry him at any time, +just as you did Father, and--" + +But they wouldn't let me finish. They wouldn't let me say anything +more. Mother cried, "_Marie_!" in her most I'm-shocked-at-you voice; +and Aunt Hattie cried, "Child--child!" And she seemed shocked, too. +And both of them threw up their hands and looked at each other in the +did-you-ever-hear-such-a-dreadful-thing? way that old folks do when +young folks have displeased them. And them they both went right out of +the room, talking about the unfortunate effect on a child's mind, and +perverted morals, and Mother reproaching Aunt Hattie for talking about +those things before that child (meaning me, of course). Then they got +too far down the hall for me to hear any more. But I don't see why +they needed to have made such a fuss. It wasn't any secret that Mother +got a divorce; and if she got one once, of course she could again. +(That's what I'm going to do when I'm married, if I grow tired of +him--my husband, I mean.) Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Mayhew and her crowd +don't seem to think divorces are very nice; but there needn't anybody +try to make me think that anything my mother does isn't perfectly nice +and all right. And _she_ got a divorce. So, there! + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +There hasn't much happened--only one or two things. But maybe I'd +better tell them before I forget it, especially as they have a good +deal to do with the love part of the story. And I'm always so glad to +get anything of that kind. I've been so afraid this wouldn't be much +of a love story, after all. But I guess it will be, all right. Anyhow, +I _know_ Mother's part will be, for it's getting more and more +exciting--about Mr. Easterbrook and the violinist, I mean. + +They both want Mother. Anybody can see that now, and, of course, +Mother sees it. But which she'll take I don't know. Nobody knows. It's +perfectly plain to be seen, though, which one Grandfather and Aunt +Hattie want her to take! It's Mr. Easterbrook. + +And he is awfully nice. He brought me a perfectly beautiful bracelet +the other day--but Mother wouldn't let me keep it. So he had to take +it back. I don't think he liked it very well, and I didn't like it, +either. I _wanted_ that bracelet. But Mother says I'm much too young +to wear much jewelry. Oh, will the time ever come when I'll be old +enough to take my proper place in the world? Sometimes it seems as if +it never would! + +Well, as I said, it's plain to be seen who it is that Grandfather +and Aunt Hattie favor; but I'm not so sure about Mother. Mother acts +funny. Sometimes she won't go with either of them anywhere; then she +seems to want to go all the time. And she acts as if she didn't care +which she went with, so long as she was just going--somewhere. I +think, though, she really likes the violinist the best; and I guess +Grandfather and Aunt Hattie think so, too. + +Something happened last night. Grandfather began to talk at the +dinner-table. He'd heard something he didn't like about the violinist, +I guess, and he started in to tell Mother. But they stopped him. +Mother and Aunt Hattie looked at him and then at me, and then back to +him, in their most see-who's-here!--you-mustn't-talk-before-her way. +So he shrugged his shoulders and stopped. + +But I guess he told them in the library afterwards, for I heard them +all talking very excitedly, and some loud; and I guess Mother didn't +like what they said, and got quite angry, for I heard her say, when +she came out through the door, that she didn't believe a word of it, +and she thought it was a wicked, cruel shame to tell stories like that +just because they didn't like a man. + +This morning she broke an engagement with Mr. Easterbrook to go +auto-riding and went with the violinist to a morning musicale instead; +and after she'd gone Aunt Hattie sighed and looked at Grandfather and +shrugged her shoulders, and said she was afraid they'd driven her +straight into the arms of the one they wanted to avoid, and that Madge +always _would_ take the part of the under dog. + +I suppose they thought I wouldn't understand. But I did, perfectly. +They meant that by telling stories about the violinist they'd been +hoping to get her to give him up, but instead of that, they'd made her +turn to him all the more, just because she was so sorry for him. + +Funny, isn't it? + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +Well, I guess now something has happened all right! And let me say +right away that _I_ don't like that violinist now, either, any better +than Grandfather and Aunt Hattie. And it's not entirely because of +what happened last night, either. It's been coming on for quite a +while--ever since I first saw him talking to Theresa in the hall when +she let him in one night a week ago. + +Theresa is awfully pretty, and I guess he thinks, so. Anyhow, I heard +him telling her so in the hall, and she laughed and blushed and looked +sideways at him. Then they saw me, and he stiffened up and said, very +proper and dignified, "Kindly hand my card to Mrs. Anderson." And +Theresa said, "Yes, sir." And she was very proper and dignified, too. + +Well, that was the beginning. I can see now that it was, though, I +never thought of its meaning anything then, only that he thought +Theresa was a pretty girl, just as we all do. + +But four days ago I saw them again. He tried to put his arm around her +that time, and the very next day he tried to kiss her, and after a +minute she let him. More than once, too. And last night I heard him +tell her she was the dearest girl in all the world, and he'd be +perfectly happy if he could only marry her. + +Well, you can imagine how I felt, when I thought all the time it was +Mother he was coming to see! And now to find out that it was Theresa +he wanted all the time, and he was only coming to see Mother so he +could see Theresa! + +At first I was angry,--just plain angry; and I was frightened, too, +for I couldn't help worrying about Mother--for fear she would mind, +you know, when she found out that it was Theresa that he cared for, +after all. I remembered what a lot Mother had been with him, and the +pretty dresses and hats she'd put on for him, and all that. And I +thought how she'd broken engagements with Mr. Easterbrook to go with +him, and it made me angry all over again. And I thought how _mean_ it +was of him to use poor Mother as a kind of shield to hide his courting +of Theresa! I was angry, too, to have my love story all spoiled, when +I was getting along so beautifully with Mother and the violinist. + +But I'm feeling better now. I've been thinking it over. I don't +believe Mother's going to care so very much. I don't believe she'd +_want_ a man that would pretend to come courting her, when all the +while he was really courting the hired girl--I mean maid. Besides, +there's Mr. Easterbrook left (and one or two others that I haven't +said much about, as I didn't think they had much chance). And so far +as the love story for the book is concerned, _that_ isn't spoiled, +after all, for it will be ever so much more exciting to have the +violinist fall in love with Theresa than with Mother, for, of course, +Theresa isn't in the same station of life at all, and that makes it +a--a mess-alliance. (I don't remember exactly what that word is; but +I know it means an alliance that makes a mess of things because the +lovers are not equal to each other.) Of course, for the folks who have +to live it, it may not be so nice; but for my story here this makes it +all the more romantic and thrilling. So _that's_ all right. + +Of course, so far, I'm the only one that knows, for I haven't told it, +and I'm the only one that's seen anything. Of course, I shall warn +Mother, if I think it's necessary, so she'll understand it isn't her, +but Theresa, that the violinist is really in love with and courting. +_She_ won't mind, I'm sure, after she thinks of it a minute. And won't +it be a good joke on Aunt Hattie and Grandfather when they find out +they've been fooled all the time, supposing it's Mother, and worrying +about it? + +Oh, I don't know! This is some love story, after all! + + * * * * * + +_Two days later._ + +Well, I should say it was! What do you suppose has happened now? Why, +that wretched violinist is nothing but a deep-dyed villain! Listen +what he did. He proposed to Mother--actually proposed to her--and +after all he'd said to that Theresa girl, about his being perfectly +happy if he could marry _her_. And Mother--Mother all the time not +knowing! Oh, I'm so glad I was there to rescue her! I don't mean at +the proposal--I didn't hear that. But afterward. + +It was like this. + +They had been out automobiling--Mother and the violinist. He came for +her at three o'clock. He said it was a beautiful warm day, and maybe +the last one they'd have this year; and she must go. And she went. + +I was in my favorite window-seat, reading, when they came home and +walked into the library. They never looked my way at all, but just +walked toward the fireplace. And there he took hold of both her hands +and said: + +"Why must you wait, darling? Why can't you give me my answer now, and +make me the happiest man in all the world?" + +"Yes, yes, I know," answered Mother; and I knew by her voice that +she was all shaky and trembly. "But if I could only be sure--sure of +myself." + +"But, dearest, you're sure of me!" cried the violinist. "You _know_ +how I love you. You know you're the only woman I have ever loved, or +ever could love!" + +Yes, just like that he said it--that awful lie--and to my mother. My +stars! Do you suppose I waited to hear any more? I guess not! + +[Illustration: "WHY MUST YOU WAIT, DARLING?"] + +I fairly tumbled off my seat, and my book dropped with a bang, as I +ran forward. Dear, dear, but how they did jump--both of them! And I +guess they _were_ surprised. I never thought how 'twas going to affect +them--my breaking in like that. But I didn't wait--not a minute. And +I didn't apologize, or say "Excuse me," or any of those things that +I suppose I ought to have done. I just started right in and began to +talk. And I talked hard and fast, and lots of it. + +I don't know now what I said, but I know I asked him what he meant by +saying such an awful lie to my mother, when he'd just said the same +thing, exactly 'most, to Theresa, and he'd hugged her and kissed her, +and everything. I'd _seen_ him. And-- + +But I didn't get a chance to say half I wanted to. I was going on to +tell him what I thought of him; but Mother gasped out, "Marie! _Marie! +Stop_!" + +And then I stopped. I had to, of course. Then she said that would do, +and I might go to my room. And I went. And that's all I know about it, +except that she came up, after a little, and said for me not to talk +any more about it, to her, or to any one else; and to please try to +forget it. + +I tried to tell her what I'd seen, and what I'd heard that wicked, +deep-dyed villain say; but she wouldn't let me. She shook her head, +and said, "Hush, hush, dear"; and that no good could come of talking +of it, and she wanted me to forget it. She was very sweet and very +gentle, and she smiled; but there were stern corners to her mouth, +even when the smile was there. And I guess she told him what was what. +Anyhow, I know they had quite a talk before she came up to me, for I +was watching at the window for him to go; and when he did go he +looked very red and cross, and he stalked away with a +never-will-I-darken-this-door-again kind of a step, just as far as I +could see him. + +I don't know, of course, what will happen next, nor whether he'll ever +come back for Theresa; but I shouldn't think even _she_ would want +him, after this, if she found out. + +And now where's _my_ love story coming in, I should like to know? + + * * * * * + +_Two days after Christmas_. + +Another wonderful thing has happened. I've had a letter from +Father--from _Father_--a _letter_--ME! + +It came this morning. Mother brought it in to me. She looked queer--a +little. There were two red spots in her cheeks, and her eyes were very +bright. + +"I think you have a letter here from--your father," she said, handing +it out. + +She hesitated before the "your father" just as she always does. And +'tisn't hardly ever that she mentions his name, anyway. But when she +does, she always stops a funny little minute before it, just as she +did to-day. + +And perhaps I'd better say right here, before I forget it, that Mother +has been different, some way, ever since that time when the violinist +proposed. I don't think she _cares_ really--about the violinist, I +mean--but she's just sort of upset over it. I heard her talking to +Aunt Hattie one day about it, and she said: + +"To think such a thing could happen--to _me_! And when for a minute I +was really hesitating and thinking that maybe I _would_ take him. Oh, +Hattie!" + +And Aunt Hattie put her lips together with her most I-told-you-so air, +and said: + +"It was, indeed, a narrow escape, Madge; and it ought to show you the +worth of a real man. There's Mr. Easterbrook, now--" + +But Mother wouldn't even listen then. She pooh-poohed and tossed her +head, and said, "Mr. Easterbrook, indeed!" and put her hands to her +ears, laughing, but in earnest just the same, and ran out of the room. + +And she doesn't go so much with Mr. Easterbrook as she did. Oh, she +goes with him some, but not enough to make it a bit interesting--for +this novel, I mean--nor with any of the others, either. In fact, I'm +afraid there isn't much chance now of Mother's having a love story to +make this book right. Only the other day I heard her tell Grandfather +and Aunt Hattie that _all_ men were a delusion and a snare. Oh, she +laughed as she said it. But she was in earnest, just the same. I could +see that. And she doesn't seem to care much for any of the different +men that come to see her. She seems to ever so much rather stay with +me. In fact, she stays with me a lot these days--almost all the time +I'm out of school, indeed. And she talks with me--oh, she talks with +me about lots of things. (I love to have her talk with me. You know +there's a lot of difference between talking _with_ folks and _to_ +folks. Now, Father always talks _to_ folks.) + +One day it was about getting married that Mother talked with me, and +I said I was so glad that when you didn't like being married, or got +tired of your husband, you could get _un_married, just as she did, and +go back home and be just the same as you were before. + +But Mother didn't like that, at all. She said no, no, and that I +mustn't talk like that, and that you _couldn't_ go back and be the +same. And that she'd found it out. That she used to think you could. +But you couldn't. She said it was like what she read once, that you +couldn't really be the same any more than you could put the dress you +were wearing back on the shelf in the store, and expect it to turn +back into a fine long web of cloth all folded up nice and tidy, as it +was in the first place. And, of course, you couldn't do that--after +the cloth was all cut up into a dress! + +She said more things, too; and after Father's letter came she said +still more. Oh, and I haven't told yet about the letter, have I? Well, +I will now. + +As I said at first, Mother brought it in and handed it over to me, +saying she guessed it was from Father. And I could see she was +wondering what could be in it. But I guess she wasn't wondering any +more than _I_ was, only I was gladder to get it than she was, I +suppose. Anyhow, when she saw _how_ glad I was, and how I jumped for +the letter, she drew back, and looked somehow as if she'd been hurt, +and said: + +"I did not know, Marie, that a letter from--your father would mean so +much to you." + +I don't know what I did say to that. I guess I didn't say anything. +I'd already begun to read the letter, and I was in such a hurry to +find out what he'd said. + +I'll copy it here. It wasn't long. It was like this: + + MY DEAR MARY: + + Some way Christmas has made me think of you. I wish I had sent you + some gift. Yet I have not the slightest idea what would please + you. To tell the truth, I tried to find something--but had to give + it up. + + I am wondering if you had a good time, and what you did. After + all, I'm pretty sure you did have a good time, for you are + Marie now. You see I have not forgotten how tired you got of + being--Mary. Well, well, I do not know as I can blame you. + + And now that I have asked what you did for Christmas, I suspect it + is no more than a fair turnabout to tell you what I did. I suppose + I had a very good time. Your Aunt Jane says I did. I heard her + telling one of the neighbors that last night. She said she left no + stone unturned to give me a good time. So, of course, I must have + had a good time. + + She had a very fine dinner, and she invited Mrs. Darling and Miss + Snow and Miss Sanborn to eat it with us. She said she didn't want + me to feel lonesome. But you can feel real lonesome in a crowd + sometimes. Did you know that, Mary? + + But I left them to their chatter after dinner and went out to the + observatory. I think I must have fallen asleep on the couch there, + for it was quite dark when I awoke. But I didn't mind that, + for there were some observations I wanted to take. It was a + beautifully clear night, so I stayed there till nearly morning. + + How about it? I suppose Marie plays the piano every day now, + doesn't she? The piano here hasn't been touched since you went + away. Oh, yes, it was touched once. Your aunt played hymns on it + for a missionary meeting. + + Well, what did you do Christmas? Suppose you write and tell + + Your + + FATHER + +I'd been reading the letter out loud, and when I got through Mother +was pacing up and down the room. For a minute she didn't say anything; +then she whirled 'round suddenly and faced me, and said, just as if +something inside of her was _making_ her say it: + +"I notice there is no mention of your mother in that letter, Marie. I +suppose--your father has quite forgotten that there is such a person +in the world as--I." + +But I told her no, oh, no, and that I was sure he remembered her, +for he used to ask me questions often about what she did, and the +violinist and all. + +"The violinist!" cried Mother, whirling around on me again. (She'd +begun to walk up and down once more.) "You don't mean to say you ever +told your father about _him_!" + +"Oh, no, not everything," I explained, trying to show how patient I +was, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn't work.) "I couldn't +tell him everything because everything hadn't happened then. But I +told about his being here, and about the others, too; but, of course, +I said I didn't know which you'd take, and--" + +"You told him you didn't know _which I'd take_!" gasped Mother. + +Just like that she interrupted, and she looked so shocked. And she +didn't look much better when I explained very carefully what I did +say, even though I assured her over and over again that Father was +interested, very much interested. When I said that, she just muttered, +"Interested, indeed!" under her breath. Then she began to walk again, +up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden, she flung herself on +the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. And +when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for she +threw her arms around me and cried: + +"Oh, my darling, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, how +dreadful it is?" + +And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and +_un_married as we were. She held me close again and began to sob and +cry. + +"Oh, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it all is--how unnatural +it is for us to live--this way? And for you--you poor child!--what +could be worse for you? And here I am, jealous--jealous of your own +father, for fear you'll love him better than you do me! + +"Oh, I know I ought not to say all this to you--I know I ought not to. +But I can't--help it. I want you! I want you every minute; but I have +to give you up--six whole months of every year I have to give you up +to him. And he's your father, Marie. And he's a good man. I know he's +a good man. I know it all the better now since I've seen--other men. +And I ought to tell you to love him. But I'm so afraid--you'll love +him better than you do me, and want to leave--me. And I can't give you +up! I can't give you up!" + +Then I tried to tell her, of course, that she wouldn't have to give +me up, and that I loved her a whole lot better than I did Father. But +even that didn't comfort her, 'cause she said I _ought_ to love _him_. +That he was lonesome and needed me. He needed me just as much as +she needed me, and maybe more. And then she went on again about how +unnatural and awful it was to live the way we were living. And she +called herself a wicked woman that she'd ever allowed things to get to +such a pass. And she said if she could only have her life to live over +again she'd do so differently--oh, so differently. + +Then she began to cry again, and I couldn't do a thing with her; and +of course, that worked me all up and I began to cry. + +She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely with +her wet ball of a handkerchief. And she asked what was she thinking +of, and didn't she know any better than to talk like this to me. Then +she said, come, we'd go for a ride. + +And we did. + +And all the rest of that day Mother was so gay and lively you'd think +she didn't know how to cry. + +Now, wasn't that funny? + +Of course, I shall answer Father's letter right away, but I haven't +the faintest idea _what_ to say. + + * * * * * + +_One week later._ + +I answered it--Father's letter, I mean--yesterday, and it's gone now. +But I had an awful time over it. I just didn't know what in the world +to say. I'd start out all right, and I'd think I was going to get +along beautifully. Then, all of a sudden, it would come over me, what +I was doing--_writing a letter to my father_! And I could imagine just +how he'd look when he got it, all stern and dignified, sitting in +his chair in the library, and opening the letter _just so_ with his +paper-cutter; and I'd imagine his eyes looking down and reading what I +wrote. And when I thought of that, my pen just wouldn't go. The idea +of _my_ writing anything my father would want to read! + +And so I'd try to think of things that I could write--big things--big +things that would interest big men: about the President, and +our-country-'tis-of-thee, and the state of the weather and the crops. +And so I'd begin: + +"Dear Father: I take my pen in hand to inform you that--" + +Then I'd stop and think and think, and chew my pen-handle. Then I'd +put down _something_. But it was awful, and I knew it was awful. So +I'd have to tear it up and begin again. Three times I did that; then I +began to cry. It did seem as if I never could write that letter. Once +I thought of asking Mother what to say, and getting her to help me. +Then I remembered how she cried and took on and said things when the +letter came, and talked about how dreadful and unnatural it all was, +and how she was jealous for fear I'd love Father better than I did +her. And I was afraid she'd do it again, and so I didn't like to ask +her. And so I didn't do it. + +Then, after a time, I got out his letter and read it again. And all of +a sudden I felt all warm and happy, just as I did when I first got it; +and some way I was back with him in the observatory and he was telling +me all about the stars. And I forgot all about being afraid of him, +and about the crops and the President and my-country-'tis-of-thee. +And I just remembered that he'd asked me to tell him what I did on +Christmas Day; and I knew right off that that would be easy. Why, just +the easiest thing in the world! And so I got out a fresh sheet of +paper and dipped my pen in the ink and began again. + +And this time I didn't have a bit of trouble. I told him all about the +tree I had Christmas Eve, and the presents, and the little colored +lights, and the fun we had singing and playing games. And then how, on +Christmas morning, there was a lovely new snow on the ground, and Mr. +Easterbrook came with a perfectly lovely sleigh and two horses to take +Mother and me to ride, and what a splendid time we had, and how lovely +Mother looked with her red cheeks and bright eyes, and how, when we +got home, Mr. Easterbrook said we looked more like sisters than mother +and daughter, and wasn't that nice of him. Of course, I told a little +more about Mr. Easterbrook, too, so Father'd know who he was--a new +friend of Mother's that I'd never known till I came back this time, +and how he was very rich and a most estimable man. That Aunt Hattie +said so. + +Then I told him that in the afternoon another gentleman came and took +us to a perfectly beautiful concert. And I finished up by telling +about the Christmas party in the evening, and how lovely the house +looked, and Mother, and that they said I looked nice, too. + +And that was all. And when I had got it done, I saw that I had written +a long letter, a great long letter. And I was almost afraid it was +too long, till I remembered that Father had asked me for it; he had +_asked_ me to tell him all about what I did on Christmas Day. + +So I sent it off. + + * * * * * + +_March_. + +Yes, I know it's been quite a while, but there hasn't been a thing to +say--nothing new or exciting, I mean. There's just school, and the +usual things; only Mr. Easterbrook doesn't come any more. (Of course, +the violinist hasn't come since that day he proposed.) I don't know +whether Mr. Easterbrook proposed or not. I only know that all of a +sudden he stopped coming. I don't know the reason. + +I don't overhear so much as I used to, anyway. Not but that I'm in the +library window-seat just the same; but 'most everybody that comes in +looks there right off, now; and, of course, when they see me they +don't hardly ever go on with what they are saying. So it just +naturally follows that I don't overhear things as I used to. + +Not that there's much to hear, though. Really, there just isn't +anything going on, and things aren't half so lively as they used to be +when Mr. Easterbrook was here, and all the rest. They've all stopped +coming, now, 'most. I've about given up ever having a love story of +Mother's to put in. + +And mine, too. Here I am fifteen next month, going on sixteen. (Why, +that brook and river met long ago!) But Mother is getting to be almost +as bad as Aunt Jane was about my receiving proper attentions from +young men. Oh, she lets me go to places, a little, with the boys at +school; but I always have to be chaperoned. And whenever are they +going to have a chance to say anything really _thrilling_ with Mother +or Aunt Hattie right at my elbow? Echo answers never! So I've about +given up _that's_ amounting to anything, either. + +Of course, there's Father left, and of course, when I go back to +Andersonville this summer, there may be something doing there. But I +doubt it. + +I forgot to say I haven't heard from Father again. I answered his +Christmas letter, as I said, and wrote just as nice as I knew how, and +told him all he asked me to. But he never answered, nor wrote again. I +am disappointed, I'll own up. I thought he would write. I think Mother +did, too. She's asked me ever so many times if I hadn't heard from him +again. And she always looks so sort of funny when I say no--sort of +glad and sorry together, all in one. + +But, then, Mother's queer in lots of ways now. For instance: One +week ago she gave me a perfectly lovely box of chocolates--a whole +two-pound box all at once; and I've never had more than a half-pound +at once before. But just as I was thinking how for once I was going to +have a real feast, and all I wanted to eat--what do you think she told +me? She said I could have three pieces, and only three pieces a day; +and not one little tiny one more. And when I asked her why she gave me +such a big box for, then, if that was all I could have, she said it +was to teach me self-discipline. That self-discipline was one of the +most wonderful things in the world. That if she'd only been taught it +when she was a girl, her life would have been very, very different. +And so she was giving me a great big box of chocolates for my very +own, just so as to teach me to deny myself and take only three pieces +every day. + +Three pieces!--and all that whole big box of them just making my +mouth water all the while; and all just to teach me that horrid old +self-discipline! Why, you'd think it was Aunt Jane doing it instead of +Mother! + + * * * * * + +_One week later._ + +It's come--Father's letter. It came last night. Oh, it was short, and +it didn't say anything about what _I_ wrote. But I was proud of it, +just the same. I just guess I was! There wasn't much in it but just +that I might stay till the school closed in June, and then come. But +_he wrote it_. He didn't get Aunt Jane to write to Mother, as he did +before. And then, besides, he must have forgotten his stars long +enough to think of me a _little_--for he remembered about the school, +and that I couldn't go there in Andersonville, and so he said I had +better stay here till it finished. + +And I was so glad to stay! It made me very happy--that letter. It made +Mother happy, too. She liked it, and she thought it was very, very +kind of Father to be willing to give me up almost three whole months +of his six, so I could go to school here. And she said so. She said +once to Aunt Hattie that she was almost tempted to write and thank +him. But Aunt Hattie said, "Pooh," and it was no more than he ought to +do, and that _she_ wouldn't be seen writing to a man who so carefully +avoided writing to _her_. So Mother didn't do it, I guess. + +But I wrote. I had to write three letters, though, before I got one +that Mother said would do to send. The first one sounded so _glad_ I +was staying that Mother said she was afraid he would feel hurt, and +that would be too bad--when he'd been so kind. And the second one +sounded as if I was so _sorry_ not to go to Andersonville the first of +April that Mother said that would never do in the world. He'd think +I didn't _want_ to stay in Boston. But the third letter I managed to +make just glad enough to stay, and just sorry enough not to go. So +that Mother said it was all right. And I sent it. You see I _asked_ +Mother to help me about this letter. I knew she wouldn't cry and moan +about being jealous this time. And she didn't. She was real excited +and happy over it. + + * * * * * + +_April_. + +Well, the last chocolate drop went yesterday. There were just +seventy-six pieces in that two-pound box. I counted them that first +day. Of course, they were fine and dandy, and I just loved them; but +the trouble is, for the last week I've been eating such snippy little +pieces. You see, every day, without thinking, I'd just naturally pick +out the biggest pieces. So you can imagine what they got down to +toward the last--mostly chocolate almonds. + +As for the self-discipline--I don't see as I feel any more disciplined +than I did before, and I _know_ I want chocolates just as much as +ever. And I said so to Mother. + +But Mother _is_ queer. Honestly she is. And I can't help wondering--is +she getting to be like Aunt Jane? + +Now, listen to this: + +Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect +darling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match. +And I knew I'd look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would have +got it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin with +dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child--for any child. + +Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it--some. In +fact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot. Mother didn't say anything +_then_; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and +said: + +"I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But it +was not suitable at all for you--not until you're older, dear." + +She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug: + +"Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't getting +to be vain, and too fond of dress." + +I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that +self-discipline business. + +But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline. + +_Is_ she getting to be like Aunt Jane? + + * * * * * + +_One week later._ + +She is. + +I _know_ she is now. + +I'm learning to cook--_to cook_! And it's Mother that says I must. She +told Aunt Hattie--I heard her--that she thought every girl should +know how to cook and to keep house; and that if she had learned those +things when she was a girl, her life would have been quite different, +she was sure. + +Of course, I'm not learning in Aunt Hattie's kitchen. Aunt Hattie's +got a new cook, and she's worse than Olga used to be--about not +wanting folks messing around, I mean. So Aunt Hattie said right off +that we couldn't do it there. I am learning at a Domestic Science +School, and Mother is going with me. I didn't mind so much when she +said she'd go, too. And, really, it is quite a lot of fun--really it +is. But it _is_ queer--Mother and I going to school together to learn +how to make bread and cake and boil potatoes! And, of course, Aunt +Hattie laughs at us. But I don't mind. And Mother doesn't, either. +But, oh, how Aunt Jane would love it, if she only knew! + + * * * * * + +_May_. + +Something is the matter with Mother, certainly. She's acting queerer +and queerer, and she _is_ getting to be like Aunt Jane. Why, only this +morning she hushed me up from laughing so loud, and stopped my +romping up and down the stairs with Lester. She said it was noisy and +unladylike--and only just a little while ago she just loved to have me +laugh and play and be happy! And when I said so to her this morning, +she said, yes, yes, of course, and she wanted me to be happy now, only +she wished to remind me that very soon I was going back to my father +in Andersonville, and that I ought to begin now to learn to be more +quiet, so as not to trouble him when I got there. + +Now, what do you think of that? + +And another thing. What _do_ you suppose I am learning about _now_? +You'd never guess. Stars. Yes, _stars_! And that is for Father, too. + +Mother came into my room one day with a book of Grandfather's under +her arm. She said it was a very wonderful work on astronomy, and she +was sure I would find it interesting. She said she was going to read +it aloud to me an hour a day. And then, when I got to Andersonville +and Father talked to me, I'd _know_ something. And he'd be pleased. + +She said she thought we owed it to Father, after he'd been so good and +kind as to let me stay here almost three whole months of his six, so +I could keep on with my school. And that she was very sure this would +please him and make him happy. + +And so, for 'most a week now, Mother has read to me an hour a day +out of that astronomy book. Then we talk about it. And it _is_ +interesting. Mother says it is, too. She says she wishes _she'd_ known +something about astronomy when she was a girl; that she's sure it +would have made things a whole lot easier and happier all around, when +she married Father; for then she would have known something about +something _he_ was interested in. She said she couldn't help that +now, of course; but she could see that _I_ knew something about such +things. And that was why she was reading to me now. Then she said +again that she thought we owed it to Father, when he'd been so good to +let me stay. + +It seems so funny to hear her talk such a lot about Father as she +does, when before she never used to mention him--only to say how +afraid she was that I would love him better than I did her, and to +make me say over and over again that I didn't. And I said so one day +to her--I mean, I said I thought it was funny, the way she talked now. + +She colored up and bit her lip, and gave a queer little laugh. Then +she grew very sober and grave, and said: + +"I know, dear. Perhaps I am talking more than I used to. But, you see, +I've been thinking quite a lot, and I--I've learned some things. And +now, since your father has been so kind and generous in giving you up +to me so much of his time, I--I've grown ashamed; and I'm trying to +make you forget what I said--about your loving me more than him. That +wasn't right, dear. Mother was wrong. She shouldn't try to influence +you against your father. He is a good man; and there are none too many +good men in the world--No, no, I won't say that," she broke off. + +But she'd already said it, and, of course, I knew she was thinking of +the violinist. I'm no child. + +She went on more after that, quite a lot more. And she said again that +I must love Father and try to please him in every way; and she cried a +little and talked a lot about how hard it was in my position, and +that she was afraid she'd only been making it harder, through her +selfishness, and I must forgive her, and try to forget it. And she +was very sure she'd do better now. And she said that, after all, life +wasn't in just being happy yourself. It was in how much happiness you +could give to others. + +Oh, it was lovely! And I cried, and she cried some more, and we +kissed each other, and I promised. And after she went away I felt all +upraised and holy, like you do when you've been to a beautiful church +service with soft music and colored windows, and everybody kneeling. +And I felt as if I'd never be naughty or thoughtless again. And that +I'd never mind being Mary now. Why, I'd be glad to be Mary half the +time, and even more--for Father. + +But, alas! + +Listen. Would you believe it? Just that same evening Mother stopped me +again laughing too loud and making too much noise playing with Lester; +and I felt real cross. I just boiled inside of me, and said I hated +Mary, and that Mother _was_ getting to be just like Aunt Jane. And +yet, just that morning-- + +Oh, if only that hushed, stained-window-soft-music feeling _would_ +last! + + * * * * * + +_June_. + +Well, once more school is done, my trunk is all packed, and I'm ready +to go to Andersonville. I leave to-morrow morning. But not as I left +last year. Oh, no. It is very, very different. Why, this year I'm +really _going_ as Mary. Honestly, Mother has turned me into Mary +_before I go_. Now, what do you think of that? And if I've got to be +Mary there and Mary here, too, when can I ever be _Marie_? Oh, I know +I _said_ I'd be willing to be Mary half, and maybe more than half, the +time. But when it comes to really _being_ Mary out of turn extra time, +that is quite another thing. + +And I am Mary. + +Listen: + +I've learned to cook. That's Mary. + +I've been studying astronomy. That's Mary. + +I've learned to walk quietly, speak softly, laugh not too loudly, and +be a lady at all times. That's Mary. + +And now, to add to all this, Mother has had me _dress_ like Mary. Yes, +she began two weeks ago. She came into my room one morning and said +she wanted to look over my dresses and things; and I could see, by the +way she frowned and bit her lip and tapped her foot on the floor, that +she wasn't suited. And I was glad; for, of course, I always like to +have new things. So I was pleased when she said: + +"I think, my dear, that on Saturday we'll have to go in town shopping. +Quite a number of these things will not do at all." + +And I was so happy! Visions of new dresses and hats and shoes rose +before me, and even the pink beaded silk came into my mind--though I +didn't really have much hopes of that. + +Well, we went shopping on Saturday, but--did we get the pink silk? We +did not. We did get--you'd never guess what. We got two new gingham +dresses, very plain and homely, and a pair of horrid, thick low shoes. +Why, I could have cried! I did 'most cry as I exclaimed: + +"Why, Mother, those are _Mary_ things!" + +"Of course, they're Mary things," answered Mother, cheerfully--the +kind of cheerfulness that says: "I'm being good and you ought to be." +Then she went on. "That's what I meant to buy--Mary things, as you +call them. Aren't you going to be Mary just next week? Of course, you +are! And didn't you tell me last year, as soon as you got there, Miss +Anderson objected to your clothing and bought new for you? Well, I am +trying to see that she does not have to do that this year." + +And then she bought me a brown serge suit and a hat so tiresomely +sensible that even Aunt Jane will love them, I know. And to-morrow +I've got to put them on to go in. + +Do you wonder that I say I am Mary already? + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +WHEN I AM NEITHER ONE + + +ANDERSONVILLE. + +Well, I came last night. I had on the brown suit and the sensible hat, +and every turn of the wheels all day had been singing: "Mary, Mary, +now you're Mary!" Why, Mother even _called_ me Mary when she said +good-bye. She came to the junction with me just as she had before, and +put me on the other train. + +"Now, remember, dear, you're to try very hard to be a joy and a +comfort to your father--just the little Mary that he wants you to be. +Remember, he has been very kind to let you stay with me so long." + +She cried when she kissed me just as she did before; but she didn't +tell me this time to be sure and not love Father better than I did +her. I noticed that. But, of course, I didn't say anything, though I +might have told her easily that I knew nothing could ever make me love +_him_ better than I did _her_. + +But I honestly tried, as long as I was dressed like Mary, to feel like +Mary; and I made up my mind that I would _be_ Mary, too, just as well +as I knew how to be, so that even Aunt Jane couldn't find any fault +with me. And I'd try to please Father, and make him not mind my being +there, even if I couldn't make him love me. And as I got to thinking +of it, I was _glad_ that I had on the Mary things, so I wouldn't have +to make any change. Then I could show Aunt Jane that I was really +going to be Mary, right along from the start, when she met me at +the station. And I would show Father, too, if he was at home. And I +couldn't help hoping he _would_ be home this time, and not off to look +at any old stars or eclipses. + +When we got to Andersonville, and the train rolled into the station, I +'most forgot, for a minute, and ran down the aisle, so as to get out +quick. I was so excited! But right away I thought of Aunt Jane and +that she might see me; so I slowed down to a walk, and I let quite a +lot of other folks get ahead of me, as I was sure Mary ought to. You +see, I was determined to be a good little Mary from the very start, so +that even Aunt Jane couldn't find a word of fault--not even with my +actions. I knew she couldn't with my clothes! + +Well, I stepped down from the cars and looked over to where the +carriages were to find John and Aunt Jane. But they weren't there. +There wasn't even the carriage there; and I can remember now just how +my heart sort of felt sick inside of me when I thought that even Aunt +Jane had forgotten, and that there wasn't anybody to meet me. + +There was a beautiful big green automobile there, and I thought how +I wished _that_ had come to meet me; and I was just wondering what I +should do, when all of a sudden somebody spoke my name. And who do you +think it was? You'd never guess it in a month. It was _Father_. Yes, +FATHER! + +Why, I could have hugged him, I was so glad. But of course I didn't, +right before all those people. But he was so tall and handsome and +splendid, and I felt so proud to be walking along the platform with +him and letting folks see that he'd come to meet me! But I couldn't +say anything--not anything, the way I wanted to; and all I could do +was to stammer out: + +"Why, where's Aunt Jane?" + +And that's just the thing I didn't _want_ to say; and I knew it the +minute I'd said it. Why, it sounded as if I missed Aunt Jane, and +wanted _her_ instead of _him_, when all the time I was so pleased and +excited to see him that I could hardly speak. + +I don't know whether Father liked it, or minded it. I couldn't tell by +his face. He just kind of smiled, and looked queer, and said that Aunt +Jane--er--couldn't come. Then _I_ felt sorry; for I saw, of course, +that that was why _he_ had come; not because he wanted to, but because +Aunt Jane couldn't, so he had to. And I could have cried, all the +while he was fixing it up about my trunk. + +He turned then and led the way straight over to where the carriages +were, and the next minute there was John touching his cap to me; +only it was a brand-new John looking too sweet for anything in a +chauffeur's cap and uniform. And, what do you think? He was helping me +into that beautiful big green car before I knew it. + +"Why, Father, Father!" I cried. "You don't mean"--I just couldn't +finish; but he finished for me. + +"It is ours--yes. Do you like it?" + +"Like it!" I guess he didn't need to have me say any more. But I did +say more. I just raved and raved over that car until Father's eyes +crinkled all up in little smile wrinkles, and he said: + +"I'm glad. I hoped you'd like it." + +"I guess I do like it!" I cried. Then I went on to tell him how I +thought it was the prettiest one I ever saw, and 'way ahead of even +Mr. Easterbrook's. + +"And, pray, who is Mr. Easterbrook?" asked Father then. "The +violinist, perhaps--eh?" + +Now, wasn't it funny he should have remembered that there was a +violinist? But, of course, I told him no, it wasn't the violinist. It +was another one that took Mother to ride, the one I told him about +in the Christmas letter; and he was very rich, and had two perfectly +beautiful cars; and I was going on to tell more--how he didn't take +Mother now--but I didn't get a chance, for Father interrupted, and +said, "Yes, yes, to be sure." And he _showed_ he wasn't interested, +for all the little smile wrinkles were gone, and he looked stern and +dignified, more like he used to. And he went on to say that, as we had +almost reached home, he had better explain right away that Aunt Jane +was no longer living there; that his cousin from the West, Mrs. +Whitney, was keeping house for him now. She was a very nice lady, and +he hoped I would like her. And I might call her "Cousin Grace." + +And before I could even draw breath to ask any questions, we were +home; and a real pretty lady, with a light-blue dress on, was helping +me out of the car, and kissing me as she did so. + +Now, do you wonder that I have been rubbing my eyes and wondering if I +was really I, and if this was Andersonville? Even now I'm not sure but +it's a dream, and I shall wake up and find I've gone to sleep on the +cars, and that the train is just drawing into the station, and that +John and the horses, and Aunt Jane in her I-don't-care-how-it-looks +black dress are there to meet me. + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +It isn't a dream. It's all really, truly true--everything: Father +coming to meet me, the lovely automobile, and the pretty lady in the +light-blue dress, who kissed me. And when I went downstairs the next +morning I found out it was real, 'specially the pretty lady; for she +kissed me again, and said she hoped I'd be happy there. And she never +said one word about dusting one hour and studying one hour and weeding +one hour. (Of course, she couldn't say anything about my clothes, for +I was already in a Mary blue-gingham dress.) She just told me to amuse +myself any way I liked, and said, if I wanted to, I might run over to +see some of the girls, but not to make any plans for the afternoon, +for she was going to take me to ride. + +Now, what do you think of that? Go to see the girls in the morning, +and take a ride--an automobile ride!--in the afternoon. _In +Andersonville_! Why, I couldn't believe my ears. Of course, I was wild +and crazy with delight--but it was all so different. Why, I began to +think almost that I was Marie, and not Mary at all. + +And it's been that way the whole week through. I've had a beautiful +time. I've been so excited! And Mother is excited, too. Of course, I +wrote her and told her all about it right away. And she wrote right +back and wanted to know everything--everything I could tell her; all +the little things. And she was so interested in Cousin Grace, and +wanted to know all about her; said _she_ never heard of her before, +and was she Father's own cousin, and how old was she, and was she +pretty, and was Father around the house more now, and did I see a lot +of him? She thought from something I said that I did. + +I've just been writing her again, and I could tell her more now, of +course, than I could in that first letter. I've been here a whole +week, and, of course, I know more about things, and have done more. + +I told her that Cousin Grace wasn't really Father's cousin at all, so +it wasn't any wonder she hadn't ever heard of her. She was the wife +of Father's third cousin who went to South America six years ago and +caught the fever and died there. So this Mrs. Whitney isn't really any +relation of his at all. But he'd always known her, even before she +married his cousin; and so, when her husband died, and she didn't have +any home, he asked her to come here. + +I don't know why Aunt Jane went away, but she's been gone 'most four +months now, they say here. Nellie told me. Nellie is the maid--I mean +hired girl--here now. (I _will_ keep forgetting that I'm Mary now and +must use the Mary words here.) + +I told Mother that she (Cousin Grace) was quite old, but not so old +as Aunt Jane. (I asked Nellie, and Nellie said she guessed she was +thirty-five, but she didn't look a day over twenty-five.) And she _is_ +pretty, and everybody loves her. I think even Father likes to have her +around better than he did his own sister Jane, for he sometimes stays +around quite a lot now--after meals, and in the evening, I mean. And +that's what I told Mother. Oh, of course, he still likes his stars the +best of anything, but not quite as well as he used to, maybe--not to +give _all_ his time to them. + +I haven't anything especial to write. I'm just having a beautiful +time. Of course, I miss Mother, but I know I'm going to have her again +in just September--I forgot to say that Father is going to let me go +back to school again this year ahead of his time, just as he did last +year. + +So you see, really, I'm here only a little bit of a while, as it is +now, and it's no wonder I keep forgetting I am Mary. + +I haven't got anything new for the love part of my story. I _am_ sorry +about that. But there just isn't anything, so I'm afraid the book +never will be a love story, anyway. + +Of course, I'm not with Mother now, so I don't know whether there's +anything there, or not; but I don't think there will be. And as for +Father--I've pretty nearly given him up. Anyhow, there never used to +be any signs of hope for me there. As for myself--well, I've about +given that up, too. I don't believe they're going to give me any +chance to have anybody till I'm real old--probably not till I'm +twenty-one or two. And I can't wait all that time to finish this book. + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +Things are awfully funny here this time. I wonder if it's all Cousin +Grace that makes it so. Anyhow, she's just as different as different +can be from Aunt Jane. And _things_ are different, everywhere. + +Why, I forget half the time that I'm Mary. Honestly, I do. I try to be +Mary. I try to move quietly, speak gently, and laugh softly, just as +Mother told me to. But before I know it I'm acting natural again--just +like Marie, you know. + +And I believe it _is_ Cousin Grace. She never looks at you in Aunt +Jane's I'm-amazed-at-you way. And she laughs herself a lot, and sings +and plays, too--real pretty lively things; not just hymn tunes. And +the house is different. There are four geraniums in the dining-room +window, and the parlor is open every day. The wax flowers are there, +but the hair wreath and the coffin plate are gone. Cousin Grace +doesn't dress like Aunt Jane, either. She wears pretty white and blue +dresses, and her hair is curly and fluffy. + +And so I think all this is why I keep forgetting to be Mary. But, of +course, I understand that Father expects me to be Mary, and so I try +to remember--only I can't. Why, I couldn't even show him how much I +knew about the stars. I tried to the other night. I went out to the +observatory where he was, and asked him questions about the stars. +I tried to seem interested, and was going to tell him how I'd been +studying about them, but he just laughed kind of funny, and said not +to bother my pretty head about such things, but to come in and play to +him on the piano. + +So, of course, I did. And he sat and listened to three whole pieces. +Now, wasn't that funny? + + * * * * * + +_Two weeks later_. + +I understand it all now--everything: why the house is different, and +Father, and everything. And it _is_ Cousin Grace, and it _is_ a love +story. + +_Father is in love with her_. + +_Now_ I guess I shall have something for this book! + +It seems funny now that I didn't think of it at first. But I +didn't--not until I heard Nellie and her beau talking about it. Nellie +said she wasn't the only one in the house that was going to get +married. And when he asked her what she meant, she said it was Dr. +Anderson and Mrs. Whitney. That anybody could see it that wasn't as +blind as a bat. + +My, but wasn't I excited? I just guess I was. And, of course, I saw +then that I had been blind as a bat. But I began to open my eyes +after that, and watch--not disagreeably, you know, but just glad and +interested, and on account of the book. + +And I saw: + +That father stayed in the house a lot more than he used to. + +That he talked more. + +That he never thundered--I mean spoke stern and uncompromising to +Cousin Grace the way he used to to Aunt Jane. + +That he smiled more. + +That he wasn't so absent-minded at meals and other times, but seemed +to know we were there--Cousin Grace and I. + +That he actually asked Cousin Grace and me to play for him several +times. + +That he went with us to the Sunday-School picnic. (I never saw Father +at a picnic before, and I don't believe he ever saw himself at one.) + +That--oh, I don't know, but a whole lot of little things that I can't +remember; but they were all unmistakable, very unmistakable. And I +wondered, when I saw it all, that I _had_ been as blind as a bat +before. + +Of course, I was glad--glad he's going to marry her, I mean. I was +glad for everybody; for Father and Cousin Grace, for they would be +happy, of course, and he wouldn't be lonesome any more. And I was glad +for Mother because I knew she'd be glad that he'd at last found the +good, kind woman to make a home for him. And, of course, I was glad +for myself, for I'd much rather have Cousin Grace here than Aunt Jane, +and I knew she'd make the best new mother of any of them. And last, +but not least, I'm glad for the book, because now I've got a love +story sure. That is, I'm pretty sure. Of course, it may not be so; but +I think it is. + +When I wrote Mother I told her all about it--the signs and symptoms, I +mean, and how different and thawed-out Father was; and I asked if she +didn't think it was so, too. But she didn't answer that part. She +didn't write much, anyway. It was an awfully snippy letter; but she +said she had a headache and didn't feel at all well. So that was the +reason, probably, why she didn't say more--about Father's love affair, +I mean. She only said she was glad, she was sure, if Father had found +an estimable woman to make a home for him, and she hoped they'd be +happy. Then she went on talking about something else. And she didn't +write much more, anyway, about anything. + + * * * * * + +_August_. + +Well, of all the topsy-turvy worlds, this is the topsy-turviest, I am +sure. What _do_ they want me to do, and which do they want me to be? +Oh, I wish I was just a plain Susie or Bessie, and not a cross-current +and a contradiction, with a father that wants me to be one thing and +a mother that wants me to be another! It was bad enough before, when +Father wanted me to be Mary, and Mother wanted me to be Marie. But +now-- + +Well, to begin at the beginning. + +It's all over--the love story, I mean, and I know now why it's been so +hard for me to remember to be Mary and why everything is different, +and all. + +_They don't want me to be Mary_. + +_They want me to be Marie_. + +And now I don't know what to think. If Mother's going to want me to +be Mary, and Father's going to want me to be Marie, how am I going to +know what anybody wants, ever? Besides, it was getting to be such a +beautiful love story--Father and Cousin Grace. And now-- + +But let me tell you what happened. + +It was last night. We were on the piazza, Father, Cousin Grace, and +I. And I was thinking how perfectly lovely it was that Father _was_ +there, and that he was getting to be so nice and folksy, and how I +_did_ hope it would last, even after he'd married her, and not have +any of that incompatibility stuff come into it. Well, just then +she got up and went into the house for something--Cousin Grace, I +mean--and all of a sudden I determined to tell Father how glad I was, +about him and Cousin Grace; and how I hoped it would last--having him +out there with us, and all that. And I told him. + +I don't remember what I said exactly. But I know I hurried on and said +it fast, so as to get in all I could before he interrupted; for he had +interrupted right at the first with an exclamation; and I knew he was +going to say more right away, just as soon as he got a chance. And I +didn't want him to get a chance till I'd said what _I_ wanted to. But +I hadn't anywhere near said what I wanted to when he did stop me. Why, +he almost jumped out of his chair. + +"Mary!" he gasped. "What in the world are you talking about?" + +"Why, Father, I was telling you," I explained. And I tried to be so +cool and calm that it would make him calm and cool, too. (But it +didn't calm him or cool him one bit.) "It's about when you're married, +and--" + +"Married!" he interrupted again. (They never let _me_ interrupt like +that!) + +"To Cousin Grace--yes. But, Father, you--you _are_ going to marry +Cousin Grace, aren't you?" I cried--and I did 'most cry, for I saw by +his face that he was not. + +"That is not my present intention," he said. His lips came together +hard, and he looked over his shoulder to see if Cousin Grace was +coming back. + +"But you're going to _sometime_," I begged him. + +"I do not expect to." Again he looked over his shoulder to see if she +was coming. I looked, too, and we both saw through the window that she +had gone into the library and lighted up and was sitting at the table +reading. + +I fell back in my chair, and I know I looked grieved and hurt and +disappointed, as I almost sobbed: + +"Oh, Father, and when I _thought_ you were going to!" + +"There, there, child!" He spoke, stern and almost cross now. "This +absurd, nonsensical idea has gone quite far enough. Let us think no +more about it." + +"It isn't absurd and nonsensical!" I cried. And I could hardly say the +words, I was choking up so. "Everybody said you were going to, and I +wrote Mother so; and--" + +"You wrote that to your mother?" He did jump from his chair this time. + +"Yes; and she was glad." + +"Oh, she was!" He sat down sort of limp-like and queer. + +"Yes. She said she was glad you'd found an estimable woman to make a +home for you." + +"Oh, she did." He said this, too, in that queer, funny, quiet kind of +way. + +"Yes." I spoke, decided and firm. I'd begun to think, all of a sudden, +that maybe he didn't appreciate Mother as much as she did him; and +I determined right then and there to make him, if I could. When I +remembered all the lovely things she'd said about him-- + +"Father," I began; and I spoke this time, even more decided and firm. +"I don't believe you appreciate Mother." + +"Eh? What?" + +He made _me_ jump this time, he turned around with such a jerk, and +spoke so sharply. But in spite of the jump I still held on to my +subject, firm and decided. + +"I say I don't believe you appreciate my mother. You acted right now +as if you didn't believe she meant it when I told you she was glad you +had found an estimable woman to make a home for you. But she did mean +it. I know, because she said it before, once, last year, that she +hoped you _would_ find one." + +"Oh, she did." He sat back in his chair again, sort of limp-like. But +I couldn't tell yet, from his face, whether I'd convinced him or not. +So I went on. + +"Yes, and that isn't all. There's another reason, why I know Mother +always has--has your best interest at heart. She--she tried to make me +over into Mary before I came, so as to please you." + +"She did _what_?" Once more he made me jump, he turned so suddenly, +and spoke with such a short, sharp snap. + +But in spite of the jump I went right on, just as I had before, firm +and decided. I told him everything--all about the cooking lessons, and +the astronomy book we read an hour every day, and the pink silk +dress I couldn't have, and even about the box of chocolates and the +self-discipline. And how she said if she'd had self-discipline when +she was a girl, her life would have been very different. And I told +him about how she began to hush me up from laughing too loud, or +making any kind of noise, because I was soon to be Mary, and she +wanted me to get used to it, so I wouldn't trouble him when I got +here. + +I talked very fast and hurriedly. I was afraid he'd interrupt, and I +wanted to get in all I could before he did. But he didn't interrupt +at all. I couldn't see how he was taking it, though--what I said--for +after the very first he sat back in his chair and shaded his eyes with +his hand; and he sat like that all the time I was talking. He did not +even stir until I said how at the last she bought me the homely shoes +and the plain dark suit so I could go as Mary, and be Mary when Aunt +Jane first saw me get off the train. + +When I said that, he dropped his hand and turned around and stared at +me. And there was such a funny look in his eyes. + +"I _thought_ you didn't look the same!" he cried; "not so white and +airy and--and--I can't explain it, but you looked different. And yet, +I didn't think it could be so, for I knew you looked just as you did +when you came, and that no one had asked you to--to put on Mary's +things this year." + +He sort of smiled when he said that; then he got up and began to walk +up and down the piazza, muttering: "So you _came_ as Mary, you _came_ +as Mary." Then, after a minute, he gave a funny little laugh and sat +down. + +Mrs. Small came up the front walk then to see Cousin Grace, and Father +told her to go right into the library where Cousin Grace was. So we +were left alone again, after a minute. + +It was 'most dark on the piazza, but I could see Father's face in the +light from the window; and it looked--well, I'd never seen it look +like that before. It was as if something that had been on it for years +had dropped off and left it clear where before it had been blurred and +indistinct. No, that doesn't exactly describe it either. I _can't_ +describe it. But I'll go on and say what he said. + +After Mrs. Small had gone into the house, and he saw that she was +sitting down with Cousin Grace in the library, he turned to me and +said: + +"And so you came as Mary?" + +I said yes, I did. + +"Well, I--I got ready for Marie." + +But then I didn't quite understand, not even when I looked at him, and +saw the old understanding twinkle in his eyes. + +"You mean--you thought I was coming as Marie, of course," I said then. + +"Yes," he nodded. + +"But I came as Mary." + +"I see now that you did." He drew in his breath with a queer little +catch to it; then he got up and walked up and down the _piazza_ again. +(Why do old folks always walk up and down the room like that when +they're thinking hard about something? Father always does; and Mother +does lots of times, too.) But it wasn't but a minute this time before +Father came and sat down. + +"Well, Mary," he began; and his voice sounded odd, with a little shake +in it. "You've told me your story, so I suppose I may as well tell you +mine--now. You see, I not only got ready for Marie, but I had planned +to keep her Marie, and not let her be Mary--at all." + +And then he told me. He told me how he'd never forgotten that day +in the parlor when I cried (and made a wet spot on the arm of the +sofa--_I_ never forgot that!), and he saw then how hard it was for me +to live here, with him so absorbed in his work and Aunt Jane so stern +in her black dress. And he said I put it very vividly when I talked +about being Marie in Boston, and Mary here, and he saw just how it +was. And so he thought and thought about it all winter, and wondered +what he could do. And after a time it came to him--he'd let me be +Marie here; that is, he'd try to make it so I could be Marie. And he +was just wondering how he was going to get Aunt Jane to help him when +she was sent for and asked to go to an old friend who was sick. And he +told her to go, by all means to go. Then he got Cousin Grace to come +here. He said he knew Cousin Grace, and he was very sure she would +know how to help him to let me stay Marie. So he talked it over with +her--how they would let me laugh, and sing and play the piano all I +wanted to, and wear the clothes I brought with me, and be just as near +as I could be the way I was in Boston. + +"And to think, after all my preparation for Marie, you should _be_ +Mary already, when you came," he finished. + +"Yes. Wasn't it funny?" I laughed. "All the time _you_ were getting +ready for Marie, Mother was getting me ready to be Mary. It _was_ +funny!" And it did seem funny to me then. + +But Father was not laughing. He had sat back in his chair, and had +covered his eyes with his hand again, as if he was thinking and +thinking, just as hard as he could. And I suppose it did seem queer +to him, that he should be trying to make me Marie, and all the while +Mother was trying to make me Mary. And it seemed so to me, as I began +to think it over. It wasn't funny at all, any longer. + +"And so your mother--did that," Father muttered; and there was the +queer little catch in his breath again. + +He didn't say any more, not a single word. And after a minute he got +up and went into the house. But he didn't go into the library where +Mrs. Small and Cousin Grace were talking. He went straight upstairs +to his own room and shut the door. I heard it. And he was still there +when I went up to bed afterwards. + +Well, I guess he doesn't feel any worse than I do. I thought at first +it was funny, a good joke--his trying to have me Marie while Mother +was making me over into Mary. But I see now that it isn't. It's awful. +Why, how am I going to know at all who to be--now? Before, I used to +know just when to be Mary, and when to be Marie--Mary with Father, +Marie with Mother. Now I don't know at all. Why, they can't even +seem to agree on that! I suppose it's just some more of that +incompatibility business showing up even when they are apart. And poor +me--I have to suffer for it. I'm beginning to see that the child does +suffer--I mean the child of unlikes. + +Now, look at me right now--about my clothes, for instance. (Of +course clothes are a little thing, you may think; but I don't think +anything's little that's always with you like clothes are!) Well, here +all summer, and even before I came, I've been wearing stuffy gingham +and clumpy shoes to please Father. And Father isn't pleased at all. He +wanted me to wear the Marie things. + +And there you are. + +How do you suppose Mother's going to feel when I tell her that after +all her pains Father didn't like it at all. He wanted me to be Marie. +It's a shame, after all the pains she took. But I won't write it to +her, anyway. Maybe I won't have to tell her, unless she _asks_ me. + +But _I_ know it. And, pray, what am I to do? Of course, I can _act_ +like Marie here all right, if that is what folks want. (I guess I have +been doing it a good deal of the time, anyway, for I kept forgetting +that I was Mary.) But I can't _wear_ Marie, for I haven't a single +Marie thing here. They're all Mary. That's all I brought. + +Oh, dear suz me! Why couldn't Father and Mother have been just the +common live-happy-ever-after kind, or else found out before they +married that they were unlikes? + + * * * * * + +_September_. + +Well, vacation is over, and I go back to Boston to-morrow. It's been +very nice and I've had a good time, in spite of being so mixed up as +to whether I was Mary or Marie. It wasn't so bad as I was afraid it +would be. Very soon after Father and I had that talk on the piazza, +Cousin Grace took me down to the store and bought me two new white +dresses, and the dearest little pair of shoes I ever