diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-25 06:31:29 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-25 06:31:29 -0800 |
| commit | 622e72e9370a5eaa33fa0bd1393fa6a42b2d024e (patch) | |
| tree | 7cfae924d80894f181261a77953574c76a5eff62 | |
| parent | a9b65a03f79e5c848b5b28c030ec49bad3887024 (diff) | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/69549-0.txt | 9821 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/69549-0.zip | bin | 177014 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/69549-h.zip | bin | 306216 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/69549-h/69549-h.htm | 14698 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/69549-h/images/img-cover.jpg | bin | 147330 -> 0 bytes |
8 files changed, 17 insertions, 24519 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf 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..92b996d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69549 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69549) diff --git a/old/69549-0.txt b/old/69549-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 54be8ff..0000000 --- a/old/69549-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9821 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The painted room, by Margaret Wilson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The painted room - -Author: Margaret Wilson - -Release Date: December 15, 2022 [eBook #69549] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Al Haines - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PAINTED ROOM *** - - - - - - - _The Painted Room_ - - - _By_ - - _Margaret Wilson_ - - - _Author of_ "THE KENWORTHYS" - _and_ - "THE ABLE MCLAUGHLINS" - - - - _Harper & Brothers, Publishers - New York and London - 1926_ - - - - - _THE PAINTED ROOM_ - - Copyright, 1926, by - Harper & Brothers - Printed in the U. S. A. - - - - -_THE PAINTED ROOM_ - - - -_Chapter One_ - -Little Martha Kenworthy, to use her own careless expression, was "in -bad with her dad," as usual. But she was not a girl to be disturbed -by a trifle of that sort. She had been home only a few days from her -college in the east for her second summer holiday, and had been -followed too closely by official comments on her term's work. The -only explanation she saw fit to give to her father on that subject -was to the effect that he should forget it. Her mother had taken him -aside and said privately, firmly, and coaxingly: - -"Now, Bob, I'm not going to have that child's life made miserable by -somebody else's brilliance. It isn't Martha's fault that she hasn't -phenomenal brains. I'm not going to have her scolded for being like -me." - -"Miserable! Huh! There's a fat chance of her being miserable. It -would be a mighty good thing if some one could make her miserable a -few minutes. That's what I'm trying to get at! She's got enough -brains, if she wasn't too lazy to use them. She'll be fired next -term if she isn't careful, and then where'll you be? I'm going to -make her quit this eternal fooling around." - -"Bronson's spoiled you, Bob. That's all the matter with you. You're -always wishing Martha would dazzle people, sort of make them sit up -and blink, the way he used to. It's all right for a boy to be so -terribly clever, but it would be awkward for a woman. It would make -her conspicuous, Bob." - -"Well, I wouldn't care so much, Emily, if I could even get a rise out -of her about it. I light into her, and you know what she says! -'Yes, daddy! Yes, daddy!' like a little angel. And she hasn't the -least idea of doing anything about it. If she'd get good and mad -about it once, we could get some place. She just goes on like a -little mule!" - -"No one but you ever calls her a mule, Bob," Emily cajoled him. -"Other people seem to lead her about easy enough." - -"Yes! Toward a dance, they do. But how about a trigonometry?" - -"You ought to have married a Phi Beta Kappa, Bob, with a golden key. -You never asked to see my school reports when you married me; that's -where you made your mistake. She's her mother's own child, you know." - -"I never saw a kid less like her mother in my life! I never saw -anybody like her. I know I only got through exams. by the skin of my -teeth, but I did work now and then." - -"Martha works hard enough when anything interests her. You ought to -see people look at her room, Bob. Grace, Mrs. Phillips, said to me -day before yesterday, 'Goodness, Emily, you've got a clever daughter. -How old is Martha? I thought she was only nineteen.' She doesn't -think she's stupid, Bob. You just wait. Martha'll make you proud of -her yet!" - -"Oh, I'm waiting, all right. I've always been waiting. You might -hurry her along a bit, old girl!" - -So Bob had waited all that day, without seizing more than two or -three fleeting opportunities to "roast" her about that report, and he -was still waiting the next noon in a rather abused mood for some of -those signs of promise that his wife was always talking about. He -was thinking about it as he walked up to dinner, when he suddenly -shuddered to recognize his car, that he ought to have been riding -home in, disguised by loads of flowers, overflowing with bobbed -heads, young arms and joys and shriekings, turned violently--to -escape crashing into a milk truck--up over the curb into a neighbor's -lawn, just missing an altogether unyielding elm. - -Martha was clever enough at least to avoid her father until dinner -was on the table. Emily, helping the crippled old maid-of-all-work -in the dining room, heard them at it as they came in toward the table. - -"I say you were coming around that corner at forty miles an hour!" -Then suddenly stopping: "What's this, Emily! No company for dinner? -Where's all the gang? My g-o-oodness! this is a treat! I told you, -Martha----!" - -Bob spoke with the abruptness of a man who sells hundreds of cars a -year, and repairs thousands while their drivers wait. And Martha, -when she bothered to reply to him, spoke like a siren from some -island of lotus eaters. Her sentences, instead of ending crisply, -trailed away rather, and were lost in indifference. Emily scarcely -knew what to make of her, at times, nowadays. She had always been a -quiet child. On the occasions of high delight in her childhood, -which made other children laugh and shout and dance about with glee, -little Martha had always stood still, her hands clasped together, and -shone all over, with her gray eyes, her little pursed-up mouth, her -whole little soft face. The shouting, squealing, roaring sort of -little rejoicers are lovely, too, Emily had often thought. But this -distinctive rising into shining quietness which was so -characteristically Martha, had been a rare and fascinating kind of -infant charm. And now, in the blossom of her maidenhood, Martha -seemed instinctively to have chosen quietness, and passivity for her -weapon of defense and conquest. When she flirted, and when she -quarreled with her father, her voice was like the falling of "tired -eyelids on tired eyes." Emily had said to Bob, perplexed by Martha's -unconciliatory behavior to one whom Emily would have called in her -youth an admirer, "Johnnie just wants to grab Martha and give her a -shaking when she looks at him like that." And Bob replied, -indignantly: "You bet your bottom dollar he does! That's why she -does it!" - -And now Martha, consuming a chop with haste, displeased with her -father's outburst, lifted her eyes slowly toward him and looked at -him casually for a moment, and then, letting her eyelashes fall, -devoted herself to the chop, as she might have given a moment's -careless attention to an English sparrow perched on the window sill -of the house across the road. And she drawled, unperturbed to the -last degree: - -"I think you're mistaken, dad. I don't believe I was driving that -fast. And, anyway, I stopped in time. A miss is as good as a mile, -I suppose." - -"Not with my car, it isn't. Not by a damned sight! You'd think it -was a Lizzie the way you treat it. A mile is better than a miss with -you, and don't you forget it! If this happens again, I won't let you -drive the car all summer!" - -"I said I was sorry, didn't I? I said I wouldn't do it again. You -never saw me do a thing like that before, did you?" - -"No, I didn't, young lady. You didn't imagine I was anywhere about, -or I wouldn't have seen you this time, either! I give you credit for -that much sense, at least!" - -"How sweet of you, daddy!" - -"Can't you see what you did?" Bob demanded, excited by her -indifference. "Can't you see that if----" - -"You talk as if I'd plowed up all Parker's lawn. By the way, why -don't you get that bridge on Whinney's road fixed, father? Have we -got to go that dusty detour all summer every time we want a game of -golf, when we're only here three months?" - -"Do you hear that, Emily? I try to put a little sense into her head, -and she begins blaming me because that road isn't mended. Do you -think the roads in this county are made for you kids? 'You haven't -had that car a year,' Perkins says to me yesterday, 'and it looks -like a bootleggers' express.' 'Bootleggers nothing! It's the -women,' I said. 'They may be frail, but fenders crumble under them.' -I remember I said to you----" - -"Mother, why don't you speak up? You aren't functioning. After all, -we worked all morning getting _you_ those flowers, and this is all -the thanks we get for it. I tell you, mommie, there are absolute -_tubs_ of delphiniums in Carson's cellar. Heavenly blues! They'll -look cooler than anything to-night. This afternoon we're----" - -"How could you expect to see anything with all that stuff piled in -front of you?" - -"Stuff! He calls them 'stuff.' They're all named varieties," she -said, "with pedigrees behind them." - -"Emily, I tell you the car looked like a florist's moving. That -young fool of a Johnnie Benton riding clear home on the running board -with his arms full of----" - -"I wouldn't let him inside, mother." Martha spoke virtuously. "I -knew you didn't want them all crushed." - -"And if he hadn't seen that truck, and hollered and jumped----" - -"Well, anyway, he saved the flowers, I'll say that for him. It's -more than I expected him to do, if he did get a fall." - -"And he didn't even have a shirt on, Emily. His coat flew open as he -fell----" - -"Oh, Bob, surely he must have had a shirt on! What did he have on, -Martha?" - -"I'm sorry I don't know, mother. I didn't understand father wanted -me to examine all the fellows' B.V.D.'s. He'd been playing tennis, -and he just grabbed some sweater when we hollered to him to come -along. Next time I pick up a man, I'll say to him, 'If you haven't -got a nice proper undershirt on, you can't go riding in my father's -car.'" - -Bob snorted. - -"Who said anything about undershirts? A nice thing for a girl like -you to be talking about!" - -"You mean he didn't have an undershirt on? He wasn't certainly stark -naked, mother." Martha suddenly had become prim. - -"All I say is, he wasn't dressed right to go riding with girls. You -listen to what I'm saying, Martha! If you had gone bang into the -truck, not a bone in your body----" - -And what happened then to interrupt him, Bob said happened every time -he tried to "settle" Martha. A hooting and a tooting of horns, and -laughing and whistles, from the street intervened. Martha jumped up. - -"There they are," she said to her mother. "Send the car up by three, -dad. I suppose you can trust the old bus to me if mother is along. -It isn't a Rolls-Royce, after all." She stood gobbling down the -dessert. With her fork she pushed together the last crumbs on her -plate, and lifting it, she turned her smooth bobbed head halfway -towards her father, and practically winking one gray eye towards her -mother, she remarked, demurely, with an indifference that made the -words absurd: - -"My God! That was some cherry pie!" - -Bob watched her depart, wilting, and turned to his wife. - -"There you are, Emily!" he protested. It was as if he said, "Look -how your child acts." She was, in fact, still Emily's child, as she -had always been. Bob accepted responsibility now for her no more -than ever. "She talks as if I was a Long Island millionaire. As if -she couldn't waste her precious time saving a mere Packard from a -smash-up. How many times have I told her not to pile more than eight -people into the car? And thirteen of them piled out. One after -another. Sitting on one another's laps. Just sitting on one -another. A fat chance of the boys using their own cars when they can -get a girl to hold on their knees. And when I bawled her out, she -said there were only two in the front seat! If Johnnie hadn't -happened to see that truck----!" Bob shrugged. "And all she says, -in the end, is, 'Send up the old bus. My God! What a pie!'" - -"Well, Bob, I've told you that she's reached years of discretion----" - -"Discretion! That's a good one!" - -"She chooses to use your expressions. I'm not going to say anything. -I spanked her often enough for it when she was a baby. Anyway, she -only does it to annoy you. She never uses it with me." - -"God alone knows what she uses when she's with that gang!" - -"Oh, well, they're having a good time, Bob. She won't be home many -more summers." - -"Why won't she? Where's she going?" - -"I don't know--exactly. I mean--she'll be getting married. She'll -be taking up some work." - -And Emily, sitting there enjoying her juicy sweet cherries -thoroughly, found some pleasure in the situation. At least, it had -its elements of satisfaction in it, even though the growing--what -should she call it?--misunderstanding between Martha and Bob made her -sigh, often. For twenty years she had been annoyed, inwardly and -ineffectively, by Bob's choice of expletives. And this chit of a -child, by her occasional use of them that made her father shudder, -kept him free from them for weeks together. If in her childhood he -had ignored her, at least undervalued her, he was getting well paid -for it just at present. - -"Just as if I hadn't said a word to her! 'Send up the car at three,' -she says, just like that, as if it was _her_ car. You'd think the -only reason a father existed was to keep a car in repair for her." - -"Well, that is one reason for them existing. Besides, she did say -she was sorry. She said it two or three times. She promised not to -do it again. I'm never afraid when she's driving, Bob. She never -seems to me to lose her head." - -"Oh no. Of course not. She's mighty careful to keep you on her -side. She wouldn't----" - -"On her side, old silly," Emily said, soothingly. "You talk as if -there was some quarrel between you two. You know very well that if -there was I'd never let her know I was, for a second. She's worked -like a Trojan for to-night. I didn't see how I could possibly get -over to Elgin this afternoon. And she offered to drive me over." - -"Never you mind about _that_! She'll not miss anything. She'll go -shopping while you call, if she can find anything worth buying. Or -else she's made a date to meet somebody. I bet three minutes after -she leaves you there, she'll have some young idiot making eyes at her -in that car. I'll bet you a dollar she's 'phoned some of them she's -coming over." - -"Well, suppose she has, Bob. What do you expect of a girl? Do you -want her to sit in the car with her eyes shut till I'm ready to come -home? Why shouldn't she call up her friends?" - -"Oh, I know it, Emily. But it's the principle of the thing. They're -such a lazy bunch. They never do a thing but spend money and dance. -That's what Fielding was saying to me." - -Emily giggled perversely--effectively. - -"Oh, well; have it your own way. They're all angels, if you say they -are. I never interfere with them. Give them enough rope and they'll -all hang themselves." - -"Have some more pie," Emily urged. "A little more pie won't hurt -you. I've got to begin canning cherries to-morrow." - -"Oh, can the canning! What do you want to stew in the kitchen for, -weather like this?" - -When Emily left the table she went quickly to the kitchen. Strange -how the maid's conscience could prick the mistress! Old Maggie now -was crippled and Emily had promised to take the ironed clothes -yesterday from the clothes horse and put them away. She had -forgotten, almost cruelly forgotten, for to have something done on -Thursday that should have been done on Wednesday was pain to Maggie. -To that pathetic sensitiveness her years of faithful service had -brought her. No woman in town but Emily would have endured the -crankiness of the old thing, the neighbors said. But Emily from -infancy had been used to her tyranny, and to her any servant was -better than none at all. She apologized for having forgotten. And -Maggie, hobbling around, demanded that she look at Martha's best -"chimmey." The woman had scorched it, burned it, and doubled her -fault carefully in so Emily wouldn't see it. And Emily looked at it, -and grumbled a little, sympathizingly, and then spoiled the effect of -her good deed by saying the garment was almost worn out, anyway. -Whereat Maggie snorted. Did that excuse the careless, lazy, sneaky -woman for folding it in so deceitfully? Certainly not, Emily hurried -to assure her, trying to sound efficient and superior, and knowing as -she went through the living room with an armful of mending that she -had seemed as usual but a broken reed to the old thing who needed -something strong, now, to lean on. - -Bob saw her task, and said, of course: - -"Why don't you make Martha do that for you?" - -"You know she's gone to work on the committee, getting things ready -for to-night. She's busy." - -"Busy! Huh!" remarked Bob. - -Emily had intended to get a lot of work done before Martha came back -for her. Those bathroom sash curtains really must be changed. But a -neighbor "ran in" for a minute. She wanted to talk about her -grandchild, and Emily forgot her hurry. And then she thought she -would take some of those lovely columbines to her friend's mother in -Elgin. And so she went out and cut some, and wasn't at all ready to -go when Martha came for her, calling up to her to hurry if she wanted -to get back by five. But Emily seized her and made her wait. - -"Martha, sit down a minute. Listen to me. You're a bad child. You -ought to be spanked. I wish----" - -"Oh, I know it, mother," Martha answered, sincerely. "I'm the limit. -Can you imagine me talking that way to anyone else? But dad does get -my goat, some way. What does he want to keep on after me for, after -I've told him I'm sorry? He's just got into the habit of -ya-ya-ya-ing at me, and he'll just have to get out of it. I'm not -going to have it. Did you see him writhe, mother, when I mygodded -him?" And Martha chuckled. - -"We've had enough of that now, Martha! You can stop that just now. -You know I don't think you're the one to correct your father!" - -"But if I don't, who will? You're no good at it. You're too -good-natured with him, you old precious lamb. He knows you don't -like his godding. Does he stop? I know he doesn't like mine. Do I -stop? We've got to be logical." - -Emily smiled witheringly. - -"Your logic is always so unexpected. Do behave yourself. You might -at least ask him to send up the car, instead of ordering him to. He -doesn't keep it for your benefit, you know." - -"Oh, I don't know about that. If he keeps it just for himself, he's -a selfish pig. If he keeps it partly for ours, why should we -hesitate to acknowledge it? You're always defending him." - -"Defending him from whom? He doesn't need any defense that I know -of. He hasn't got any enemies." - -"Well, maybe I shouldn't have said defense. That's not the word, -maybe. But you'll have to acknowledge that he needs a good deal -of--ahem--explanation, mother. You see for yourself he stops -swearing like a sailor when I take him in hand. Everybody says 'My -God.' But when he uses it you'd think he was a drunken sailor. -Mother, come along. There's all that decoration to do when we get -back. You can't trust them to do anything unless somebody's there to -boss them. Get your hat." - -They went out of the door together, and down the front walk to where -the car waited in thick shade. The famous barberry hedge that -divides the Kenworthy front lawn from the street dozes faintly in -June, waking really only in October. But the lindens whose branches -almost met across the narrow street were in the murmurous climax of -leaf and blossom that day. Emily climbed into the car. Martha -jumped in, slipped into the driving seat, and banged the door after -her. Now Emily, when necessity compelled her to manipulate Bob's -car, approached it humbly and coaxed it into action, praying it would -get around the next corner safely. But Martha just seized it, and -slapped it into obedience, and imperiously commanded it hither and -thither hastily. Emily never saw her take charge of it without a -sort of impulse of awe. The car, like everything else expensive, -seemed to become the girl. She moved her hands on the large steering -wheel with that surprising composure which Emily had admired from her -babyhood. She always drove bareheaded. The breeze scarcely -disturbed her hair, which was cut and combed almost as it had been -ten years ago, when Jim Kenworthy used to sit and stroke it -thoughtfully. There was never a day when Martha was at home that -Emily didn't notice how distinguished the absolute straightness and -fineness of that black hair seemed among shingled and marcelled -heads. Bob didn't like bobbed hair, but he didn't make such an -absolute fool of himself on the subject as some men did. Emily -herself liked to think that there had never been any "putting up" of -hair for her daughter. There had never been a day when a box of -hairpins definitely divided her maturity from her childhood. There -had never been any letting down of skirts for Martha. Her frocks, -still cut simply, hung from her shoulders to--well, why should a man -go fussing on indefinitely about the length of his daughter's skirts, -after they had been determined! Of course, if Martha had had fat -legs, and shaky hips, like some girls whose names might be mentioned, -Emily might not have admired the prevailing styles so sincerely. But -Martha was built slenderly enough, gracefully enough, to justify -them, Emily thought, looking at her sitting there like a little -child, in that pink gingham frock, uncorseted, unrestrained, all -delicately and subtly blooming with color. - -And Emily, though she enjoyed her daughter in perfect whiffs of -satisfaction, looked at her not without uneasiness. For she knew, -when she sat looking at that child, that she was seeing bodily before -her eyes nineteen years of her life; and not the quantity of it only, -but the very quality, the very flavor of it. Everything she had done -she had done for that child; all that she had left undone she had -left undone for her. Even Jim, the brother of her husband, whom she -had loved, she had given up, she had kept distant from, for this -child's sake. Often since he had died, six years ago, she had -regretted that renunciation. She had thought bitterly at times that -if she had gone to him, divorced or not divorced, child or no child, -he might--who knew?--be living still. But generally, when she -thought of it all, when Martha was with her, she had been glad of her -decision. Martha was surely reward enough for any sacrifice a woman -could make. - -Because Martha was happy. That was the whole point. If her mother -had divorced her father, or deserted him, surely there must have been -something like a shadow, a sort of dimness, over the child's -consciousness. But now how gay she was, how perfectly gay and -light-hearted. For Emily, who had been an unhappy lonely young girl, -that was enough. She fervently now loved the months when the whole -house rose up to the zest of youth, when the rugs were rolled up and -the victrola going, when the refrigerator was raided nightly, when -the clothes lines were always adorned with swimming suits, the -bathroom overflowing with girls, the railings even of the veranda -lined with lads, cigarettes gleaming in the darkness of the -garden--why ask whether feminine or masculine cigarettes--when there -was no sleep till the last lingering car departing had made the night -strident. Bob grumbled incessantly about Martha's company. But must -not an only child, most of all, have friends about? "You'd think the -house was run for that girl," Bob complained. And Emily answered to -herself, for she was a wise one: "If this house of mine is run eight -months of the year for you, why shouldn't it be run four months of -the year for her?" But she said only: "Too bad! It's just a shame." - -For physically, she got tired of it herself. Thank Heaven the rush -which had been accumulating for weeks would be over this evening! It -was an added misfortune that the old friend visiting in Elgin had -'phoned that Emily must come to see her this very afternoon, or miss -her altogether. So here she and Martha, in the midst of the -preparations, were slipping across counties together, as if distance -was nothing. And truly to Martha Kenworthy it was nothing worth -raising an eyelash excitedly about. They slipped silently by -cornfields, with straight little lines of green checking away -geometrically for level miles. They slipped by alfalfa-green fields, -clover-green fields, oat-green fields, wheat-green fields, -farmhouses, high loads of balancing hay, milk trucks. The sun was -hot. The air was clear. The sky was blue. And on the horizon -magnificently distant, beyond those subtle sloping fields, rose -towering white and blooming higher, in puff upon puff and fold upon -fold, huge white culminating clouds of dreams. Emily, lulled almost -to unconsciousness, saw a black one rising ominously among them. - -* * * * * * * * * - -"Look at that!" she murmured, breaking a fragrant silence. - -Martha looked. - -"We should worry!" she replied. She was right, of course. Nothing -less than an earthquake could spoil the climax of the women's triumph -now. - -The growth of their conception, the building of their dream into -concrete foundations and that perfect dancing floor, was a thing that -every woman who had had a hand in it was wondering over this week, -and Emily had more reason than most of them to wonder. For she was -by nature less a committee woman than any of them. She had to think -out every step of her participation in it, to believe she was really -part of it. She always forgot even her most important motives, and -puzzled afterwards over all the reasons for her actions which at the -time had seemed obvious. In her early married life she had been too -poor and too busy to consider the women's club. Besides, it had been -bullied then by the aunt whose house Emily had escaped from by -marriage. And after the aunt died, and Emily moved again into the -good house her grandfather and aunt had been rebuilding for some -seventy years, she had not wanted to take her place in the circle -which might, she suspected, be discussing the gossip about her -husband's speculation with some money her aunt had intrusted to him. -And she had had a baby then, soon after she had come back to the -house, a poor little starving son who kept her and Bob bending over -him night and day for nearly two years. And then Jim had come to -them, bringing his tragic son. And her old girlish love for him had -risen like a flood, like a flood that never burst its dam, but pushed -and pounded there against it--till Jim died. - -Life had collapsed then. Just collapsed. It had no content at all. -She had come to realize that most of the years of her married life -had been given their value by her love of her first lover, her -husband's brother. From the day he took his departure from town -until the next time he came to see his mother, she had lived in -anticipation of the days when he would be about the house, "jollying" -in his charming way, his frail and doting mother, and playing about -with Martha, and every minute, under his discreet and brotherly -words, loving her, the girl he had so incredibly missed marrying. -There had been for her then that certainty, and besides that, some -place in the depth of her mind a vague, foolish, romantic, -unacknowledged hope of some time, some place, loving him altogether. -She had to believe that that little hope had been the mainspring of -her life. For, after his death, without it, she couldn't go on, she -had thought desperately. Life had stopped. - -And just then that woman, Mrs. Benton, who had lived in the next -block for years, suddenly strode into Emily's consciousness, in the -same way that a few years before she had landed with a running jump -in the defenseless mind of the community. Mrs. Benton had had an -only daughter who had been drowned. She had brooded over the fact -for a while, and then risen and said she was going to have every -child in that inland town taught to swim. As a memorial to that -daughter she would make the town a swimming beach. She had bought a -wooded stretch of the river bank. She had dammed the river. She had -made a great dark bottomless swimming place for the strong lads, and -little clear wading pools for the toddlers. She had made sunny -diving places and shady diving places and steep gravel banks and -grassy inclines, and dressing rooms of varieties. And all summer she -stationed guards there and instructors, and got Johnnie Weismuller to -come down to her yearly water festivals, to do his stunts and -encourage the winners of all the water races. It was impossible to -imagine a swimming beach more skillfully managed. The Rotarians had -to acknowledge that the beach was the town's best booster. Who could -deny that farmers came now to trade in that town, with their Fords -and their Cadillacs packed full of eager bathing suits who had been -kept in order the whole week by the promise of a swim on Saturday? - -After that, she had gone on to improve the city and ruin the temper -of the taxpayers. She had built and she had paved and she had -investigated, she had reformed and she had tested laws, and she had -hoisted taxes. Men said horrid things about Mrs. Benton. They said, -"she was out to raise municipal hell," and that she was "just too -damned efficient to live." And when a small boy, a mere little -unconsidered Hicks child, quarreling with his playmate, cried, "You -needn't think you can go Bentoning around my back yard," they took up -the verb derisively and put it into all the male mouths of the -county, where it lives to this day. - -No sooner had the beach become a success beyond any expectation, than -Mrs. Benton had addressed the women's club. "Our children," she -said, "swim now from June to October _de luxe_; and from October to -June they dance--how? Behind the Greek's candyshop, where those -obscene pictures were found, in the old hall that has no ventilation, -or the old opera house controlled by bootleggers. Why should the -women not build a winter gathering-place for their children equal to -the summer center?" The women had said, "We will." "I wish I could -afford to do it all myself," she said. And the plan they made -knocked the breath out of their menfolk. Why, demanded husbands, -couldn't they listen to common sense and build an ordinary hall? -They didn't want a cheap hall. Why couldn't they build it in the -town park? It was too low there, and hot and crowded. Why must it -be built on the hill across the river from the beach, to which no -paved road led, and no bridge was convenient? They some way liked -that hill. Why not pave a road and build a bridge and make a great -new municipal parking place, which had to be done sooner or later? -The city council refused to have any such white elephant forced upon -them. White elephant, indeed, the women echoed, Mrs. Benton leading -them. A mere kitten for the baby to play with. - -If the council wouldn't accept it, very well. The women's club would -build it to suit itself, would manage it, and endow it. And through -four years of opposition and complications they had worked steadily -on, straight to the dedication of the hall which now, full of the -morning delphiniums, waited for its evening christening. And Emily -was very tired. - -For Mrs. Benton was clever enough to realize her own weaknesses, and -in launching the dancing-center plan she had felt the need of some -one to pour oil on the waters she troubled. And there was Emily -Kenworthy, just at hand, who was, as Johnnie Benton said, a "natural -born oil-can," an easy-going woman who got along with anyone, even -that cranky old servant that bossed her around. So Mrs. Benton had -pounced upon Emily. And Emily had submitted, with misgivings, -welcoming any relief from the vacancy of life she had suffered since -Jim's death. The strife of it all was nothing to Emily. She had -never found stimulus in overcoming opposition. She had no respect -for committees, no interest in rules of order. Blue prints made her -yawn, and the very idea of signing her name to a contract oppressed -her. From the first she had seen the project merely as a toy for -Martha, a patch of sunlight in her daughter's background. It had -been only her interest in Martha and all those children about her -that had kept Emily working away these five years, while one woman -after another had resigned in fury. - -Emily had been so unhappy as a child that her mind enjoyed playing -with the idea of a beautiful gathering-place all lighted and shining -by a multitude of happy boys and girls. She had always liked the -children who played about with Martha. And since that summer during -the war, when Jim's son, that dear, befuddled, tragic Bronson, had -carried the burden of his unnecessary sorrow all those weeks -unsuspected beneath her very eyes, she had never passed a half-grown -lad on the street without a second wondering look at him. How could -a town be stupid, she often wondered, having in it a world esoteric, -unexplored, unimagined for the most part by adults, very jungles of -young terror hiding adolescent beds of precious ore. "How do you -come to know all the children in town?" women asked Emily more than -once. "They can't _all_ come to see Martha." But if you're -interested, you do get to know them some way. They run errands, they -deliver groceries, they come about selling tickets to high-school -plays, they spray the apple trees in the spring, they borrow -books--they just some way hang about. At least that was Emily's -explanation. - -The whole community she had come to think of as a nursery for Martha -and her kind. Her grandfather, to be sure, had laid out the main -street of the town, and Bob had adorned one corner of it recently -with a huge yawning garage, but the real importance to Emily of those -streets was the fact that Martha and her friends strolled along them -towards their sundaes. Her grandfather had planted the trees about -the house. But Emily had come to esteem them because they had -afforded high swings for little girls. Emily had first seen Jim -Kenworthy under the willow that leaned out over the river where her -back yard meets the water. Bob had proposed to her in that very -spot. But now that tree was precious because Martha's boat was -generally anchored there. And when Bob talked of sawing off that -lower limb, to build a new garage, she had risen in arms because -Martha had as a child spent hours in that broad seat it made. She -had never been allowed herself to climb trees, but Martha had spent -whole mornings there, and soon, in not many years, well--who could -tell, maybe Martha's own boys and girls would be hiding their -treasures in those lovely soft hollow places within reach of young -hands. She couldn't just say to Bob that she was saving that very -low limb for her grandchildren, could she? And she never exactly -said to Mrs. Benton that she was working for the community hall -because she didn't want Martha to dance only out there in the country -club aloof from the life of the town. Emily had been taught to -consider the Western town a place scarcely worthy of her Eastern -breeding. She wasn't going to have any such nonsense as that with -Martha. She'd send her East to school, but she was to feel herself -altogether Western. And it was high time she did, too, since she was -the fourth generation to live in the West. - -However, whatever the motives, whatever the difficulties, the work -had been accomplished. Day by day, all the spring putting in whole -mornings over the finishing of it, they had labored away, and they -would be infinitely relieved when it was over to-morrow. Emily was -weary with it all. The car rolled along, smoothly, as usual, when -Martha took it over the bad roads, and, musing sleepily, she thought -of all the women had done, and wondered pleasantly why this old -friend she was going to see had decided so suddenly to return to her -home that Emily must come to see her a few minutes that very -afternoon. She was almost asleep when she heard Martha's voice, a -rather stern tone of it: - -"Mother!" - -"Well?" - -"I don't often criticize you, do I now?" - -"Not very often. I suppose you're a rather tolerant daughter, as -daughters go. What have I done now?" Emily yawned. - -"I was just thinking about things. Both dad and Uncle Jim lived in -this town when you were a girl, didn't they?" - -"Yes. Why?" - -"Why didn't you marry Uncle Jim, then?" - -Emily sat up. - -"Why, Martha Kenworthy! What put such an idea into your head?" - -"_Dad_ puts it there, of course. It's been there for years, off and -on. I didn't tell you what was in my head, when I was a kid." - -"Oh, you didn't, didn't you?" The idea of her saying that! - -"No, I didn't dare. I----" - -"Martha!" Emily expostulated. - -"Well, I didn't. I've often wondered about it. I told Maggie once I -liked Uncle Jim most, and she said bad little girls who said things -like that died in their sleep. It seems to me--of course I was just -a little kid then--some way, I had sort of an affinity for Uncle Jim. -Funny you never had. I wonder sometimes---- Do you suppose if he -was living now I would still be so crazy about him?" - -"Yes. Why not?" - -"Oh, well, you know, mother, you do feel different about your -forbears when you're grown up. Dad didn't used to seem--so--odious -when I was a kid." - -"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Martha," Emily answered, -carelessly. She would not seem to take this seriously. - -"I don't see why. Maybe Uncle Jim would have bored me just as much. -Of course you always _taught_ me to love dad when I was little. I -simply had to, you might say. You used to say he never had any time -to play with me. But when you come to think of it, he had loads more -time than ever Uncle Jim did. He was only here sometimes, when he -came to see grandma. But some way, when I look back at it, it seems -as if he played with me for years, almost." - -"Well, of course he did play with you whenever he came. He said it -was a rest for him. He was always tired. He enjoyed fooling about -with you." - -"I know it. Do you remember the day he rolled up his trousers and -took me wading on his shoulder? There could have been hardly any -water in the river then, before it was dammed, but I thought I would -have drowned if I went near it. And he played he was sinking, and -ran round and round splashing, and told me I had saved his life. I -didn't know whether I really had or not. Gee! mother!" Martha -chuckled reminiscently. "I'll bet I would just love him if he was -living." - -"I'm sure you would." - -"I asked you, in the first place, why you didn't marry him instead of -father. You would have if you'd consulted me about it, all right. I -bet I wasn't more than eight when I began to think about that. He -wouldn't have been always jawing me every time I came in sight." - -Emily was wide awake now. - -"Why, child, I don't know, exactly. He was older than I was--a -little bit. What you remember of him--all his ways of playing with -you--wouldn't necessarily make a girl prefer him. You don't ever -think what sort of fathers these lads would make for children, do -you? These boys that play about with you." - -Martha looked at her mother in indignation. - -"Well, I should say I _do_! I'm going to have a first-class father -for _my_ children!" This was what Emily delighted in, Martha's frank -way of discussing things unembarrassed with her. There was never a -grown woman she could have said a thing like that to when she was a -girl! "If anybody asks me to marry him," Martha continued---"I don't -mean like Johnnie and these boys--I mean in earnest----" - -"Do these boys ask you to marry them?" - -"Oh, you know, mother. They'd ask anybody just to try it. Johnnie's -got to practice on someone---- - -"But suppose someone should accept him--now--I mean----" - -"Oh, well, the risk would be all her own," Martha said, serenely. -"If anybody asked me seriously, I'd say to him: 'Let me hear you sing -backwards. Let me see you go upstairs rabbit and come down -alligator.' And if he couldn't play games nicely, like Uncle Jim, -I'd say there's nothing doing." - -Emily laughed at the absurdity of the child. - -"I'm glad to hear it," she said railingly. And then she added: -"You'll wait a long time before you come across one like him. There -isn't one in a million." - -Martha turned and looked at her mother with deliberate curiosity. - -"I should have thought you would just love him, mother!" - -"I did. We all did. He had such lovely ways." - -"You'd never imagine dad belonged to the same family." - -"Anybody could see they did. They're very much alike. Martha, you -don't do your father justice. You wait till you get into trouble and -you'll see whether he's a good friend or not." - -"Yes. Well, maybe I won't get into trouble. There's no certainty. -I know now very well what he'd do. He'd do anything he could for me -because I'm your little pet." - -"You're a ridiculous child, Martha." - -"I know that. You say that whenever you don't want to acknowledge -I've hit the nail on the head." - -"I said plainly your dad is of another temperament." - -"I'll say he is!" - -"Isn't life too funny?" thought Emily. "Jim's boy has spoiled Bob -for Martha, and Jim makes Bob seem uninteresting to Martha. Things -go too much in circles in the family," she thought to herself. And -Emily sat there, not listening closely to Martha's chatter. She was -thinking about her startling question. _Could_ Martha really have -wondered about that when she was eight? What was the use of -imagining one saw into a child's mind! Had the child ever seen -things on the face of her uncle or her mother that had made her -wonder things she didn't yet dare to ask about? After all, Martha -had been twelve when Jim died. An hour before Emily would have -laughed at such an idea. And after all, suppose the child _did_ -understand! If she did, she understood nothing dishonorable--nothing -a girl nowadays might not meditate upon. - -For girls nowadays--well, Bob the other night came into the dining -room declaring violently he couldn't sit on the veranda with them. -That Ellis girl had been saying--and Johnnie was there, and that -beach guard he runs about with--she had said right in front of those -men that she had to dramatize some part of the Bible next fall term, -and she had chosen the fall of Jericho because of the harlot in it. -And Martha had said, "Goodness! You can find a story with more than -one harlot in it. Can't she, Johnnie?" And Johnnie had had the -decency to say he didn't know. He hadn't been to Sunday school for a -long time. Emily had been sure Martha had done it simply to shock -Bob. She defended the girls. "I don't care what you say, Bob. It's -a lot better than the way I was brought up. It's just a good thing -that they talk so frankly with me about such things." And yet--once -in a while--she had misgivings--not so much about Martha, of -course--who was a good child--but about Eve, for instance, and other -girls. - - - - -_Chapter Two_ - -"You go right over to the hall," Emily had said to Martha as they -arrived home after five, "and I'll do your shoulder straps for you." -She had gone upstairs, and presently hurried, in a comfortable mature -way, to Martha's room. She opened the door, and almost blinked, for -the uncompromising afternoon sun made even yet a startling welter of -the purples and greens and creamy yellows before her. And then she -said: "Oh! You here, Eve?" For in that whirl of gaudiness an -auburn-haired, hawk-nosed, thin-faced girl sat in flesh-colored -B.V.D.'s, on a black stool, with a dishpan half full of pitted -cherries on the floor beside her, and in her lap a green bowl half -full of moist seeds. - -"I got tired of hanging around over there. I wasn't doing anything. -They're just fooling around for somebody to come and make them get to -work." It was no concession to Emily's sense of propriety that made -her hitch a fallen shoulder strap into decorum. Eve could have -pitted cherries in Martha's sitting room stark naked with serenity. -She had gone into shrieks of laughter the other day when Emily had -described the careful way in which she in her girlhood, in her own -room, with no man in the house, had put her arms into her wrapper in -her bed, and had the essential garment all ready to pull about her as -soon as she had put her first foot on the floor. - -Emily said to her now, "You needn't have done those cherries, Eve." - -"Oh, well, I thought I'd better be doing something to make myself -popular. Everybody else is working--or pretending to." Eve grinned -ingratiatingly. "Somebody called up, too, just now. That friend of -Martha's. That Wilton, I think his name is." - -"Oh! Is HE here?" - -"Yes. Came out for to-night. Don't you like him?" - -"Yes. I like him. He's a nice boy. Clever, too." - -"That's what Martha said." Eve seemed always incredulous about -masculine brilliancy. - -"Well, he's always got scholarships. He's earned his way, really, -through college." - -"Hum!" commented Eve. College honors were nothing to her. - -"His father is the best barber in town, too," Emily continued. - -Eve turned and looked at her quickly. - -"The best what?" - -"Barber. You know that shop all plate glass and shining enamel that -makes all the rest of the street look dirty? That's his shop. -That's where we go for shampoos." - -Eve had been looking at Emily curiously, and the little grin had -grown into a spreading smile. - -"You're the limit, Mrs. Kenworthy!" she said, admiringly. Then she -saw Emily's purpose in coming, and got up. She stretched up an arm, -spread her dripping fingers gingerly apart, and brushed back her hair -with the inside of her elbow. "I'll do those straps. I've almost -finished. Wait a minute." And she started, apparently, towards the -bathroom. - -"Eve! Wait! I'll put your kimona on for you!" - -"Oh! I'm sorry I forgot!" - -"It's almost supper time. Bob may be home any time now." - -And Emily wrapped about her shoulders a wisp of georgette. And when -the girl took a step forward with all the sunlight shining through -her, and Emily saw through the sheer thing long pink legs, she -suddenly realized why Bob had said indignantly that he would as soon -meet her naked in the hall as in that thing. - -She laughed and said, "Eve, you really ought to have a thicker -dressing gown!" - -"I have got one," Eve assured her. "I had to get one. Dad wouldn't -go on the Pullman with me till he saw I had one. I hate a lot of -cotton flannels." - -"Crêpe de Chine would do." - -"I know it. But it's sort of dowdy--crêpe de Chine. Put Martha's on -me. I'll bring my own Victorian down to-morrow." - -Very quick to take a suggestion, properly made, Eve was. A -gratifying girl to befriend, if a puzzling one. When Bob had -grumbled that he didn't see any use sending a girl to college who -didn't know enough to wear clothes, Emily had replied: - -"Oh, that girl is as good as gold, Bob. They all wear thin things in -the halls, Martha says." Emily liked her. To be sure, the ease with -which she had taken up her permanent abode at the Kenworthys' was -somewhat--nonplusing. Emily had asked her, when Martha first brought -her home, where she had been brought up. And she had said: "Oh, I -never was brought up at all. I'm just the little prairie flower, -growing wilder every hour. Just hauled about from aunt to -boarding-school--between the devil and the deep sea all my tender -days." Though she had said it so frankly, so seriously, Emily had -thought it scarcely sufficient. But Martha had hooted at Emily's -quizzings. "It's too funny the way you act, mother, as if maybe she -wasn't fit to associate with your precious child. At school I'm -simply nothing. I'm the least worm in the apple. But Eve's -everything. The profs just eat out of her hands. She's chairman of -the student council--you know--the gang that makes us all behave. -She edits the magazine, and she'll be president of her class next -year, as like as not. At school everybody wants to get a stand in -with Eve. She'd never looked at me if her dad hadn't moved to this -town. And now you don't know whether I better make her acquaintance -or not!" - -"You know I didn't mean that, child. I simply asked who she was and -where she had lived. That's only natural. I think she's a dear." - -And Emily had been reassured because it was her theory that women -never again have such a capacity for judging one another rightly, and -choosing friends wisely, as they have in college. No girl, she -thought, looking at Eve's thin, rather over-bred face, fools a -campusful of her companions. Bob said her father was always well -spoken of. No one knew him very well. He had bought a great -elevator in town some time ago, one of several he had in the state, -and recently had bought a large old house and settled his family in -it. That had consisted of his old bedridden mother and her -nurse--until Eve's vacation had begun. Martha had gone at once to -see her there, and, coming back, had said to Emily: "It's a funny -sort of house, mother. It's furnished all right, and everything. -But it looks like an orphan asylum." She had asked Eve to come and -stay the night, and Eve had accepted gladly. Her grandmother, she -told Emily, had been "out of her head, mildly" for months. Her -nurses weren't very easy to get along with. "Dad had a hard enough -time getting any he can trust grandma to," she had said, very -sensibly. "He's away so much. These two are awfully good to her. -I'll say that for them. They're sisters. So why should I come home -for three months and ball everything up? I just keep still as a -mouse and let them have their own way. Grandma never knows me. I -never go into the room." - -Well, that was a nice sort of place for a young girl to spend her -holiday, Emily had thought. "Stay with us," she had suggested. And -she hadn't had to suggest it twice. Bob grumbled every day about -this steady boarder, but that didn't excite Emily unduly. She liked -Eve better and better. How sweet of her now, to think of doing those -cherries! She was always doing little things that Martha would never -have thought of. - -In fact, Emily had almost to acknowledge to herself that Eve had -certain traits that Martha might well have had. Bob, of course, -talked about them openly. Eve had a proper attitude towards her -father, for one thing. She had said, quite naturally, that her dad -was a lamb, a perfect duck, and a good old sport. And the fourth -evening she had been at Emily's, the four of them, with another girl, -Johnnie Benton, and another lad of the town, had been sitting on the -veranda, waiting for the third lad to come in his car, so that the -six of them could drive over to the lake to dance. They had heard -some one come in, and called to him to come out, thinking it was the -dilatory sixth. And Eve's father had come out to them. - -Bob couldn't get over that scene. Eve had sprung up and hugged him -and kissed him and patted him. Emily, seeing even that greeting, -would have been sure that Eve's rather shocking sophistication was -only a pose. For she had started at once to get her things together -to go home with him. And when Johnnie Benton had protested she had -turned to him indignantly. "I like your nerve!" she had cried to -him. "Do you suppose I'm going to a dance with you when I haven't -seen my dad for six weeks?" And she wouldn't go. They couldn't -persuade her. Bob, sitting there, had seen her father relishing the -situation. The man obviously overflowed with pride in his "Evelyn." - -"Now, can you beat that?" Bob had demanded of Emily afterwards. "Can -you imagine Martha cutting a dance for me? Maybe Eve'll do her some -good. Can you beat that?" - -Emily couldn't possibly imagine Martha preferring her father to a -dance, or to very much else. But she wouldn't acknowledge it. - -"Oh, well, Bob, that's another matter. It was sweet, the way she did -it. But Eve hadn't seen him for weeks. And then, she hasn't got a -mother. She's had to depend on him always. It's much more normal, I -must say, for a girl to prefer a dance to her parents. You can't -deny that." - -"I know it. But it's the principle of the thing." And he had liked -Eve, till he had met her coming from the bathroom in what he called, -"an obscene Mother Hubbard." - -And now, getting ready for supper, Emily wished she knew why Eve had, -once, mentioned father-in-law in connection with Wilton. Bob would -have laughed at her, if he had known, for she thought every man in -town was in love with Martha, he said. A fat chance she had of -getting near her as hard-headed a man as Wilton. He had too much -sense to fall for any such kid as Martha, Bob had assured her. But -how could she help thinking about it when Wilton's father had told -her that he absolutely refused to leave his hospital work to come -home for any dance? He was interned already, by what he called a -streak of luck, but Emily knew it was rather his ability. And now he -was coming out to see Martha--and his father was a barber. How could -a mother help thinking about her child's matrimonial possibilities, a -lovely girl of that age? "When I was her age," thought Emily, "I -fell in love with Jim." And it was because she had been thinking of -the possibility, any time now, of Martha's marriage, that she had -tolerated the painted room. - -One thing Emily Kenworthy was sure of. She had almost gritted her -teeth in the intensity of her resolutions on this subject for years, -whenever she had had to think over the surprising course of her own -life. She had married really to get out of this very house, made -intolerable to her by the tyranny of her aunt. But her daughter -wouldn't ever marry to get away from her. She would never marry for -freedom! Not while Emily Kenworthy knew what she was doing! Emily -had few strong convictions, but that one was unalterable. - -Emily loved every meal when Martha was home. That evening at supper -she sat cherishing her enjoyment. Afterwards it was so amusing to be -running in and out of the painted room, where Eve and Martha were -dressing. No sooner had they gone up to dress, ready for the -evening, than Martha called to her from the bathroom, above the noise -of water steaming into the tub: - -"Mother!" - -When Emily went to her, there she stood, twinkling importantly. - -"Got a secret to tell you, mother. Wilton said I might tell you. -You're not to tell a soul, yet. Not dad!" - -Emily's heart gave a protesting leap. She didn't manage to speak -indifferently. - -"Tell me what it is!" she commanded. - -"He's engaged, mother. He came out to break the news to his dad. -She's a nurse. That's good, isn't it? And he's crazy as a loon -about her. He said I could tell you. He's been rushing that girl -all summer, and his dad thinks he's working himself to death!" -Martha smiled cynically. - -What a relief! What a fine young man that Wilton was! Emily wished -him every happiness she could think of. Martha didn't care a rap -about him. Of course not! Trust Martha to choose exactly the right -man! "Wasn't I just silly to worry about it?" Emily thought. - -The pleasure of this assurance was added to the excitement of their -preparations. Martha looked too sweet in that simple little -flesh-colored frock. Emily kissed her impulsively. Eve looked -lovely, too, but one didn't just kiss Eve on the impulse, even if she -did take one's part stanchly against tender derision. Martha had -been making her mother turn round and round to display her new gown. -"If you know the trouble I had getting her to get it, Eve!" Martha -had murmured. "It took me all the spring vacation to persuade her. -I never saw a human being cling to old rags the way that woman does." -And they surveyed her. She was as large, almost, as the two of them, -of flowing line and generous bosom, gray-eyed, with soft brown hair. -But her color, Martha said falsely, was ghastly. "You're tired out, -mother. Now stand still. I bought this specially for you this -afternoon. Mine don't suit you. Now don't be such a snob, mother. -Stop rubbing it off! A little rouge isn't going to corrupt your -morals. You'll come home as pure as you went! Mother! Oh, you're -hopeless! When I try so hard to make you look presentable!" Wasn't -that delicious, when one understood it? And wouldn't Bob have been -annoyed to hear the child's impertinence? "Eve, look at her!" Martha -begged, tragically. But Eve said: "Let her alone. You'd paint a -lily, Martha. You'd marcel Thomas Hardy himself, if you got a -chance. You look just sweet now, Mrs. Kenworthy!" And they turned -their attention again to their own long-considered faces. - -Martha certainly managed her adorning skillfully. No crude blotches -of color for her. She knew what subtly became her. Her mother -hadn't thought she used rouge until a few days before, when she came -upon her in the act. "Why, Martha Kenworthy!" she had protested, -"where did you get that stuff?" And Martha, turning to Eve, had -imitated her very tone fondly. "Where did I get that stuff? Isn't -she priceless, Eve? Isn't she a sort of an old treasure? I got it, -to be precise, in a drug store in Madison Avenue. Not far from the -station." And since then more than once she had turned her faintly -tinted cheeks naughtily up for her mother's inspection. "Am I pure, -mammie? Or am I painted?" she would ask. The doubt was scarcely as -objectionable as the question. Pure wasn't a word girls ought to be -throwing about just carelessly, it seemed to Emily. But both the -girls failed to see her point. "What's the matter with 'pure,' -mother? Do you like 'virgin' better?" They were just naughty, -trying to shock her. And she would do better to keep her Victorian -scruples, as they called them, to herself. - -Or if she didn't want to keep them to herself, wrapped in paper and -stored away on some upper shelf, let her discard them altogether. -That was what the dancing, balloon-entangled mass of youth seemed to -say to the Emily and Mrs. Benton who looked down upon it that evening -from the platform. But Cora Benton, that lordly and distinguished -daughter of the American Revolution, by her very presence retorted, -as it were, "Yes! Lay aside Victorian scruples and New England -tradition. Have I not Georgian scruples and Illinois decorum -sufficient unto the day?" The city band, in brand-new maroon -uniforms, was playing worse than ever, but they played--that was the -point, for they had said they would never play if wireless music was -to be chiefly used. The mayor and the councilors looked down on the -dancers--those gentlemen who had refused to accept this hall as a -gift--determined not to admit what their eyes saw, but unable to -refrain. The Presbyterian minister and the Catholic priest, who -planned to bless it by their presence but momentarily, still tarried, -wondering. The representatives of the farm bureau and the granges -were trying to estimate the number of people on the floor. All the -reluctant admirers, all the gossipers, the obstructionists, the -knockers, might stand on that platform, and look down over that -rhythmic mass, right away to the farther side, where the dancers were -swinging out on to the wide verandas to the starlight, and back again -into the pink-shaded electric light--they might all gaze continually, -eager to find some impropriety, anxious to see, as they had foretold, -some daring lad come dripping in, in bathing suit from the adjacent -swimming-place--but in it all, nothing, nothing could they find to -shudder over. - -For Mrs. Benton had reinforced herself, as it were, by the American -Legion. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, bull-necked, -yellow-haired, low-foreheaded, somebody's Dutch hired man. He had -redeemed the Legion from the hands of the disreputable and he rallied -about it the decent element of the community, re-established it -financially--after its treasurers had absconded--made its dances -popular again, and started to build it a permanent home. Mrs. Benton -had wanted her hall to have the added prestige of being a sort of -memorial to the county's soldiers. She had laid her plan before him, -and when he had considered it and announced publicly that he had "no -use for guys that was always knocking the dames," she thought she had -persuaded him, although, really, a pretty farmer's daughter had put -into the Legion's mind thoughts of settling down and renting a farm -of his own. So he was weary of his public work. Why should he -devote his evenings to running around trying to collect money when -the dames were willing to leave him free to sit close to the farmer's -daughter? He backed Mrs. Benton to the limit of his great ability. -He had allowed no one, of late, to "dance vulgar" at his dances. And -now he stood on the platform with Mrs. Benton, who knew that if he -gave an order for the mayor himself to leave the floor, the whole -crowd would applaud him. He was the community hero. But Mrs. Benton -had no delusions about him. "A young Lincoln" the sentimental called -him. But she remarked, grimly, "Easy enough to begin where Lincoln -did, in Illinois. The trick is to finish where he finished." - -The invited and distinguished guests began departing. The oldest -G.A.R. had hobbled away, and the representatives of the Chamber of -Commerce had left the platform in a body, giving Mrs. Benton -magnanimous congratulations which she had received but impatiently -for the dancing crowd kept still increasing, and the committee in -charge of the refreshments had summoned her to a conference. They -said cars were parked one against the other right down to Main -Street, and were still arriving by dozens. All the ice cream in the -town had been eaten, and a dozen freezers were on their way from the -nearest source of relief. And as they spoke, all the women breathed -their success in deeply, wallowing in their sense of victory. They -consulted, and they gloated. They stood looking down over the work -of their hands, eying one another significantly. They said to one -another, "I told you so!" They added, "But I never told you so -much!" Mrs. Benton and Emily were standing together when Johnnie -made his way to the platform. Presently Emily was standing between -mother and son. - -She had been standing between mother and son intermittently for years. - -People who said that Mrs. Benton was queenly belittled her. She was -kingly. She was nearly six feet tall--Johnnie was an inch or two -taller. She had the neck and head of a Roman Emperor--imperial, -magnificent. She was wearing that night a smart black net frock, -girded about and corseted as regally as usual. She had artificial -pearls about her thick neck. She wore, moreover, a crown. It was -largely that coronation of great black braids round her head that -made the bobbed-hair femininity near her seem to be bowing their -insignificant heads, their thin and modish shoulders before her like -groveling subjects. She had a habit of pulling one of those braids -up to a sort of point exactly above the middle of her forehead, -because it became her--that is--it suggested more vividly a crown. - -Seen from behind, the mother and the son were not unlike. Johnnie -had the same beautifully shaped head--and no line of his was hidden -beneath the billows of hair--beautifully set on broad, thin -shoulders. Seen from the side, he had the advantage of her. He had -a good chin. If Mrs. Benton's chin had matched her crowned forehead, -democracy probably would not have tolerated her. Fortunately, it -fell away and folded into her neck--somewhat fatly. But a clever -observer, studying mother and son from the front, might have guessed -the sorrow of the mother. There was a gentleness, a sort of ease, -about the son's mouth, though a woman who had "inside information" -later called it the sweetest mouth in the world. She said, in fact, -that it was so sweet that his false teeth looked beautiful even in a -glass of water. He was certainly not effeminate. How could a lad -born of two male parents manage to be girlish! He lacked what is -called "push" perhaps. The engine of his life had not been started. -Hers was never turned off. One could see it pounding impatiently -away as she stood there. Her eyes, as they looked, lorded it over -the scene; when they roved about, they reigned. They were even now -seizing upon the scene to command it. Johnnie looked at it and -grinned, hoping to see another pretty girl come dancing into his ken. -He was shockingly content with the world as he found it. Nature had -given him dancing feet, and "the dames" had made a perfect floor for -him. The tailor made him pockets and the banker gave him check -books. His mother had been sore with him ever since he got home from -college. And now he had squared himself with her by getting such a -crowd to come to the opening of the hall. He reminded her and Emily -that he deserved credit for the multitude as he stood with them, a -manicured sum of frustration to maternal ambition. - -"You mustn't ask me to do anything for you if you don't want it well -done," he said to them. - -For Johnnie had posted announcements of this great opening dance on -the telephone poles of six counties, rising early and coming home -from his work late practically every day for two weeks. This unusual -industry was prompted by the most noble filial reason possible. He -wanted to please his mother. And he had good reason for wanting to -please her. Emily realized that keenly, for not more than half an -hour ago she had thought she heard some wag in the crowd around the -hall whistling one of those absurd tunes. She wasn't sure it was one -of those tunes of Johnnie's "opera." All tunes sound so much alike, -nowadays. But she feared it, uneasily, right in the midst of their -triumph. For this Johnnie Benton had inadvertently brought half -their club committee, as well as his mother, into humming derision. -He had held up their past to jazzy scorn. Doggedly he insisted that -it was an accident. He had never intended writing a comic opera for -his college class. It had just happened. It never entered his head -that if he wrote up one of his mother's activities, away down East, -the news of it would ever get back home. He acknowledged to Emily he -had known that the editor of the town daily "had it in" for the club -women; that he had been biding his time ever since they had bought -the vacant lots next to his dwelling for a parking place for the cars -of the dancers who came to their hall. The committee had openly -regretted the necessity of doing anything to spoil the peace of his -home. But as towns grow, apparently some provision for cars must be -made. They had not wanted to antagonize the press. But they had -been forced to. They had regretted it at the time, but they had -regretted it more two weeks ago. For then, one day--Martha had just -got home from college and Johnnie Benton was to arrive the following -morning--the town had been startled at the horrid, leering headlines: - - SCHOLASTIC HONORS OF OUR TOWNSMAN - - -And beneath it, in smaller letters: - - VERSE ON FAMILIAR TOPICS - - -Each verse was commented upon, with a sort of mock literary criticism. - - The needs of the poor - For garden manure. - - -That was bad enough. - - The lack of barn litter - Makes poverty bitter. - - -That was worse. - - Let her give us fertilizer - If she wants us not to prize her. - - -That was intolerable, almost. - - Our need of