saw. She said +Father wanted me to have them. + +And that's all--every single word that's been said about that +Mary-and-Marie business. And even that didn't really _say_ +anything--not by name. And Cousin Grace never mentioned it again. And +Father never mentioned it at all. Not a word. + +But he's been queer. He's been awfully queer. Some days he's been just +as he was when I first came this time--real talky and folksy, and as +if he liked to be with us. Then for whole days at a time he'd be more +as he used to--stern, and stirring his coffee when there isn't any +coffee there; and staying all the evening and half the night out in +his observatory. + +Some days he's talked a lot with me--asked me questions just as he +used to, all about what I did in Boston, and Mother, and the people +that came there to see her, and everything. And he spoke of the +violinist again, and, of course, this time I told him all about him, +and that he didn't come any more, nor Mr. Easterbrook, either; and +Father was _so_ interested! Why, it seemed sometimes as if he just +couldn't hear enough about things. Then, all of a sudden, at times, +he'd get right up in the middle of something I was saying and act as +if he was just waiting for me to finish my sentence so he could go. +And he did go, just as soon as I _had_ finished my sentence. And after +that, maybe, he wouldn't hardly speak to me again for a whole day. + +And so that's why I say he's been so queer since that night on the +piazza. But most of the time he's been lovely, perfectly lovely. And +so has Cousin Grace, And I've had a beautiful time. + +But I do wish they _would_ marry--Father and Cousin Grace, I mean. And +I'm not talking now entirely for the sake of the book. It's for their +sakes--especially for Father's sake. I've been thinking what Mother +used to say about him, when she was talking about my being Mary--how +he was lonely, and needed a good, kind woman to make a home for him. +And while I've been thinking of it, I've been watching him; and I +think he does need a good, kind woman to make a home for him. I'd be +_willing_ to have a new mother for his sake! + +Oh, yes, I know he's got Cousin Grace, but he may not have her always. +Maybe she'll be sent for same as Aunt Jane was. _Then_ what's he going +to do, I should like to know? + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +WHICH IS THE REAL LOVE STORY + + +BOSTON. _Four days later_. + +Well, here I am again in Boston. Mother and the rest met me at the +station, and everybody seemed glad to see me, just as they did before. +And I was glad to see them. But I didn't feel anywhere near so +excited, and sort of crazy, as I did last year. I tried to, but I +couldn't. I don't know why. Maybe it was because I'd been Marie all +summer, anyway, so I wasn't so crazy to be Marie now, not needing any +rest from being Mary. Maybe it was 'cause I sort of hated to leave +Father. + +And I did hate to leave him, especially when I found he hated to have +me leave him. And he did. He told me so at the junction. You see, our +train was late, and we had to wait for it; and there was where he told +me. + +He had come all the way down there with me, just as he had before. But +he hadn't acted the same at all. He didn't fidget this time, nor walk +over to look at maps and time-tables, nor flip out his watch every +other minute with such a bored air that everybody knew he was seeing +me off just as a duty. And he didn't ask if I was warmly clad, and had +I left anything, either. He just sat and talked to me, and he asked me +had I been a little happier there with him this year than last; and he +said he hoped I had. + +And I told him, of course, I had; that it had been perfectly beautiful +there, even if there had been such a mix-up of him getting ready for +Marie, and Mother sending Mary. And he laughed and looked queer--sort +of half glad and half sorry; and said he shouldn't worry about that. +Then the train came, and we got on and rode down to the junction. And +there, while we were waiting for the other train, he told me how sorry +he was to have me go. + +He said I would never know how he missed me after I went last year. He +said you never knew how you missed things--and people--till they were +gone. And I wondered if, by the way he said it, he wasn't thinking +of Mother more than he was of me, and of her going long ago. And he +looked so sort of sad and sorry and noble and handsome, sitting there +beside me, that suddenly I 'most wanted to cry. And I told him I _did_ +love him, I loved him dearly, and I had loved to be with him this +summer, and that I'd stay his whole six months with him next year if +he wanted me to. + +He shook his head at that; but he did look happy and pleased, and said +I'd never know how glad he was that I'd said that, and that he should +prize it very highly--the love of his little daughter. He said you +never knew how to prize love, either, till you'd lost it; and he said +he'd learned his lesson, and learned it well. I knew then, of course, +that he was thinking of Mother and the long ago. And I felt so sorry +for him. + +"But I'll stay--I'll stay the whole six months next year!" I cried +again. + +But again he shook his head. + +"No, no, my dear; I thank you, and I'd love to have you; but it is +much better for you that you stay in Boston through the school year, +and I want you to do it. It'll just make the three months I do have +you all the dearer, because of the long nine months that I do not," +he went on very cheerfully and briskly; "and don't look so solemn and +long-faced. You're not to blame--for this wretched situation." + +The train came then, and he put me on board, and he kissed me +again--but I was expecting it this time, of course. Then I whizzed +off, and he was left standing all alone on the platform. And I felt +so sorry for him; and all the way down to Boston I kept thinking of +him--what he said, and how he looked, and how fine and splendid and +any-woman-would-be-proud-of-him he was as he stood on the platform +waving good-bye. + +And so I guess I was still thinking of him and being sorry for +him when I got to Boston. That's why I couldn't be so crazy and +hilariously glad when the folks met me, I suspect. Some way, all of a +sudden, I found myself wishing _he_ could be there, too. + +Of course, I knew that that was bad and wicked and unkind to Mother, +and she'd feel so grieved not to have me satisfied with her. And I +wouldn't have told her of it for the world. So I tried just as hard as +I could to forget him--on account of Mother, so as to be loyal to her. +And I did 'most forget him by the time I'd got home. But it all came +back again a little later when we were unpacking my trunk. + +You see, Mother found the two new white dresses, and the dear little +shoes. I knew then, of course, that she'd have to know all--I mean, +how she hadn't pleased Father, even after all her pains trying to have +me go as Mary. + +"Why, Marie, what in the world is this?" she demanded, holding up one +of the new dresses. + +I could have cried. + +I suppose she saw by my face how awfully I felt 'cause she'd found it. +And, of course, she saw something was the matter; and she thought it +was-- + +Well, the first thing _I_ knew she was looking at me in her very +sternest, sorriest way, and saying: + +"Oh, Marie, how could you? I'm ashamed of you! Couldn't you wear the +Mary dresses one little three months to please your father?" + +I did cry, then. After all I'd been through, to have her accuse _me_ +of getting those dresses! Well, I just couldn't stand it. And I told +her so as well as I could, only I was crying so by now that I could +hardly speak. I told her how it was hard enough to be Mary part of the +time, and Marie part of the time, when I _knew_ what they wanted me to +be. But when she tried to have me Mary while he wanted me Marie, and +he tried to have me Marie while she wanted me Mary--I did not know +what they wanted; and I wished I had never been born unless I could +have been born a plain Susie or Bessie, or Annabelle, and not a Mary +Marie that was all mixed up till I didn't know what I was. + +And then I cried some more. + +Mother dropped the dress then, and took me in her arms over on the +couch, and she said, "There, there," and that I was tired and nervous, +and all wrought up, and to cry all I wanted to. And by and by, when I +was calmer I could tell Mother all about it. + +And I did. + +I told her how hard I tried to be Mary all the way up to Andersonville +and after I got there; and how then I found out, all of a sudden one +day, that father had got ready for _Marie_, and he didn't want me to +be Mary, and that was why he had got Cousin Grace and the automobile +and the geraniums in the window, and, oh, everything that made it nice +and comfy and homey. And then is when they bought me the new white +dresses and the little white shoes. And I told Mother, of course, it +was lovely to be Marie, and I liked it, only I knew _she_ would feel +bad to think, after all _her_ pains to make me Mary, Father didn't +want me Mary at all. + +"I don't think you need to worry--about that," stammered Mother. And +when I looked at her, her face was all flushed, and sort of queer, but +not a bit angry. And she went on in the same odd little shaky voice: +"But, tell me, why--why did--your father want you to be Marie and not +Mary?" + +And then I told her how he said he'd remembered what I'd said to him +in the parlor that day--how tired I got being Mary, and how I'd put +on Marie's things just to get a little vacation from her; and he said +he'd never forgotten. And so when it came near time for me to come +again, he determined to fix it so I wouldn't have to be Mary at all. +And so that was why. And I told Mother it was all right, and of course +I liked it; only it _did_ mix me up awfully, not knowing which wanted +me to be Mary now, and which Marie, when they were both telling me +different from what they ever had before. And that it was hard, when +you were trying just the best you knew how. + +And I began to cry again. + +And she said there, there, once more, and patted me on my shoulder, +and told me I needn't worry any more. And that _she_ understood it, +if I didn't. In fact, she was beginning to understand a lot of things +that she'd never understood before. And she said it was very, very +dear of Father to do what he did, and that I needn't worry about her +being displeased at it. That she was pleased, and that she believed he +meant her to be. And she said I needn't think any more whether to be +Mary or Marie; but to be just a good, loving little daughter to both +of them; and that was all she asked, and she was very sure it was all +Father would ask, too. + +I told her then how I thought he _did_ care a little about having +me there, and that I knew he was going to miss me. And I told her +why--what he'd said that morning in the junction--about appreciating +love, and not missing things or people until you didn't have them; and +how he'd learned his lesson, and all that. + +And Mother grew all flushed and rosy again, but she was pleased. I +knew she was. And she said some beautiful things about making other +people happy, instead of looking to ourselves all the time, just as +she had talked once, before I went away. And I felt again that hushed, +stained-window, soft-music, everybody-kneeling kind of a way; and I +was so happy! And it lasted all the rest of that evening till I went +to sleep. + +And for the first time a beautiful idea came to me, when I thought how +Mother was trying to please Father, and he was trying to please her. +Wouldn't it be perfectly lovely and wonderful if Father and Mother +should fall in love with each other all over again, and get married? I +guess _then_ this would be a love story all right, all right! + + * * * * * + +_October._ + +Oh, how I wish that stained-window, everybody-kneeling feeling _would_ +last. But it never does. Just the next morning, when I woke up, it +rained. And I didn't feel pleased a bit. Still I remembered what +had happened the night before, and a real glow came over me at the +beautiful idea I had gone to sleep with. + +I wanted to tell Mother, and ask her if it couldn't be, and wouldn't +she let it be, if Father would. So, without waiting to dress me, I +hurried across the hall to her room and told her all about it--my +idea, and everything. + +But she said, "Nonsense," and, "Hush, hush," when I asked her if she +and Father couldn't fall in love all over again and get married. And +she said not to get silly notions into my head. And she wasn't a bit +flushed and teary, as she had been the night before, and she didn't +talk at all as she had then, either. And it's been that way ever +since. Things have gone along in just the usual humdrum way, and she's +never been the same as she was that night I came. + +Something--a little something--_did_ happen yesterday, though. There's +going to be another big astronomy meeting here in Boston this month, +just as there was when Father found Mother years ago; and Grandfather +brought home word that Father was going to be one of the chief +speakers. And he told Mother he supposed she'd go and hear him. + +I couldn't make out whether he was joking or not. (I never can tell +when Grandfather's joking.) But Aunt Hattie took it right up in +earnest, and said, "Pooh, pooh," she guessed not. She could _see_ +Madge going down to that hall to hear Dr. Anderson speak! + +And then a funny thing happened. I looked at Mother, and I saw her +head come up with a queer little jerk. + +"Well, yes, I am thinking of going," she said, just as calm and cool +as could be. "When does he speak, Father?" + +And when Aunt Hattie pooh-poohed some more, and asked how _could_ she +do such a thing, Mother answered: + +"Because Charles Anderson is the father of my little girl, and I think +she should hear him speak. Therefore, Hattie, I intend to take her." + +And then she asked Grandfather again when Father was going to speak. + +I'm so excited! Only think of seeing my father up on a big platform +with a lot of big men, and hearing him speak! And he'll be the very +smartest and handsomest one there, too. You see if he isn't! + + * * * * * + +_Two weeks and one day later_. + +Oh, I've got a lot to write this time--I mean, a lot has happened. +Still, I don't know as it's going to take so very long to tell it. +Besides, I'm almost too excited to write, anyway. But I'm going to do +the best I can to tell it, just as it happened. + +Father's here--right here in Boston. I don't know when he came. But +the first day of the meeting was day before yesterday, and he was here +then. The paper said he was, and his picture was there, too. There +were a lot of pictures, but his was away ahead of the others. It was +the very best one on the page. (I told you it would be that way.) + +Mother saw it first. That is, I think she did. She had the paper in +her hand, looking at it, when I came into the room; but as soon as she +saw me she laid it right down quick on the table. If she hadn't been +quite so quick about it, and if she hadn't looked quite so queer when +she did it, I wouldn't have thought anything at all. But when I went +over to the table after she had gone, and saw the paper with Father's +picture right on the first page--and the biggest picture there--I knew +then, of course, what she'd been looking at. + +I looked at it then, and I read what it said, too. It was lovely. Why, +I hadn't any idea Father was so big. I was prouder than ever of him. +It told all about the stars and comets he'd discovered, and the books +he'd written on astronomy, and how he was president of the college at +Andersonville, and that he was going to give an address the next day. +And I read it all--every word. And I made up my mind right there and +then that I'd cut out that piece and save it. + +But that night, when I went to the library cupboard to get the paper, +I couldn't do it, after all. Oh, the paper was there, but that page +was gone. There wasn't a bit of it left. Somebody had taken it right +out. I never thought then of Mother. But I believe now that it _was_ +Mother, for-- + +But I mustn't tell you that part now. Stories are just like meals. You +have to eat them--I mean tell them--in regular order, and not put the +ice-cream in where the soup ought to be. So I'm not going to tell yet +why I suspect it was Mother that cut out that page of the paper with +Father's picture in it. + +Well, the next morning was Father's lecture, and I went with Mother. +Of course Grandfather was there, too, but he was with the other +astronomers, I guess. Anyhow, he didn't sit with us. And Aunt Hattie +didn't go at all. So Mother and I were alone. + +We sat back--a long ways back. I wanted to go up front, real far +front--the front seat, if I could get it; and I told Mother so. But +she said, "Mercy, no!" and shuddered, and went back two more rows from +where she was, and got behind a big post. + +I guess she was afraid Father would see us, but that's what _I_ +wanted. I wanted him to see us. I wanted him to be right in the middle +of his lecture and look down and see right there before him his little +girl Mary, and she that had been the wife of his bosom. Now _that_ +would have been what I called thrilling, real thrilling, especially if +he jumped or grew red, or white, or stammered, or stopped short, or +anything to show that he'd seen us--and cared. + +I'd have loved that. + +But we sat back where Mother wanted to, behind the post. And, of +course, Father never saw us at all. + +It was a lovely lecture. Oh, of course, I don't mean to say that I +understood it. I didn't. But his voice was fine, and he looked just +too grand for anything, with the light on his noble brow, and he used +the loveliest big words that I ever heard. And folks clapped, and +looked at each other, and nodded, and once or twice they laughed. And +when he was all through they clapped again, harder than ever. And I +was so proud of him I wanted to stand right up and holler, "He's my +father! He's my father!" just as loud as I could. But, of course, I +didn't. I just clapped like the rest; only I wished my hands were big +like the man's next to me, so I could have made more noise. + +Another man spoke then, a little (not near so good as Father), and +then it was all over, and everybody got up to go; and I saw that a +lot of folks were crowding down the aisle, and I looked and there was +Father right in front of the platform shaking hands with folks. + +I looked at Mother then. Her face was all pinky-white, and her eyes +were shining. I guess she thought I spoke, for all of a sudden she +shook her head and said: + +"No, no, I couldn't, I couldn't! But _you_ may, dear. Run along and +speak to him; but don't stay. Remember, Mother is waiting, and come +right back." + +I knew then that it must have been just my eyes that spoke, for I +_did_ want to go down there and speak to Father. Oh, I did want to go! +And I went then, of course. + +He didn't see me at first. There was a long line of us, and a big fat +man was doing a lot of talking to him so we couldn't move at all, for +a time. Then it came to when I was just three people away from him. +And I was looking straight at him. + +He saw me then. And, oh, how I did love the look that came to his +face; it was so surprised and glad, and said, "Oh! _You_!" in such a +perfectly lovely way that I choked all up and wanted to _cry_. (The +idea!--cry when I was so _glad_ to see him!) + +I guess the two folks ahead of me didn't think they got much +attention, and the next minute he had drawn me out of the line, and we +were both talking at once, and telling each other how glad we were to +see each other. + +But he was looking for Mother--I know he was; for the next minute +after he saw me, he looked right over my head at the woman back of me. +And all the while he was talking with me, his eyes would look at me +and then leap as swift as lightning first here, and then there, all +over the hall. But he didn't see her. I knew he didn't see her, by the +look on his face. And pretty quick I said I'd have to go. And then he +said: + +"Your mother--perhaps she didn't--_did_ she come?" And his face grew +all red and rosy as he asked the question. + +And I said yes, and she was waiting, and that was why I had to go back +right away. + +And he said, "Yes, yes, to be sure," and, "good-bye." But he still +held my hand tight, and his eyes were still roving all over the house. +And I had to tell him again that I really had to go; and I had to pull +real determined at my hand, before I could break away. And I don't +believe I could have gone even then if some other folks hadn't come up +at that minute. + +I went back to Mother then. The hall was almost empty, and she wasn't +anywhere in sight at all; but I found her just outside the door. I +knew then why Father's face showed that he hadn't found her. She +wasn't there to find. I suspect she had looked out for that. + +Her face was still pinky-white, and her eyes were shining; and she +wanted to know everything we had said--everything. So she found out, +of course, that he had asked if she was there. But she didn't say +anything herself, not anything. She didn't say anything, either, at +the luncheon table, when Grandfather was talking with Aunt Hattie +about the lecture, and telling some of the things Father had said. + +Grandfather said it was an admirable address, scholarly and +convincing, or something like that. And he said that he thought Dr. +Anderson had improved greatly in looks and manner. And he looked +straight at Mother when he said that; but still Mother never said a +word. + +In the afternoon I went to walk with one of the girls; and when I came +in I couldn't find Mother. She wasn't anywhere downstairs, nor in her +room, nor mine, nor anywhere else on that floor. Aunt Hattie said no, +she wasn't out, but that she was sure she didn't know where she was. +She must be somewhere in the house. + +I went upstairs then, another flight. There wasn't anywhere else to +go, and Mother must be _somewhere_, of course. And it seemed suddenly +to me as if I'd just _got_ to find her. I _wanted_ her so. + +And I found her. + +In the little back room where Aunt Hattie keeps her trunks and +moth-ball bags, Mother was on the floor in the corner crying. And when +I exclaimed out and ran over to her, I found she was sitting beside +an old trunk that was open; and across her lap was a perfectly lovely +pale-blue satin dress all trimmed with silver lace that had grown +black. And Mother was crying and crying as if her heart would break. + +Of course, I tried and tried to stop her, and I begged her to tell me +what was the matter. But I couldn't do a thing, not a thing, not for +a long time. Then I happened to say what a lovely dress, only what a +pity it was that the lace was all black. + +She gave a little choking cry then, and began to talk--little short +sentences all choked up with sobs, so that I could hardly tell what +she was talking about. Then, little by little, I began to understand. + +She said yes, it was all black--tarnished; and that it was just like +everything that she had had anything to do with--tarnished: her +life and her marriage, and Father's life, and mine--everything was +tarnished, just like that silver lace on that dress. And she had done +it by her thoughtless selfishness and lack of self-discipline. + +And when I tried and tried to tell her no, it wasn't, and that I +didn't feel tarnished a bit, and that she wasn't, nor Father either, +she only cried all the more, and shook her head and began again, all +choked up. + +She said this little dress was the one she wore at the big reception +where she first met Father. It was a beautiful blue then, all shining +and spotless, and the silver lace glistened like frost in the +sunlight. And she was so proud and happy when Father--and he was fine +and splendid and handsome then, too, she said--singled her out, and +just couldn't seem to stay away from her a minute all the evening. And +then four days later he asked her to marry him; and she was still more +proud and happy. + +And she said their married life, when they started out, was just like +that beautiful dress, all shining and spotless and perfect; but that +it wasn't two months before a little bit of tarnish appeared, and then +another and another. + +She said she was selfish and willful and exacting, and wanted Father +all to herself; and she didn't stop to think that he had his work to +do, and his place to make in the world; and that all of living, to +him, wasn't just in being married to her, and attending to her every +whim. She said she could see it all now, but that she couldn't then, +she was too young, and undisciplined, and she'd never been denied a +thing in the world she wanted. As she said that, right before my eyes +rose that box of chocolates she made me eat one at a time; but, of +course, I didn't say anything! Besides, Mother hurried right on +talking. + +She said things went on worse and worse--and it was all her fault. She +grew sour and cross and disagreeable. She could see now that she did. +But she did not realize at all then what she was doing. She was just +thinking of herself--always herself; her rights, her wrongs, her hurt +feelings, her wants and wishes. She never once thought that _he_ had +rights and wrongs and hurt feelings, maybe. + +And so the tarnish kept growing more and more. She said there was +nothing like selfishness to tarnish the beautiful fabric of married +life. (Isn't that a lovely sentence? I said that over and over to +myself so as to be sure and remember it, so I could get it into this +story. I thought it was beautiful.) + +She said a lot more--oh, ever so much more; but I can't remember it +all. (I lost some while I was saying that sentence over and over, so +as to remember it.) I know that she went on to say that by and by the +tarnish began to dim the brightness of my life, too; and that was the +worst of all, she said--that innocent children should suffer, and +their young lives be spotted by the kind of living I'd had to have, +with this wretched makeshift of a divided home. She began to cry again +then, and begged me to forgive her, and I cried and tried to tell her +I didn't mind it; but, of course, I'm older now, and I know I do mind +it, though I'm trying just as hard as I can not to be Mary when I +ought to be Marie, or Marie when I ought to be Mary. Only I get all +mixed up so, lately, and I said so, and I guess I cried some more. + +Mother jumped up then, and said, "Tut, tut," what was she thinking of +to talk like this when it couldn't do a bit of good, but only made +matters worse. And she said that only went to prove how she was still +keeping on tarnishing my happiness and bringing tears to my bright +eyes, when certainly nothing of the whole wretched business was my +fault. + +She thrust the dress back into the trunk then, and shut the lid. Then +she took me downstairs and bathed my eyes and face with cold water, +and hers, too. And _she_ began to talk and laugh and tell stories, and +be gayer and jollier than I'd seen her for ever so long. And she was +that way at dinner, too, until Grandfather happened to mention the +reception to-morrow night, and ask if she was going. + +She flushed up red then, oh, so red! and said, "Certainly not." Then +she added quick, with a funny little drawing-in of her breath, that +she should let Marie go, though, with her Aunt Hattie. + +There was an awful fuss then. Aunt Hattie raised her eyebrows and +threw up her hands, and said: + +"That child--in the evening! Why, Madge, are you crazy?" + +And Mother said no, she wasn't crazy at all; but it was the only +chance Father would have to see me, and she didn't feel that she had +any right to deprive him of that privilege, and she didn't think it +would do me any harm to be out this once late in the evening. And she +intended to let me go. + +Aunt Hattie still didn't approve, and she said more, quite a lot more; +but Grandfather spoke up and took my part, and said that, in his +opinion, Madge was right, quite right, and that it was no more than +fair that the man should have a chance to talk with his own child for +a little while, and that he would be very glad to take me himself and +look after me, if Aunt Hattie did not care to take the trouble. + +Aunt Hattie bridled up at that, and said that that wasn't the case at +all; that she'd be very glad to look after me; and if Mother had quite +made up her mind that she wanted me to go, they'd call the matter +settled. + +And Mother said she had, and so it was settled. And I'm going. I'm to +wear my new white dress with the pink rosebud trimming, and I'm so +excited I can hardly wait till to-morrow night. But--oh, if only +Mother would go, too! + + * * * * * + +_Two days later_. + +Well, _now_ I guess something's doing all right! And my hand is +shaking so I can hardly write--it wants to get ahead so fast and +_tell_. But I'm going to keep it sternly back and tell it just as it +happened, and not begin at the ice-cream instead of the soup. + +Very well, then. I went last night with Grandfather and Aunt Hattie +to the reception; and Mother said I looked very sweet, and +any-father-ought-to-be-proud-of me in my new dress. Grandfather patted +me, put on his glasses, and said, "Well, well, bless my soul! Is this +our little Mary Marie?" And even Aunt Hattie said if I acted as well +as I looked I'd do very well. Then Mother kissed me and ran upstairs +_quick_. But I saw the tears in her eyes, and I knew why she hurried +so. + +At the reception I saw Father right away, but he didn't see me for a +long time. He stood in a corner, and lots of folks came up and spoke +to him and shook hands; and he bowed and smiled--but in between, when +there wasn't anybody noticing, he looked so tired and bored. After a +time he stirred and changed his position, and I think he was hunting +for a chance to get away, when all of a sudden his eyes, roving around +the room, lighted on me. + +My! but just didn't I love the way he came through that crowd, +straight toward me, without paying one bit of attention to the folks +that tried to stop him on the way. And when he got to me, he looked so +glad to see me, only there was the same quick searching with his eyes, +beyond and around me, as if he was looking for somebody else, just as +he had done the morning of the lecture. And I knew it was Mother, of +course. So I said: + +"No, she didn't come." + +"So I see," he answered. And there was such a hurt, sorry look away +back in his eyes. But right away he smiled, and said: "But _you_ came! +I've got _you_." + +Then he began to talk and tell stories, just as if I was a young lady +to be entertained. And he took me over to where they had things to +eat, and just heaped my plate with chicken patties and sandwiches and +olives and pink-and-white frosted cakes and ice-cream (not all at +once, of course, but in order). And I had a perfectly beautiful time. +And Father seemed to like it pretty well. But after a while he grew +sober again, and his eyes began to rove all around the room. + +He took me to a little seat in the corner then, and we sat down and +began to talk--only Father didn't talk much. He just listened to what +I said, and his eyes grew deeper and darker and sadder, and they +didn't rove around so much, after a time, but just stared fixedly at +nothing, away out across the room. By and by he stirred and drew a +long sigh, and said, almost under his breath: + +"It was just such another night as this." + +And of course, I asked what was--and then I knew, almost before he had +told me. + +"That I first saw your mother, my dear." + +"Oh, yes, I know!" I cried, eager to tell him that I _did_ know. "And +she must have looked lovely in that perfectly beautiful blue silk +dress all silver lace." + +He turned and stared at me. + +"How did _you_ know that?" he demanded. + +"I saw it." + +"You saw it!" + +"Yesterday, yes--the dress," I nodded. + +"But how _could_ you?" he asked, frowning, and looking so surprised. +"Why, that dress must be--seventeen years old, or more." + +I nodded again, and I suppose I did look pleased: it's such fun to +have a secret, you know, and watch folks guess and wonder. And I kept +him guessing and wondering for quite a while. Then, of course, I told +him that it was upstairs in Grandfather's trunk-room; that Mother had +got it out, and I saw it. + +"But, what--was your mother doing with that dress?" he asked then, +looking even more puzzled and mystified. + +And then suddenly I thought and remembered that Mother was crying. +And, of course, she wouldn't want Father to know she was crying over +it--that dress she had worn when he first met her long ago! (I don't +think women ever want men to know such things, do you? I know I +shouldn't!) So I didn't tell. I just kind of tossed it off, and +mumbled something about her looking it over; and I was going to say +something else, but I saw that Father wasn't listening. He had begun +to talk again, softly, as if to himself. + +"I suppose to-night, seeing you, and all this, brought it back to me +so vividly." Then he turned and looked at me. "You are very like your +mother to-night, dear." + +"I suppose I am, maybe, when I'm Marie," I nodded. + +He laughed with his lips, but his eyes didn't laugh one bit as he +said: + +"What a quaint little fancy of yours that is, child--as if you were +two in one." + +"But I am two in one," I declared. "That's why I'm a cross-current and +a contradiction, you know," I explained. + +I thought he'd understand. But he didn't. I supposed, of course, he +knew what a cross-current and a contradiction was. But he turned again +and stared at me. + +"A--_what_?" he demanded. + +"A cross-current and a contradiction," I explained once more. +"Children of unlikes, you know. Nurse Sarah told me that long ago. +Didn't you ever hear that--that a child of unlikes was a cross-current +and a contradiction?" + +"Well, no--I--hadn't," answered Father, in a queer, half-smothered +voice. He half started from his seat. I think he was going to walk up +and down, same as he usually does. But in a minute he saw he couldn't, +of course, with all those people around there. So he sat back again in +his chair. For a minute he just frowned and stared at nothing; then he +spoke again, as if half to himself. + +"I suppose, Mary, we were--unlikes, your mother and I. That's just +what we were; though I never thought of it before, in just that way." + +He waited, then went on, still half to himself, his eyes on the +dancers: + +"She loved things like this--music, laughter, gayety. I abhorred them. +I remember how bored I was that night here--till I saw her." + +"And did you fall in love with her right away?" I just couldn't help +asking that question. Oh, I do so adore love stories! + +A queer little smile came to Father's lips. + +"Well, yes, I think I did, Mary. There'd been dozens and dozens of +young ladies that had flitted by in their airy frocks--and I never +looked twice at them. I never looked twice at your mother, for that +matter, Mary." (A funny little twinkle came into Father's eyes. I +_love_ him with that twinkle!) "I just looked at her once--and then +kept on looking till it seemed as if I just couldn't take my eyes off +her. And after a little her glance met mine--and the whole throng +melted away, and there wasn't another soul in the room but just us +two. Then she looked away, and the throng came back. But I still +looked at her." + +"Was she so awfully pretty, Father?" I could feel the little thrills +tingling all over me. _Now_ I was getting a love story! + +"She was, my dear. She was very lovely. But it wasn't just that--it +was a joyous something that I could not describe. It was as if she +were a bird, poised for flight. I know it now for what it was--the +very incarnation of the spirit of youth. And she _was_ young. Why, +Mary, she was not so many years older than you yourself, now." + +I nodded, and I guess I sighed. + +"I know--where the brook and river meet," I said; "only they won't let +_me_ have any lovers at all." + +"Eh? What?" Father had turned and was looking at me so funny. "Well, +no, I should say not," he said then. "You aren't sixteen yet. And your +mother--I suspect _she_ was too young. If she hadn't been quite so +young--" + +He stopped, and stared again straight ahead at the dancers--without +seeing one of them, I knew. Then he drew a great deep sigh that seemed +to come from the very bottom of his boots. + +"But it was my fault, my fault, every bit of it," he muttered, still +staring straight ahead. "If I hadn't been so thoughtless--As if I +could imprison that bright spirit of youth in a great dull cage of +conventionality, and not expect it to bruise its wings by fluttering +against the bars!" + +I thought that was perfectly beautiful--that sentence. I said it right +over to myself two or three times so I wouldn't forget how to write it +down here. So I didn't quite hear the next things that Father said. +But when I did notice, I found he was still talking--and it was about +Mother, and him, and their marriage, and their first days at the old +house. I knew it was that, even if he did mix it all up about the +spirit of youth beating its wings against the bars. And over and over +again he kept repeating that it was his fault, it was his fault; and +if he could only live it over again he'd do differently. + +And right there and then it came to me that Mother said it was her +fault, too; and that if only she could live it over again, _she'd_ do +differently. And here was Father saying the same thing. And all of a +sudden I thought, well, why can't they try it over again, if they both +want to, and if each says it, was their--no, his, no, hers--well, his +and her fault. (How does the thing go? I hate grammar!) But I mean, if +she says it's her fault, and he says it's his. That's what I thought, +anyway. And I determined right then and there to give them the chance +to try again, if speaking would do it. + +I looked up at Father. He was still talking half under his breath, his +eyes looking straight ahead. He had forgotten all about me. That was +plain to be seen. If I'd been a cup of coffee without any coffee in +it, he'd have been stirring me. I know he would. He was like that. + +"Father. _Father!_" I had to speak twice, before he heard me. "Do you +really mean that you would like to try again?" I asked. + +"Eh? What?" And just the way he turned and looked at me showed how +many _miles_ he'd been away from me. + +"Try it again, you know--what you said," I reminded him. + +"Oh, that!" Such a funny look came to his face, half ashamed, half +vexed. "I'm afraid I _have_ been--talking, my dear." + +"Yes, but would you?" I persisted. + +He shook his head; then, with such an oh-that-it-could-be! smile, he +said: + +"Of course;--we all wish that we could go back and do it over +again--differently. But we never can." + +"I know; like the cloth that's been cut up into the dress," I nodded. + +"Cloth? Dress?" frowned Father. + +"Yes, that Mother told me about," I explained. Then I told him the +story that Mother had told me--how you couldn't go back and be +unmarried, just as you were before, any more than you could put the +cloth back on the shelf, all neatly folded in a great long web after +it had been cut up into a dress. + +"Did your mother say--that?" asked Father. His voice was husky, and +his eyes were turned away, but they were not looking at the dancers. +He was listening to me now. I knew that, and so I spoke quick, before +he could get absent-minded again. + +"Yes, but, Father, you can go back, in this case, and so can Mother, +'cause you both want to," I hurried on, almost choking in my anxiety +to get it all out quickly. "And Mother said it was _her_ fault. I +heard her." + +"_Her_ fault!" I could see that Father did not quite understand, even +yet. + +"Yes, yes, just as you said it was yours--about all those things at +the first, you know, when--when she was a spirit of youth beating +against the bars." + +Father turned square around and faced me. + +"Mary, what are you talking about?" he asked then. And I'd have been +scared of his voice if it hadn't been for the great light that was +shining in his eyes. + +But I looked into his eyes, and wasn't scared; and I told him +everything, every single thing--all about how Mother had cried over +the little blue dress that day in the trunk-room, and how she had +shown the tarnished lace and said that _she_ had tarnished the +happiness of him and of herself and of me; and that it was all her +fault; that she was thoughtless and willful and exacting and a spoiled +child; and, oh, if she could only try it over again, how differently +she would do! And there was a lot more. I told everything--everything +I could remember. Some way, I didn't believe that Mother would mind +_now_, after what Father had said. And I just knew she wouldn't mind +if she could see the look in Father's eyes as I talked. + +He didn't interrupt me--not long interruptions. He did speak out a +quick little word now and then, at some of the parts; and once I know +I saw him wipe a tear from his eyes. After that he put up his hand and +sat with his eyes covered all the rest of the time I was talking. And +he didn't take it down till I said: + +"And so, Father, that's why I told you; 'cause it seemed to me if +_you_ wanted to try again, and _she_ wanted to try again, why can't +you do it? Oh, Father, think how perfectly lovely 'twould be if you +did, and if it worked! Why, I wouldn't care whether I was Mary or +Marie, or what I was. I'd have you and Mother both together, and, oh, +how I should love it!" + +It was just here that Father's arm came out and slipped around me in a +great big hug. + +"Bless your heart! But, Mary, my dear, how are we going to--to bring +this about?" And he actually stammered and blushed, and he looked +almost young with his eyes so shining and his lips so smiling. And +then is when my second great idea came to me. + +"Oh, Father!" I cried, "couldn't you come courting her again--calls +and flowers and candy, and all the rest? Oh, Father, couldn't you? +Why, Father, of course, you could!" + +This last I added in my most persuasive voice, for I could see the +"no" on his face even before he began to shake his head. + +"I'm afraid not, my dear," he said then. "It would take more than +a flower or a bonbon to to win your mother back now, I fear." + +"But you could try," I urged. + +He shook his head again. + +"She wouldn't see me--if I called, my dear," he answered. + +He sighed as he said it, and I sighed, too. And for a minute I didn't +say anything. Of course, if she wouldn't _see_ him-- + +Then another idea came to me. + +"But, Father, if she _would_ see you--I mean, if you got a chance, you +_would_ tell her what you told me just now; about--about its being +your fault, I mean, and the spirit of youth beating against the bars, +and all that. You would, wouldn't you?" + +He didn't say anything, not anything, for such a long time I thought +he hadn't heard me. Then, with a queer, quick drawing-in of his +breath, he said: + +"I think--little girl--if--if I ever got the chance I would say--a +great deal more than I said to you to-night." + +"Good!" I just crowed the word, and I think I clapped my hands; but +right away I straightened up and was very fine and dignified, for I +saw Aunt Hattie looking at me from across the room, as I said: + +"Very good, then. You shall have the chance." + +He turned and smiled a little, but he shook his head. + +"Thank you, child; but I don't think you know quite what you're +promising," he said. + +"Yes, I do." + +Then I told him my idea. At first he said no, and it couldn't be, and +he was very sure she wouldn't see him, even if he called. But I said +she would if he would do exactly as I said. And I told him my plan. +And after a time and quite a lot of talk, he said he would agree to +it. + +And this morning we did it. + +At exactly ten o'clock he came up the steps of the house here, but he +didn't ring the bell. I had told him not to do that, and I was on the +watch for him. I knew that at ten o'clock Grandfather would be gone, +Aunt Hattie probably downtown shopping, and Lester out with his +governess. I wasn't so sure of Mother, but I knew it was Saturday, and +I believed I could manage somehow to keep her here with me, so that +everything would be all right there. + +And I did. I had a hard time, though. Seems as if she proposed +everything to do this morning--shopping, and a walk, and a call on +a girl I knew who was sick. But I said I did not feel like doing +anything but just to stay at home and rest quietly with her. (Which +was the truth--I _didn't_ feel like doing _anything else_!) But that +almost made matters worse than ever, for she said that was so totally +unlike me that she was afraid I must be sick; and I had all I could do +to keep her from calling a doctor. + +[Illustration: THEN I TOLD HIM MY IDEA] + +But I did it; and at five minutes before ten she was sitting quietly +sewing in her own room. Then I went downstairs to watch for Father. + +He came just on the dot, and I let him in and took him into the +library. Then I went upstairs and told Mother there was some one +downstairs who wanted to see her. + +And she said, how funny, and wasn't there any name, and where was the +maid. But I didn't seem to hear. I had gone into my room in quite a +hurry, as if I had forgotten something I wanted to do there. But, +of course, I didn't do a thing--except to make sure that she went +downstairs to the library. + +They're there now _together_. And he's been here a whole hour already. +Seems as if he ought to say _something_ in that length of time! + +After I was sure Mother was down, I took out this, and began to write +in it. And I've been writing ever since. But, oh, I do so wonder +what's going on down there. I'm so excited over-- + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +At just that minute Mother came into the room. I wish you could have +seen her. My stars, but she looked pretty!--with her shining eyes and +the lovely pink in her cheeks. And _young_! Honestly, I believe she +looked younger than I did that minute. + +She just came and put her arms around me and kissed me; and I saw +then that her eyes were all misty with tears. She didn't say a word, +hardly, only that Father wanted to see me, and I was to go right down. + +And I went. + +I thought, of course, that she was coming too. But she didn't. And +when I got down the stairs I found I was all alone; but I went right +on into the library, and there was Father waiting for me. + +_He_ didn't say much, either, at first; but just like Mother he put +his arms around me and kissed me, and held me there. Then, very soon, +he began to talk; and, oh, he said such beautiful things--_such_ +tender, lovely, sacred things; too sacred even to write down here. +Then he kissed me again and went away. + +But he came back the next day, and he's been here some part of every +day since. And, oh, what a wonderful week it has been! + +They're going to be married. It's to-morrow. They'd have been married +right away at the first, only they had to wait--something about +licenses and a five-day notice, Mother said. Father fussed and fumed, +and wanted to try for a special dispensation, or something; but Mother +laughed, and said certainly not, and that she guessed it was just as +well, for she positively _had_ to have a few things; and he needn't +think he could walk right in like that on a body and expect her to +get married at a moment's notice. But she didn't mean it. I know she +didn't; for when Father reproached her, she laughed softly, and called +him an old goose, and said, yes, of course, she'd have married him +in two minutes if it hadn't been for the five-day notice, no matter +whether she ever had a new dress or not. + +And that's the way it is with them all the time. They're too funny and +lovely together for anything. (Aunt Hattie says they're too silly for +anything; but nobody minds Aunt Hattie.) They just can't seem to do +enough for each other. Father was going next week to a place 'way on +the other side of the world to view an eclipse of the moon, but he +said right off he'd give it up. But Mother said, "No, indeed," she +guessed he _wouldn't_ give it up; that he was going, and that she was +going, too--a wedding trip; and that she was sure she didn't know a +better place to go for a wedding trip than the moon! And Father was +_so_ pleased. And he said he'd try not to pay all his attention to the +stars this time; and Mother laughed and said, "Nonsense," and that she +adored stars herself, and that he _must_ pay attention to the stars. +It was his business to. Then she looked very wise and got off +something she'd read in the astronomy book. And they both laughed, and +looked over to me to see if I was noticing. And I was. And so then we +all laughed. + +And, as I said before, it is all perfectly lovely and wonderful. + +So it's all settled, and they're going right away on this trip and +call it a wedding trip. And, of course, Grandfather had to get off his +joke about how he thought it was a pretty dangerous business; and to +see that _this_ honeymoon didn't go into an eclipse while they were +watching the other one. But nobody minds Grandfather. + +I'm to stay here and finish school. Then, in the spring, when Father +and Mother come back, we are all to go to Andersonville and begin to +live in the old house again. + +Won't it be lovely? It just seems too good to be true. Why, I don't +care a bit now whether I'm Mary or Marie. But, then, nobody else does, +either. In fact, both of them call me the whole name now, Mary Marie. +I don't think they ever _said_ they would. They just began to do it. +That's all. + +Of course, anybody can see why: _now_ each one is calling me the other +one's name along with their own. That is, Mother is calling me Mary +along with her pet Marie, and Father is calling me Marie along with +his pet Mary. + +Funny, isn't it? + +But one thing is sure, anyway. How about this being a love story +_now_? Oh, I'm so excited! + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +WHICH IS THE TEST + + +ANDERSONVILLE. _Twelve years later_. + +_Twelve years_--yes. And I'm twenty-eight years old. Pretty old, +little Mary Marie of the long ago would think. And, well, perhaps +to-day I feel just as old as she would put it. + +I came up into the attic this morning to pack away some things I shall +no longer need, now that I am going to leave Jerry. (Jerry is +my husband.) And in the bottom of my little trunk I found this +manuscript. I had forgotten that such a thing existed; but with its +laboriously written pages before me, it all came back to me; and I +began to read; here a sentence; there a paragraph; somewhere else a +page. Then, with a little half laugh and half sob, I carried it to an +old rocking-chair by the cobwebby dormer window, and settled myself to +read it straight through. + +And I have read it. + +Poor little Mary Marie! Dear little Mary Marie! To meet you like this, +to share with you your joys and sorrows, hopes and despairs, of +those years long ago, is like sitting hand in hand on a sofa with a +childhood's friend, each listening to an eager "And do you remember?" +falling constantly from delighted lips that cannot seem to talk half +fast enough. + +But you have taught me much, little Mary Marie. I understand--oh, I +understand so many things so much better, now, since reading this +little story in your round childish hand. You see, I had almost +forgotten that I was a Mary and a Marie--Jerry calls me Mollie--and I +had wondered what were those contending forces within me. I know now. +It is the Mary and the Marie trying to settle their old, old quarrel. + +It was almost dark when I had finished the manuscript. The far corners +of the attic were peopled with fantastic shadows, and the spiders in +the window were swaying, lazy and full-stomached, in the midst of the +day's spoils of gruesome wings and legs. I got up slowly, stiffly, +shivering a little. I felt suddenly old and worn and ineffably weary. +It is a long, long journey back to our childhood--sometimes, even +though one may be only twenty-eight. + +I looked down at the last page of the manuscript. It was written on +the top sheet of a still thick pad of paper, and my fingers fairly +tingled suddenly, to go on and cover those unused white sheets--tell +what happened next--tell the rest of the story; not for the sake of +the story--but for my sake. It might help me. It might make things +clearer. It might help to justify myself in my own eyes. Not that I +have any doubts, of course (about leaving Jerry, I mean), but that +when I saw it in black and white I could be even more convinced that I +was doing what was best for him and best for me. + +So I brought the manuscript down to my own room, and this evening I +have commenced to write. I can't finish it to-night, of course. But I +have to-morrow, and still to-morrow. (I have so many to-morrows now! +And what do they all amount to?) And so I'll just keep writing, as I +have time, till I bring it to the end. + +I'm sorry that it must be so sad and sorry an end. But there's no +other way, of course. There can be but one ending, as I can see. I'm +sorry. Mother'll be sorry, too. She doesn't know yet. I hate to tell +her. Nobody knows--not even Jerry himself--yet. They all think I'm +just making a visit to Mother--and I am--till I write that letter to +Jerry. And then-- + +I believe now that I'll wait till I've finished writing this. I'll +feel better then. My mind will be clearer. I'll know more what to say. +Just the effort of writing it down-- + +Of course, if Jerry and I hadn't-- + +But this is no way to begin. Like the little Mary Marie of long ago I +am in danger of starting my dinner with ice-cream instead of soup! +And so I must begin where I left off, of course. And that was at the +wedding. + +I remember that wedding as if it were yesterday. I can see now, with +Mary Marie's manuscript before me, why it made so great an impression +upon me. It was a very quiet wedding, of course--just the members +of the family present. But I shall never forget the fine, sweet +loveliness of Mother's face, nor the splendid strength and tenderness +of Father's. And the way he drew her into his arms and kissed her, +after it was all over--well, I remember distinctly that even Aunt +Hattie choked up and had to turn her back to wipe her eyes. + +They went away at once, first to New York for a day or two, then to +Andersonville, to prepare for the real wedding trip to the other side +of the world. I stayed in Boston at school; and because nothing of +consequence happened all those weeks and months is the reason, I +suspect, why the manuscript got tossed into the bottom of my little +trunk and stayed there. + +In the spring, when Father and Mother returned, and we all went back +to Andersonville, there followed another long period of just happy +girlhood, and I suspect I was too satisfied and happy to think of +writing. After all, I've noticed it's when we're sad or troubled over +something that we have that tingling to cover perfectly good white +paper with "confessions" and "stories of my life." As witness right +now what I'm doing. + +And so it's not surprising, perhaps, that Mary Marie's manuscript +still lay forgotten in the little old trunk after it was taken up to +the attic. Mary Marie was happy. + +And it _was_ happy--that girlhood of mine, after we came back to +Andersonville. I can see now, as I look back at it, that Father and +Mother were doing everything in their power to blot out of my memory +those unhappy years of my childhood. For that matter, they were also +doing everything in their power to blot out of their _own_ memories +those same unhappy years. To me, as I look back at it, it seems +that they must have succeeded wonderfully. They were very happy, I +believe--Father and Mother. + +Oh, it was not always easy--even I could see that. It took a lot of +adjusting--a lot of rubbing off of square corners to keep the daily +life running smoothly. But when two persons are determined that it +shall run smoothly--when each is steadfastly looking to the _other's_ +happiness, not at his own--why, things just can't help smoothing out +then. But it takes them both. One can't do it alone. Now, if Jerry +would only-- + +But it isn't time to speak of Jerry yet. + +I'll go back to my girlhood. + +It was a trying period--it must have been--for Father and Mother, in +spite of their great love for me, and their efforts to create for me +a happiness that would erase the past from my mind. I realize it now. +For, after all, I was just a girl--a young girl, like other girls; +high-strung, nervous, thoughtless, full of my whims and fancies; and, +in addition, with enough of my mother and enough of my father within +me to make me veritably a cross-current and a contradiction, as I had +said that I was in the opening sentence of my childish autobiography. + +I had just passed my sixteenth birthday when we all came back to live +in Andersonville. For the first few months I suspect that just the +glory and the wonder and joy of living in the old home, with Father +and Mother _happy together_, was enough to fill all my thoughts. Then, +as school began in the fall, I came down to normal living again, and +became a girl--just a growing girl in her teens. + +How patient Mother was, and Father, too! I can see now how gently and +tactfully they helped me over the stones and stumbling-blocks that +strew the pathway of every sixteen-year-old girl who thinks, because +she has turned down her dresses and turned up her hair, that she is +grown up, and can do and think and talk as she pleases. + +I well remember how hurt and grieved and superior I was at Mother's +insistence upon more frequent rubbers and warm coats, and fewer +ice-cream sodas and chocolate bonbons. Why, surely I was old enough +_now_ to take care of myself! Wasn't I ever to be allowed to have my +own opinions and exercise my own judgment? It seemed not! Thus spoke +superior sixteen. + +As for clothes!--I remember distinctly the dreary November rainstorm +of the morning I reproachfully accused Mother of wanting to make me +back into a stupid little Mary, just because she so uncompromisingly +disapproved of the beaded chains and bangles and jeweled combs and +spangled party dresses that "every girl in school" was wearing. Why, +the idea! Did she want me to dress like a little frump of a country +girl? It seems she did. + +Poor mother! Dear mother! I wonder how she kept her patience at all. +But she kept it. I remember that distinctly, too. + +It was that winter that I went through the morbid period. Like our +childhood's measles and whooping cough, it seems to come to most of +us--us women children. I wonder why? Certainly it came to me. True to +type I cried by the hour over fancied slights from my schoolmates, and +brooded days at a time because Father or Mother "didn't understand," I +questioned everything in the earth beneath and the heavens above; +and in my dark despair over an averted glance from my most intimate +friend, I meditated on whether life was, or was not, worth the living, +with a preponderance toward the latter. + +Being plunged into a state of settled gloom, I then became acutely +anxious as to my soul's salvation, and feverishly pursued every ism +and ology that caught my roving eye's attention, until in one short +month I had become, in despairing rotation, an incipient agnostic, +atheist, pantheist, and monist. Meanwhile I read Ibsen, and wisely +discussed the new school of domestic relationships. + +Mother--dear mother!--looked on aghast. She feared, I think, for my +life; certainly for my sanity and morals. + +It was Father this time who came to the rescue. He pooh-poohed +Mother's fears; said it was indigestion that ailed me, or that I was +growing too fast; or perhaps I didn't get enough sleep, or needed, +maybe, a good tonic. He took me out of school, and made it a point to +accompany me on long walks. He talked with me--not _to_ me--about the +birds and the trees and the sunsets, and then about the deeper things +of life, until, before I realized it, I was sane and sensible once +more, serene and happy in the simple faith of my childhood, with all +the isms and ologies a mere bad dream in the dim past. + +I was seventeen, if I remember rightly, when I became worried, not +over my heavenly estate now, but my earthly one. I must have a career, +of course. No namby-pamby everyday living of dishes and dusting and +meals and babies for me. It was all very well, of course, for some +people. Such things had to be. But for me-- + +I could write, of course; but I was not sure but that I preferred the +stage. At the same time there was within me a deep stirring as of a +call to go out and enlighten the world, especially that portion of it +in darkest Africa or deadliest India. I would be a missionary. + +Before I was eighteen, however, I had abandoned all this. Father put +his foot down hard on the missionary project, and Mother put hers down +on the stage idea. I didn't mind so much, though, as I remember, for +on further study and consideration, I found that flowers and applause +were not all of an actor's life, and that Africa and India were not +entirely desirable as a place of residence for a young woman alone. +Besides, I had decided by then that I could enlighten the world just +as effectually (and much more comfortably) by writing stories at home +and getting them printed. + +So I wrote stories--but I did not get any of them printed, in spite +of my earnest efforts. In time, therefore, that idea, also, was +abandoned; and with it, regretfully, the idea of enlightening the +world at all. + +Besides, I had just then (again if I remember rightfully) fallen in +love. + +Not that it was the first time. Oh, no, not at eighteen, when at +thirteen I had begun confidently and happily to look for it! What a +sentimental little piece I was! How could they have been so patient +with me--Father, Mother, everybody! + +I think the first real attack--the first that I consciously +called love, myself--was the winter after we had all come back to +Andersonville to live. I was sixteen and in the high school. + +It was Paul Mayhew--yes, the same Paul Mayhew that had defied his +mother and sister and walked home with me one night and invited me to +go for an automobile ride, only to be sent sharply about his business +by my stern, inexorable Aunt Jane. Paul was in the senior class now, +and the handsomest, most admired boy in school. He didn't care for +girls. That is, he said he didn't. He bore himself with a supreme +indifference that was maddening, and that took (apparently) no notice +of the fact that every girl in school was a willing slave to the mere +nodding of his head or the beckoning of his hand. + +This was the condition of things when I entered school that fall, +and perhaps for a week thereafter. Then one day, very suddenly, and +without apparent reason, he awoke to the fact of my existence. Candy, +flowers, books--some one of these he brought to me every morning. All +during the school day he was my devoted gallant, dancing attendance +every possible minute outside of session hours, and walking home with +me in the afternoon, proudly carrying my books. Did I say "_home_ with +me"? That is not strictly true--he always stopped just one block short +of "home"--one block short of my gate. He evidently had not forgotten +Aunt Jane, and did not intend to take any foolish risks! So he said +good-bye to me always at a safe distance. + +That this savored of deception, or was in any way objectionable, did +not seem to have occurred to me. Even if it had, I doubt very much if +my course would have been altered, for I was bewitched and fascinated +and thrilled with the excitement of it all. I was sixteen, remember, +and this wonderful Adonis and woman-hater had chosen me, _me!