land dressing - Is truly distressing. - - -That was absolutely and unpardonably intolerable. - -For Miss Sisson, poor old thing, who had moved in the committee that -perhaps the more elegant term of "land dressing" might be substituted -for "manure," which seemed coarse, had made herself ridiculous at the -time in the club. And now, when she was mourning her sister, she was -made ridiculous publicly. Well, Johnnie Benton had a great deal to -answer for! All the women said that. - -For it had happened some years after Mrs. Benton had bought one whole -freight car full of peony plants at reduced prices and had sold them -off cheap to the women of her county. She had been driving through -the western suburbs of Chicago, and had noticed certain sterile spots -that during the war had been used as allotment gardens. It was -pitiful to her to see those poor hard-working foreigners were still -trying to grow a few vegetables on sandy rubbish heaps. It made her -consider what a lot of manure was piled up in the barnyards around -her town. She laid the matter before the garden committee of the -club at once. If every farmer's wife who had bought a peony would -give one sackful of manure, the committee would see that it was -distributed among the needy allotments of Cook County. The county -adviser had opposed the scheme bitterly. The Farm Bureau had -condemned it. Every ounce of manure was needed at home, the county -bulletin said. But Mrs. Benton asked how farmers working on their -distant forties were going to know how many sacks of manure their -wives gave away. Did they ever count them, wasteful managers that -they were? She would let the women know when the truck would call -for it. - -But this generous plan had been balked by Johnnie and his kind. They -said it had been all right enough to get the loan of the family cars -when they were freshmen in high school, and to go driving about -distributing peonies. But they drew the line at manure. Mrs. Benton -said to Emily that she had told Johnnie he was a selfish boy, and -that he had said: "Well, maybe I'm selfish. But I'm certainly -fragrant." Emily had never believed Johnnie capable of that retort. -She thought his mother had made it up for the story. But -now--well--she was beginning to think maybe he had made it. - -Johnnie had arrived home from college two days after the headline -appeared, and his mother had been ready to receive him. She said he -had to apologize to the whole club publicly. He refused. And Emily -was trying to arbitrate between them. "Honestly, Mrs. Kenworthy," he -said, "it never entered my mind that you'd ever hear of it in this -town. Mother ought to believe me when I say I wouldn't have done it -for anything if I'd known that man French was ever going to get hold -of it. I was in bad with the dean, sitting there in his office -waiting to get hauled over the coals about my work, as usual, and I -couldn't help hearing what he was saying. He was raving. He told -the class committee that if they couldn't get something better than -the drivel they had submitted, the annual play was off. I was -feeling low when he got through with me, believe me. And I knew what -I'd get at this end if I came home flunking again. And that night -when I was lying in bed it all came to me at once, and I got right up -and wrote it down." Johnnie spoke now without awe of his -inspiration. "There was the chorus of high-brow old maids singing -about the need of the poor for garden manure. It isn't my fault they -rhyme, is it, now? I might have said that, Mrs. Kenworthy, but you -know I never would have poked fun publicly at old Miss Sisson. I'd -never have put in about land dressing. Would I, now?" And Emily, -considering the shyness of the poor elegant old thing, believed that -Johnnie would have had more mercy. "And then," he went on, "I had -that chorus of farmers, regular stage hayseeds, with long gray beards -and pitchforks, resisting them. And the Bolshevists singing." -Johnnie hummed: - - "'Tis the lack of horse litter - Makes poverty bitter. - - -"It just all does rhyme. And I had a hero like me, refusing to drive -a truck, and eloping with a farmer's daughter in a manure spreader. -And every farmer in the chorus was leading a calf or a pig with him -as he danced. I told them not to have those kids as animals. And -when the audience began to applaud, one of the little fiends rose up -on his hind legs and began to dance. And then they all did, of -course. The people nearly went into spasms, they laughed so. Oh, -boy! It was a hot show! I was popular for a while. The skirts just -clung to me at the dance afterwards. And everybody was wondering -what else might be in me. And I was going to strike mother for a new -car the minute I got home. Now, oh, Lordie, what a life I lead!" - -And Emily, standing as usual, between mother and son, had maintained -to Mrs. Benton that Johnnie might have been deplorably thoughtless, -but he certainly hadn't been deliberately malicious. How could he -suppose that that man French could get hold of it? It was simply -brutal, as Emily realized, for that horrid person to entitle his -derision "Scholastic Honors." It was rubbing salt into the deep -wound of Cora Benton's soul. For Johnnie most conspicuously lacked -not only scholastic honors, but even mediocre class attainments of -common town children. He had been pulled and shoved along from one -grade to another by the skin of his teeth. He had always been the -most careless boy in every class. Mrs. Benton was right when she -said it was because of his health. When he was nine he had had -infantile paralysis, and, recovering, had been sent South. Mrs. -Benton, a passionate mother, had thrown down her Red Cross work and -taken him to a Southern town in which a cousin of hers was living. -And that choice had changed, she averred, the course of the boy's -life. - -For the White Sox had been wintering there. And the weary little -boy, too uninterested in life to turn his thin hand over, was carried -out into the sun and coaxed into watching them. Some of them noticed -the pale child and spoke to him. Presently Johnnie was no longer a -pitiful invalid; he had become an active humble little mortal peeping -up at the great gods who strode about this Parnassus upon which he -had been thrown. Like an eager disciple he watched their ways. He -knew what blessed street cars they took and at what hours. He knew -the hallowed spot they had their hair cut. Lying in his bed at -night, he could identify their manager's car by the sound. In his -dreams he was steadying his arm to send a terrible curve. His -nightmares were missed bases. Books and reading were forbidden him. -But at the end of that year he knew the names and the positions of -practically all the players in the League. - -It took a woman like his mother to get him into the schoolhouse the -next year. But even she could not induce his mind to consider -text-books. By the time he was sixteen he was in a class with -thirteen-year-old boys, and he looked small and delicate among them. -And then he began growing. His heart was weak. He got pneumonia. -The doctor said he would never be well unless he was taken out of -school again and let "run wild." The year Bronson came to his Aunt -Emily, Mrs. Benton spent part of the winter in New Mexico and moved -from there because she couldn't endure the sight of her son playing -ball with lazy Mexicans whom he had inspired to the game. She went -to a vineyard in California, and there she had to see him rally -enough young Japs for his nine. She left him that summer on a ranch -in Arizona, safe from a baseball atmosphere, she supposed. He found -a camp of Boy Scouts by riding not too many score of miles, and -played with them till he came back in the autumn, less inclined to -sit at a desk than ever before, and much stronger physically. And if -people said truly that only Mrs. Benton's incorrigible determination -had kept that boy alive to grow into a strong man, they might also -have said the same force finally got him into college. And all he -had ever done there, as she remarked bitterly to Emily, who condoned -his accidental operatic career, was to short-stop for the second -nine, and make his mother ridiculous in that disgusting "opera." - -And now, Johnnie, having put in a good word for himself, having -diplomatically repeated every complimentary remark he had heard all -the evening about the extraordinary superiority of the floor, -intended going back to his play. Mrs. Benton kept him standing -there, however. Emily wondered if she had determined to have the -whole town see mother and son chatting pleasantly together. For the -whole town, like Emily Kenworthy, often wondered, too curiously, -exactly what the relationship between the two was. Mrs. Benton kept -her own counsel like the proverbially close-lipped male. People -could only imagine what she thought of Johnnie's dancing every -evening at the country club from which she had withdrawn in rage. -The elders were known to have welcomed her withdrawal like a gift -from heaven. The young fry, it was commonly said, couldn't have a -single dance without Johnnie, who danced "divinely." (Martha -Kenworthy had said once, holding a long-legged columbine swaying in -her hand, that it looked exactly like Johnnie Benton.) He was -hail-fellow-well-met to most of his mother's sworn enemies. Emily -sometimes thought I that must require determination almost equal to -his mother's. He just simply was a "nice boy," the town said. He -had a good disposition, and Bob Kenworthy was not the only one who, -saying that, added, "And the Lord knows he needed it!" - -"Whoever could have believed it?" Emily was saying. "Where have they -all come from?" they were thinking together. You could count the -faces you knew. The youth of the town had been pushed aside by the -youth of the whole state, apparently. In a way, the very success was -failure, for the committee had enlarged their plans time after time -to provide against this indecent modern crowding. And now people -were simply wriggling about like fishing worms thick in a can. -Suddenly: - -"EMILY!" exclaimed Cora Benton. "WHAT'S MARTHA DOING?" Sharply she -had spoken, commandingly. - -"Martha?" exclaimed Emily, shocked. "Where? I don't see her." She -had scarcely seen her all evening. - -"Over there. Look!" She pointed with her eye to the farther side of -the crowd, where it was overflowing to the veranda. - -Johnnie said--he spoke shortly, "She's dancing!" - -"Well! Well! Maybe she is." Mrs. Benton was condoning already her -tone of reproof. - -But Emily had at first sight thought it appropriate, because--well, -what in the world WAS Martha doing? Emily had fairly started with -annoyance when she saw her. To her first glance it was disgusting. -And then, as she looked, chagrined, perplexed,--well--it wasn't -disgusting. Really, perhaps, the position in which Martha and her -partner were obviously worming their way about was not one which, -after long deliberations on the subject, the committee had thought -best to forbid on the floor. It was that man--his face--the way he -was bending down, being tall, to look at her. It was, most of all, -Emily realized in a flash, angrily, the way Martha was holding her -sweet little face, entranced, up to him. What in the world were -those two talking about? - -"Who is that man?" Emily asked Johnnie. She was too annoyed to -observe how keenly Johnnie was watching the sight. - -"I don't know. Never saw him before." - -"There's nothing we can take exception to in THAT!" Mrs. Benton -seemed almost to regret the fact. - -Johnnie looked at her indignantly and ineffectively. - -Emily resented the suggestion sharply. The very idea that anyone -might take exception to her daughter, that the committee might -disapprove of her child's attitude, hurt her deeply. For Martha -Kenworthy was distinctly a nice girl. Everybody had always known -that she was a very superior, quiet, well-behaved, dear child. -Mothers consulted her mother about their naughty children. And now -Cora Benton--but just the same, it did look as if Martha in that -little flesh-colored frock, was almost cuddling up -against--that--somebody--whom Emily at first shocked sight heartily -disliked. - -"Go and tell her I want to see her." Emily spoke to Johnnie and -regretted it. Mrs. Benton let no one know when she corrected her -son. But Emily Kenworthy's intention of reproving her daughter was -revealed to the world. - -"I wouldn't say anything to her. Look, there's a couple--lots of -them are dancing that way. It does leave something to be desired," -Cora Benton counseled. - -"I hadn't thought of saying anything about that to her," Emily said, -carelessly. She was surprised at the sharpness of her resentment. -After all, hadn't she often told even Cora Benton how to manage her -child! - -It seemed a long time before Johnnie came back, more or less -dutifully. She suspected him of having had several dances in the -meantime. - -"I can't find her," he reported. "It's like a needle in a haystack. -The river is as crowded as the floor. Pete McGill says this is the -largest crowd that was ever in this town. He says there are five -hundred more cars than there were on Armistice Day. I'll keep my eye -open for her. They're not allowing any more cars across the bridge. -Would I do--for what you wanted her for?" - -"It doesn't matter," said Emily. "It wasn't anything, really, thank -you." - -But it was something, when presently she saw Martha again, dancing -that same way, with that same man, listening with her face tilted up -to him exactly as before. It made Emily think of the time Martha had -sat absorbed before some story that Jim Kenworthy wove fantastically -for her. That man--he must be an old friend. Emily racked her -memory. Some girl's older brother, would it be, or some household -where Martha had stayed? She tried to fit him in, and as she watched -the two, she saw Martha suddenly sort of double down with amusement, -shrugging her shoulders, chuckling, while the man, encouraged, peered -more boldly into her face. - -"I'll put an end to that!" Emily said. And she hurried down and -sought out a place from which she might catch Martha's eye. It was -difficult to catch an eye so intent upon its interest. She waited -persistently till she had got her attention, and signified to her -that she wanted to speak to her at once. - -Martha came to her presently--alone--on to the platform, flushed, -shining, unashamed. - -"Oh, mother!" she ejaculated. She sighed with unspeakable -satisfaction. "What a night! Could you have believed it!" - -But Emily said, "Martha, who was that awful man you were dancing -with?" - -Her tone surprised Martha. - -"Oh," she said, "that was Sandy. You know Sandy Powers. I had to -dance with him. He was in my high school----" - -"I don't mean _him_! I know Sandy! I mean that dark person you had -this last dance with!" - -Martha gave a giggle of amusement. - -"Don't you know who _that_ was?" she demanded. She seemed to think -it a great joke. "Why, mother, that's Eve's brother-in-law!" - -"I didn't know her brother-in-law was here. When did he come?" - -"He just came to-day. I thought, of course, she would have -introduced him. Oh, mother, he's an interesting man. He's been -everywhere. I'll bring him over to you." - -"I don't like him!" - -Emily ruffled was so rare a sight that Martha seemed to enjoy it. - -"Well, you will when you've seen him. You don't know him," she -assured her mother, critically, and adjusted a little lock of hair. - -"Is his wife here?" - -"I don't know. I don't suppose so." - -"Well," grumbled Emily, "don't be dancing with him all evening. -Where's Johnnie?" - -"I haven't danced with him all evening! We've had two dances." -Martha was really surprised. - -Emily felt she had been foolish. "Oh, all right," she said, lightly. -"I thought I didn't know----" - -Martha studied her. - -"I promised him another. Oh, he dances divinely! You're tired out, -mother. Have you been working every minute? Why don't you go home?" - -"No. I'm staying till the end to-night. I'm not going home." She -might have added, "I'm not going to leave you." - -But the evening had wilted for her. The hours dragged on. Bob came -to her at one. Even Bob was full of congratulations. "You ought to -be satisfied, old girl," he said. "I heard Wilkinson say that you -ought to have credit for the whole thing. He said really if it -hadn't been for you----" - -"Where's Martha? Have you seen her?" - -"I saw her a while ago, up at the house. She had a new Johnnie in -tow." - -"Who? A large dark man?" - -And Bob, struck with an idea, said, "Well, if he's Eve's -brother-in-law, he must be a married man." - -"He certainly must!" - -Bob turned and looked at her. - -"He wasn't acting particularly married." - -"What do you mean?" - -"Where's his wife?" - -"I don't know. I don't even know whether she's here or not. I told -Martha not to dance with him again!" - -"She's minding as she usually does!" Bob commented. - -"Why didn't you stay at the house?" - -"They didn't seem to want me. Let's go home, Emily. Cut out the -rest of it." - -"No. I'm staying to-night until the end. We all are." - -They were home again, finally, towards morning, sinking down deeply -into the living-room cushions, spreading themselves out, breathing -out great sighs of contentment. Emily, on the sofa, was adjusting -hairpins in the coils of her brown hair. Eve sat beside her, resting -in the position she had fallen into, her legs stretched out, her -skirts up to her knees, her thin arms extended limply, with dark -little frail-looking shadows beneath her eyes. Martha had paused to -adjust her color before the hall mirror, and then seated herself, -fresh as a morning flower, erect in an easy chair, her hands crossed -in her lap, her shoulders tilted slightly, light from the hall on the -smoothness of her black hair, dreaming, slight, detached. When her -father, who had insisted on going to the kitchen to make lemonade, -called out to Emily to know where the sugar had been put, Martha, -realizing, as it were, the group, joined them without excitement. - -"Sit still, Eve. Don't go and get it for him. It's sitting just -where it has sat ever since I was born, and he can't help seeing it. -Well, anyway, you ought to be content, mother. It's really your -hall, and everyone knows it. Where'd Mrs. Benton been, everybody -wants to know, if it hadn't been for you? Johnnie's just like her. -He makes me tired. He went about saying he'd got all that crowd -there by his old posters. I told him it would have been a lot nicer -party if he hadn't got so many to come." - -Bob came in just then, Martha's prophecy having been fulfilled about -the sugar. He heard Eve's remark: "I think the Legion was by far the -most interesting man there. I offered to dance with him. He takes -himself seriously, of course." - -Bob was feeling facetious. - -"You needn't set your heart on that man, Eve. What he wants is a -wife that'll do the midnight milking. Yes, midnight! Didn't you -even know the farmers around here milk four times a day? To get more -milk, of course. Twice at twelve, and twice at six. That's the kind -he is. And say, Martha, can't you get a single man to lead around? -Eve's sister will be pulling your hair the next thing you know." - -Emily spoke up hastily. - -"Was your sister there, Eve? I didn't see her. Where do they live?" - -"No. She isn't well. They're like the rest of us. They don't live -any place." She spoke reluctantly, and then, as if she felt that -something more was expected of her, she added: "They have been abroad -awhile. In Paris, mostly." - -But Martha took up Bob's challenge. "He's so distinguished," she -drawled. "Doesn't he dance divinely, Eve?" - -"I don't know," Eve replied, shortly. "I don't dance with him." And -then she added, abruptly, "Look here, Martha, you needn't dance with -him to please me!" - -"Don't worry about that. I dance with him to please myself. You -ought to hear him talk, mother. He's got the loveliest foreign -accent, hasn't he?" - -"Hasn't he! And he was brought up in Indiana!" Eve murmured. - -"He's been everywhere. I'm going abroad myself next summer. He knew -Tchekhoff. He was telling me about him." - -Eve sat up. Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "That's a new one to me," -she commented. "I don't believe it." The silence became awkward. -She broke it abruptly. "He's a four-flusher, Martha. Take it from -me. From the ground up. If he ever saw a Russian in Paris, he'd -have known Tolstoy himself, and been bosom friend with Dostoieffsky. -He's a journalist, to put it mildly." - -It was painful, this way Eve had of saying nasty things about her -relations, as if it were a noble duty. She had spoken so doggedly -that her face was flushed an unbecoming dark red. Martha grew -pinker. The silence grew longer. Emily said, carelessly, rising: - -"What pests these in-laws are! Let's go to bed. You've ripped your -hem, Martha. Did you know it? You're both to sleep till noon." - -"Don't you worry about that!" Bob jeered. - -But Eve replied: "I've got to be home for lunch. Dad's going to be -home." - -If Emily didn't sleep at once, it wasn't because from the painted -room came those stifled whispers and gigglings which so often annoyed -Bob after dances. The girls seemed to have gone to sleep at once. -But Emily kept thinking about Martha, and Mrs. Benton's sharp voice. -The man, of course, would be leaving town at once. What would a -journalist from Paris, a friend of Tchekhoff find to amuse him in a -little Illinois city? And supposing he chose to stay all the summer, -Martha could be trusted. She had such common sense. And such good -taste, always. "It's just silly of me to worry about Martha," Emily -thought, not once only but many times, till she was thoroughly tired -of her foolish, wide-awake mind. "Thank goodness it's over!" she -said to herself again and again. "Thank goodness that chapter's -ended!" - -A long interesting chapter had indeed ended that evening, more -suddenly than Emily realized. - - - - -_Chapter Three_ - -The next day at first seemed like any other morning of the year, for -Emily didn't get up as early as she had intended. There still was -heavy dew lying on the thick greenness of the lawn when she sat down -on the veranda to finish pitting the cherries. Afterwards she -pattered about in the kitchen, tending the ruby mixture in the kettle -till her cheeks were rosy red. And then she had filled the Mason -jars, and screwed on the lids, and tested their inverted security, -one by one, and put them in rows on the shelf to cool, interrupted -from time to time by friends at the 'phone who must count over one by -one the evening's triumphs. She was busy thinking that she really -must take those fresh sash curtains up to the bathroom--it was -scandalous, the condition of those hanging there--when the boy -brought the raspberries she had ordered--far the best ones she had -seen all the season. The girls, she thought, would love them for -their breakfast. She prepared two saucerfuls, and got the pitcher of -cream ready on the tray, and went up towards their room. Of course -that was the way, Bob said, she spoiled Martha, always waiting on -her, carrying something delicious up to her in the middle of the -morning, when the girl ought to have been up and doing all the -housework herself. Bob couldn't understand what a child Martha was, -how unfit yet for responsibility. Wait till she had a house of her -own. Just think of that painted room of hers, for instance. That -showed what the child could do when she wanted to. - -Emily opened the painted door quietly. On a day bed at one end of -the room Eve was lying on her back reading, in sea-green figured silk -pajamas which must have cost a good deal, one knee crossed over the -other. Books were piled on the floor beside her, nearly as high as -her low pillow. - -She turned her head, and caught sight of the tray, and gave a shriek -of delight. She called to Martha, who lay asleep on her bed-like -device at the other end of the room, curled up like a child, not even -a sheet over her. And Martha, sitting up in flesh-colored voile -pajamas on the edge of the bed, stretching, yawning, pink and sweet, -began: - -"Oh, you rare lamb, mother! Isn't she a gem, Eve? No wonder dad -says she spoils me! Where did you get them?" Eve had put a low -table at Martha's side, and seated herself on the other side of it. -But Emily maturely sought out the chair that was kept in the room as -a concession to her dislike of floor cushions. She sat watching them -gobble daintily, chattering away. Martha, who had made herself -comfortable against a pile of cushions, her knees drawn up, and the -saucer balancing on them, began wiggling her toes. She hadn't -outgrown that infant habit yet, Emily enjoyed noticing. How she had -watched this child's awakening with an impulse of delight every day, -almost from her first week, till this morning, when she woke even yet -delicately rosy and vividly red-lipped. Poor old Bob never got any -fun out of it. Martha had disturbed him by waking too early, for -years, and now she annoyed him by sleeping too late. But Emily -wouldn't stop to sigh long over that, not these few summer mornings -when she could enjoy it, now that the child was grown, and away -months together. And just then Martha almost unconsciously bestirred -herself and with the saucer in one hand and the spoon in the other, -almost without ceasing to feed herself, went and pulled down a blind -to shut the glare of the sunshine away from that rug of hers that -tended to look too violently cerise. The girl, it seemed, couldn't -sit up in bed eating berries for breakfast without thinking how the -room might look if she should change it just a little. - -It sobered Emily to see the ancestry driving her defenseless daughter -hither and thither like a slave. Would it not be ironical, now, if -this girl "turned out" like that aunt whom Emily's childhood had so -futilely resented! It seemed to Emily that never in her young days -had that house been free a week from the sound of hammers or the -smell of paint. She had wondered, sometimes, in her maturity, -whether she turned instinctively away from the thought of "improving" -her house because she had so continually in her childhood revolted -against her aunt, or whether it was simply laziness that made her -tolerate any closet shelf, however inconvenient, rather than bestir -herself to alter it. Since she had inherited the house, it had had -peace. She had merely kept it in repair, and tolerated the electric -devices with which Bob filled it. But now, looking at Martha, she -saw again all her aunt's zeal for change overflowing again. - -She had not suspected the child of any such constructive inclinations -until one day of the last Christmas vacation. They had been talking -carelessly together, when suddenly she had heard: - -"Do you know what I'm going to do the first thing, mammie, as soon as -I get my money?" - -That was a question naturally never far from Emily's mind then, -because in fifteen months Martha would be twenty, and, according to -the terms of her great-aunt's will, she would then receive the first -monthly installment of an income of nearly four thousand dollars. -Emily had hated that will when she first heard its terms, because it -had been drawn up, she understood, so as to keep the least control of -the money away from Bob Kenworthy. Exactly what grounds her aunt had -had for these suspicions, Emily never knew. She could have -discovered only by asking her husband, and it was the very essence of -her character that she would not ask him. The very vagueness of that -suspicion had been a wound that years of Bob's respectability and -kindness had healed. He had not complained about the will at -first--Emily had wondered why he had not. Did he not dare? But now -that the child had grown up, without much regard for him, he thought -it outrageous that that old woman should have made her independent of -him. Emily herself, who loved ease with all her heart, who was no -manager, in the local sense of the term, had tried faithfully to -prepare her daughter to use her money wisely--if not wisely, exactly, -at least not too foolishly at first. So when Martha brought up the -subject, her mother had asked her once, curiously: - -"What will be the first thing you do with it?" - -"I'll chuck all that junk out of my bedroom and do it all over." - -Emily had been shocked, but she had to smile presently; for wasn't -that the very thing she had done first herself, when she had returned -to the house after her aunt's death? To be sure, she had later -brought down from the attic the old pieces she had especially hated -in her childhood. But she remembered with what joy she had stored -them away, how she had taken off shutters, and thrown away faded -carpets, and gloried in rugs. But Martha's was rather unreasonable, -for her bedroom Emily had furnished only six years ago, and most -daintily. She had given Martha some of the best things in the house; -a dear little chest of drawers that had been before in the spare -room, and two little old tables, and gone to great pains to get a bed -to suit them. And Martha now had called it "junk"! - -"What sort of furniture would you get?" - -"Oh mother--it doesn't matter." Martha was apologetic. "You -wouldn't let me, anyway." - -"How do you know I wouldn't?" Emily had retorted. "I don't know that -I'm so tyrannical!" - -"I never said you were any such thing. But you know, mother, you'd -just sort of persuade me to get what you liked." - -"Why Martha! Maybe I would let you get what you wanted!" - -Martha went on with the subject hesitatingly. She spoke wistfully, -but without hope. - -"I'd throw all that junk out and paint it all over. I'd do the floor -a nice dull bluey purple-- - -"A purple floor?" - -"Yes. And the woodwork I'd do all creamy yellow, like good fresh -butter, or a sort of sea green." - -"But, Martha, that floor's _oak_!" - -"Oak takes paint." - -"Mine doesn't." - -"But I'm just saying what I _would_ do if it was mine. I knew you -wouldn't let me. I'd get a little pine chest made, to paint just -like my little old one. Oh, wouldn't I love to do it, though! The -girls have such lovely rooms, mother. You ought to see Grace -Richmond's. It's all vermilion and blue. But she's an orphan, of -course." Martha sighed. - -"Oh, Martha!" Emily had exclaimed, "what a lot you have to look -forward to! You'll be an orphan some day, and you can paint the -whole house purple!" - -"Now, mammie, that's just plain nasty of you. You egged me on to say -what I would do, and now you make fun of me!" But Martha, mollified, -had gone on to tell of the staggering sights she had seen in other -girls' homes, reeling colors, threatening emerald ceilings, and -cubistic ornamentations. - -And Emily had pondered the matter, Martha's sigh rankling. "Her room -is all vermilion and blue. But she's an orphan, of course." Did her -child, in spite of her mother's long determination to the contrary, -feel hampered, thwarted of joy by parental preferences? Was she -getting eager to get out of the home, away some place to freedom, as -her mother had run once? After all, that floor wasn't so very -valuable, and the paper needed renewing. Martha wouldn't be at home -months together now, to get tired of her gaudiness. It wouldn't cost -such a lot, and no one would have to see it. The door into the outer -hall could be kept shut. - -A day or two later she had said: - -"Do you know what I'm going to give you for your birthday?" - -Martha guessed extravagantly: - -"A car, mammie? A little runabout to take back to school?" - -"Not much! I'm going to let you do your bedroom over to suit -yourself." - -And Martha had looked blank for a moment, and then murmured: - -"Oh no! It wouldn't do, mother. We couldn't. We'd--mother--we'd -_quarrel_, as sure as you live. I'd get started, and I'd want my own -way, and you wouldn't approve." - -"But I say I _will_ approve. After all, it's _your_ room. _I_ don't -have to live in it. You can have it blue and vermilion, if you want -to!" - -And Martha had sat there for a moment without saying a word, her eyes -beginning to twinkle, her dimples all chuckling, just shining and -beaming, all her pleasure intensified by her quietness. Then she had -hugged Emily after that and had run up to her room straight away. -And up and down she ran, hunting for scissors, for yardsticks, -measuring, planning, 'phoning to carpenters, twinkling, utterly -happy. It had been Emily's sense of her utter happiness that had -enabled her to stifle her impulses to interfere. - -Once things had got rather serious. The child wouldn't have a bed in -the room. She wanted to turn it into a sitting room. And when Emily -had pointed out that she didn't need a sitting room, Martha had -hugged her and, warningly, "I told you we'd quarrel, mother!" Emily -had given way, and Martha had gone on, working like a beaver. She -had dyed, and she had shopped in Chicago; she had "jollied" painters -whole mornings, and gone back to school in the end, leaving her -mother sewing balls of silken high-brow carpet rags. Her very -letters had been full of instructions about the room. And during her -spring vacation the whole house seemed to be an orgy of renewal, so -that Martha hadn't been far wrong when she said that her mother only -endured her nowadays through gritted teeth. She had said it from her -"studio" in the attic, where she was painting tables, for there alone -could she be found that holiday. She had planned so well that in -that fortnight she had almost completed her purposes, and she had -hated leaving it to go back to college. And to that room she had -flown home again, not eager, as she generally was, to go away for the -summer. Not once had she mentioned the Rockies or Canada, or even -Europe. And her heart was so absorbed in it that now, on awakening -to raspberries and cream, she had to go and adjust that blind and -study the way the light fell on the cerise--practically--rug. - -And Emily looked around, and smiled cautiously. It had been the -girl's idea to make the room "amusing." That was the adjective she -had continually used of her plan. And certainly she had succeeded in -inciting mirth at least in the elders who beheld it. To be sure, -with the blind down, the darkly gleaming floor wasn't so bad after -one had got used to it. The sand-colored walls were matched by -woodwork with little green lines on it. And the rosy silken oval -rugs and those black day beds--hateful objects, which kept the edges -of the bedding always on the floor, piled by day with cushions like -shrieking parrots--all this was almost laughable. She had told -Martha firmly the beds ought to be side by side between the windows. -But Martha ignored the suggestion. The bookshelves had absurd little -cupboards at each end, which Martha opened to show her friends, and -an electric stove on a little tray which you stood, so, on this -little shelf which pulled out, so. She had gathered a primitive sort -of crockery bowls from New York, which were called "just too quaint," -and the coffee things from the Chicago Ghetto. Emily had almost -protested against this miniature kitchen. Martha never would be -making fudge up there, she was sure. But then she had got to -thinking of Martha's outgrown playhouse under the willow. "I used to -let her have dishes and everything out there," she remembered. And -she had not only stifled her objections; she had come heartily to -admire this adolescent playhouse. - -For there, opening off this room, was the amazing dressing room -Martha had made from that large closet where formerly clothes had -hung drably. People in the town used to say that, for the sake of -having daylight in that closet and preserving the symmetry of the -outside of the house, Emily's aunt had torn out and built over that -wall seven times. Now Emily had to take visitors up to see that -closet, many and insistent visitors, for all Martha's chums were -bringing their mothers enviously to show them "Martha's apartment." -When she heard their exclamations, she would look at her daughter -with that feeling which she experienced when the child, blowing her -horn, adjusting her brakes, watching the traffic "cop," drove that -panting great headstrong car so calmly, without hurrying one eyelash, -through the tangle of vehicles of any city that might lie in her -path. For Martha quietly had taken that long narrow closet and lined -it on both mirrored sides with hanging wardrobes, and a great total -and variety of cunningly planned shelves, shallow and deep drawers, -great and small, pulling out on patent rollers; she had packed away a -beautifully lighted dressing table, with a stool that pushed back -into its own "ducky nook." She had painted all the drawers a dull -gold on the inside, and a creamy yellow on the outside, and made them -gold knobs and handles. The purple floor and the glow of the rug, -less violent than those of the larger room, left her visitors quite -mad with envy and surprise. - -"It's just Martha all over!" one girl sighed, and Emily had pondered -that. Was Martha then to be a lover of perfect places to stow away -things? There had been plenty of drawers and closets in the house -before, Emily had said to herself. And when she had seen the child's -delight in that huge big topmost drawer, she had let her have a great -pile of old soft pieced quilts to pack away in it, just as she had -given her old hats years before for the games in the willow -playhouse. Was that dressing closet "just Martha all over"? Was the -child going to be an architect, as she had carelessly suggested once, -or an "interior decorator," possibly? Perhaps she was yet going to -be brilliant, and do many things as successfully as she had done -this, so that Bob would yet be proud of her. Or perhaps she was -going to be a furious housewife, delighting in a family of children. -And Emily grew serious thinking of that. She had every reason to -distrust too great interest in housekeeping. She would see that -Martha never loved furniture more than children's ease of mind, never -put order of a room before its usefulness. She did hope Martha -wouldn't carry these things to excess, as her heredity might urge her -to. Here the child hadn't got all the rugs for this room home from -the woman who was making them, and she had already begun to talk -about enlarging the garage. It disfigured the whole house, as it -was, she had told her father. If she might be allowed to double the -size of it, making room for two cars---- - -Then Bob had interrupted: "I'm not going to keep two cars!" - -"But _I'll_ have a car next year," she had suggested. - -"You don't _need_ a car!" Bob had asserted, hotly. - -"Maybe I don't," Martha had answered, softly, infuriatingly, for her -lazily lifted eyes had added, defiantly, "But I'm going to have one, -anyway!" - -"If I could add another part to the garage and change that hideous -entrance so we could hide it with some--lilacs and--things, mother, -then I could change the west window of my room into a door, and have -the whole roof of the garage for a veranda of my own, with an -adjustable awning kind of over it, and some roses up the supports of -it. And how much nicer it would be in the summer to sit there -without a roof over us. We'd get all the breeze there was there, -don't you think, mammie?" - -"Oh, Martha, give us a rest. Let's have some peace. There's no -reason why you should have a car, I tell you, anyway at your age." -Thus Bob received her suggestion. - -"We'll have to think it all over," Emily had replied. It would have -to stop some place. Martha couldn't just be allowed to "express -herself" all over the house whenever it suited her fancy. If Bob -would only stop threatening to forbid her to use his car, maybe she -wouldn't insist so frequently on having one of her own next year. - -The raspberries stimulated Martha to action, for she dressed as Eve -and Emily sat discussing the evening. She had to go and get some -flowers for her room, before her guests came, she said, departing. -And Eve began spreading those day beds into order. Emily bestirred -herself to help. She had a notion to move those beds into the middle -of the room together. But she refrained. She had to reflect that, -though Martha decorated with fury, she dusted with less zeal. In -that, too, she resembled her mother. She returned presently with her -hands full of lilacs for her red-copper bowls. She threw them down -on the bed and when Emily suggested arranging them she said, "Wait, -mother. I've 'phoned Johnnie to get me some blue ones from the -high-school garden." Emily began a faint protest, knowing Mrs. -Benton didn't allow anyone to gather the flowers of that young hedge -of hybrid lilacs which she had given to the high school. Martha -said: "Oh, I wanted one or two. Mother, we've just got to have a -place in the garden for a very late lilac like that, because it makes -the bouquets for this room." And Johnnie came in immediately. With -half a dozen great blossoms right up the stairs he walked, and into -that--no, it wasn't a bedroom, but it still seemed strange to have -him making himself at home among the bedrooms. Martha scolded him -for bringing so many branches, but she had to have at least two of -those dark purply ones. "You can see that for yourself," she -insisted to Johnnie. Emily could see it for herself. The flow of -color melted and shifted about those darkest blues as Martha lowered -one shade and pushed up another, grumbling because mignonette -couldn't be got to bloom earlier. If she had ever thought those -delphiniums would have been all crushed up that way the first dance -last night, she would have saved some for her room. - -Emily had told Johnnie to hand her the pile of books that lay on the -floor beside Eve's bed. Eve, to judge from the literature with which -she surrounded herself continually, couldn't enjoy one book unless -there were ten others as good waiting at her elbow for their turn. -She came out of the dressing room while Johnnie was looking over the -books he had put on the shelf for Emily. - -He said, "Hello! You still here?" - -"You can't say anything. You're here again." - -"_I_ was invited. _I_ was 'phoned for." - -"But I'm leaving soon, and that's more than you're likely to do." - -"I'm expecting to be kicked out any minute," he replied, looking at -Emily. "Nobody appreciates me here. Is this any good?" he asked, -carelessly fingering a book. - -"What is it?" - -He read the name out. Emily stood listening. It was the book that -had shocked her so entirely years ago--the book about which she and -Jim Kenworthy had quarreled so destructively. - -"Haven't you read that?" - -"No. I've heard of it." - -"How intellectual of you! They make you read it, in most schools, -that is, if you're interested in technique. You'd call it a thousand -miles of sand. I haven't got any Robert Chambers," Eve went on, -looking over possibilities. "You might try Michael Arlen, there. -His style would be lost on you, but the subject would appeal to your -heart. There's the Kreutzer Sonata. Have you read _Crime and -Punishment_?" - -"Can't stand Russian stuff." - -"Does seem difficult, after the _Saturday Evening Post_," Eve -remarked. Skirts may have clung to Johnnie, but Eve wasn't one of -them. She had commented, on hearing of his masterpiece, that its -music was hackneyed, the verse was rot and the theme disgusting. -Martha had retorted that the theme, rather, was rot. Johnnie and Eve -quarreled on till Eve departed. - -"You're going to stay for lunch, Johnnie?" Emily asked. - -"I won't if you don't want me to." - -"How truly magnanimous!" Emily murmured. "No. You stay and talk to -the girls, but don't stay for lunch. You know your mother wants -you." Emily wondered then, and she wondered later, why Martha had -wanted Johnnie to stay. Did she want him to hear what the Wright -girls' mother was sure to say about the dressing room? Did Martha -care really what Johnnie thought--Johnnie, who was always asking her -to marry him? - -And what _did_ he think, as he stood lazily leaning against the door -into the dressing room, watching the women examine the drawers? Mrs. -Wright had brought with her a friend who was planning a new house, a -prosperous-looking person, and who listened thoughtfully to Martha's -answers to her questions. This person was impressed. She kept -looking at Martha when they were seated at length in the painted room. - -"How much of this did you do yourself?" she asked. "Hadn't you seen -something like it somewhere?" - -Martha was sitting on a cushion at Emily's feet. - -"Oh yes. I'd seen one in New York. And I just told the old Dane, -the carpenter, how many drawers I wanted, and how big, and he did it -all himself. I couldn't measure them, or anything like that. He had -them all ready to put in when I got home. I'd like to do over all -the closets in the house." She looked at her mother, against whom -she was leaning. - -The guests looked at Emily. She had to say something. - -"But if all the closets in this house had so many drawers, we -wouldn't have enough to put into them." - -"I know it. Isn't that funny?" Martha turned to the other. "People -are so silly. The closets are so big there's nothing to fill them -with. Same way with our basement. It's a horror!" Martha spoke -with such conviction that her hearers laughed. "Well, it is," she -insisted to Emily. "There's a wood room and a coal room, and drying -room, and storeroom with nothing but the hose and two old barrels in -it. I could put all those things into one room nicely, and have -three great big rooms. They could be billiard rooms, or play rooms, -or nice workshops. If I had a lot of children in this house I could -give them all two rooms apiece." - -Emily included Johnnie in her glance. He had his eyes fixed hard on -Martha--who avoided them innocently but persistently. - -And that thoughtful and prosperous-looking stranger said: - -"Wouldn't you like to drive over and look at my plans? Our basement -is going to cost an awful lot." - -Martha twinkled at the invitation. - -"Oh, I just love to look at plans!" she said. "I just love to think -about people's houses. I was thinking, if ever I'm a reformer, do -you know what I'm going to reform? Everybody's closets!" - -Wasn't she lovely, sitting there innocently, Emily thought. No -wonder they admired her, all of them. - -"You come and reform all my closets," the stranger said. But Mrs. -Wright said: "Don't look at mine till I've had a chance to go over -them. You've made me a lot of trouble, Martha. The girls won't give -me a minute's peace now till I let them start doing their rooms over." - -When Emily, having dismissed the visitors, turned from the hall into -her living room, the sight of these familiar things almost shocked -her. They stirred her, at least, to question the very room she had -for years taken for granted. The glamour of that room upstairs -seemed to make the rest of the house faded, some way. The living -room she had always sat down in with satisfaction. Now it -looked--timid--meager--insipid--unexpectant. Its walls and its -woodwork were almost the color of its neutral light pongee curtains. -Those were good rugs on the oak floor. They were rich, and they were -mellow. Emily had bought them recklessly with a large share of the -first installment of her inheritance, when she had moved back to the -house when Martha was a small girl, and she had never regretted her -fling. The davenport and the two chairs that went with it, those -most comfortable monstrosities, had been done once in blue corduroy. -Well, it was still corduroy. That was about all that could be said -for it. But its blue dullness some way had seemed to match the rugs. -That was a good table. No one bought a table like that in any town -in Illinois. Nor was there a desk like that, which plainly had been -cherished for some generations. And how infinitely superior were the -pictures on the wall to most of the pictures on the walls of that -town. Emily's grandfather, once the Governor of the sprawling infant -state of Illinois, had brought that engraving of Mt. Vernon -sentimentality to the wilderness because he remembered his mother -holding her successive babies up to see the dogs and horses that -surrounded the father of his country, who stood in a declamatory -attitude on the very brink of the Potomac, with his women folk and -youthful intimates hovering pictorially about him. - -Emily used to compare that picture, chuckling, to the picture of -Boston which one of her neighbors had made for herself, upon her -return from a memorable visit there. Mrs. Jennings was chairman of -the art committee and a busy woman, and hadn't time to "do" many -pictures, she said. So she just put everything she wanted to -remember into one. And Lexington and Concord, Bunker Hill and the -Common, Longfellow's house and Faneuil Hall, jostled one another in a -staggered and staggering row all across the foreground. And there -was Mrs. Johnson's parlor. Every time Emily went into it she used to -say: "Well, my aunt might have been worse. She didn't paint at -least, thank God!" She had left no bilious works of her brush behind -her, and she deserved credit for it, considering the fashion of her -day. She had left a cherished large framed photograph of the door of -St. Mark's. Emily could recall exactly the tone in which she used to -say "The portal of St. Mark's," for she had always added "by the -sea," which mystified the child. The geography said plainly that all -Venice was by the sea. Besides Italy and Mt. Vernon, there were what -Emily considered two perfectly lovely large "studies" of Martha's -head. A cousin who played with photography had done them when the -child was seven years old. She was the cousin who had gathered the -child into her arms, on one occasion and cried, "Oh, twinkle, -twinkle, little star!" Martha hated them, and pleaded for their -banishment, but Emily would not listen to her, not for a minute. -There sat a photo of Jim on the desk, and one of his mother, and an -early one of his father. And there was, of course, that first seal -of a D.A.R. invulnerability, a framed sampler. Altogether, Emily had -always been secure that her living room was not just a common -small-town room. - -But after Martha's--well, what was wrong with it, she sat wondering -that morning, a bit ruefully. Some way it was tamed and tolerating. -Those high-handed colors upstairs dared the world, and demanded. -These young things went raging, commanding, soaring into life. "Not -like me," she thought, vaguely. "I just hesitated--and -submitted--and got along, some way. How puny I was, and--sort of -helpless. That book--I shrank from it as if it had been some great -thing. But Eve snubs it. She ignores it. They fly, these -children--they just fly. But I rode just a bicycle. And this room -wabbles along on a bicycle. I must speed it up. I must--get these -things done over--or else I ought to get some new pictures, or -something. I better ask Martha, perhaps, to freshen it up a little." - -Certainly that stranger had asked Martha's advice. The memory of her -respectful tone was wine to Emily. She had to speak to Bob about it. -She couldn't just let him go on thinking that Martha "amounted" to -nothing. - -"I could see that they thought it was wonderful for a girl of her age -to have planned it all," she told him. "That woman asked Martha -definitely to come and see the plans for her house!" - -But he said: "The dickens she did! The kid's got her head swelled -enough now, without anybody asking her advice. The dame must be hard -up if she's got to come to Martha for advice!" - -The girls played golf that afternoon. Emily's mind, when it had -intervals of leisure, dwelt upon the question of new -furniture--somewhat reluctantly. After all, maybe it would be better -to suffer the old faded colors than to flee to others that you know -not of. Such a lot of trouble, going to the city to select things, -and then, maybe, when you get them home, they don't fit in, as you -had intended them to. And she even realized her reluctance. "That's -the point about being young. Martha would just jump into the -shopping fray. She would dive right in, without hesitation." These -meditations kept Emily from giving "that man" even a thought, until -almost supper time. Then, as she passed into the hall, Marion -Wright, giving her arms a sturdy swing, almost struck her, and drew -back, apologizing. - -"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you! I was just practicing that -drive. I didn't want to forget it, such a classy one! Richard Quin -was just teaching us, you know, Mrs. Kenworthy." - -"Who's Richard Quin?" Emily asked. - -"Oh, that's Eve's brother-in-law. Marion likes him. Don't you, -Marion?" Martha asked. - -"Well, I can't say I'm crazy about him. But still, he can play. I'm -not particular who coaches me. I do prefer them not so fat." - -"Fat!" murmured Martha. "He isn't fat. He's just a large man. He's -well built." - -"Of course they're more fun married," Marion went on, trying to shock -Emily. And then she asked, suddenly curious, "Do you like him, Mrs. -Kenworthy?" - -"Do I like him? Goodness, no! He's greasy looking." - -Martha said with dignity: "Mother doesn't know him. She never said a -word to him in her life. He's not greasy at all, if you see him -close. He shaves twice a day." - -"How do you know he does?" Emily demanded. - -"He's not reticent, anyway," Marion said laughing. - -"He just happened to mention it." - -"Did you see his wife?" Emily asked them both. - -"Eve told you she wasn't well. She wasn't there." - -Martha looked at her mother, perplexed. Emily looked at her daughter -uneasily. It was annoying of Martha to defend that man! If Emily -had known he was to be on the links, she wouldn't have let Martha go -to play. But now, of course the wisest would be just to let the -matter drop. Martha was always so trustworthy. Certainly her good -taste could be trusted. - -Yet for some reason, when Johnnie Benton came that evening to take -the three adorned girls to the dance, Emily was more impressed by him -than ever. She felt so safe when Martha was under his care. She -watched them drive away, and then went out to potter about as usual -in the garden, just at dark. A neighbor came bringing her, in a -strawberry box, a few rare seedling pansies, and together they made a -little place protected from the heat in which they might be nursed. -And then they went and sat down inside the screened veranda to escape -the mosquitoes. - -They were still talking there when Bob came. But he took his -magazine and sat down a few chairs away, and they talked on as if no -one was within hearing of their voices. And indeed no one was, for -Bob habitually absented himself in the print before his eyes. He was -unconscious of everything around him. Energetic, insistent demands -and clamors could get only a muttered "Uh-uh!" from him. He really -didn't know when the neighbor left, although he had sort of muttered -at her. - -So Emily sat still and alone in the darkness, and glad of the -quietness. She thought over one by one the dozen men--Martha called -them men, though they scarcely deserved the name--who would be -dancing with the girls at the club. Emily knew every one of them; -some of them she had known for years. She knew the families of most -of them. Every time she thought of Martha's partner of the evening -before, they seemed more acceptable to her. They were--decent. They -were--secure. They had no foreign accent, and they had not pretended -to know Tchekhoff. People gossiped about them, but Emily believed -their relationships with bootleggers were merest flirtations. Their -scrapes were ridiculous--like Johnnie's opera---but they were not -vicious--often. Bob called them "nail-polishers," and "shiny -Johnnies," and thought pessimistically about their chances of success -in this competitive life. But Emily, musing away, liked them all -that night. - -Bob threw down his magazine, after a while, and returned to Emily's -presence. He got up and lit a cigar, and went into the house. Emily -heard him there talking to some one by 'phone about insurance. He -came out and sat down on the railing in front of her. - -"Let's go to bed," he said. - -She looked at him. There he sat, a heavy, rather sluggish man with a -growth of black beard which he conspicuously did not shave twice a -day. His hair was not as thick as it had been ten years ago, but not -less unruly, and his digestion was decidedly poorer. He was working -hard, and making money, and usually tired. He was still more -even-tempered than most men. From the time Martha went away to -school till she came home for holiday he scarcely spoke an irritable -word. - -"I thought I'd wait till the girls come home." - -"You're dead tired." - -"I know it, but they'll be here soon. It's nearly twelve now." - -"Let's go out and get them." - -"All right. Let's." - -They had done that more than once. Bob was always ready for a drive -even over that road which they must take along the river. Two miles -of that sinuous and uncertain byway had been the cause, like the rest -of the country club, of a great wave of hard feeling in the -community. Were the taxpayers going to keep it up for a few rich -"sporty" families? asked the indignant, so successfully that now the -handful of members had either to repair it themselves or endure its -flooded ruts. The country club had not been well managed. Mrs. -Benton had washed her hands of it in the beginning, prophesying its -downfall. The founders had not counted the cost. The less wealthy -couldn't stand the assessments and had dropped out. Those who -remained had to pay more. And it was all a muddle and a burden and a -quarrel--a perfect example of how Mrs. Benton did not manage things. -Emily was one of those who still kept membership. She seldom used -the place, but she wanted Martha to have a place to play golf. The -more Martha danced there, the less she would disturb her father by -dancing at home. And really, it was a very nice crowd of young -people who gathered there. By night, as Bob and Emily drove in, it -looked gay and lovely, lit all up, among the trees, with the dancers -gliding about. By day, of course, its appearance justified the scorn -which neighboring towns poured upon it. However, those towns, since -last night's event, would be less boastful. - -Bob stopped the car and they sat looking in. Now Martha had had on a -little dress faintly pink at the neck and deeply carmine at the hem, -so that, if she had been there, Emily would have seen her in a moment. - -"Where _is_ the kid?" Bob grumbled. Emily looked about under the -trees, and saw Johnnie Benton leave the couple with whom he was -smoking and come over to them. Bob repeated his question -immediately. And Johnnie said, indifferently, looking in towards the -lighted floor: - -"Isn't she there? I guess she's out having a petting party somewhere -with that dago necker." - -Emily was thoroughly annoyed by the boy's impertinence. The idea of -his daring to say a thing to her of Martha. - -"Who d'you mean?" Bob demanded. - -"You know, that bearded guy she's falling for." - -"Eve's brother-in-law?" - -"Yes." - -"Is she with that----" Emily nudged Bob violently. - -"She generally is!" So Johnnie wasn't so indifferent, after all, to -the fact as he had wanted them to believe. And then the music -stopped, and the girls came nocking out to the drive like -butterflies. Marion Wright called upon Johnnie to witness that there -was just one more dance, and then they would all go home, and Martha, -she said, had already gone, walking home. - -Emily asked in reply, unconcernedly, if they were having a good time, -and told them not to hurry, and said, "No, they wouldn't wait for an -ice--the night was so hot they had thought they would drive out to -cool off." But here the ice was--and she ate it hurriedly, fearing -what Bob might say about Martha before them, nudging him mentally, as -it were, into silence. - -No sooner was the car turned towards home than Bob broke out: - -"Well, I'll be damned! I won't have this, Emily." - -"Funny we didn't see them, if they're walking home." - -"I thought she had _some_ sense. What's he doing out here? Did you -know he was coming?" - -"No. I never thought of it. Of course the family belongs." - -"The nerve of him! Does anyone else come uninvited?" - -"Oh, Bob, we must be careful! Did you hear what Johnnie said?" - -"I'll settle that girl to-night. She isn't going to be running -around at midnight with any married man." - -"Now, Bob, we mustn't be hasty. You must think this over. We don't -want to--seem to take this--too seriously. He'll be leaving, likely, -in a day or two." - -"How do you know he will?" - -"I _suppose_ he will. Didn't Eve say so?" - -"I didn't hear her. And it's the principle of the thing. She thinks -it's smart to be flirting with a married man." - -"Oh, I don't think she does, Bob. He's so different--from these boys -here." And then suddenly she begged: "Look, Bob! Oh, let me do the -talking to her!" For walking slowly along, side by side, were the -two of them, little rosy Martha and the man that seemed always -bending over her. So near they were that Bob stopped the car with a -jerk. - -"We'll give you a lift," he said, unceremoniously. "Get in!" - -Martha introduced her companion. Bob gave the shortest possible sign -of being aware of his existence. He was opening the car door. - -"Get in!" he said to his daughter. - -"It's a glorious night for walking," Mr. Quin remarked, standing -still. - -"It's too late. Get in!" Bob again spoke directly to Martha. - -She turned to her escort. "It is rather muddy here. Let's ride a -little." And she got serenely in, and bade him follow her. The car -started. - -Emily turned around in her seat. - -"You staying long in town, Mr. Quin? I meant to call. But Eve said -your wife isn't well." - -"Oh--I'm not sure yet. It's all so interesting to me. A Western -town like this. It's quite surprised me." Hadn't Eve said the man -was brought up in Indiana? His tone annoyed Emily so that she turned -abruptly about in her seat. Martha leaned forward to her. - -"He thinks it's the most ripping dance hall he ever saw, of the kind, -mother." Ripping, was it? Such a distinguished word, so unlike this -West, Emily was saying to herself. Where was Bob going? Why didn't -he take them directly home? He had turned, and in a minute, before -they knew it almost, they had stopped in front of Eve's home. - -"We'll drop you here," said Bob. - -The stranger looked at Martha. - -She said, surprised: "No---- Oh--well----" - -"It's the way we have in these Western towns," Bob remarked, shortly. -The man said good night reluctantly and as meaningly as possible, -with Emily's eye upon him. - -In the light of the living room, Emily said: "Look at your slippers, -Martha! What made you walk home in them?" - -"Oh, mother, it was such moonlight. You were absolutely rude to him, -mother. I never saw you act so before," Martha spoke grievedly. - -"I know a snubbing when I get one. He didn't ask me to call on his -wife." - -"But, mother, you know she isn't well. Eve said so." - -"If she isn't well I think he'd better devote himself exclusively to -her. Martha, I don't like this. He ought to know better, if you -don't. You'll get yourself talked about, if this keeps on." - -Martha opened her eyes in unfeigned surprise. - -"That's a funny way for you to talk, mother. You always say people -have no right to go gossiping around about girls!" - -"Well, I certainly said girls oughtn't to do silly things to start -people talking." - -"I get sick of this town! It's only in a little crude hole of a -place like this a girl can't look at a man after he's married. He -knows more in a minute than all the boys in this place know in a -year. And just because he's got a wife I'm not to listen to him, I -suppose!" - -"You are certainly not to--to let him spend all his time with you. -You went with Johnnie. Why didn't you come home with him? Did you -know that he--this Quin person--was to be there, Martha?" - -Martha stood there looking straight at her mother, as if she had seen -in her something new and perplexing. - -"What's the matter, mother? What's all the fuss about, anyway?" - -"About this man. He's married. He oughtn't to be following you -about when his wife's at home sick. I'm disgusted with you, Martha." - -"Because he happens to be married?" - -"He doesn't _happen_ to be married; he _is_ married." - -"I don't follow you, mother." - -Martha spoke, with her head held high, in the lazy tone she used to -infuriate her father. - -Emily said, gently smiling: "There's no use your trying that on me, -Martha. You follow me exactly. You know exactly what I mean, and -you're to remember what I say." - -"You never spoke like this to me before, mother." She would try -being hurt. - -"I never had occasion to, thank goodness! And I'm not going to speak -to you this way again, either." They both heard Bob coming in. "Now -go to bed," Emily said, kissing her, "and be a good girl." Martha -kissed her in return, without any sign of annoyance, and ran quickly -upstairs. - -"Where is she?" Bob demanded. - -"She's gone to bed." - -"Just like her. She crawls out of everything. Did you settle her -once for all?" - -"I spoke to her about it. I told her we didn't like it." - -"You're too easy with her, Emily. I'm going to settle her in the -morning. I'm going to lay down the law to her!" - -He was going to lay down the law to her, was he, when he had never in -his life laid down his work for an hour for her sake! Emily, that -placid woman, for the third time in one evening, was ruffled and -resentful. Johnnie had disturbed her. "That man" had annoyed her. -And now, all of a sudden, Bob, who had never done anything but stand -aside and watch her manage Martha, was going to take her in hand. He -had literally had no time for the girl since she was born; and now he -seemed to think she ought to listen to him. - -She said nothing, being wise, and he went up to bed. The Wright -girls came in, presently, with Johnnie and Chris Phillips, all of -them together making a little eddying whirlpool of youth in the quiet -room. Emily, moved by some instinct of security for Martha, called -up to her to come down. "Oh," they said, "is Martha home?" Emily -replied carelessly that they had picked her up near the bridge, and -instantly she happened to look at Helen Wright. She had not been -thinking of the effect of her remark, but she saw Helen wink--yes, -undoubtedly just wink--at Johnnie, and she saw he didn't want to be -winked at on the subject. She felt a sharp mistrust of that -girl--her expressive, cynical face. What did she mean? Did she know -with whom Martha had chosen to walk home? She thanked goodness that -Helen Wright wasn't staying long. She didn't like her. - -Martha had only tarried a minute--long enough to have paid, perhaps, -her tribute to the mirror, but by the time she came down the boys had -left. Johnnie said it would be a change to go once before he got -sent home. Martha didn't deign to notice his absence. She talked -serenely to her guests. - -But Emily, in her bed, remembered, sighing more than once, how that -horrid Helen had sat looking at Martha, with cynical, initiated -amusement. Perhaps that girl was encouraging her in her naughtiness. -If Martha wasn't careful--and she probably wouldn't be--she would be -getting into a horrible row with her father. That consummation Emily -Kenworthy would do anything to avoid. If Bob "bawled her out" in the -morning, the world underneath their feet would be splitting. Martha -and that odious stranger would be on one side, and Bob would be on -the other. And Emily--well, there was never a moment's doubt in her -mind where she would be! - -She remembered, indignant at the thought of it, that perfectly absurd -situation of her friend, Mrs. Harding, whose daughter had married, to -the utter rage and final alienation of her father. One day, months -after that, Mrs. Harding had come creeping into the Kenworthys' -house, almost a stranger then, and had begged for the loan of two -hundred dollars, just begged for it, ashamed and whispering, because -her daughter was ill, and without a penny, in a rooming house -demanding its rent. A girl friend of hers had seen her there, and -had come back to urge her mother to help her. In all her life Emily -had never had to consider the state of a woman living comfortably -without one cent of her own to put a finger on. "If I were you," she -had exclaimed to Mrs. Harding, "I would go straight to her. I would -bring her home, or take her some place and take care of her." But -Mrs. Harding dared not defy her husband. He was an old man, and -delicate, and it might kill him. And Emily had been on the point of -saying: "I don't believe it! And if it does, he deserves it!" She -had entered heartily into that conspiracy, and it had all turned out -so well, and the two women had become friends. Yet Emily essentially -disapproved of her "kowtowing" to her husband. There would be -nothing like that in her house! If any great, deep chasm was to come -splitting across the ground on which the Kenworthy family stood, -Emily was going to be on the side of her daughter! Was it likely -that she would give up that Jim Kenworthy--that she would have -allowed her dear lover to go away to die alone--for that child's -sake, and now give up the child merely for Bob Kenworthy? - -"Bob," she said, emphatically. - -"What's the matter?" He was sleepy. - -"You aren't to 'settle' Martha in the morning! You are to leave her -to me!" - -"What?" - -"I say you aren't to scold Martha in the morning about--that man. -I've talked to her about it, and that's enough." - -"She won't mind you, Emily." - -"She'll mind me at least as much as she would you. And more, too. -And I'm not going to have you two--quarreling and arguing -about--this--person. Do you understand that, Bob? If you--speak to -her about it, she'll get to thinking that she's on one side with that -man, and you and I are on the other side." - -"She's on his side now." - -"No, Bob, she isn't. She is just--playing; she wants a little rope." - -"She's got enough to hang herself now." - -"You won't speak to her, will you, Bob, now?" - -"Oh, well," Bob grumbled, "she's your kid, Emily. You've got to -manage her. She won't listen to anything I say, anyway." - -"But I mean, don't you just begin to--don't you forget and bring the -subject up, at all, will you, Bob?" - -"I won't say a word to her if you make her quit it. If you don't, -I'll take her in hand. I won't stand for her getting talked about -all over town!" - -"She's not going to get talked about, Bob!" - -"Oh, well. Manage her to suit yourself." - -That was the most he could say. He could offer her no help. All she -could ask of him was that he would refrain from interfering. But if -Jim had been in Bob's place, Jim would have known what to do. Martha -would have listened if Jim could have spoken to her. And Jim would -have listened if Emily had gone to him in perplexity about the girl. -Hadn't she and Jim sat together for hours discussing their children, -enjoying them together, having them in common, almost, in spite of -the barrier between them? Because Jim had always appreciated little -Martha Kenworthy. That was the essential wrong Bob had done the -child since birth. He had failed to appreciate her. He had never in -his life understood a woman. He had never even given the proper -value to his own mother. And Jim's adulterous wife he had simply -cursed whenever he thought of her. It was only men that Bob could -evaluate. There was no use expecting him to judge Martha fairly. -But Jim had enjoyed every phase of her little girlhood, just as he -had played tenderly, reverently with his mother's heroisms and -weaknesses, just as he had so well understood every shade of the -service Emily had unconsciously rendered him when she had loved his -son. If Martha had a man like Jim about familiarly, she wouldn't be -impressed as she seemed to be with the first pretentious masher that -came her way. Jim would have set a standard for the child, given her -a taste for masculine worth. And it all went back again to the old, -old question: Why didn't I marry Jim in the first place? Why did I -ever quarrel with him? Why was I brought up so that I could quarrel -with him, about a book, merely a book that is this minute lying -neglected on the shelf in the painted room because the girls were -bored with old classics? I married Bob to get away from this house, -said Emily. But Martha will never marry to get away from that, Emily -vowed again. - - - - -_Chapter Four_ - -Afterwards, when Emily, thinking those summer weeks over, used to ask -herself again and again why she hadn't prevented their climax, she -could scarcely recall how her realization of the situation had come -about. She had told Martha that she didn't want Eve's brother-in-law -singling her out for his attention. She had supposed that was -sufficient. She had gone with Martha to take the Wrights home the -next day, and all very merrily the afternoon had gone, just as -afternoons usually went before that man came rumbling on the horizon. -There had been no mention of him till towards supper time. Martha's -chum, Greta, had come in then, asking her to go for a swim. Emily -liked Greta, with reservations and allowances, thinking her too -pretty to be judged severely. She had dazzling eyes: light-blue eyes -when she wore light blue; dark-blue eyes when she wore dark blue; -gray eyes when she had on a gray suit; and when she pulled that -wicked little mauve hat down over her forehead, her eyes were purple -as dark pansies. One had to forgive that girl for somewhat too -deliberately flashing those glances into male consciousness, Emily -argued. But Greta didn't--quite tell the very truth--always. Just -lately in a crisis she had told one tale, and Martha had told another -of what happened, and it had all had to come out, Martha justified, a -truthful child, and Greta--well, perhaps she had learned her lesson. -Emily believed so. - -Now that afternoon when she came in on her way to the beach, Martha -was indiscreet, to say the least. She said demurely enough, when -Greta urged her: - -"Oh, I don't know whether I'm allowed to go swimming. Am I, mammie?" - -Emily had asked innocently, "Why not?" - -"Well, there's sure to be some married men about, some place." And -Greta had smiled, as if she understood Martha's cause for complaint. - -"Don't be silly!" Emily had replied. They had gone swimming. -Afterwards Emily wondered if Martha had known that man would be -there, if she had taken that way of warding off subsequent reproof. -She wondered, but she could reach no conclusion. She could never -make out clearly how it had gone on. She hadn't even known for -certain that Martha was seeing the man. She had thought it better to -trust her. - -Eve had returned the next day, and Emily had been glad, feeling that -Eve would be a protection. The girls had gone together to spend the -week-end at Geneva with friends. That had been planned days ago. -Bob had remarked uneasily, looking up from the daily at noon on -Monday: - -"That bird's in Geneva, Emily!" - -"Who?" - -"Quin, that brother-in-law of Eve's." - -"Why shouldn't he be?" Emily had asked, carelessly. And she asked -herself the same question, but not so carelessly. What was more -natural than that he should have gone fishing? Didn't everybody go -fishing? Wasn't there a long list in the paper every Monday of all -the men from the town who had gone, even though they went regularly -every Saturday of the season? The editor had to have something to -fill up his columns, and that list, and the list of those who went to -Chicago daily to shop, could always be depended upon. Still---- - -Afterwards she sometimes thought that she should have said to Martha: -"Did you see Mr. Quin at Geneva? Did you know he was going to be -there?" She might have asked that question the following Wednesday. -Perhaps that was where she had made her great mistake. She should -have asked Martha directly what had happened there. - -For Eve came home that day from the links alone, and announced she -was going to Chicago at once to her father; that she had thought when -she came to live in this town that at least she wouldn't have her -sister hanging around, and her brother-in-law. She wasn't going to -come back till they cleared out, she said, angrily red. Afterwards -Emily knew that she ought to have asked her exactly what the quarrel -had been about. She had, however, practically asked Martha later. -Martha had said indifferently she supposed Eve was tired of the -little town. It wasn't good enough for her, perhaps. She had spoken -sarcastically. She didn't regret Eve's departure. She had gone on -her way undisturbed. Perhaps she had spent more time with her -friends than she usually did. At home she was quiet; but she had -always been that. She had always sat excited, as it were, by her -thoughts, chuckling to herself about what was in her mind. Her Uncle -Jim had said of her child that it was _herself_ she seemed always to -be enjoying. She had seemed to have a hidden source of delight to -muse on. Johnnie was no longer about the house. When Emily -commented on this fact, Martha had explained indifferently that he -had an awful case on a De Kalb girl. - -One afternoon Emily sat talking to an old, trustworthy friend. -"When's Eve coming back? You know her sister?" Grace Phillips had -asked. - -Emily couldn't believe she had asked it in malice. She thought -afterwards it might have been a well-meant warning. Emily had said -she had not even seen the sister. She wasn't receiving callers. - -"You see more of him, I suppose?" - -Emily had repressed her surprise, and answered, vaguely, "No; that -is, not a great deal. Eve--not when Eve isn't here." - -What did Mrs. Phillips mean? Had she seen Martha with that man? - -"I hear the old grandmother gets worse all the time," Mrs. Phillips -had innocently continued. Emily had said she didn't know. - -It was after four then; soon after that there had come a -long-distance 'phone call: four friends in the next county were -driving up to dance in Chicago. Would Martha go with them? They'd -be along soon after seven. As Emily hung up the receiver she saw a -sort of chance. She would go out to the golf course and bring Martha -home to get ready for the evening, and take occasion to see exactly -who was playing there, and then she would be rid of this uneasiness. -She hated taking the car herself, but it was time she made sure of -what was going on. - -So she drove out, inch by inch around by the dusty detour, over the -well-known ruts. She turned the car anxiously through the gates, -which always looked so narrow when she was driving that to miss their -post seemed almost miraculous. She chose her place of stopping very -carefully, a large place easy to turn around in, in case Martha -wasn't there and she had to go back by herself. - -She shut off the engine, congratulating herself the more upon the -neatness of her achievement because some other woman had stopped her -car--but not her engine--wrong way about, at some distance, so that -she sat almost facing Emily. A stranger she was. With a swanky -little scarlet hat on, and rouged; waiting for some one, looking -intently towards the path through the trees by which the players came -up to the shack of a clubhouse. - -And then it occurred to Emily that that woman must be Eve's sister, -because that must be the car that Eve drove. She looked, naturally, -with renewed interest. The face was in some ways like Eve's. But it -was no wonder Eve didn't like her. She was a discontented woman, -ill-natured, with hollows about her eyes, like Eve, but more -accentuated; altogether hard faced. She was probably waiting for her -husband. - -"Shall I go and speak to her, or shall I not?" Emily wondered. The -woman hadn't once looked in her direction. Either she was intent -upon the path and had not heard anyone coming, or purposely avoided -chances of being intruded upon. - -Emily had not been sitting there undecided one minute when the woman -leaned suddenly forward, shifting her position to get a better view -of something. Emily's eyes turned, naturally, to see what she was so -eagerly looking at. There were four people walking towards them at a -little distance, two in front, young Mr. and Mrs. Williams, two -behind, little Martha Kenworthy and that man. Martha had on a -pleated white skirt and a belted overblouse of pale yellow crêpe de -Chine, with a square neck, and she was walking along, slight and -young, bareheaded, of course, with her face all flushed pink, looking -up, all smiling and interested, to that man, who seemed, as always, -to be leaning down over her. They came walking towards her. They -were talking about something so amusing, so intimately interesting, -that they paid no attention to the two cars. Emily sitting there, -sickening, saw Mrs. Williams call Martha's attention to her mother. -She saw the absorbed two turn from their topic and look towards her. - -She had looked again quickly at the woman. She knew what she had -been waiting for. She saw the discontented face flush angrily, as -Eve's did sometimes; and then, just as that man drew near, when he -had seen his wife sitting there, she started her car and drove -hastily away. - -Martha was coming up to her mother. Mrs. Williams was with her. The -men had stopped to talk together about something, a few steps away. -Had the Williamses seen that woman? Would they know who she was? - -"Hello, mother!" Martha said, quite naturally. And Emily, she hoped -undismayed, explained to her and Mrs. Williams why she had come. "I -thought I'd better come and get you, so you'd have time enough to get -ready," she said. - -Martha jumped in, taking her place at the wheel. She had come out -with Greta, whom Emily saw at some distance, coming towards her. She -asked Mrs. Williams to tell her she had gone home. They whirled away. - -"Martha!" Emily said, sternly, "I came out here to get you. And this -is what I find. Do you know who was in that car?" - -"What car?" - -"That one ahead, that just drove out." Martha looked down the road. - -"Eve?" she asked. - -"Her sister. She came out here to see if her husband was with you," -Emily's voice trembled with dismay. - -"Why, mother!" Martha was indignant. "What makes you say such a -thing?" - -"I saw her expression. She was waiting to catch him with you. Do -the Williamses know her? Oh, I wonder if they saw that--if they -understood? Mr. Jenkinson was sitting on the porch there. Martha, -this is the end of that. I didn't like you being with that man -before; but, now I've seen her, I simply won't have it. She's -jealous. Why, Martha, a girl might get into an awful mess, this way! -That woman--driving away in that way. Quarreling in public--that -way!" - -"She quarrels with everybody, Eve says," Martha commented, -indifferently. - -"Well, she's not going to have any excuse for quarreling with us. -You hear what I say, Martha? You're not to play golf, or swim or -ride or walk or dance or even smile at that man in public, any place, -where anybody can see you." - -"It'll look sort of funny, mother, when he's everywhere I am." - -"I don't care how it looks. It'll look a lot better than having his -wife watching him flirting with you." - -Martha raised her head proudly. - -"I don't know why you should say a thing like that to me! I was NOT -flirting, I was just talking to him, mammie! This seems so--unworthy -of you." - -"Very well, then. You aren't to talk to him any more. You've got to -obey me! You've got to do exactly what I say in this, Martha!" - -"I don't know why you get so worked up over this! You never talk so -about anybody else!" - -"You never look that way at any other man!" - -"No. I never find anyone so interesting!" - -"It's disgusting. You ought to be spanked!" - -"I'm not a child!" - -"You certainly are!" - -"I'm twenty in April." - -"Can she know how that threat--yes, sheer threat of -independence--hurts me?" Emily wondered. - -"Oh, Martha, you mustn't be--you _mustn't_! It isn't fair. That -woman is unhappy! She's haggard! She's sick, and she sees him -playing about with you!" - -"Am I so dangerous? Can't she even let him talk to a child?" - -"I'm not going to argue with you. I've simply laid down the law, for -once. You're not to be seen even talking with that man again. Do -you understand that?" - -"Yes." - -"Didn't you understand it before?" - -"I never thought you'd act this way about it." - -"I never thought for a minute you'd go on, after what I said to you." - -"Do you want me to tell him I'm not allowed to speak to him?" - -"I don't care what you tell him. You're able to make a man -understand when he's not welcome, I hope, at your age." - -"A mere child like me, mammie?" Martha asked. But Emily didn't deign -to notice her sarcasm. They rode the rest of the way in silence. -Martha went directly to her room. She came down for supper, and ate -in silence. When it was over she began clearing away the dishes. -Was she going to be a martyr? She passed through the living room, -when she had finished them, on the way to her room. - -"If they call for me, you can tell them I'm not going," she told -Emily. - -But the girls, when they came, wouldn't take any such answer. They -ran into the house and up to the painted room. They must have -persuaded her, for she came down with them, all dressed and ready, -and, after they had told Emily they were going to keep her till the -next afternoon, she said good-by coolly and departed with them. - -And Emily was glad. Anything to get the child's mind away from the -afternoon, from "that man." She wished Martha would stay with those -nice young girls and go playing about with the lads they played with -for a week. Perhaps that man would have left town by that time. -Perhaps Eve would come back. And there was Mary Carr, who was to -come for a visit some time during the holiday, and other girls. If -Martha would only invite them for next week! Emily, sitting on the -dark veranda, clung eagerly to these hopes. Remembering the -expression of that woman's face, she planned almost frantically. She -would take Martha and go--to Estey's Park--or--to Banff; she would go -to Alaska or--Italy--Norway--any place. Home had become--not a -refuge, not a playground of happy security, but a dangerous, -threatening place. She wished devoutly that Eve and her family had -never come to the town. - -However, when Emily suggested Colorado, Martha said it was too hot to -travel. Trains would be horrible such nights. And that was true. -"This house," Martha remarked, truly, "is cooler than any place else -is." When Emily asked about the visit Martha had been looking -forward to, she replied: "Dorothy's father has broken his leg. I -don't think they want me now." When Emily asked, after a discreet -interval, when Mary Carr was to be expected, Martha said: "I don't -know yet--exactly. It's such a lot of work for you now, company, in -the heat. It's sort of nice to have a rest, for a change." This was -something new. And there was something new about the atmosphere of -the house. Martha had stopped baiting her father. She had stopped -chattering with her mother. She sat through the meals a well-behaved -and silent child. She offered to help about the house more -thoughtfully than she sometimes had. And when she had finished her -tasks, she withdrew to the painted room. - -She had said she wanted a sitting room, and she had got one. But -Emily had never foreseen that she meant to withdraw from the family -altogether. When her friends came now, they went upstairs to her. -Emily felt strangely alone, deprived of their chatter. When she went -up to them, the girls received her as usual. Their tongues wagged on -still. They seemed not to notice Martha's withdrawal, but Emily did. -She told herself that she had been trying always to get Martha to -rest. And now when Martha was going to bed early, when she was lying -on her bed reading, or pretending to, sleeping, or pretending to, all -the afternoons, Emily was uncomfortable. Even Bob said: "What's got -into the kid? Where's the gang?" - -Emily wouldn't ask Bob about "that man." She saw him one day on the -street. The next day Martha announced she was going to Chicago. She -had to get something for cushions, and a tray. Emily offered to go -with her. Martha expressed no eagerness for her company, but showed -a desire to go alone. She went, and came back with her purchases. - -She went again the next week. Emily was glad to have her away, for a -change. She had never gone to play golf since that afternoon. She -went about with her girl friends when she couldn't avoid going. She -went nearly every evening for a swim with some of them. When she -came back, sometimes she went and sat alone in the boat tied under -the willow until bedtime. Emily's heart smote her when she saw the -girl sitting alone there, in the starlight, a dimmed firefly among -the shining ones. That boat, that willow--were for two. She had to -think soberly about the deserted veranda, where Bob sat now without -blushing. And where were the boys that had been "hanging about" -before? Martha had said more than once that they came just to -"jolly" her mother. They weren't coming now for that purpose. -Johnnie passed back and forth every day up and down the street, but -he never came in, unless his mother had sent him on an errand. - -The first week of August Emily met Eve downtown. That was a jolt. -"Have you been back long?" she asked, carelessly. And Eve hurried to -say that she had been back a few days, but she was trying to help at -home. Her grandmother was very bad. The nurses were busy every -minute. But Eve was going to find time to come down. "I meant to -come and see YOU," she asserted, with eager sincerity, with just a -little stress on the "you." "I'm going to be here all the time now. -My sister's gone," she added cheerfully. - -When she went on her way, Emily sighed with deep relief. Those -people and their shadow over the Kenworthys had left, finally. Maybe -things would be gay now, as they used to be. But Martha, who had -given no sign and never mentioned either of them again to Emily, -seemed to be unaware of their departure. She was tired, and it was -hot, and she wanted to rest. She stated her case with dignity, -gently. There was nothing Emily could object to in her bearing. - -There was nothing they could object to in her manner the next week, -when she refused to drive to Springfield with her father and mother. -Bob would do the driving, and she had never liked riding alone in the -back seat. So the Kenworthys went alone, and spent the day, and came -driving back towards home through the country darkness about midnight. - -The day had added to the burden on Emily's mind, instead of -lightening it. She had been visiting a friend while Bob had been -hurrying through his business. They had been silent for miles, when -Emily began talking, wearily: - -"Fanny was telling me about her niece, Bob. She wondered if we could -get her a job in town here. Her husband has left her with those two -children. She learned typing, but she hasn't had any experience. -She wants to get some place where she can make a home for them. -She'll have to divorce him. I wondered--if she could get some work -here, maybe I could help her with the children, sometimes. I said -we'd look round and see if we could do anything," Emily sighed. - -"She married that Grey, didn't she? Who vamped him?" That was the -way Bob WOULD put it, of course. Everything he thought of as some -woman's fault. - -"I don't know. He's no good. They tried every way to get her not to -marry him." Emily sighed again. These daughters--these tragedies. -The rumbling of incredible possibilities on the horizon--Emily fell -silent, sighing sometimes. - -The car drew up to the house, and Emily reproved herself for -worrying. It was lighted up; the victrola was playing. It would be -gay with dancing within. But the blinds were down, strange to say. -Never mind that--Martha was happy again. She was having a party of -friends. Bob and Emily went up the walk and into the front hall, -both of them relieved and eager, and through it into the living room, -to put down their parcels on the table. - -And there Emily stopped by the table, without unloading her hands. -Bob stopped behind her. They just stood looking for a critical -second--looking at Martha and "that man," who were stopping their -dance, drawing away from each other, returning their gaze. - -"You're late," said Martha, quite naturally, unperturbed. - -The man spoke to them. Emily murmured something. She didn't know -what to say. Martha went to the victrola and stood there, turning it -off. Bob said nothing. Richard Quin looked at Martha inquiringly. - -"It's late," he said. "Really, I'd better be going." - -Bob took a step towards the table and divested himself of three large -bottles of choice olives and a long sprayer for roses. He strode -towards the man. - -"Yes, you'd better be going," he said. "If you're wise, you'll be -staying away." He stood glaring at him, threateningly. - -Emily came and stood close to Bob. And Martha came towards "that -man," with her head held high. She spoke to him with the most gentle -sweetness, looking straight at her father. - -"You didn't have a hat, did you?" she asked him. "It was so nice of -you to think of coming in." She was going with him towards the door. -She went with him into the hall. "Good night," they heard her say. -"Good night." She stood in the hall after the door had shut behind -the man. She waited there. Emily called her. And when she came -into the light from the darkness of the hall, it was plain that for -once in his life Bob Kenworthy had "got a rise" out of Martha. She -came straight at him. She was white with anger. - -"How dare you do such a thing! How dare you speak to my friends that -way!" Emily had never seen her so furious. - -"Martha!" she cried, warningly. - -"I won't stand this! I'll never ask another friend to this house as -long as I live!" - -"Don't talk that way to _me_!" Bob exclaimed. "Don't say _dare_ to -me!" - -And Emily said, soothingly, "Martha, didn't I tell you not to let -that man come here?" - -"You did _not_! You told me not to appear in public with him. Is -this public? We've been up in my room till just now. I pulled the -blinds down as soon as we came down!" - -"My God!" cried Bob. "You pulled the blinds down! You haven't any -sense at all. Have those blinds been down before all summer? You're -a perfect fool!" - -"I'm not going to be cursed, mother." She started towards the stairs -proudly. - -"You took him up to your bedroom?" Bob exploded. - -"It's _not_ her bedroom, Bob," Emily was saying. - -He cried, "Come here and listen to me!" - -"I won't," replied Martha. "You can't talk to me in that condition. -I'm going to bed." - -Emily saw Bob start towards Martha. She thought he was intending -seizing her by the arm, pulling her into the room, making her listen. -So she sank down into a chair. - -"Bob!" she cried, "come here!" and she began crying. - -He let Martha go up the stairs. He came and stood raging near Emily. - -"Don't you worry! I'll put an end to this. I'll settle her yet. -Don't cry. I'll put some sense into that girl's head. She's not -going to take married men up to her bedroom in this house!" - -"Bob, stop it! That's not her bedroom! You just make things worse!" - -"I make things worse, do I?" - -"Yes, you do! It's bad enough to have this thing going on! But you -go and quarrel with her. You never can stop it this way! The -sillier she is, the wiser we have to be. Oh, we must be careful! I -won't have you saying such things to each other!" - -"What are you blaming _me_ for? You said you'd tell her to quit -this, and that's all the good it's done us. Everybody'll be -wondering why the blinds were down when we're away." - -"Oh, I wish you hadn't done that! I wish--you looked as if you were -intending to knock him down, Bob!" - -"I _did_ intend to! He's lucky! If he comes hanging around here, I -will beat him up. What business has he got in this house at -midnight?" - -Emily was rising. She wiped her eyes. "I'll go up and talk to her," -she said. - -When she came into the painted room, Martha, who was sitting on a day -bed, looked at her in surprise, and said, shortly: "What are you -crying about? Did he do anything to you?" She spoke as if her -father might have struck her mother. - -"I was crying because you're so--because you speak that way to your -father. I can't stand it, Martha!" - -"You ought to have got me a civilized father, then--a human being. I -get so mad at him!" - -"You've got to stop it! I'm not going to live in a house with you -two quarreling all the time." - -"Oh, I'll clear out! I'm not anxious to stay. You wait till I'm -twenty!" - -"Martha, you needn't act this way. You needn't try to make out -you're the offended one. Did you know he was coming here to-night?" - -Martha looked at her mother defiantly. She hesitated. She was a -truthful child, at least. She said, shortly, after a second, "Yes, I -did." - -"Did you ask him? Did you arrange to have him come when we were -away?" - -"You never asked me questions like this about other people." - -"I want to know, Martha." - -"Yes, I did. I asked him." - -"You know I didn't want you to do that." - -"You told me not to appear in public with him, mother. I didn't -appear in public. I minded you. I don't see anything to be ashamed -of. I don't see why we should keep it secret. He wanted to see me, -and I wanted to talk to him. I knew you wouldn't understand it. You -just insist on misjudging him. You won't try to get acquainted with -him. I knew dad would make a fool of himself if he saw him here." - -"What did he need to see you about?" - -"Well, I--I don't know why--I don't know what right---- If I'd been -ashamed of myself, I could have sent him home before you came, and -you'd never even have known he'd been here." - -Emily went over and sat down by Martha. She put her arm around her. -She tried to pull her close against her, but Martha was for sitting -erect, stiffly. Her attitude made Emily's coaxing tone futile. - -"Martha, he didn't have any business here. He knew he wasn't welcome -here. Unless he's absolutely stupid, he understood that before daddy -said a word to him. If he was a decent man he would never have come -or he would have gone earlier." - -Martha bristled. "He did have business here. He had to see me." - -"Why?" - -The girl rose. She walked about the room excitedly. She began once, -and stopped. She came and stood in front of Emily. - -"Now look here, mother. I don't think you ought to ask me questions -like that. As though you don't believe me. But if you'll stop all -this fuss, I'll tell you the whole thing next week." - -"What whole thing?" - -"I'll tell you why he came to-night." - -"Why don't you tell me now, Martha?" - -"No. I'm not going to tell you now. I'll tell you next week. I'll -tell you on Monday or Tuesday. It isn't anything to be ashamed of, -mother." Martha spoke with dignity, reprovingly. - -"I don't suppose it is." - -"Then what makes you look at me like a thief? Why do you let dad -swear at me and curse me?" - -"That's just silly of you! He wasn't cursing you, and you know it. -That's just his way." - -"I'm tired of his way. I won't have him using my friends like that." - -"He never spoke like that to any other friend, Martha. He's patient -with them all. He never---- - -"Well, I don't want him sitting round to be PATIENT with my friends. -I can never tell when he'll fly off the handle and beat some of them -up." - -"You know why he doesn't like this man. No father would like to see -his daughter----" - -"What?" Martha challenged. - -"Having her name connected with a married man." - -"There you go, mother. You can't find any objection to him but that." - -"That's enough for us." - -"We don't seem to agree." - -"We've got to, Martha." Emily felt herself trembling. She felt that -she was calling to her very child across a great gulf. The living -room with its hideous tableau stretched out distantly, and Martha and -"that man" stood together by the victrola there, away, away beyond an -alienating stretch, and she and Bob stood together by the door, -trying to speak to her. She felt it so vividly that her voice -touched the angry girl; for Martha came and sat down by her and said, -earnestly: - -"Oh, mammie, I--I wouldn't quarrel with you for anything. It doesn't -matter about dad. But you--mother--you always understood me before. -What is the matter now? Can't you trust me? What do you think I'm -going to do--to commit some crime?" - -"Martha, you are a child. You are a young girl, with no experience. -And I tell you you must be careful. You mustn't run risks. You---- -There are so many dangers, child!" - -"That's just saying those nasty things about him--to talk like -that--about danger. Do you think I'm a fool? Dad does!" - -"I think you're--young, Martha." - -"That's the same thing when you say it that way, mother. Honestly, -it'll be all right when I tell you! If you'll call dad off till next -week!" - -With that much comfort Emily went back to Bob. And she lived till -the next Monday a trembling flag of truce between two armies furious -to spring into combat. - -On Friday Martha stayed in bed till late in the morning, and then -came down and said to her mother: - -"I'm going to Elgin. Do you want to go with me?" - -Emily couldn't well go. - -"I won't be back till three or four. And I'm going to have supper -with Greta. You needn't worry about me. Richard Quin went to -Chicago last night. I don't want to stay in the house all day Sunday -with father, so I'm going over to-morrow to Wrights'. They've asked -me. You don't mind if I go? I won't be seeing anybody you object -to. They'll bring me back Sunday evening." - -The prospect of another scene between Bob and Martha was more -frightful to Emily than whatever explanation was forthcoming next -week. She couldn't help believing that in some way Martha would -clear herself from blame. She wanted to believe that she was -unreasonable, that her daughter was right. But she would insist on -Martha apologizing to Bob as soon as they both cooled down. She -could always