_--and +left all the other girls desolate and sighing, looking after us with +longing eyes. Of course, I was thrilled! + +This went on for perhaps a week. Then he asked me to attend a school +sleigh-ride and supper with him. + +I was wild with delight. At the same time I was wild with +apprehension. I awoke suddenly to the fact of the existence of Father +and Mother, and that their permission must be gained. And I had my +doubts--I had very grave doubts. Yet it seemed to me at that moment +that I just _had_ to go on that sleigh-ride. That it was the only +thing in the whole wide world worth while. + +I can remember now, as if it were yesterday, the way I debated in my +mind as to whether I should ask Father, Mother, or both together; and +if I should let it be seen how greatly I desired to go, and how much +it meant to me; or if I should just mention it as in passing, and take +their permission practically for granted. + +I chose the latter course, and I took a time when they were both +together. At the breakfast-table I mentioned casually that the school +was to have a sleigh-ride and supper the next Friday afternoon and +evening, and that Paul Mayhew had asked me to go with him, I said I +hoped it would be a pleasant night, but that I should wear my sweater +under my coat, anyway, and I'd wear my leggings, too, if they thought +it necessary. + +(Sweater and leggings! Two of Mother's hobbies. Artful child!) + +But if I thought that a sweater and a pair of leggings could muffle +their ears as to what had gone before, I soon found my mistake. + +"A sleigh-ride, supper, and not come home until evening?" cried +Mother. "And with whom, did you say?" + +"Paul Mayhew," I answered. I still tried to speak casually; at the +same time I tried to indicate by voice and manner something of the +great honor that had been bestowed upon their daughter. + +Father was impressed--plainly impressed; but not at all in the way I +had hoped he would be. He gave me a swift, sharp glance; then looked +straight at Mother. + +"Humph! Paul Mayhew! Yes, I know him," he said grimly. "And I'm +dreading the time when he comes into college next year." + +"You mean--" Mother hesitated and stopped. + +"I mean I don't like the company he keeps--already," nodded Father. + +"Then you don't think that Mary Marie--" Mother hesitated again, and +glanced at me. + +"Certainly not," said Father decidedly. + +I knew then, of course, that he meant I couldn't go on the +sleigh-ride, even though he hadn't said the words right out. I forgot +all about being casual and indifferent and matter-of-course then. I +thought only of showing them how absolutely necessary it was for +them to let me go on that sleigh-ride, unless they wanted my life +forever-more hopelessly blighted. + +I explained carefully how he was the handsomest, most popular boy +in school, and how all the girls were just crazy to be asked to go +anywhere with him; and I argued what if Father had seen him with boys +he did not like--then that was all the more reason why nice girls like +me, when he asked them, should go with him, so as to keep him away +from the bad boys! And I told them, that this was the first and last, +and only sleigh-ride of the school that year; and I said I'd be +heart-broken, just heart-broken, if they did not let me go. And I +reminded them again that he was the very handsomest, most popular boy +in school; and that there wasn't a girl I knew who wouldn't be crazy +to be in my shoes. + +Then I stopped, all out of breath, and I can imagine just how pleading +and palpitating I looked. + +I thought Father was going to refuse right away, but I saw the glance +that Mother threw him--the glance that said, "Let me attend to this, +dear." I'd seen that glance before, several times, and I knew just +what it meant; so I wasn't surprised to see Father shrug his shoulders +and turn away as Mother said to me: + +"Very well, dear. Ill think it over and let you know to-night." + +But I was surprised that night to have Mother say I could go, for I'd +about given up hope, after all that talk at the breakfast-table. And +she said something else that surprised me, too. She said she'd like to +know Paul Mayhew herself; that she always wanted to know the friends +of her little girl. And she told me to ask him to call the next +evening and play checkers or chess with me. + +Happy? I could scarcely contain myself for joy. And when the next +evening came bringing Paul, and Mother, all prettily dressed as if +he were really truly company, came into the room and talked so +beautifully to him, I was even more entranced. To be sure, it did +bother me a little that Paul laughed so much, and so loudly, and that +he couldn't seem to find anything to talk about only himself, and what +he was doing, and what he was going to do. Some way, he had never +seemed like that at school. And I was afraid Mother wouldn't like +that. + +All the evening I was watching and listening with her eyes and her +ears everything he did, everything he said. I so wanted Mother to like +him! I so wanted Mother to see how really fine and splendid and noble +he was. But that evening--Why _couldn't_ he stop talking about the +prizes he'd won, and the big racing car he'd just ordered for next +summer? There was nothing fine and splendid and noble about that. And +_were_ his finger nails always so dirty? + +Why, Mother would think-- + +Mother did not stay in the room all the time; but she was in more or +less often to watch the game; and at half-past nine she brought in +some little cakes and lemonade as a surprise. I thought it was lovely; +but I could have shaken Paul when he pretended to be afraid of it, and +asked Mother if there was a stick in it. + +The idea--Mother! A stick! + +I just knew Mother wouldn't like that. But if she didn't, she never +showed a thing in her face. She just smiled, and said no, there wasn't +any stick in it; and passed the cakes. + +When he had gone I remember I didn't like to meet Mother's eyes, and I +didn't ask her how she liked Paul Mayhew. I kept right on talking fast +about something else. Some way, I didn't want Mother to talk then, for +fear of what she would say. + +And Mother didn't say anything about Paul Mayhew--then. But only a few +days later she told me to invite him again to the house (this time to +a chafing-dish supper), and to ask Carrie Heywood and Fred Small, too. + +We had a beautiful time, only again Paul Mayhew didn't "show off" at +all in the way I wanted him to--though he most emphatically "showed +off" in _his_ way! It seemed to me that he bragged even more about +himself and his belongings than he had before. And I didn't like at +all the way he ate his food. Why, Father didn't eat like that--with +such a noisy mouth, and such a rattling of the silverware! + +And so it went--wise mother that she was! Far from prohibiting me to +have anything to do with Paul Mayhew, she let me see all I wanted +to of him, particularly in my own home. She let me go out with him, +properly chaperoned, and she never, by word or manner, hinted that she +didn't admire his conceit and braggadocio. + +And it all came out exactly as I suspect she had planned from the +beginning. When Paul Mayhew asked to be my escort to the class +reception in June, I declined with thanks, and immediately afterwards +told Fred Small I would go with _him_. But even when I told Mother +nonchalantly, and with carefully averted eyes, that I was going to the +reception with Fred Small--even then her pleasant "Well, that's good!" +conveyed only cheery mother interest; nor did a hasty glance into her +face discover so much as a lifted eyebrow to hint, "I thought you'd +come to your senses _sometime_!" + +Wise little mother that she was! + +In the days and weeks that followed (though nothing was said) I +detected a subtle change in certain matters, however. And as I look +back at it now, I am sure I can trace its origin to my "affair" with +Paul Mayhew. Evidently Mother had no intention of running the risk of +any more block-away courtships; also evidently she intended to know +who my friends were. At all events, the old Anderson mansion soon +became the rendezvous of all the boys and girls of my acquaintance. +And such good times as we had, with Mother always one of us, and ever +proposing something new and interesting! + +And because boys--not _a_ boy, but boys--were as free to come to +the house as were girls, they soon seemed to me as commonplace and +matter-of-course and free from sentimental interest as were the girls. + +Again wise little mother! + +But, of course, even this did not prevent my falling in love with some +one older than myself, some one quite outside of my own circle of +intimates. Almost every girl in her teens at some time falls violently +in love with some remote being almost old enough to be her father--a +being whom she endows with all the graces and perfections of her dream +Adonis. For, after all, it isn't that she is in love with _him_, this +man of flesh and blood before her; it is that she is in love with +_love_. A very different matter. + +My especial attack of this kind came to me when I was barely eighteen, +the spring I was being graduated from the Andersonville High School. +And the visible embodiment of my adoration was the head master, Mr. +Harold Hartshorn, a handsome, clean-shaven, well-set-up man of (I +should judge) thirty-five years of age, rather grave, a little stern, +and very dignified. + +But how I adored him! How I hung upon his every word, his every +glance! How I maneuvered to win from him a few minutes' conversation +on a Latin verb or a French translation! How I thrilled if he bestowed +upon me one of his infrequent smiles! How I grieved over his stern +aloofness! + +By the end of a month I had evolved this: his stern aloofness +meant that he had been disappointed in love; his melancholy was +loneliness--his heart was breaking. How I longed to help, to heal, to +cure! How I thrilled at the thought of the love and companionship _I_ +could give him somewhere in a rose-embowered cottage far from the +madding crowd! (He boarded at the Andersonville Hotel alone now.) What +nobler career could I have than the blotting out of his stricken heart +the memory of that faithless woman who had so wounded him and blighted +his youth? What, indeed? If only he could see it as I saw it. If only +by some sign or token he could know of the warm love that was his but +for the asking! Could he not see that no longer need he pine alone and +unappreciated in the Andersonville Hotel? Why, in just a few weeks I +was to be through school. And then-- + +On the night before commencement Mr. Harold Hartshorn ascended our +front steps, rang the bell, and called for my father. I knew because I +was upstairs in my room over the front door; and I saw him come up the +walk and heard him ask for Father. + +Oh, joy! Oh, happy day! He knew. He had seen it as I saw it. He had +come to gain Father's permission, that he might be a duly accredited +suitor for my hand! + +During the next ecstatic ten minutes, with my hand pressed against my +wildly beating heart, I planned my wedding dress, selected with care +and discrimination my trousseau, furnished the rose-embowered cottage +far from the madding crowd--and wondered _why_ Father did not send for +me. Then the slam of the screen door downstairs sent me to the window, +a sickening terror within me, + +Was he _going_--without seeing me, his future bride? Impossible! + +Father and Mr. Harold Hartshorn stood on the front steps below, +talking. In another minute Mr. Harold Hartshorn had walked away, and +Father had turned back on to the piazza. + +As soon as I could control my shaking knees, I went downstairs. + +Father was in his favorite rocking-chair. I advanced slowly. I did not +sit down. + +"Was that Mr. Hartshorn?" I asked, trying to keep the shake out of my +voice. + +"Yes." + +"Mr. H-Hartshorn," I repeated stupidly. + +"Yes. He came to see me about the Downer place," nodded Father. "He +wants to rent it for next year." + +"To rent it--the Downer place!" (The Downer place was no +rose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd! Why, it was big, +and brick, and _right next_ to the hotel! I didn't want to live +there.) + +"Yes--for his wife and family. He's going to bring them back with him +next year," explained Father. + +"His wife and family!" I can imagine about how I gasped out those four +words. + +"Yes. He has five children, I believe, and--" + +But I had fled to my room. + +After all, my recovery was rapid. I was in love with love, you see; +not with Mr. Harold Hartshorn. Besides, the next year I went to +college. And it was while I was at college that I met Jerry. + +Jerry was the brother of my college friend, Helen Weston. Helen's +elder sister was a senior in that same college, and was graduated at +the close of my freshman year. The father, mother, and brother came on +to the graduation. And that is where I met Jerry. + +If it might be called meeting him. He lifted his hat, bowed, said a +polite nothing with his lips, and an indifferent "Oh, some friend of +Helen's," with his eyes, and turned to a radiant blonde senior at my +side. + +And that was all--for him. But for me-- + +All that day I watched him whenever opportunity offered; and I +suspect that I took care that opportunity offered frequently. I was +fascinated. I had never seen any one like him before. Tall, handsome, +brilliant, at perfect ease, he plainly dominated every group of which +he was a part. Toward him every face was turned--yet he never seemed +to know it. (Whatever his faults, Jerry is _not_ conceited. I will +give him credit for that!) To me he did not speak again that day. I am +not sure that he even looked at me. If he did there must still have +been in his eyes only the "Oh, some friend of Helen's," that I had +seen at the morning introduction. + +I did not meet Jerry Weston again for nearly a year; but that did not +mean that I did not hear of him. I wonder if Helen ever noticed how +often I used to get her to talk of her home and her family life; and +how interested I was in her gallery of portraits on the mantel--there +were two fine ones of her brother there. + +Helen was very fond of her brother. I soon found that she loved to +talk about him--if she had a good listener. Needless to say she had a +very good one in me. + +Jerry was an artist, it seemed. He was twenty-eight years old, and +already he had won no small distinction. Prizes, medals, honorable +mention, and a special course abroad--all these Helen told me about. +She told me, too, about the wonderful success he had just had with the +portrait of a certain New York society woman. She said that it was +just going to "make" Jerry; that he could have anything he wanted +now--anything. Then she told me how popular he always was with +everybody. Helen was not only very fond of her brother, but very proud +of him. That was plain to be seen. In her opinion, evidently, there +was none to be compared with him. + +And apparently, in my own mind, I agreed with her--there was none to +be compared with him. At all events, all the other boys that used +to call and bring me candy and send me flowers at about this time +suffered woefully in comparison with him! I remember that. So tame +they were--so crude and young and unpolished! + +I saw Jerry myself during the Easter vacation of my second year in +college. Helen invited me to go home with her, and Mother wrote that I +might go. Helen had been home with me for the Christmas vacation, +and Mother and Father liked her very much. There was no hesitation, +therefore, in their consent that I should visit Helen at Easter-time. +So I went. + +Helen lived in New York. Their home was a Fifth-Avenue mansion with +nine servants, four automobiles, and two chauffeurs. Naturally such +a scale of living was entirely new to me, and correspondingly +fascinating. From the elaborately uniformed footman that opened the +door for me to the awesome French maid who "did" my hair, I adored +them all, and moved as in a dream of enchantment. Then came Jerry home +from a week-end's trip--and I forgot everything else. + +I knew from the minute his eyes looked into mine that whatever I had +been before, I was now certainly no mere "Oh, some friend of Helen's." +I was (so his eyes said) "a deucedly pretty girl, and one well worth +cultivating." Whereupon he began at once to do the "cultivating." + +And just here, perversely enough, I grew indifferent. Or was it only +feigned--not consciously, but unconsciously? Whatever it was, it did +not endure long. Nothing could have endured, under the circumstances. +Nothing ever endures--with Jerry on the other side. + +In less than thirty-six hours I was caught up in the whirlwind of his +wooing, and would not have escaped it if I could. + +When I went back to college he held my promise that if he could gain +the consent of Father and Mother, he might put the engagement ring on +my finger. + +Back at college, alone in my own room, I drew a long breath, and began +to think. It was the first chance I had had, for even Helen now had +become Jerry--by reflection. + +The more I thought, the more frightened, dismayed, and despairing I +became. In the clear light of calm, sane reasoning, it was all so +absurd, so impossible! What could I have been thinking of? + +Of Jerry, of course. + +With hot cheeks I answered my own question. And even the thought of +him then cast the spell of his presence about me, and again I was back +in the whirl of dining and dancing and motoring, with his dear face +at my side. Of Jerry; yes, of Jerry I was thinking. But I must forget +Jerry. + +I pictured Jerry in Andersonville, in my own home. I tried to picture +him talking to Father, to Mother. + +Absurd! What had Jerry to do with learned treatises on stars, or with +the humdrum, everyday life of a stupid small town? For that matter, +what had Father and Mother to do with dancing and motoring and +painting society queens' portraits? Nothing. + +Plainly, even if Jerry, for the sake of the daughter, liked Father and +Mother, Father and Mother certainly would not like Jerry. That was +certain. + +Of course I cried myself to sleep that night. That was to be expected. +Jerry was the world; and the world was lost. There was nothing left +except, perhaps, a few remnants and pieces, scarcely worth the +counting--excepting, of course, Father and Mother. But one could not +always have one's father and mother. There would come a time when-- + +Jerry's letter came the next day--by special delivery. He had gone +straight home from the station and begun to write to me. (How like +Jerry that was--particularly the special-delivery stamp!) The most of +his letter, aside from the usual lover's rhapsodies, had to do with +plans for the summer--what we would do together at the Westons' +summer cottage in Newport. He said he should run up to Andersonville +early--very early; just as soon as I was back from college, in fact, +so that he might meet Father and Mother, and put that ring on my +finger. + +And while I read the letter, I just knew he would do it. Why, I could +even see the sparkle of the ring on my finger. But in five minutes +after the letter was folded and put away, I knew, with equal +certitude--that he wouldn't. + +It was like that all that spring term. While under the spell of the +letters, as I read them, I saw myself the adored wife of Jerry Weston, +and happy ever after. All the rest of the time I knew myself to be +plain Mary Marie Anderson, forever lonely and desolate. + +I had been at home exactly eight hours when a telegram from Jerry +asked permission to come at once. + +As gently as I could I broke the news to Father and Mother. He was +Helen's brother. They must have heard me mention him, I knew him well, +very well, indeed. In fact, the purpose of this visit was to ask them +for the hand of their daughter. + +Father frowned and scolded, and said, "Tut, tut!" and that I was +nothing but a child. But Mother smiled and shook her head, even while +she sighed, and reminded him that I was twenty--two whole years older +than she was when she married him; though in the same breath she +admitted that I _was_ young, and she certainly hoped I'd be willing to +wait before I married, even if the young man was all that they could +ask him to be. + +Father was still a little rebellious, I think; but Mother--bless her +dear sympathetic heart!--soon convinced him that they must at least +consent to see this Gerald Weston. So I sent the wire inviting him to +come. + +More fearfully than ever then I awaited the meeting between my lover +and my father and mother. With the Westons' mansion and manner of +living in the glorified past, and the Anderson homestead, and _its_ +manner of living, very much in the plain, unvarnished present, I +trembled more than ever for the results of that meeting. Not that I +believed Jerry would be snobbish enough to scorn our simplicity, but +that there would be no common meeting-ground of congeniality. + +I need not have worried--but I did not know Jerry then so well as I do +now. + +Jerry came--and he had not been five minutes in the house before it +might easily have seemed that he had always been there. He _did_ know +about stars; at least, he talked with Father about them, and so as +to hold Father's interest, too. And he knew a lot about innumerable +things in which Mother was interested. He stayed four days; and all +the while he was there, I never so much as thought of ceremonious +dress and dinners, and liveried butlers and footmen; nor did it once +occur to me that our simple kitchen Nora, and Old John's son at the +wheel of our one motorcar, were not beautifully and entirely adequate, +so unassumingly and so perfectly did Jerry unmistakably "fit in." +(There are no other words that so exactly express what I mean.) And in +the end, even his charm and his triumph were so unobtrusively complete +that I never thought of being surprised at the prompt capitulation of +both Father and Mother. + +Jerry had brought the ring. (Jerry always brings his "rings"--and +he never fails to "put them on.") And he went back to New York with +Mother's promise that I should visit them in July at their cottage in +Newport. + +They seemed like a dream--those four days--after he had gone; and I +should have been tempted to doubt the whole thing had there not been +the sparkle of the ring on my finger, and the frequent reference to +Jerry on the lips of both Father and Mother. + +They loved Jerry, both of them. Father said he was a fine, manly young +fellow; and Mother said he was a dear boy, a very dear boy. Neither of +them spoke much of his painting. Jerry himself had scarcely mentioned +it to them, as I remembered, after he had gone. + +I went to Newport in July. "The cottage," as I suspected, was twice +as large and twice as pretentious as the New York residence; and it +sported twice the number of servants. Once again I was caught in the +whirl of dinners and dances and motoring, with the addition of tennis +and bathing. And always, at my side, was Jerry, seemingly living only +upon my lightest whim and fancy. He wished to paint my portrait; but +there was no time, especially as my visit, in accordance with Mother's +inexorable decision, was of only one week's duration. + +But what a wonderful week that was! I seemed to be under a kind of +spell. It was as if I were in a new world--a world such as no one had +ever been in before. Oh, I knew, of course, that others had loved--but +not as we loved. I was sure that no one had ever loved as we loved. +And it was so much more wonderful than anything I had ever dreamed +of--this love of ours. Yet all my life since my early teens I had +been thinking and planning and waiting for it--love. And now it had +come--the real thing. The others--all the others had been shams and +make-believes and counterfeits. To think that I ever thought those +silly little episodes with Paul Mayhew and Freddy Small and Mr. Harold +Hartshorn were love! Absurd! But now-- + +And so I walked and moved and breathed in this spell that had been +cast upon me; and thought--little fool that I was!--that never had +there been before, nor could there be again, a love quite so wonderful +as ours. + +At Newport Jerry decided that he wanted to be married right away. He +didn't want to wait two more endless years until I was graduated. The +idea of wasting all that valuable time when we might be together! And +when there was really no reason for it, either--no reason at all! + +I smiled to myself, even as I thrilled at his sweet insistence. I was +pretty sure I knew two reasons--two very good reasons--why I could not +marry before graduation. One reason was Father; the other reason was +Mother. I hinted as much. + +"Ho! Is that all?" He laughed and kissed me. "I'll run down and see +them about it," he said jauntily. + +I smiled again. I had no more idea that anything he could say would-- + +But I didn't know Jerry--_then_. + +I had not been home from Newport a week when Jerry kept his promise +and "ran down." And _he_ had not been there two days before Father and +Mother admitted that, perhaps, after all, it would not be so bad an +idea if I shouldn't graduate, but should be married instead. + +And so I was married. + +(Didn't I tell you that Jerry always brought his rings and put them +on?) + +And again I say, and so we were married. + +But what did we know of each other?--the real other? True, we had +danced together, been swimming together, dined together, played tennis +together. But what did we really know of each other's whims and +prejudices, opinions and personal habits and tastes? I knew, to a +word, what Jerry would say about a sunset; and he knew, I fancy, what +I would say about a dreamy waltz song. But we didn't either of us know +what the other would say to a dinnerless home with the cook gone. We +were leaving a good deal to be learned later on; but we didn't think +of that. Love that is to last must be built upon the realization that +troubles and trials and sorrows are sure to come, and that they must +be borne together--if one back is not to break under the load. We +were entering into a contract, not for a week, but, presumedly, for a +lifetime--and a good deal may come to one in a lifetime--not all of it +pleasant. We had been brought up in two distinctly different social +environments, but we didn't stop to think of that. We liked the same +sunsets, and the same make of car, and the same kind of ice-cream; +and we looked into each other's eyes and _thought_ we knew the +other--whereas we were really only seeing the mirrored reflection of +ourselves. + +And so we were married. + +It was everything that was blissful and delightful, of course, at +first. We were still eating the ice-cream and admiring the sunsets. I +had forgotten that there were things other than sunsets and ice-cream, +I suspect. I was not twenty-one, remember, and my feet fairly ached +to dance. The whole world was a show. Music, lights, laughter--how I +loved them all! + +_Marie_, of course. Well, yes, I suspect Marie _was_ in the ascendancy +about that time. But I never thought of it that way. + +Then came the baby, Eunice, my little girl; and with one touch of her +tiny, clinging fingers, the whole world of sham--the lights and music +and glare and glitter just faded all away into nothingness, where it +belonged. As if anything counted, with _her_ on the other side of the +scales! + +I found out then--oh, I found out lots of things. You see, it wasn't +that way at all with Jerry. The lights and music and the glitter and +the sham didn't fade away a mite, to him, when Eunice came. In fact, +sometimes it seemed to me they just grew stronger, if anything. + +He didn't like it because I couldn't go with him any more--to dances +and things, I mean. He said the nurse could take care of Eunice. As if +I'd leave my baby with any nurse that ever lived, for any old dance! +The idea! But Jerry went. At first he stayed with me; but the baby +cried, and Jerry didn't like that. It made him irritable and nervous, +until I was _glad_ to have him go. (Who wouldn't be, with his eternal +repetition of "Mollie, _can't_ you stop that baby's crying?" As if +that wasn't exactly what I was trying to do, as hard as ever I could!) +But Jerry didn't see it that way. Jerry never did appreciate what a +wonderful, glorious thing just being a father is. + +I think it was at about this time that Jerry took up his painting +again. I guess I have forgotten to mention that all through the first +two years of our marriage, before the baby came, he just tended to me. +He never painted a single picture. But after Eunice came-- + +But, after all, what is the use of going over these last miserable +years like this? Eunice is five now. Her father is the most popular +portrait painter in the country, I am almost tempted to say that he is +the most popular _man_, as well. All the old charm and magnetism are +there. Sometimes I watch him (for, of course, I _do_ go out with him +once in a while), and always I think of that first day I saw him at +college. Brilliant, polished, witty--he still dominates every group of +which he is a member. Men and women alike bow to his charm. (I'm glad +it's not _only_ the women. Jerry isn't a bit of a flirt. I will say +that much for him. At any rate, if he does flirt, he flirts just as +desperately with old Judge Randlett as he does with the newest and +prettiest _debutante_: with serene impartiality he bestows upon each +the same glances, the same wit, the same adorable charm.) Praise, +attention, applause, music, laughter, lights--they are the breath of +life to him. Without them he would--But, there, he never _is_ without +them, so I don't know what he would be. + +After all, I suspect that it's just that Jerry still loves the +ice-cream and the sunsets, and I don't. That's all. To me there's +something more to life than that--something higher, deeper, more +worth while. We haven't a taste in common, a thought in unison, an +aspiration in harmony. I suspect--in fact I _know_--that I get on his +nerves just as raspingly as he does on mine. For that reason I'm sure +he'll be glad--when he gets my letter. + +But, some way, I dread to tell Mother. + + * * * * * + +Well, it's finished. I've been about four days bringing this +autobiography of Mary Marie's to an end. I've enjoyed doing it, in a +way, though I'll have to admit I can't see as it's made things any +clearer. But, then, it was clear before. There isn't any other way. +I've got to write that letter. As I said before, I regret that it must +be so sorry an ending. + +I suppose to-morrow I'll have to tell Mother. I want to tell her, of +course, before I write the letter to Jerry. + +It'll grieve Mother. I know it will. And I'm sorry. Poor Mother! +Already she's had so much unhappiness in her life. But she's happy +now. She and Father are wonderful together--wonderful. Father is still +President of the college. He got out a wonderful book on the "Eclipses +of the Moon" two years ago, and he's publishing another one about the +"Eclipses of the Sun" this year. Mother's correcting proof for him. +Bless her heart. She loves it. She told me so. + +Well, I shall have to tell her to-morrow, of course. + + * * * * * + +_To-morrow_--_which has become to-day._ + +I wonder if Mother _knew_ what I had come into her little sitting-room +this morning to say. It seems as if she must have known. And yet--I +had wondered how I was going to begin, but, before I knew it, I was +right in the middle of it--the subject, I mean. That's why I thought +perhaps that Mother-- + +But I'm getting as bad as little Mary Marie of the long ago. I'll try +now to tell what did happen. + +I was wetting my lips, and swallowing, and wondering how I was going +to begin to tell her that I was planning not to go back to Jerry, when +all of a sudden I found myself saying something about little Eunice. +And then Mother said: + +"Yes, my dear; and that's what comforts me most of anything--because +you _are_ so devoted to Eunice. You see, I have feared sometimes--for +you and Jerry; that you might separate. But I know, on account of +Eunice, that you never will." + +"But, Mother, that's the very reason--I mean, it would be the reason," +I stammered. Then I stopped. My tongue just wouldn't move, my throat +and lips were so dry. + +To think that Mother suspected--_knew already_--about Jerry and me; +and yet to say that _on account_ of Eunice I would not do it. Why, it +was _for_ Eunice, largely, that I was _going_ to do it. To let that +child grow up thinking that dancing and motoring was all of life, +and-- + +But Mother was speaking again. + +"Eunice--yes. You mean that you never would make her go through what +you went through when you were her age." + +"Why, Mother, I--I--" And then I stopped again. And I was so angry and +indignant with myself because I had to stop, when there were so many, +many things that I wanted to say, if only my dry lips could articulate +the words. + +Mother drew her breath in with a little catch. She had grown rather +white. + +"I wonder if you remember--if you ever think of--your childhood," she +said. + +"Why, yes, of--of course--sometimes." It was my turn to stammer. I was +thinking of that diary that I had just read--and added to. + +Mother drew in her breath again, this time with a catch that was +almost a sob. And then she began to talk--at first haltingly, with +half-finished sentences; then hurriedly, with a rush of words that +seemed not able to utter themselves fast enough to keep up with the +thoughts behind them. + +She told of her youth and marriage, and of my coming. She told of her +life with Father, and of the mistakes she made. She told much, of +course, that was in Mary Marie's diary; but she told, too, oh, so much +more, until like a panorama the whole thing lay before me. + +Then she spoke of me, and of my childhood, and her voice began to +quiver. She told of the Mary and the Marie, and of the dual nature +within me. (As if I didn't know about that!) But she told me much that +I did not know, and she made things much clearer to me, until I saw-- + +You can see things so much more clearly when you stand off at a +distance like this, you know, than you can when you are close to them! + +She broke down and cried when she spoke of the divorce, and of the +influence it had upon me, and of the false idea of marriage it gave +me. She said it was the worst kind of thing for me--the sort of life I +had to live. She said I grew pert and precocious and worldly-wise, and +full of servants' talk and ideas. She even spoke of that night at the +little cafe table when I gloried in the sparkle and spangles and told +her that now we were seeing life--real life. And of how shocked she +was, and of how she saw then what this thing was doing to me. But it +was too late. + +She told more, much more, about the later years, and the +reconciliation; then, some way, she brought things around to Jerry and +me. Her face flushed up then, and she didn't meet my eyes. She looked +down at her sewing. She was very busy turning a hem _just so_. + +She said there had been a time, once, when she had worried a little +about Jerry and me, for fear we would--separate. She said that she +believed that, for her, that would have been the very blackest moment +of her life; for it would be her fault, all her fault. + +I tried to break in here, and say, "No, no," and that it wasn't her +fault; but she shook her head and wouldn't listen, and she lifted +her hand, and I had to keep still and let her go on talking. She was +looking straight into my eyes then, and there was such a deep, deep +hurt in them that I just had to listen. + +She said again that it would be her fault; that if I had done that she +would have known that it was all because of the example she herself +had set me of childish willfulness and selfish seeking of personal +happiness at the expense of everything and everybody else. And she +said that that would have been the last straw to break her heart. + +But she declared that she was sure now that she need not worry. Such a +thing would never be. + +I guess I gasped a little at this. Anyhow, I know I tried to break +in and tell her that we _were_ going to separate, and that that was +exactly what I had come into the room in the first place to say. + +But again she kept right on talking, and I was silenced before I had +even begun. + +She said how she knew it could never be--on account of Eunice. That I +would never subject my little girl to the sort of wretchedly divided +life that I had had to live when I was a child. + +(As she spoke I was suddenly back in the cobwebby attic with little +Mary Marie's diary, and I thought--what if it _were_ Eunice--writing +that!) + +She said I was the most devoted mother she had ever known; that I was +_too_ devoted, she feared sometimes, for I made Eunice _all_ my world, +to the exclusion of Jerry and everything and everybody else. But that +she was very sure, because I _was_ so devoted, and loved Eunice so +dearly, that I would never deprive her of a father's love and care. + +I shivered a little, and looked quickly into Mother's face. But she +was not looking at me. I was thinking of how Jerry had kissed and +kissed Eunice a month ago, when we came away, as if he just couldn't +let her go. Jerry _is_ fond of Eunice, now that she's old enough to +know something, and Eunice adores her father. I knew that part was +going to be hard. And now to have Mother put it like that-- + +I began to talk then of Jerry. I just felt that I'd got to say +something. That Mother must listen. That she didn't understand. I told +her how Jerry loved lights and music and dancing, and crowds +bowing down and worshiping him all the time. And she said yes, she +remembered; that _he'd been that way when I married him_. + +She spoke so sort of queerly that again I glanced at her; but she +still was looking down at the hem she was turning. + +I went on then to explain that _I_ didn't like such things; that _I_ +believed that there were deeper and higher things, and things more +worth while. And she said yes, she was glad, and that that was going +to be my saving grace; for, of course, I realized that there couldn't +be anything deeper or higher or more worth while than keeping the home +together, and putting up with annoyances, for the ultimate good of +all, especially of Eunice. + +She went right on then quickly, before I could say anything. She said +that, of course, I understood that I was still Mary and Marie, even +if Jerry did call me Mollie; and that if Marie had married a man that +wasn't always congenial with Mary, she was very sure Mary had enough +stamina and good sense to make the best of it; and she was very sure, +also, that if Mary would only make a little effort to be once in a +while the Marie he had married, things might be a lot easier--for +Mary. + +Of course, I laughed at that. I had to. And Mother laughed, too. But +we understood. We both understood. I had never thought of it before, +but I _had_ been Marie when I married Jerry. _I_ loved lights and +music and dancing and gay crowds just exactly as well as he did. And +it wasn't his fault that I suddenly turned into Mary when the baby +came, and wanted him to stay at home before the fire every evening +with his dressing-gown and slippers. No wonder he was surprised. He +hadn't married Mary--he never knew Mary at all. But, do you know? I'd +never thought of that before--until Mother said what she did. Why, +probably Jerry was just as much disappointed to find his Marie turned +into a Mary as I-- + +But Mother was talking again. + +She said that she thought Jerry was a wonderful man, in some ways; +that she never saw a man with such charm and magnetism, or one who +could so readily adapt himself to different persons and circumstances. +And she said she was very sure if Mary could only show a little more +interest in pictures (especially portraits), and learn to discuss +lights and shadows and perspectives, that nothing would be lost, and +that something might be gained; that there was nothing, anyway, like a +community of interest or of hobbies to bring two people together; and +that it was safer, to say the least, when it was the wife that shared +the community of interest than when it was some other woman, though, +of course, she knew as well as I knew that Jerry never would--She +didn't finish her sentence, and because she didn't finish it, it made +me think all the more. And I wondered if she left it unfinished--on +purpose. + +Then, in a minute, she was talking again. + +She was speaking of Eunice. She said once more that because of her, +she knew that she need never fear any serious trouble between Jerry +and me, for, after all, it's the child that always pays for the +mother's mistakes and short-sightedness, just as it is the soldier +that pays for his commanding officer's blunders. That's why she felt +that I had had to pay for her mistakes, and why she knew that I'd +never compel my little girl to pay for mine. She said that the mother +lives in the heart of the child long after the mother is gone, and +that was why the mother always had to be--so careful. + +Then, before I knew it, she was talking briskly and brightly about +something entirely different; and two minutes later I found myself +alone outside of her room. And I hadn't told her. + +But I wasn't even thinking of that. I was thinking of Eunice, and of +that round, childish scrawl of a diary upstairs in the attic trunk. +And I was picturing Eunice, in the years to come, writing _her_ diary; +and I thought, what if she should have to-- + +I went upstairs then and read that diary again. And all the while I +was reading I thought of Eunice. And when it was finished I knew that +I'd never tell Mother, that I'd never write to Jerry--not the letter +that I was going to write. I knew that-- + + * * * * * + +They brought Jerry's letter to me at just that point. What a wonderful +letter that man can write--when he wants to! + +He says he's lonesome and homesick, and that the house is like a tomb +without Eunice and me, and when _am_ I coming home? + + * * * * * + +I wrote him to-night that I was going--to-morrow. + + + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mary Marie, by Eleanor H. Porter + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11143 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f5fce67 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #11143 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11143) diff --git a/old/11143.txt b/old/11143.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..636558f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11143.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8021 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mary Marie, by Eleanor H. Porter + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mary Marie + +Author: Eleanor H. Porter + +Release Date: February 18, 2004 [EBook #11143] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY MARIE *** + + + + +Produced by Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team. + + + + + +MARY MARIE + +BY + +ELEANOR H. PORTER + +_With Illustrations by Helen Mason Grose_ + +1920 + + +TO MY FRIEND + +ELIZABETH S. BOWEN + + + + +CONTENTS + +PREFACE, WHICH EXPLAINS THINGS + +I. I AM BORN + +II. NURSE SARAH'S STORY + +III. THE BREAK IS MADE + +IV. WHEN I AM MARIE + +V. WHEN I AM MARY + +VI. WHEN I AM BOTH TOGETHER + +VII. WHEN I AM NEITHER ONE + +VIII. WHICH IS THE REAL LOVE STORY + +IX. WHICH IS THE TEST + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +"IF I CONSULTED NO ONE'S WISHES BUT MY OWN, I +SHOULD KEEP HER HERE ALWAYS" + +"I TOLD HER NOT TO WORRY A BIT ABOUT ME" + +"WHY MUST YOU WAIT, DARLING?" + +THEN I TOLD HIM MY IDEA. + +From drawings by HELEN MASON GROSE + + + + +MARY MARIE + + + + + +PREFACE + +WHICH EXPLAINS THINGS + + +Father calls me Mary. Mother calls me Marie. Everybody else calls me +Mary Marie. The rest of my name is Anderson. + +I'm thirteen years old, and I'm a cross-current and a contradiction. +That is, Sarah says I'm that. (Sarah is my old nurse.) She says she +read it once--that the children of unlikes were always a cross-current +and a contradiction. And my father and mother are unlikes, and I'm the +children. That is, I'm the child. I'm all there is. And now I'm going +to be a bigger cross-current and contradiction than ever, for I'm +going to live half the time with Mother and the other half with +Father. Mother will go to Boston to live, and Father will stay here--a +divorce, you know. + +I'm terribly excited over it. None of the other girls have got a +divorce in their families, and I always did like to be different. +Besides, it ought to be awfully interesting, more so than just living +along, common, with your father and mother in the same house all the +time--especially if it's been anything like my house with my father +and mother in it! + +That's why I've decided to make a book of it--that is, it really will +be a book, only I shall have to call it a diary, on account of Father, +you know. Won't it be funny when I don't have to do things on account +of Father? And I won't, of course, the six months I'm living with +Mother in Boston. But, oh, my!--the six months I'm living here with +him--whew! But, then, I can stand it. I may even like it--some. +Anyhow, it'll be _different_. And that's something. + +Well, about making this into a book. As I started to say, he wouldn't +let me. I know he wouldn't. He says novels are a silly waste of time, +if not absolutely wicked. But, a diary--oh, he loves diaries! He keeps +one himself, and he told me it would be an excellent and instructive +discipline for me to do it, too--set down the weather and what I did +every day. + +The weather and what I did every day, indeed! Lovely reading that +would make, wouldn't it? Like this: + +"The sun shines this morning. I got up, ate my breakfast, went to +school, came home, ate my dinner, played one hour over to Carrie +Heywood's, practiced on the piano one hour, studied another hour. +Talked with Mother upstairs in her room about the sunset and the snow +on the trees. Ate my supper. Was talked _to_ by Father down in the +library about improving myself and taking care not to be light-minded +and frivolous. (He meant like Mother, only he didn't say it right out +loud. You don't have to say some things right out in plain words, you +know.) Then I went to bed." + + * * * * * + +Just as if I was going to write my novel like that! Not much I am. But +I shall call it a diary. Oh, yes, I shall call it a diary--till I take +it to be printed. Then I shall give it its true name--a novel. And +I'm going to tell the printer that I've left it for him to make the +spelling right, and put in all those tiresome little commas and +periods and question marks that everybody seems to make such a fuss +about. If I write the story part, I can't be expected to be bothered +with looking up how words are spelt, every five minutes, nor fussing +over putting in a whole lot of foolish little dots and dashes. + +As if anybody who was reading the story cared for that part! The +story's the thing. + +I love stories. I've written lots of them for the girls, too--little +short ones, I mean; not a long one like this is going to be, of +course. And it'll be so exciting to be living a story instead of +reading it--only when you're _living_ a story you can't peek over to +the back to see how it's all coming out. I shan't like that part. +Still, it may be all the more exciting, after all, _not_ to know +what's coming. + +I like love stories the best. Father's got--oh, lots of books in the +library, and I've read stacks of them, even some of the stupid old +histories and biographies. I had to read them when there wasn't +anything else to read. But there weren't many love stories. Mother's +got a few, though--lovely ones--and some books of poetry, on the +little shelf in her room. But I read all those ages ago. + +That's why I'm so thrilled over this new one--the one I'm living, I +mean. For of course this will be a love story. There'll be _my_ love +story in two or three years, when I grow up, and while I'm waiting +there's Father's and Mother's. + +Nurse Sarah says that when you're divorced you're free, just like you +were before you were married, and that sometimes they marry again. +That made me think right away: what if Father or Mother, or both +of them, married again? And I should be there to see it, and the +courting, and all! Wouldn't that be some love story? Well, I just +guess! + +And only think how all the girls would envy me--and they just living +along their humdrum, everyday existence with fathers and mothers +already married and living together, and nothing exciting to look +forward to. For really, you know, when you come right down to it, +there _aren't_ many girls that have got the chance I've got. + +And so that's why I've decided to write it into a book. Oh, yes, I +know I'm young--only thirteen. But I _feel_ really awfully old; and +you know a woman is as old as she feels. Besides, Nurse Sarah says I +am old for my age, and that it's no wonder, the kind of a life I've +lived. + +And maybe that is so. For of course it _has_ been different, living +with a father and mother that are getting ready to be divorced from +what it would have been living with the loving, happy-ever-after kind. +Nurse Sarah says it's a shame and a pity, and that it's the children +that always suffer. But I'm not suffering--not a mite. I'm just +enjoying it. It's so exciting. + +Of course if I was going to lose either one, it would be different. +But I'm not, for I am to live with Mother six months, then with +Father. + +So I still have them both. And, really, when you come right down to +it, I'd _rather_ take them separate that way. Why, separate they're +just perfectly all right, like that--that--what-do-you-call-it +powder?--sedlitzer, or something like that. Anyhow, it's that white +powder that you mix in two glasses, and that looks just like water +till you put them together. And then, oh, my! such a fuss and fizz and +splutter! Well, it's that way with Father and Mother. It'll be lots +easier to take them separate, I know. For now I can be Mary six +months, then Marie six months, and not try to be them both all at +once, with maybe only five minutes between them. + +And I think I shall love both Father and Mother better separate, too. +Of course I love Mother, and I know I'd just adore Father if he'd let +me--he's so tall and fine and splendid, when he's out among folks. +All the girls are simply crazy over him. And I am, too. Only, at +home--well, it's so hard to be Mary always. And you see, he named me +Mary-- + +But I mustn't tell that here. That's part of the story, and this +is only the Preface. I'm going to begin it to-morrow--the real +story--Chapter One. + +But, there--I mustn't call it a "chapter" out loud. Diaries don't have +chapters, and this is a diary. I mustn't forget that it's a diary. +But I can write it down as a chapter, for it's _going to be_ a novel, +after it's got done being a diary. + + + + +CHAPTER I + +I AM BORN + + +The sun was slowly setting in the west, casting golden beams of light +into the somber old room. + +That's the way it ought to begin, I know, and I'd like to do it, but +I can't. I'm beginning with my being born, of course, and Nurse Sarah +says the sun wasn't shining at all. It was night and the stars were +out. She remembers particularly about the stars, for Father was in the +observatory, and couldn't be disturbed. (We never disturb Father when +he's there, you know.) And so he didn't even know he had a daughter +until the next morning when he came out to breakfast. And he was late +to that, for he stopped to write down something he had found out about +one of the consternations in the night. + +He's always finding out _something_ about those old stars just when we +want him to pay attention to something else. And, oh, I forgot to say +that I know it is "constellation," and not "consternation." But I used +to call them that when I was a little girl, and Mother said it was a +good name for them, anyway, for they were a consternation to _her_ all +right. Oh, she said right off afterward that she didn't mean that, +and that I must forget she said it. Mother's always saying that about +things she says. + +Well, as I was saying, Father didn't know until after breakfast that +he had a little daughter. (We never tell him disturbing, exciting +things just _before_ meals.) And then Nurse told him. + +I asked what he said, and Nurse laughed and gave her funny little +shrug to her shoulders. + +"Yes, what did he say, indeed?" she retorted. "He frowned, looked kind +of dazed, then muttered: 'Well, well, upon my soul! Yes, to be sure!'" + +Then he came in to see me. + +I don't know, of course, what he thought of me, but I guess he didn't +think much of me, from what Nurse said. Of course I was very, very +small, and I never yet saw a little bit of a baby that was pretty, or +looked as if it was much account. So maybe you couldn't really blame +him. + +Nurse said he looked at me, muttered, "Well, well, upon my soul!" +again, and seemed really quite interested till they started to put me +in his arms. Then he threw up both hands, backed off, and cried, "Oh, +no, no!" He turned to Mother and hoped she was feeling pretty well, +then he got out of the room just as quick as he could. And Nurse said +that was the end of it, so far as paying any more attention to me was +concerned for quite a while. + +He was much more interested in his new star than he was in his new +daughter. We were both born the same night, you see, and that star was +lots more consequence than I was. But, then, that's Father all over. +And that's one of the things, I think, that bothers Mother. I heard +her say once to Father that she didn't see why, when there were so +many, many stars, a paltry one or two more need to be made such a fuss +about. And _I_ don't, either. + +But Father just groaned, and shook his head, and threw up his hands, +and looked _so_ tired. And that's all he said. That's all he says lots +of times. But it's enough. It's enough to make you feel so small +and mean and insignificant as if you were just a little green worm +crawling on the ground. Did you ever feel like a green worm crawling +on the ground? It's not a pleasant feeling at all. + +Well, now, about the name. Of course they had to begin to talk about +naming me pretty soon; and Nurse said they did talk a lot. But they +couldn't settle it. Nurse said that that was about the first thing +that showed how teetotally utterly they were going to disagree about +things. + +Mother wanted to call me Viola, after her mother, and Father wanted to +call me Abigail Jane after his mother; and they wouldn't either one +give in to the other. Mother was sick and nervous, and cried a lot +those days, and she used to sob out that if they thought they were +going to name her darling little baby that awful Abigail Jane, they +were very much mistaken; that she would never give her consent to +it--never. Then Father would say in his cold, stern way: "Very +well, then, you needn't. But neither shall I give my consent to +my daughter's being named that absurd Viola. The child is a human +being--not a fiddle in an orchestra!" + +And that's the way it went, Nurse said, until everybody was just about +crazy. Then somebody suggested "Mary." And Father said, very well, +they might call me Mary; and Mother said certainly, she would consent +to Mary, only she should pronounce it Marie. And so it was settled. +Father called me Mary, and Mother called me Marie. And right away +everybody else began to call me Mary Marie. And that's the way it's +been ever since. + +Of course, when you stop to think of it, it's sort of queer and funny, +though naturally I didn't think of it, growing up with it as I did, +and always having it, until suddenly one day it occurred to me that +none of the other girls had two names, one for their father, and one +for their mother to call them by. I began to notice other things then, +too. Their fathers and mothers didn't live in rooms at opposite ends +of the house. Their fathers and mothers seemed to like each other, and +to talk together, and to have little jokes and laughs together, and +twinkle with their eyes. That is, most of them did. + +And if one wanted to go to walk, or to a party, or to play some game, +the other didn't always look tired and bored, and say, "Oh, very well, +if you like." And then both not do it, whatever it was. That is, I +never saw the other girls' fathers and mothers do that way; and I've +seen quite a lot of them, too, for I've been at the other girls' +houses a lot for a long time. You see, I don't stay at home much, only +when I have to. We don't have a round table with a red cloth and a +lamp on it, and children 'round it playing games and doing things, and +fathers and mothers reading and mending. And it's lots jollier where +they do have them. + +Nurse says my father and mother ought never to have been married. +That's what I heard her tell our Bridget one day. So the first chance +I got I asked her why, and what she meant. + +"Oh, la! Did you hear that?" she demanded, with the quick look over +her shoulder that she always gives when she's talking about Father and +Mother. "Well, little pitchers do have big ears, sure enough!" + +"Little pitchers," indeed! As if I didn't know what that meant! I'm no +child to be kept in the dark concerning things I ought to know. And I +told her so, sweetly and pleasantly, but with firmness and dignity. I +made her tell me what she meant, and I made her tell me a lot of other +things about them, too. You see, I'd just decided to write the book, +so I wanted to know everything she could tell me. I didn't tell her +about the book, of course. I know too much to tell secrets to Nurse +Sarah! But I showed my excitement and interest plainly; and when she +saw how glad I was to hear everything she could tell, she talked a +lot, and really seemed to enjoy it, too. + +You see, she was here when Mother first came as a bride, so she knows +everything. She was Father's nurse when he was a little boy; then she +stayed to take care of Father's mother, Grandma Anderson, who was an +invalid for a great many years and who didn't die till just after +I was born. Then she took care of me. So she's always been in the +family, ever since she was a young girl. She's awfully old now--'most +sixty. + +First I found out how they happened to marry--Father and Mother, I'm +talking about now--only Nurse says she can't see yet how they did +happen to marry, just the same, they're so teetotally different. + +But this is the story. + +Father went to Boston to attend a big meeting of astronomers from all +over the world, and they had banquets and receptions where beautiful +ladies went in their pretty evening dresses, and my mother was one +of them. (Her father was one of the astronomers, Nurse said.) The +meetings lasted four days, and Nurse said she guessed my father saw +a lot of my mother during that time. Anyhow, he was invited to their +home, and he stayed another four days after the meetings were over. +The next thing they knew here at the house, Grandma Anderson had a +telegram that he was going to be married to Miss Madge Desmond, and +would they please send him some things he wanted, and he was going on +a wedding trip and would bring his bride home in about a month. + +It was just as sudden as that. And surprising!--Nurse says a +thunderclap out of a clear blue sky couldn't have astonished them +more. Father was almost thirty years old at that time, and he'd +never cared a thing for girls, nor paid them the least little bit of +attention. So they supposed, of course, that he was a hopeless old +bachelor and wouldn't ever marry. He was bound up in his stars, even +then, and was already beginning to be famous, because of a comet he'd +discovered. He was a professor in our college here, where his father +had been president. His father had just died a few months before, and +Nurse said maybe that was one reason why Father got caught in the +matrimonial net like that. (Those are _her_ words, not mine. The +idea of calling my mother a net! But Nurse never did half appreciate +Mother.) But Father just worshipped his father, and they were always +together--Grandma being sick so much; and so when he died my father +was nearly beside himself, and that's one reason they were so anxious +he should go to that meeting in Boston. They thought it might take his +mind off himself, Nurse said. But they never thought of its putting +his mind on a wife! + +So far as his doing it right up quick like that was concerned, Nurse +said that wasn't so surprising. For all the way up, if Father wanted +anything he insisted on having it, and having it right away then. He +never wanted to wait a minute. So when he found a girl he wanted, he +wanted her right then, without waiting a minute. He'd never happened +to notice a girl he wanted before, you see. But he'd found one now, +all right; and Nurse said there was nothing to do but to make the best +of it, and get ready for her. + +There wasn't anybody to go to the wedding. Grandma Anderson was sick, +so of course she couldn't go, and Grandpa was dead, so of course he +couldn't go, and there weren't any brothers or sisters, only Aunt Jane +in St. Paul, and she was so mad she wouldn't come on. So there was no +chance of seeing the bride till Father brought her home. + +Nurse said they wondered and wondered what kind of a woman it could be +that had captured him. (I told her I wished she _wouldn't_ speak of +my mother as if she was some kind of a hunter out after game; but +she only chuckled and said that's about what it amounted to in some +cases.) The very idea! + +The whole town was excited over the affair, and Nurse Sarah heard a +lot of their talk. Some thought she was an astronomer like him. Some +thought she was very rich, and maybe famous. Everybody declared she +must know a lot, anyway, and be wonderfully wise and intellectual; and +they said she was probably tall and wore glasses, and would be thirty +years old, at least. But nobody guessed anywhere near what she really +was. + +Nurse Sarah said she should never forget the night she came, and how +she looked, and how utterly flabbergasted everybody was to see her--a +little slim eighteen-year-old girl with yellow curly hair and the +merriest laughing eyes they had ever seen. (Don't I know? Don't I +just love Mother's eyes when they sparkle and twinkle when we're off +together sometimes in the woods?) And Nurse said Mother was so excited +the day she came, and went laughing and dancing all over the house, +exclaiming over everything. (I can't imagine that so well. Mother +moves so quietly now, everywhere, and is so tired, 'most all the +time.) But she wasn't tired then, Nurse says--not a mite. + +"But how did Father act?" I demanded. "Wasn't he displeased and +scandalized and shocked, and everything?" + +Nurse shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows--the way she does +when she feels particularly superior. Then she said: + +"Do? What does any old fool--beggin' your pardon an' no offense meant, +Miss Mary Marie--but what does any man do what's got bejuggled with a +pretty face, an' his senses completely took away from him by a chit of +a girl? Well, that's what he did. He acted as if he was bewitched. He +followed her around the house like a dog--when he wasn't leadin' her +to something new; an' he never took his eyes off her face except to +look at us, as much as to say: 'Now ain't she the adorable creature?'" + +"My father did that?" I gasped. And, really, you know, I just couldn't +believe my ears. And you wouldn't, either, if you knew Father. "Why, +_I_ never saw him act like that!" + +"No, I guess you didn't," laughed Nurse Sarah with a shrug. "And +neither did anybody else--for long." + +"But how long did it last?" I asked. + +"Oh, a month, or maybe six weeks," shrugged Nurse Sarah. "Then it came +September and college began, and your father had to go back to his +teaching. Things began to change then." + +"Right then, so you could see them?" I wanted to know. + +Nurse Sarah shrugged her shoulders again. + +"Oh, la! child, what a little question-box you are, an' no mistake," +she sighed. But she didn't look mad--not like the way she does when +I ask why she can take her teeth out and most of her hair off and I +can't; and things like that. (As if I didn't know! What does she take +me for--a child?) She didn't even look displeased--Nurse Sarah _loves_ +to talk. (As if I didn't know that, too!) She just threw that quick +look of hers over her shoulder and settled back contentedly in her +chair. I knew then I should get the whole story. And I did. And I'm +going to tell it here in her own words, just as well as I can remember +it--bad grammar and all. So please remember that I am not making all +those mistakes. It's Nurse Sarah. + +I guess, though, that I'd better put it into a new chapter. This +one is yards long already. How _do_ they tell when to begin and +end chapters? I'm thinking it's going to be some job, writing this +book--diary, I mean. But I shall love it, I know. And this is a _real_ +story--not like those made-up things I've always written for the girls +at school. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +NURSE SARAH'S STORY + + +And this is Nurse Sarah's story. + +As I said, I'm going to tell it straight through as near as I can in +her own words. And I can remember most of it, I think, for I paid very +close attention. + + * * * * * + +"Well, yes, Miss Mary Marie, things did begin to change right there +an' then, an' so you could notice it. _We_ saw it, though maybe your +pa an' ma didn't, at the first. + +"You see, the first month after she came, it was vacation time, an' he +could give her all the time she wanted. An' she wanted it all. An' she +took it. An' he was just as glad to give it as she was to take it. An' +so from mornin' till night they was together, traipsin' all over the +house an' garden, an' trampin' off through the woods an' up on the +mountain every other day with their lunch. + +"You see she was city-bred, an' not used to woods an' flowers growin' +wild; an' she went crazy over them. He showed her the stars, too, +through his telescope; but she hadn't a mite of use for them, an' +let him see it good an' plain. She told him--I heard her with my own +ears--that his eyes, when they laughed, was all the stars she wanted; +an' that she'd had stars all her life for breakfast an' luncheon +an' dinner, anyway, an' all the time between; an' she'd rather have +somethin' else, now--somethin' alive, that she could love an' live +with an' touch an' play with, like she could the flowers an' rocks an' +grass an' trees. + +"Angry? Your pa? Not much he was! He just laughed an' caught her +'round the waist an' kissed her, an' said she herself was the +brightest star of all. Then they ran off hand in hand, like two kids. +An' they _was_ two kids, too. All through those first few weeks your +pa was just a great big baby with a new plaything. Then when college +began he turned all at once into a full-grown man. An' just naturally +your ma didn't know what to make of it. + +"He couldn't explore the attic an' rig up in the old clothes there any +more, nor romp through the garden, nor go lunchin' in the woods, nor +none of the things _she_ wanted him to do. He didn't have time. An' +what made things worse, one of them comet-tails was comin' up in the +sky, an' your pa didn't take no rest for watchin' for it, an' then +studyin' of it when it got here. + +"An' your ma--poor little thing! I couldn't think of anything but a +doll that was thrown in the corner because somebody'd got tired of +her. She _was_ lonesome, an' no mistake. Anybody'd be sorry for her, +to see her mopin' 'round the house, nothin' to do. Oh, she read, an' +sewed with them bright-colored silks an' worsteds; but 'course there +wasn't no real work for her to do. There was good help in the kitchen, +an' I took what care of your grandma was needed; an' she always gave +her orders through me, so I practically run the house, an' there +wasn't anything _there_ for her to do. + +"An' so your ma just had to mope it out alone. Oh, I don't mean your +pa was unkind. He was always nice an' polite, when he was in the +house, an' I'm sure he meant to treat her all right. He said yes, yes, +to be sure, of course she was lonesome, an' he was sorry. 'T was too +bad he was so busy. An' he kissed her an' patted her. But he always +began right away to talk of the comet; an' ten to one he didn't +disappear into the observatory within the next five minutes. Then your +ma would look so grieved an' sorry an' go off an' cry, an' maybe not +come down to dinner, at all. + +"Well, then, one day things got so bad your grandma took a hand. She +was up an' around the house, though she kept mostly to her own rooms. +But of course she saw how things was goin'. Besides, I told her--some. +'T was no more than my duty, as I looked at it. She just worshipped +your pa, an' naturally she'd want things right for him. So one day she +told me to tell her son's wife to come to her in her room. + +"An' I did, an' she came. Poor little thing! I couldn't help bein' +sorry for her. She didn't know a thing of what was wanted of her, an' +she was so glad an' happy to come. You see, she _was_ lonesome, I +suppose. + +"'Me? Want me?--Mother Anderson?' she cried. 