manage Bob, some way--by tears, if by nothing else, -because she had never exercised their authority over him; he wasn't -used to them. She knew he surrendered when one tear showed in her -eyes. And now since this burden of fear for the child weighed her -down, no feigning was required. Tears were just there, waiting to -come. Why couldn't Martha appreciate Bob? And why should Bob be -irritable only with his poor little daughter? A man who was so -successful in managing a lot of overalled workmen. If only Martha -had been a boy! Emily, like Bob, had never before been sorry she was -a girl. Never! That is--except just now, when she wouldn't get on -with her father. - -By Monday Emily had practically convinced herself that Martha, by -some simple explanation, was about to set everything right. They -were together in the living room, waiting for Bob, who was late -coming up to dinner. When he came in he laid the mail on the table, -paper and letters, and immediately Martha was there, taking hers. - -"Who're those letters from?" Bob said. - -"I'll be able to tell after I've opened them," she replied, because, -even with Emily there, their tones said, "Do you get letters from -that damned masher?" and, "What's it to you whom I get letters from!" - -Emily interposed. "Dinner's ready, Bob." Her presence begged them -not to quarrel. So Martha took her letters and went out to the -veranda, and Bob went to wash. And they sat down at the table -without more conflict. Martha's face was pink and she ate little. -But she hadn't for some days had much appetite, as Emily had silently -marked. When they rose and went into the living room again, Martha -shut the dining room door behind her. Bob had taken up the daily, -and sat down on the davenport, lighting a cigar. - -"Mother," said Martha. At the stillness of her voice Bob had looked -up at her. She was standing erect at the living-room table. She had -taken a letter from the front of her little lavender gingham frock. -Emily sank down beside Bob. - -"I said I'd tell you something to-day." Both hands were clasped -breast-high about that letter. Her shoulders were atilt. Her eyes -were gleaming. "I'm afraid you won't like it." - -She had spoken gently, with sincerity, with dignity. She paused. -She swallowed, trying to go on quietly, but the words came rushing -out. - -"Richard Quin is getting a divorce!" - -The joy of the girl sang out in that sentence. It sang out through -the tenseness of the room as if all the lovers of the world were -there to listen and chorus. Emily and Bob, for a second, sat -dumfounded, just staring at her. Then Emily, from very pity, gave a -sort of moan. And at that sound Bob got up ominously. He could -hardly find his voice. - -"What's that to you? Let me see that letter!" He reached out for it. - -Martha stuffed it hastily down the square neck of her frock, for -safety. - -"It's my letter." She faced him, and not one of her scornful -eyelashes fluttered at all, though he was glaring at her as if he -would like to tear her into bits. - -"So this is what you fixed up Friday night, with the blinds down. -The God-damned scoundrel! You think you're going to marry him when -he's got one wife?" - -"I'm not discussing it with you. I won't have him called names." - -Emily sobbed, "Bob!" entreatingly. - -He turned sharply round and looked at her. And then he turned -passionately towards Martha. - -"Look at there!" he cried, with a gesture. "Look at your mother! -You can't make her cry!" He was helpless. He had to entreat his -child. "You can't do this, Martha!" - -Martha had gone to her mother while Bob was speaking. She had thrown -herself down against her, caressingly, trying to creep into her arms. -But Emily's head was buried in her hands. She would not let her -tear-stained face be uncovered. - -"I don't want her to cry! I wouldn't make her cry for worlds. I was -afraid you wouldn't like it--at first. Don't cry, mammie! It'll be -all right when you know him." But Emily wept on. "He hasn't been -happy, mother!" Martha entreated her. - -Her words seemed to mock Bob. He spluttered out his fury. - -"Happy! Who gives a damn whether he's happy or not?" he cried, as if -he couldn't believe that his ears had heard such an inopportune -suggestion. "Emily! Don't you cry, Emily! I'll stop this!" - -"Oh, Martha!" Emily moaned. - -Then Bob cried, suddenly, "Let me see that letter!" - -Martha got up and spoke quietly. - -"Mother doesn't want us quarreling," she said. "You know that. It -makes her feel worse. That's my letter and I'm not going to let you -see it. I won't talk to you now. You're too mad. I'm going -upstairs. You can talk it over together." - -Bob sat helplessly down near his wife. He wanted so greatly, so -clumsily to comfort her, that she lifted her face to him. She wiped -her eyes, but her thoughts were too painful. - -"Oh, did you hear how she said that? She's in LOVE with him, Bob!" -She wept again. - -He answered, shortly: "Well, don't you worry. If she is, she'll have -to get over it. What business has she got being in love with a -married man?" - -"It's too horrible! It makes me sick. I see it all now. She has -been infatuated with him since that first night. The way she looked -at him--even then!" - -"He's a skunk, Emily. He's a damned skunk. The nerve of him, coming -down here to tell her he was getting a divorce! She thinks she's -going to marry him. Why, the girl's a perfect fool! I'm going to -see Fairbanks about this! Who is he, anyway? I'll get the goods on -him! I'll put an end to this, once for all. Don't you cry, old -girl! We can't have this going on any longer!" - -That was true. They could not have this going on. They considered -what to do. But every time Emily thought of the child saying -that--of those words "Richard Quin is getting a divorce"--as if the -words came fresh out of glory, she had to hold her breath to keep -from sobbing. The poor, silly, inexperienced girl, caught in this -trap of pain. They sat there bewilderedly, trying to plan--to hope-- - -Then Johnnie Benton knocked on the screen and walked into the room, -as he often did. He was embarrassed about something and dead in -earnest. He saw at once that Emily had been crying. - -"Oh!" he began apologetically. "I didn't---- I want to see Martha." - -Bob, intending naturally to hide the family sorrow from sight, got up -and went to the stairs and called up: - -"Martha, here's Johnnie." - -He got no answer, and repeated it shouting. - -Martha opened her door and answered: - -"I'm busy. I haven't got time to see him." - -"Come in again later," Bob said to him. "She's dressing, or -something." - -But Johnnie wasn't satisfied. - -"Well--I want to---- No. This is important. I can't wait. I'm in -a hurry." - -Bob shouted up again: - -"Martha! Johnnie's in a hurry! It's something important. Come on -down." - -Johnnie heard her answer. Emily heard it. There was no -misunderstanding it. - -"I'm not coming down. I don't want to see him." - -"I'm not going away till I see her." - -"What's the matter?" asked Emily, annoyed by his persistence. He -stood there as if he was planted deep in the rug. - -"Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, I want this announced. We're engaged. -Maybe we ought to have told you before, but it's going to be -announced right now." - -"Who's engaged?" Bob exclaimed. - -"Martha and I." - -"Why, _Johnnie_!" Emily babbled. She had suddenly leaned forward, -and was sitting up, looking at the boy. - -He grew red, but his eyes never wavered under her scrutiny. He was -dead in earnest, for once. "You ask her to come down," he begged. - -Emily got up slowly. Was she, then, waking from a hideous nightmare? -Oh, if it was only some nice boy like Johnnie that could make the -girl's voice shake! - -"Martha!" she called up, and her voice was so alive with excitement -that Martha came to the top of the stairs. - -"What is it, mother?" she asked, eager for conciliation. - -"Come down here, Martha!" - -So Martha came down. She came into the living room slowly, warily. -She looked at Johnnie. She looked at her mother inquiringly. - -"Martha," said Emily, quietly, "Johnnie says---- You tell her," she -said to him. - -"Martha, we're going to announce our engagement to-day. Right now!" - -The girl stood looking at him steadily in composed disapproval. -"Whom are you engaged to? Why the excitement?" - -"I'm engaged to you, Martha." He wasn't going to be fooled with. - -"What a----" It seemed plain that she was about to say "lie," but -she thought better of dignifying his statement by emphasis. - -"What makes you say a thing like that?" she asked. - -"You know very well what makes me say it." - -Bob could not tolerate her indifference. - -"Are you engaged to him or not?" he demanded. - -"I certainly am not," she said. "Is that all you wanted?" she asked -her mother. - -"Now look here, Martha," Johnnie burst out with determination, "it's -time to stop this fooling. That other thing's announced. That's in -the paper. _This_ is going to be announced." - -"What's in the paper?" Bob cried, suspiciously. - -"Everything except her name. Everybody knows who it is." And -Johnnie stopped short in confusion, looking at Emily. "You were -crying----" he pleaded for his excuse, lamely. "I thought you knew." - -Bob had jumped for the paper. "What is it?" he cried. - -"I thought, of course, you had seen it." And as Bob urged him, he -pointed to it almost without looking, as if he knew by heart the very -place the words had in their column. And Bob read, spluttering, -gurgling: - -"Mrs. Richard Quin, who has been visiting her father, returned this -morning to Chicago to start divorce proceedings against her husband. -She names as corespondent the daughter of a prominent family of this -town." - -"I thought, of course, you knew," Johnnie murmured. - -"He did," said Martha. "I told them." - -Emily had been to look over Bob's shoulder. She was taking the paper -into her own hands, as if, unless she looked at it closely, she could -not believe the words. - -"You didn't tell us THIS! You said HE was getting the divorce!" She -had reduced Bob again to spluttering. - -"What difference does it make?" she murmured. And Bob could only -echo her words dazedly. But Johnnie was challenging her. - -"As soon as I saw you were in trouble, I made up my mind. I'm not -going to wait any longer." There was no mistaking either his words -or his tone. - -"Oh!" And then, "Am I in trouble?" She spoke with indifferent -curiosity, as if the idea was unimportant to her. "What trouble am I -in?" - -"My God!" Bob shouted at her. "Are you in trouble! Cut that out, I -tell you. You ought to be thankful to get a decent man to marry you, -after this." - -She paid no attention to him. She was still looking imperturbably at -Johnnie. - -"You think it is a disgrace, I suppose, to have my name connected -with his. So you come over and offer to marry me. To give me your -precious name! Are you going into the movies, Johnnie?" - -It is altogether likely that Bob, at this point, would have seized -her by the arm and given her that shaking she had been so long -inviting, if into the room just then had not stalked the cause of -Johnnie's haste. His mother seemed to be perfectly in tune with the -occasion, for she demanded, excitedly, having looked about and fixed -her eyes on Emily: - -"What has he been saying? I _told_ you I'd tell the Kenworthys! -Emily, what has Johnnie been saying to you?" - -Before Emily could answer, Bob, to save her the trouble, exclaimed: - -"He says he's engaged to her!" And then from those four, Emily being -at one side, in less than a minute there came a volley of sharp -sentences, as if they were standing in a circle firing at a target in -the center. - -Instantly Mrs. Benton exploded: - -"Well, he isn't! He can't be! I will NOT give my consent! He can't -stop school. He never earned a cent in his life. I won't allow him -to marry! Understand that!" - -Johnnie, ignoring her, cried to Bob, "I CAN earn my living!" - -"You can't!" Mrs. Benton fired on him. "I will NOT support your -wife!" - -"Who asked you to?" Bob demanded. "I'll give you a job, Johnnie! -I'll see you don't starve!" - -And crack! crack! Martha spoke quietly, scornfully, to Mrs. Benton: -"You needn't worry! I have not the least intention of marrying him!" - -"You will marry him!" Bob popped. "You'll drop that skunk and marry -him, or you'll get out of this house. I'm not going to stand any -more nonsense from you!" - -A fusillade from the heavy artillery. - -"Whose house is this, anyway, Bob Kenworthy? What right have you got -to turn anyone out of it? If I was Emily I'd turn YOU out for saying -such a thing! I tell you I won't have Martha to support!" - -"Don't you worry! I don't feel the need of you for my -mother-in-law!" Martha Kenworthy dared to turn directly to her -father. "This'll be my house some day, and I'll turn you all out if -I want to!" - -Emily, still holding that staggering newspaper in her hand, heard -these dangerous sentences bursting around her child; they weren't -saving her--they were destroying her. A panic took possession of -her--and fury. And she rose with almost a jump and seized Martha by -the arm. These four sharpshooters saw something that they had never -seen before. Anger unused for many years cuts sharp. Emily, with -it, mowed them down. - -"Keep still!" she cried to Martha. "Don't say another word! I'm -ashamed of you! Go up to your room, and don't you come down till you -apologize!" But she stood holding her tightly by the arm and glaring -about her. Her eyes were fixed on Mrs. Benton. "You stand there -saying things as if you could unsay them! A nice example you set -these children!" She turned to Bob. "Isn't this MY house?" Bob -Kenworthy had never been asked in all his married life before to -acknowledge that fact. "And you come here," she went on, furiously, -to Cora Benton, "and turn people out of it!" - -She stopped, and from sheer amazement no one uttered a word. She -glared at them all. - -"Johnnie, you go home! You're the only one that seems to have any -sense left! I don't know whether we're fit for you to associate -with! You better turn Bob out of the garage, and I'll turn your -mother out of her house, and we'll be done with it!" And she sent -her dumfounded daughter upstairs with an unmistakable gesture. - -Johnnie went slowly out of the front door. - - - - -_Chapter Five_ - -Emily turned upon the subdued adults in front of her. She spoke -first to Bob. - -"You call Martha a fool! You say that _she's_ foolish! If I ever -saw anything in my life to equal you two! I should think you'd be -glad Johnnie wants to marry a nice girl like Martha!" she cried to -Mrs. Benton. - -"I'm not objecting to Martha, Emily; you know that. He hasn't any -business to begin talking about marriage at his age! A nice husband -he would make for anybody. He never earned a cent in his life; you -know that." She spoke guardedly now. - -"Why shouldn't he be thinking about marriage at his age? It's -exactly the age he would think about it! I tell you they could both -do a lot worse than this. I wish she would marry him. But you went -and told her to, Bob. You're a perfect idiot, sometimes. She'll -never marry him now." - -"She'll never get anybody to marry her if she don't watch her step. -Getting mixed up in cases like this!" - -"You don't need to worry about this case, Emily," Mrs. Benton -announced. "I'll settle that. I told Johnnie he needn't get so -excited. Everybody in town will know, the minute they see that item, -that French put it there for spite, because we did build our parking -place there. I'm going to make him apologize. I'm going to call my -committee together at once. The family of every woman on it is not -going to be at the mercy of that unscrupulous man. First Johnnie's -play; then this about Martha. Johnnie says she's only played golf a -little with him. I'm going straight down to his office. I've got to -go before Johnnie gets there. He wants to fight him, of course!" She -actually started towards the door. - -"You keep your hands off this case!" Bob cried at her, looking at -Emily. - -She faced about angrily towards him. - -"I'm going to have an understanding with that man!" But she too -stopped to look at Emily. - -"You leave this to me! It's none of your business!" Bob commanded, -excitedly. - -"It certainly _is_ my business, and I'm going to see about it!" She -turned defiantly to go. - -But Emily rushed between her and the door, and she was desperate. If -Cora Benton knew all the truth, would she dare to ask for an apology? - -"This is my case!" she cried, "If you take it up I'll never speak to -you again as long as I live! I'll go over to French! I'll go over -to the other side! And if you promise me now--that you won't--not -say a word to him till we think it over, I tell you I'll never let -Martha marry Johnnie! I'll get him to go back to college! I'll -persuade him! Honestly, Cora! Bob, go and stop Johnnie! Find out -where he is! Don't let him do anything!" - -He obeyed. Standing at the screen door, the two women watched him -hurry down the street. Emily turned her head suddenly, hearing a -strange noise. Could Mrs. Benton be sniffling? Yes. Into those -kingly black eyes suddenly tears came springing. - -"Emily--I feel--bad about this! I'm sorry for you! I know how I -felt when I saw--about Johnnie--in that paper. And it's worse for a -girl!" - -"Cora, honestly, I don't think Martha intends marrying Johnnie. I -only wish she did!" - -"You aren't worried about her, Emily?" - -"Oh _yes_! I'm worried. I'm--sick--about this, Cora. Don't say a -word to anyone yet! I'll tell you all about it. I'll tell you what -to say to people for me--as soon as I can! I haven't had time--even -to talk to her yet--since I saw it in the paper! Martha'll apologize -to you, Cora; I'm sure she will!" - -"Oh, don't worry about that, Emily! I know just how you feel! -Haven't I cried myself to sleep often enough about that boy to -understand!" - -Emily had opened her red eyes in astonishment at this statement. - -"You might be thankful she's a girl. I'll tell you now, Emily, since -this has happened--that I've told Johnnie plainly if he doesn't -settle down and do some work next term, I'll never leave him a cent. -I'll leave my money to charity. I'd rather leave it to the town -council to manage. When I think of the man my father was----" She -spoke sniffling, wiping her eyes angrily. Emily had to comfort her. - -"Oh, well, Cora, he's young yet." - -"No, he isn't young. He's at least two years behind most boys. He -ought to have finished college two years ago. Look at Jim Black. -Look at Wilton! I tried to have a serious talk with him when he came -home. If only he'd take something seriously. Why can't he take up -medicine? I asked him why he wouldn't take up law and go into -politics. And he said maybe he would. He said, Emily, 'Look where -Landis got to by being a lawyer!'" She almost sobbed. "He meant -that horrid federation of baseball clubs. He was serious about that." - -"But, Cora, he is a good boy. He has a nice disposition." - -"Oh yes. I know what people say. He needs it, they say, to live -with me. But they never think what patience _I_ need. Emily, I'd be -ashamed to tell you how much he spent last year. I don't know what -to do with him. I can't threaten to take him out of college--he -doesn't want to go back, anyway. He'll _have_ to go back! He's just -_got_ to get his degree. And now Bob goes and encourages him. He -says he'll support him!" - -"Cora, Bob was just excited. He didn't mean that. He wouldn't -support him a minute, really. He lost his head, really." - -"Well, so did I. I acknowledge that. But it's a nice thing to have -him telling me not to interfere. As if it was none of my business -when my own boy married. I've got a headache, Emily. I had a bad -night. He brought me my breakfast himself and was so nice about -everything. And then--I was napping--he tore into the room with the -paper in his hand and said he was going to get married right -away--the first I'd heard of it. And he wouldn't listen to me. He -acted awful. I just got up and dressed and came over this way." She -made a gesture towards the old blue foulard she had slipped on. Her -hair wasn't so brushed and shining as usual, and her face was lined -now, and her eyes red. "I thought I ought to tell you." - -"Cora, why don't you go and see a doctor in Chicago? You aren't -well. You are tired out, and he oughtn't to have excited you this -way. I think you ought to go home and go to bed, and I'll come over -and tell you later everything Bob says to French. I'll talk to -Johnnie, too. I think Bob will be sorry he said such things, Cora, -when he cools down." - -"He'd better cool down. The idea of him speaking to Martha that way! -I felt sorry for her, and for you too, Emily. It's bad enough to -have to try to raise a child without a father to interfere all the -time. You've got them both on your hands to manage." - -"I don't know about that!" Emily started to protest, loyally. They -were standing face to face in front of the screen door, and they saw -Eve drive up and come towards them. She had been crying, too. She -spoke to them quietly, going into the living room. Mrs. Benton went -away, and Emily came in and sat down by her, and almost at once Eve -had insinuated herself into Emily's arms, crying: - -"Oh, don't blame _me_ for this, Mrs. Kenworthy. I _told_ Martha this -would happen. I told her as sure as she lived something like this -would happen." - -"Something like what? Don't cry, child!" - -Bob was coming in. - -"We----, I've settled Johnnie," he announced. And then he saw Eve, -and the sight displeased him. - -"What do you know about this?" he demanded, shortly. - -"Don't blame _me_! I _did_ tell her! I told her it would happen. -Maybe I didn't tell her enough." - -"Enough what?" - -"I mean--I didn't tell her, really, it had happened before." - -"What had?" Bob scorned vagueness. - -"I told her my sister was--jealous. I told her she couldn't stand -that pig even looking at a woman. I told her if he did, she was sure -to make a row. She's done this before." - -"What has she done before?" - -"Once before she got jealous--of a girl--and she threatened -to--divorce him." - -"You mean--she named her--as a corespondent?" Bob had no scruples -about cross-examining this witness. - -"She threatened to. She hadn't any case, really. Oh!" Eve cried to -Emily. "You didn't like me for not liking her. You thought -I--said--nasty things about her--because she was my sister. If you -knew what I might have said, you wouldn't have always been looking at -me that way--as if I was a sort of underbred scrub! I tell you she's -despicable!" - -"Oh, Eve!" Emily protested. - -"What's she done?" cried Bob, eagerly. - -"Oh, she's awful! Look at this dirty work. Dad'll make her -apologize. I know he will, Mrs. Kenworthy. I've telegraphed for him -to come home. He'll come right away. He'll think grandma's dying." - -"What?" cried Bob. "What'll he do, Eve?" - -"I know dad'll settle it. I know he will. She never meant to -divorce him. She just wants to frighten Martha because she's got -money." - -"You mean---- Isn't she going to divorce him?" Bob insisted. - -"No. Don't you ever think she is! Oh----" cried Eve, in bitter -humiliation, as if now she was compelled to confess the worst, "Mrs. -Kenworthy, she--she LOVES that pig! You Wouldn't believe it, maybe. -She cries herself sick if he looks at anybody! And ever since she -heard that Martha's got money she's been just wild." - -"What's that got to do with it?" - -An outraged parent on either side of Eve was trying to grasp the -situation. - -"She knows he won't--leave her, or anything, for anybody without any -money. She thinks Martha's going to be awfully rich. I didn't know -how much she was going to have. _I_ couldn't tell her." - -Emily sat silenced by the very vileness of life. To think of -Martha's money, her great-grandfather's hard-earned money, lying -there accumulating through those years of her sweet childhood, to -become now a factor in this--pollution of her. Pollution, pollution, -said Emily to herself. - -Bob demanded, suddenly, "Has she got a lot of money?" - -"Only what she squeezes out of dad. She gets a lot. I don't know -how much he gives her. She just bleeds him," she cried, angrily. -"Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, YOU know dad. You know what a darling he -is! I get so mad at her I could just kill her, the way she treats -him. You wouldn't believe it. Didn't you ever read 'King Lear'? -Didn't you read _Père Goriot_? You wouldn't think there were such -men in the world. But dad's just like them. He's worse. Look how -he lives. He was rich when I was a little girl; he had a great -business exporting flour. My grandfather had had it, and it went -bust after the war. He hadn't a cent. And now look at him starting -all over, knocking around from town to town, buying grain and -elevators, in these filthy hotels. He never has one comfort! He -never spends one cent on himself. He keeps that house--an asylum it -is, for grandma. He keeps me, but I don't spend a lot of money. I'm -going to work the very minute I get out of school. SHE spends it -all; she comes home with a new lie whenever she's hard up. He -brought her up to have a lot of money, he says. He's sorry for her. -She hadn't a mother and she didn't get started right, he says. She -divorced her first husband." - -"She did, did she!" Bob cried. - -"Yes. Of course, dad took her part in that, too. I don't know the -truth of it; I was a little girl!" - -"Eve," said Emily, hesitating, "I wish--you'd tell us what -happened--how this happened before, if you don't mind." - -"Oh, I don't mind. It was after the war. We didn't have any home at -all. I was in a boarding school, and my aunt asked me there for the -vacation summer. She wasn't my own aunt; she was the wife of my -mother's brother. Oh, they had the loveliest house, and all just -full of fun; and they were so gentle and so kind--just like you, Mrs. -Kenworthy. My cousins were all grown up, and they were just lovely -to me. And then my sister turned up, for a week or two, with HIM. -And of course she couldn't stand one of the girls even looking at her -precious pig. And there was one of those girls, the one I liked best -of all, of course. And she--sort of named her--just like this, so -she wouldn't get into trouble---didn't mention her name. And of -course dad came and denied it--but what good did that do? All of -them were furious, naturally. It's a little old town of Friends. It -wasn't my fault. I've never been invited back since. People like me -when they don't know my sister. But I can't get away from her any -place. This'll be all over school. It'll get back to that town. I -know the girls from there at college. I tell you honestly--poor -dad'll feel just sick about this. And the next time she turns up -with a hard-luck story he'll take it all in again. He bought them a -house--a good one--because she hadn't any home--in Philadelphia. And -she sold it--and went to Paris. He told me they wouldn't be here -this summer, if I came out to him. He's so sentimental. He just -begins talking about mother when I try to get him to kick them out -I'm never going to speak to her again, or stay one night in the same -house with her. You mark my words, he'll have to choose between -having her or me." - -"Don't you worry, Eve. Nobody's going to blame you for anything." -Bob spoke kindly because her sincere little tribute to Emily had, of -course, touched him. "I'll see your father about this. What time -will he be here?" - -"Oh, you don't need to see him. He'll do it himself. I know he -will. We'll come down and see you about it. Don't say anything to -hurt his feelings, will you, Mr. Kenworthy? Because it isn't his -fault. He's a good, good man. I mean--he'll feel worse about this -than anyone"----she looked at Emily--and added, "almost." - -After she had gone, Emily roused herself. - -"It doesn't seem as if that could be true, does it, Bob? How would a -woman DARE to do a thing like that? She might get into -trouble--sued." - -"She didn't use anybody's name. If Martha hadn't--been running -around with that man, this couldn't have hurt her." - -"But--why, maybe she doesn't intend to divorce him at all! Eve said -she didn't, didn't she?" And then Emily remembered Martha's exalted -announcement. "Suppose she doesn't divorce him!" she moaned. - -"Well, that'd settle it. I think I'll go downtown--as if nothing had -happened. As if I didn't know who was meant. I'll go and see what -Mrs. Benton's doing. I better make sure she isn't--balling it all -up." - -"Let her alone, Bob. She promised me not to do anything; not -ANYthing. I'm sure she won't. She isn't feeling well enough to do -anything. She's sick, for one thing. She isn't well enough to go -downtown." - -"Well, that's one piece of luck!" - -"You were hard on her, Bob." - -"Well, what did she want to walk in here for? Why can't she mind her -own business?" - -"It _is_ her business. As she said Johnnie's _her_ boy." - -"I haven't got anything against that kid, Emily. But I'd hate to -have her for my mother-in-law. My God! What would the boy do -between those two--Martha and that woman?" - -"You needn't worry about that. Martha'll never marry him now." - -"What you going to do with her now, Emily?" - -"I don't know." - -"'Tisn't as if she had good sense!" - -"Well, maybe she hasn't. But I'll tell you one thing, Bob. We're -not going to have any more melodrama about turning anybody out of -this house. If Martha goes out of it, I go with her. You might as -well understand that. She needs me more than you do. And she's -going to have me, no matter what she does. No matter who she -marries. If people talk about her, they've got to talk about me." - -"You don't mean that, Emily. You'd never leave me. You're just -talking wild." - -"I'll never leave her! That's sure." - -"I guess I got sort of excited, Emily. I know this is your home. I -didn't mean anything--much. I'm going to see Fairbanks. I'll do all -I can, Emily. It's a dirty mess for you, that she's got herself in." - -"But the worst of it is--she's in love, Bob!" - -"She'll have to get over it; that's all there is to it." - -It seemed so simple to Bob. Emily sat still for a minute, thinking -batteredly, after he went. She was thinking that she must be -careful. She would think it all over, all this sickening confusion, -before she went up to talk to Martha. But Martha apparently had been -listening for her father's departure. For no sooner had his car -started away than she called down, eagerly: - -"Mammie! Come up here." - -And she met her at the top of the stairs, and they went together into -Emily's room, the nearer one. Inside the door Martha came close to -her mother, taking her hand, and saying, gently: - -"I'm sorry I was so nasty to Mrs. Benton, mammie. I'll go and tell -her so, if you want me to. You aren't really ashamed of me, are you? -Mammie, now that everything's settled, will you do something for me? -Will you ask him down here? Won't you try to get acquainted with -him, mother? Won't you stop crying about it? You'll just love him, -mother!" - -They had sat down together on the bed. Emily was dazed by this -beginning. - -"Don't look at me that way; it isn't fair, mammie. I'll even-- Look -here! I'll apologize to Johnnie, if you want me to. I suppose he -meant well." And when Emily still said nothing: "Mother, if you make -me, I'll even tell dad I'm sorry. But you heard what he said! You -heard him tell me I HAD to marry Johnnie. You see _now_ what sort of -a man he is! But if you really want me to, of course, I'll--forgive -him. I don't want to make you--miserable. You'd understand, if you -knew him--if you'd ask him to come down here so you could get to know -him." - -The child WAS crazy! To ask a thing like that! To suppose for a -moment that her mother---- What shall I say to her? Emily wondered. -What's the use of trying to talk to her? The gulf between them -seemed to be widening every minute. - -"You don't know what you're saying, child! Why, Martha----!" - -"Well, what, mammie?" - -"Why, he--is _married_! He isn't divorced. I don't know that he -ever will be! And you ask me--NOW--to invite him----" Emily was -unable to go on. - -"Yes, of course he is married--in a way, mother. But that isn't -anything. If you knew how unhappy he'd been with her, mammie! She -isn't a nice woman. You don't call THAT any marriage, do you? Why, -it's nothing but a legal contract!" - -"But, Martha, a legal contract is SOMETHING--if it is only that." - -"It's only the law of marriage, mother. There's no heart in it. It -isn't real! It--isn't--mother--when they don't love each other." - -"Eve says she does love him! _Her_ heart may be in it." - -"Eve!" - -"Eve doesn't think she intends to divorce him at all, Martha." - -"She doesn't know anything about it." Martha lifted her head proudly -again. - -"Martha, tell me what you know about it. Did he tell you your name -was going to be mentioned?" - -"No. He didn't know that. But you needn't worry about that, mother. -I consider it an honor. I don't mind it, if it gets him his -freedom--if it makes him happy." - -"He must have known this was liable to happen. Eve says it has -happened before." - -"What business is it of Eve's? She's trying to make trouble. What -did she come down here for, anyway now, mother?" - -What was the use of talking to this undone child? - -"She says her father will stop it. He'll make her apologize." - -"Stop what?" - -"The divorce. Having your name in it." - -"Mother!" Martha cried out, poignantly. And then she recovered -herself instantly. "It doesn't matter; he'll have his freedom. He -can divorce her, if she won't divorce him. Maybe she won't; it would -be just like her. But, look here, mother, why can't Eve let it -alone? What's she got against him? She has it in for him. She's -got to let this alone." - -"She was thinking of you--of us all." - -"Why doesn't some one think of him? You never think of him. You -never care what happens to him. You're just afraid of people -talking!" - -"Yes, I'm afraid of it--of people