'Oh, I'm so glad!' Then +she made it worse by runnin' up the stairs an' bouncin' into the room +like a rubber ball, an' cryin': 'Now, what shall I do, read to you, or +sing to you, or shall we play games? I'd _love_ to do any of them!' +Just like that, she said it. I heard her. Then I went out, of course, +an' left them. But I heard 'most everything that was said, just the +same, for I was right in the next room dustin', and the door wasn't +quite shut. + +"First your grandmother said real polite--she was always polite--but +in a cold little voice that made even me shiver in the other room, +that she did not desire to be read to or sung to, and that she did not +wish to play games. She had called her daughter-in-law in to have a +serious talk with her. Then she told her, still very polite, that she +was noisy an' childish, an' undignified, an' that it was not only +silly, but very wrong for her to expect to have her husband's entire +attention; that he had his own work, an' it was a very important one. +He was going to be president of the college some day, like his +father before him; an' it was her place to help him in every way she +could--help him to be popular an' well-liked by all the college people +an' students; an' he couldn't be that if she insisted all the time on +keepin' him to herself, or lookin' sour an' cross if she couldn't have +him. + +"Of course that ain't all she said; but I remember this part +particular on account of what happened afterward. You see--your +ma--she felt awful bad. She cried a little, an' sighed a lot, an' said +she'd try, she really would try to help her husband in every way she +could; an' she wouldn't ask him another once, not once, to stay with +her. An' she wouldn't look sour an' cross, either. She'd promise she +wouldn't. An' she'd try, she'd try, oh, so hard, to be proper an' +dignified. + +"She got up then an' went out of the room so quiet an' still you +wouldn't know she was movin'. But I heard her up in her room cryin' +half an hour later, when I stopped a minute at her door to see if she +was there. An' she was. + +"But she wasn't cryin' by night. Not much she was! She'd washed her +face an' dressed herself up as pretty as could be, an' she never so +much as looked as if she wanted her husband to stay with her, when +he said right after supper that he guessed he'd go out to the +observatory. An' 't was that way right along after that. I know, +'cause I watched. You see, I knew what she'd _said_ she'd do. Well, +she did it. + +"Then, pretty quick after that, she began to get acquainted in the +town. Folks called, an' there was parties an' receptions where she +met folks, an' they began to come here to the house, 'specially them +students, an' two or three of them young, unmarried professors. An' +she began to go out a lot with them--skatin' an' sleigh-ridin' an' +snowshoein'. + +"Like it? Of course she liked it! Who wouldn't? Why, child, you never +saw such a fuss as they made over your ma in them days. She was all +the rage; an' of course she liked it. What woman wouldn't, that was +gay an' lively an' young, an' had been so lonesome like your ma had? +But some other folks didn't like it. An' your pa was one of them. This +time 't was him that made the trouble. I know, 'cause I heard what he +said one day to her in the library. + +"Yes, I guess I was in the next room that day, too--er--dustin', +probably. Anyway, I heard him tell your ma good an' plain what he +thought of her gallivantin' 'round from mornin' till night with them +young students an' professors, an' havin' them here, too, such a lot, +till the house was fairly overrun with them. He said he was shocked +an' scandalized, an' didn't she have any regard for _his_ honor an' +decency, if she didn't for herself! An', oh, a whole lot more. + +"Cry? No, your ma didn't cry this time. I met her in the hall right +after they got through talkin', an' she was white as a sheet, an' her +eyes was like two blazin' stars. So I know how she must have looked +while she was in the library. An' I must say she give it to him good +an' plain, straight from the shoulder. She told him _she_ was shocked +an' scandalized that he could talk to his wife like that; an' didn't +he have any more regard for _her_ honor and decency than to accuse her +of runnin' after any man living--much less a dozen of them! An' then +she told him a lot of what his mother had said to her, an' she said +she had been merely tryin' to carry out those instructions. She was +tryin' to make her husband and her husband's wife an' her husband's +home popular with the college folks, so she could help him to be +president, if he wanted to be. But he answered back, cold an' chilly, +that he thanked her, of course, but he didn't care for any more of +that kind of assistance; an' if she would give a little more time +to her home an' her housekeepin', as she ought to, he would be +considerably better pleased. An' she said, very well, she would see +that he had no further cause to complain. An' the next minute I met +her in the hall, as I just said, her head high an' her eyes blazin'. + +"An' things did change then, a lot, I'll own. Right away she began to +refuse to go out with the students an' young professors, an' she sent +down word she wasn't to home when they called. And pretty quick, of +course, they stopped comin'. + +"Housekeepin'? Attend to that? Well, y-yes, she did try to at first, +a little; but of course your grandma had always given the +orders--through me, I mean; an' there really wasn't anything your ma +could do. An' I told her so, plain. Her ways were new an' different +an' queer, an' we liked ours better, anyway. So she didn't bother +us much that way very long. Besides, she wasn't feelin' very well, +anyway, an' for the next few months she stayed in her room a lot, an' +we didn't see much of her. Then by an' by _you_ came, an'--well, I +guess that's all--too much, you little chatterbox!" + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE BREAK IS MADE + + +And that's the way Nurse Sarah finished her story, only she shrugged +her shoulders again, and looked back, first one way, then another. As +for her calling me "chatterbox"--she always calls me that when _she's_ +been doing all the talking. + +As near as I can remember, I have told Nurse Sarah's story exactly as +she told it to me, in her own words. But of course I know I didn't +get it right all the time, and I know I've left out quite a lot. But, +anyway, it's told a whole lot more than _I_ could have told why they +got married in the first place, and it brings my story right up to the +point where I was born; and I've already told about naming me, and +what a time they had over that. + +Of course what's happened since, up to now, I don't know _all_ about, +for I was only a child for the first few years. Now I'm almost a young +lady, "standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet." +(I read that last night. I think it's perfectly beautiful. So kind of +sad and sweet. It makes me want to cry every time I think of it.) But +even if I don't know all of what's happened since I was born, I know +a good deal, for I've seen quite a lot, and I've made Nurse tell me a +lot more. + +I know that ever since I can remember I've had to keep as still as a +mouse the minute Father comes into the house; and I know that I never +could imagine the kind of a mother that Nurse tells about, if it +wasn't that sometimes when Father has gone off on a trip, Mother and +I have romped all over the house, and had the most beautiful time. +I know that Father says that Mother is always trying to make me a +"Marie," and nothing else; and that Mother says she knows Father'll +never be happy until he's made me into a stupid little "Mary," with +never an atom of life of my own. And, do you know? it does seem +sometimes, as if Mary and Marie were fighting inside of me, and I +wonder which is going to beat. Funny, isn't it? + +Father is president of the college now, and I don't know how many +stars and comets and things he's discovered since the night the star +and I were born together. But I know he's very famous, and that he's +written up in the papers and magazines, and is in the big fat red +"Who's Who" in the library, and has lots of noted men come to see him. + +Nurse says that Grandma Anderson died very soon after I was born, but +that it didn't make any particular difference in the housekeeping; for +things went right on just as they had done, with her giving the orders +as before; that she'd given them all alone anyway, mostly, the last +year Grandma Anderson lived, and she knew just how Father liked +things. She said Mother tried once or twice to take the reins herself, +and once Nurse let her, just to see what would happen. But things got +in an awful muddle right away, so that even Father noticed it and said +things. After that Mother never tried again, I guess. Anyhow, she's +never tried it since I can remember. She's always stayed most of the +time up in her rooms in the east wing, except during meals, or when +she went out with me, or went to the things she and Father had to go +to together. For they did go to lots of things, Nurse says. + +It seems that for a long time they didn't want folks to know there was +going to be a divorce. So before folks they tried to be just as usual. +But Nurse Sarah said _she_ knew there was going to be one long ago. +The first I ever heard of it was Nurse telling Nora, the girl we had +in the kitchen then; and the minute I got a chance I asked Nurse what +it was--a divorce. + +My, I can remember now how scared she looked, and how she clapped her +hand over my mouth. She wouldn't tell me--not a word. And that's +the first time I ever saw her give that quick little look over each +shoulder. She's done it lots of times since. + +As I said, she wouldn't tell me, so I had to ask some one else. I +wasn't going to let it go by and not find out--not when Nurse Sarah +looked so scared, and when it was something my father and mother were +going to have some day. + +I didn't like to ask Mother. Some way, I had a feeling, from the way +Nurse Sarah looked, that it was something Mother wasn't going to like. +And I thought if maybe she didn't know yet she was going to have it, +that certainly _I_ didn't want to be the one to tell her. So I didn't +ask Mother what a divorce was. + +I didn't even think of asking Father, of course. I never ask Father +questions. Nurse says I did ask him once why he didn't love me like +other papas loved their little girls. But I was very little then, and +I don't remember it at all. But Nurse said Father didn't like it very +well, and maybe I _did_ remember that part, without really knowing it. +Anyhow, I never think of asking Father questions. + +I asked the doctor first. I thought maybe 't was some kind of a +disease, and if he knew it was coming, he could give them some sort +of a medicine to keep it away--like being vaccinated so's not to have +smallpox, you know. And I told him so. + +He gave a funny little laugh, that somehow didn't sound like a laugh +at all. Then he grew very, very sober, and said: + +"I'm sorry, little girl, but I'm afraid I haven't got any medicine +that will prevent--a divorce. If I did have, there'd be no eating or +drinking or sleeping for me, I'm thinking--I'd be so busy answering my +calls." + +"Then it _is_ a disease!" I cried. And I can remember just how +frightened I felt. "But isn't there any doctor anywhere that _can_ +stop it?" + +He shook his head and gave that queer little laugh again. + +"I'm afraid not," he sighed. "As for it's being a disease--there are +people that call it a disease, and there are others who call it a +cure; and there are still others who say it's a remedy worse than the +disease it tries to cure. But, there, you baby! What am I saying? +Come, come, my dear, just forget it. It's nothing you should bother +your little head over now. Wait till you're older." + +Till I'm older, indeed! How I hate to have folks talk to me like that! +And they do--they do it all the time. As if I was a child now, when +I'm almost standing there where the brook and river meet! + +But that was just the kind of talk I got, everywhere, nearly every +time I asked any one what a divorce was. Some laughed, and some +sighed. Some looked real worried 'cause I'd asked it, and one got mad. +(That was the dressmaker. I found out afterward that she'd _had_ a +divorce already, so probably she thought I asked the question on +purpose to plague her.) But nobody would answer me--really answer me +sensibly, so I'd know what it meant; and 'most everybody said, "Run +away, child," or "You shouldn't talk of such things," or, "Wait, my +dear, till you're older"; and all that. + +Oh, how I hate such talk when I really want to know something! How +do they expect us to get our education if they won't answer our +questions? + +I don't know which made me angriest--I mean angrier. (I'm speaking of +two things, so I must, I suppose. I hate grammar!) To have them talk +like that--not answer me, you know--or have them do as Mr. Jones, the +storekeeper, did, and the men there with him. + +It was one day when I was in there buying some white thread for Nurse +Sarah, and it was a little while after I had asked the doctor if a +divorce was a disease. Somebody had said something that made me think +you could buy divorces, and I suddenly determined to ask Mr. Jones if +he had them for sale. (Of course all this sounds very silly to me now, +for I know that a divorce is very simple and very common. It's just +like a marriage certificate, only it _un_marries you instead of +marrying you; but I didn't know it then. And if I'm going to tell this +story I've got to tell it just as it happened, of course.) + +Well, I asked Mr. Jones if you could buy divorces, and if he had them +for sale; and you ought to have heard those men laugh. There were six +of them sitting around the stove behind me. + +"Oh, yes, my little maid" (above all things I abhor to be called a +little maid!) one of them cried. "You can buy them if you've got money +enough; but I don't reckon our friend Jones here has got them for +sale." + +Then they all laughed again, and winked at each other. (That's another +disgusting thing--_winks_ when you ask a perfectly civil question! But +what can you do? Stand it, that's all. There's such a lot of things +we poor women have to stand!) Then they quieted down and looked +very sober--the kind of sober you know is faced with laughs in the +back--and began to tell me what a divorce really was. I can't remember +them all, but I can some of them. Of course I understand now that +these men were trying to be smart, and were talking for each other, +not for me. And I knew it then--a little. We know a lot more things +sometimes than folks think we do. Well, as near as I can remember it +was like this: + +"A divorce is a knife that cuts a knot that hadn't ought to ever been +tied," said one. + +"A divorce is a jump in the dark," said another. + +"No, it ain't. It's a jump from the frying-pan into the fire," piped +up Mr. Jones. + +"A divorce is the comedy of the rich and the tragedy of the poor," +said a little man who wore glasses. + +"Divorce is a nice smushy poultice that may help but won't heal," cut +in a new voice. + +"Divorce is a guidepost marked, 'Hell to Heaven,' but lots of folks +miss the way, just the same, I notice," spoke up somebody with a +chuckle. + +"Divorce is a coward's retreat from the battle of life." Captain +Harris said this. He spoke slow and decided. Captain Harris is old and +rich and not married. He's the hotel's star boarder, and what he says, +goes, 'most always. But it didn't this time. I can remember just how +old Mr. Carlton snapped out the next. + +"Speak from your own experience, Tom Harris, an' I'm thinkin' you +ain't fit ter judge. I tell you divorce is what three fourths of the +husbands an' wives in the world wish was waitin' for 'em at home this +very night. But it ain't there." I knew, of course, he was thinking of +his wife. She's some cross, I guess, and has two warts on her nose. + +There was more, quite a lot more, said. But I've forgotten the rest. +Besides, they weren't talking to me then, anyway. So I picked up my +thread and slipped out of the store, glad to escape. But, as I said +before, I didn't find many like them. + +Of course I know now--what divorce is, I mean. And it's all settled. +They granted us some kind of a decree or degree, and we're going to +Boston next Monday. + +It's been awful, though--this last year. First we had to go to that +horrid place out West, and stay ages and ages. And I hated it. Mother +did, too. I know she did. I went to school, and there were quite a lot +of girls my age, and some boys; but I didn't care much for them. I +couldn't even have the fun of surprising them with the divorce we were +going to have. I found _they_ were going to have one, too--every last +one of them. And when everybody has a thing, you know there's no +particular fun in having it yourself. Besides, they were very unkind +and disagreeable, and bragged a lot about their divorces. They said +mine was tame, and had no sort of snap to it, when they found Mother +didn't have a lover waiting in the next town, or Father hadn't run off +with his stenographer, or nobody had shot anybody, or anything. + +That made me mad, and I let them see it, good and plain. I told them +our divorce was perfectly all right and genteel and respectable; that +Nurse Sarah said it was. Ours was going to be incompatibility, for +one thing, which meant that you got on each other's nerves, and just +naturally didn't care for each other any more. But they only laughed, +and said even more disagreeable things, so that I didn't want to go +to school any longer, and I told Mother so, and the reason, too, of +course. + +But, dear me, I wished right off that I hadn't. I supposed she was +going to be superb and haughty and disdainful, and say things that +would put those girls where they belonged. But, my stars! How could I +know that she was going to burst into such a storm of sobs and clasp +me to her bosom, and get my face all wet and cry out: "Oh, my baby, my +baby--to think I have subjected you to this, my baby, my baby!" + +And I couldn't say a thing to comfort her, or make her stop, even when +I told her over and over again that I wasn't a baby. I was almost a +young lady; and I wasn't being subjected to anything bad. I _liked_ +it--only I didn't like to have those girls brag so, when our divorce +was away ahead of theirs, anyway. + +But she only cried more and more, and held me tighter and tighter, +rocking back and forth in her chair. She took me out of school, +though, and had a lady come to teach me all by myself, so I didn't +have to hear those girls brag any more, anyway. That was better. But +she wasn't any happier herself. I could see that. + +There were lots of other ladies there--beautiful ladies--only she +didn't seem to like them any better than I did the girls. I wondered +if maybe _they_ bragged, too, and I asked her; but she only began to +cry again, and moan, "What have I done, what have I done?"--and I had +to try all over again to comfort her. But I couldn't. + +She got so she just stayed in her room lots and lots. I tried to make +her put on her pretty clothes, and do as the other ladies did, and go +out and walk and sit on the big piazzas, and dance, and eat at the +pretty little tables. She did, some, when we first came, and took +me, and I just loved it. They were such beautiful ladies, with their +bright eyes, and their red cheeks and jolly ways; and their dresses +were so perfectly lovely, all silks and satins and sparkly spangles, +and diamonds and rubies and emeralds, and silk stockings, and little +bits of gold and silver slippers. + +And once I saw two of them smoking. They had the cutest little +cigarettes (Mother said they were) in gold holders, and I knew then +that I was seeing life--real life; not the stupid kind you get back in +a country town like Andersonville. And I said so to Mother; and I was +going to ask her if Boston was like that. But I didn't get the chance. +She jumped up so quick I thought something had hurt her, and cried, +"Good Heavens, Baby!" (How I hate to be called "Baby"!) Then she just +threw some money on to the table to pay the bill and hurried me away. + +It was after that that she began to stay in her room so much, and not +take me anywhere except for walks at the other end of the town where +it was all quiet and stupid, and no music or lights, or anything. And +though I teased and teased to go back to the pretty, jolly places, she +wouldn't ever take me; not once. + +Then by and by, one day, we met a little black-haired woman with white +cheeks and very big sad eyes. There weren't any spangly dresses and +gold slippers about _her_, I can tell you! She was crying on a bench +in the park, and Mother told me to stay back and watch the swans while +she went up and spoke to her. (Why do old folks always make us watch +swans or read books or look into store windows or run and play all +the time? Don't they suppose we understand perfectly well what it +means--that they're going to say something they don't want us to +hear?) Well, Mother and the lady on the bench talked and talked ever +so long, and then Mother called me up, and the lady cried a little +over me, and said, "Now, perhaps, if I'd had a little girl like +that--!" Then she stopped and cried some more. + +We saw this lady real often after that. She was nice and pretty and +sweet, and I liked her; but she was always awfully sad, and I don't +believe it was half so good for Mother to be with her as it would have +been for her to be with those jolly, laughing ladies that were always +having such good times. But I couldn't make Mother see it that way at +all. There are times when it seems as if Mother just _couldn't_ see +things the way I do. Honestly, it seems sometimes almost as if _she_ +was the cross-current and contradiction instead of me. It does. + +Well, as I said before, I didn't like it very well out there, and I +don't believe Mother did, either. But it's all over now, and we're +back home packing up to go to Boston. + +Everything seems awfully queer. Maybe because Father isn't here, +for one thing. He wrote very polite and asked us to come to get our +things, and he said he was going to New York on business for several +days, so Mother need not fear he should annoy her with his presence. +Then, another thing, Mother's queer. This morning she was singing away +at the top of her voice and running all over the house picking up +things she wanted; and seemed so happy. But this afternoon I found her +down on the floor in the library crying as if her heart would break +with her head in Father's big chair before the fireplace. But she +jumped up the minute I came in and said, no, no, she didn't want +anything. She was just tired; that's all. And when I asked her if she +was sorry, after all, that she was going to Boston to live, she said, +no, no, no, indeed, she guessed she wasn't. She was just as glad as +glad could be that she was going, only she wished Monday would hurry +up and come so we could be gone. + +And that's all. It's Saturday now, and we go just day after to-morrow. +Our trunks are 'most packed, and Mother says she wishes she'd planned +to go to-day. I've said good-bye to all the girls, and promised to +write loads of letters about Boston and everything. They are almost as +excited as I am; and I've promised, "cross my heart and hope to die," +that I won't love those Boston girls better than I do them--specially +Carrie Heywood, of course, my dearest friend. + +Nurse Sarah is hovering around everywhere, asking to help, and +pretending she's sorry we're going. But she isn't sorry. She's glad. +I know she is. She never did appreciate Mother, and she thinks she'll +have everything her own way now. But she won't. _I_ could tell her a +thing or two if I wanted to. But I shan't. + +Father's sister, Aunt Jane Anderson, from St. Paul, is coming to keep +house for him, partly on account of Father, and partly on account of +me. "If that child is going to be with her father six months of the +time, she's got to have some woman there beside a meddling old nurse +and a nosey servant girl!" They didn't know I heard that. But I did. +And now Aunt Jane is coming. My! how mad Nurse Sarah would be if she +knew. But she doesn't. + +I guess I'll end this chapter here and begin a fresh one down in +Boston. Oh, I do so wonder what it'll be like--Boston, Mother's home, +Grandpa Desmond, and all the rest. I'm so excited I can hardly wait. +You see, Mother never took me home with her but once, and then I was a +very small child. I don't know why, but I guess Father didn't want me +to go. It's safe to say he didn't, anyway. He never wants me to do +anything, hardly. That's why I suspect him of not wanting me to go +down to Grandpa Desmond's. And Mother didn't go only once, in ages. + +Now this will be the end. And when I begin again it will be in Boston. +Only think of it--really, truly Boston! + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +WHEN I AM MARIE + + +BOSTON. + +Yes, I'm here. I've been here a week. But this is the first minute +I've had a chance to write a word. I've been so busy just being here. +And so has Mother. There's been such a lot going on since we came. But +I'll try now to begin at the beginning and tell what happened. + +Well, first we got into Boston at four o'clock Monday afternoon, and +there was Grandpa Desmond to meet us. He's lovely--tall and dignified, +with grayish hair and merry eyes like Mother's, only his are behind +glasses. At the station he just kissed Mother and me and said he was +glad to see us, and led us to the place where Peter was waiting with +the car. (Peter drives Grandpa's automobile, and _he's_ lovely, too.) + +Mother and Grandpa talked very fast and very lively all the way home, +and Mother laughed quite a lot. But in the hall she cried a little, +and Grandpa patted her shoulder, and said, "There, there!" and told +her how glad he was to get his little girl back, and that they were +going to be very happy now and forget the past. And Mother said, yes, +yes, indeed, she knew she was; and she was _so_ glad to be there, +and that everything _was_ going to be just the same, wasn't it? +Only--then, all of a sudden she looked over at me and began to cry +again--only, of course, things couldn't be "just the same," she +choked, hurrying over to me and putting both arms around me, and +crying harder than ever. + +Then Grandpa came and hugged us both, and patted us, and said, "There, +there!" and pulled off his glasses and wiped them very fast and very +hard. + +But it wasn't only a minute or two before Mother was laughing again, +and saying, "Nonsense!" and "The idea!" and that this was a pretty way +to introduce her little Marie to her new home! Then she hurried me to +the dearest little room I ever saw, right out of hers, and took off my +things. Then we went all over the house. And it's just as lovely as +can be--not at all like Father's in Andersonville. + +Oh, Father's is fine and big and handsome, and all that, of course; +but not like this. His is just a nice place to eat and sleep in, and +go to when it rains. But this--this you just want to live in all the +time. Here there are curtains 'way up and sunshine, and flowers in +pots, and magazines, and cozy nooks with cushions everywhere; and +books that you've just been reading laid down. (_All_ Father's books +are in bookcases, _always_, except while one's in your hands being +read.) + +Grandpa's other daughter, Mother's sister, Hattie, lives here and +keeps house for Grandpa. She has a little boy named Lester, six years +old; and her husband is dead. They were away for what they called a +week-end when we came, but they got here a little after we did Monday +afternoon; and they're lovely, too. + +The house is a straight-up-and-down one with a back and front, but no +sides except the one snug up to you on the right and left. And there +isn't any yard except a little bit of a square brick one at the back +where they have clothes and ash barrels, and a little grass spot in +front at one side of the steps, not big enough for our old cat to +take a nap in, hardly. But it's perfectly lovely inside; and it's +the insides of houses that really count just as it is the insides +of people--their hearts, I mean; whether they're good and kind, or +hateful and disagreeable. + +We have dinner at night here, and I've been to the theater twice +already in the afternoon. I've got to go to school next week, Mother +says, but so far I've just been having a good time. And so's Mother. +Honestly, it has just seemed as if Mother couldn't crowd the days full +enough. She hasn't been still a minute. + +Lots of her old friends have been to see her; and when there hasn't +been anybody else around she's taken Peter and had him drive us all +over Boston to see things;--all kinds of things; Bunker Hill and +museums, and moving pictures, and one play. + +But we didn't stay at the play. It started out all right, but pretty +soon a man and a woman on the stage began to quarrel. They were +married (not really, but in the play, I mean), and I guess it was some +more of that incompatibility stuff. Anyhow, as they began to talk +more and more, Mother began to fidget, and pretty soon I saw she was +gathering up our things; and the minute the curtain went down after +the first act, she says: + +"Come, dear, we're going home. It--it isn't very warm here." + +As if I didn't know what she was really leaving for! Do old folks +honestly think they are fooling us all the time, I wonder? But even if +I hadn't known then, I'd have known it later, for that evening I heard +Mother and Aunt Hattie talking in the library. + +No, I didn't listen. I _heard_. And that's a very different matter. +You listen when you mean to, and that's sneaking. You hear when you +can't help yourself, and that you can't be blamed for. Sometimes it's +your good luck, and sometimes it's your bad luck--just according to +what you hear! + +Well, I was in the window-seat in the library reading when Mother and +Aunt Hattie came in; and Mother was saying: + +"Of course I came out! Do you suppose I'd have had that child see that +play, after I realized what it was? As if she hasn't had enough of +such wretched stuff already in her short life! Oh, Hattie, Hattie, I +want that child to laugh, to sing, to fairly tingle with the joy of +living every minute that she is with me. I know so well what she _has_ +had, and what she will have--in that--tomb. You know in six months she +goes back--" + +Mother saw me then, I know; for she stopped right off short, and after +a moment began to talk of something else, very fast. And pretty quick +they went out into the hall again. + +Dear little Mother! Bless her old heart! Isn't she the ducky dear to +want me to have all the good times possible now so as to make up for +the six months I've got to be with Father? You see, she knows what it +is to live with Father even better than I do. + +Well, I guess she doesn't dread it for me any more than I do for +myself. Still, I'll have the girls there, and I'm dying to see them +again--and I won't have to stay home much, only nights and meals, of +course, and Father's always pretty busy with his stars and comets and +things. Besides, it's only for six months, then I can come back to +Boston. I can keep thinking of that. + +But I know now why I've been having such a perfectly beautiful time +all this week, and why Mother has been filling every minute so full of +fun and good times. Why, even when we're at home here, she's always +hunting up little Lester and getting him to have a romp with us. + +But of course next week I've got to go to school, and it can't be +quite so jolly then. Well, I guess that's all for this time. + + * * * * * + +_About a month later_. + +I didn't make a chapter of that last. It wasn't long enough. And, +really, I don't know as I've got much to add to it now. There's +nothing much happened. + +I go to school now, and don't have so much time for fun. School is +pretty good, and there are two or three girls 'most as nice as the +ones at Andersonville. But not quite. Out of school Mother keeps +things just as lively as ever, and we have beautiful times. Mother is +having a lovely time with her own friends, too. Seems as if there is +always some one here when I get home, and lots of times there are teas +and parties, and people to dinner. + +There are gentlemen, too. I suppose one of them will be Mother's lover +by and by; but of course I don't know which one yet. I'm awfully +interested in them, though. And of course it's perfectly natural that +I should be. Wouldn't _you_ be interested in the man that was going to +be your new father? Well, I just guess you would! Anybody would. Why, +most folks have only one father, you know, and they have to take that +one just as he is; and it's all a matter of chance whether they get +one that's cross or pleasant; or homely or fine and grand-looking; or +the common kind you can hug and kiss and hang round his neck, or the +stand-off-don't-touch-me-I-mustn't-be-disturbed kind like mine. I mean +the one I _did_ have. But, there! that doesn't sound right, either; +for of course he's still my father just the same, only--well, he isn't +Mother's husband any more, so I suppose he's only my father by order +of the court, same as I'm his daughter. + +Well, anyhow, he's the father I've grown up with, and of course I'm +used to him now. And it's an altogether different matter to think of +having a brand-new father thrust upon you, all ready-made, as you +might say, and of course I _am_ interested. There's such a whole lot +depends on the father. Why, only think how different things would have +been at home if _my_ father had been different! There were such a lot +of things I had to be careful not to do--and just as many I had to be +careful _to_ do--on account of Father. + +And so now, when I see all these nice young gentlemen (only they +aren't all young; some of them are quite old) coming to the house and +talking to Mother, and hanging over the back of her chair, and handing +her tea and little cakes, I can't help wondering which, if any, is +going to be her lover and my new father. And I am also wondering what +I'll have to do on account of him when I get him, if I get him. + +There are quite a lot of them, and they're all different. They'd make +very different kinds of fathers, I'm sure, and I'm afraid I wouldn't +like some of them. But, after all, it's Mother that ought to settle +which to have--not me. _She's_ the one to be pleased. 'T would be such +a pity to have to change again. Though she could, of course, same as +she did Father, I suppose. + +As I said, they're all different. There are only two that are anywhere +near alike, and they aren't quite the same, for one's a lawyer and the +other's in a bank. But they both carry canes and wear tall silk hats, +and part their hair in the middle, and look at you through the kind of +big round eyeglasses with dark rims that would make you look awfully +homely if they didn't make you look so stylish. But I don't think +Mother cares very much for either the lawyer or the bank man, and I'm +glad. I wouldn't like to live with those glasses every day, even if +they are stylish. I'd much rather have Father's kind. + +Then there's the man that paints pictures. He's tall and slim, and +wears queer ties and long hair. He's always standing back and looking +at things with his head on one side, and exclaiming "Oh!" and "Ah!" +with a long breath. He says Mother's coloring is wonderful. I heard +him. And I didn't like it very well, either. Why, it sounded as if +she put it on herself out of a box on her bureau, same as some other +ladies do! Still, he's not so bad, maybe; though I'm not sure but what +his paints and pictures would be just as tiresome to live with as +Father's stars, when it came right down to wanting a husband to live +with you and talk to you every day in the year. You know you have to +think of such things when it comes to choosing a new father--I mean +a new husband. (I keep forgetting that it's Mother and not me that's +doing the choosing.) + +Well, to resume and go on. There's the violinist. I mustn't forget +him. But, then, nobody could forget him. He's lovely: so handsome and +distinguished-looking with his perfectly beautiful dark eyes and white +teeth. And he plays--well, I'm simply crazy over his playing. I only +wish Carrie Heywood could hear him. She thinks her brother can play. +He's a traveling violinist with a show; and he came home once to +Andersonville. And I heard him. But he's not the real thing at all. +Not a bit. Why, he might be anybody, our grocer, or the butcher, up +there playing that violin. His eyes are little and blue, and his hair +is red and very short. I wish she could hear _our_ violinist play! + +And there's another man that comes to the parties and teas;--oh, of +course there are others, lots of them, married men with wives, and +unmarried men with and without sisters. But I mean another man +specially. His name is Harlow. He's a little man with a brown pointed +beard and big soft brown eyes. He's really awfully good-looking, too. +I don't know what he does do; but he's married. I know that. He never +brings his wife, though; but Mother's always asking for her, clear and +distinct, and she always smiles, and her voice kind of tinkles like +little silver bells. But just the same he never brings her. + +He never takes her anywhere. I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother so at the +very first, when he came. She said they weren't a bit happy together, +and that there'd probably be a divorce before long. But Mother asked +for her just the same the very next time. And she's done it ever +since. + +I think I know now why she does. I found out, and I was simply +thrilled. It was so exciting! You see, they were lovers once +themselves--Mother and this Mr. Harlow. Then something happened and +they quarreled. That was just before Father came. + +Of course Mother didn't tell me this, nor Aunt Hattie. It was two +ladies. I heard them talking at a tea one day. I was right behind +them, and I couldn't get away, so I just couldn't help hearing what +they said. + +They were looking across the room at Mother. Mr. Harlow was talking to +her. He was leaning forward in his chair and talking so earnestly to +Mother; and he looked just as if he thought there wasn't another soul +in the room but just they two. But Mother--Mother was just listening +to be polite to company. Anybody could see that. And the very first +chance she got she turned and began to talk to a lady who was standing +near. And she never so much as looked toward Mr. Harlow again. + +The ladies in front of me laughed then, and one of them said, with a +little nod of her head, "I guess Madge Desmond Anderson can look out +for herself all right." + +Then they got up and went away without seeing me. And all of a sudden +I felt almost sorry, for I wanted them to see me. I wanted them to see +that I knew my mother could take care of herself, too, and that I was +proud of it. If they had turned I'd have said so. But they didn't +turn. + +I shouldn't like Mr. Harlow for a father. I know I shouldn't. But +then, there's no danger, of course, even if he and Mother were lovers +once. He's got a wife now, and even if he got a divorce, I don't +believe Mother would choose him. + +But of course there's no telling which one she will take. As I said +before, I don't know. It's too soon, anyway, to tell. I suspect it +isn't any more proper to hurry up about getting married again when +you've been _un_married by a divorce than it is when you've been +unmarried by your husband's dying. I asked Peter one day how soon +folks did get married after a divorce, but he didn't seem to know. +Anyway, all he said was to stammer: "Er--yes, Miss--no, Miss. I mean, +I don't know, Miss." + +Peter is awfully funny. But he's nice. I like him, only I can't find +out much by him. He's very good-looking, though he's quite old. He's +almost thirty. He told me. I asked him. He takes me back and forth to +school every day, so I see quite a lot of him. And, really, he's +about the only one I _can_ ask questions of here, anyway. There isn't +anybody like Nurse Sarah used to be. Olga, the cook, talks so funny I +can't understand a word she says, hardly. Besides, the only two times +I've been down to the kitchen Aunt Hattie sent for me; and she told +me the last time not to go any more. She didn't say why. Aunt Hattie +never says _why_ not to do things. She just says, "Don't." Sometimes +it seems to me as if my whole life had been made up of "don'ts." +If they'd only tell us part of the time things to "_do_," maybe we +wouldn't have so much time to do the "_don'ts_." (That sounds funny, +but I guess folks'll know what I mean.) + +Well, what was I saying? Oh, I know--about asking questions. As I +said, there isn't anybody like Nurse Sarah here. I can't understand +Olga, and Theresa, the other maid, is just about as bad. Aunt Hattie's +lovely, but I can't ask questions of her. She isn't the kind. Besides, +Lester's always there, too; and you can't discuss family affairs +before children. Of course there's Mother and Grandpa Desmond. But +questions like when it's proper for Mother to have lovers I can't ask +of _them_, of course. So there's no one but Peter left to ask. Peter's +all right and very nice, but he doesn't seem to know _anything_ that I +want to know. So he doesn't amount to so very much, after all. + +I'm not sure, anyway, that Mother'll want to get married again. From +little things she says I rather guess she doesn't think much of +marriage, anyway. One day I heard her say to Aunt Hattie that it was +a very pretty theory that marriages were made in heaven, but that the +real facts of the case were that they were made on earth. And another +day I heard her say that one trouble with marriage was that the +husband and wife didn't know how to play together and to rest +together. And lots of times I've heard her say little things to Aunt +Hattie that showed how unhappy _her_ marriage had been. + +But last night a funny thing happened. We were all in the library +reading after dinner, and Grandpa looked up from his paper and said +something about a woman that was sentenced to be hanged and how a +whole lot of men were writing letters protesting against having a +woman hanged; but there were only one or two letters from women. And +Grandpa said that only went to prove how much more lacking in a sense +of fitness of things women were than men. And he was just going to say +more when Aunt Hattie bristled up and tossed her chin, and said, real +indignantly: + +"A sense of fitness of things, indeed! Oh, yes, that's all very well +to say. There are plenty of men, no doubt, who are shocked beyond +anything at the idea of hanging a woman; but those same men will think +nothing of going straight home and making life for some other woman so +absolutely miserable that she'd think hanging would be a lucky escape +from something worse." + +"Harriet!" exclaimed Grandpa in a shocked voice. + +"Well, I mean it!" declared Aunt Hattie emphatically. "Look at poor +Madge here, and that wretch of a husband of hers!" + +And just here is where the funny thing happened. Mother bristled +up--_Mother_--and even more than Aunt Hattie had. She turned red and +then white, and her eyes blazed. + +"That will do, Hattie, please, in my presence," she said, very cold, +like ice. "Dr. Anderson is not a wretch at all. He is an honorable, +scholarly gentleman. Without doubt he meant to be kind and +considerate. He simply did not understand me. We weren't suited to +each other. That's all." + +And she got up and swept out of the room. + +Now wasn't that funny? But I just loved it, all the same. I always +love Mother when she's superb and haughty and disdainful. + +Well, after she had gone Aunt Hattie looked at Grandpa and Grandpa +looked at Aunt Hattie. Grandpa shrugged his shoulders, and gave his +hands a funny little flourish; and Aunt Hattie lifted her eyebrows and +said: + +"Well, what do you know about that?" (Aunt Hattie forgot I was in the +room, I know, or she'd never in the world have used slang like that!) +"And after all the things she's said about how unhappy she was!" +finished Aunt Hattie. + +Grandpa didn't say anything, but just gave his funny little shrug +again. + +And it was kind of queer, when you come to think of it--about Mother, +I mean, wasn't it? + + * * * * * + +_One month later_. + +Well, I've been here another whole month, and it's growing nicer all +the time. I just love it here. I love the sunshine everywhere, and the +curtains up to let it in. And the flowers in the rooms, and the little +fern-dish on the dining-room table, the books and magazines just lying +around ready to be picked up; Baby Lester laughing and singing all +over the house, and lovely ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room +having music and tea and little cakes when I come home from school +in the afternoon. And I love it not to have to look up and watch and +listen for fear Father's coming in and I'll be making a noise. And +best of all I love Mother with her dancing eyes and her laugh, and her +just being happy, with no going in and finding her crying or looking +long and fixedly at nothing, and then turning to me with a great big +sigh, and a "Well, dear?" that just makes you want to go and cry +because it's so hurt and heart-broken. Oh, I do just love it all! + +And Mother _is_ happy. I'm sure she is. Somebody is doing something +for her every moment--seems so. They are so glad to get her back +again. I know they are. I heard two ladies talking one day, and they +said they were. They called her "Poor Madge," and "Dear Madge," and +they said it was a shame that she should have had such a wretched +experience, and that they for one should try to do everything they +could to make her forget. + +And that's what they all seem to be trying to do--to make her forget. +There isn't a day goes by but that somebody sends flowers or books +or candy, or invites her somewhere, or takes her to ride or to the +theater, or comes to see her, so that Mother is in just one whirl of +good times from morning till night. Why, she'd just have to forget. +She doesn't have any time to remember. I think she _is_ forgetting, +too. Oh, of course she gets tired, and sometimes rainy days or +twilights I find her on the sofa in her room not reading or anything, +and her face looks 'most as it used to sometimes after they'd been +having one of their incompatibility times. But I don't find her that +way very often, and it doesn't last long. So I really think she is +forgetting. + +About the prospective suitors--I found that "prospective suitor" in a +story a week ago, and I just love it. It means you probably will want +to marry her, you know. I use it all the time now--in my mind--when +I'm thinking about those gentlemen that come here (the unmarried +ones). I forgot and used it out loud one day to Aunt Hattie; but I +shan't again. She said, "Mercy!" and threw up her hands and looked +over to Grandpa the way she does when I've said something she thinks +is perfectly awful. + +But I was firm and dignified--but very polite and pleasant--and I said +that I didn't see why she should act like that, for of course they +were prospective suitors, the unmarried ones, anyway, and even some of +the married ones, maybe, like Mr. Harlow, for of course they could get +divorces, and-- + +"Ma_rie_!" interrupted Aunt Hattie then, before I could say another +word, or go on to explain that of course Mother couldn't be expected +to stay unmarried _always_, though I was very sure she wouldn't +get married again until she'd waited long enough, and until it was +perfectly proper and genteel for her to take unto herself another +husband. + +But Aunt Hattie wouldn't even listen. And she threw up her hands and +said "Ma_rie_!" again with the emphasis on the last part of the name +the way I simply loathe. And she told me never, never to let her +hear me make such a speech as that again. And I said I would be very +careful not to. And you may be sure I shall. I don't want to go +through a scene like that again! + +She told Mother about it, though, I think. Anyhow, they were talking +very busily together when they came into the library after dinner that +night, and Mother looked sort of flushed and plagued, and I heard her +say, "Perhaps the child does read too many novels, Hattie." + +And Aunt Hattie answered, "Of course she does!" Then she said +something else which I didn't catch, only the words "silly" and +"romantic," and "pre-co-shus." (I don't know what that last means, but +I put it down the way it sounded, and I'm going to look it up.) + +Then they turned and saw me, and they didn't say anything more. But +the next morning the perfectly lovely story I was reading, that +Theresa let me take, called "The Hidden Secret," I couldn't find +anywhere. And when I asked Mother if she'd seen it, she said she'd +given it back to Theresa, and that I mustn't ask for it again. That I +wasn't old enough yet to read such stories. + +There it is again! I'm not old enough. When _will_ I be allowed to +take my proper place in life? Echo answers when. + +Well, to resume and go on. + +What was I talking about? Oh, I know--the prospective suitors. (Aunt +Hattie can't hear me when I just _write_ it, anyway.) Well, they all +come just as they used to, only there are more of them now--two fat +men, one slim one, and a man with a halo of hair round a bald spot. +Oh, I don't mean that any of them are really suitors yet. They just +come to call and to tea, and send her flowers and candy. And Mother +isn't a mite nicer to one than she is to any of the others. Anybody +can see that. And she shows very plainly she's no notion of picking +anybody out yet. But of course I can't help being interested and +watching. + +It won't be Mr. Harlow, anyway. I'm pretty sure of that, even if he +has started in to get his divorce. (And he has. I heard Aunt Hattie +tell Mother so last week.) But Mother doesn't like him. I'm sure she +doesn't. He makes her awfully nervous. Oh, she laughs and talks with +him--seems as if she laughs even more with him than she does with +anybody else. But she's always looking around for somebody else to +talk to; and I've seen her get up and move off just as he was coming +across the room toward her, and I'm just sure she saw him. There's +another reason, too, why I think Mother isn't going to choose him for +her lover. I heard something she said to him one day. + +She was sitting before the fire in the library, and he came in. There +were other people there, quite a lot of them; but Mother was all alone +by the fireplace, her eyes looking fixed and dreamy into the fire. I +was in the window-seat around the corner of the chimney reading; and +I could see Mother in the mirror just as plain as could be. She could +have seen me, too, of course, if she'd looked up. But she didn't. + +I never even thought of hearing anything I hadn't ought, and I was +just going to get down to go and speak to Mother myself, when Mr. +Harlow crossed the room and sat down on the sofa beside her. + +"Dreaming, Madge?" he said, low and soft, his soulful eyes just +devouring her lovely face. (I read that, too, in a book last week. I +just loved it!) + +Mother started and flushed up. + +"Oh, Mr. Harlow!" she cried. (Mother always calls him "Mr." That's +another thing. He always calls her "Madge," you know.) "How do you +do?" Then she gave her quick little look around to see if there wasn't +somebody else near for her to talk to. But there wasn't. + +"But you _do_ dream, of the old days, sometimes, Madge, don't you?" he +began again, soft and low, leaning a little nearer. + +"Of when I was a child and played dolls before this very fireplace? +Well, yes, perhaps I do," laughed Mother. And I could see she drew +away a little. "There was one doll with a broken head that--" + +"_I_ was speaking of broken hearts," interrupted Mr. Harlow, very +meaningfully. + +"Broken hearts! Nonsense! As if there were such things in the world!" +cried Mother, with a little toss to her head, looking around again +with a quick little glance for some one else to talk to. + +But still there wasn't anybody there. + +They were all over to the other side of the room talking, and paying +no attention to Mother and Mr. Harlow, only the violinist. He looked +and looked, and acted nervous with his watch-chain. But he didn't come +over. I felt, some way, that I ought to go away and not hear any +more; but I couldn't without showing them that I had been there. So +I thought it was better to stay just where I was. They could see me, +anyway, if they'd just look in the mirror. So I didn't feel that I was +sneaking. And I stayed. + +Then Mr. Harlow spoke again. His eyes grew even more soulful and +devouring. I could see them in the mirror. + +"Madge, it seems so strange that we should both have had to trail +through the tragedy of broken hearts and lives before we came to our +real happiness. For we _shall_ be happy, Madge. You know I'm to be +free, too, soon, dear, and then we--" + +But he didn't finish. Mother put up her hand and stopped him. Her face +wasn't flushed any more. It was very white. + +"Carl," she began in a still, quiet voice, and I was so thrilled. I +knew something was going to happen--this time she'd called him by his +first name. "I'm sorry," she went on. "I've tried to show you. I've +tried very hard to show you--without speaking. But if you make me say +it I shall have to say it. Whether you are free or not matters not to +me. It can make no difference in our relationship. Now, will you come +with me to the other side of the room, or must I be so rude as to go +and leave you?" + +She got up then, and he got up, too. He said something--I couldn't +hear what it was; but it was sad and reproachful--I'm sure of that by +the look in his eyes. Then they both walked across the room to the +others. + +I was sorry for him. I do not want him for a father, but I couldn't +help being sorry for him, he looked so sad and mournful and handsome; +and he's got perfectly beautiful eyes. (Oh, I do hope mine will have +nice eyes, when I find him!) + +As I said before, I don't believe Mother'll choose Mr. Harlow, anyway, +even when the time comes. As for any of the others--I can't tell. She +treats them all just exactly alike, as far as I can see. Polite and +pleasant, but not at all lover-like. I was talking to Peter one day +about it, and I asked him. But he didn't seem to know, either, which +one she will be likely to take, if any. + +Peter's about the only one I can ask. Of course I couldn't ask +Mother, or Aunt Hattie, after what _she_ said about my calling them +prospective suitors. And Grandfather--well, I should never think +of asking Grandpa a question like that. But Peter--Peter's a real +comfort. I'm sure I don't know what I should do for somebody to talk +to and ask questions about things down here, if it wasn't for him. As +I think I've said already, he takes me to school and back again every +day; so of course I see him quite a lot. + +Speaking of school, it's all right, and of course I like it, though +not quite so well as I did. There are some of the girls--well, they +act queer. I don't know what is the matter with them. They stop +talking--some of them--when I come up, and they make me feel, +sometimes, as if I didn't _belong_. Maybe it's because I came from a +little country town like Andersonville. But they've known that all +along, from the very first. And they didn't act at all like that at +the beginning. Maybe it's just their way down here. If I think of it +I'll ask Peter to-morrow. + +Well, I guess that's all I can think of this time. + + * * * * * + +'_Most four months later_. + +It's been ages since I've written here, I know. But there's nothing +special happened. Everything has been going along just about as it did +at the first. Oh, there is one thing different--Peter's gone. He went +two months ago. We've got an awfully old chauffeur now. One with gray +hair and glasses, and homely, too. His name is Charles. The very first +day he came, Aunt Hattie told me never to talk to Charles, or bother +him with questions; that it was better he should keep his mind +entirely on his driving. + +She needn't have worried. I should never dream of asking him the +things I did Peter. He's too stupid. Now Peter and I got to be real +good friends--until all of a sudden Grandpa told him he might go. I +don't know why. + +I don't see as I'm any nearer finding out who Mother's lover will be +than I was four months ago. I suppose it's still too soon. Peter +said one day he thought widows ought to wait at least a year, and he +guessed grass-widows were just the same. My, how mad I was at him for +using that name about my mother! Oh, I knew what he meant. I'd heard +it at school. (I know now what it was that made those girls act so +queer and horrid.) There was a girl--I never liked her, and I suspect +she didn't like me, either. Well, she found out Mother had a divorce. +(You see, _I_ hadn't told it. I remembered how those girls out West +bragged.) And she told a lot of the others. But it didn't work at all +as it had in the West. None of the girls in this school here had a +divorce in their families; and, if you'll believe it, they acted--some +of them--as if it was a _disgrace_, even after I told them good and +plain that ours was a perfectly respectable and genteel divorce. +Nothing I could say made a mite of difference, with some of the +girls, and then is when I first heard that perfectly horrid word, +"grass-widow." So I knew what Peter meant, though I was furious at him +for using it. And I let him see it good and plain. + +Of course I changed schools. I knew Mother'd want me to, when she +knew, and so I told her right away. I thought she'd be superb and +haughty and disdainful sure this time. But she wasn't. First she grew +so white I thought she was going to faint away. Then she began to cry, +and kiss and hug me. And that night I heard her talking to Aunt Hattie +and saying, "To think that that poor innocent child has to suffer, +too!" and some more which I couldn't hear, because her voice was all +choked up and shaky. + +Mother is crying now again quite a lot. You see, her six months are +'most up, and I've got to go back to Father. And I'm afraid Mother is +awfully unhappy about it. She had a letter last week from Aunt Jane, +Father's sister. I heard her read it out loud to Aunt Hattie and +Grandpa in the library. It was very stiff and cold and dignified, and +ran something like this: + + DEAR MADAM: Dr. Anderson desires me to say that he trusts you are + bearing in mind the fact that, according to the decision of the + court, his daughter Mary is to come to him on the first day of + May. If you will kindly inform him as to the hour of her expected + arrival, he will see that she is properly met at the station. + +Then she signed her name, Abigail Jane Anderson. (She was named for +her mother, Grandma Anderson, same as Father wanted them to name +me. Mercy! I'm glad they didn't. "Mary" is bad enough, but "Abigail +Jane"--!) + +Well, Mother read the letter aloud, then she began to talk about +it--how she felt, and how awful it was to think of giving me up six +whole months, and sending her bright little sunny-hearted Marie into +that tomb-like place with only an Abigail Jane to flee to for refuge. +And she said that she almost wished Nurse Sarah was back again--that +she, at least, was human. + +"'And see that she's properly met,' indeed!" went on Mother, with an +indignant little choke in her voice. "Oh, yes, I know! Now if it were +a star or a comet that he expected, he'd go himself and sit for hours +and hours watching for it. But when his daughter comes, he'll send +John with the horses, like enough, and possibly that precious Abigail +Jane of his. Or, maybe that is too much to expect. Oh, Hattie, I can't +let her go--I can't, I can't!" + +I was in the window-seat around the corner of the chimney, reading; +and I don't know as she knew I was there. But I was, and I heard. And +I've heard other things, too, all this week. + +I'm to go next Monday, and as it comes nearer the time Mother's +getting worse and worse. She's so unhappy over it. And of course that +makes me unhappy, too. But I try not to show it. Only yesterday, when +she was crying and hugging me, and telling me how awful it was that +her little girl should have to suffer, too, I told her not to worry +a bit about me; that I wasn't suffering at all. I _liked_ it. It was +ever so much more exciting to have two homes instead of one. But she +only cried all the more, and sobbed, "Oh, my baby, my baby!"--so +nothing I could say seemed to do one mite of good. + +But I meant it, and I told the truth. I _am_ excited. And I can't help +wondering how it's all going to be at Father's. Oh, of course, I know +it won't be so much fun, and I'll have to be "Mary," and all that; +but it'll be something _different_, and I always did like different +things. Besides, there's Father's love story to watch. Maybe _he's_ +found somebody. Maybe he didn't wait a year. Anyhow, if he did find +somebody I'm sure he wouldn't be so willing to wait as Mother would. +You know Nurse Sarah said Father never wanted to wait for anything. +That's why he married Mother so quick, in the first place. But if +there is somebody, of course I'll find out when I'm there. So that'll +be interesting. And, anyway, there'll be the girls. I shall have +_them_. + +[Illustration: "I TOLD HER NOT TO WORRY A BIT ABOUT ME"] + +I'll close now, and make this the end of the chapter. It'll be +Andersonville next time. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WHEN I AM MARY + + +ANDERSONVILLE. + +Well, here I am. I've been here two days now, and I guess I'd better +write down what's happened so far, before I forget it. + +First, about my leaving Boston. Poor, dear Mother did take on +dreadfully, and I thought she just wouldn't let me go. She went with +me to the junction where I had to change, and put me on the parlor car +for Andersonville, and asked the conductor to look out for me. (As +if I needed that--a young lady like me! I'm fourteen now. I had a +birthday last week.) + +But I thought at the last that she just wouldn't let me go, she clung +to me so, and begged me to forgive her for all she'd brought upon me; +and said it was a cruel, cruel shame, when there were children, and +people ought to stop and think and remember, and be willing to stand +anything. And then, in the next breath, she'd beg me not to forget +her, and not to love Father better than I did her. (As if there was +any danger of that!) And to write to her every few minutes. + +Then the conductor cried, "All aboard!" and the bell rang, and she +had to go and leave me. But the last I saw of her she was waving her +handkerchief, and smiling the kind of a smile that's worse than crying +right out loud. Mother's always like that. No matter how bad she +feels, at the last minute she comes up bright and smiling, and just as +brave as can be. + +I had a wonderful trip to Andersonville. Everybody was very kind to +me, and there were lovely things to see out the window. The conductor +came in and spoke to me several times--not the way you would look +after a child, but the way a gentleman would tend to a lady. I liked +him very much. + +There was a young gentleman in the seat in front, too, who was very +nice. He loaned me a magazine, and bought some candy for me; but I +didn't see much more of him, for the second time the conductor came in +he told me he'd found a nice seat back in the car on the shady side. +He noticed the sun came in where I sat, he said. (_I_ hadn't noticed +it specially.) But he picked up my bag and magazine--but I guess he +forgot the candy-box the nice young gentleman in front had just put +on my window-sill, for when I got into my new seat the candy wasn't +anywhere; and of course I didn't like to go back for it. But the +conductor was very nice and kind, and came in twice again to see if I +liked my new seat; and of course I said I did. It was very nice and +shady, and there was a lady and a baby in the next seat, and I played +with the baby quite a lot. + +It was heaps of fun to be grown up and traveling alone like that! I +sat back in my seat and wondered and wondered what the next six months +were going to be like. And I wondered, too, if I'd forgotten how to be +"Mary." + +"Dear me! How shall I ever remember not to run and skip and laugh loud +or sing, or ask questions, or do _anything_ that Marie wants to do?" I +thought to myself. + +And I wondered if Aunt Jane would meet me, and what she would be like. +She came once when I was a little girl, Mother said; but I didn't +remember her. + +Well, at last we got to Andersonville. John was there with the horses, +and Aunt Jane, too. Of course I knew she must be Aunt Jane, because +she was with John. The conductor was awfully nice and polite, and +didn't leave me till he'd seen me safe in the hands of Aunt Jane and +John. Then he went back to his train, and the next minute it had +whizzed out of the station, and I was alone with the beginning of my +next six months. + +The first beginning was a nice smile, and a "Glad to see ye home, +Miss," from John, as he touched his hat, and the next was a "How do +you do, Mary?" from Aunt Jane. And I knew right off that first minute +that I wasn't going to like Aunt Jane--just the way she said that +"Mary," and the way she looked me over from head to foot. + +Aunt Jane is tall and thin, and wears black--not the pretty, stylish +black, but the "I-don't-care" rusty black--and a stiff white collar. +Her eyes are the kind that says, "I'm surprised at you!" all the time, +and her mouth is the kind that never shows any teeth when it smiles, +and doesn't smile much, anyway. Her hair is some gray, and doesn't +kink or curl anywhere; and I knew right off the first minute she +looked at me that she didn't like mine, 'cause it did curl. + +I was pretty sure she didn't like my clothes, either. I've since found +out she didn't--but more of that anon. (I just love that word "anon.") +And I just knew she disapproved of my hat. But she didn't say +anything--not in words--and after we'd attended to my trunk, we went +along to the carriage and got in. + +My stars! I didn't suppose horses _could_ go so slow. Why, we were +_ages_ just going a block. You see I'd forgotten; and without thinking +I spoke right out. + +"My! Horses _are_ slow, aren't they?" I cried. "You see, Grandpa has +an auto, and--" + +"Mary!"--just like that she interrupted--Aunt Jane did. (Funny how +old folks can do what they won't let you do. Now if I'd interrupted +anybody like that!) "You may as well understand at once," went on Aunt +Jane, "that we are not interested in your grandfather's auto, or his +house, or anything that is his." (I felt as if I was hearing the +catechism in church!) "And that the less reference you make to your +life in Boston, the better we shall be pleased. As I said before, we +are not interested. Besides, while under your father's roof, it would +seem to me very poor taste, indeed, for you to make constant reference +to things you may have been doing while _not_ under his roof. The +situation is deplorable enough, however you take it, without making it +positively unbearable. You will remember, Mary?" + +Mary said, "Yes, Aunt Jane," very polite and proper; but I can tell +you that inside of Mary, _Marie_ was just boiling. + +Unbearable, indeed! + +We didn't say anything more all the way home. Naturally, _I_ was not +going to, after that speech; and Aunt Jane said nothing. So silence +reigned supreme. + +Then we got home. Things looked quite natural, only there was a new +maid in the kitchen, and Nurse Sarah wasn't there. Father wasn't +there, either. And, just as I suspected, 't was a star that was to +blame, only this time the star was the moon--an eclipse; and he'd gone +somewhere out West so he could see it better. + +He isn't coming back till next week; and when I think how he made me +come on the first day, so as to get in the whole six months, when all +the time he did not care enough about it to be here himself, I'm just +mad--I mean, the righteously indignant kind of mad--for I can't help +thinking how poor Mother would have loved those extra days with her. + +Aunt Jane said I was to have my old room, and so, as soon as I got +here, I went right up and took off my hat and coat, and pretty quick +they brought up my trunk, and I unpacked it; and I didn't hurry about +it either. I wasn't a bit anxious to get downstairs again to Aunt +Jane. Besides, I may as well own up, I was crying--a little. Mother's +room was right across the hall, and it looked so lonesome; and I +couldn't help remembering how different this homecoming was from the +one in Boston, six months ago. + +Well, at last I had to go down to dinner--I mean supper--and, by the +way, I made another break on that. I _called_ it dinner right out +loud, and never thought--till I saw Aunt Jane's face. + +"_Supper_ will be ready directly," she said, with cold and icy +emphasis. "And may I ask you to remember, Mary, please, that +Andersonville has dinner at _noon_, not at six o'clock." + +"Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite and proper again. (I shan't say +what Marie said inside.) + +We didn't do anything in the evening but read and go to bed at nine +o'clock. I _wanted_ to run over to Carrie Heywood's; but Aunt Jane +said no, not till morning. (I wonder why young folks _never_ can do +things when they _want_ to do them, but must always wait till morning +or night or noon, or some other time!) + +In the morning I went up to the schoolhouse. I planned it so as to get +there at recess, and I saw all the girls except one that was sick, and +one that was away. We had a perfectly lovely time, only everybody +was talking at once so that I don't know now what was said. But they +seemed glad to see me. I know that. Maybe I'll go to school next week. +Aunt Jane says she thinks I ought to, when it's only the first of May. +She's going to speak to Father when he comes next week. + +She was going to speak to him about my clothes; then she decided to +attend to those herself, and not bother him. As I suspected, she +doesn't like my dresses. I found out this morning for sure. She came +into my room and asked to see my things. My! But didn't I hate to show +them to her? Marie said she wouldn't; but Mary obediently trotted to +the closet and brought them out one by one. + +Aunt Jane turned them around with the tips of her fingers, all the +time sighing and shaking her head. When I'd brought them all out, +she shook her head again and said they would not do at all--not in +Andersonville; that they were extravagant, and much too elaborate for +a young girl; that she would see the dressmaker and arrange that I had +some serviceable blue and brown serges at once. + +Blue and brown serge, indeed! But, there, what's the use? I'm Mary +now, I keep forgetting that; though I don't see how I can forget +it--with Aunt Jane around. + +But, listen. A funny thing happened this morning. Something came +up about Boston, and Aunt Jane asked me a question. Then she asked +another and another, and she kept me talking till I guess I talked +'most a whole half-hour about Grandpa Desmond, Aunt Hattie, Mother, +and the house, and what we did, and, oh, a whole lot of things. And +here, just two days ago, she was telling me that she wasn't interested +in Grandpa Desmond, his home, or his daughter, or anything that was +his! + +There's something funny about Aunt Jane. + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +Father's come. He came yesterday. But I didn't know it, and I came +running downstairs, ending with a little bounce for the last step. And +there, right in front of me in the hall was--_Father_. + +I guess he was as much surprised as I was. Anyhow, he acted so. He +just stood stock-still and stared, his face turning all kinds of +colors. + +"You?" he gasped, just above his breath. Then suddenly he seemed to +remember. "Why, yes, yes, to be sure. You are here, aren't you? How do +you do, Mary?" + +He came up then and held out his hand, and I thought that was all he +was going to do. But after a funny little hesitation he stooped and +kissed my forehead. Then he turned and went into the library with very +quick steps, and I didn't see him again till at the supper-table. + +At the supper-table he said again, "How do you do, Mary?" Then he +seemed to forget all about me. At least he didn't say anything more to +me; but three or four times, when I glanced up, I found him looking at +me. But just as soon as I looked back at him he turned his eyes away +and cleared his throat, and began to eat or to talk to Aunt Jane. + +After dinner--I mean supper--he went out to the observatory, just as +he always used to. Aunt Jane said her head ached and she was going to +bed. I said I guessed I would step over to Carrie Heywood's; but Aunt +Jane said, certainly not; that I was much too young to be running +around nights in the dark. Nights! And it was only seven o'clock, and +not dark at all! But of course I couldn't go. + +Aunt Jane went upstairs, and I was left alone. I didn't feel a bit +like reading; besides, there wasn't a book or a magazine anywhere +_asking_ you to read. They just shrieked, "Touch me not!" behind the +glass doors in the library. I hate sewing. I mean _Marie_ hates it. +Aunt Jane says Mary's got to learn. + +For a time I just walked around the different rooms downstairs, +looking at the chairs and tables and rugs all _just so_, as if they 'd +been measured with a yardstick. Marie jerked up a shade and pushed a +chair crooked and kicked a rug up at one corner; but Mary put them all +back properly--so there wasn't any fun in that for long. + +After a while I opened the parlor door and peeked in. They used to +keep it open when Mother was here; but Aunt Jane doesn't use it. I +knew where the electric push button was, though, and I turned on the +light. + +It used to be an awful room, and it's worse now, on account of its +shut-up look. Before I got the light on, the chairs and sofas loomed +up like ghosts in their linen covers. And when the light did come on, +I saw that all the old shiver places were there. Not one was missing. +Great-Grandfather Anderson's coffin plate on black velvet, the wax +cross and flowers that had been used at three Anderson funerals, the +hair wreath made of all the hair of seventeen dead Andersons and five +live ones--no, no, I don't mean _all_ the hair, but hair from all +seventeen and five. Nurse Sarah used to tell me about it. + +Well, as I said, all the shiver places were there, and I shivered +again as I looked at them; then I crossed over to Mother's old piano, +opened it, and touched the keys. I love to play. There wasn't any +music there, but I don't need music for lots of my pieces. I know them +by heart--only they're all gay and lively, and twinkly-toe dancy. +_Marie_ music. I don't know a one that would be proper for _Mary_ to +play. + +But I was just tingling to play _something_, and I remembered that +Father was in the observatory, and Aunt Jane upstairs in the other +part of the house where she couldn't possibly hear. So I began to +play. I played the very slowest piece I had, and I played softly at +first; but I know I forgot, and I know I hadn't played two pieces +before I was having the best time ever, and making all the noise I +wanted to. + +Then all of a sudden I had a funny feeling as if somebody somewhere +was watching me; but I just couldn't turn around. I stopped playing, +though, at the end of that piece, and then I looked; but there wasn't +anybody in sight. But the wax cross was there, and the coffin plate, +and that awful hair wreath; and suddenly I felt as if that room was +just full of folks with great staring eyes. I fairly shook with +shivers then, but I managed to shut the piano and get over to the door +where the light was. Then, a minute later, out in the big silent hall, +I crept on tiptoe toward the stairs. I knew then, all of a sudden, why +I'd felt somebody was listening. There was. Across the hall in the +library in the big chair before the fire sat--_Father_! And for 'most +a whole half-hour I had been banging away at that piano on marches and +dance music! My! But I held my breath and stopped short, I can tell +you. But he didn't move nor turn, and a minute later I was safely by +the door and halfway up the stairs. + +I stayed in my room the rest of that evening; and for the second time +since I've been here I cried myself to sleep. + + * * * * * + +_Another week later_, + +Well, I've got them--those brown and blue serge dresses and the +calfskin boots. My, but I hope they're stiff and homely enough--all of +them! And hot, too. Aunt Jane did say to-day that she didn't know but +what she'd made a mistake not to get gingham dresses. But, then, she'd +have to get the gingham later, anyway, she said; then I'd have both. + +Well, they can't be worse than the serge. That's sure. I hate the +serge. They're awfully homely. Still, I don't know but it's just as +well. Certainly it's lots easier to be Mary in a brown serge and +clumpy boots than it is in the soft, fluffy things Marie used to wear. +You couldn't be Marie in _these_ things. Honestly, I'm feeling real +Maryish these days. + +I wonder if that's why the girls seem so queer at school. They _are_ +queer. Three times lately I've come up to a crowd of girls and heard +them stop talking right off short. They colored up, too; and pretty +quick they began to slip away, one by one, till there wasn't anybody +left but just me, just as they used to do in Boston. But of course it +can't be for the same reason here, for they've known all along about +the divorce and haven't minded it at all. + +I heard this morning that Stella Mayhew had a party last night. But +_I_ didn't get invited. Of course, you can't always ask everybody to +your parties, but this was a real big party, and I haven't found a +girl in school, yet, that wasn't invited--but me. But I guess it +wasn't anything, after all. Stella is a new girl that has come here to +live since I went away. Her folks are rich, and she's very popular, +and of course she has loads of friends she had to invite; and she +doesn't know me very well. Probably that was it. And maybe I just +imagine it about the other girls, too. Perhaps it's the brown serge +dress. Still, it can't be that, for this is the first day I've worn +it. But, as I said, I feel Maryish already. + +I haven't dared to touch the piano since that night a week ago, only +once when Aunt Jane was at a missionary meeting, and I knew Father was +over to the college. But didn't I have a good time then? I just guess +I did! + +Aunt Jane doesn't care for music. Besides, it's noisy, she says, and +would be likely to disturb Father. So I'm not to keep on with my music +lessons here. She's going to teach me to sew instead. She says sewing +is much more sensible and useful. + +Sensible and useful! I wonder how many times I've heard those words +since I've been here. And durable, too. And nourishing. That's another +word. Honestly, Marie is getting awfully tired of Mary's sensible +sewing and dusting, and her durable clumpy shoes and stuffy dresses, +and her nourishing oatmeal and whole-wheat bread. But there, what can +you do? I'm trying to remember that it's _different_, anyway, and that +I said I liked something different. + +I don't see much of Father. Still, there's something kind of queer +about it, after all. He only speaks to me about twice a day--just +"Good-morning, Mary," and "Good-night." And so far as most of his +actions are concerned you wouldn't think by them that he knew I was in +the house, Yet, over and over again at the table, and at times when I +didn't even know he was 'round, I've found him watching me, and with +such a queer, funny look in his eyes. Then, very quickly always, he +looks right away. + +But last night he didn't. And that's especially what I wanted to write +about to-day. And this is the way it happened. + +It was after supper, and I had gone into the library. Father had gone +out to the observatory as usual, and Aunt Jane had gone upstairs to +her room as usual, and as usual I was wandering 'round looking for +something to do. I wanted to play on the piano, but I didn't dare +to--not with all those dead-hair and wax-flower folks in the parlor +watching me, and the chance of Father's coming in as he did before. + +I was standing in the window staring out at nothing--it wasn't quite +dark yet--when again I had that queer feeling that somebody was +looking at me. I turned--and there was Father. He had come in and was +sitting in the big chair by the table. But this time he didn't look +right away as usual and give me a chance to slip quietly out of the +room, as I always had before. Instead he said: + +"What are you doing there, Mary?" + +"N-nothing." I know I stammered. It always scares me to talk to +Father. + +"Nonsense!" Father frowned and hitched in his chair. Father always +hitches in his chair when he's irritated and nervous. "You can't be +doing nothing. Nobody but a dead man does nothing--and we aren't so +sure about him. What are you doing, Mary?" + +"Just l-looking out the window." + +"Thank you. That's better. Come here. I want to talk to you." + +"Yes, Father." + +I went, of course, at once, and sat down in the chair near him. He +hitched again in his seat. + +"Why don't you do something--read, sew, knit?" he demanded. "Why do I +always find you moping around, doing nothing?" + +Just like that he said it; and when he had just told me-- + +"Why, Father!" I cried; and I know that I showed how surprised I was. +"I thought you just said I couldn't do nothing--that nobody could!" + +"Eh? What? Tut, tut!" He seemed very angry at first; then suddenly +he looked sharply into my face. Next, if you'll believe it, he +laughed--the queer little chuckle under his breath that I've heard him +give two or three times when there was something he thought was funny. +"Humph!" he grunted. Then he gave me another sharp look out of +his eyes, and said: "I don't think you meant that to be quite so +impertinent as it sounded, Mary, so we'll let it pass--this time. I'll +put my question this way: Don't you ever knit or read or sew?" + +"I do sew every day in Aunt Jane's room, ten minutes hemming, ten +minutes seaming, and ten minutes basting patchwork squares together. I +don't know how to knit." + +"How about reading? Don't you care for reading?" + +"Why, of course I do. I love it!" I cried. "And I do read lots--at +home." + +"At--_home_?" + +I knew then, of course, that I'd made another awful break. There +wasn't any smile around Father's eyes now, and his lips came together +hard and thin over that last word. + +"At--at _my_ home," I stammered. "I mean, my _other_ home." + +"Humph!" grunted Father. Then, after a minute: "But why, pray, can't +you read here? I'm sure there are--books enough." He flourished his +hands toward the bookcases all around the room. + +"Oh, I do--a little; but, you see, I'm so afraid I'll leave some of +them out when I'm through," I explained, + +"Well, what of it? What if you do?" he demanded. + +"Why, _Father_!" I tried to show by the way I said it that he knew--of +course he knew. But he made me tell him right out that Aunt Jane +wouldn't like it, and that he wouldn't like it, and that the books +always had to be kept exactly where they belonged. + +"Well, why not? Why shouldn't they?" he asked then, almost crossly, +and hitching again in his chair. "Aren't books down there--in +Boston--kept where they belong, pray?" + +It was the first time since I'd come that he'd ever mentioned Boston; +and I almost jumped out of my chair when I heard him. But I soon saw +it wasn't going to be the last, for right then and there he began to +question me, even worse than Aunt Jane had. + +He wanted to know everything, _everything_; all about the house, with +its cushions and cozy corners and curtains 'way up, and books left +around easy to get, and magazines, and Baby Lester, and the fun we had +romping with him, and everything. Only, of course, I didn't mention +Mother. Aunt Jane had told me not to--not anywhere; and to be +specially careful before Father. But what can you do when he asks you +himself, right out plain? And that's what he did. + +He'd been up on his feet, tramping up and down the room all the time +I'd been talking; and now, all of a sudden, he wheels around and stops +short. + +"How is--your mother, Mary?" he asks. And it was just as if he'd +opened the door to another room, he had such a whole lot of questions +to ask after that. And when he'd finished he knew everything: what +time we got up and went to bed, and what we did all day, and the +parties and dinners and auto rides, and the folks that came such a lot +to see Mother. + +Then all of a sudden he stopped--asking questions, I mean. He stopped +just as suddenly as he'd begun. Why, I was right in the middle of +telling about a concert for charity we got up just before I came away, +and how Mother had practiced for days and days with the young man who +played the violin, when all of a sudden Father jerked his watch from +his pocket and said: + +"There, there, Mary, it's getting late. You've talked enough--too +much. Now go to bed. Good-night." + +Talked too much, indeed! And who'd been making me do all the talking, +I should like to know? But, of course, I couldn't _say_ anything. +That's the unfair part of it. Old folks can say anything, _anything_ +they want to to _you_, but you can't say a thing back to them--not a +thing. + +And so I went to bed. And the next day all that Father said to me +was, "Good-morning, Mary," and, "Good-night," just as he had ever +since I came. And that's all he's said yesterday and to-day. But he's +looked at me. He's looked at me a lot. I know, because at mealtimes +and others, when he's been in the room with me, I've looked up and +found his eyes on me. Funny, isn't it? + + * * * * * + +_Two weeks later_. + +Well, I don't know as I have anything very special to say. Still, I +suppose I ought to write something; so I'll put down what little there +is. + +Of course, there doesn't so much happen here, anyway, as there does at +home--I mean in Boston. (I _must_ stop calling it home down to Boston +as if this wasn't home at all. It makes Aunt Jane very, very angry, +and I don't think Father likes it very well.) But, as I was saying, +there really doesn't so much happen here as there does down to Boston; +and it isn't nearly so interesting. But, there! I suppose I mustn't +expect it to be interesting. I'm Mary now, not Marie. + +There aren't any teas and dinners and pretty ladies and music and +soulful-eyed prospective suitors _here_. My! Wouldn't Aunt Jane have +four fits? And Father, too. But I'd just like to put one of Mother's +teas with the little cakes and flowers and talk and tinkling laughs +down in Aunt Jane's parlor, and then watch what happened. Oh, of +course, the party couldn't stand it long--not in there with the hair +wreath and the coffin plate. But they could stand it long enough for +Father to thunder from the library, "Jane, what in Heaven's name is +the meaning of all this?" And for Aunt Jane to give one look at the +kind of clothes _real_ folks wear, and then flee with her hands to her +ears and her eyes upraised to the ceiling. Wouldn't it be fun? + +But, there! What's the use of imagining perfectly crazy, impossible +things like that? We haven't had a thing here in that parlor since I +came but one missionary meeting and one Ladies' Aid Sewing Circle; and +after the last one (the Sewing Circle) Aunt Jane worked a whole day +picking threads off the carpet, and smoothing down the linen covers +because they'd got so mussed up. And I heard her tell the hired girl +that she shouldn't have that Sewing Circle here again in a hurry, and +when she did have them they'd have to sew in the dining-room with a +sheet spread down to catch the threads. My! but I would like to see +Aunt Jane with one of Mother's teas in her parlor! + +I can't see as Father has changed much of any these last two weeks. He +still doesn't pay much of any attention to me, though I do find him +looking at me sometimes, just as if he was trying to make up his mind +about something. He doesn't say hardly anything to me, only once or +twice when he got to asking questions again about Boston and Mother. + +The last time I told him all about Mr. Harlow, and he was so +interested! I just happened to mention his name, and he wanted to know +right away if it was Mr. Carl Harlow, and if I knew whether Mother had +ever known him before. And of course I told him right away that it +was--the same one she was engaged to before she was engaged to him. + +Father looked funny and kind of grunted and said, yes, yes, he knew. +Then he said, "That will do, Mary." And he began to read his book +again. But he never turned a page, and it wasn't five minutes before +he got up and walked around the room, picking out books from the +bookcases and putting them right back, and picking up things from the +mantel and putting _them_ right back. Then he turned to me and asked +with a kind of of-course-I-don't-care air: + +"Did you say you saw quite a little of--this Harlow fellow?" + +But he did care. I know he did. He was _real_ interested. I could see +that he was. And so I told him everything, all about how he came there +to the teas, and sent her flowers and candy, and was getting a divorce +himself, and what he said on the sofa that day, and how Mother +answered. As I said, I told him everything, only I was careful not to +call Mr. Harlow a prospective suitor, of course. I remembered too +well what Aunt Hattie had said. Father didn't say anything when I got +through. He just got up and left the room, and pretty quick I saw him +crossing the lawn to the observatory. + +I guess there aren't any prospective suitors here. I mean, I guess +Father isn't a prospective suitor--anyhow, not yet. (Of course, it's +the man that has to be the suitor.) He doesn't go anywhere, only over +to the college and out to the observatory. I've watched so to see. I +wanted specially to know, for of course if he was being a prospective +suitor to any one, she'd be my new mother, maybe. And I'm going to be +awfully particular about any new mother coming into the house. + +A whole lot more, even, depends on mothers than on fathers, you know; +and if you're going to have one all ready-made thrust upon you, you +are sort of anxious to know what kind she is. Some way, I don't think +I'd like a new mother even as well as I'd like a new father; and I +don't believe I'd like _him_ very well. + +Of course, there are quite a lot of ladies here that Father _could_ +have. There are several pretty teachers in the schools, and some nice +unmarried ladies in the church. And there's Miss Parmelia Snow. She's +Professor Snow's sister. She wears glasses and is terribly learned. +Maybe he _would_ like her. But, mercy! I shouldn't. + +Then there's Miss Grace Ann Sanborn. She's fat, and awfully jolly. She +comes here a lot lately to see Aunt Jane. I don't know why. They don't +belong to the same church, or anything. But she "runs over," as she +calls it, almost every afternoon just a little before dinner--I mean +supper. + +Mrs. Darling used to come then, too, when I first came; but she comes +over evenings now more. Maybe it's because she doesn't like Miss Grace +Ann. I don't think she _does_ like her, for every time she saw her, +she'd say: "Oh, _you_? So you're here!" And then she'd turn and talk +to Aunt Jane and simply ignore Miss Grace Ann. And pretty quick she'd +get up and go. And now she comes evenings. She's fixing over her +house, and she runs and asks Aunt Jane's advice about every little +thing. She asks Father's, too, every chance she gets, when she sees +him in the hall or on the front steps. I heard her tell Aunt Jane +she considered Professor Anderson a man of most excellent taste and +judgment. + +I suppose Mrs. Darling _could_ be my new mother. She's a widow. Her +husband died last year. She is very well off now that her husband +is dead, I heard Aunt Jane say one day. She meant well off in +money--quite a lot of it, you know. I _thought_ she meant well off +because he was dead and she didn't have to live with him any more, +and I said so to Aunt Jane. (He was a cross man, and very stern, as +everybody knew.) But, dear suz me! Aunt Jane was awfully shocked, and +said certainly not; that she meant Mr. Darling had left his wife a +great deal of money. + +Then she talked very stern and solemn to me, and said that I must not +think just because my poor dear father's married life had ended in +such a wretched tragedy that every other home had such a skeleton in +the closet. + +_I_ grew stern and dignified and solemn then. I knew, of course, what +she meant. I'm no child. She meant Mother. She meant that Mother, my +dear blessed mother, was the skeleton in their closet. And of course I +wasn't going to stand there and hear that, and not say a word. + +But I didn't say just a word. I said a good many words. I won't try to +put them all down here; but I told her quietly, in a firm voice, and +with no temper (showing), that I guessed Father was just as much of a +skeleton in Mother's closet as she was in his; and that if she could +see how perfectly happy my mother was now she'd understand a little of +what my father's skeleton had done to her all those years she'd had to +live with it. + +I said a lot more, but before I'd got half finished with what I wanted +to say, I got to crying, so I just had to run out of the room. + +That night I heard Aunt Jane tell Mrs. Darling that the worst feature +of the whole deplorable situation was the effect on the child's mind, +and the wretched conception it gave her of the sacredness of the +marriage tie, or something like that. And Mrs. Darling sighed, and +said, oh, and ah, and the pity of it. + +I don't like Mrs. Darling. + +Of course, as I said before, Mrs. Darling could be my new mother, +being a widow, so. But, mercy! I hope she won't. I'd rather have Miss +Grace Ann than her, and I shouldn't be crazy about having Miss Grace +Ann. + +Well, I guess there's nothing more to write. Things at school are just +the same, only more so. The girls are getting so they act almost +as bad as those down to Boston in the school where I went before I +changed. Of course, maybe it's the divorce here, same as it was there. +But I don't see how it can be that here. Why, they've known it from +the very first! + +Oh, dear suz me! How I do wish I could see Mother to-night and have +her take me in her arms and kiss me. I'm so tired of being Mary 'way +off up here where nobody cares or wants me. + +Even Father doesn't want me, not really want me. I know he doesn't. I +don't see why he keeps me, only I suppose he'd be ashamed not to take +me his six months as long as the court gave me to him for that time. + + * * * * * + +_Another two weeks later_. + +I'm so angry I can hardly write, and at the same time I'm so angry +I've just got to write. I can't talk. There isn't anybody to talk to; +and I've got to tell somebody. So I'm going to tell it here. + +I've found out now what's the matter with the girls--you know I said +there _was_ something the matter with them; that they acted queer +and stopped talking when I came up, and faded away till there wasn't +anybody but me left; and about the party Stella Mayhew had and didn't +invite me. + +Well, it's been getting worse and worse. Other girls have had parties, +and more and more often the girls have stopped talking and have looked +queer when I came up. We got up a secret society and called it the +"Tony Ten," and I was going to be its president. Then all of a sudden +one day I found there wasn't any Tony Ten--only Carrie Heywood and me. +The other eight had formed another society and Stella Mayhew was their +president. + +I told Carrie we wouldn't care; that we'd just change it and call +it the "Tony Two"; and that two was a lot more exclusive than ten, +anyway. But I did care, and Carrie did. I knew she did. And I know it +better now because last night--she told me. You see things have been +getting simply unbearable these last few days, and it got so it looked +as if I wasn't even going to have Carrie left. _She_ began to act +queer and I accused her of it, and told her if she didn't want to +belong to the Tony Two she needn't. That I didn't care; that I'd be a +secret society all by myself. But I cried. I couldn't help crying; and +she knew I did--care. Then she began to cry; and to-day, after school, +we went to walk up on the hill to the big rock; and there--she told +me. And it _was_ the divorce. + +And it's all that Stella Mayhew--the new girl. Her mother found out I +was divorced (I mean Mother was) and she told Stella not to play with +me, nor speak to me, nor have a thing to do with me. And I said to +Carrie, all right! Who cared? _I_ didn't. That I never had liked that +Mayhew girl, anyway. But Carrie said that wasn't all. She said Stella +had got to be real popular before I came; that her folks had lots of +money, and she always had candy and could treat to ice-cream and +auto rides, and everybody with her was sure of a good time. She had +parties, too--lots of them; and of course, all the girls and boys +liked that. + +Well, when I came everything was all right till Stella's mother found +out about the divorce, and then--well, then things were different. +First Stella contented herself with making fun of me, Carrie said. She +laughed at the serge dresses and big homely shoes, and then she began +on my name, and said the idea of being called Mary by Father and Marie +by Mother, and that 't was just like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (That's +a story, Carrie says. I'm going to read it, if Father's got it. If +there ever was another Mary and Marie all in one in the world I want +to know what she did.) But Carrie says the poking fun at me didn't +make much difference with the girls, so Stella tried something else. +She not only wouldn't speak to me herself, or invite me, or anything, +but she told all the girls that they couldn't go with her and me, too. +That they might take their choice. And Carrie said some of them did +choose and stayed with me; but they lost all the good times and +ice-cream and parties and rides and everything; and so one by one they +dropped me and went back to Stella, and now there wasn't anybody left, +only her, Carrie. And then she began to cry. + +And when she stopped speaking, and I knew all, and saw her crying +there before me, and thought of my dear blessed mother, I was so angry +I could scarcely speak. I just shook with righteous indignation. +And in my most superb, haughty, and disdainful manner I told Carrie +Heywood to dry her tears; that she needn't trouble herself any +further, nor worry about losing any more ice-cream nor parties. That I +would hereto declare our friendship null and void, and this day set +my hand and seal to never speak to her again, if she liked, and +considered that necessary to keeping the acquaintance of the precious +Stella. + +But she cried all the more at that, and flung herself upon me, and, of +course, I began to cry, too--and you can't stay superb and haughty and +disdainful when you're all the time trying to hunt up a handkerchief +to wipe away the tears that are coursing down your wan cheeks. And of +course I didn't. We had a real good cry together, and vowed we loved +each other better than ever, and nobody could come between us, not +even bringing a chocolate-fudge-marshmallow college ice--which we both +adore. But I told her that she would be all right, just the same, +for of course I should never step my foot inside of that schoolhouse +again. That I couldn't, out of respect to Mother. That I should tell +Aunt Jane that to-morrow morning. There isn't any other school here, +so they can't send me anywhere else. But it's 'most time for school to +close, anyway. There are only two weeks more. + +But I don't think that will make any difference to Aunt Jane. It's the +principle of the thing. It's always the principle of the thing with +Aunt Jane. She'll be very angry, I know. Maybe she'll send me home. +Oh, I _hope_ she will! + +Well, I shall tell her to-morrow, anyway. Then--we'll see. + + * * * * * + +_One day later_. + +And, dear, dear, what a day it has been! + +I told her this morning. She was very angry. She said at first: +"Nonsense, Mary, don't be impertinent. Of course you'll go to school!" +and all that kind of talk. But I kept my temper. I did not act angry. +I was simply firm and dignified. And when she saw I really meant what +I said, and that I would not step my foot inside that schoolroom +again--that it was a matter of conscience with me--that I did not +think it was _right_ for me to do it, she simply stared for a minute, +as if she couldn't believe her eyes and ears. Then she gasped: + +"Mary, what do you mean by such talk to me? Do you think I shall +permit this sort of thing to go on for a moment?" + +I thought then she was going to send me home. Oh, I did so hope she +was. But she didn't. She sent me to my room. + +"You will stay there until your father comes home this noon," she +said. "This is a matter for him to settle." + +_Father_! And I never even thought of her going to _him_ with it. She +was always telling me never to bother Father with anything, and I knew +she didn't usually ask him anything about me. She settled everything +herself. But _this_--and the very thing I didn't want her to ask him, +too. But of course I couldn't help myself. That's the trouble. Youth +is _so_ helpless in the clutches of old age! + +Well, I went to my room. Aunt Jane told me to meditate on my sins. But +I didn't. I meditated on other people's sins. _I_ didn't have any to +meditate on. Was it a sin, pray, for me to stand up for my mother and +refuse to associate with people who wouldn't associate with _me_ on +account of _her_? I guess not! + +I meditated on Stella Mayhew and her mother, and on those silly, +faithless girls that thought more of an ice-cream soda than they did +of justice and right to their fellow schoolmate. And I meditated on +Aunt Jane and her never giving me so much as a single kiss since I +came. And I meditated on how much better Father liked stars and +comets than he did his own daughter; and I meditated on what a cruel, +heartless world this is, anyway, and what a pity it was that I, so +fair and young, should have found it out so soon--right on the bank, +as it were, or where that brook and river meet. And I wondered, if I +died if anybody would care; and I thought how beautiful and pathetic I +would look in my coffin with my lily-white hands folded on my breast. +And I _hoped_ they 'd have the funeral in the daytime, because if it +was at night-time Father'd be sure to have a star or something to keep +_him_ from coming. And I _wanted_ him to come. I _wanted_ him to feel +bad; and I meditated on how bad he would feel--when it was too late. + +But even with all this to meditate on, it was an awfully long time +coming noon; and they didn't call me down to dinner even then. Aunt +Jane sent up two pieces of bread without any butter and a glass of +water. How like Aunt Jane--making even my dinner a sin to meditate on! +Only she would call it _my_ sin, and I would call it hers. + +Well, after dinner Father sent for me to come down to the library. So +I knew then, of course, that Aunt Jane had told him. I didn't know +but she would wait until night. Father usually spends his hour after +dinner reading in the library and mustn't be disturbed. But evidently +to-day Aunt Jane thought I was more consequence than his reading. +Anyhow, she told him, and he sent for me. + +My, but I hated to go! Fathers and Aunt Janes are two different +propositions. Fathers have more rights and privileges, of course. +Everybody knows that. + +Well, I went into the library. Father stood with his back to the +fireplace and his hands in his pockets. He was plainly angry at being +disturbed. Anybody could see that. He began speaking at once, the +minute I got into the room--very cold and dignified. + +"Mary, your aunt tells me you have been disobedient and disrespectful +to her. Have you anything to say?" + +I shook my head and said, "No, sir." + +What could I say? Old folks ask such senseless questions, sometimes. +Naturally I wasn't going to say I _had_ been disrespectful and +disobedient when I hadn't; and of course, I couldn't say I _hadn't_ +been when Aunt Jane said I _had_. That would be just like saying Aunt +Jane lied. So, of course, I had nothing to say. And I said so. + +"But she declares you refused to go back to school, Mary," said Father +then. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Then you did refuse?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Well, you may go and tell her now, please, that you are sorry, and +that you will go to school this afternoon. You may go now." And he +turned to the table and picked up his book. + +I didn't go, of course. I just stood there twisting my handkerchief +in my fingers; and, of course, right away he saw me. He had sat down +then. + +"Mary, didn't you hear me?" he demanded. + +"Yes, sir, but--Father, I _can't_ go back to that school," I choked. +And I began to cry. + +"But I tell you that you must." + +I shook my head. + +"I can't." + +"Do you mean that you defy me as you did your Aunt Jane this +morning?--that you refuse to go back to school?" + +"Yes, sir." + +For a minute he sat and stared at me just as Aunt Jane had done; then +he lifted his head and threw back his shoulders as if he was throwing +off a heavy weight. + +"Come, come, Mary," he said sternly. "I am not a patient man, and my +temper has reached the breaking point. You will go back to school and +you will go now. I mean that, Mary." + +"But, Father, I _can't_" I choked again; and I guess there was +something in my face this time that made even him see. For again he +just stared for a minute, and then said: + +"Mary, what in the world does this mean? Why can't you go back? Have +you been--expelled?" + +"Oh, no, sir." + +"Then you mean you won't go back." + +"I mean I _can't_--on account of Mother." + +I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't had to. I didn't want to tell him, +but I knew from the very first that I'd have to tell him before I +got through. I could see it in his face. And so, now, with his eyes +blazing as he jumped almost out of his chair and exclaimed, "Your +mother!" I let it out and got it over as soon as possible. + +"I mean, on account of Mother--that not for you, or Aunt Jane, or +anybody will I go back to that school and associate with folks that +won't associate with me--on account of Mother." + +And then I told it--all about the girls, Stella Mayhew, Carrie, and +how they acted, and what they said about my being Dr. Jekyll and Mr. +Hyde because I was a Mary and a Marie, and the ice-cream, and the +parties they had to give up if they went with _me_. And I know I was +crying so I could hardly speak before I finished; and Father was on +his feet tramping up and down the room muttering something under his +breath, and looking--oh, I can't begin to tell how he looked. But it +was awful. + +"And so that's why I wish," I finished chokingly, "that it would hurry +up and be a year, so Mother could get married." + +"_Married!_" Like a flash he turned and stopped short, staring at me. + +"Why, yes," I explained; "for if she _did_ get married, she wouldn't +be divorced any longer, would she?" + +But he wouldn't answer. With a queer little noise in his throat he +turned again and began to walk up and down, up and down, until I +thought for a minute he'd forgotten I was there. But he hadn't. For +after a while he stopped again right in front of me. + +"So your mother is thinking of getting married," he said in a voice so +queer it sounded as if it had come from away off somewhere. + +But I shook my head and said no, of course; and that I was very sure +she wouldn't till her year was up, and even then I didn't know which +she'd take, so I couldn't tell for sure anything about it. But I hoped +she'd take one of them, so she wouldn't be divorced any longer. + +"But you don't know _which_ she'll take," grunted Father again. He +turned then, and began to walk up and down again, with his hands in +his pockets; and I didn't know whether to go away or to stay, and I +suppose I'd have been there now if Aunt Jane hadn't suddenly appeared +in the library doorway. + +"Charles, if Mary is going to school at all to-day it is high time she +was starting," she said. But Father didn't seem to hear. He was still +tramping up and down the room, his hands in his pockets. + +"Charles!" Aunt Jane raised her voice and spoke again. "I said if Mary +is going to school at all to-day it is high time she was starting." + +"Eh? What?" If you'll believe it, that man looked as dazed as if he'd +never even _heard_ of my going to school. Then suddenly his face +changed. "Oh, yes, to be sure. Well, er--Mary is not going to school +to-day," he said. Then he looked at his watch, and without another +word strode into the hall, got his hat, and left the house, leaving +Aunt Jane and me staring into each other's faces. + +But I didn't stay much longer than Father did. I strode into the hall, +too, by Aunt Jane. But I didn't leave the house. I came up here to my +own room; and ever since I've been writing it all down in my book. + +Of course, I don't know now what's going to happen next. But I _wish_ +you could have seen Aunt Jane's face when Father said I wasn't going +to school to-day! I don't believe she's sure yet that she heard +aright--though she didn't try to stop me, or even speak when I left +and came upstairs. But I just know she's keeping up a powerful +thinking. + +For that matter, so am I. What _is_ going to happen next? Have I got +to go to school to-morrow? But then, of course, I shan't do that. +Besides, I don't believe Father'll ask me to, after what I said about +Mother. _He_ didn't like that--what those girls said--any better than +I did. I'm sure of that. Why, he looked simply furious. But there +isn't any other school here that I can be sent to, and-- + +But what's the use? I might surmise and speculate all day and not +come anywhere near the truth. I must await--what the night will bring +forth, as they say in really truly novels. + + * * * * * + +_Four days later_. + +And what did the night bring forth? Yes, what did it bring! Verily +it brought forth one thing I thought nothing ever could have brought +forth. + +It was like this. + +That night at the supper-table Aunt Jane cleared her throat in the +I-am-determined-I-will-speak kind of a way that she always uses when +she speaks to Father. (Aunt. Jane doesn't talk to Father much more +than Mother used to.) + +"Charles," she began. + +Father had an astronomy paper beside his plate, and he was so busy +reading he didn't hear, so Aunt Jane had to speak again--a little +louder this time. + +"Charles, I have something to say to you." + +"Eh? What? Oh--er--yes. Well, Jane, what is it?" Father was looking up +with his I'll-be-patient-if-it-kills-me air, and with his forefinger +down on his paper to keep his place. + +As if anybody could talk to a person who's simply tolerating you for a +minute like that, with his forefinger holding on to what he _wants_ to +tend to! Why, I actually found myself being sorry for Aunt Jane. + +She cleared her throat again. + +"It is understood, of course, that Mary is to go to school to-morrow +morning, I suppose," she said. + +"Why, of course, of course," began Father impatiently, looking down at +his paper. "Of course she'll go to--" he stopped suddenly. A complete +change came to his face. He grew red, then white. His eyes sort of +flashed. "School?" he said then, in a hard, decided voice. "Oh, no; +Mary is not going to school to-morrow morning." He looked down to his +paper and began to read again. For him the subject was very evidently +closed. But for Aunt Jane it was _not_ closed. + +"You don't mean, Charles, that she is not to go to school at all, any +more," she gasped. + +"Exactly." Father read on in his paper without looking up. + +"But, Charles, to stop her school like this!" + +"Why not? It closes in a week or two, anyway." + +Aunt Jane's lips came together hard. + +"That's not the question at all," she said, cold like ice. "Charles, +I'm amazed at you--yielding to that child's whims like this--that she +doesn't want to go to school! It's the principle of the thing that I'm +objecting to. Do you realize what it will lead to--what it--" + +"Jane!" With a jerk Father sat up straight. "I realize some things +that perhaps you do not. But that is neither here nor there. I do not +wish Mary to go to school any more this spring. That is all; and I +think--it is sufficient." + +"Certainly." Aunt Jane's lips came together again grim and hard. +"Perhaps you will be good enough to say what she _shall_ do with her +time." + +"Time? Do? Why--er--what she always does; read, sew, study--" + +"Study?" Aunt Jane asked the question with a hateful little smile that +Father would have been blind not to have understood. And he was equal +to it--but I 'most fell over backward when I found _how_ equal to it +he was. + +"Certainly," he says, "study. I--I'll hear her lessons myself--in the +library, after I come home in the afternoon. Now let us hear no more +about it." + +With that he pushed back his plate, stuffed his astronomy paper into +his pocket, and left the table, without waiting for dessert. And Aunt +Jane and I were left alone. + +I didn't say anything. Victors shouldn't boast--and I was a victor, of +course, about the school. But when I thought of what Father had said +about my reciting my lessons to him every day in the library--I wasn't +so sure whether I'd won out or not. Recite lessons to my father? Why, +I couldn't even imagine such a thing! + +Aunt Jane didn't say anything either. I guess she didn't know what to +say. And it was kind of a queer situation, when you came right down to +it. Both of us sitting there and knowing I wasn't going back to school +any more, and I knowing why, and knowing Aunt Jane didn't know why. +(Of course I hadn't told Aunt Jane about Mother and Mrs. Mayhew.) It +would be a funny world, wouldn't it, if we all knew what each other +was thinking all the time? Why, we'd get so we wouldn't do anything +_but_ think--for there wouldn't any of us _speak_ to each other, I'm +afraid, we'd be so angry at what the other was thinking. + +Well, Aunt Jane and I didn't speak that night at the supper-table. We +finished in stern silence; then Aunt Jane went upstairs to her room +and I went up to mine. (You see what a perfectly wildly exciting life +Mary is living! And when I think of how _full_ of good times Mother +wanted every minute to be. But that was for Marie, of course.) + +The next morning after breakfast Aunt Jane said: + +"You will spend your forenoon studying, Mary. See that you learn well +your lessons, so as not to annoy your father." + +"Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite and proper, and went upstairs +obediently; but even Mary didn't know exactly how to study those +lessons. + +Carrie had brought me all my books from school. I had asked her to +when I knew that I was not going back. There were the lessons that had +been assigned for the next day, of course, and I supposed probably +Father would want me to study those. But I couldn't imagine Father +teaching _me_ all alone. And how was I ever going to ask him +questions, if there were things I didn't understand? Besides, I +couldn't imagine myself reciting lessons to Father--_Father_! + +But I needn't have worried. If I could only have known. Little did I +think--But, there, this is no way to tell a story. I read in a book, +"How to Write a Novel," that you mustn't "anticipate." (_I_ thought +folks always anticipated novels. I do. I thought you wanted them to.) + +Well, to go on. + +Father got home at four o'clock. I saw him come up the walk, and I +waited till I was sure he'd got settled in the library, then I went +down. + +_He wasn't there_. + +A minute later I saw him crossing the lawn to the observatory. Well, +what to do I didn't know. Mary said to go after him; but Marie said +nay, nay. And in spite of being Mary just now, I let Marie have her +way. + +Rush after him and tell him he'd forgotten to hear my lessons? +_Father_? Well, I guess not! Besides, it wasn't my fault. _I_ was +there all ready. It wasn't my blame that he wasn't there to hear me. +But he might remember and come back. Well, if he did, _I'd_ be there. +So I went to one of those bookcases and pulled out a touch-me-not +book from behind the glass door. Then I sat down and read till the +supper-bell rang. + +Father was five minutes late to supper. I don't know whether he looked +at me or not. I didn't dare to look at him--until Aunt Jane said, in +her chilliest manner: + +"I trust your daughter had good lessons, Charles." + +I _had_ to look at him then. I just couldn't look anywhere else. So I +was looking straight at him when he gave that funny little startled +glance into my eyes. And into his eyes then there crept the funniest, +dearest little understanding twinkle--and I suddenly realized that +Father, _Father_, was laughing with me at a little secret between +_us_. But 't was only for a second. The next moment his eyes were very +grave and looking at Aunt Jane. + +"I have no cause to complain--of my daughter's lessons to-day," he +said very quietly. Then he glanced over at me again. But I had to look +away _quick_, or I would have laughed right out. + +When he got up from the table he said to me: "I shall expect to see +you to-morrow in the library at four, Mary." + +And Mary answered, "Yes, Father," polite and proper, as she should; +but Marie inside was just chuckling with the joke of it all. + +The next day I watched again at four for Father to come up the walk; +and when he had come in I went down to the library. He was there in +his pet seat before the fireplace. (Father always sits before the +fireplace, whether there's a fire there or not. And sometimes he looks +_so_ funny sitting there, staring into those gray ashes just as if it +was the liveliest kind of a fire he was watching.) + +As I said, he was there, but I had to speak twice before he looked up. +Then, for a minute, he stared vaguely. + +"Eh? Oh! Ah--er--yes, to be sure," he muttered then, "You have come +with your books. Yes, I remember." + +But there wasn't any twinkle in his eyes, nor the least little bit of +an understanding smile; and I _was_ disappointed. I _had_ been looking +for it. I knew then, when I felt so suddenly lost and heart-achey, +that I had been expecting and planning all day on that twinkly +understanding smile. You know you feel worse when you've just found a +father and then lost him! + +And I had lost him. I knew it the minute he sighed and frowned and +got up from his seat and said, oh, yes, to be sure. He was just Dr. +Anderson then--the man who knew all about the stars, and who had +been unmarried to Mother, and who called me "Mary" in an +of-course-you're-my-daughter tone of voice. + +Well, he took my books and heard my lessons, and told me what I was to +study next day. He's done that two days now. + +Oh, I'm so tired of being Mary! And I've got more than four whole +months of it left. I didn't get Mother's letter to-day. Maybe that's +why I'm specially lonesome to-night. + + * * * * * + +_July first_. + +School is done, both the regular school and my school. Not that my +school has amounted to much. Really it hasn't. Oh, for three or four +days he asked questions quite like just a teacher. Then he got to +talking. Sometimes it would be about something in the lessons; +sometimes it would be about a star, or the moon. And he'd get so +interested that I'd think for a minute that maybe the understanding +twinkle would come into his eyes again. But it never did. + +Sometimes it wasn't stars and moons, though, that he talked about. It +was Boston, and Mother. Yes, he did. He talked a lot about Mother. As +I look back at it now, I can see that he did. He asked me all over +again what she did, and about the parties and the folks that came to +see her. He asked again about Mr. Harlow, and about the concert, and +the young man who played the violin, and what was his name, and how +old was he, and did I like him. And then, right in the middle of some +question, or rather, right in the middle of some _answer_ I was giving +_him_, he would suddenly remember he was hearing my lessons, and he +would say, "Come, come, Mary, what has this to do with your lessons?" + +Just as if I was to blame! (But, then, we women always get the blame, +I notice.) And then he'd attend strictly to the books for maybe five +whole minutes--before he asked another question about that party, or +the violinist. + +Naturally the lessons haven't amounted to much, as you can imagine. +But the term was nearly finished, anyway; and my _real_ school is in +Boston, of course. + +It's vacation now. I do hope _that_ will amount to something! + + * * * * * + +_August first._ + +It hasn't, so far--I mean vacation. Really, what a world of +disappointment this is! How on earth I'm going to stand being Mary for +three months more I don't know. But I've got to, I suppose. I've been +here May, June, and July; and that leaves August, September, and +October yet to come. And when I think of Mother and Boston and Marie, +and the darling good times down there where you're really _wanted_, I +am simply crazy. + +If Father wanted me, really wanted me, I wouldn't care a bit. I'd be +willing to be Mary six whole months. Yes, I'd be _glad_ to. But he +doesn't. I'm just here by order of the court. And what can you do when +you're nothing but a daughter by order of the court? + +Since the lessons have stopped, Father's gone back to his +"Good-morning, Mary," and "Good-night," and nothing else, day in and +day out. Lately he's got so he hangs around the house an awful lot, +too, so I can't even do the things I did the first of the month. I +mean that I'd been playing some on the piano, along at the first, +after school closed. Aunt Jane was out in the garden a lot, and Father +out to the observatory, so I just reveled in piano-playing till I +found almost every time I did it that he had come back, and was in the +library with the door open. So I don't dare to play now. + +And there isn't a blessed thing to do. Oh, I have to sew an hour, and +now I have to weed an hour, too; and Aunt Jane tried to have me learn +to cook; but Susie (in the kitchen) flatly refused to have me "messing +around," so Aunt Jane had to give that up. Susie's the one person Aunt +Jane's afraid of, you see. She always threatens to leave if anything +goes across her wishes. So Aunt Jane has to be careful. I heard her +tell Mrs. Small next door that good hired girls were awfully scarce in +Andersonville. + +As I said before, if only there was somebody here that wanted me. But +there isn't. Of course Father doesn't. That goes without saying. And +Aunt Jane doesn't. That goes, too, without saying. Carrie Heywood has +gone away for all summer, so I can't have even her; and of course, I +wouldn't associate with any of the other girls, even if they would +associate with me--which they won't. + +That leaves only Mother's letters. They are dear, and I love them. I +don't know what I'd do without them. And yet, sometimes I think maybe +they're worse than if I didn't have them. They make me so homesick, +and I always cry so after I get them. Still, I know I just couldn't +live a minute if 'twasn't for Mother's letters. + +Besides being so lonesome there's another thing that worries me, too; +and that is, _this_--what I'm writing, I mean. The novel. It's getting +awfully stupid. Nothing happens. _Nothing!_ Of course, if 'twas just +a story I could make up things--lots of them--exciting, interesting +things, like having Mother elope with the violinist, and Father shoot +him and fall in love with Mother all over again, or else with somebody +else, and shoot that one's lover. Or maybe somebody'd try to shoot +Father, and I'd get there just in time to save him. Oh, I'd _love_ +that! + +But this is a real story, so, of course, I can't put in anything only +just what happens; and _nothing happens_. + +And that's another thing. About the love story--I'm afraid there isn't +going to be one. Anyway, there isn't a bit of a sign of one, yet, +unless it's Mother. And of course, I haven't seen her for three +months, so I can't say anything about that. + +Father hasn't got one. I'm sure of that. He doesn't like ladies. I +know he doesn't. He always runs away from them. But they don't run +away from him! Listen. + +As I said before, quite a lot of them call here to see Aunt Jane, and +they come lots of times evenings and late afternoons, and I know now +why they do it. They come then because they think Father'll be at home +at that time; and they want to see him. + +I know it now, but I never thought of it till the other day when +I heard our hired girl, Susie, talking about it with Bridget, the +Smalls' hired girl, over the fence when I was weeding the garden one +day. Then I knew. It was like this: + +Mrs. Darling had been over the night before as usual, and had stayed +an awfully long time talking to Aunt Jane on the front piazza. Father +had been there, too, awhile. She stopped him on his way into the +house. I was there and I heard her. She said: + +"Oh, Mr. Anderson, I'm so glad I saw you! I wanted to ask your advice +about selling poor dear Mr. Darling's law library." + +And then she went on to tell him how she'd had an offer, but she +wasn't sure whether it was a good one or not. And she told him how +highly she prized his opinion, and he was a man of such splendid +judgment, and she felt so alone now with no strong man's shoulder to +lean upon, and she would be so much obliged if he only would tell her +whether he considered that offer a good one or not. + +Father hitched and ahemmed and moved nearer the door all the time she +was talking, and he didn't seem to hear her when she pushed a chair +toward him and asked him to please sit down and tell her what to do; +that she was so alone in the world since poor dear Mr. Darling had +gone. (She always calls him poor dear Mr. Darling now, but Susie +says she didn't when he was alive; she called him something quite +different. I wonder what it was.) + +Well, as I said, Father hitched and fidgeted, and said he didn't know, +he was sure; that she'd better take wiser counsel than his, and that +he was very sorry, but she really must excuse him. And he got through +the door while he was talking just as fast as he could himself, so +that she couldn't get in a single word to keep him. Then he was gone. + +Mrs. Darling stayed on the piazza two whole hours longer, but Father +never came out at all again. + +It was the next morning that Susie said this over the back-yard fence +to Bridget: + +"It does beat all how popular this house is with the ladies--after +college hours!" + +And Bridget chuckled and answered back: + +"Sure it is! An' I do be thinkin' the Widder Darlin' is a heap fonder +of Miss Jane now than she would have been had poor dear Mr. Darlin' +lived!" + +And she chuckled again, and so did Susie. And then, all of a sudden, +I knew. It was Father all those ladies wanted. It was Father Mrs. +Darling wanted. They came here to see him. They wanted to marry him. +_They_ were the prospective suitors. As if I didn't know what Susie +and Bridget meant! I'm no child! + +But all this doesn't make Father like _them_. I'm not sure but it +makes him dislike them. Anyhow, he won't have anything to do with +them. He always runs away over to the observatory, or somewhere, and +won't see them; and I've heard him say things about them to Aunt Jane, +too--words that sound all right, but that don't mean what they say, +and everybody knows they don't. So, as I said before, I don't see any +chance of Father's having a love story to help out this book--not +right away, anyhow. + +As for _my_ love story--I don't see any chance of that's beginning, +either. Yet, seems as if there ought to be the beginning of it by this +time--I'm going on fifteen. Oh, there have been _beginnings_, lots of +them--only Aunt Jane wouldn't let them go on and be endings, though I +told her good and plain that I thought it perfectly all right; and I +reminded her about the brook and river meeting where I stood, and all +that. + +But I couldn't make her see it at all. She said, "Stuff and +nonsense"--and when Aunt Jane says _both_ stuff and nonsense I know +there's nothing _doing_. (Oh, dear, that's slang! Aunt Jane says she +does wish I would eliminate the slang from my vocabulary. Well, I +wish _she'd_ eliminate some of the long words from _hers_. Marie said +that--not Mary.) + +Well, Aunt Jane said stuff and nonsense, and that I was much too young +to run around with silly boys. You see, Charlie Smith had walked home +from school with me twice, but I had to stop that. And Fred Small +was getting so he was over here a lot. Aunt Jane stopped _him_. Paul +Mayhew--yes, _Paul Mayhew_, Stella's brother!--came home with me, too, +and asked me to go with him auto-riding. My, how I did want to go! I +wanted the ride, of course, but especially I wanted to go because he +was Mrs. Mayhew's son. I just wanted to show Mrs. Mayhew! But Aunt +Jane wouldn't let me. That's the time she talked specially about +running around with silly boys. But she needn't have. Paul is no silly +boy. He's old enough to get a license to drive his own car. + +But it wasn't just because he was young that Aunt Jane refused. I +found out afterward. It was because he was any kind of a man paying +me attention. I found that out through Mr. Claude Livingstone. Mr. +Livingstone brings our groceries. He's a _real_ young gentleman--tall, +black mustache, and lovely dark eyes. He goes to our church, and +he asked me to go to the Sunday-School picnic with him. I was _so_ +pleased. And I supposed, of course, Aunt Jane would let me go with +_him. He's_ no silly boy! Besides, I knew him real well, and liked +him. I used to talk to him quite a lot when he brought the groceries. + +But did Aunt Jane let me go? She did not. Why, she seemed almost more +shocked than she had been over Charlie Smith and Fred Small, and the +others. + +"Mercy, child!" she exclaimed. "Where in the world do you pick +up these people?" And she brought out that "these people" _so_ +disagreeably! Why, you'd think Mr. Livingstone was a foreign Japanese, +or something. + +I told her then quietly, and with dignity, and with no temper +(showing), that Mr. Livingstone was not a foreign Japanese, but was a +very nice gentleman; and that I had not picked him up. He came to her +own door himself, almost every day. + +"My own door!" exclaimed Aunt Jane. And she looked absolutely +frightened. "You mean to tell me that that creature has been coming +here to see you, and I not know it?" + +I told her then--again quietly and with dignity, and without temper +(showing)--that he had been coming, not to see me, but in the natural +pursuance of his profession of delivering groceries. And I said +that he was not a creature. On the contrary, he was, I was sure, an +estimable young man. He went to her own church and Sunday-School. +Besides, I could vouch for him myself, as I knew him well, having seen +and talked with him almost every day for a long while, when he came to +the house. + +But nothing I could say seemed to have the least effect upon her at +all, only to make her angrier and angrier, if anything. In fact _I_ +think she showed a great deal of temper for a Christian woman about a +fellow Christian in her own church. + +But she wouldn't let me go to the picnic; and not only that, but I +think she changed grocers, for Mr. Livingstone hasn't been here for a +long time, and when I asked Susie where he was she looked funny, and +said we weren't getting our groceries where Mr. Livingstone worked any +longer. + +Well, of course, that ended that. And there hasn't been any other +since. That's why I say _my_ love story doesn't seem to be getting +along very well. Naturally, when it gets noised around town that your +Aunt Jane won't let you go anywhere with a young man, or let a young +man come to see you, or even walk home with you after the first +time--why, the young men aren't going to do very much toward making +your daily life into a love story. + + * * * * * + +_Two weeks later._ + +A queer thing happened last night. It was like this: + +I think I said before what an awfully stupid time Mary is having of +it, and how I couldn't play now, or make any noise, 'cause Father has +taken to hanging around the house so much. Well, listen what happened. + +Yesterday Aunt Jane went to spend the day with her best friend. She +said for me not to leave the house, as some member of the family +should be there. She told me to sew an hour, weed an hour, dust the +house downstairs and upstairs, and read some improving book an hour. +The rest of the time I might amuse myself. + +Amuse myself! A jolly time I could have all by myself! Even Father +wasn't to be home for dinner, so I wouldn't have _that_ excitement. He +was out of town, and was not to come home till six o'clock. + +It was an awfully hot day. The sun just beat down, and there wasn't +a breath of air. By noon I was simply crazy with my stuffy, +long-sleeved, high-necked blue gingham dress and my great clumpy +shoes. It seemed all of a sudden as if I couldn't stand it--not +another minute--not a single minute more--to be Mary, I mean. And +suddenly I determined that for a while, just a little while, I'd be +Marie again. Why couldn't I? There wasn't anybody going to be there +but just myself, _all day long_. + +I ran then upstairs to the guest-room closet where Aunt Jane had made +me put all my Marie dresses and things when the Mary ones came. Well, +I got out the very fluffiest, softest white dress there was there, and +the little white slippers and the silk stockings that I loved, and the +blue silk sash, and the little gold locket and chain that Mother gave +me that Aunt Jane wouldn't let me wear. And I dressed up. My, didn't +I dress up? And I just _threw_ those old heavy shoes and black cotton +stockings into the corner, and the blue gingham dress after them +(though Mary went right away and picked the dress up, and hung it in +the closet, of course); but I had the fun of throwing it, anyway. + +Oh, how good those Marie things did feel to Mary's hot, tired flesh +and bones, and how I did dance and sing around the room in those light +little slippers! Then Susie rang the dinner-bell and I went down to +the dining-room feeling like a really truly young lady, I can tell +you. + +Susie stared, of course and said, "My, how fine we are to-day!" But I +didn't mind Susie. + +After dinner I went out into the hall and I sang; I sang all over the +house. And I ran upstairs and I ran down; and I jumped all the last +three steps, even if it was so warm. Then I went into the parlor and +played every lively thing that I could think of on the piano. And I +sang there, too--silly little songs that Marie used to sing to Lester. +And I tried to think I was really down there to Boston, singing to +Lester; and that Mother was right in the next room waiting for me. + +Then I stopped and turned around on the piano-stool. And there was the +coffin plate, and the wax cross, and the hair wreath; and the room was +just as still as death. And I knew I wasn't in Boston. I was there in +Andersonville, And there wasn't any Baby Lester there, nor any mother +waiting for me in the next room. And all the fluffy white dresses and +silk stockings in the world wouldn't make me Marie. I was really just +Mary, and I had got to have three whole months more of it. + +And then is when I began to cry. And I cried just as hard as I'd been +singing a minute before. I was on the floor with my head in my arms on +the piano-stool when Father's voice came to me from the doorway. + +"Mary, Mary, what in the world does this mean?" + +I jumped up and stood "at attention," the way you have to, of course, +when fathers speak to you. I couldn't help showing I had been +crying--he had seen it. But I tried very hard to stop now. My first +thought, after my startled realization that he was there, was to +wonder how long he had been there--how much of all that awful singing +and banging he had heard. + +"Yes, sir." I tried not to have my voice shake as I said it; but I +couldn't quite help that. + +"What is the meaning of this, Mary? Why are you crying?" + +I shook my head. I didn't want to tell him, of course; so I just +stammered out something about being sorry I had disturbed him. Then +I edged toward the door to show him that if he would step one side I +would go away at once and not bother him any longer. + +But he didn't step one side. He asked more questions, one right after +another. + +"Are you sick, Mary?" + +I shook my head. + +"Did you hurt yourself?" + +I shook my head again. + +"It isn't--your mother--you haven't had bad news from her?" + +And then I blurted it out without thinking--without thinking at all +what I was saying: "No, no--but I wish I had, I wish I had; 'cause +then I could go to her, and go away from here!" The minute I'd said +it I _knew_ what I'd said, and how awful it sounded; and I clapped my +fingers to my lips. But 'twas too late. It's always too late, when +you've once said it. So I just waited for him to thunder out his +anger; for, of course, I thought he _would_ thunder in rage and +righteous indignation. + +But he didn't. Instead, very quietly and gently he said: + +"Are you so unhappy, then, Mary--here?" + +And I looked at him, and his eyes and his mouth and his whole face +weren't angry at all. They were just sorry, actually sorry. And +somehow, before I knew it, I was crying again, and Father, with his +arm around me--_with his arm around me!_ think of that!