talking--about you." - -"But you always understood before. You always said--Oh, I can't make -you understand!" she cried, and was silent. - -"Martha, if it was any other man, any unmarried man--you were--your -name was--connected with, I wouldn't mind. If it was even a--married -man--I--could--have any respect for, I wouldn't have cared so much. -Not even if it had been the Legion! But I don't want you to--_think_ -about this man, even. I don't care how much he's divorced and -single! If he was a decent man, he would have come to us about this -first--if he had to speak to anybody about it while he's still--bound -to his wife. If he was a straightforward man, or honest, he would -have asked us!" - -"Mother, that's bunk! That's not fair. Whoever asks a girl's people -first now? That's Victorian. You didn't even do it yourself, when -you were young. You told me you went to Chicago and married dad when -your aunt didn't even know where you were! Did dad ever ask your -aunt first if he could marry you?" - -"That's different." - -"Did he, now?" - -"No, he didn't. But I knew him; I knew his mother; I knew his -family, and everything." - -"Well, come with me to Chicago and ask him about his family," Martha -pleaded. "If you think there's anything disgraceful about it, we -could go to some place--some hotel--on the west side--where nobody'd -have to know anything about it." - -"Why, Martha Kenworthy!" - -"Look here, mammie! I'm not going to quarrel with you! I've -quarreled with everybody else. If you'll just try to be reasonable. -I'm not asking you to promise you'll like him, or anything; I just -ask you to get acquainted with him. I know you'd like him. Just -hear his side of it once. You said you felt sorry for people that -were unhappy--with their wives. You said you thought Mrs. Green -ought to get a divorce, mother. That night Helen was here, when we -were sitting on the porch. You said yourself that such a marriage -wasn't anything. Mother, you always said that. You pitied other -people." - -"I pity Eve's sister, too." - -"Yes, but why don't you pity HIM? Because you don't know him! You -won't even try to get to know him. It isn't fair, mother!" - -"How can I think of him? I'm thinking of you!" - -"I suppose that's natural." Martha was determined to be -conciliatory. She searched about for some effective argument. -"Mammie," she said, lovingly, "you just look tired out. I just hate -to see you worrying this way. Especially when you don't really need -to. Mammie, do you want me to go now to Mrs. Benton's?" - -"No, no! Wait a little; wait till--Mr. Fairbanks gets home." - -"What's he got to do with it?" - -"Eve says--he'll take your name out of it." - -"My name wasn't in the paper." - -"Eve said--if she really meant to--go on with it--she could name some -one else--if she needed to." - -"That's just like Eve to say that." Martha left the room with -dignity. - -And Emily sat on her bed, too stunned to change her position. All -her life her lazy body had turned away from emotional necessities. -She had never been able to get really angry without feeling -physically exhausted afterwards. And now she couldn't think clearly. -She was conscious only of horror--of the pain of fear. Martha wasn't -going to be happy. Martha was going to suffer over this. Martha was -running eagerly, irrevocably, into the arms of tragedy. Surely this -couldn't have happened to HER child--to that good little, sweet, dear -child who had always been just pure joy. She sat there crying out -against the truth--she sat there, not moving--groping about---praying -to Fate. - -She sat there till Martha came in again, fresh and beautiful from her -bath. She gave a little cry of protest, catching sight of her mother. - -"Don't sit there that way. Don't look that way, mammie. The world -isn't coming to an end because of any old dirty newspaper." She -stroked her mother's head entreatingly. And then she said--the -foolish child--"It's really beginning, if you look at it right." -Again her voice quivered with its ecstasy. She stood trying to coax -Emily. "You lie down awhile, mother. And go and wash your face. -Shall I bring you some water? Do you mind, mammie, if I go and play -golf?" - -"Yes, I do. Wait, Martha, until Mr. Fairbanks comes back--until it's -settled." - -"All right, if you'd rather. Is there anything you want me to do for -supper?" - -Supper! What was supper? The details of ordinary life seemed to -have faded into nothing. - -"I think everything is--ready," Emily murmured, getting up. - -Martha came upstairs after a little while. - -"Mr. Fairbanks is downstairs, mammie. He wants to see us all. -Mammie, don't!" She thought better of protesting against her -mother's expression. "Go and wash up; put on something. I'll 'phone -dad." - -Emily, bestirring herself, heard Martha at the upper 'phone saying to -Bob that her mother wanted to see him a minute. She refrained from -mentioning Mr. Fairbanks' name. Her voice suggested anything but -scandal and tears. She waited in her mother's room, and when Emily -would have gone down she urged her to wait till Bob came. Emily was -too tired to protest, and went down with Martha only when they heard -the car arrive. - -She looked at Eve's father with intensified curiosity, since he was -the man who seemed to hold Martha's destiny carelessly in his hand. -His appearance flatly denied his daughter's account of him. Could a -red-faced, hawk-nosed, round-chinned, jovial-looking bald-head be a -cursing Lear or a bleeding Goriot? He was extremely well dressed. -His rotundity suggested pleasure in steaks and chops. His voice -belied his appearance as surprisingly as his daughter had. For when -he began to speak--he remained standing, and he kept stroking the -back of his shiny head---Emily immediately thought he must be a man -of extraordinary reserve, of powerful self-control. "Martha must -respect what he says!" she thought. "He CAN help us." - -"This is a very unpleasant affair, Kenworthy," he began, smoothly. -"I left Eve crying her eyes out. She wanted to come with me, but I -wouldn't have it. I don't know what she's said to you, but it -probably wasn't--correct--altogether. You HAVE been good to her, -Mrs. Kenworthy. My girls--Eve especially--have got to depend too -much on friends like you. I mean--I was worried, I -was--uncomfortable because I couldn't arrange--something for her -here, in this town--like what you've meant to her, but she's so hard -to suit. I can't arrange anything for her--I can't buy or rent her -friends. I can't make her like any sensible woman. I can't tell you -how relieved I was to have her take to you so--from the first. She -says now--she says people will see some--reference to you--to -Martha--in this--item in the paper. I don't see that that follows. -I don't see why they should. But of course I went to see the editor -at once--just in case--you were--upset." He looked closely at Emily. -He saw she had been crying. He looked at Martha, more shrewdly, and -felt relieved that she showed no sign of concern. "I must say he was -decent about it. Very reasonable, I found him. Though young Benton -said there was some sort of spite work behind it." - -"What's he done about it?" Bob demanded. - -"He's denying it in to-morrow's paper. He's saying it was a mistake." - -He could not help realizing how intently the three of them were -waiting his words. - -"I ought to explain--I suppose I ought to tell you--how things are -with my married daughter--with Elinor--Mrs. Kenworthy. You'll -understand my situation. She's a very sick woman. She suffers----" -the pain in his voice told too well how she suffered. "She walks the -floor for hours together at night. Eve can't understand it. She's -never had a pain in her life. I know positively that for three days -and nights before she went to Chicago she hadn't an hour's sleep. If -you could see--the fight she--puts up--against--drugs--against things -to relieve her, Mrs. Kenworthy!" - -Emily had to murmur, moved by his voice, "Oh, I didn't realize she -was so bad!" - -"I told the paper man. I explained it to him--I didn't mention your -name, even, or any women's clubs. I told him she had been--just -beside herself with pain, and if she ever said any such thing, she -didn't know what she was doing. Because, you understand, Mrs. -Kenworthy," he cried, eagerly, "she isn't that sort of woman. She -never would have published such a statement if she had intended doing -anything. I told him that if she ever saw such a thing in his paper, -I didn't know what she might do. It would drive her crazy. I told -him he would be responsible--for a great deal--too much harm, -perhaps. He understood at once. He said he was sorry. He let me -word it. I'll show you." - -He took a folded sheet of paper out of an inside pocket of his coat, -and handed it to Emily. Bob went to her, bending over her chair, and -read with her: - - - There is no truth whatever in the rumor that Mrs. Richard Quin - contemplates divorce proceedings. The editor regrets its - publication the more because Mrs. Quin is in very poor health and - in no condition to bear the annoyance caused by such rumors. She - and her husband left the first of the week for Rochester, where - she will be under the care of the Mayos for some weeks. - - -"I don't know--what more you could have done," Emily murmured. - -"Are you satisfied, Martha?" Mr. Fairbanks was taking the paper from -Emily and handing it to the girl. - -"Oh, me?" she asked, innocently, as if he had surprised her by -supposing she was concerned in the matter. Emily, looking quickly -across at her, marked the way her eyes were shining, and murmured, -"Martha!" imploringly. - -But Martha paid no heed to her. She tilted her head dangerously and, -looking straight at him, drawled with utter contempt and scorn: - -"I suppose you never consider _his_ happiness at all!" - -Mr. Fairbanks grew redder. He fairly blinked. He stood looking at -her indignantly for a moment of silence. Emily wondered if he now -would break forth and give Martha a thoroughly good "dressing down." - -But when he began speaking, his words were soft and suave. - -"Well, I'm more or less responsible for HER happiness, Martha. I'm -not for his. I pay him. He's necessary to her--she's very -affectionate, really. I pay him to contribute to her happiness, just -as I pay for my mother's nurses." He spoke slowly. Obviously he -wanted to consider himself a fair man, always. "And I can't say," he -went on, carefully, "that he always plays the game. Sometimes I -think she would be happier without him. He doesn't---- Sometimes, -that is, I wonder if he's worth----" He hesitated. - -So Martha completed his sentence for him. - -"What you pay him?" she asked, and the finish of her insolence made -even Emily, harassed as she was, wonder where she had ever learned -the tone. For, looking straight at him, she got up and deliberately -started to leave the room. Mr. Fairbanks, it seemed, was not afraid -of girls, for he put out his arm and took hold of hers, intending to -detain her. She broke away angrily as he spoke her name gently, and, -standing in the door into the hall, he watched her sail defiantly up -the stairs. - -He turned around; he looked from Emily to Bob. They, watching him -sharply, saw consternation slowly gain control of his face. - -"Oh!" he murmured. "He hasn't--you don't think----" - -He could no longer look at Emily. He addressed his mumblings to Bob. -"I didn't realize---- Eve said something, but I didn't--think it -amounted to anything." - -"Oh, what can we do now?" Emily moaned. - -Then Bob cried, "The damned skunk!" - -"Kenworthy! You must be--careful! That's why Elinor's teeth ache!" -His earnestness startled them. "Elinor's teeth are all out, but they -all still ache! It's nerves. They call it hysteria! They can't do -anything for her. Not in Europe, even. It's because she fell in -love with that first scoundrel. He broke her heart, as they say. -She lived with him two years, and there was nothing left of her. -They mean he broke her nerve, her temper, her character--everything! -I tell you she was a magnificent girl, Kenworthy! She had more -common sense than any girl I ever saw! She was a partner to me, more -than a daughter. And there's nothing left of her but toothache! I -wouldn't have--anything--happen to Martha!" - -He was so distressed that Emily heard herself saying: "Oh, _she'll_ -be all right. Martha's all right. Don't worry." - -"But they take it so hard. They fall so in earnest. Look here, Mrs. -Kenworthy, you don't want him around--in town, do you? You want him -to clear out?" - -"Oh yes!" - -"Very well, then. He won't come back. I won't let him set foot in -this town again. There are some limits to what I'll stand from him." - -"Are you going to see him? Where is he now?" Bob asked. - -"I think he's with Elinor. You never can know, exactly. But I'll -see him." - -"Tell him for me that if he doesn't let Martha alone, I'll kill -him--married or divorced." - -"I'll tell him something worse than that! You needn't worry." He -spoke grimly. A smile that was surprisingly evil came over his round -face. "I'd like to tell you what I did to the first man. It would -comfort you. But it's a secret." - -Emily shivered. She didn't like Eve's "sweet old lamb." He was a -wolf, perhaps, at heart, and she was afraid of his cruelty. "He'll -make that man afraid, too, if he looks at him like that!" she thought. - -He left abruptly, and Emily went upstairs to Martha. What she saw in -the painted room terrified her. She had to realize that the fire in -Martha's heart burned passionately enough to make everything its -fuel. For when she shut the door behind her, Martha raised herself -up angrily from the day bed crying furiously: - -"Mother! I hope you're satisfied _now_! I don't know how you could -sit there with that vile man! Did you ever hear anything -so--vile--vile!" She sobbed. "He talks as if Richard was a dog to -amuse that dirty woman! You'd think he was a slave! Nobody takes -his part! Nobody cares for him! And YOU aren't sorry for him, even! -Oh, it makes me so mad!" - -After a little Emily said, "I felt sorry for HER, Martha!" - -"Yes, you _would_! You _know_ what a liar she is. Even Eve said she -was a liar. Even Eve said she pretended to be sick so she could get -money out of her father! Why do you believe them? Oh!" cried -Martha, "he's a vile man! Vile! When I think of Richard having to -live with those people----" When her sobs let her speak, she went -on, "Mother, can't you see what a position he is in?" - -"It doesn't seem a position that does any man any credit, Martha." - -"All right!" cried Martha. "All right, let it go at that. I'll -never speak to you about him again, never." She never did. - -It was well that there was a painted room in the house, those four -weeks before she went back to college. There was nothing else bright -about it. Bob waited to intercept letters from "that skunk" who, Mr. -Fairbanks said, was to be for some time in Rochester with his wife; -but no letters seemed to come. Martha appeared not to be humiliated -by the fact that she had practically declared her love for a man -hopelessly, permanently married. In her secluded room she bided her -time, a smile on her lips, the sweetest dream in her eyes. She was -ignoring her mother not only purposefully, but unconsciously. She -had greater things than a mother's anxiety to think about. - -Her coldness sickened Emily every minute of the day. She scarcely -knew how to get through the hours, so burdened were they with -yearning over the silly girl. Never had the garden bloomed so -hilariously before in August and September. Never had it had such -care before. Emily watered her dahlias sometimes till midnight, -dreading a sleepless bed when she went into the house. She rose up -early and watered them under stars she had seldom seen setting. Once -out there, hoping, praying, she had looked up and in the very early -dawn seen Martha sitting dreaming at her window. And the sight of -that distant, alienated child took all the color from the dawn and -heaven. - -Life indeed had assumed the color of dread and heart-sickness. -Johnnie had waited a few days, and then departed. Emily was glad she -had seized an occasion to say to him secretly, hurriedly, "Johnnie, -I'm very fond of you!" He had given her a surprised and precious -look. But he had not even said he was leaving. His mother said he -had gone down to have some coaching in philosophy--it was his last -year in college. Eve never came to the house. Emily met her -occasionally on the street, in the stores. And once she said, -passionately: "Oh, I hate to run into you this way! I'm ashamed to -look you in the face!" And in her own house the atmosphere was -either very cold, when she and Martha were together, or very sultry, -when Bob was with them, so that she lived in terror of some further -deadly burst of thunder. - -Martha announced one day that she was going to Chicago for shopping. -She would naturally do that several times, getting her clothes ready -for the school year. - -Emily said to her: "Before you go, Martha, you must promise me one -thing. You must promise me you will NOT see--at all--that man." - -"You don't trust me any more?" - -"No, Martha. It's your judgment. I don't trust your judgment." - -"No, I suppose not. I see." - -"Will you promise me that, Martha?" - -"No, I don't think so. I don't think I will." - -"What am I to do now?" thought Emily. "Shall I say that she can't -leave this house till she promises me that?" - -Martha was looking at her hostilely, steadily. "I'll tell you what -I'll do. I'll think it over. I'll tell you to-morrow what I'll do," -she said. - -On the morrow, she said, "Mother, if it will do you any good, I'll -promise--what you want me to." - -"Oh, Martha!" Emily cried to her, "you _must_ promise me that, -absolutely! Martha, I just couldn't let you go away to school again, -unless you promise me that!" - -"All right, I promise you. If you can't trust my--judgment, as you -say"--she spoke sarcastically--"I suppose you can--believe--what I -say." - -Bob's eyes dwelt resentfully upon his daughter, and loyally on his -distressed wife, all those painful last days before Martha left for -the East. - -"I'll bet you lost twenty pounds this summer, Emily!" he said, -ruefully, when they were alone at length. - -"Well, thank goodness for that!" she retorted, loyal to the child. -"I wish I'd lost twenty more." She knew he would count grudgingly -all the ounces she suffered. Yet it was no great thing to him if -Martha had lost her very heart. - - - - -_Chapter Six_ - -They gathered their green tomatoes, to save them from the frost. -Emily and Maggie, in the delicious kitchen, made chilli sauces and -the good kind of vegetarian mincemeat. The house was filled with the -excellent odors of the ends of the earth. Java and Jamaica were -stirred into Illinois, and sealed away in sturdy bottles which took -their places chronologically in the cupboard next to the wild grape -and the crab-apple jelly below the spiced peaches. The bottles had -to be pushed close against one another, now, to make room for them in -the crowded shelves. - -But when Emily looked into the cupboard of her heart, it was bare. - -She had dug the gladiolas; she had cut the last of the lavender -statice, which she had sown in happier days to make glamour in the -painted room, and hung it head downward to dry with the rosy -strawflowers. The frosts came and turned the hard maples gaudy. The -old Fiske place seemed always to lose its head completely in the -fall. There grew a barberry hedge along the front walk, which -Emily's father had planted when he took down the white picket fence. -He had simply put those little dry-looking shoots into the ground one -rainy spring morning years ago, never imagining what riot he was -planting. For years now, on every brilliant Sunday afternoon, while -the leaves were falling, townspeople had walked out to see that -hedge, to hear its rejoicings. The knowing had taken cuttings of it, -to their disappointment, for even that offspring hedge just across -the road had never been able to achieve quite such giddiness. Some -people said it was the soil that did it. Others maintained it was -the way in which the water soaked down to the river just there. Such -cherries of ripeness, such roses and purple grapes and bleeding -pomegranates of hues, such plums and persimmons and exotic luminous -loquats glowing together, such oranges and oracles of color, no other -hedge could summon. People got joy out of it according to their -moods and natures. But Emily, for once, could take no pleasure in it. - -"Last year," she would say to herself, resentfully, "I enjoyed just -sitting at this window mending socks. Anything made me happy last -year." But now, when she sat down with her sewing, she wasn't seeing -what was before her--the hedge, or anything else. The fingers of one -hand would be intertwined tensely with the fingers of the other, and -she would be sitting as it were, screwed up tight against herself, -seeing that face bending down over Martha, that hateful, alienating -face. She was seeing Martha in a gingham frock standing at that -table, saying in a voice like the angel of some heavenly -annunciation, "Richard Quin is getting a divorce." "I'm a fool!" she -would say angrily to herself over and over, resolving not to worry. -When one day some child with bitter-sweet had reminded her of a -promise to Martha made early in June, she had got Bob to drive her -out to where the vine grew heavily on a barbed wire fence. She and -Martha had been chattering just there in July, as they drove along, -and Martha had made her promise to gather some of it for the painted -room. And that afternoon, after she had arranged it in the red -copper bowls, she had lain down on a day bed and just cried and cried -like a silly girl, so that, in spite of her precautions, Bob had eyed -her at supper and laid another charge against Martha in his memory. - -Martha would not come home for Thanksgiving. Emily had never -suggested it to her before. They had agreed that it wasn't worth -while coming so far for so few days. But this year Emily had hoped -that some way, if she came, they might come to some understanding. -But Martha refused to come. Her letters arrived as regularly as -ever, as if she had determined that in this disagreement she was to -be found in the wrong not at all. She was going to do her duty to -her mother, however unsatisfactory that mother might be. She wrote -regularly, therefore, such noncommittal and indifferent letters as -she might have written to her father had necessity arisen. And Emily -counted the weeks wearily till she would have the child with her -again. Surely the separation, if nothing else, would bring her to -her senses; and she tried not to worry. Martha had given her her -word of honor that she would not see the man again. She had always -been a truthful child; there was no gainsaying that. - -Then one day, shortly before the Christmas holiday, Emily got a most -disturbing letter from Eve. She wrote loyally in a very storm of -perplexity. She had promised Martha faithfully that she would not -write this to her mother, she began. And the more she thought about -it, the more certain she was that she must write it. Martha scarcely -spoke to her--she never did if she could manage not to without being -noticed. Martha had said two days ago to her that she was not going -home for Christmas. And everybody was saying how bad Martha looked. -She was sick; she had no color; and all the girls said she was -changed. And Eve had to cry about it, because she believed it was -that horrid affair of last summer. Martha had never been the same -since. And if she wasn't going home for Christmas, certainly some -one ought to tell her mother how bad she looked. Eve begged Emily -never to tell Martha she had written--to deny it up and down, if -Martha guessed. But she was just sick about Martha. "After all, I'm -older than she is, and I have more sense," Eve wrote. "And I can't -help feeling that it's our fault. I would wish with all my heart we -had never gone to Illinois--only then I wouldn't have known you." - -And the next day Martha's letter had come, announcing her intention -of spending the vacation in New York. Just New York, if you please, -no address given, no intimation of her company. "You know what will -happen if I come home," she wrote. "I'll just quarrel with father -and you'll be miserable. It's better for me to stay away." - -Martha had left this announcement, naturally, to the very last -minute. But Eve's letter had prepared Emily. She telegraphed at -once, knowing she had likely just time to reach Martha before she -left college, that she was to meet her in a certain hotel in New York -the next afternoon. She said nothing to Bob about Eve's letter. -Eve's anxiety and Martha's impertinence between them had upset her -completely. Did Martha imagine she was going to be allowed to -announce her departure for unknown places and companies in this -high-handed manner? What was the child thinking of? Was it -possible--that she might not get the telegram? Was it possible that -if she did, she wouldn't obey? - -Emily had chosen that hotel hastily. She usually stayed with cousins -in New York. But at Christmas time they might be having a house -full. Besides, she couldn't endure the thought that Martha might be -indifferent to her before them. - -So she moved about the room she had taken in the hotel. She arranged -the things she had unpacked, and rearranged them. She looked at the -time, and she looked out of the window to the crowded street very far -below. Martha was already a little bit late. Suppose she never came -at all! Suppose she hadn't come by dinner time, by bed time! Emily -couldn't sit still. - -And then she heard some one; she opened the door; Martha was there, -in her racoon coat, in a rosy little hat of many colors, pulled down -over a sallow face; Martha was in her arms, and crying; in a second -Martha, coat and all, was lying on the bed, her face in her mother's -lap, repenting with bitter tears. - -"Oh, I've been so horrid to you, mammie! I've been so horrid to you! -I'm so sorry!" She was hugging her, clinging to her, imploring her -pardon. - -So Emily cried, too, for surprise and relief, and comforted her, and -urged her to stop crying. This was better than anything she had -dared to hope for. But she had known all the time Martha would come -to herself. The child hadn't meant anything, really. She had always -been such a good girl. Emily in a second could have forgotten every -minute that had not been satisfactory. This was well worth having -come to New York for. - -Martha wasn't succeeding in regaining her composure. Emily attempted -to take her coat off, but thought it better not to bother her. She -just lay and cried. And she had never been a crying child. Emily -had seen to that. All these tears, all this passion of repentance, -showed what a loving little heart she had. "How I have wronged the -child!" Emily mused, wiping her eyes. "I thought she might not come -at all!" And she caressed her, and waited patiently. "Don't cry any -more now, Martha," she said. "We'll forget all about it." - -"Oh, I wish I'd been a good girl!" And having said that, she wept on. - -She cried too long. - -Emily said, presently: "Your feet are making a mark on the bedspread. -Get up. Take off your coat." - -"I'm cold, mammie." She sat up, fumbled about, and kicked off her -low shoes, and lay down again, trying to cuddle her feet up under her -coat. - -"Cold?" The room had been so hot a moment ago that Emily had the -windows both opened. She got up and went and shut them. - -"Where's your baggage?" she asked in a matter-of-fact way, to stop -the tears. - -"I had it taken to my room." - -"Your room?" - -"I took a room for myself. I didn't know you would have two beds in -here." - -Emily was on the point of saying, "You might at least have inquired." -But Martha went on: - -"I'm so tired, mammie, I just had to have a room for myself. I could -sleep a week straight off." - -"Well," said Emily, doubtfully. She turned on the light. Martha -hadn't even taken her little hat off. It was crushed down over an -ear. Her nose was red. She looked like a wreck. She didn't like -her mother's scrutiny. - -"Turn off that light," she pleaded. - -Emily turned it off. - -"Get up and wash your face," she said. - -But Martha cried, "Oh, mammie, honestly, I never meant--to hurt you!" -and threw herself down, sobbing, her face buried in her hands. - -Emily remembered Eve's letter, and grew more pitiful. "I never would -have thought this would prey on her mind so much," she thought. "How -am I going to make Bob understand this? I wish he could hear her -now." It was very bad for her to cry so deeply, however. - -"Where is your room, Martha? I want to see it. Brace up." - -"I'll show it to you--after a while." She still was sobbing aloud. -She seemed hysterical. - -"Martha," said Emily, with some sternness, "stop that; stop crying. -Get up. You must get ready for dinner." - -Martha sat up, huddled together on the edge of the bed. She spoke -very humbly. - -"I don't want any supper, mammie. Honestly, I don't feel like -eating. I'm tired. I want to go to my room. I'd rather go to bed." - -Emily stood looking at her wiping her eyes. Poor Lamb! Poor -tender-hearted child! She did look wretched. Perhaps she ought to -be humored--just for this once. - -"All right. We'll have our supper up here. We'll have a regular -spread." - -"Honestly, I don't want anything to eat." - -"Well, you've got to eat something. That's all there is to it." - -"All right, mammie." - -They went together to look at Martha's room, two floors above -Emily's. Martha was repressing sobs, now, like a threatened child. -Emily asked about the college, to compose her. Had she done good -work this term? But she said meekly she didn't think she had done -very well, not lately, anyway, when she had been so sort of tired. -Emily was eager to question her, but thought it better to wait. She -offered to help unpack the suitcase, but Martha was jealous of it, as -if it was filled with Christmas presents. - -Emily went back to her room, to wait for the supper she had ordered. -She sang to herself. "O come, all ye faithful," she hummed, "joyful -and triumphant." She was infinitely relieved and lifted up. She had -an impulse to telegraph Bob that everything was right again. No, but -as soon as supper was over, she would write him a long letter. She -would explain the child's repentance, her sweet, humble coming back. -She was so happy that, when Martha came in, she just naturally took -her in her arms and kissed her. - -Martha had come in steady and composed, but wearing the coat of a -suit. Emily said, naturally, "Why have you got that on?" Her remark -upset Martha entirely. She sobbed again. Emily reproved herself and -scolded Martha lightly. Here was their supper. What a lot of -dishes! Oh, what a good time they would have, cozily here, together. -She called Martha's attention to the pink lamp-shade. "Not bad," she -said, "for a hotel room." - -But Martha sat like a punished child, not whimpering aloud, but -shaking from time to time with stifled sobs. When Emily had -insisted, she had ordered coffee and an alligator-pear salad, and it -seemed to Emily that the salad was mentioned hurriedly, as an -afterthought, to propitiate a mother. When the salad was set before -her, she wasn't eating it. She said apologetically that the oil -wasn't quite fresh. Emily had offered her some chicken, and insisted -on her taking some. And so she did, and swallowed it obediently. -And she asked for more coffee. No wonder she was thin, if this was -the way she had been eating. Emily was about to refuse her more -coffee. But, surely, to-morrow, after a night's sleep, she would be -herself again. - -"I'm going to stay in bed till noon to-morrow, mammie," she said. - -"Aren't we going home to-morrow?" - -"Oh no, not to-morrow! Let's wait--a little while--till I--feel -rested," she begged. So that was agreed. And there seemed nothing -else to say. For Martha sat looking at her mother wistfully, wiping -away tears that kept flowing. And Emily refrained from talking -because she seemed to be making matters worse. They were perfectly -silent while their supper was being carried away. And when the door -shut behind the waiter, Martha said--she had been standing looking -down out of the window, and she turned about towards Emily: - -"Are the bulbs in the window, mammie?" - -"What bulbs? At home?" - -"Yes. The Poet's narcissi in the hall window." - -"Yes. They're almost out--the first ones. I've got a surprise for -you, Martie!" - -"What?" - -"I've got three purple hyacinths almost ready to bloom, for your -room--in glasses, you know!" - -Now did not that seem an innocent remark? Yet Martha began simply to -boo-hoo. - -"I'm going to bed," she sobbed. - -"I think you'd better." Emily wouldn't be sarcastic, but she spoke -dryly. She insisted on going up and helping her get to bed. She -kissed her shortly, for fear of more bewailings, and promised not to -waken her in the morning. - -"I'm nervous, because I can't sleep always," Martha apologized. "I'd -rather sleep than do anything else. I'll never forgive you if you -wake me up in the morning. I'll get up and come down to you just as -soon as I wake up. Nobody ever had a better mother than I've got!" - -"Oh, cut out the sobby stuff, Martie!" Emily exhorted her. "Don't be -crying yourself to sleep. Have you got anything to read, if you -don't think you'll sleep?" - -"Oh yes. I don't need anything. Nothing." - -After twelve the next day Emily returned from a morning's shopping. -The Christmas crowds had thrust her about. They had pushed her and -jostled her and jammed her into corners. But she was in a mood for -it all. She could take it light-heartedly. They couldn't take the -song from her. "O come, all ye faithful!" she kept humming to -herself. Wasn't she prepared for Christmas? Wasn't she eager to -kneel and worship the Eternal Child! It was almost as if Martha had -been born to her again. She tipped the elevator boy exuberantly just -because she was so happy, as she went up to her room. - -Martha wasn't there. She couldn't be sleeping, surely, at that hour. -She would go up to her room. She stood close to Martha's door. She -called her softly; she called her not quite so softly, but carefully. -Martha was awake inside. Martha was coming to the door. - -Martha had on her fur coat, and her rosy hat, ready to go out. She -drew her mother in. They kissed. "She's been crying again!" Emily -thought. "She looks ghastly! She must have cried all night." Her -eyes were dry, but ringed about with sunken circles. She spoke -quietly. She seemed to be speaking from a great depth of--what?