--was leading +me to the sofa. + +And I cried and cried there, with my head on the arm of the sofa, till +I'd made a big tear spot on the linen cover; and I wondered if it +would dry up before Aunt Jane saw it, or if it would change color +or leak through to the red plush underneath, or some other dreadful +thing. And then, some way, I found myself telling it all over to +Father--about Mary and Marie, I mean, just as if he was Mother, or +some one I loved--I mean, some one I loved and _wasn't afraid of_; for +of course I love Father. Of course I do! + +Well, I told him everything (when I got started there was no +stopping)--all about how hard it was to be Mary, and how to-day I had +tried to be Marie for just a little while, to rest me. He interrupted +here, and wanted to know if that was why I looked so different +to-day--more as I had when I first came; and I said yes, that these +were Marie things that Mary couldn't wear. And when he asked, "Why, +pray?" in a voice almost cross, I told him, of course, that Aunt Jane +wouldn't let me; that Mary had to wear brown serge and calfskin boots +that were durable, and that would wear well. + +And when I told him how sorry I was about the music and such a noise +as I'd been making, he asked if _that_ was Marie's fault, too; and I +said yes, of course--that Aunt Jane didn't like to have Mary play at +all, except hymns and funeral marches, and Mary didn't know any. And +he grunted a queer little grunt, and said, "Well, well, upon my soul, +upon my soul!" Then he said, "Go on." And I did go on. + +I told him how I was afraid it _was_ going to be just like Dr. Jekyll +and Mr. Hyde. (I forgot to say I've read it now. I found it in +Father's library.) Of course not _just_ like it, only one of me was +going to be bad, and one good, I was afraid, if I didn't look out. I +told him how Marie always wanted to kick up rugs, and move the chairs +out of their sockets in the carpet, and leave books around handy, and +such things. And so to-day it seemed as if I'd just got to have a +vacation from Mary's hot gingham dresses and clumpy shoes. And I told +him how lonesome I was without anybody, not _anybody_; and I told +about Charlie Smith and Paul Mayhew and Mr. Claude Livingstone, +and how Aunt Jane wouldn't let me have them, either, even if I was +standing where the brook and river meet. + +Father gave another funny little grunt here, and got up suddenly and +walked over to the window. I thought at first he was angry; but he +wasn't. He was even more gentle when he came back and sat down again, +and he seemed interested, very much interested in everything I told +him. But I stopped just in time from saying again how I wished I could +go back to Boston; but I'm not sure but he knew I was going to say it. + +But he was very nice and kind and told me not to worry about the +music--that he didn't mind it at all. He'd been in several times and +heard it. And I thought almost, by the way he spoke, that he'd come in +on purpose to hear it; but I guess that was a mistake. He just put it +that way so I wouldn't worry over it--about its bothering him, I mean. + +He was going to say more, maybe; but I don't know, I had to run. I +heard Aunt Jane's voice on the piazza saying good-bye to the lady that +had brought her home; so, of course, I had to run and hang Marie in +the closet and get out Mary from the corner before she saw me. And I +did. + +By dinner-time I had on the gingham dress and the hot clumpy shoes +again; and I had washed my face in cold water so I had got most of the +tear spots off. I didn't want Aunt Jane to see them and ask questions, +of course. And I guess she didn't. Anyway, she didn't say anything. + +Father didn't say anything either, but he acted queer. Aunt Jane tried +to tell him something about the missionary meeting and the heathen, +and a great famine that was raging. At first he didn't say anything; +then he said, oh, yes, to be sure, how very interesting, and he was +glad, very glad. And Aunt Jane was so disgusted, and accused him +of being even more absent-minded than usual, which was entirely +unnecessary, she said. + +But even that didn't move Father a mite. He just said, yes, yes, very +likely; and went on scowling to himself and stirring his coffee after +he'd drank it all up--I mean, stirring where it had been in the cup. + +I didn't know but after supper he'd speak to me and ask me to come to +the library. I _hoped_ he would. There were lots more things I'd like +to have said to him. But he didn't. He never said a word. He just kept +scowling, and got up from the table and went off by himself. But he +didn't go out to the observatory, as he most generally does. He went +into the library and shut the door. + +He was there when the telephone message came at eight o'clock. And +what do you think? He'd _forgotten_ he was going to speak before the +College Astronomy Club that evening! Forgotten his old stars for once. +I don't know why. I did think, for a minute, 'twas 'cause of me--what +I'd told him. But I knew, of course, right away that it couldn't be +that. He'd never forget his stars for _me_! Probably he was just +reading up about some other stars, or had forgotten how late it was, +or something. (Father's always forgetting things.) But, anyway, when +Aunt Jane called him he got his hat and hurried off without so much +as one word to me, who was standing near, or to Aunt Jane, who was +following him all through the hall, and telling him in her most +I'm-amazed-at-you voice how shockingly absent-minded he was getting to +be. + + * * * * * + +_One week later._ + +Father's been awfully queer this whole week through. I can't make him +out at all. Sometimes I think he's glad I told him all those things in +the parlor that day I dressed up in Marie's things, and sometimes I +think he's sorry and wished I hadn't. + +The very next morning he came down to breakfast with such a funny look +on his face. He said good-morning to me three times, and all through +breakfast he kept looking over at me with a kind of scowl that was not +cross at all--just puzzled. + +After breakfast he didn't go out to the observatory, not even into the +library. He fidgeted around the dining-room till Aunt Jane went out +into the kitchen to give her orders to Susie; then he burst out, all +of a sudden: + +"Well, Mary, what shall we do to-day?" Just like that he said it, as +if we'd been doing things together every day of our lives. + +"D-do?" I asked; and I know I showed how surprised I was by the way I +stammered and flushed up. + +"Certainly, do," he answered, impatient and scowling. "What shall we +do?" + +"Why, Father, I--I don't know," I stammered again. + +"Come, come, of course you know!" he cried. "You know what you want to +do, don't you?" + +I shook my head. I was so astonished I couldn't even think. And when +you can't think you certainly can't talk. + +"Nonsense, Mary," scowled Father again. "Of course you know what +you want to do! What are you in the habit of doing with your young +friends--your Carries and Charlies, and all the rest?" + +I guess I just stood and stared and didn't say anything; for after a +minute he cried: "Well--well--well? I'm waiting." + +"Why, we--we walk--and talk--and play games," I began; but right away +he interrupted. + +"Good! Very well, then, we'll walk. I'm not Carrie or Charlie, but I +believe I can walk and talk--perhaps even play games. Who knows? Come, +get your hat." + +And I got my hat, and we went. + +But what a funny, funny walk that was! He meant to make it a good one; +I know he did. And he tried. He tried real hard. But he walked so +fast I couldn't half keep up with him; then, when he saw how I was +hurrying, he'd slow down, 'way down, and look so worried--till he'd +forget and go striding off again, way ahead of me. + +We went up on the hill through the Benton woods, and it was perfectly +lovely up there. He didn't say much at first. Then, all of a sudden, +he began to talk, about anything and everything. And I knew, by the +way he did it, that he'd just happened to think he'd got to talk. + +And how he talked! He asked me was I warmly clad (and here it is +August!), and did I have a good breakfast, and how old was I, and did +I enjoy my studies--which shows how little he was really thinking what +he was saying. He knows school closed ages ago. Wasn't he teaching me +himself the last of it, too? All around us were flowers and birds, and +oh, so many, many lovely things. But he never said a word about them. +He just talked--because he'd got to talk. I knew it, and it made me +laugh inside, though all the while it made me sort of want to cry, +too. Funny, wasn't it? + +After a time he didn't talk any more, but just walked on and on; and +by and by we came home. + +Of course, it wasn't awfully jolly--that walk wasn't; and I guess +Father didn't think it was either. Anyhow, he hasn't asked me to +go again this week, and he looked tired and worried and sort of +discouraged when he got back from that one. + +But he's asked me to do other things. The next day after the walk he +asked me to play to him. Yes, he _asked_ me to; and he went into the +parlor and sat down on one of the chairs and listened while I played +three pieces. Of course, I didn't play loud ones, nor very fast ones, +and I was so scared I'm afraid I didn't play them very well. But he +was very polite and said, "Thank you, Mary," and, "That that was very +nice"; then he stood up and said, "Thank you" again and went away into +the library, very polite, but stiff, like company. + +The next evening he took me out to the observatory to see the stars. +That was lovely. Honestly I had a perfectly beautiful time, and I +think Father did, too. He wasn't stiff and polite one bit. Oh, I don't +mean that he was _impolite_ or rude. It's just that he wasn't stiff +as if I was company. And he was so happy with his stars and his +telescope, and so glad to show them to me--oh, I had a beautiful time, +and I told him so; and he looked real pleased. But Aunt Jane came for +me before I'd had half enough, and I had to go to bed. + +The next morning I thought he'd be different, somehow, because we'd +had such a lovely time together the night before. But he wasn't. He +just said, "Good-morning, Mary," and began to read his paper. And he +read his paper all through breakfast without saying another word to +me. Then he got up and went into the library, and I never saw him +again all day except at dinner-time and supper-time, and _then_ he +didn't talk to me. + +But after supper he took me out again to see the stars, and he was +just as nice and friendly as could be. Not a bit like a man that's +only a father by order of the court. But the next day--! + +Well--and that's the way it's been all the week. And that's why I say +he's been so queer. One minute he'll be just as nice and folksy as you +could ask anybody to be, and the very next he's looking right through +you as if he didn't see you at all, and you wonder and wonder what's +the matter, and if you've done anything to displease him. + +Sometimes he seems almost glad and happy, and then he'll look so sorry +and sad! + +I just can't understand my father at all. + + * * * * * + +_Another week later_. + +I'm so excited I don't know what to do. The most wonderful thing has +happened. I can't hardly believe it yet myself. Yet it's so. My trunk +is all packed, and I'm to go home to-morrow. _To-morrow!_ + +This is the way it happened. + +Mother wrote Aunt Jane and asked if I might not be allowed to come +home for the opening of school in September. She said she understood +quite well that she had no _right_ to ask this, and, of course, if +they saw fit, they were entirely within their rights to refuse to +allow me to go until the allotted time. But that she could not help +asking it for my sake, on account of the benefit to be derived from +being there at the opening of the school year. + +Of course, I didn't know Mother was going to write this. But she knew +all about the school here, and how I came out, and everything. I've +always told Mother everything that has happened. Oh, of course, I +haven't written "every few minutes," as she asked me to. (That was a +joke, anyway, of course.) But I have written every few days, and, as I +said before, I told her everything. + +Well, when the letter came I took it to Aunt Jane myself; and I was +_crazy_ to know what was in it, for I recognized the writing, of +course. But Aunt Jane didn't tell me. She opened it, read it, kind of +flushed up, and said, "Humph! The idea!" under her breath, and put the +letter in her pocket. + +Marie wanted to make a scene and insist on knowing what was in her own +mother's letter; but Mary contented herself with looking superb and +haughty and disdainful, and marching out of the room without giving +Aunt Jane the satisfaction of even being asked what was in that +letter. + +But at the table that noon Aunt Jane read it to Father out loud. So +that's how I came to know just what was in it. She started first to +hand it over to him to read; but as he put out his hand to take it I +guess he saw the handwriting, for he drew back quickly, looking red +and queer. + +"From Mrs. Anderson to you?" he asked. And when Aunt Jane nodded her +head he sat still farther back in his chair and said, with a little +wave of his hand, "I never care to read--other people's letters." + +Aunt Jane said, "Stuff and nonsense, Charles, don't be silly!" But she +pulled back the letter and read it--after giving a kind of an uneasy +glance in my direction. + +Father never looked up once while she was reading it. He kept his eyes +on his plate and the baked beans he was eating. I watched him. You +see, I knew, by Aunt Jane's reading the letter to him, that it was +something he had got to decide; and when I found out what it was, of +course, I was just crazy. I wanted to go so. So I watched Father's +face to see if he was going to let me go. But I couldn't make out. I +couldn't make out at all. It changed--oh, yes, it changed a great deal +as she read; but I couldn't make out what kind of a change it was at +all. + +Aunt Jane finished the letter and began to fold it up. I could see she +was waiting for Father to speak; but he never said a word. He kept +right on--eating beans. + +Then Aunt Jane cleared her throat and spoke. + +"You will not let her go, of course, Charles; but naturally I had to +read the letter to you. I will write to Mrs. Anderson to-night." + +Father looked up then. + +"Yes," he said quietly; "and you may tell her, please, that Mary +_will_ go." + +"Charles!" + +Aunt Jane said that. But I--I almost ran around the table and hugged +him. (Oh, how I wish he was the kind of a father you could do that +to!) + +"Charles!" said Aunt Jane again. "Surely you aren't going to give in +so tamely as this to that child and her mother!" + +"I'm not giving in at all, Jane," said Father, very quietly again. "I +am consulting my own wishes in the matter. I prefer to have her go." + +_I_ 'most cried out then. Some way, it _hurt_ to have him say it like +that, right out--that he _wanted_ me to go. You see, I'd begun to +think he was getting so he didn't mind so very much having me here. +All the last two weeks he'd been different, really different. But more +of that anon. I'll go on with what happened at the table. And, as I +said, I did feel bad to have him speak like that. And I can remember +now just how the lump came right up in my throat. + +Then Aunt Jane spoke, stiff and dignified. + +"Oh, very well, of course, if you put it that way. I can quite well +understand that you would want her to go--for _your_ sake. But I +thought that, under the circumstances, you would manage somehow to put +up with the noise and--" + +"Jane!" Just like that he interrupted, and he thundered, too, so that +Aunt Jane actually jumped. And I guess I did, too. He had sprung to +his feet. "Jane, let us close this matter once for all. I am not +letting the child go for _my_ sake. I am letting her go for her own. +So far as I am concerned, if I consulted no one's wishes but my own, I +should--keep her here always." + +With that he turned and strode from the room, leaving Aunt Jane and me +just staring after him. + +But only for a minute did _I_ stare. It came to me then what he had +said--that he would like to keep me here _always_. For I had heard it, +even if he had said the last word very low, and in a queer, indistinct +voice. I was sure I had heard it, and I suddenly realized what it +meant. So I ran after him; and that time, if I had found him, I think +I _would_ have hugged him. But I didn't find him. He must have gone +quite away from the house. He wasn't even out to the observatory. I +went out to see. + +He didn't come in all the afternoon. I watched for that, too. And when +he did come--well, I wouldn't have dared to hug him then. He had his +very sternest I-am-not-thinking-of-you-at-all air, and he just came +in to supper and then went into the library without saying hardly +anything. Yet, some way, the look on his face made me cry. I don't +know why. + +The next day he was more as he has been since we had that talk in the +parlor. And he _has_ been different since then, you know. He really +has. He has talked quite a lot with me, as I have said, and I think +he's been trying, part of the time, to find something I'll be +interested in. Honestly, I think he's been trying to make up +for Carrie Heywood and Stella Mayhew and Charlie Smith and Mr. +Livingstone. I think that's why he took me to walk that day in the +woods, and why he took me out to the observatory to see the stars +quite a number of times. Twice he's asked me to play to him, and once +he asked me if Mary wasn't about ready to dress up in Marie's clothes +again. But he was joking then, I knew, for Aunt Jane was right there +in the house. Besides, I saw the twinkle in his eyes that I've seen +there once or twice before. I just love that twinkle in Father's eyes! + +But that hasn't come any since Mother's letter to Aunt Jane arrived. +He's been the same in one way, yet different in another. Honestly, if +it didn't seem too wildly absurd for anything, I should say he was +actually sorry to have me go. But, of course, that isn't possible. Oh, +yes, I know he said that day at the dinner-table that he should like +to keep me always. But I don't think he really meant it. He hasn't +acted a mite like that since, and I guess he said it just to hush up +Aunt Jane, and make her stop arguing the matter. + +Anyway, I'm _going_ to-morrow. And I'm so excited I can hardly +breathe. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +WHEN I AM BOTH TOGETHER + + +BOSTON AGAIN. + +Well, I came last night. Mother and Grandfather and Aunt Hattie and +Baby Lester all met me at the station. And, my! wasn't I glad to see +them? Well, I just guess I was! + +I was specially glad on account of having such a dreadful time with +Father that morning. I mean, I was feeling specially lonesome and +homesick, and not-belonging-anywhere like. + +You see, it was this way: I'd been sort of hoping, I know, that at +the last, when I came to really go, Father would get back the +understanding smile and the twinkle, and show that he really _did_ +care for me, and was sorry to have me go. But, dear me! Why, he +never was so stern and solemn, and +you're-my-daughter-only-by-the-order-of-the-court sort of way as he +was that morning. + +He never even spoke at the breakfast-table. (He wasn't there hardly +long enough to speak, anyway, and he never ate a thing, only his +coffee--I mean he drank it.) Then he pushed his chair back from the +table and stalked out of the room. + +He went to the station with me; but he didn't talk there much, only to +ask if I was sure I hadn't forgotten anything, and was I warmly clad. +Warmly clad, indeed! And there it was still August, and hot as it +could be! But that only goes to show how absent-minded he was, and how +little he was really thinking of _me_! + +Well, of course, he got my ticket and checked my trunk, and did all +those proper, necessary things; then we sat down to wait for the +train. But did he stay with me and talk to me and tell me how glad he +had been to have me with him, and how sorry he was to have me go, and +all the other nice, polite things 'most everybody thinks they've got +to say when a visitor goes away? He did not. He asked me again if I +was sure I had not left anything, and was I warmly clad; then he took +out his newspaper and began to read. That is, he pretended to read; +but I don't believe he read much, for he never turned the sheet once; +and twice, when I looked at him, he was looking fixedly at me, as if +he was thinking of something. So I guess he was just pretending to +read, so he wouldn't have to talk to me. + +But he didn't even do that long, for he got up and went over and +looked at a map hanging on the wall opposite, and at a big time-table +near the other corner. Then he looked at his watch again with a +won't-that-train-ever-come? air, and walked back to me and sat down. + +And how do you suppose _I_ felt, to have him act like that before all +those people--to show so plainly that he was just longing to have me +go? I guess he wasn't any more anxious for that train to come than _I_ +was. And it did seem as if it never would come, too. And it didn't +come for ages. It was ten minutes late. + +Oh, I did so hope he wouldn't go down to the junction. It's so hard to +be taken care of "because it's my duty, you know"! But he went. I told +him he needn't, when he was getting on the train with me. I told him I +just knew I could do it beautifully all by myself, almost-a-young lady +like me. But he only put his lips together hard, and said, cold, like +ice: "Are you then so eager to be rid of me?" Just as if _I_ was the +one that was eager to get rid of somebody! + +Well, as I said, he went. But he wasn't much better on the train than +he had been in the station. He was as nervous and fidgety as a witch, +and he acted as if he did so wish it would be over and over quick. But +at the junction--at the junction a funny thing happened. He put me on +the train, just as Mother had done, and spoke to the conductor. (How +I hated to have him do that! Why, I'm six whole months older, 'most, +than I was when I went up there!) And then when he'd put me in my +seat (Father, I mean; not the conductor), all of a sudden he leaned +over and kissed me; _kissed me--Father_! Then, before I could speak, +or even look at him, he was gone; and I didn't see him again, though +it must have been five whole minutes before that train went. + +I had a nice trip down to Boston, though nothing much happened. This +conductor was not near so nice and polite as the one I had coming up; +and there wasn't any lady with a baby to play with, nor any nice young +gentleman to loan me magazines or buy candy for me. But it wasn't a +very long ride from the junction to Boston, anyway. So I didn't mind. +Besides, I knew I had Mother waiting for me. + +And wasn't I glad to get there? Well, I just guess I was! And _they_ +acted as if they were glad to see me--Mother, Grandfather, Aunt +Hattie, and even Baby Lester. He knew me, and remembered me. He'd +grown a lot, too. And they said I had, and that I looked very nice. (I +forgot to say that, of course, I had put on the Marie clothes to come +home in--though I honestly think Aunt Jane wanted to send me home in +Mary's blue gingham and calfskin shoes. As if I'd have appeared in +Boston in _that_ rig!) + +My, but it was good to get into an automobile again and just _go_! And +it was so good to have folks around you dressed in something besides +don't-care black alpaca and stiff collars. And I said so. And Mother +seemed so pleased. + +"You did want to come back to me, darling, didn't you?" she cried, +giving me a little hug. And she looked so happy when I told her all +over again how good it seemed to be Marie again, and have her and +Boston, and automobiles, and pretty dresses and folks and noise again. + +She didn't say anything about Father then; but later, when we were up +in my pretty room alone, and I was taking off my things, she made me +tell her that Father _hadn't_ won my love away from her, and that I +_didn't_ love him better than I did her; and that I _wouldn't_ rather +stay with him than with her. + +Then she asked me a lot of questions about what I did there, and Aunt +Jane, and how she looked, and Father, and was he as fond of stars as +ever (though she must have known 'most everything, 'cause I'd already +written it, but she asked me just the same). And she seemed real +interested in everything I told her. + +And she asked was he lonesome; and I told her no, I didn't think so; +and that, anyway, he could have all the ladies' company he wanted by +just being around when they called. And when she asked what I meant, I +told her about Mrs. Darling, and the rest, and how they came evenings +and Sundays, and how Father didn't like them, but would flee to the +observatory. And she laughed and looked funny, for a minute. But right +away she changed and looked very sober, with the kind of expression +she has when she stands up in church and says the Apostles' Creed on +Sunday; only this time she said she was very sorry, she was sure; that +she hoped my father would find some estimable woman who would make a +good home for him. + +Then the dinner-gong sounded, and she didn't say any more. + +There was company that evening. The violinist. He brought his violin, +and he and Mother played a whole hour together. He's awfully handsome. +I think he's lovely. Oh, I do so hope he's _the_ one! Anyhow, I hope +there's _some_ one. I don't want this novel to all fizzle out without +there being _any_ one to make it a love story! Besides, as I said +before, I'm particularly anxious that Mother shall find somebody to +marry her, so she'll stop being divorced, anyway. + + * * * * * + +_A month later_. + +Yes, I know it's been _ages_ since I've written here in this book; but +there just hasn't been a minute's time. + +First, of course, school began, and I had to attend to that. And, of +course, I had to tell the girls all about Andersonville--except the +parts I didn't want to tell, about Stella Mayhew, and my coming out of +school. I didn't tell _that_. And right here let me say how glad I was +to get back to this school--a real school--so different from that one +up in Andersonville! For that matter, _everything's_ different here +from what it is in Andersonville. I'd so much rather be Marie than +Mary. I know I won't ever be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde here. I'll be the +good one all the time. + +It's funny how much easier it is to be good in silk stockings and a +fluffy white dress than it is in blue gingham and calfskin. Oh, I'll +own up that Marie forgets sometimes and says things Mary used to say; +like calling Olga a hired girl instead of a maid, as Aunt Hattie +wants, and saying dinner instead of luncheon at noon, and some other +things. + +I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother one day that it was going to take +about the whole six months to break Mary Marie of those outlandish +country ways of hers. (So, you see, it isn't all honey and pie even +for Marie. This trying to be Mary and Marie, even six months apart, +isn't the easiest thing ever was!) I don't think Mother liked it very +well--what Aunt Hattie said about my outlandish ways. I didn't hear +all Mother said, but I knew by the way she looked and acted, and the +little I did hear, that she didn't care for that word "outlandish" +applied to her little girl--not at all. + +Mother's a dear. And she's so happy! And, by the way, I think it _is_ +the violinist. He's here a lot, and she's out with him to concerts +and plays, and riding in his automobile. And she always puts on her +prettiest dresses, and she's very particular about her shoes, and her +hats, that they're becoming, and all that. Oh, I'm so excited! And I'm +having such a good time watching them! Oh, I don't mean watching them +in a disagreeable way, so that they _see_ it; and, of course, I don't +listen--not the sneak kind of listening. But, of course, I have to get +all I can--for the book, you know; and, of course, if I just happen +to be in the window-seat corner in the library and hear things +accidentally, why, that's all right. + +And I have heard things. + +He says her eyes are lovely. He likes her best in blue. He's very +lonely, and he never found a woman before who really understood him. +He thinks her soul and his are tuned to the same string. (Oh, dear! +That sounds funny and horrid, and not at all the way it did when _he_ +said it. It was beautiful then. But--well, that is what it meant, +anyway.) + +She told him she was lonely, too, and that she was very glad to +have him for a friend; and he said he prized her friendship above +everything else in the world. And he looks at her, and follows her +around the room with his eyes; and she blushes up real pink and pretty +lots of times when he comes into the room. + +Now, if that isn't making love to each other, I don't know what _is_. +I'm sure he's going to propose. Oh, I'm so excited! + +Oh, yes, I know if he does propose and she says yes, he'll be my new +father. I understand that. And, of course, I can't help wondering how +I'll like it. Sometimes I think I won't like it at all. Sometimes I +almost catch myself wishing that I didn't have to have any new father +or mother. I'd _never_ need a new mother, anyway, and I wouldn't need +a new father if my father-by-order-of-the-court would be as nice as he +was there two or three times in the observatory. + +But, there! After all, I must remember that I'm not the one that's +doing the choosing. It's Mother. And if she wants the violinist I +mustn't have anything to say. Besides, I really like him very much, +anyway. He's the best of the lot. I'm sure of that. And that's +something. And then, of course, I'm glad to have something to make +this a love story, and best of all I would be glad to have Mother stop +being divorced, anyway. + +Mr. Harlow doesn't come here any more, I guess. Anyway, I haven't seen +him here once since I came back; and I haven't heard anybody mention +his name. + +Quite a lot of the others are here, and there are some new ones. But +the violinist is here most, and Mother seems to go out with him most +to places. That's why I say I think it's the violinist. + +I haven't heard from Father. + +Now just my writing that down that way shows that I _expected_ to hear +from him, though I don't really see why I should, either. Of course, +he never _has_ written to me; and, of course, I understand that I'm +nothing but his daughter by order of the court. But, some way, I did +think maybe he'd write me just a little bit of a note in answer to +mine--my bread-and-butter letter, I mean; for of course, Mother had me +write that to him as soon as I got here. + +But he hasn't. + +I wonder how he's getting along, and if he misses me any. But of +course, he doesn't do _that_. If I was a star, now--! + + * * * * * + +_Two days after Thanksgiving_. + +The violinist has got a rival. I'm sure he has. It's Mr. Easterbrook. +He's old--much as forty--and bald-headed and fat, and has got lots of +money. And he's a very estimable man. (I heard Aunt Hattie say that.) +He's awfully jolly, and I like him. He brings me the loveliest boxes +of candy, and calls me Puss. (I don't like _that_, particularly. I'd +prefer him to call me Miss Anderson.) He's not nearly so good-looking +as the violinist. The violinist is lots more thrilling, but I +shouldn't wonder if Mr. Easterbrook was more comfortable to live with. + +The violinist is the kind of a man that makes you want to sit up and +take notice, and have your hair and finger nails and shoes just right; +but with Mr. Easterbrook you wouldn't mind a bit sitting in a big +chair before the fire with a pair of old slippers on, if your feet +were tired. + +Mr. Easterbrook doesn't care for music. He's a broker. He looks +awfully bored when the violinist is playing, and he fidgets with his +watch-chain, and clears his throat very loudly just before he +speaks every time. His automobile is bigger and handsomer than the +violinist's. (Aunt Hattie says the violinist's automobile is a hired +one.) And Mr. Easterbrook's flowers that he sends to Mother are +handsomer, too, and lots more of them, than the violinist's. Aunt +Hattie has noticed that, too. In fact, I guess there isn't anything +about Mr. Easterbrook that she doesn't notice. + +Aunt Hattie likes Mr. Easterbrook lots better than she does the +violinist. I heard her talking to Mother one day. She said that any +one that would look twice at a lazy, shiftless fiddler with probably +not a dollar laid by for a rainy day, when all the while there was +just waiting to be picked an estimable gentleman of independent +fortune and stable position like Mr. Easterbrook--well, she had her +opinion of her; that's all. She meant Mother, of course. _I_ knew +that. I'm no child. + +Mother knew it, too; and she didn't like it. She flushed up and bit +her lip, and answered back, cold, like ice. + +"I understand, of course, what you mean, Hattie; but even if I +acknowledged that this very estimable, unimpeachable gentleman was +waiting to be picked (which I do not), I should have to remind you +that I've already had one experience with an estimable, unimpeachable +gentleman of independent fortune and stable position, and I do not +care for another." + +"But, my dear Madge," began Aunt Hattie again, "to marry a man without +_any_ money--" + +"I haven't married him yet," cut in Mother, cold again, like ice. "But +let me tell you this, Hattie. I'd rather live on bread and water in +a log cabin with the man I loved than in a palace with an estimable, +unimpeachable gentleman who gave me the shivers every time he came +into the room." + +And it was just after she said this that I interrupted. I was right in +plain, sight in the window-seat reading; but I guess they'd forgotten +I was there, for they both jumped a lot when I spoke. And yet I'll +leave it to you if what I said wasn't perfectly natural. + +"Of course, you would, Mother!" I cried. "And, anyhow, if you did +marry the violinist, and you found out afterward you didn't like him, +that wouldn't matter a mite, for you could _un_marry him at any time, +just as you did Father, and--" + +But they wouldn't let me finish. They wouldn't let me say anything +more. Mother cried, "_Marie_!" in her most I'm-shocked-at-you voice; +and Aunt Hattie cried, "Child--child!" And she seemed shocked, too. +And both of them threw up their hands and looked at each other in the +did-you-ever-hear-such-a-dreadful-thing? way that old folks do when +young folks have displeased them. And them they both went right out of +the room, talking about the unfortunate effect on a child's mind, and +perverted morals, and Mother reproaching Aunt Hattie for talking about +those things before that child (meaning me, of course). Then they got +too far down the hall for me to hear any more. But I don't see why +they needed to have made such a fuss. It wasn't any secret that Mother +got a divorce; and if she got one once, of course she could again. +(That's what I'm going to do when I'm married, if I grow tired of +him--my husband, I mean.) Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Mayhew and her crowd +don't seem to think divorces are very nice; but there needn't anybody +try to make me think that anything my mother does isn't perfectly nice +and all right. And _she_ got a divorce. So, there! + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +There hasn't much happened--only one or two things. But maybe I'd +better tell them before I forget it, especially as they have a good +deal to do with the love part of the story. And I'm always so glad to +get anything of that kind. I've been so afraid this wouldn't be much +of a love story, after all. But I guess it will be, all right. Anyhow, +I _know_ Mother's part will be, for it's getting more and more +exciting--about Mr. Easterbrook and the violinist, I mean. + +They both want Mother. Anybody can see that now, and, of course, +Mother sees it. But which she'll take I don't know. Nobody knows. It's +perfectly plain to be seen, though, which one Grandfather and Aunt +Hattie want her to take! It's Mr. Easterbrook. + +And he is awfully nice. He brought me a perfectly beautiful bracelet +the other day--but Mother wouldn't let me keep it. So he had to take +it back. I don't think he liked it very well, and I didn't like it, +either. I _wanted_ that bracelet. But Mother says I'm much too young +to wear much jewelry. Oh, will the time ever come when I'll be old +enough to take my proper place in the world? Sometimes it seems as if +it never would! + +Well, as I said, it's plain to be seen who it is that Grandfather +and Aunt Hattie favor; but I'm not so sure about Mother. Mother acts +funny. Sometimes she won't go with either of them anywhere; then she +seems to want to go all the time. And she acts as if she didn't care +which she went with, so long as she was just going--somewhere. I +think, though, she really likes the violinist the best; and I guess +Grandfather and Aunt Hattie think so, too. + +Something happened last night. Grandfather began to talk at the +dinner-table. He'd heard something he didn't like about the violinist, +I guess, and he started in to tell Mother. But they stopped him. +Mother and Aunt Hattie looked at him and then at me, and then back to +him, in their most see-who's-here!--you-mustn't-talk-before-her way. +So he shrugged his shoulders and stopped. + +But I guess he told them in the library afterwards, for I heard them +all talking very excitedly, and some loud; and I guess Mother didn't +like what they said, and got quite angry, for I heard her say, when +she came out through the door, that she didn't believe a word of it, +and she thought it was a wicked, cruel shame to tell stories like that +just because they didn't like a man. + +This morning she broke an engagement with Mr. Easterbrook to go +auto-riding and went with the violinist to a morning musicale instead; +and after she'd gone Aunt Hattie sighed and looked at Grandfather and +shrugged her shoulders, and said she was afraid they'd driven her +straight into the arms of the one they wanted to avoid, and that Madge +always _would_ take the part of the under dog. + +I suppose they thought I wouldn't understand. But I did, perfectly. +They meant that by telling stories about the violinist they'd been +hoping to get her to give him up, but instead of that, they'd made her +turn to him all the more, just because she was so sorry for him. + +Funny, isn't it? + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +Well, I guess now something has happened all right! And let me say +right away that _I_ don't like that violinist now, either, any better +than Grandfather and Aunt Hattie. And it's not entirely because of +what happened last night, either. It's been coming on for quite a +while--ever since I first saw him talking to Theresa in the hall when +she let him in one night a week ago. + +Theresa is awfully pretty, and I guess he thinks, so. Anyhow, I heard +him telling her so in the hall, and she laughed and blushed and looked +sideways at him. Then they saw me, and he stiffened up and said, very +proper and dignified, "Kindly hand my card to Mrs. Anderson." And +Theresa said, "Yes, sir." And she was very proper and dignified, too. + +Well, that was the beginning. I can see now that it was, though, I +never thought of its meaning anything then, only that he thought +Theresa was a pretty girl, just as we all do. + +But four days ago I saw them again. He tried to put his arm around her +that time, and the very next day he tried to kiss her, and after a +minute she let him. More than once, too. And last night I heard him +tell her she was the dearest girl in all the world, and he'd be +perfectly happy if he could only marry her. + +Well, you can imagine how I felt, when I thought all the time it was +Mother he was coming to see! And now to find out that it was Theresa +he wanted all the time, and he was only coming to see Mother so he +could see Theresa! + +At first I was angry,--just plain angry; and I was frightened, too, +for I couldn't help worrying about Mother--for fear she would mind, +you know, when she found out that it was Theresa that he cared for, +after all. I remembered what a lot Mother had been with him, and the +pretty dresses and hats she'd put on for him, and all that. And I +thought how she'd broken engagements with Mr. Easterbrook to go with +him, and it made me angry all over again. And I thought how _mean_ it +was of him to use poor Mother as a kind of shield to hide his courting +of Theresa! I was angry, too, to have my love story all spoiled, when +I was getting along so beautifully with Mother and the violinist. + +But I'm feeling better now. I've been thinking it over. I don't +believe Mother's going to care so very much. I don't believe she'd +_want_ a man that would pretend to come courting her, when all the +while he was really courting the hired girl--I mean maid. Besides, +there's Mr. Easterbrook left (and one or two others that I haven't +said much about, as I didn't think they had much chance). And so far +as the love story for the book is concerned, _that_ isn't spoiled, +after all, for it will be ever so much more exciting to have the +violinist fall in love with Theresa than with Mother, for, of course, +Theresa isn't in the same station of life at all, and that makes it +a--a mess-alliance. (I don't remember exactly what that word is; but +I know it means an alliance that makes a mess of things because the +lovers are not equal to each other.) Of course, for the folks who have +to live it, it may not be so nice; but for my story here this makes it +all the more romantic and thrilling. So _that's_ all right. + +Of course, so far, I'm the only one that knows, for I haven't told it, +and I'm the only one that's seen anything. Of course, I shall warn +Mother, if I think it's necessary, so she'll understand it isn't her, +but Theresa, that the violinist is really in love with and courting. +_She_ won't mind, I'm sure, after she thinks of it a minute. And won't +it be a good joke on Aunt Hattie and Grandfather when they find out +they've been fooled all the time, supposing it's Mother, and worrying +about it? + +Oh, I don't know! This is some love story, after all! + + * * * * * + +_Two days later._ + +Well, I should say it was! What do you suppose has happened now? Why, +that wretched violinist is nothing but a deep-dyed villain! Listen +what he did. He proposed to Mother--actually proposed to her--and +after all he'd said to that Theresa girl, about his being perfectly +happy if he could marry _her_. And Mother--Mother all the time not +knowing! Oh, I'm so glad I was there to rescue her! I don't mean at +the proposal--I didn't hear that. But afterward. + +It was like this. + +They had been out automobiling--Mother and the violinist. He came for +her at three o'clock. He said it was a beautiful warm day, and maybe +the last one they'd have this year; and she must go. And she went. + +I was in my favorite window-seat, reading, when they came home and +walked into the library. They never looked my way at all, but just +walked toward the fireplace. And there he took hold of both her hands +and said: + +"Why must you wait, darling? Why can't you give me my answer now, and +make me the happiest man in all the world?" + +"Yes, yes, I know," answered Mother; and I knew by her voice that +she was all shaky and trembly. "But if I could only be sure--sure of +myself." + +"But, dearest, you're sure of me!" cried the violinist. "You _know_ +how I love you. You know you're the only woman I have ever loved, or +ever could love!" + +Yes, just like that he said it--that awful lie--and to my mother. My +stars! Do you suppose I waited to hear any more? I guess not! + +[Illustration: "WHY MUST YOU WAIT, DARLING?"] + +I fairly tumbled off my seat, and my book dropped with a bang, as I +ran forward. Dear, dear, but how they did jump--both of them! And I +guess they _were_ surprised. I never thought how 'twas going to affect +them--my breaking in like that. But I didn't wait--not a minute. And +I didn't apologize, or say "Excuse me," or any of those things that +I suppose I ought to have done. I just started right in and began to +talk. And I talked hard and fast, and lots of it. + +I don't know now what I said, but I know I asked him what he meant by +saying such an awful lie to my mother, when he'd just said the same +thing, exactly 'most, to Theresa, and he'd hugged her and kissed her, +and everything. I'd _seen_ him. And-- + +But I didn't get a chance to say half I wanted to. I was going on to +tell him what I thought of him; but Mother gasped out, "Marie! _Marie! +Stop_!" + +And then I stopped. I had to, of course. Then she said that would do, +and I might go to my room. And I went. And that's all I know about it, +except that she came up, after a little, and said for me not to talk +any more about it, to her, or to any one else; and to please try to +forget it. + +I tried to tell her what I'd seen, and what I'd heard that wicked, +deep-dyed villain say; but she wouldn't let me. She shook her head, +and said, "Hush, hush, dear"; and that no good could come of talking +of it, and she wanted me to forget it. She was very sweet and very +gentle, and she smiled; but there were stern corners to her mouth, +even when the smile was there. And I guess she told him what was what. +Anyhow, I know they had quite a talk before she came up to me, for I +was watching at the window for him to go; and when he did go he +looked very red and cross, and he stalked away with a +never-will-I-darken-this-door-again kind of a step, just as far as I +could see him. + +I don't know, of course, what will happen next, nor whether he'll ever +come back for Theresa; but I shouldn't think even _she_ would want +him, after this, if she found out. + +And now where's _my_ love story coming in, I should like to know? + + * * * * * + +_Two days after Christmas_. + +Another wonderful thing has happened. I've had a letter from +Father--from _Father_--a _letter_--ME! + +It came this morning. Mother brought it in to me. She looked queer--a +little. There were two red spots in her cheeks, and her eyes were very +bright. + +"I think you have a letter here from--your father," she said, handing +it out. + +She hesitated before the "your father" just as she always does. And +'tisn't hardly ever that she mentions his name, anyway. But when she +does, she always stops a funny little minute before it, just as she +did to-day. + +And perhaps I'd better say right here, before I forget it, that Mother +has been different, some way, ever since that time when the violinist +proposed. I don't think she _cares_ really--about the violinist, I +mean--but she's just sort of upset over it. I heard her talking to +Aunt Hattie one day about it, and she said: + +"To think such a thing could happen--to _me_! And when for a minute I +was really hesitating and thinking that maybe I _would_ take him. Oh, +Hattie!" + +And Aunt Hattie put her lips together with her most I-told-you-so air, +and said: + +"It was, indeed, a narrow escape, Madge; and it ought to show you the +worth of a real man. There's Mr. Easterbrook, now--" + +But Mother wouldn't even listen then. She pooh-poohed and tossed her +head, and said, "Mr. Easterbrook, indeed!" and put her hands to her +ears, laughing, but in earnest just the same, and ran out of the room. + +And she doesn't go so much with Mr. Easterbrook as she did. Oh, she +goes with him some, but not enough to make it a bit interesting--for +this novel, I mean--nor with any of the others, either. In fact, I'm +afraid there isn't much chance now of Mother's having a love story to +make this book right. Only the other day I heard her tell Grandfather +and Aunt Hattie that _all_ men were a delusion and a snare. Oh, she +laughed as she said it. But she was in earnest, just the same. I could +see that. And she doesn't seem to care much for any of the different +men that come to see her. She seems to ever so much rather stay with +me. In fact, she stays with me a lot these days--almost all the time +I'm out of school, indeed. And she talks with me--oh, she talks with +me about lots of things. (I love to have her talk with me. You know +there's a lot of difference between talking _with_ folks and _to_ +folks. Now, Father always talks _to_ folks.) + +One day it was about getting married that Mother talked with me, and +I said I was so glad that when you didn't like being married, or got +tired of your husband, you could get _un_married, just as she did, and +go back home and be just the same as you were before. + +But Mother didn't like that, at all. She said no, no, and that I +mustn't talk like that, and that you _couldn't_ go back and be the +same. And that she'd found it out. That she used to think you could. +But you couldn't. She said it was like what she read once, that you +couldn't really be the same any more than you could put the dress you +were wearing back on the shelf in the store, and expect it to turn +back into a fine long web of cloth all folded up nice and tidy, as it +was in the first place. And, of course, you couldn't do that--after +the cloth was all cut up into a dress! + +She said more things, too; and after Father's letter came she said +still more. Oh, and I haven't told yet about the letter, have I? Well, +I will now. + +As I said at first, Mother brought it in and handed it over to me, +saying she guessed it was from Father. And I could see she was +wondering what could be in it. But I guess she wasn't wondering any +more than _I_ was, only I was gladder to get it than she was, I +suppose. Anyhow, when she saw _how_ glad I was, and how I jumped for +the letter, she drew back, and looked somehow as if she'd been hurt, +and said: + +"I did not know, Marie, that a letter from--your father would mean so +much to you." + +I don't know what I did say to that. I guess I didn't say anything. +I'd already begun to read the letter, and I was in such a hurry to +find out what he'd said. + +I'll copy it here. It wasn't long. It was like this: + + MY DEAR MARY: + + Some way Christmas has made me think of you. I wish I had sent you + some gift. Yet I have not the slightest idea what would please + you. To tell the truth, I tried to find something--but had to give + it up. + + I am wondering if you had a good time, and what you did. After + all, I'm pretty sure you did have a good time, for you are + Marie now. You see I have not forgotten how tired you got of + being--Mary. Well, well, I do not know as I can blame you. + + And now that I have asked what you did for Christmas, I suspect it + is no more than a fair turnabout to tell you what I did. I suppose + I had a very good time. Your Aunt Jane says I did. I heard her + telling one of the neighbors that last night. She said she left no + stone unturned to give me a good time. So, of course, I must have + had a good time. + + She had a very fine dinner, and she invited Mrs. Darling and Miss + Snow and Miss Sanborn to eat it with us. She said she didn't want + me to feel lonesome. But you can feel real lonesome in a crowd + sometimes. Did you know that, Mary? + + But I left them to their chatter after dinner and went out to the + observatory. I think I must have fallen asleep on the couch there, + for it was quite dark when I awoke. But I didn't mind that, + for there were some observations I wanted to take. It was a + beautifully clear night, so I stayed there till nearly morning. + + How about it? I suppose Marie plays the piano every day now, + doesn't she? The piano here hasn't been touched since you went + away. Oh, yes, it was touched once. Your aunt played hymns on it + for a missionary meeting. + + Well, what did you do Christmas? Suppose you write and tell + + Your + + FATHER + +I'd been reading the letter out loud, and when I got through Mother +was pacing up and down the room. For a minute she didn't say anything; +then she whirled 'round suddenly and faced me, and said, just as if +something inside of her was _making_ her say it: + +"I notice there is no mention of your mother in that letter, Marie. I +suppose--your father has quite forgotten that there is such a person +in the world as--I." + +But I told her no, oh, no, and that I was sure he remembered her, +for he used to ask me questions often about what she did, and the +violinist and all. + +"The violinist!" cried Mother, whirling around on me again. (She'd +begun to walk up and down once more.) "You don't mean to say you ever +told your father about _him_!" + +"Oh, no, not everything," I explained, trying to show how patient I +was, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn't work.) "I couldn't +tell him everything because everything hadn't happened then. But I +told about his being here, and about the others, too; but, of course, +I said I didn't know which you'd take, and--" + +"You told him you didn't know _which I'd take_!" gasped Mother. + +Just like that she interrupted, and she looked so shocked. And she +didn't look much better when I explained very carefully what I did +say, even though I assured her over and over again that Father was +interested, very much interested. When I said that, she just muttered, +"Interested, indeed!" under her breath. Then she began to walk again, +up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden, she flung herself on +the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. And +when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for she +threw her arms around me and cried: + +"Oh, my darling, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, how +dreadful it is?" + +And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and +_un_married as we were. She held me close again and began to sob and +cry. + +"Oh, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it all is--how unnatural +it is for us to live--this way? And for you--you poor child!--what +could be worse for you? And here I am, jealous--jealous of your own +father, for fear you'll love him better than you do me! + +"Oh, I know I ought not to say all this to you--I know I ought not to. +But I can't--help it. I want you! I want you every minute; but I have +to give you up--six whole months of every year I have to give you up +to him. And he's your father, Marie. And he's a good man. I know he's +a good man. I know it all the better now since I've seen--other men. +And I ought to tell you to love him. But I'm so afraid--you'll love +him better than you do me, and want to leave--me. And I can't give you +up! I can't give you up!" + +Then I tried to tell her, of course, that she wouldn't have to give +me up, and that I loved her a whole lot better than I did Father. But +even that didn't comfort her, 'cause she said I _ought_ to love _him_. +That he was lonesome and needed me. He needed me just as much as +she needed me, and maybe more. And then she went on again about how +unnatural and awful it was to live the way we were living. And she +called herself a wicked woman that she'd ever allowed things to get to +such a pass. And she said if she could only have her life to live over +again she'd do so differently--oh, so differently. + +Then she began to cry again, and I couldn't do a thing with her; and +of course, that worked me all up and I began to cry. + +She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely with +her wet ball of a handkerchief. And she asked what was she thinking +of, and didn't she know any better than to talk like this to me. Then +she said, come, we'd go for a ride. + +And we did. + +And all the rest of that day Mother was so gay and lively you'd think +she didn't know how to cry. + +Now, wasn't that funny? + +Of course, I shall answer Father's letter right away, but I haven't +the faintest idea _what_ to say. + + * * * * * + +_One week later._ + +I answered it--Father's letter, I mean--yesterday, and it's gone now. +But I had an awful time over it. I just didn't know what in the world +to say. I'd start out all right, and I'd think I was going to get +along beautifully. Then, all of a sudden, it would come over me, what +I was doing--_writing a letter to my father_! And I could imagine just +how he'd look when he got it, all stern and dignified, sitting in +his chair in the library, and opening the letter _just so_ with his +paper-cutter; and I'd imagine his eyes looking down and reading what I +wrote. And when I thought of that, my pen just wouldn't go. The idea +of _my_ writing anything my father would want to read! + +And so I'd try to think of things that I could write--big things--big +things that would interest big men: about the President, and +our-country-'tis-of-thee, and the state of the weather and the crops. +And so I'd begin: + +"Dear Father: I take my pen in hand to inform you that--" + +Then I'd stop and think and think, and chew my pen-handle. Then I'd +put down _something_. But it was awful, and I knew it was awful. So +I'd have to tear it up and begin again. Three times I did that; then I +began to cry. It did seem as if I never could write that letter. Once +I thought of asking Mother what to say, and getting her to help me. +Then I remembered how she cried and took on and said things when the +letter came, and talked about how dreadful and unnatural it all was, +and how she was jealous for fear I'd love Father better than I did +her. And I was afraid she'd do it again, and so I didn't like to ask +her. And so I didn't do it. + +Then, after a time, I got out his letter and read it again. And all of +a sudden I felt all warm and happy, just as I did when I first got it; +and some way I was back with him in the observatory and he was telling +me all about the stars. And I forgot all about being afraid of him, +and about the crops and the President and my-country-'tis-of-thee. +And I just remembered that he'd asked me to tell him what I did on +Christmas Day; and I knew right off that that would be easy. Why, just +the easiest thing in the world! And so I got out a fresh sheet of +paper and dipped my pen in the ink and began again. + +And this time I didn't have a bit of trouble. I told him all about the +tree I had Christmas Eve, and the presents, and the little colored +lights, and the fun we had singing and playing games. And then how, on +Christmas morning, there was a lovely new snow on the ground, and Mr. +Easterbrook came with a perfectly lovely sleigh and two horses to take +Mother and me to ride, and what a splendid time we had, and how lovely +Mother looked with her red cheeks and bright eyes, and how, when we +got home, Mr. Easterbrook said we looked more like sisters than mother +and daughter, and wasn't that nice of him. Of course, I told a little +more about Mr. Easterbrook, too, so Father'd know who he was--a new +friend of Mother's that I'd never known till I came back this time, +and how he was very rich and a most estimable man. That Aunt Hattie +said so. + +Then I told him that in the afternoon another gentleman came and took +us to a perfectly beautiful concert. And I finished up by telling +about the Christmas party in the evening, and how lovely the house +looked, and Mother, and that they said I looked nice, too. + +And that was all. And when I had got it done, I saw that I had written +a long letter, a great long letter. And I was almost afraid it was +too long, till I remembered that Father had asked me for it; he had +_asked_ me to tell him all about what I did on Christmas Day. + +So I sent it off. + + * * * * * + +_March_. + +Yes, I know it's been quite a while, but there hasn't been a thing to +say--nothing new or exciting, I mean. There's just school, and the +usual things; only Mr. Easterbrook doesn't come any more. (Of course, +the violinist hasn't come since that day he proposed.) I don't know +whether Mr. Easterbrook proposed or not. I only know that all of a +sudden he stopped coming. I don't know the reason. + +I don't overhear so much as I used to, anyway. Not but that I'm in the +library window-seat just the same; but 'most everybody that comes in +looks there right off, now; and, of course, when they see me they +don't hardly ever go on with what they are saying. So it just +naturally follows that I don't overhear things as I used to. + +Not that there's much to hear, though. Really, there just isn't +anything going on, and things aren't half so lively as they used to be +when Mr. Easterbrook was here, and all the rest. They've all stopped +coming, now, 'most. I've about given up ever having a love story of +Mother's to put in. + +And mine, too. Here I am fifteen next month, going on sixteen. (Why, +that brook and river met long ago!) But Mother is getting to be almost +as bad as Aunt Jane was about my receiving proper attentions from +young men. Oh, she lets me go to places, a little, with the boys at +school; but I always have to be chaperoned. And whenever are they +going to have a chance to say anything really _thrilling_ with Mother +or Aunt Hattie right at my elbow? Echo answers never! So I've about +given up _that's_ amounting to anything, either. + +Of course, there's Father left, and of course, when I go back to +Andersonville this summer, there may be something doing there. But I +doubt it. + +I forgot to say I haven't heard from Father again. I answered his +Christmas letter, as I said, and wrote just as nice as I knew how, and +told him all he asked me to. But he never answered, nor wrote again. I +am disappointed, I'll own up. I thought he would write. I think Mother +did, too. She's asked me ever so many times if I hadn't heard from him +again. And she always looks so sort of funny when I say no--sort of +glad and sorry together, all in one. + +But, then, Mother's queer in lots of ways now. For instance: One +week ago she gave me a perfectly lovely box of chocolates--a whole +two-pound box all at once; and I've never had more than a half-pound +at once before. But just as I was thinking how for once I was going to +have a real feast, and all I wanted to eat--what do you think she told +me? She said I could have three pieces, and only three pieces a day; +and not one little tiny one more. And when I asked her why she gave me +such a big box for, then, if that was all I could have, she said it +was to teach me self-discipline. That self-discipline was one of the +most wonderful things in the world. That if she'd only been taught it +when she was a girl, her life would have been very, very different. +And so she was giving me a great big box of chocolates for my very +own, just so as to teach me to deny myself and take only three pieces +every day. + +Three pieces!--and all that whole big box of them just making my +mouth water all the while; and all just to teach me that horrid old +self-discipline! Why, you'd think it was Aunt Jane doing it instead of +Mother! + + * * * * * + +_One week later._ + +It's come--Father's letter. It came last night. Oh, it was short, and +it didn't say anything about what _I_ wrote. But I was proud of it, +just the same. I just guess I was! There wasn't much in it but just +that I might stay till the school closed in June, and then come. But +_he wrote it_. He didn't get Aunt Jane to write to Mother, as he did +before. And then, besides, he must have forgotten his stars long +enough to think of me a _little_--for he remembered about the school, +and that I couldn't go there in Andersonville, and so he said I had +better stay here till it finished. + +And I was so glad to stay! It made me very happy--that letter. It made +Mother happy, too. She liked it, and she thought it was very, very +kind of Father to be willing to give me up almost three whole months +of his six, so I could go to school here. And she said so. She said +once to Aunt Hattie that she was almost tempted to write and thank +him. But Aunt Hattie said, "Pooh," and it was no more than he ought to +do, and that _she_ wouldn't be seen writing to a man who so carefully +avoided writing to _her_. So Mother didn't do it, I guess. + +But I wrote. I had to write three letters, though, before I got one +that Mother said would do to send. The first one sounded so _glad_ I +was staying that Mother said she was afraid he would feel hurt, and +that would be too bad--when he'd been so kind. And the second one +sounded as if I was so _sorry_ not to go to Andersonville the first of +April that Mother said that would never do in the world. He'd think +I didn't _want_ to stay in Boston. But the third letter I managed to +make just glad enough to stay, and just sorry enough not to go. So +that Mother said it was all right. And I sent it. You see I _asked_ +Mother to help me about this letter. I knew she wouldn't cry and moan +about being jealous this time. And she didn't. She was real excited +and happy over it. + + * * * * * + +_April_. + +Well, the last chocolate drop went yesterday. There were just +seventy-six pieces in that two-pound box. I counted them that first +day. Of course, they were fine and dandy, and I just loved them; but +the trouble is, for the last week I've been eating such snippy little +pieces. You see, every day, without thinking, I'd just naturally pick +out the biggest pieces. So you can imagine what they got down to +toward the last--mostly chocolate almonds. + +As for the self-discipline--I don't see as I feel any more disciplined +than I did before, and I _know_ I want chocolates just as much as +ever. And I said so to Mother. + +But Mother _is_ queer. Honestly she is. And I can't help wondering--is +she getting to be like Aunt Jane? + +Now, listen to this: + +Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect +darling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match. +And I knew I'd look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would have +got it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin with +dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child--for any child. + +Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it--some. In +fact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot. Mother didn't say anything +_then_; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and +said: + +"I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But it +was not suitable at all for you--not until you're older, dear." + +She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug: + +"Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't getting +to be vain, and too fond of dress." + +I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that +self-discipline business. + +But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline. + +_Is_ she getting to be like Aunt Jane? + + * * * * * + +_One week later._ + +She is. + +I _know_ she is now. + +I'm learning to cook--_to cook_! And it's Mother that says I must. She +told Aunt Hattie--I heard her--that she thought every girl should +know how to cook and to keep house; and that if she had learned those +things when she was a girl, her life would have been quite different, +she was sure. + +Of course, I'm not learning in Aunt Hattie's kitchen. Aunt Hattie's +got a new cook, and she's worse than Olga used to be--about not +wanting folks messing around, I mean. So Aunt Hattie said right off +that we couldn't do it there. I am learning at a Domestic Science +School, and Mother is going with me. I didn't mind so much when she +said she'd go, too. And, really, it is quite a lot of fun--really it +is. But it _is_ queer--Mother and I going to school together to learn +how to make bread and cake and boil potatoes! And, of course, Aunt +Hattie laughs at us. But I don't mind. And Mother doesn't, either. +But, oh, how Aunt Jane would love it, if she only knew! + + * * * * * + +_May_. + +Something is the matter with Mother, certainly. She's acting queerer +and queerer, and she _is_ getting to be like Aunt Jane. Why, only this +morning she hushed me up from laughing so loud, and stopped my +romping up and down the stairs with Lester. She said it was noisy and +unladylike--and only just a little while ago she just loved to have me +laugh and play and be happy! And when I said so to her this morning, +she said, yes, yes, of course, and she wanted me to be happy now, only +she wished to remind me that very soon I was going back to my father +in Andersonville, and that I ought to begin now to learn to be more +quiet, so as not to trouble him when I got there. + +Now, what do you think of that? + +And another thing. What _do_ you suppose I am learning about _now_? +You'd never guess. Stars. Yes, _stars_! And that is for Father, too. + +Mother came into my room one day with a book of Grandfather's under +her arm. She said it was a very wonderful work on astronomy, and she +was sure I would find it interesting. She said she was going to read +it aloud to me an hour a day. And then, when I got to Andersonville +and Father talked to me, I'd _know_ something. And he'd be pleased. + +She said she thought we owed it to Father, after he'd been so good and +kind as to let me stay here almost three whole months of his six, so +I could keep on with my school. And that she was very sure this would +please him and make him happy. + +And so, for 'most a week now, Mother has read to me an hour a day +out of that astronomy book. Then we talk about it. And it _is_ +interesting. Mother says it is, too. She says she wishes _she'd_ known +something about astronomy when she was a girl; that she's sure it +would have made things a whole lot easier and happier all around, when +she married Father; for then she would have known something about +something _he_ was interested in. She said she couldn't help that +now, of course; but she could see that _I_ knew something about such +things. And that was why she was reading to me now. Then she said +again that she thought we owed it to Father, when he'd been so good to +let me stay. + +It seems so funny to hear her talk such a lot about Father as she +does, when before she never used to mention him--only to say how +afraid she was that I would love him better than I did her, and to +make me say over and over again that I didn't. And I said so one day +to her--I mean, I said I thought it was funny, the way she talked now. + +She colored up and bit her lip, and gave a queer little laugh. Then +she grew very sober and grave, and said: + +"I know, dear. Perhaps I am talking more than I used to. But, you see, +I've been thinking quite a lot, and I--I've learned some things. And +now, since your father has been so kind and generous in giving you up +to me so much of his time, I--I've grown ashamed; and I'm trying to +make you forget what I said--about your loving me more than him. That +wasn't right, dear. Mother was wrong. She shouldn't try to influence +you against your father. He is a good man; and there are none too many +good men in the world--No, no, I won't say that," she broke off. + +But she'd already said it, and, of course, I knew she was thinking of +the violinist. I'm no child. + +She went on more after that, quite a lot more. And she said again that +I must love Father and try to please him in every way; and she cried a +little and talked a lot about how hard it was in my position, and +that she was afraid she'd only been making it harder, through her +selfishness, and I must forgive her, and try to forget it. And she +was very sure she'd do better now. And she said that, after all, life +wasn't in just being happy yourself. It was in how much happiness you +could give to others. + +Oh, it was lovely! And I cried, and she cried some more, and we +kissed each other, and I promised. And after she went away I felt all +upraised and holy, like you do when you've been to a beautiful church +service with soft music and colored windows, and everybody kneeling. +And I felt as if I'd never be naughty or thoughtless again. And that +I'd never mind being Mary now. Why, I'd be glad to be Mary half the +time, and even more--for Father. + +But, alas! + +Listen. Would you believe it? Just that same evening Mother stopped me +again laughing too loud and making too much noise playing with Lester; +and I felt real cross. I just boiled inside of me, and said I hated +Mary, and that Mother _was_ getting to be just like Aunt Jane. And +yet, just that morning-- + +Oh, if only that hushed, stained-window-soft-music feeling _would_ +last! + + * * * * * + +_June_. + +Well, once more school is done, my trunk is all packed, and I'm ready +to go to Andersonville. I leave to-morrow morning. But not as I left +last year. Oh, no. It is very, very different. Why, this year I'm +really _going_ as Mary. Honestly, Mother has turned me into Mary +_before I go_. Now, what do you think of that? And if I've got to be +Mary there and Mary here, too, when can I ever be _Marie_? Oh, I know +I _said_ I'd be willing to be Mary half, and maybe more than half, the +time. But when it comes to really _being_ Mary out of turn extra time, +that is quite another thing. + +And I am Mary. + +Listen: + +I've learned to cook. That's Mary. + +I've been studying astronomy. That's Mary. + +I've learned to walk quietly, speak softly, laugh not too loudly, and +be a lady at all times. That's Mary. + +And now, to add to all this, Mother has had me _dress_ like Mary. Yes, +she began two weeks ago. She came into my room one morning and said +she wanted to look over my dresses and things; and I could see, by the +way she frowned and bit her lip and tapped her foot on the floor, that +she wasn't suited. And I was glad; for, of course, I always like to +have new things. So I was pleased when she said: + +"I think, my dear, that on Saturday we'll have to go in town shopping. +Quite a number of these things will not do at all." + +And I was so happy! Visions of new dresses and hats and shoes rose +before me, and even the pink beaded silk came into my mind--though I +didn't really have much hopes of that. + +Well, we went shopping on Saturday, but--did we get the pink silk? We +did not. We did get--you'd never guess what. We got two new gingham +dresses, very plain and homely, and a pair of horrid, thick low shoes. +Why, I could have cried! I did 'most cry as I exclaimed: + +"Why, Mother, those are _Mary_ things!" + +"Of course, they're Mary things," answered Mother, cheerfully--the +kind of cheerfulness that says: "I'm being good and you ought to be." +Then she went on. "That's what I meant to buy--Mary things, as you +call them. Aren't you going to be Mary just next week? Of course, you +are! And didn't you tell me last year, as soon as you got there, Miss +Anderson objected to your clothing and bought new for you? Well, I am +trying to see that she does not have to do that this year." + +And then she bought me a brown serge suit and a hat so tiresomely +sensible that even Aunt Jane will love them, I know. And to-morrow +I've got to put them on to go in. + +Do you wonder that I say I am Mary already? + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +WHEN I AM NEITHER ONE + + +ANDERSONVILLE. + +Well, I came last night. I had on the brown suit and the sensible hat, +and every turn of the wheels all day had been singing: "Mary, Mary, +now you're Mary!" Why, Mother even _called_ me Mary when she said +good-bye. She came to the junction with me just as she had before, and +put me on the other train. + +"Now, remember, dear, you're to try very hard to be a joy and a +comfort to your father--just the little Mary that he wants you to be. +Remember, he has been very kind to let you stay with me so long." + +She cried when she kissed me just as she did before; but she didn't +tell me this time to be sure and not love Father better than I did +her. I noticed that. But, of course, I didn't say anything, though I +might have told her easily that I knew nothing could ever make me love +_him_ better than I did _her_. + +But I honestly tried, as long as I was dressed like Mary, to feel like +Mary; and I made up my mind that I would _be_ Mary, too, just as well +as I knew how to be, so that even Aunt Jane couldn't find any fault +with me. And I'd try to please Father, and make him not mind my being +there, even if I couldn't make him love me. And as I got to thinking +of it, I was _glad_ that I had on the Mary things, so I wouldn't have +to make any change. Then I could show Aunt Jane that I was really +going to be Mary, right along from the start, when she met me at +the station. And I would show Father, too, if he was at home. And I +couldn't help hoping he _would_ be home this time, and not off to look +at any old stars or eclipses. + +When we got to Andersonville, and the train rolled into the station, I +'most forgot, for a minute, and ran down the aisle, so as to get out +quick. I was so excited! But right away I thought of Aunt Jane and +that she might see me; so I slowed down to a walk, and I let quite a +lot of other folks get ahead of me, as I was sure Mary ought to. You +see, I was determined to be a good little Mary from the very start, so +that even Aunt Jane couldn't find a word of fault--not even with my +actions. I knew she couldn't with my clothes! + +Well, I stepped down from the cars and looked over to where the +carriages were to find John and Aunt Jane. But they weren't there. +There wasn't even the carriage there; and I can remember now just how +my heart sort of felt sick inside of me when I thought that even Aunt +Jane had forgotten, and that there wasn't anybody to meet me. + +There was a beautiful big green automobile there, and I thought how +I wished _that_ had come to meet me; and I was just wondering what I +should do, when all of a sudden somebody spoke my name. And who do you +think it was? You'd never guess it in a month. It was _Father_. Yes, +FATHER! + +Why, I could have hugged him, I was so glad. But of course I didn't, +right before all those people. But he was so tall and handsome and +splendid, and I felt so proud to be walking along the platform with +him and letting folks see that he'd come to meet me! But I couldn't +say anything--not anything, the way I wanted to; and all I could do +was to stammer out: + +"Why, where's Aunt Jane?" + +And that's just the thing I didn't _want_ to say; and I knew it the +minute I'd said it. Why, it sounded as if I missed Aunt Jane, and +wanted _her_ instead of _him_, when all the time I was so pleased and +excited to see him that I could hardly speak. + +I don't know whether Father liked it, or minded it. I couldn't tell by +his face. He just kind of smiled, and looked queer, and said that Aunt +Jane--er--couldn't come. Then _I_ felt sorry; for I saw, of course, +that that was why _he_ had come; not because he wanted to, but because +Aunt Jane couldn't, so he had to. And I could have cried, all the +while he was fixing it up about my trunk. + +He turned then and led the way straight over to where the carriages +were, and the next minute there was John touching his cap to me; +only it was a brand-new John looking too sweet for anything in a +chauffeur's cap and uniform. And, what do you think? He was helping me +into that beautiful big green car before I knew it. + +"Why, Father, Father!" I cried. "You don't mean"--I just couldn't +finish; but he finished for me. + +"It is ours--yes. Do you like it?" + +"Like it!" I guess he didn't need to have me say any more. But I did +say more. I just raved and raved over that car until Father's eyes +crinkled all up in little smile wrinkles, and he said: + +"I'm glad. I hoped you'd like it." + +"I guess I do like it!" I cried. Then I went on to tell him how I +thought it was the prettiest one I ever saw, and 'way ahead of even +Mr. Easterbrook's. + +"And, pray, who is Mr. Easterbrook?" asked Father then. "The +violinist, perhaps--eh?" + +Now, wasn't it funny he should have remembered that there was a +violinist? But, of course, I told him no, it wasn't the violinist. It +was another one that took Mother to ride, the one I told him about +in the Christmas letter; and he was very rich, and had two perfectly +beautiful cars; and I was going on to tell more--how he didn't take +Mother now--but I didn't get a chance, for Father interrupted, and +said, "Yes, yes, to be sure." And he _showed_ he wasn't interested, +for all the little smile wrinkles were gone, and he looked stern and +dignified, more like he used to. And he went on to say that, as we had +almost reached home, he had better explain right away that Aunt Jane +was no longer living there; that his cousin from the West, Mrs. +Whitney, was keeping house for him now. She was a very nice lady, and +he hoped I would like her. And I might call her "Cousin Grace." + +And before I could even draw breath to ask any questions, we were +home; and a real pretty lady, with a light-blue dress on, was helping +me out of the car, and kissing me as she did so. + +Now, do you wonder that I have been rubbing my eyes and wondering if I +was really I, and if this was Andersonville? Even now I'm not sure but +it's a dream, and I shall wake up and find I've gone to sleep on the +cars, and that the train is just drawing into the station, and that +John and the horses, and Aunt Jane in her I-don't-care-how-it-looks +black dress are there to meet me. + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +It isn't a dream. It's all really, truly true--everything: Father +coming to meet me, the lovely automobile, and the pretty lady in the +light-blue dress, who kissed me. And when I went downstairs the next +morning I found out it was real, 'specially the pretty lady; for she +kissed me again, and said she hoped I'd be happy there. And she never +said one word about dusting one hour and studying one hour and weeding +one hour. (Of course, she couldn't say anything about my clothes, for +I was already in a Mary blue-gingham dress.) She just told me to amuse +myself any way I liked, and said, if I wanted to, I might run over to +see some of the girls, but not to make any plans for the afternoon, +for she was going to take me to ride. + +Now, what do you think of that? Go to see the girls in the morning, +and take a ride--an automobile ride!--in the afternoon. _In +Andersonville_! Why, I couldn't believe my ears. Of course, I was wild +and crazy with delight--but it was all so different. Why, I began to +think almost that I was Marie, and not Mary at all. + +And it's been that way the whole week through. I've had a beautiful +time. I've been so excited! And Mother is excited, too. Of course, I +wrote her and told her all about it right away. And she wrote right +back and wanted to know everything--everything I could tell her; all +the little things. And she was so interested in Cousin Grace, and +wanted to know all about her; said _she_ never heard of her before, +and was she Father's own cousin, and how old was she, and was she +pretty, and was Father around the house more now, and did I see a lot +of him? She thought from something I said that I did. + +I've just been writing her again, and I could tell her more now, of +course, than I could in that first letter. I've been here a whole +week, and, of course, I know more about things, and have done more. + +I told her that Cousin Grace wasn't really Father's cousin at all, so +it wasn't any wonder she hadn't ever heard of her. She was the wife +of Father's third cousin who went to South America six years ago and +caught the fever and died there. So this Mrs. Whitney isn't really any +relation of his at all. But he'd always known her, even before she +married his cousin; and so, when her husband died, and she didn't have +any home, he asked her to come here. + +I don't know why Aunt Jane went away, but she's been gone 'most four +months now, they say here. Nellie told me. Nellie is the maid--I mean +hired girl--here now. (I _will_ keep forgetting that I'm Mary now and +must use the Mary words here.) + +I told Mother that she (Cousin Grace) was quite old, but not so old +as Aunt Jane. (I asked Nellie, and Nellie said she guessed she was +thirty-five, but she didn't look a day over twenty-five.) And she _is_ +pretty, and everybody loves her. I think even Father likes to have her +around better than he did his own sister Jane, for he sometimes stays +around quite a lot now--after meals, and in the evening, I mean. And +that's what I told Mother. Oh, of course, he still likes his stars the +best of anything, but not quite as well as he used to, maybe--not to +give _all_ his time to them. + +I haven't anything especial to write. I'm just having a beautiful +time. Of course, I miss Mother, but I know I'm going to have her again +in just September--I forgot to say that Father is going to let me go +back to school again this year ahead of his time, just as he did last +year. + +So you see, really, I'm here only a little bit of a while, as it is +now, and it's no wonder I keep forgetting I am Mary. + +I haven't got anything new for the love part of my story. I _am_ sorry +about that. But there just isn't anything, so I'm afraid the book +never will be a love story, anyway. + +Of course, I'm not with Mother now, so I don't know whether there's +anything there, or not; but I don't think there will be. And as for +Father--I've pretty nearly given him up. Anyhow, there never used to +be any signs of hope for me there. As for myself--well, I've about +given that up, too. I don't believe they're going to give me any +chance to have anybody till I'm real old--probably not till I'm +twenty-one or two. And I can't wait all that time to finish this book. + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +Things are awfully funny here this time. I wonder if it's all Cousin +Grace that makes it so. Anyhow, she's just as different as different +can be from Aunt Jane. And _things_ are different, everywhere. + +Why, I forget half the time that I'm Mary. Honestly, I do. I try to be +Mary. I try to move quietly, speak gently, and laugh softly, just as +Mother told me to. But before I know it I'm acting natural again--just +like Marie, you know. + +And I believe it _is_ Cousin Grace. She never looks at you in Aunt +Jane's I'm-amazed-at-you way. And she laughs herself a lot, and sings +and plays, too--real pretty lively things; not just hymn tunes. And +the house is different. There are four geraniums in the dining-room +window, and the parlor is open every day. The wax flowers are there, +but the hair wreath and the coffin plate are gone. Cousin Grace +doesn't dress like Aunt Jane, either. She wears pretty white and blue +dresses, and her hair is curly and fluffy. + +And so I think all this is why I keep forgetting to be Mary. But, of +course, I understand that Father expects me to be Mary, and so I try +to remember--only I can't. Why, I couldn't even show him how much I +knew about the stars. I tried to the other night. I went out to the +observatory where he was, and asked him questions about the stars. +I tried to seem interested, and was going to tell him how I'd been +studying about them, but he just laughed kind of funny, and said not +to bother my pretty head about such things, but to come in and play to +him on the piano. + +So, of course, I did. And he sat and listened to three whole pieces. +Now, wasn't that funny? + + * * * * * + +_Two weeks later_. + +I understand it all now--everything: why the house is different, and +Father, and everything. And it _is_ Cousin Grace, and it _is_ a love +story. + +_Father is in love with her_. + +_Now_ I guess I shall have something for this book! + +It seems funny now that I didn't think of it at first. But I +didn't--not until I heard Nellie and her beau talking about it. Nellie +said she wasn't the only one in the house that was going to get +married. And when he asked her what she meant, she said it was Dr. +Anderson and Mrs. Whitney. That anybody could see it that wasn't as +blind as a bat. + +My, but wasn't I excited? I just guess I was. And, of course, I saw +then that I had been blind as a bat. But I began to open my eyes +after that, and watch--not disagreeably, you know, but just glad and +interested, and on account of the book. + +And I saw: + +That father stayed in the house a lot more than he used to. + +That he talked more. + +That he never thundered--I mean spoke stern and uncompromising to +Cousin Grace the way he used to to Aunt Jane. + +That he smiled more. + +That he wasn't so absent-minded at meals and other times, but seemed +to know we were there--Cousin Grace and I. + +That he actually asked Cousin Grace and me to play for him several +times. + +That he went with us to the Sunday-School picnic. (I never saw Father +at a picnic before, and I don't believe he ever saw himself at one.) + +That--oh, I don't know, but a whole lot of little things that I can't +remember; but they were all unmistakable, very unmistakable. And I +wondered, when I saw it all, that I _had_ been as blind as a bat +before. + +Of course, I was glad--glad he's going to marry her, I mean. I was +glad for everybody; for Father and Cousin Grace, for they would be +happy, of course, and he wouldn't be lonesome any more. And I was glad +for Mother because I knew she'd be glad that he'd at last found the +good, kind woman to make a home for him. And, of course, I was glad +for myself, for I'd much rather have Cousin Grace here than Aunt Jane, +and I knew she'd make the best new mother of any of them. And last, +but not least, I'm glad for the book, because now I've got a love +story sure. That is, I'm pretty sure. Of course, it may not be so; but +I think it is. + +When I wrote Mother I told her all about it--the signs and symptoms, I +mean, and how different and thawed-out Father was; and I asked if she +didn't think it was so, too. But she didn't answer that part. She +didn't write much, anyway. It was an awfully snippy letter; but she +said she had a headache and didn't feel at all well. So that was the +reason, probably, why she didn't say more--about Father's love affair, +I mean. She only said she was glad, she was sure, if Father had found +an estimable woman to make a home for him, and she hoped they'd be +happy. Then she went on talking about something else. And she didn't +write much more, anyway, about anything. + + * * * * * + +_August_. + +Well, of all the topsy-turvy worlds, this is the topsy-turviest, I am +sure. What _do_ they want me to do, and which do they want me to be? +Oh, I wish I was just a plain Susie or Bessie, and not a cross-current +and a contradiction, with a father that wants me to be one thing and +a mother that wants me to be another! It was bad enough before, when +Father wanted me to be Mary, and Mother wanted me to be Marie. But +now-- + +Well, to begin at the beginning. + +It's all over--the love story, I mean, and I know now why it's been so +hard for me to remember to be Mary and why everything is different, +and all. + +_They don't want me to be Mary_. + +_They want me to be Marie_. + +And now I don't know what to think. If Mother's going to want me to +be Mary, and Father's going to want me to be Marie, how am I going to +know what anybody wants, ever? Besides, it was getting to be such a +beautiful love story--Father and Cousin Grace. And now-- + +But let me tell you what happened. + +It was last night. We were on the piazza, Father, Cousin Grace, and +I. And I was thinking how perfectly lovely it was that Father _was_ +there, and that he was getting to be so nice and folksy, and how I +_did_ hope it would last, even after he'd married her, and not have +any of that incompatibility stuff come into it. Well, just then +she got up and went into the house for something--Cousin Grace, I +mean--and all of a sudden I determined to tell Father how glad I was, +about him and Cousin Grace; and how I hoped it would last--having him +out there with us, and all that. And I told him. + +I don't remember what I said exactly. But I know I hurried on and said +it fast, so as to get in all I could before he interrupted; for he had +interrupted right at the first with an exclamation; and I knew he was +going to say more right away, just as soon as he got a chance. And I +didn't want him to get a chance till I'd said what _I_ wanted to. But +I hadn't anywhere near said what I wanted to when he did stop me. Why, +he almost jumped out of his chair. + +"Mary!" he gasped. "What in the world are you talking about?" + +"Why, Father, I was telling you," I explained. And I tried to be so +cool and calm that it would make him calm and cool, too. (But it +didn't calm him or cool him one bit.) "It's about when you're married, +and--" + +"Married!" he interrupted again. (They never let _me_ interrupt like +that!) + +"To Cousin Grace--yes. But, Father, you--you _are_ going to marry +Cousin Grace, aren't you?" I cried--and I did 'most cry, for I saw by +his face that he was not. + +"That is not my present intention," he said. His lips came together +hard, and he looked over his shoulder to see if Cousin Grace was +coming back. + +"But you're going to _sometime_," I begged him. + +"I do not expect to." Again he looked over his shoulder to see if she +was coming. I looked, too, and we both saw through the window that she +had gone into the library and lighted up and was sitting at the table +reading. + +I fell back in my chair, and I know I looked grieved and hurt and +disappointed, as I almost sobbed: + +"Oh, Father, and when I _thought_ you were going to!" + +"There, there, child!" He spoke, stern and almost cross now. "This +absurd, nonsensical idea has gone quite far enough. Let us think no +more about it." + +"It isn't absurd and nonsensical!" I cried. And I could hardly say the +words, I was choking up so. "Everybody said you were going to, and I +wrote Mother so; and--" + +"You wrote that to your mother?" He did jump from his chair this time. + +"Yes; and she was glad." + +"Oh, she was!" He sat down sort of limp-like and queer. + +"Yes. She said she was glad you'd found an estimable woman to make a +home for you." + +"Oh, she did." He said this, too, in that queer, funny, quiet kind of +way. + +"Yes." I spoke, decided and firm. I'd begun to think, all of a sudden, +that maybe he didn't appreciate Mother as much as she did him; and +I determined right then and there to make him, if I could. When I +remembered all the lovely things she'd said about him-- + +"Father," I began; and I spoke this time, even more decided and firm. +"I don't believe you appreciate Mother." + +"Eh? What?" + +He made _me_ jump this time, he turned around with such a jerk, and +spoke so sharply. But in spite of the jump I still held on to my +subject, firm and decided. + +"I say I don't believe you appreciate my mother. You acted right now +as if you didn't believe she meant it when I told you she was glad you +had found an estimable woman to make a home for you. But she did mean +it. I know, because she said it before, once, last year, that she +hoped you _would_ find one." + +"Oh, she did." He sat back in his chair again, sort of limp-like. But +I couldn't tell yet, from his face, whether I'd convinced him or not. +So I went on. + +"Yes, and that isn't all. There's another reason, why I know Mother +always has--has your best interest at heart. She--she tried to make me +over into Mary before I came, so as to please you." + +"She did _what_?" Once more he made me jump, he turned so suddenly, +and spoke with such a short, sharp snap. + +But in spite of the jump I went right on, just as I had before, firm +and decided. I told him everything--all about the cooking lessons, and +the astronomy book we read an hour every day, and the pink silk +dress I couldn't have, and even about the box of chocolates and the +self-discipline. And how she said if she'd had self-discipline when +she was a girl, her life would have been very different. And I told +him about how she began to hush me up from laughing too loud, or +making any kind of noise, because I was soon to be Mary, and she +wanted me to get used to it, so I wouldn't trouble him when I got +here. + +I talked very fast and hurriedly. I was afraid he'd interrupt, and I +wanted to get in all I could before he did. But he didn't interrupt +at all. I couldn't see how he was taking it, though--what I said--for +after the very first he sat back in his chair and shaded his eyes with +his hand; and he sat like that all the time I was talking. He did not +even stir until I said how at the last she bought me the homely shoes +and the plain dark suit so I could go as Mary, and be Mary when Aunt +Jane first saw me get off the train. + +When I said that, he dropped his hand and turned around and stared at +me. And there was such a funny look in his eyes. + +"I _thought_ you didn't look the same!" he cried; "not so white and +airy and--and--I can't explain it, but you looked different. And yet, +I didn't think it could be so, for I knew you looked just as you did +when you came, and that no one had asked you to--to put on Mary's +things this year." + +He sort of smiled when he said that; then he got up and began to walk +up and down the piazza, muttering: "So you _came_ as Mary, you _came_ +as Mary." Then, after a minute, he gave a funny little laugh and sat +down. + +Mrs. Small came up the front walk then to see Cousin Grace, and Father +told her to go right into the library where Cousin Grace was. So we +were left alone again, after a minute. + +It was 'most dark on the piazza, but I could see Father's face in the +light from the window; and it looked--well, I'd never seen it look +like that before. It was as if something that had been on it for years +had dropped off and left it clear where before it had been blurred and +indistinct. No, that doesn't exactly describe it either. I _can't_ +describe it. But I'll go on and say what he said. + +After Mrs. Small had gone into the house, and he saw that she was +sitting down with Cousin Grace in the library, he turned to me and +said: + +"And so you came as Mary?" + +I said yes, I did. + +"Well, I--I got ready for Marie." + +But then I didn't quite understand, not even when I looked at him, and +saw the old understanding twinkle in his eyes. + +"You mean--you thought I was coming as Marie, of course," I said then. + +"Yes," he nodded. + +"But I came as Mary." + +"I see now that you did." He drew in his breath with a queer little +catch to it; then he got up and walked up and down the _piazza_ again. +(Why do old folks always walk up and down the room like that when +they're thinking hard about something? Father always does; and Mother +does lots of times, too.) But it wasn't but a minute this time before +Father came and sat down. + +"Well, Mary," he began; and his voice sounded odd, with a little shake +in it. "You've told me your story, so I suppose I may as well tell you +mine--now. You see, I not only got ready for Marie, but I had planned +to keep her Marie, and not let her be Mary--at all." + +And then he told me. He told me how he'd never forgotten that day +in the parlor when I cried (and made a wet spot on the arm of the +sofa--_I_ never forgot that!), and he saw then how hard it was for me +to live here, with him so absorbed in his work and Aunt Jane so stern +in her black dress. And he said I put it very vividly when I talked +about being Marie in Boston, and Mary here, and he saw just how it +was. And so he thought and thought about it all winter, and wondered +what he could do. And after a time it came to him--he'd let me be +Marie here; that is, he'd try to make it so I could be Marie. And he +was just wondering how he was going to get Aunt Jane to help him when +she was sent for and asked to go to an old friend who was sick. And he +told her to go, by all means to go. Then he got Cousin Grace to come +here. He said he knew Cousin Grace, and he was very sure she would +know how to help him to let me stay Marie. So he talked it over with +her--how they would let me laugh, and sing and play the piano all I +wanted to, and wear the clothes I brought with me, and be just as near +as I could be the way I was in Boston. + +"And to think, after all my preparation for Marie, you should _be_ +Mary already, when you came," he finished. + +"Yes. Wasn't it funny?" I laughed. "All the time _you_ were getting +ready for Marie, Mother was getting me ready to be Mary. It _was_ +funny!" And it did seem funny to me then. + +But Father was not laughing. He had sat back in his chair, and had +covered his eyes with his hand again, as if he was thinking and +thinking, just as hard as he could. And I suppose it did seem queer +to him, that he should be trying to make me Marie, and all the while +Mother was trying to make me Mary. And it seemed so to me, as I began +to think it over. It wasn't funny at all, any longer. + +"And so your mother--did that," Father muttered; and there was the +queer little catch in his breath again. + +He didn't say any more, not a single word. And after a minute he got +up and went into the house. But he didn't go into the library where +Mrs. Small and Cousin Grace were talking. He went straight upstairs +to his own room and shut the door. I heard it. And he was still there +when I went up to bed afterwards. + +Well, I guess he doesn't feel any worse than I do. I thought at first +it was funny, a good joke--his trying to have me Marie while Mother +was making me over into Mary. But I see now that it isn't. It's awful. +Why, how am I going to know at all who to be--now? Before, I used to +know just when to be Mary, and when to be Marie--Mary with Father, +Marie with Mother. Now I don't know at all. Why, they can't even +seem to agree on that! I suppose it's just some more of that +incompatibility business showing up even when they are apart. And poor +me--I have to suffer for it. I'm beginning to see that the child does +suffer--I mean the child of unlikes. + +Now, look at me right now--about my clothes, for instance. (Of +course clothes are a little thing, you may think; but I don't think +anything's little that's always with you like clothes are!) Well, here +all summer, and even before I came, I've been wearing stuffy gingham +and clumpy shoes to please Father. And Father isn't pleased at all. He +wanted me to wear the Marie things. + +And there you are. + +How do you suppose Mother's going to feel when I tell her that after +all her pains Father didn't like it at all. He wanted me to be Marie. +It's a shame, after all the pains she took. But I won't write it to +her, anyway. Maybe I won't have to tell her, unless she _asks_ me. + +But _I_ know it. And, pray, what am I to do? Of course, I can _act_ +like Marie here all right, if that is what folks want. (I guess I have +been doing it a good deal of the time, anyway, for I kept forgetting +that I was Mary.) But I can't _wear_ Marie, for I haven't a single +Marie thing here. They're all Mary. That's all I brought. + +Oh, dear suz me! Why couldn't Father and Mother have been just the +common live-happy-ever-after kind, or else found out before they +married that they were unlikes? + + * * * * * + +_September_. + +Well, vacation is over, and I go back to Boston to-morrow. It's been +very nice and I've had a good time, in spite of being so mixed up as +to whether I was Mary or Marie. It wasn't so bad as I was afraid it +would be. Very soon after Father and I had that talk on the piazza, +Cousin Grace took me down to the store and bought me two new white +dresses, and the dearest little pair of shoes I ever saw. She said +Father wanted me to have them. + +And that's all--every single word that's been said about that +Mary-and-Marie business. And even that didn't really _say_ +anything--not by name. And Cousin Grace never mentioned it again. And +Father never mentioned it at all. Not a word. + +But he's been queer. He's been awfully queer. Some days he's been just +as he was when I first came this time--real talky and folksy, and as +if he liked to be with us. Then for whole days at a time he'd be more +as he used to--stern, and stirring his coffee when there isn't any +coffee there; and staying all the evening and half the night out in +his observatory. + +Some days he's talked a lot with me--asked me questions just as he +used to, all about what I did in Boston, and Mother, and the people +that came there to see her, and everything. And he spoke of the +violinist again, and, of course, this time I told him all about him, +and that he didn't come any more, nor Mr. Easterbrook, either; and +Father was _so_ interested! Why, it seemed sometimes as if he just +couldn't hear enough about things. Then, all of a sudden, at times, +he'd get right up in the middle of something I was saying and act as +if he was just waiting for me to finish my sentence so he could go. +And he did go, just as soon as I _had_ finished my sentence. And after +that, maybe, he wouldn't hardly speak to me again for a whole day. + +And so that's why I say he's been so queer since that night on the +piazza. But most of the time he's been lovely, perfectly lovely. And +so has Cousin Grace, And I've had a beautiful time. + +But I do wish they _would_ marry--Father and Cousin Grace, I mean. And +I'm not talking now entirely for the sake of the book. It's for their +sakes--especially for Father's sake. I've been thinking what Mother +used to say about him, when she was talking about my being Mary--how +he was lonely, and needed a good, kind woman to make a home for him. +And while I've been thinking of it, I've been watching him; and I +think he does need a good, kind woman to make a home for him. I'd be +_willing_ to have a new mother for his sake! + +Oh, yes, I know he's got Cousin Grace, but he may not have her always. +Maybe she'll be sent for same as Aunt Jane was. _Then_ what's he going +to do, I should like to know? + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +WHICH IS THE REAL LOVE STORY + + +BOSTON. _Four days later_. + +Well, here I am again in Boston. Mother and the rest met me at the +station, and everybody seemed glad to see me, just as they did before. +And I was glad to see them. But I didn't feel anywhere near so +excited, and sort of crazy, as I did last year. I tried to, but I +couldn't. I don't know why. Maybe it was because I'd been Marie all +summer, anyway, so I wasn't so crazy to be Marie now, not needing any +rest from being Mary. Maybe it was 'cause I sort of hated to leave +Father. + +And I did hate to leave him, especially when I found he hated to have +me leave him. And he did. He told me so at the junction. You see, our +train was late, and we had to wait for it; and there was where he told +me. + +He had come all the way down there with me, just as he had before. But +he hadn't acted the same at all. He didn't fidget this time, nor walk +over to look at maps and time-tables, nor flip out his watch every +other minute with such a bored air that everybody knew he was seeing +me off just as a duty. And he didn't ask if I was warmly clad, and had +I left anything, either. He just sat and talked to me, and he asked me +had I been a little happier there with him this year than last; and he +said he hoped I had. + +And I told him, of course, I had; that it had been perfectly beautiful +there, even if there had been such a mix-up of him getting ready for +Marie, and Mother sending Mary. And he laughed and looked queer--sort +of half glad and half sorry; and said he shouldn't worry about that. +Then the train came, and we got on and rode down to the junction. And +there, while we were waiting for the other train, he told me how sorry +he was to have me go. + +He said I would never know how he missed me after I went last year. He +said you never knew how you missed things--and people--till they were +gone. And I wondered if, by the way he said it, he wasn't thinking +of Mother more than he was of me, and of her going long ago. And he +looked so sort of sad and sorry and noble and handsome, sitting there +beside me, that suddenly I 'most wanted to cry. And I told him I _did_ +love him, I loved him dearly, and I had loved to be with him this +summer, and that I'd stay his whole six months with him next year if +he wanted me to. + +He shook his head at that; but he did look happy and pleased, and said +I'd never know how glad he was that I'd said that, and that he should +prize it very highly--the love of his little daughter. He said you +never knew how to prize love, either, till you'd lost it; and he said +he'd learned his lesson, and learned it well. I knew then, of course, +that he was thinking of Mother and the long ago. And I felt so sorry +for him. + +"But I'll stay--I'll stay the whole six months next year!" I cried +again. + +But again he shook his head. + +"No, no, my dear; I thank you, and I'd love to have you; but it is +much better for you that you stay in Boston through the school year, +and I want you to do it. It'll just make the three months I do have +you all the dearer, because of the long nine months that I do not," +he went on very cheerfully and briskly; "and don't look so solemn and +long-faced. You're not to blame--for this wretched situation." + +The train came then, and he put me on board, and he kissed me +again--but I was expecting it this time, of course. Then I whizzed +off, and he was left standing all alone on the platform. And I felt +so sorry for him; and all the way down to Boston I kept thinking of +him--what he said, and how he looked, and how fine and splendid and +any-woman-would-be-proud-of-him he was as he stood on the platform +waving good-bye. + +And so I guess I was still thinking of him and being sorry for +him when I got to Boston. That's why I couldn't be so crazy and +hilariously glad when the folks met me, I suspect. Some way, all of a +sudden, I found myself wishing _he_ could be there, too. + +Of course, I knew that that was bad and wicked and unkind to Mother, +and she'd feel so grieved not to have me satisfied with her. And I +wouldn't have told her of it for the world. So I tried just as hard as +I could to forget him--on account of Mother, so as to be loyal to her. +And I did 'most forget him by the time I'd got home. But it all came +back again a little later when we were unpacking my trunk. + +You see, Mother found the two new white dresses, and the dear little +shoes. I knew then, of course, that she'd have to know all--I mean, +how she hadn't pleased Father, even after all her pains trying to have +me go as Mary. + +"Why, Marie, what in the world is this?" she demanded, holding up one +of the new dresses. + +I could have cried. + +I suppose she saw by my face how awfully I felt 'cause she'd found it. +And, of course, she saw something was the matter; and she thought it +was-- + +Well, the first thing _I_ knew she was looking at me in her very +sternest, sorriest way, and saying: + +"Oh, Marie, how could you? I'm ashamed of you! Couldn't you wear the +Mary dresses one little three months to please your father?" + +I did cry, then. After all I'd been through, to have her accuse _me_ +of getting those dresses! Well, I just couldn't stand it. And I told +her so as well as I could, only I was crying so by now that I could +hardly speak. I told her how it was hard enough to be Mary part of the +time, and Marie part of the time, when I _knew_ what they wanted me to +be. But when she tried to have me Mary while he wanted me Marie, and +he tried to have me Marie while she wanted me Mary--I did not know +what they wanted; and I wished I had never been born unless I could +have been born a plain Susie or Bessie, or Annabelle, and not a Mary +Marie that was all mixed up till I didn't know what I was. + +And then I cried some more. + +Mother dropped the dress then, and took me in her arms over on the +couch, and she said, "There, there," and that I was tired and nervous, +and all wrought up, and to cry all I wanted to. And by and by, when I +was calmer I could tell Mother all about it. + +And I did. + +I told her how hard I tried to be Mary all the way up to Andersonville +and after I got there; and how then I found out, all of a sudden one +day, that father had got ready for _Marie_, and he didn't want me to +be Mary, and that was why he had got Cousin Grace and the automobile +and the geraniums in the window, and, oh, everything that made it nice +and comfy and homey. And then is when they bought me the new white +dresses and the little white shoes. And I told Mother, of course, it +was lovely to be Marie, and I liked it, only I knew _she_ would feel +bad to think, after all _her_ pains to make me Mary, Father didn't +want me Mary at all. + +"I don't think you need to worry--about that," stammered Mother. And +when I looked at her, her face was all flushed, and sort of queer, but +not a bit angry. And she went on in the same odd little shaky voice: +"But, tell me, why--why did--your father want you to be Marie and not +Mary?" + +And then I told her how he said he'd remembered what I'd said to him +in the parlor that day--how tired I got being Mary, and how I'd put +on Marie's things just to get a little vacation from her; and he said +he'd never forgotten. And so when it came near time for me to come +again, he determined to fix it so I wouldn't have to be Mary at all. +And so that was why. And I told Mother it was all right, and of course +I liked it; only it _did_ mix me up awfully, not knowing which wanted +me to be Mary now, and which Marie, when they were both telling me +different from what they ever had before. And that it was hard, when +you were trying just the best you knew how. + +And I began to cry again. + +And she said there, there, once more, and patted me on my shoulder, +and told me I needn't worry any more. And that _she_ understood it, +if I didn't. In fact, she was beginning to understand a lot of things +that she'd never understood before. And she said it was very, very +dear of Father to do what he did, and that I needn't worry about her +being displeased at it. That she was pleased, and that she believed he +meant her to be. And she said I needn't think any more whether to be +Mary or Marie; but to be just a good, loving little daughter to both +of them; and that was all she asked, and she was very sure it was all +Father would ask, too. + +I told her then how I thought he _did_ care a little about having +me there, and that I knew he was going to miss me. And I told her +why--what he'd said that morning in the junction--about appreciating +love, and not missing things or people until you didn't have them; and +how he'd learned his lesson, and all that. + +And Mother grew all flushed and rosy again, but she was pleased. I +knew she was. And she said some beautiful things about making other +people happy, instead of looking to ourselves all the time, just as +she had talked once, before I went away. And I felt again that hushed, +stained-window, soft-music, everybody-kneeling kind of a way; and I +was so happy! And it lasted all the rest of that evening till I went +to sleep. + +And for the first time a beautiful idea came to me, when I thought how +Mother was trying to please Father, and he was trying to please her. +Wouldn't it be perfectly lovely and wonderful if Father and Mother +should fall in love with each other all over again, and get married? I +guess _then_ this would be a love story all right, all right! + + * * * * * + +_October._ + +Oh, how I wish that stained-window, everybody-kneeling feeling _would_ +last. But it never does. Just the next morning, when I woke up, it +rained. And I didn't feel pleased a bit. Still I remembered what +had happened the night before, and a real glow came over me at the +beautiful idea I had gone to sleep with. + +I wanted to tell Mother, and ask her if it couldn't be, and wouldn't +she let it be, if Father would. So, without waiting to dress me, I +hurried across the hall to her room and told her all about it--my +idea, and everything. + +But she said, "Nonsense," and, "Hush, hush," when I asked her if she +and Father couldn't fall in love all over again and get married. And +she said not to get silly notions into my head. And she wasn't a bit +flushed and teary, as she had been the night before, and she didn't +talk at all as she had then, either. And it's been that way ever +since. Things have gone along in just the usual humdrum way, and she's +never been the same as she was that night I came. + +Something--a little something--_did_ happen yesterday, though. There's +going to be another big astronomy meeting here in Boston this month, +just as there was when Father found Mother years ago; and Grandfather +brought home word that Father was going to be one of the chief +speakers. And he told Mother he supposed she'd go and hear him. + +I couldn't make out whether he was joking or not. (I never can tell +when Grandfather's joking.) But Aunt Hattie took it right up in +earnest, and said, "Pooh, pooh," she guessed not. She could _see_ +Madge going down to that hall to hear Dr. Anderson speak! + +And then a funny thing happened. I looked at Mother, and I saw her +head come up with a queer little jerk. + +"Well, yes, I am thinking of going," she said, just as calm and cool +as could be. "When does he speak, Father?" + +And when Aunt Hattie pooh-poohed some more, and asked how _could_ she +do such a thing, Mother answered: + +"Because Charles Anderson is the father of my little girl, and I think +she should hear him speak. Therefore, Hattie, I intend to take her." + +And then she asked Grandfather again when Father was going to speak. + +I'm so excited! Only think of seeing my father up on a big platform +with a lot of big men, and hearing him speak! And he'll be the very +smartest and handsomest one there, too. You see if he isn't! + + * * * * * + +_Two weeks and one day later_. + +Oh, I've got a lot to write this time--I mean, a lot has happened. +Still, I don't know as it's going to take so very long to tell it. +Besides, I'm almost too excited to write, anyway. But I'm going to do +the best I can to tell it, just as it happened. + +Father's here--right here in Boston. I don't know when he came. But +the first day of the meeting was day before yesterday, and he was here +then. The paper said he was, and his picture was there, too. There +were a lot of pictures, but his was away ahead of the others. It was +the very best one on the page. (I told you it would be that way.) + +Mother saw it first. That is, I think she did. She had the paper in +her hand, looking at it, when I came into the room; but as soon as she +saw me she laid it right down quick on the table. If she hadn't been +quite so quick about it, and if she hadn't looked quite so queer when +she did it, I wouldn't have thought anything at all. But when I went +over to the table after she had gone, and saw the paper with Father's +picture right on the first page--and the biggest picture there--I knew +then, of course, what she'd been looking at. + +I looked at it then, and I read what it said, too. It was lovely. Why, +I hadn't any idea Father was so big. I was prouder than ever of him. +It told all about the stars and comets he'd discovered, and the books +he'd written on astronomy, and how he was president of the college at +Andersonville, and that he was going to give an address the next day. +And I read it all--every word. And I made up my mind right there and +then that I'd cut out that piece and save it. + +But that night, when I went to the library cupboard to get the paper, +I couldn't do it, after all. Oh, the paper was there, but that page +was gone. There wasn't a bit of it left. Somebody had taken it right +out. I never thought then of Mother. But I believe now that it _was_ +Mother, for-- + +But I mustn't tell you that part now. Stories are just like meals. You +have to eat them--I mean tell them--in regular order, and not put the +ice-cream in where the soup ought to be. So I'm not going to tell yet +why I suspect it was Mother that cut out that page of the paper with +Father's picture in it. + +Well, the next morning was Father's lecture, and I went with Mother. +Of course Grandfather was there, too, but he was with the other +astronomers, I guess. Anyhow, he didn't sit with us. And Aunt Hattie +didn't go at all. So Mother and I were alone. + +We sat back--a long ways back. I wanted to go up front, real far +front--the front seat, if I could get it; and I told Mother so. But +she said, "Mercy, no!" and shuddered, and went back two more rows from +where she was, and got behind a big post. + +I guess she was afraid Father would see us, but that's what _I_ +wanted. I wanted him to see us. I wanted him to be right in the middle +of his lecture and look down and see right there before him his little +girl Mary, and she that had been the wife of his bosom. Now _that_ +would have been what I called thrilling, real thrilling, especially if +he jumped or grew red, or white, or stammered, or stopped short, or +anything to show that he'd seen us--and cared. + +I'd have loved that. + +But we sat back where Mother wanted to, behind the post. And, of +course, Father never saw us at all. + +It was a lovely lecture. Oh, of course, I don't mean to say that I +understood it. I didn't. But his voice was fine, and he looked just +too grand for anything, with the light on his noble brow, and he used +the loveliest big words that I ever heard. And folks clapped, and +looked at each other, and nodded, and once or twice they laughed. And +when he was all through they clapped again, harder than ever. And I +was so proud of him I wanted to stand right up and holler, "He's my +father! He's my father!" just as loud as I could. But, of course, I +didn't. I just clapped like the rest; only I wished my hands were big +like the man's next to me, so I could have made more noise. + +Another man spoke then, a little (not near so good as Father), and +then it was all over, and everybody got up to go; and I saw that a +lot of folks were crowding down the aisle, and I looked and there was +Father right in front of the platform shaking hands with folks. + +I looked at Mother then. Her face was all pinky-white, and her eyes +were shining. I guess she thought I spoke, for all of a sudden she +shook her head and said: + +"No, no, I couldn't, I couldn't! But _you_ may, dear. Run along and +speak to him; but don't stay. Remember, Mother is waiting, and come +right back." + +I knew then that it must have been just my eyes that spoke, for I +_did_ want to go down there and speak to Father. Oh, I did want to go! +And I went then, of course. + +He didn't see me at first. There was a long line of us, and a big fat +man was doing a lot of talking to him so we couldn't move at all, for +a time. Then it came to when I was just three people away from him. +And I was looking straight at him. + +He saw me then. And, oh, how I did love the look that came to his +face; it was so surprised and glad, and said, "Oh! _You_!" in such a +perfectly lovely way that I choked all up and wanted to _cry_. (The +idea!--cry when I was so _glad_ to see him!) + +I guess the two folks ahead of me didn't think they got much +attention, and the next minute he had drawn me out of the line, and we +were both talking at once, and telling each other how glad we were to +see each other. + +But he was looking for Mother--I know he was; for the next minute +after he saw me, he looked right over my head at the woman back of me. +And all the while he was talking with me, his eyes would look at me +and then leap as swift as lightning first here, and then there, all +over the hall. But he didn't see her. I knew he didn't see her, by the +look on his face. And pretty quick I said I'd have to go. And then he +said: + +"Your mother--perhaps she didn't--_did_ she come?" And his face grew +all red and rosy as he asked the question. + +And I said yes, and she was waiting, and that was why I had to go back +right away. + +And he said, "Yes, yes, to be sure," and, "good-bye." But he still +held my hand tight, and his eyes were still roving all over the house. +And I had to tell him again that I really had to go; and I had to pull +real determined at my hand, before I could break away. And I don't +believe I could have gone even then if some other folks hadn't come up +at that minute. + +I went back to Mother then. The hall was almost empty, and she wasn't +anywhere in sight at all; but I found her just outside the door. I +knew then why Father's face showed that he hadn't found her. She +wasn't there to find. I suspect she had looked out for that. + +Her face was still pinky-white, and her eyes were shining; and she +wanted to know everything we had said--everything. So she found out, +of course, that he had asked if she was there. But she didn't say +anything herself, not anything. She didn't say anything, either, at +the luncheon table, when Grandfather was talking with Aunt Hattie +about the lecture, and telling some of the things Father had said. + +Grandfather said it was an admirable address, scholarly and +convincing, or something like that. And he said that he thought Dr. +Anderson had improved greatly in looks and manner. And he looked +straight at Mother when he said that; but still Mother never said a +word. + +In the afternoon I went to walk with one of the girls; and when I came +in I couldn't find Mother. She wasn't anywhere downstairs, nor in her +room, nor mine, nor anywhere else on that floor. Aunt Hattie said no, +she wasn't out, but that she was sure she didn't know where she was. +She must be somewhere in the house. + +I went upstairs then, another flight. There wasn't anywhere else to +go, and Mother must be _somewhere_, of course. And it seemed suddenly +to me as if I'd just _got_ to find her. I _wanted_ her so. + +And I found her. + +In the little back room where Aunt Hattie keeps her trunks and +moth-ball bags, Mother was on the floor in the corner crying. And when +I exclaimed out and ran over to her, I found she was sitting beside +an old trunk that was open; and across her lap was a perfectly lovely +pale-blue satin dress all trimmed with silver lace that had grown +black. And Mother was crying and crying as if her heart would break. + +Of course, I tried and tried to stop her, and I begged her to tell me +what was the matter. But I couldn't do a thing, not a thing, not for +a long time. Then I happened to say what a lovely dress, only what a +pity it was that the lace was all black. + +She gave a little choking cry then, and began to talk--little short +sentences all choked up with sobs, so that I could hardly tell what +she was talking about. Then, little by little, I began to understand. + +She said yes, it was all black--tarnished; and that it was just like +everything that she had had anything to do with--tarnished: her +life and her marriage, and Father's life, and mine--everything was +tarnished, just like that silver lace on that dress. And she had done +it by her thoughtless selfishness and lack of self-discipline. + +And when I tried and tried to tell her no, it wasn't, and that I +didn't feel tarnished a bit, and that she wasn't, nor Father either, +she only cried all the more, and shook her head and began again, all +choked up. + +She said this little dress was the one she wore at the big reception +where she first met Father. It was a beautiful blue then, all shining +and spotless, and the silver lace glistened like frost in the +sunlight. And she was so proud and happy when Father--and he was fine +and splendid and handsome then, too, she said--singled her out, and +just couldn't seem to stay away from her a minute all the evening. And +then four days later he asked her to marry him; and she was still more +proud and happy. + +And she said their married life, when they started out, was just like +that beautiful dress, all shining and spotless and perfect; but that +it wasn't two months before a little bit of tarnish appeared, and then +another and another. + +She said she was selfish and willful and exacting, and wanted Father +all to herself; and she didn't stop to think that he had his work to +do, and his place to make in the world; and that all of living, to +him, wasn't just in being married to her, and attending to her every +whim. She said she could see it all now, but that she couldn't then, +she was too young, and undisciplined, and she'd never been denied a +thing in the world she wanted. As she said that, right before my eyes +rose that box of chocolates she made me eat one at a time; but, of +course, I didn't say anything! Besides, Mother hurried right on +talking. + +She said things went on worse and worse--and it was all her fault. She +grew sour and cross and disagreeable. She could see now that she did. +But she did not realize at all then what she was doing. She was just +thinking of herself--always herself; her rights, her wrongs, her hurt +feelings, her wants and wishes. She never once thought that _he_ had +rights and wrongs and hurt feelings, maybe. + +And so the tarnish kept growing more and more. She said there was +nothing like selfishness to tarnish the beautiful fabric of married +life. (Isn't that a lovely sentence? I said that over and over to +myself so as to be sure and remember it, so I could get it into this +story. I thought it was beautiful.) + +She said a lot more--oh, ever so much more; but I can't remember it +all. (I lost some while I was saying that sentence over and over, so +as to remember it.) I know that she went on to say that by and by the +tarnish began to dim the brightness of my life, too; and that was the +worst of all, she said--that innocent children should suffer, and +their young lives be spotted by the kind of living I'd had to have, +with this wretched makeshift of a divided home. She began to cry again +then, and begged me to forgive her, and I cried and tried to tell her +I didn't mind it; but, of course, I'm older now, and I know I do mind +it, though I'm trying just as hard as I can not to be Mary when I +ought to be Marie, or Marie when I ought to be Mary. Only I get all +mixed up so, lately, and I said so, and I guess I cried some more. + +Mother jumped up then, and said, "Tut, tut," what was she thinking of +to talk like this when it couldn't do a bit of good, but only made +matters worse. And she said that only went to prove how she was still +keeping on tarnishing my happiness and bringing tears to my bright +eyes, when certainly nothing of the whole wretched business was my +fault. + +She thrust the dress back into the trunk then, and shut the lid. Then +she took me downstairs and bathed my eyes and face with cold water, +and hers, too. And _she_ began to talk and laugh and tell stories, and +be gayer and jollier than I'd seen her for ever so long. And she was +that way at dinner, too, until Grandfather happened to mention the +reception to-morrow night, and ask if she was going. + +She flushed up red then, oh, so red! and said, "Certainly not." Then +she added quick, with a funny little drawing-in of her breath, that +she should let Marie go, though, with her Aunt Hattie. + +There was an awful fuss then. Aunt Hattie raised her eyebrows and +threw up her hands, and said: + +"That child--in the evening! Why, Madge, are you crazy?" + +And Mother said no, she wasn't crazy at all; but it was the only +chance Father would have to see me, and she didn't feel that she had +any right to deprive him of that privilege, and she didn't think it +would do me any harm to be out this once late in the evening. And she +intended to let me go. + +Aunt Hattie still didn't approve, and she said more, quite a lot more; +but Grandfather spoke up and took my part, and said that, in his +opinion, Madge was right, quite right, and that it was no more than +fair that the man should have a chance to talk with his own child for +a little while, and that he would be very glad to take me himself and +look after me, if Aunt Hattie did not care to take the trouble. + +Aunt Hattie bridled up at that, and said that that wasn't the case at +all; that she'd be very glad to look after me; and if Mother had quite +made up her mind that she wanted me to go, they'd call the matter +settled. + +And Mother said she had, and so it was settled. And I'm going. I'm to +wear my new white dress with the pink rosebud trimming, and I'm so +excited I can hardly wait till to-morrow night. But--oh, if only +Mother would go, too! + + * * * * * + +_Two days later_. + +Well, _now_ I guess something's doing all right! And my hand is +shaking so I can hardly write--it wants to get ahead so fast and +_tell_. But I'm going to keep it sternly back and tell it just as it +happened, and not begin at the ice-cream instead of the soup. + +Very well, then. I went last night with Grandfather and Aunt Hattie +to the reception; and Mother said I looked very sweet, and +any-father-ought-to-be-proud-of me in my new dress. Grandfather patted +me, put on his glasses, and said, "Well, well, bless my soul! Is this +our little Mary Marie?" And even Aunt Hattie said if I acted as well +as I looked I'd do very well. Then Mother kissed me and ran upstairs +_quick_. But I saw the tears in her eyes, and I knew why she hurried +so. + +At the reception I saw Father right away, but he didn't see me for a +long time. He stood in a corner, and lots of folks came up and spoke +to him and shook hands; and he bowed and smiled--but in between, when +there wasn't anybody noticing, he looked so tired and bored. After a +time he stirred and changed his position, and I think he was hunting +for a chance to get away, when all of a sudden his eyes, roving around +the room, lighted on me. + +My! but just didn't I love the way he came through that crowd, +straight toward me, without paying one bit of attention to the folks +that tried to stop him on the way. And when he got to me, he looked so +glad to see me, only there was the same quick searching with his eyes, +beyond and around me, as if he was looking for somebody else, just as +he had done the morning of the lecture. And I knew it was Mother, of +course. So I said: + +"No, she didn't come." + +"So I see," he answered. And there was such a hurt, sorry look away +back in his eyes. But right away he smiled, and said: "But _you_ came! +I've got _you_." + +Then he began to talk and tell stories, just as if I was a young lady +to be entertained. And he took me over to where they had things to +eat, and just heaped my plate with chicken patties and sandwiches and +olives and pink-and-white frosted cakes and ice-cream (not all at +once, of course, but in order). And I had a perfectly beautiful time. +And Father seemed to like it pretty well. But after a while he grew +sober again, and his eyes began to rove all around the room. + +He took me to a little seat in the corner then, and we sat down and +began to talk--only Father didn't talk much. He just listened to what +I said, and his eyes grew deeper and darker and sadder, and they +didn't rove around so much, after a time, but just stared fixedly at +nothing, away out across the room. By and by he stirred and drew a +long sigh, and said, almost under his breath: + +"It was just such another night as this." + +And of course, I asked what was--and then I knew, almost before he had +told me. + +"That I first saw your mother, my dear." + +"Oh, yes, I know!" I cried, eager to tell him that I _did_ know. "And +she must have looked lovely in that perfectly beautiful blue silk +dress all silver lace." + +He turned and stared at me. + +"How did _you_ know that?" he demanded. + +"I saw it." + +"You saw it!" + +"Yesterday, yes--the dress," I nodded. + +"But how _could_ you?" he asked, frowning, and looking so surprised. +"Why, that dress must be--seventeen years old, or more." + +I nodded again, and I suppose I did look pleased: it's such fun to +have a secret, you know, and watch folks guess and wonder. And I kept +him guessing and wondering for quite a while. Then, of course, I told +him that it was upstairs in Grandfather's trunk-room; that Mother had +got it out, and I saw it. + +"But, what--was your mother doing with that dress?" he asked then, +looking even more puzzled and mystified. + +And then suddenly I thought and remembered that Mother was crying. +And, of course, she wouldn't want Father to know she was crying over +it--that dress she had worn when he first met her long ago! (I don't +think women ever want men to know such things, do you? I know I +shouldn't!) So I didn't tell. I just kind of tossed it off, and +mumbled something about her looking it over; and I was going to say +something else, but I saw that Father wasn't listening. He had begun +to talk again, softly, as if to himself. + +"I suppose to-night, seeing you, and all this, brought it back to me +so vividly." Then he turned and looked at me. "You are very like your +mother to-night, dear." + +"I suppose I am, maybe, when I'm Marie," I nodded. + +He laughed with his lips, but his eyes didn't laugh one bit as he +said: + +"What a quaint little fancy of yours that is, child--as if you were +two in one." + +"But I am two in one," I declared. "That's why I'm a cross-current and +a contradiction, you know," I explained. + +I thought he'd understand. But he didn't. I supposed, of course, he +knew what a cross-current and a contradiction was. But he turned again +and stared at me. + +"A--_what_?" he demanded. + +"A cross-current and a contradiction," I explained once more. +"Children of unlikes, you know. Nurse Sarah told me that long ago. +Didn't you ever hear that--that a child of unlikes was a cross-current +and a contradiction?" + +"Well, no--I--hadn't," answered Father, in a queer, half-smothered +voice. He half started from his seat. I think he was going to walk up +and down, same as he usually does. But in a minute he saw he couldn't, +of course, with all those people around there. So he sat back again in +his chair. For a minute he just frowned and stared at nothing; then he +spoke again, as if half to himself. + +"I suppose, Mary, we were--unlikes, your mother and I. That's just +what we were; though I never thought of it before, in just that way." + +He waited, then went on, still half to himself, his eyes on the +dancers: + +"She loved things like this--music, laughter, gayety. I abhorred them. +I remember how bored I was that night here--till I saw her." + +"And did you fall in love with her right away?" I just couldn't help +asking that question. Oh, I do so adore love stories! + +A queer little smile came to Father's lips. + +"Well, yes, I think I did, Mary. There'd been dozens and dozens of +young ladies that had flitted by in their airy frocks--and I never +looked twice at them. I never looked twice at your mother, for that +matter, Mary." (A funny little twinkle came into Father's eyes. I +_love_ him with that twinkle!) "I just looked at her once--and then +kept on looking till it seemed as if I just couldn't take my eyes off +her. And after a little her glance met mine--and the whole throng +melted away, and there wasn't another soul in the room but just us +two. Then she looked away, and the throng came back. But I still +looked at her." + +"Was she so awfully pretty, Father?" I could feel the little thrills +tingling all over me. _Now_ I was getting a love story! + +"She was, my dear. She was very lovely. But it wasn't just that--it +was a joyous something that I could not describe. It was as if she +were a bird, poised for flight. I know it now for what it was--the +very incarnation of the spirit of youth. And she _was_ young. Why, +Mary, she was not so many years older than you yourself, now." + +I nodded, and I guess I sighed. + +"I know--where the brook and river meet," I said; "only they won't let +_me_ have any lovers at all." + +"Eh? What?" Father had turned and was looking at me so funny. "Well, +no, I should say not," he said then. "You aren't sixteen yet. And your +mother--I suspect _she_ was too young. If she hadn't been quite so +young--" + +He stopped, and stared again straight ahead at the dancers--without +seeing one of them, I knew. Then he drew a great deep sigh that seemed +to come from the very bottom of his boots. + +"But it was my fault, my fault, every bit of it," he muttered, still +staring straight ahead. "If I hadn't been so thoughtless--As if I +could imprison that bright spirit of youth in a great dull cage of +conventionality, and not expect it to bruise its wings by fluttering +against the bars!" + +I thought that was perfectly beautiful--that sentence. I said it right +over to myself two or three times so I wouldn't forget how to write it +down here. So I didn't quite hear the next things that Father said. +But when I did notice, I found he was still talking--and it was about +Mother, and him, and their marriage, and their first days at the old +house. I knew it was that, even if he did mix it all up about the +spirit of youth beating its wings against the bars. And over and over +again he kept repeating that it was his fault, it was his fault; and +if he could only live it over again he'd do differently. + +And right there and then it came to me that Mother said it was her +fault, too; and that if only she could live it over again, _she'd_ do +differently. And here was Father saying the same thing. And all of a +sudden I thought, well, why can't they try it over again, if they both +want to, and if each says it, was their--no, his, no, hers--well, his +and her fault. (How does the thing go? I hate grammar!) But I mean, if +she says it's her fault, and he says it's his. That's what I thought, +anyway. And I determined right then and there to give them the chance +to try again, if speaking would do it. + +I looked up at Father. He was still talking half under his breath, his +eyes looking straight ahead. He had forgotten all about me. That was +plain to be seen. If I'd been a cup of coffee without any coffee in +it, he'd have been stirring me. I know he would. He was like that. + +"Father. _Father!_" I had to speak twice, before he heard me. "Do you +really mean that you would like to try again?" I asked. + +"Eh? What?" And just the way he turned and looked at me showed how +many _miles_ he'd been away from me. + +"Try it again, you know--what you said," I reminded him. + +"Oh, that!" Such a funny look came to his face, half ashamed, half +vexed. "I'm afraid I _have_ been--talking, my dear." + +"Yes, but would you?" I persisted. + +He shook his head; then, with such an oh-that-it-could-be! smile, he +said: + +"Of course;--we all wish that we could go back and do it over +again--differently. But we never can." + +"I know; like the cloth that's been cut up into the dress," I nodded. + +"Cloth? Dress?" frowned Father. + +"Yes, that Mother told me about," I explained. Then I told him the +story that Mother had told me--how you couldn't go back and be +unmarried, just as you were before, any more than you could put the +cloth back on the shelf, all neatly folded in a great long web after +it had been cut up into a dress. + +"Did your mother say--that?" asked Father. His voice was husky, and +his eyes were turned away, but they were not looking at the dancers. +He was listening to me now. I knew that, and so I spoke quick, before +he could get absent-minded again. + +"Yes, but, Father, you can go back, in this case, and so can Mother, +'cause you both want to," I hurried on, almost choking in my anxiety +to get it all out quickly. "And Mother said it was _her_ fault. I +heard her." + +"_Her_ fault!" I could see that Father did not quite understand, even +yet. + +"Yes, yes, just as you said it was yours--about all those things at +the first, you know, when--when she was a spirit of youth beating +against the bars." + +Father turned square around and faced me. + +"Mary, what are you talking about?" he asked then. And I'd have been +scared of his voice if it hadn't been for the great light that was +shining in his eyes. + +But I looked into his eyes, and wasn't scared; and I told him +everything, every single thing--all about how Mother had cried over +the little blue dress that day in the trunk-room, and how she had +shown the tarnished lace and said that _she_ had tarnished the +happiness of him and of herself and of me; and that it was all her +fault; that she was thoughtless and willful and exacting and a spoiled +child; and, oh, if she could only try it over again, how differently +she would do! And there was a lot more. I told everything--everything +I could remember. Some way, I didn't believe that Mother would mind +_now_, after what Father had said. And I just knew she wouldn't mind +if she could see the look in Father's eyes as I talked. + +He didn't interrupt me--not long interruptions. He did speak out a +quick little word now and then, at some of the parts; and once I know +I saw him wipe a tear from his eyes. After that he put up his hand and +sat with his eyes covered all the rest of the time I was talking. And +he didn't take it down till I said: + +"And so, Father, that's why I told you; 'cause it seemed to me if +_you_ wanted to try again, and _she_ wanted to try again, why can't +you do it? Oh, Father, think how perfectly lovely 'twould be if you +did, and if it worked! Why, I wouldn't care whether I was Mary or +Marie, or what I was. I'd have you and Mother both together, and, oh, +how I should love it!" + +It was just here that Father's arm came out and slipped around me in a +great big hug. + +"Bless your heart! But, Mary, my dear, how are we going to--to bring +this about?" And he actually stammered and blushed, and he looked +almost young with his eyes so shining and his lips so smiling. And +then is when my second great idea came to me. + +"Oh, Father!" I cried, "couldn't you come courting her again--calls +and flowers and candy, and all the rest? Oh, Father, couldn't you? +Why, Father, of course, you could!" + +This last I added in my most persuasive voice, for I could see the +"no" on his face even before he began to shake his head. + +"I'm afraid not, my dear," he said then. "It would take more than +a flower or a bonbon to to win your mother back now, I fear." + +"But you could try," I urged. + +He shook his head again. + +"She wouldn't see me--if I called, my dear," he answered. + +He sighed as he said it, and I sighed, too. And for a minute I didn't +say anything. Of course, if she wouldn't _see_ him-- + +Then another idea came to me. + +"But, Father, if she _would_ see you--I mean, if you got a chance, you +_would_ tell her what you told me just now; about--about its being +your fault, I mean, and the spirit of youth beating against the bars, +and all that. You would, wouldn't you?" + +He didn't say anything, not anything, for such a long time I thought +he hadn't heard me. Then, with a queer, quick drawing-in of his +breath, he said: + +"I think--little girl--if--if I ever got the chance I would say--a +great deal more than I said to you to-night." + +"Good!" I just crowed the word, and I think I clapped my hands; but +right away I straightened up and was very fine and dignified, for I +saw Aunt Hattie looking at me from across the room, as I said: + +"Very good, then. You shall have the chance." + +He turned and smiled a little, but he shook his head. + +"Thank you, child; but I don't think you know quite what you're +promising," he said. + +"Yes, I do." + +Then I told him my idea. At first he said no, and it couldn't be, and +he was very sure she wouldn't see him, even if he called. But I said +she would if he would do exactly as I said. And I told him my plan. +And after a time and quite a lot of talk, he said he would agree to +it. + +And this morning we did it. + +At exactly ten o'clock he came up the steps of the house here, but he +didn't ring the bell. I had told him not to do that, and I was on the +watch for him. I knew that at ten o'clock Grandfather would be gone, +Aunt Hattie probably downtown shopping, and Lester out with his +governess. I wasn't so sure of Mother, but I knew it was Saturday, and +I believed I could manage somehow to keep her here with me, so that +everything would be all right there. + +And I did. I had a hard time, though. Seems as if she proposed +everything to do this morning--shopping, and a walk, and a call on +a girl I knew who was sick. But I said I did not feel like doing +anything but just to stay at home and rest quietly with her. (Which +was the truth--I _didn't_ feel like doing _anything else_!) But that +almost made matters worse than ever, for she said that was so totally +unlike me that she was afraid I must be sick; and I had all I could do +to keep her from calling a doctor. + +[Illustration: THEN I TOLD HIM MY IDEA] + +But I did it; and at five minutes before ten she was sitting quietly +sewing in her own room. Then I went downstairs to watch for Father. + +He came just on the dot, and I let him in and took him into the +library. Then I went upstairs and told Mother there was some one +downstairs who wanted to see her. + +And she said, how funny, and wasn't there any name, and where was the +maid. But I didn't seem to hear. I had gone into my room in quite a +hurry, as if I had forgotten something I wanted to do there. But, +of course, I didn't do a thing--except to make sure that she went +downstairs to the library. + +They're there now _together_. And he's been here a whole hour already. +Seems as if he ought to say _something_ in that length of time! + +After I was sure Mother was down, I took out this, and began to write +in it. And I've been writing ever since. But, oh, I do so wonder +what's going on down there. I'm so excited over-- + + * * * * * + +_One week later_. + +At just that minute Mother came into the room. I wish you could have +seen her. My stars, but she looked pretty!--with her shining eyes and +the lovely pink in her cheeks. And _young_! Honestly, I believe she +looked younger than I did that minute. + +She just came and put her arms around me and kissed me; and I saw +then that her eyes were all misty with tears. She didn't say a word, +hardly, only that Father wanted to see me, and I was to go right down. + +And I went. + +I thought, of course, that she was coming too. But she didn't. And +when I got down the stairs I found I was all alone; but I went right +on into the library, and there was Father waiting for me. + +_He_ didn't say much, either, at first; but just like Mother he put +his arms around me and kissed me, and held me there. Then, very soon, +he began to talk; and, oh, he said such beautiful things--_such_ +tender, lovely, sacred things; too sacred even to write down here. +Then he kissed me again and went away. + +But he came back the next day, and he's been here some part of every +day since. And, oh, what a wonderful week it has been! + +They're going to be married. It's to-morrow. They'd have been married +right away at the first, only they had to wait--something about +licenses and a five-day notice, Mother said. Father fussed and fumed, +and wanted to try for a special dispensation, or something; but Mother +laughed, and said certainly not, and that she guessed it was just as +well, for she positively _had_ to have a few things; and he needn't +think he could walk right in like that on a body and expect her to +get married at a moment's notice. But she didn't mean it. I know she +didn't; for when Father reproached her, she laughed softly, and called +him an old goose, and said, yes, of course, she'd have married him +in two minutes if it hadn't been for the five-day notice, no matter +whether she ever had a new dress or not. + +And that's the way it is with them all the time. They're too funny and +lovely together for anything. (Aunt Hattie says they're too silly for +anything; but nobody minds Aunt Hattie.) They just can't seem to do +enough for each other. Father was going next week to a place 'way on +the other side of the world to view an eclipse of the moon, but he +said right off he'd give it up. But Mother said, "No, indeed," she +guessed he _wouldn't_ give it up; that he was going, and that she was +going, too--a wedding trip; and that she was sure she didn't know a +better place to go for a wedding trip than the moon! And Father was +_so_ pleased. And he said he'd try not to pay all his attention to the +stars this time; and Mother laughed and said, "Nonsense," and that she +adored stars herself, and that he _must_ pay attention to the stars. +It was his business to. Then she looked very wise and got off +something she'd read in the astronomy book. And they both laughed, and +looked over to me to see if I was noticing. And I was. And so then we +all laughed. + +And, as I said before, it is all perfectly lovely and wonderful. + +So it's all settled, and they're going right away on this trip and +call it a wedding trip. And, of course, Grandfather had to get off his +joke about how he thought it was a pretty dangerous business; and to +see that _this_ honeymoon didn't go into an eclipse while they were +watching the other one. But nobody minds Grandfather. + +I'm to stay here and finish school. Then, in the spring, when Father +and Mother come back, we are all to go to Andersonville and begin to +live in the old house again. + +Won't it be lovely? It just seems too good to be true. Why, I don't +care a bit now whether I'm Mary or Marie. But, then, nobody else does, +either. In fact, both of them call me the whole name now, Mary Marie. +I don't think they ever _said_ they would. They just began to do it. +That's all. + +Of course, anybody can see why: _now_ each one is calling me the other +one's name along with their own. That is, Mother is calling me Mary +along with her pet Marie, and Father is calling me Marie along with +his pet Mary. + +Funny, isn't it? + +But one thing is sure, anyway. How about this being a love story +_now_? Oh, I'm so excited! + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +WHICH IS THE TEST + + +ANDERSONVILLE. _Twelve years later_. + +_Twelve years_--yes. And I'm twenty-eight years old. Pretty old, +little Mary Marie of the long ago would think. And, well, perhaps +to-day I feel just as old as she would put it. + +I came up into the attic this morning to pack away some things I shall +no longer need, now that I am going to leave Jerry. (Jerry is +my husband.) And in the bottom of my little trunk I found this +manuscript. I had forgotten that such a thing existed; but with its +laboriously written pages before me, it all came back to me; and I +began to read; here a sentence; there a paragraph; somewhere else a +page. Then, with a little half laugh and half sob, I carried it to an +old rocking-chair by the cobwebby dormer window, and settled myself to +read it straight through. + +And I have read it. + +Poor little Mary Marie! Dear little Mary Marie! To meet you like this, +to share with you your joys and sorrows, hopes and despairs, of +those years long ago, is like sitting hand in hand on a sofa with a +childhood's friend, each listening to an eager "And do you remember?" +falling constantly from delighted lips that cannot seem to talk half +fast enough. + +But you have taught me much, little Mary Marie. I understand--oh, I +understand so many things so much better, now, since reading this +little story in your round childish hand. You see, I had almost +forgotten that I was a Mary and a Marie--Jerry calls me Mollie--and I +had wondered what were those contending forces within me. I know now. +It is the Mary and the Marie trying to settle their old, old quarrel. + +It was almost dark when I had finished the manuscript. The far corners +of the attic were peopled with fantastic shadows, and the spiders in +the window were swaying, lazy and full-stomached, in the midst of the +day's spoils of gruesome wings and legs. I got up slowly, stiffly, +shivering a little. I felt suddenly old and worn and ineffably weary. +It is a long, long journey back to our childhood--sometimes, even +though one may be only twenty-eight. + +I looked down at the last page of the manuscript. It was written on +the top sheet of a still thick pad of paper, and my fingers fairly +tingled suddenly, to go on and cover those unused white sheets--tell +what happened next--tell the rest of the story; not for the sake of +the story--but for my sake. It might help me. It might make things +clearer. It might help to justify myself in my own eyes. Not that I +have any doubts, of course (about leaving Jerry, I mean), but that +when I saw it in black and white I could be even more convinced that I +was doing what was best for him and best for me. + +So I brought the manuscript down to my own room, and this evening I +have commenced to write. I can't finish it to-night, of course. But I +have to-morrow, and still to-morrow. (I have so many to-morrows now! +And what do they all amount to?) And so I'll just keep writing, as I +have time, till I bring it to the end. + +I'm sorry that it must be so sad and sorry an end. But there's no +other way, of course. There can be but one ending, as I can see. I'm +sorry. Mother'll be sorry, too. She doesn't know yet. I hate to tell +her. Nobody knows--not even Jerry himself--yet. They all think I'm +just making a visit to Mother--and I am--till I write that letter to +Jerry. And then-- + +I believe now that I'll wait till I've finished writing this. I'll +feel better then. My mind will be clearer. I'll know more what to say. +Just the effort of writing it down-- + +Of course, if Jerry and I hadn't-- + +But this is no way to begin. Like the little Mary Marie of long ago I +am in danger of starting my dinner with ice-cream instead of soup! +And so I must begin where I left off, of course. And that was at the +wedding. + +I remember that wedding as if it were yesterday. I can see now, with +Mary Marie's manuscript before me, why it made so great an impression +upon me. It was a very quiet wedding, of course--just the members +of the family present. But I shall never forget the fine, sweet +loveliness of Mother's face, nor the splendid strength and tenderness +of Father's. And the way he drew her into his arms and kissed her, +after it was all over--well, I remember distinctly that even Aunt +Hattie choked up and had to turn her back to wipe her eyes. + +They went away at once, first to New York for a day or two, then to +Andersonville, to prepare for the real wedding trip to the other side +of the world. I stayed in Boston at school; and because nothing of +consequence happened all those weeks and months is the reason, I +suspect, why the manuscript got tossed into the bottom of my little +trunk and stayed there. + +In the spring, when Father and Mother returned, and we all went back +to Andersonville, there followed another long period of just happy +girlhood, and I suspect I was too satisfied and happy to think of +writing. After all, I've noticed it's when we're sad or troubled over +something that we have that tingling to cover perfectly good white +paper with "confessions" and "stories of my life." As witness right +now what I'm doing. + +And so it's not surprising, perhaps, that Mary Marie's manuscript +still lay forgotten in the little old trunk after it was taken up to +the attic. Mary Marie was happy. + +And it _was_ happy--that girlhood of mine, after we came back to +Andersonville. I can see now, as I look back at it, that Father and +Mother were doing everything in their power to blot out of my memory +those unhappy years of my childhood. For that matter, they were also +doing everything in their power to blot out of their _own_ memories +those same unhappy years. To me, as I look back at it, it seems +that they must have succeeded wonderfully. They were very happy, I +believe--Father and Mother. + +Oh, it was not always easy--even I could see that. It took a lot of +adjusting--a lot of rubbing off of square corners to keep the daily +life running smoothly. But when two persons are determined that it +shall run smoothly--when each is steadfastly looking to the _other's_ +happiness, not at his own--why, things just can't help smoothing out +then. But it takes them both. One can't do it alone. Now, if Jerry +would only-- + +But it isn't time to speak of Jerry yet. + +I'll go back to my girlhood. + +It was a trying period--it must have been--for Father and Mother, in +spite of their great love for me, and their efforts to create for me +a happiness that would erase the past from my mind. I realize it now. +For, after all, I was just a girl--a young girl, like other girls; +high-strung, nervous, thoughtless, full of my whims and fancies; and, +in addition, with enough of my mother and enough of my father within +me to make me veritably a cross-current and a contradiction, as I had +said that I was in the opening sentence of my childish autobiography. + +I had just passed my sixteenth birthday when we all came back to live +in Andersonville. For the first few months I suspect that just the +glory and the wonder and joy of living in the old home, with Father +and Mother _happy together_, was enough to fill all my thoughts. Then, +as school began in the fall, I came down to normal living again, and +became a girl--just a growing girl in her teens. + +How patient Mother was, and Father, too! I can see now how gently and +tactfully they helped me over the stones and stumbling-blocks that +strew the pathway of every sixteen-year-old girl who thinks, because +she has turned down her dresses and turned up her hair, that she is +grown up, and can do and think and talk as she pleases. + +I well remember how hurt and grieved and superior I was at Mother's +insistence upon more frequent rubbers and warm coats, and fewer +ice-cream sodas and chocolate bonbons. Why, surely I was old enough +_now_ to take care of myself! Wasn't I ever to be allowed to have my +own opinions and exercise my own judgment? It seemed not! Thus spoke +superior sixteen. + +As for clothes!--I remember distinctly the dreary November rainstorm +of the morning I reproachfully accused Mother of wanting to make me +back into a stupid little Mary, just because she so uncompromisingly +disapproved of the beaded chains and bangles and jeweled combs and +spangled party dresses that "every girl in school" was wearing. Why, +the idea! Did she want me to dress like a little frump of a country +girl? It seems she did. + +Poor mother! Dear mother! I wonder how she kept her patience at all. +But she kept it. I remember that distinctly, too. + +It was that winter that I went through the morbid period. Like our +childhood's measles and whooping cough, it seems to come to most of +us--us women children. I wonder why? Certainly it came to me. True to +type I cried by the hour over fancied slights from my schoolmates, and +brooded days at a time because Father or Mother "didn't understand," I +questioned everything in the earth beneath and the heavens above; +and in my dark despair over an averted glance from my most intimate +friend, I meditated on whether life was, or was not, worth the living, +with a preponderance toward the latter. + +Being plunged into a state of settled gloom, I then became acutely +anxious as to my soul's salvation, and feverishly pursued every ism +and ology that caught my roving eye's attention, until in one short +month I had become, in despairing rotation, an incipient agnostic, +atheist, pantheist, and monist. Meanwhile I read Ibsen, and wisely +discussed the new school of domestic relationships. + +Mother--dear mother!--looked on aghast. She feared, I think, for my +life; certainly for my sanity and morals. + +It was Father this time who came to the rescue. He pooh-poohed +Mother's fears; said it was indigestion that ailed me, or that I was +growing too fast; or perhaps I didn't get enough sleep, or needed, +maybe, a good tonic. He took me out of school, and made it a point to +accompany me on long walks. He talked with me--not _to_ me--about the +birds and the trees and the sunsets, and then about the deeper things +of life, until, before I realized it, I was sane and sensible once +more, serene and happy in the simple faith of my childhood, with all +the isms and ologies a mere bad dream in the dim past. + +I was seventeen, if I remember rightly, when I became worried, not +over my heavenly estate now, but my earthly one. I must have a career, +of course. No namby-pamby everyday living of dishes and dusting and +meals and babies for me. It was all very well, of course, for some +people. Such things had to be. But for me-- + +I could write, of course; but I was not sure but that I preferred the +stage. At the same time there was within me a deep stirring as of a +call to go out and enlighten the world, especially that portion of it +in darkest Africa or deadliest India. I would be a missionary. + +Before I was eighteen, however, I had abandoned all this. Father put +his foot down hard on the missionary project, and Mother put hers down +on the stage idea. I didn't mind so much, though, as I remember, for +on further study and consideration, I found that flowers and applause +were not all of an actor's life, and that Africa and India were not +entirely desirable as a place of residence for a young woman alone. +Besides, I had decided by then that I could enlighten the world just +as effectually (and much more comfortably) by writing stories at home +and getting them printed. + +So I wrote stories--but I did not get any of them printed, in spite +of my earnest efforts. In time, therefore, that idea, also, was +abandoned; and with it, regretfully, the idea of enlightening the +world at all. + +Besides, I had just then (again if I remember rightfully) fallen in +love. + +Not that it was the first time. Oh, no, not at eighteen, when at +thirteen I had begun confidently and happily to look for it! What a +sentimental little piece I was! How could they have been so patient +with me--Father, Mother, everybody! + +I think the first real attack--the first that I consciously +called love, myself--was the winter after we had all come back to +Andersonville to live. I was sixteen and in the high school. + +It was Paul Mayhew--yes, the same Paul Mayhew that had defied his +mother and sister and walked home with me one night and invited me to +go for an automobile ride, only to be sent sharply about his business +by my stern, inexorable Aunt Jane. Paul was in the senior class now, +and the handsomest, most admired boy in school. He didn't care for +girls. That is, he said he didn't. He bore himself with a supreme +indifference that was maddening, and that took (apparently) no notice +of the fact that every girl in school was a willing slave to the mere +nodding of his head or the beckoning of his hand. + +This was the condition of things when I entered school that fall, +and perhaps for a week thereafter. Then one day, very suddenly, and +without apparent reason, he awoke to the fact of my existence. Candy, +flowers, books--some one of these he brought to me every morning. All +during the school day he was my devoted gallant, dancing attendance +every possible minute outside of session hours, and walking home with +me in the afternoon, proudly carrying my books. Did I say "_home_ with +me"? That is not strictly true--he always stopped just one block short +of "home"--one block short of my gate. He evidently had not forgotten +Aunt Jane, and did not intend to take any foolish risks! So he said +good-bye to me always at a safe distance. + +That this savored of deception, or was in any way objectionable, did +not seem to have occurred to me. Even if it had, I doubt very much if +my course would have been altered, for I was bewitched and fascinated +and thrilled with the excitement of it all. I was sixteen, remember, +and this wonderful Adonis and woman-hater had chosen me, _me!_--and +left all the other girls desolate and sighing, looking after us with +longing eyes. Of course, I was thrilled! + +This went on for perhaps a week. Then he asked me to attend a school +sleigh-ride and supper with him. + +I was wild with delight. At the same time I was wild with +apprehension. I awoke suddenly to the fact of the existence of Father +and Mother, and that their permission must be gained. And I had my +doubts--I had very grave doubts. Yet it seemed to me at that moment +that I just _had_ to go on that sleigh-ride. That it was the only +thing in the whole wide world worth while. + +I can remember now, as if it were yesterday, the way I debated in my +mind as to whether I should ask Father, Mother, or both together; and +if I should let it be seen how greatly I desired to go, and how much +it meant to me; or if I should just mention it as in passing, and take +their permission practically for granted. + +I chose the latter course, and I took a time when they were both +together. At the breakfast-table I mentioned casually that the school +was to have a sleigh-ride and supper the next Friday afternoon and +evening, and that Paul Mayhew had asked me to go with him, I said I +hoped it would be a pleasant night, but that I should wear my sweater +under my coat, anyway, and I'd wear my leggings, too, if they thought +it necessary. + +(Sweater and leggings! Two of Mother's hobbies. Artful child!) + +But if I thought that a sweater and a pair of leggings could muffle +their ears as to what had gone before, I soon found my mistake. + +"A sleigh-ride, supper, and not come home until evening?" cried +Mother. "And with whom, did you say?" + +"Paul Mayhew," I answered. I still tried to speak casually; at the +same time I tried to indicate by voice and manner something of the +great honor that had been bestowed upon their daughter. + +Father was impressed--plainly impressed; but not at all in the way I +had hoped he would be. He gave me a swift, sharp glance; then looked +straight at Mother. + +"Humph! Paul Mayhew! Yes, I know him," he said grimly. "And I'm +dreading the time when he comes into college next year." + +"You mean--" Mother hesitated and stopped. + +"I mean I don't like the company he keeps--already," nodded Father. + +"Then you don't think that Mary Marie--" Mother hesitated again, and +glanced at me. + +"Certainly not," said Father decidedly. + +I knew then, of course, that he meant I couldn't go on the +sleigh-ride, even though he hadn't said the words right out. I forgot +all about being casual and indifferent and matter-of-course then. I +thought only of showing them how absolutely necessary it was for +them to let me go on that sleigh-ride, unless they wanted my life +forever-more hopelessly blighted. + +I explained carefully how he was the handsomest, most popular boy +in school, and how all the girls were just crazy to be asked to go +anywhere with him; and I argued what if Father had seen him with boys +he did not like--then that was all the more reason why nice girls like +me, when he asked them, should go with him, so as to keep him away +from the bad boys! And I told them, that this was the first and last, +and only sleigh-ride of the school that year; and I said I'd be +heart-broken, just heart-broken, if they did not let me go. And I +reminded them again that he was the very handsomest, most popular boy +in school; and that there wasn't a girl I knew who wouldn't be crazy +to be in my shoes. + +Then I stopped, all out of breath, and I can imagine just how pleading +and palpitating I looked. + +I thought Father was going to refuse right away, but I saw the glance +that Mother threw him--the glance that said, "Let me attend to this, +dear." I'd seen that glance before, several times, and I knew just +what it meant; so I wasn't surprised to see Father shrug his shoulders +and turn away as Mother said to me: + +"Very well, dear. Ill think it over and let you know to-night." + +But I was surprised that night to have Mother say I could go, for I'd +about given up hope, after all that talk at the breakfast-table. And +she said something else that surprised me, too. She said she'd like to +know Paul Mayhew herself; that she always wanted to know the friends +of her little girl. And she told me to ask him to call the next +evening and play checkers or chess with me. + +Happy? I could scarcely contain myself for joy. And when the next +evening came bringing Paul, and Mother, all prettily dressed as if +he were really truly company, came into the room and talked so +beautifully to him, I was even more entranced. To be sure, it did +bother me a little that Paul laughed so much, and so loudly, and that +he couldn't seem to find anything to talk about only himself, and what +he was doing, and what he was going to do. Some way, he had never +seemed like that at school. And I was afraid Mother wouldn't like +that. + +All the evening I was watching and listening with her eyes and her +ears everything he did, everything he said. I so wanted Mother to like +him! I so wanted Mother to see how really fine and splendid and noble +he was. But that evening--Why _couldn't_ he stop talking about the +prizes he'd won, and the big racing car he'd just ordered for next +summer? There was nothing fine and splendid and noble about that. And +_were_ his finger nails always so dirty? + +Why, Mother would think-- + +Mother did not stay in the room all the time; but she was in more or +less often to watch the game; and at half-past nine she brought in +some little cakes and lemonade as a surprise. I thought it was lovely; +but I could have shaken Paul when he pretended to be afraid of it, and +asked Mother if there was a stick in it. + +The idea--Mother! A stick! + +I just knew Mother wouldn't like that. But if she didn't, she never +showed a thing in her face. She just smiled, and said no, there wasn't +any stick in it; and passed the cakes. + +When he had gone I remember I didn't like to meet Mother's eyes, and I +didn't ask her how she liked Paul Mayhew. I kept right on talking fast +about something else. Some way, I didn't want Mother to talk then, for +fear of what she would say. + +And Mother didn't say anything about Paul Mayhew--then. But only a few +days later she told me to invite him again to the house (this time to +a chafing-dish supper), and to ask Carrie Heywood and Fred Small, too. + +We had a beautiful time, only again Paul Mayhew didn't "show off" at +all in the way I wanted him to--though he most emphatically "showed +off" in _his_ way! It seemed to me that he bragged even more about +himself and his belongings than he had before. And I didn't like at +all the way he ate his food. Why, Father didn't eat like that--with +such a noisy mouth, and such a rattling of the silverware! + +And so it went--wise mother that she was! Far from prohibiting me to +have anything to do with Paul Mayhew, she let me see all I wanted +to of him, particularly in my own home. She let me go out with him, +properly chaperoned, and she never, by word or manner, hinted that she +didn't admire his conceit and braggadocio. + +And it all came out exactly as I suspect she had planned from the +beginning. When Paul Mayhew asked to be my escort to the class +reception in June, I declined with thanks, and immediately afterwards +told Fred Small I would go with _him_. But even when I told Mother +nonchalantly, and with carefully averted eyes, that I was going to the +reception with Fred Small--even then her pleasant "Well, that's good!" +conveyed only cheery mother interest; nor did a hasty glance into her +face discover so much as a lifted eyebrow to hint, "I thought you'd +come to your senses _sometime_!" + +Wise little mother that she was! + +In the days and weeks that followed (though nothing was said) I +detected a subtle change in certain matters, however. And as I look +back at it now, I am sure I can trace its origin to my "affair" with +Paul Mayhew. Evidently Mother had no intention of running the risk of +any more block-away courtships; also evidently she intended to know +who my friends were. At all events, the old Anderson mansion soon +became the rendezvous of all the boys and girls of my acquaintance. +And such good times as we had, with Mother always one of us, and ever +proposing something new and interesting! + +And because boys--not _a_ boy, but boys--were as free to come to +the house as were girls, they soon seemed to me as commonplace and +matter-of-course and free from sentimental interest as were the girls. + +Again wise little mother! + +But, of course, even this did not prevent my falling in love with some +one older than myself, some one quite outside of my own circle of +intimates. Almost every girl in her teens at some time falls violently +in love with some remote being almost old enough to be her father--a +being whom she endows with all the graces and perfections of her dream +Adonis. For, after all, it isn't that she is in love with _him_, this +man of flesh and blood before her; it is that she is in love with +_love_. A very different matter. + +My especial attack of this kind came to me when I was barely eighteen, +the spring I was being graduated from the Andersonville High School. +And the visible embodiment of my adoration was the head master, Mr. +Harold Hartshorn, a handsome, clean-shaven, well-set-up man of (I +should judge) thirty-five years of age, rather grave, a little stern, +and very dignified. + +But how I adored him! How I hung upon his every word, his every +glance! How I maneuvered to win from him a few minutes' conversation +on a Latin verb or a French translation! How I thrilled if he bestowed +upon me one of his infrequent smiles! How I grieved over his stern +aloofness! + +By the end of a month I had evolved this: his stern aloofness +meant that he had been disappointed in love; his melancholy was +loneliness--his heart was breaking. How I longed to help, to heal, to +cure! How I thrilled at the thought of the love and companionship _I_ +could give him somewhere in a rose-embowered cottage far from the +madding crowd! (He boarded at the Andersonville Hotel alone now.) What +nobler career could I have than the blotting out of his stricken heart +the memory of that faithless woman who had so wounded him and blighted +his youth? What, indeed? If only he could see it as I saw it. If only +by some sign or token he could know of the warm love that was his but +for the asking! Could he not see that no longer need he pine alone and +unappreciated in the Andersonville Hotel? Why, in just a few weeks I +was to be through school. And then-- + +On the night before commencement Mr. Harold Hartshorn ascended our +front steps, rang the bell, and called for my father. I knew because I +was upstairs in my room over the front door; and I saw him come up the +walk and heard him ask for Father. + +Oh, joy! Oh, happy day! He knew. He had seen it as I saw it. He had +come to gain Father's permission, that he might be a duly accredited +suitor for my hand! + +During the next ecstatic ten minutes, with my hand pressed against my +wildly beating heart, I planned my wedding dress, selected with care +and discrimination my trousseau, furnished the rose-embowered cottage +far from the madding crowd--and wondered _why_ Father did not send for +me. Then the slam of the screen door downstairs sent me to the window, +a sickening terror within me, + +Was he _going_--without seeing me, his future bride? Impossible! + +Father and Mr. Harold Hartshorn stood on the front steps below, +talking. In another minute Mr. Harold Hartshorn had walked away, and +Father had turned back on to the piazza. + +As soon as I could control my shaking knees, I went downstairs. + +Father was in his favorite rocking-chair. I advanced slowly. I did not +sit down. + +"Was that Mr. Hartshorn?" I asked, trying to keep the shake out of my +voice. + +"Yes." + +"Mr. H-Hartshorn," I repeated stupidly. + +"Yes. He came to see me about the Downer place," nodded Father. "He +wants to rent it for next year." + +"To rent it--the Downer place!" (The Downer place was no +rose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd! Why, it was big, +and brick, and _right next_ to the hotel! I didn't want to live +there.) + +"Yes--for his wife and family. He's going to bring them back with him +next year," explained Father. + +"His wife and family!" I can imagine about how I gasped out those four +words. + +"Yes. He has five children, I believe, and--" + +But I had fled to my room. + +After all, my recovery was rapid. I was in love with love, you see; +not with Mr. Harold Hartshorn. Besides, the next year I went to +college. And it was while I was at college that I met Jerry. + +Jerry was the brother of my college friend, Helen Weston. Helen's +elder sister was a senior in that same college, and was graduated at +the close of my freshman year. The father, mother, and brother came on +to the graduation. And that is where I met Jerry. + +If it might be called meeting him. He lifted his hat, bowed, said a +polite nothing with his lips, and an indifferent "Oh, some friend of +Helen's," with his eyes, and turned to a radiant blonde senior at my +side. + +And that was all--for him. But for me-- + +All that day I watched him whenever opportunity offered; and I +suspect that I took care that opportunity offered frequently. I was +fascinated. I had never seen any one like him before. Tall, handsome, +brilliant, at perfect ease, he plainly dominated every group of which +he was a part. Toward him every face was turned--yet he never seemed +to know it. (Whatever his faults, Jerry is _not_ conceited. I will +give him credit for that!) To me he did not speak again that day. I am +not sure that he even looked at me. If he did there must still have +been in his eyes only the "Oh, some friend of Helen's," that I had +seen at the morning introduction. + +I did not meet Jerry Weston again for nearly a year; but that did not +mean that I did not hear of him. I wonder if Helen ever noticed how +often I used to get her to talk of her home and her family life; and +how interested I was in her gallery of portraits on the mantel--there +were two fine ones of her brother there. + +Helen was very fond of her brother. I soon found that she loved to +talk about him--if she had a good listener. Needless to say she had a +very good one in me. + +Jerry was an artist, it seemed. He was twenty-eight years old, and +already he had won no small distinction. Prizes, medals, honorable +mention, and a special course abroad--all these Helen told me about. +She told me, too, about the wonderful success he had just had with the +portrait of a certain New York society woman. She said that it was +just going to "make" Jerry; that he could have anything he wanted +now--anything. Then she told me how popular he always was with +everybody. Helen was not only very fond of her brother, but very proud +of him. That was plain to be seen. In her opinion, evidently, there +was none to be compared with him. + +And apparently, in my own mind, I agreed with her--there was none to +be compared with him. At all events, all the other boys that used +to call and bring me candy and send me flowers at about this time +suffered woefully in comparison with him! I remember that. So tame +they were--so crude and young and unpolished! + +I saw Jerry myself during the Easter vacation of my second year in +college. Helen invited me to go home with her, and Mother wrote that I +might go. Helen had been home with me for the Christmas vacation, +and Mother and Father liked her very much. There was no hesitation, +therefore, in their consent that I should visit Helen at Easter-time. +So I went. + +Helen lived in New York. Their home was a Fifth-Avenue mansion with +nine servants, four automobiles, and two chauffeurs. Naturally such +a scale of living was entirely new to me, and correspondingly +fascinating. From the elaborately uniformed footman that opened the +door for me to the awesome French maid who "did" my hair, I adored +them all, and moved as in a dream of enchantment. Then came Jerry home +from a week-end's trip--and I forgot everything else. + +I knew from the minute his eyes looked into mine that whatever I had +been before, I was now certainly no mere "Oh, some friend of Helen's." +I was (so his eyes said) "a deucedly pretty girl, and one well worth +cultivating." Whereupon he began at once to do the "cultivating." + +And just here, perversely enough, I grew indifferent. Or was it only +feigned--not consciously, but unconsciously? Whatever it was, it did +not endure long. Nothing could have endured, under the circumstances. +Nothing ever endures--with Jerry on the other side. + +In less than thirty-six hours I was caught up in the whirlwind of his +wooing, and would not have escaped it if I could. + +When I went back to college he held my promise that if he could gain +the consent of Father and Mother, he might put the engagement ring on +my finger. + +Back at college, alone in my own room, I drew a long breath, and began +to think. It was the first chance I had had, for even Helen now had +become Jerry--by reflection. + +The more I thought, the more frightened, dismayed, and despairing I +became. In the clear light of calm, sane reasoning, it was all so +absurd, so impossible! What could I have been thinking of? + +Of Jerry, of course. + +With hot cheeks I answered my own question. And even the thought of +him then cast the spell of his presence about me, and again I was back +in the whirl of dining and dancing and motoring, with his dear face +at my side. Of Jerry; yes, of Jerry I was thinking. But I must forget +Jerry. + +I pictured Jerry in Andersonville, in my own home. I tried to picture +him talking to Father, to Mother. + +Absurd! What had Jerry to do with learned treatises on stars, or with +the humdrum, everyday life of a stupid small town? For that matter, +what had Father and Mother to do with dancing and motoring and +painting society queens' portraits? Nothing. + +Plainly, even if Jerry, for the sake of the daughter, liked Father and +Mother, Father and Mother certainly would not like Jerry. That was +certain. + +Of course I cried myself to sleep that night. That was to be expected. +Jerry was the world; and the world was lost. There was nothing left +except, perhaps, a few remnants and pieces, scarcely worth the +counting--excepting, of course, Father and Mother. But one could not +always have one's father and mother. There would come a time when-- + +Jerry's letter came the next day--by special delivery. He had gone +straight home from the station and begun to write to me. (How like +Jerry that was--particularly the special-delivery stamp!) The most of +his letter, aside from the usual lover's rhapsodies, had to do with +plans for the summer--what we would do together at the Westons' +summer cottage in Newport. He said he should run up to Andersonville +early--very early; just as soon as I was back from college, in fact, +so that he might meet Father and Mother, and put that ring on my +finger. + +And while I read the letter, I just knew he would do it. Why, I could +even see the sparkle of the ring on my finger. But in five minutes +after the letter was folded and put away, I knew, with equal +certitude--that he wouldn't. + +It was like that all that spring term. While under the spell of the +letters, as I read them, I saw myself the adored wife of Jerry Weston, +and happy ever after. All the rest of the time I knew myself to be +plain Mary Marie Anderson, forever lonely and desolate. + +I had been at home exactly eight hours when a telegram from Jerry +asked permission to come at once. + +As gently as I could I broke the news to Father and Mother. He was +Helen's brother. They must have heard me mention him, I knew him well, +very well, indeed. In fact, the purpose of this visit was to ask them +for the hand of their daughter. + +Father frowned and scolded, and said, "Tut, tut!" and that I was +nothing but a child. But Mother smiled and shook her head, even while +she sighed, and reminded him that I was twenty--two whole years older +than she was when she married him; though in the same breath she +admitted that I _was_ young, and she certainly hoped I'd be willing to +wait before I married, even if the young man was all that they could +ask him to be. + +Father was still a little rebellious, I think; but Mother--bless her +dear sympathetic heart!--soon convinced him that they must at least +consent to see this Gerald Weston. So I sent the wire inviting him to +come. + +More fearfully than ever then I awaited the meeting between my lover +and my father and mother. With the Westons' mansion and manner of +living in the glorified past, and the Anderson homestead, and _its_ +manner of living, very much in the plain, unvarnished present, I +trembled more than ever for the results of that meeting. Not that I +believed Jerry would be snobbish enough to scorn our simplicity, but +that there would be no common meeting-ground of congeniality. + +I need not have worried--but I did not know Jerry then so well as I do +now. + +Jerry came--and he had not been five minutes in the house before it +might easily have seemed that he had always been there. He _did_ know +about stars; at least, he talked with Father about them, and so as +to hold Father's interest, too. And he knew a lot about innumerable +things in which Mother was interested. He stayed four days; and all +the while he was there, I never so much as thought of ceremonious +dress and dinners, and liveried butlers and footmen; nor did it once +occur to me that our simple kitchen Nora, and Old John's son at the +wheel of our one motorcar, were not beautifully and entirely adequate, +so unassumingly and so perfectly did Jerry unmistakably "fit in." +(There are no other words that so exactly express what I mean.) And in +the end, even his charm and his triumph were so unobtrusively complete +that I never thought of being surprised at the prompt capitulation of +both Father and Mother. + +Jerry had brought the ring. (Jerry always brings his "rings"--and +he never fails to "put them on.") And he went back to New York with +Mother's promise that I should visit them in July at their cottage in +Newport. + +They seemed like a dream--those four days--after he had gone; and I +should have been tempted to doubt the whole thing had there not been +the sparkle of the ring on my finger, and the frequent reference to +Jerry on the lips of both Father and Mother. + +They loved Jerry, both of them. Father said he was a fine, manly young +fellow; and Mother said he was a dear boy, a very dear boy. Neither of +them spoke much of his painting. Jerry himself had scarcely mentioned +it to them, as I remembered, after he had gone. + +I went to Newport in July. "The cottage," as I suspected, was twice +as large and twice as pretentious as the New York residence; and it +sported twice the number of servants. Once again I was caught in the +whirl of dinners and dances and motoring, with the addition of tennis +and bathing. And always, at my side, was Jerry, seemingly living only +upon my lightest whim and fancy. He wished to paint my portrait; but +there was no time, especially as my visit, in accordance with Mother's +inexorable decision, was of only one week's duration. + +But what a wonderful week that was! I seemed to be under a kind of +spell. It was as if I were in a new world--a world such as no one had +ever been in before. Oh, I knew, of course, that others had loved--but +not as we loved. I was sure that no one had ever loved as we loved. +And it was so much more wonderful than anything I had ever dreamed +of--this love of ours. Yet all my life since my early teens I had +been thinking and planning and waiting for it--love. And now it had +come--the real thing. The others--all the others had been shams and +make-believes and counterfeits. To think that I ever thought those +silly little episodes with Paul Mayhew and Freddy Small and Mr. Harold +Hartshorn were love! Absurd! But now-- + +And so I walked and moved and breathed in this spell that had been +cast upon me; and thought--little fool that I was!--that never had +there been before, nor could there be again, a love quite so wonderful +as ours. + +At Newport Jerry decided that he wanted to be married right away. He +didn't want to wait two more endless years until I was graduated. The +idea of wasting all that valuable time when we might be together! And +when there was really no reason for it, either--no reason at all! + +I smiled to myself, even as I thrilled at his sweet insistence. I was +pretty sure I knew two reasons--two very good reasons--why I could not +marry before graduation. One reason was Father; the other reason was +Mother. I hinted as much. + +"Ho! Is that all?" He laughed and kissed me. "I'll run down and see +them about it," he said jauntily. + +I smiled again. I had no more idea that anything he could say would-- + +But I didn't know Jerry--_then_. + +I had not been home from Newport a week when Jerry kept his promise +and "ran down." And _he_ had not been there two days before Father and +Mother admitted that, perhaps, after all, it would not be so bad an +idea if I shouldn't graduate, but should be married instead. + +And so I was married. + +(Didn't I tell you that Jerry always brought his rings and put them +on?) + +And again I say, and so we were married. + +But what did we know of each other?--the real other? True, we had +danced together, been swimming together, dined together, played tennis +together. But what did we really know of each other's whims and +prejudices, opinions and personal habits and tastes? I knew, to a +word, what Jerry would say about a sunset; and he knew, I fancy, what +I would say about a dreamy waltz song. But we didn't either of us know +what the other would say to a dinnerless home with the cook gone. We +were leaving a good deal to be learned later on; but we didn't think +of that. Love that is to last must be built upon the realization that +troubles and trials and sorrows are sure to come, and that they must +be borne together--if one back is not to break under the load. We +were entering into a contract, not for a week, but, presumedly, for a +lifetime--and a good deal may come to one in a lifetime--not all of it +pleasant. We had been brought up in two distinctly different social +environments, but we didn't stop to think of that. We liked the same +sunsets, and the same make of car, and the same kind of ice-cream; +and we looked into each other's eyes and _thought_ we knew the +other--whereas we were really only seeing the mirrored reflection of +ourselves. + +And so we were married. + +It was everything that was blissful and delightful, of course, at +first. We were still eating the ice-cream and admiring the sunsets. I +had forgotten that there were things other than sunsets and ice-cream, +I suspect. I was not twenty-one, remember, and my feet fairly ached +to dance. The whole world was a show. Music, lights, laughter--how I +loved them all! + +_Marie_, of course. Well, yes, I suspect Marie _was_ in the ascendancy +about that time. But I never thought of it that way. + +Then came the baby, Eunice, my little girl; and with one touch of her +tiny, clinging fingers, the whole world of sham--the lights and music +and glare and glitter just faded all away into nothingness, where it +belonged. As if anything counted, with _her_ on the other side of the +scales! + +I found out then--oh, I found out lots of things. You see, it wasn't +that way at all with Jerry. The lights and music and the glitter and +the sham didn't fade away a mite, to him, when Eunice came. In fact, +sometimes it seemed to me they just grew stronger, if anything. + +He didn't like it because I couldn't go with him any more--to dances +and things, I mean. He said the nurse could take care of Eunice. As if +I'd leave my baby with any nurse that ever lived, for any old dance! +The idea! But Jerry went. At first he stayed with me; but the baby +cried, and Jerry didn't like that. It made him irritable and nervous, +until I was _glad_ to have him go. (Who wouldn't be, with his eternal +repetition of "Mollie, _can't_ you stop that baby's crying?" As if +that wasn't exactly what I was trying to do, as hard as ever I could!) +But Jerry didn't see it that way. Jerry never did appreciate what a +wonderful, glorious thing just being a father is. + +I think it was at about this time that Jerry took up his painting +again. I guess I have forgotten to mention that all through the first +two years of our marriage, before the baby came, he just tended to me. +He never painted a single picture. But after Eunice came-- + +But, after all, what is the use of going over these last miserable +years like this? Eunice is five now. Her father is the most popular +portrait painter in the country, I am almost tempted to say that he is +the most popular _man_, as well. All the old charm and magnetism are +there. Sometimes I watch him (for, of course, I _do_ go out with him +once in a while), and always I think of that first day I saw him at +college. Brilliant, polished, witty--he still dominates every group of +which he is a member. Men and women alike bow to his charm. (I'm glad +it's not _only_ the women. Jerry isn't a bit of a flirt. I will say +that much for him. At any rate, if he does flirt, he flirts just as +desperately with old Judge Randlett as he does with the newest and +prettiest _debutante_: with serene impartiality he bestows upon each +the same glances, the same wit, the same adorable charm.) Praise, +attention, applause, music, laughter, lights--they are the breath of +life to him. Without them he would--But, there, he never _is_ without +them, so I don't know what he would be. + +After all, I suspect that it's just that Jerry still loves the +ice-cream and the sunsets, and I don't. That's all. To me there's +something more to life than that--something higher, deeper, more +worth while. We haven't a taste in common, a thought in unison, an +aspiration in harmony. I suspect--in fact I _know_--that I get on his +nerves just as raspingly as he does on mine. For that reason I'm sure +he'll be glad--when he gets my letter. + +But, some way, I dread to tell Mother. + + * * * * * + +Well, it's finished. I've been about four days bringing this +autobiography of Mary Marie's to an end. I've enjoyed doing it, in a +way, though I'll have to admit I can't see as it's made things any +clearer. But, then, it was clear before. There isn't any other way. +I've got to write that letter. As I said before, I regret that it must +be so sorry an ending. + +I suppose to-morrow I'll have to tell Mother. I want to tell her, of +course, before I write the letter to Jerry. + +It'll grieve Mother. I know it will. And I'm sorry. Poor Mother! +Already she's had so much unhappiness in her life. But she's happy +now. She and Father are wonderful together--wonderful. Father is still +President of the college. He got out a wonderful book on the "Eclipses +of the Moon" two years ago, and he's publishing another one about the +"Eclipses of the Sun" this year. Mother's correcting proof for him. +Bless her heart. She loves it. She told me so. + +Well, I shall have to tell her to-morrow, of course. + + * * * * * + +_To-morrow_--_which has become to-day._ + +I wonder if Mother _knew_ what I had come into her little sitting-room +this morning to say. It seems as if she must have known. And yet--I +had wondered how I was going to begin, but, before I knew it, I was +right in the middle of it--the subject, I mean. That's why I thought +perhaps that Mother-- + +But I'm getting as bad as little Mary Marie of the long ago. I'll try +now to tell what did happen. + +I was wetting my lips, and swallowing, and wondering how I was going +to begin to tell her that I was planning not to go back to Jerry, when +all of a sudden I found myself saying something about little Eunice. +And then Mother said: + +"Yes, my dear; and that's what comforts me most of anything--because +you _are_ so devoted to Eunice. You see, I have feared sometimes--for +you and Jerry; that you might separate. But I know, on account of +Eunice, that you never will." + +"But, Mother, that's the very reason--I mean, it would be the reason," +I stammered. Then I stopped. My tongue just wouldn't move, my throat +and lips were so dry. + +To think that Mother suspected--_knew already_--about Jerry and me; +and yet to say that _on account_ of Eunice I would not do it. Why, it +was _for_ Eunice, largely, that I was _going_ to do it. To let that +child grow up thinking that dancing and motoring was all of life, +and-- + +But Mother was speaking again. + +"Eunice--yes. You mean that you never would make her go through what +you went through when you were her age." + +"Why, Mother, I--I--" And then I stopped again. And I was so angry and +indignant with myself because I had to stop, when there were so many, +many things that I wanted to say, if only my dry lips could articulate +the words. + +Mother drew her breath in with a little catch. She had grown rather +white. + +"I wonder if you remember--if you ever think of--your childhood," she +said. + +"Why, yes, of--of course--sometimes." It was my turn to stammer. I was +thinking of that diary that I had just read--and added to. + +Mother drew in her breath again, this time with a catch that was +almost a sob. And then she began to talk--at first haltingly, with +half-finished sentences; then hurriedly, with a rush of words that +seemed not able to utter themselves fast enough to keep up with the +thoughts behind them. + +She told of her youth and marriage, and of my coming. She told of her +life with Father, and of the mistakes she made. She told much, of +course, that was in Mary Marie's diary; but she told, too, oh, so much +more, until like a panorama the whole thing lay before me. + +Then she spoke of me, and of my childhood, and her voice began to +quiver. She told of the Mary and the Marie, and of the dual nature +within me. (As if I didn't know about that!) But she told me much that +I did not know, and she made things much clearer to me, until I saw-- + +You can see things so much more clearly when you stand off at a +distance like this, you know, than you can when you are close to them! + +She broke down and cried when she spoke of the divorce, and of the +influence it had upon me, and of the false idea of marriage it gave +me. She said it was the worst kind of thing for me--the sort of life I +had to live. She said I grew pert and precocious and worldly-wise, and +full of servants' talk and ideas. She even spoke of that night at the +little cafe table when I gloried in the sparkle and spangles and told +her that now we were seeing life--real life. And of how shocked she +was, and of how she saw then what this thing was doing to me. But it +was too late. + +She told more, much more, about the later years, and the +reconciliation; then, some way, she brought things around to Jerry and +me. Her face flushed up then, and she didn't meet my eyes. She looked +down at her sewing. She was very busy turning a hem _just so_. + +She said there had been a time, once, when she had worried a little +about Jerry and me, for fear we would--separate. She said that she +believed that, for her, that would have been the very blackest moment +of her life; for it would be her fault, all her fault. + +I tried to break in here, and say, "No, no," and that it wasn't her +fault; but she shook her head and wouldn't listen, and she lifted +her hand, and I had to keep still and let her go on talking. She was +looking straight into my eyes then, and there was such a deep, deep +hurt in them that I just had to listen. + +She said again that it would be her fault; that if I had done that she +would have known that it was all because of the example she herself +had set me of childish willfulness and selfish seeking of personal +happiness at the expense of everything and everybody else. And she +said that that would have been the last straw to break her heart. + +But she declared that she was sure now that she need not worry. Such a +thing would never be. + +I guess I gasped a little at this. Anyhow, I know I tried to break +in and tell her that we _were_ going to separate, and that that was +exactly what I had come into the room in the first place to say. + +But again she kept right on talking, and I was silenced before I had +even begun. + +She said how she knew it could never be--on account of Eunice. That I +would never subject my little girl to the sort of wretchedly divided +life that I had had to live when I was a child. + +(As she spoke I was suddenly back in the cobwebby attic with little +Mary Marie's diary, and I thought--what if it _were_ Eunice--writing +that!) + +She said I was the most devoted mother she had ever known; that I was +_too_ devoted, she feared sometimes, for I made Eunice _all_ my world, +to the exclusion of Jerry and everything and everybody else. But that +she was very sure, because I _was_ so devoted, and loved Eunice so +dearly, that I would never deprive her of a father's love and care. + +I shivered a little, and looked quickly into Mother's face. But she +was not looking at me. I was thinking of how Jerry had kissed and +kissed Eunice a month ago, when we came away, as if he just couldn't +let her go. Jerry _is_ fond of Eunice, now that she's old enough to +know something, and Eunice adores her father. I knew that part was +going to be hard. And now to have Mother put it like that-- + +I began to talk then of Jerry. I just felt that I'd got to say +something. That Mother must listen. That she didn't understand. I told +her how Jerry loved lights and music and dancing, and crowds +bowing down and worshiping him all the time. And she said yes, she +remembered; that _he'd been that way when I married him_. + +She spoke so sort of queerly that again I glanced at her; but she +still was looking down at the hem she was turning. + +I went on then to explain that _I_ didn't like such things; that _I_ +believed that there were deeper and higher things, and things more +worth while. And she said yes, she was glad, and that that was going +to be my saving grace; for, of course, I realized that there couldn't +be anything deeper or higher or more worth while than keeping the home +together, and putting up with annoyances, for the ultimate good of +all, especially of Eunice. + +She went right on then quickly, before I could say anything. She said +that, of course, I understood that I was still Mary and Marie, even +if Jerry did call me Mollie; and that if Marie had married a man that +wasn't always congenial with Mary, she was very sure Mary had enough +stamina and good sense to make the best of it; and she was very sure, +also, that if Mary would only make a little effort to be once in a +while the Marie he had married, things might be a lot easier--for +Mary. + +Of course, I laughed at that. I had to. And Mother laughed, too. But +we understood. We both understood. I had never thought of it before, +but I _had_ been Marie when I married Jerry. _I_ loved lights and +music and dancing and gay crowds just exactly as well as he did. And +it wasn't his fault that I suddenly turned into Mary when the baby +came, and wanted him to stay at home before the fire every evening +with his dressing-gown and slippers. No wonder he was surprised. He +hadn't married Mary--he never knew Mary at all. But, do you know? I'd +never thought of that before--until Mother said what she did. Why, +probably Jerry was just as much disappointed to find his Marie turned +into a Mary as I-- + +But Mother was talking again. + +She said that she thought Jerry was a wonderful man, in some ways; +that she never saw a man with such charm and magnetism, or one who +could so readily adapt himself to different persons and circumstances. +And she said she was very sure if Mary could only show a little more +interest in pictures (especially portraits), and learn to discuss +lights and shadows and perspectives, that nothing would be lost, and +that something might be gained; that there was nothing, anyway, like a +community of interest or of hobbies to bring two people together; and +that it was safer, to say the least, when it was the wife that shared +the community of interest than when it was some other woman, though, +of course, she knew as well as I knew that Jerry never would--She +didn't finish her sentence, and because she didn't finish it, it made +me think all the more. And I wondered if she left it unfinished--on +purpose. + +Then, in a minute, she was talking again. + +She was speaking of Eunice. She said once more that because of her, +she knew that she need never fear any serious trouble between Jerry +and me, for, after all, it's the child that always pays for the +mother's mistakes and short-sightedness, just as it is the soldier +that pays for his commanding officer's blunders. That's why she felt +that I had had to pay for her mistakes, and why she knew that I'd +never compel my little girl to pay for mine. She said that the mother +lives in the heart of the child long after the mother is gone, and +that was why the mother always had to be--so careful. + +Then, before I knew it, she was talking briskly and brightly about +something entirely different; and two minutes later I found myself +alone outside of her room. And I hadn't told her. + +But I wasn't even thinking of that. I was thinking of Eunice, and of +that round, childish scrawl of a diary upstairs in the attic trunk. +And I was picturing Eunice, in the years to come, writing _her_ diary; +and I thought, what if she should have to-- + +I went upstairs then and read that diary again. And all the while I +was reading I thought of Eunice. And when it was finished I knew that +I'd never tell Mother, that I'd never write to Jerry--not the letter +that I was going to write. I knew that-- + + * * * * * + +They brought Jerry's letter to me at just that point. What a wonderful +letter that man can write--when he wants to! + +He says he's lonesome and homesick, and that the house is like a tomb +without Eunice and me, and when _am_ I coming home? + + * * * * * + +I wrote him to-night that I was going--to-morrow. + + + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mary Marie, by Eleanor H. Porter + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY MARIE *** + +***** This file should be named 11143.txt or 11143.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/1/4/11143/ + +Produced by Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook's +eBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII, +compressed (zipped), HTML and others. + +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks replace the old file and take over +the old filename and etext number. The replaced older file is renamed. +VERSIONS based on separate sources are treated as new eBooks receiving +new filenames and etext numbers. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +EBooks posted prior to November 2003, with eBook numbers BELOW #10000, +are filed in directories based on their release date. If you want to +download any of these eBooks directly, rather than using the regular +search system you may utilize the following addresses and just +download by the etext year. + + https://www.gutenberg.org/etext06 + + (Or /etext 05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99, + 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90) + +EBooks posted since November 2003, with etext numbers OVER #10000, are +filed in a different way. The year of a release date is no longer part +of the directory path. The path is based on the etext number (which is +identical to the filename). The path to the file is made up of single +digits corresponding to all but the last digit in the filename. For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: + https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + + diff --git a/old/11143.zip b/old/11143.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8dc4e7d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11143.zip |