--not -worry--a depth of hopelessness, Emily thought, quickly. - -"You been shopping, mammie? Weren't the crowds terrible?" - -"Yes, terrible! But I did want to get a few things before we go -home. Are you feeling better? Shall we go to-morrow? if we can get -reservations?" - -Martha sat thinking. - -"Yes. I think we'd better go to-morrow, if you can get them." - -"You're ready to go for lunch?" - -"Yes; if you---- Yes, I'm ready." - -"Have you had breakfast?" - -"I had enough." - -"What did you have, Martha?" - -"I--didn't feel like much. I had coffee and toast." - -But when they sat in the darkest corner of a crowded, noisy -restaurant, she only pretended to be eating. She scarcely spoke, and -when she did her voice was--strange, so that Emily sat thoughtfully -watching her. - -"Can you go and get the reservations after we've finished?" - -"Yes, I can. Aren't you coming with me?" - -"I want to go out for just a thing or two, mammie. But look here, -can't you just--pay part of the tickets? You don't have to pay it -all to-day, do you?" - -"Why? Why not?" - -"I mean--if I don't feel well enough to go to-morrow." - -"This is no place to begin to catechise her," Emily thought, "but -I've got to find out what's the trouble with her, some way, before -long." - -"I don't know whether they will reserve them that way or not. I'll -ask, if you want me to." - -"I think it would be--a good plan." - -Martha was sitting with her back to the room, her elbow on the table, -and her head on her hand--not in a correct way, nor a graceful way. -Emily looked at her. After all, look how other people -sat--well-dressed people, but not nice-looking people. -Horrid-looking girls, some of these were. Who, she wondered, were -they? If Martha preferred not to talk, there was much for a -small-town woman to be looking about at, in the room: smart clothes, -painted faces. It was absolutely a thrill to see a woman so -shamelessly vicious-looking, with some sort of green paint to make -shadows under her eyes. Emily's unsophisticated glance was intent -upon the person. The waiter was putting her parfait before her, when -a bomb, thrown from Martha's colorless lips, made her almost jump. - -"Tell father--- I mean--he doesn't know how much I appreciate him, -mammie. He's been a good father to me, always." - -Goodness gracious me! What in the world? The child must be out of -her mind! - -"Martha!" said Emily, sharply, "what is the matter with you?" - -"I'm sorry I've always been so--horrid to him." - -"Now look here, Martha, let that drop! You mustn't be morbid about -this. I'll explain everything to him for you, if you want me to." - -"Yes, do, mammie." - -"I'll take that child to a doctor to-morrow!" Emily resolved. - -They parted abruptly when they rose from the table. Martha went out -to get her few things. Emily went to the station for her -reservations, curiously. And she dallied about. They were to have -tea together at four-thirty. It was Emily's suggestion. Anything to -get Martha to eat, she had thought. - -She came back to the hotel carrying a large box of the most tempting -chocolates she could find, and candied fruits, which Martha had been -eager for. She didn't like the hotel she had chosen. The lobby, the -whole floor, was full of groups of men, business men, perhaps, -standing around importantly pretending to be discussing affairs of -moment, and covertly eying every woman who entered. Well, thank -goodness, she was no longer either young or conspicuous. But how -they must look at Martha! She went to the desk and asked for her key. - -Now the sleek-haired young man standing there, instead of handing it -to her promptly, went and spoke to a more important young man -somewhat older. This man heard what he said and looked curiously at -Emily, while the second one approached her. - -"Are you Mrs. Kenworthy?" he asked, suavely. - -She said she was. - -"Will you step this way, please?" - -She hadn't time to ask why. He had come out from behind the -counter-like desk and was showing her the way--a few steps down a -passage. - -"Just here," he was saying. "The manager wants to speak to you." - -And he threw open a door into a lighted office, and said, "This is -Mrs. Kenworthy," and went out, and closed the door behind him. - -Emily, wondering mildly, saw in a glance a sort of office; a room in -which, perhaps temporarily, a good deal of extra furniture was -crowded--several easy chairs pushed close together, beyond a long -bare oak table, with shaded desk lamps. Three men were standing -there, by the table, the shadow of the lamp-shade hiding their faces. - -"Are you Mrs. Kenworthy?" one of them asked her. - -"Yes," she said. She didn't like this. - -"Has your daughter a dog?" - -The man didn't seem facetious. - -"Pardon me!" Emily spoke coldly. - -The man was looking at her keenly. - -"I said, has your daughter here a dog?" He made a gesture and---- - -Why, there was Martha, sunken down in the farther one of those -crowded armchairs--that was her coat and hat, at least; her face was -hidden. Emily moved quickly towards her. - -"What do you mean?" - -"Madame, this young lady has been trying to buy poison for her dog." - -"There is some mistake about this." Emily felt herself begin to -tremble. "My daughter hasn't a dog." - -"We didn't think she had." - -"What happened, Martha?" Emily's hand was on her shoulder, but -Martha never lifted her head. - -"What--do you mean?" Emily faltered. They looked so ominous--so -excited. Nobody spoke. - -"Oh, will you tell me what you mean?" Emily cried out. Something -frightful was here. - -"Madame, we have to protect ourselves. We can't have some -one--taking her own life--in our rooms every month in the year. This -girl--we kept her here--we didn't think she had a dog. She was -trying to buy poison, madame!" - -"You're mistaken! Martha, what were you doing?" She tried to get -her to speak. - -"Madame, we have had to offer a reward--to any employee who -prevents--such a thing. This bell-boy"--he was actually indicating a -negro standing near him--"just happened to be in a drug store, and -saw your daughter refused--this poison. He recognized her; he -followed her into another drug store. Who'd sell a girl with that -face--anything? He called this policeman." - -"I think you're all mistaken. She hasn't been well. I'll take her -up and put her to bed," Emily babbled. She was kneeling on the floor -by Martha, shaking Martha's arm, and urging her to explain. - -"No, madame, not to the ninth floor, not a girl in that condition. -We have to defend ourselves. We'll let you talk to her here." He -started towards the door. "Just ring here, I'll come back for you." - -"Martha! Baby! What is this? What were you doing? What happened -after I left you? Tell me! Tell me, Martha! Why didn't you explain -to those men?" - -When Emily tried to pull her hands away from her face, Martha stirred -and jerked back, and buried it in her coat sleeve. Her little thin -voice came out, muffled, gasping: - -"I've got to die." - -Could it be that the child still loved that man so? What else could -it be? - -"You mustn't say such things, Martie! Martha, why didn't you say to -them you weren't trying to buy--anything. Were you?" - -"Yes, yes. I've got to die." - -Emily's hand was stroking her arms tenderly. - -Suddenly Martha simply cried out, "Oh, can't you understand?" - -"I may be stupid. I don't know what this means!" - -"I'll say it, then. I'll say it to you!" - -Finally she did say it. - -"I'm going to have a baby. I can't----" - -The arm that was around Martha fell away. The hand that was stroking -her ceased its motion. Emily knelt there, against the coat, against -the chair; she went on kneeling there, and moments passed. - -Martha was stirring herself. She was trying to rise. - -"Let me go," she moaned. - -Emily's arms tightened around her knees. She held her fast. - -"Where you going?" - -"I've got to die, some way." - -"Martha, you don't know what you're saying. It isn't true. You're -not going to have----" - -"It is true. Let me go." - -"I won't let you go. You can't die. I'm saving you." Emily didn't -really know what she was saying. - -"Let me go!" - -"I'm going with you everywhere. I'm going to see you through it, -then. I won't let them hurt you." - -Martha began sobbing. "Won't you let me go?" - -"No, I won't." - -"Will you stay with me?" - -"You are my child." Martha's sobs reassured her. "Don't ever say -that--promise me not to think of--dying. Martha, promise me. I'll -take care of you, Martha, if you promise." - -"How can I live?" - -"How can I let you--die? Oh, how awful of you, to think of such -things. Is this why you came to New York?" - -"Yes. I ought to, mammie. You don't want me--living now. Dad -won't." - -Emily rose up. She was recovering from the shock--the stunning. - -"I'll take care of you. Don't worry. We must go upstairs. We must -talk it over. I don't know." - -She led the child towards the door. She opened it. The policeman -stood there, guarding it. He would not let them out. "I'll call the -manager," she said. - -But Martha had recoiled, moaning: "Don't let that man touch me! That -man caught hold of my arm, mother!" - -And the moment the manager entered, Emily spoke to him composedly. - -"I'm taking this child to my room. She isn't well. I must put her -to bed." - -"I'm sorry, madame; you can't take her to the ninth floor--not in -that condition." - -How could he see her condition, when she was hidden behind her -mother? Emily was annoyed. She controlled her voice. - -"Can we have another room at once, then, lower down?" - -"No, madame; we have no empty room." - -"What do you mean? Can't we have a room?" - -"No, madame; we're full." - -"You mean you want us to leave?" - -"I'm afraid you'll have to." - -Emily couldn't believe him. - -"You mean you don't want us to stay here?" - -"It comes to that. We've had unfortunate things--too many of -them--lately. Leave the young lady here. I'll take charge of her -while you pack your things. Or shall I have them brought down for -you?" - -She went out of the door, into Martha's shame, into the lobby where -all eyes seemed to be upon her, into the elevator. The negro youth -seemed to be pointing her out, a disreputable woman being turned out -of the hotel. She got her things together; she went to Martha's -room; she sent their luggage down; she went down and paid her bill at -the desk window. Years afterwards she could feel those men looking -at her curiously. She went to the room where Martha sat a prisoner. -The manager was solicitous. He told the boy to have her things put -in a taxi at the less conspicuous entry. She took Martha out, -therefrom, down a quiet hall. - -"Where to?" asked the chauffeur. - -"To the Pennsylvania Station," she said. - -It was almost dark, and very cold, and the taxi seemed not to move at -all through the crowds. - -"What are you going to do with me now?" Martha moaned. - -"I don't know," said Emily. - -At the station she put Martha down where she could watch her from a -telephone booth. She daren't turn towards the mouthpiece to speak -for more than a second. Suppose Martha should disappear. She -'phoned one hotel after another. None of them had a room on the -second floor. A horror was in her mind--a girl falling, falling, to -destruction. By the time she had heard her fourth refusal she felt -faint. She went back out to the waiting room. Everyone was going -home. Everyone was loaded down with Christmas gayety. She sat -there. And Martha sat there. They had no place to go. It was -Christmas time, but there was no room for them in any inn, because of -a baby. - -Some place to hide; some place to plan and think. She remembered a -country hotel on Long Island. Would it be open at this season? But -no, it was on the Sound. She was afraid of water and that desperate -girl. After a little she thought of the right place. There was a -little hotel in a small New Jersey town. Years ago she and her aunt -had gone there, quite unannounced, for a night, to visit an old -cemetery in the neighborhood. They could go there. - -Jostled and pushed about in the jam of the local train, Emily got -back some of her presence of mind. She got out, with Martha, at the -station, and stood looking about. She didn't remember the place at -all. Cars were waiting for most of those who arrived. She asked a -newsboy about the hotels. He would carry her things up and show her -the way. - -They turned into the quiet little main street. Yellow lights from -the shops were shining out across the snow. People were hurrying -along in one direction. The boy was talkative. It was only a little -way to the hotel. When they drew near it, he said: "Look! Look at -the Christmas tree!" - -A little way farther down the street, across from the hotel, a crowd -was gathered around an old lighted-up tree just near the sidewalk, in -what seemed to be the front yard of a dwelling house. - -"It's a real tree. It's not a cut-down one!" he informed them. -"They sing there." - -"I always remembered what a quiet place you had here," Emily said to -the clerk. "I've always been wanting to get back." She wanted to -make their arrival--on Christmas Eve--a natural thing. Would the man -be suspicious? - -But no. He took them in; they had a roof over them again, a room, -comfortless enough, but a room, and one double bed, on which Martha -had thrown herself down. They must have supper in their room -to-night. Emily had begged something, anything hot. She pulled the -curtains down and opened the bags, and started to get Martha to bed. - -When the maid came with the supper tray, outside there, under the -great glimmering tree, the crowd was singing praise to God become -Baby through a woman's body; and inside Emily was looking at Martha's -little breast, and her sobbing white abdomen, and a girl's flesh -seemed to have become hell. - -Emily had to probe her ignominy that night, for the thought kept -coming to her, even after what she had seen, that Martha couldn't -know what she was talking about. She had to ask her--terrible -things; there was no help for that. She had to realize that her -daughter had lied to her directly, thoughtfully, and cunningly. This -affair had begun in the summer, before Martha had promised her never -to see that man again. She had promised not to see him, knowing when -they were to meet next, in Chicago. "I was so sure, mammie!" she -sobbed. "I knew it would be all right when you knew him! I just -loved him so!" Martha had gone back to college to lie cunningly -there, to get permission to spend every week-end in New York, to -study dancing, which her mother was so keen to have her take up, she -had averred. Well, she had been punished, punished by having to look -in the terrible face of Death. Suppose that colored bell-boy hadn't -been in the drug store, there---- Emily's arms tightened about her. - -"Oh, what are you going to do with me now?" Well might little Martha -Kenworthy ask that. There seemed no good reason why she shouldn't go -on crying indefinitely, forever. But Emily, drawing her close -against her in bed, tucking the covers about her, trying to get her -warm, hoped doggedly to find comfort for her, to get her quiet. -There were worse things than having a baby, she told her once, -crooning over her. - -And Martha said, "What?" And then added, "Oh, you mean being -discarded!" - -Discarded? Martha Kenworthy discarded? - -"She is beyond me in knowledge," Emily thought. "I've never known -bitterness." - -She had to ask her, "Does that man know about this?" - -"I--told him. He said----" She couldn't say it for weeping. - -"Never mind. It doesn't matter." - -But after a while Martha did say it: - -"He said I'd got him into a dirty mess." - -Emily reproached herself. She wouldn't ask, even, where he was now, -where his wife was, whether he was divorced. She wouldn't have -Martha marry that man now, if he was able to marry her a hundred -times over. - -"Martha, you mustn't cry this way. You mustn't. You'll make -yourself sick." - -"No, it won't; it can't. Nothing makes me sick enough. I've tried -everything." - -"What? What have you tried?" - -And Martha, lying cuddled against her there, recounted horrors. "At -school," she sobbed, once resentfully, "there isn't any privacy. -Those girls just come singing and laughing right into your room. I -tried things week-ends, when I was in the city." - -"Alone?" - -"Yes, mammie. I thought I'd killed myself once--two weeks ago. When -I tried to get up I fainted. I fell on the floor, and I thought I -was dying; and I couldn't ring for anybody--they might find out." - -Emily had to hear all that--to imagine it. - -She said, after a while, "I'm going to take you to a doctor -to-morrow---day after to-morrow. The best one I can find." - -"I'll go to Mexico; I'll hide somewhere; I'll go to South America!" - -"We could never be sure we had hidden ourselves." - -"No, I know it. Oh, I've thought of everything. In books they do -it; in books no one ever finds out. There's 'The Old Maid.' We -could do it." - -"We'd always be afraid. We'd never have any peace of mind again." - -"You don't need to go with me. I can go." - -"I'm going to see you through this. I think home would be the best -place, Martha." - -"No, I won't go home! Never, mother. Oh, imagine what dad would say -to me!" - -Emily had thought of that. She had decided. "That's my house!" she -had said as they came out on the train. "I'll take my child home to -it. If Bob wants to leave, he can leave." - -"You don't appreciate your father. If we should go home,--this -way--to him, he would stand by us. There's no use saying he -wouldn't." - -"He would stand by you, mother. I'll say that much for him. He -wouldn't leave you when you're in trouble. He's not like---- But he -would be always hating me; if he didn't scold me, he would be wanting -to. I couldn't stand that. I won't go home. I won't let you tell -him this. I'd rather----" - -"Don't say that!" Emily moaned. - -"We can go abroad. We could go to Sweden, or the Philippines." - -"Yes, all right. Now stop crying, Martha. Try to go to sleep. I'll -make arrangements. I'll fix it all up for you." - -The girl dozed at length, moaning. The clock struck, and the hours -passed, and Emily lay there, open-eyed, fleeing in vain terror from -one corner of her consciousness to the other, whacked and battered -through the soul by fact after brutal fact. She was in no condition -to think clearly. It was her habit of mind to blame herself for a -great deal that was never her fault, perhaps because all her tender -years she had had the sense of her aunt's disapproving eyes upon her. -And now she shouldered all the blame of this tragedy. This child was -what she had made her; she had spoiled her indeed. She had only -wanted her to be happy, and where was happiness now? Her child, the -work of her hands, the fruit of her body and soul, had lowered -herself to deliberate lying. Yes, and even that Emily Kenworthy -could have pardoned if the child had lied for a worthy man. She had -been found lacking the essential womanly instincts of -self-preservation--of child preservation. She hadn't known how to -make herself cherished. She had failed fundamentally. "What was it -I neglected?" Emily moaned. "What didn't I teach her? Bob always -said I spoiled her. Bob knew. I have failed. I have failed more -than she has. I thought only about her being happy. What am I going -to do for her now?" - -After a long while--it was towards morning, though Emily had no -thought of time--Martha rose with a start. She began scrambling -hastily out of bed. - -"I'm sick!" she murmured. - -"Lie down! Wait! I'll get you something!" - -"A towel! Hand me a towel!" - -Emily jumped up and felt for the light. The room was bitterly cold. -She looked about for something to serve Martha's need. She searched -hastily for her dressing gown. - -"Get back into bed," she commanded. "Cover up!" She sat down on the -bed beside her, shivering violently, trying to help her. For Martha -was leaning out over the side of the bed, retching, choking, trying -to stifle the sound of her misery by covering her face with the -towel. Paroxysm after paroxysm of nausea followed. Between them -Martha lay back in bed, shivering, blue-lipped, sweat on her -forehead, tears in her eyes, harrowing to behold. - -"Try to lie still, Martha! Lie flat on your back!" - -"Can't. Oh----" And on went the sickening sounds. - -She was so blue, so frightening to look at, that Emily started to go -to the door. - -"What are you doing?" Martha cried. - -"I'm going to wake somebody up! I'm going to get some hot water--a -hot-water bag for you." - -But the girl was in terror, and cried out: - -"I never have anything, mammie. Don't! They might guess! I'll be -all right, mammie. Come into bed with me; that'll warm me up!" - -So Emily made the room as decent as she could. - -"Hide that, _hide_ it! I'll manage in the morning. I don't want -anybody to suspect anything!" - -Emily got into bed, sickened, and gathered the child to her. She was -passionate with hate. A man, any man, who inflicted one such hour on -a girl----"I could just kill that man!" she was raging. If a decent -boy had given her child a box of sickening chocolates, by accident, -what a fuss there would have been! How he would have had to grovel! -And as she raged in her mind, she heard Martha imploring comfort. - -"Oh, how long is this going to go on, mammie?" - -"How long has it gone on?" - -"Oh, weeks! From the first! Oh, I was so afraid they would hear, at -school!" - -Suddenly a memory flashed over Emily. She felt the hours she had -suffered such discomfort--for the sake of this undone child. She and -Bob had been living in their wretched little rooms over the drug -store on Main Street. And she could see Bob standing there, in his -nightshirt, a lamp in his hand, solicitous and dumfounded, because -she lay sick and laughing, tears in her eyes, and singing on her -lips, shaken with delight over the significance of her symptoms. She -had been beside herself with happiness at the prospect of a baby. -Certainly never before in her life, and seldom since, had she known -such heavenly satisfaction as during those weeks. The very sensation -of that dear expectancy came back to her. - -And Martha, in her arms, moaned wearily. - -Then Emily turned away from her, towards the wall, and, covering -herself up to the eyes, began an utterly sick and bitter weeping. At -every gasp some new phase of her misery came to contrast its horror -with the former loveliness. The years came all tumbling down in -great crushing masses upon her, and the beauty of that baby, her -little parties, her sweet little coats. It was Christmas morning, -she remembered, and she could see the little thing in her footed -sleeping suit standing twinkling in ecstasy about a stocking from -which a red-headed doll peeped out.--Dolls, what lots of dolls, to -teach her motherhood--and Jim playing with her! It was for this -child's sake that her mother had refrained from all the life she -might have had with her dear Jim. And now---- This was the end of -it all. "If I had left her--deserted her--gone with him, could she -have been worse off than she is now?" Emily asked; and she went on -weeping. She saw the painted room from which the child had shut -herself out. She had made herself a dark house of regret now, this -house-loving girl who had destroyed herself. Where should they go -now? "To whom can I go for help?" Emily cried. If Jim were living, -if she could go to New York and tell Jim all this, so he could help -her---- There was no one living to whom she could turn. "I'll take -her to Wilton," she moaned; "he'll know what to do!" Home was -impossible. Could she take her lovely daughter there--this child -whom she had watched them admire? That woman would find them there, -that jealous, married, wild woman, who had open, unquestioned cause -now for scandals and fury. She heard Martha speaking to her, -imploring her, crying with her, but she paid no heed to her. The -heat in the steam pipes began pounding. Daylight came into the room. -Martha got up to conceal what signs she might find of her sickness. -Martha showed strange skill in furtiveness now. She seemed to have -acquired habits of cunning. Presently she was standing there, lying -glibly to the wondering chambermaid. Her mother was ill; her mother -had had news of bereavement. She must have some breakfast brought up. - -Emily had been forty-three years old when she had left home last. -But after Christmas Day, it was months before she thought of herself -as anything but an old woman. It was not so much a day, the -twenty-fifth of December, as an epoch--a desert of disappointment -from which she was never likely to recover fully. She got up and -dressed that morning, scarcely knowing what she did. She sat down in -desperation and just looked at Martha. She rallied after a while, -enough to suggest that they go out together for a walk. But Martha -refused. There were lots of girls in her college who lived in New -Jersey. She might meet somebody who would ask what in the world she -was doing in that little hotel upon such an occasion. She lay down, -and Emily covered her warmly. - -She sat watching her sleep. The afternoon faded away. The darkness -came, and they went to bed. There they lay. Martha slept till the -evil hour of morning came, and passed distressfully. - -They got up, and Emily began to put her things into her bag. As she -moved about, peace came to her some way. It was as if she realized -at length that she was sentenced to death and there was no escape -possible. She must die quietly. Afterwards, she used to marvel over -that strange consciousness that came to her, that she could go -through this horror, and any other that might be coming to her, -without frenzy, without any outcry. She knew that whichever hideous -alternative she had to go through, as long as Martha was saved alive -to her, she was able some way, quietly, to bear it. She had never -experienced before such an exalted feeling of strength. Even Martha -felt it. She grew quieter. She listened without a murmur to her -mother's plans, because Emily's voice was smooth again. - -She had decided that as soon as they got to New York she would 'phone -from the station to the head nurse of a hospital to which she had -once gone to see a friend. She remembered vividly the assured and -adequate manner in which those nurses had moved about. She was loath -to trouble them. She would say that she was a stranger in the city, -without friends, suddenly in need of a gynecologist. She wanted a -woman, and the very best one. Would the nurse recommend a perfectly -reliable one? - -There was no hitch in the plan. The nurse recommended three, for she -thought it likely that some of them might be away for the holidays. -Emily was able to get an appointment with the first one, but only -late in the afternoon, after the other patients had been seen. She -turned calmly from that 'phone, and took Martha to the Brevoort -Hotel. She got a room on the third floor. She wouldn't have been -afraid then of any height. It was no wonder that Martha had to -exclaim, as soon as the door was shut behind the porter with their -luggage: - -"How could you do it, mammie?" - -"Let's not talk about it," she answered. - -There was an hour to wait for lunch. Only once did she have that -feeling of panic. Her strength almost failed her when she picked up -the morning paper defensively and saw the advertisements of "white -sales." Baby clothes were illustrated there. She threw the paper -hastily down. She mustn't think of such a child in her house, -playing in her willow tree. She would hate that child; she wanted -Martha to hate it. Yet they would have to make some sort of hateful -preparations for it. - -After a while they rose and went down into the restaurant, and found -a place among untrapped, unmaddened men and women, who didn't look as -if they felt their lives reeling through destruction. Mother and -daughter said but little. If anyone near had looked at them -attentively, he would have thought, probably, of two women who looked -rather bored with life and in need of diversion. - -When the coffee came, Martha, who had chosen to sit with her back to -the room, was leaning on the table, her hand over her eyes. She had -been looking in grim dejection at her mother's hands. She stirred, -and said, nervously: - -"Nobody would ever suspect you of anything, mother." - -"Let's not talk about it," Emily almost whispered. - -"I mean--I mean--I don't suppose you will have to take your gloves -off, will you?" - -"Where?" - -"I mean--in the doctor's office." She looked around her slyly to see -if she might be overheard. - -"No, I don't suppose so." Emily thought best not to question her. - -But Martha persisted. - -"Mammie, no one could suspect you of anything! Lend me your -ring--your wedding ring." Her voice died away. - -Emily's voice never faltered. "All right, if you want it." She -spoke as if she had been asked for a nickel for the telephone. She -put her hands down under the table and tugged away at the ring. Her -fingers were larger now than they had been the day Bob put the ring -on, in the City Hall in Chicago, in that room where, she still -remembered, the spittoons sat in rows. She hadn't taken that ring -off for years. She was handing it over now, with another one--a -diamond one--which Bob had given her two years ago, at Christmas -time, to her deserted daughter. Bob seemed, just then, not so bad a -husband, after all. Martha reached over for the rings, closed her -fingers about them, and put them furtively away in her purse. - -After an interminable afternoon the two of them, with their story -ready, came into the doctor's waiting room--a large office which -served the patients of several doctors; it was so full that people -were standing. Yet as soon as the Kenworthys entered, a woman older -than her mother, after one glance at Martha, rose hastily to offer -her a place to sit down. The women made a place for Emily, crowding -together. Emily didn't even wonder how many, like herself, were -dreading a death sentence--a sentence of life. She sat there, in the -unspeakable intensity of consciousness of her wound, realizing -nothing of the room but the fact that Martha was sitting huddled down -in the next sofa, her hat pulled down to hide her shrunken face. Her -lips only could be seen, from where her mother sat, but they were not -trembling. And they sat there, hour after hour, year after year; -they had to sit waiting till almost every one had been called in -through one or another of those doors. - -The day was over, the night was on them. It was half past six when -Emily finally took Martha into the room before the judge. They sat -down before her in the full light. She sat behind that little -desperately business-like desk, her face half hidden by the -lamp-shade. She looked from one to the other of them with shrewd, -cynical, prosaic eyes. Emily, as the words came out of her mouth, -knew every one of them was being weighed. She was being -cross-questioned. What made her think her daughter wasn't strong -enough to have a child? What made Emily suppose she was a delicate -young woman? The whole slender history of Martha Kenworthy's child -illnesses was brought forth and examined. The doctor's very -questions seemed to pronounce her a most rugged person. Emily hadn't -thought to prepare any lying account of previous illnesses. She -hadn't been skilled enough in deceit for that. - -The woman got up and turned on pitiless lights. She made -preparations; she gave Martha directions, shortly. Emily sat there. -She heard her heart pounding. - -Once Martha moaned, lying on that white table. - -"Don't do that. Don't make that noise." - -"You hurt me," Martha apologized. - -"Not at all," answered the doctor. She went poking on. Her manner -was not ingratiating. If she scented any tragedy before her, she had -no sympathy--no one ever need to cry to that woman for help, Emily -realized. - -The doctor had finished. She turned away to a basin and stood -washing her hands. She reached for an immaculate towel, and with it -in her hands she turned about and stood looking at her patient. -Martha was sitting up on that hospital-like table. The doctor went -on drying her hands. Finger after finger she dried, one at a time, -studying Martha mercilessly. By the time she had finished that -fourth finger, Emily could stand the suspense no longer. She managed -to ask with only ordinary concern: - -"What do you find?" - -The doctor kept her eyes steadily on Martha as she answered: - -"As a matter of fact, though you get your mother to do all the -talking, the truth is that you are scared out of your wits at the -mere thought of a baby. Don't look at your mother; answer me -yourself!" - -"Yes," Martha murmured, faintly. "I didn't--I don't want----" - -The doctor spoke grimly: "Well, don't worry. You're not going to -have one." - -She was still drying those hands. - -Emily and Martha babbled together almost incoherently. - -"What do you mean?" - -"You're not pregnant at all. There's not a sign of pregnancy." - -And as neither of the women moved, she added: - -"Get down and dress." - -Emily gasped, at length: "How can this be? How----" - -The doctor spoke more kindly as soon as she turned to Emily to -answer: "It's hysteria. It's nothing but hysteria." - -"But those symptoms--those----" - -Emily was incredulous. - -"I've had three cases of this this week. They distrust their -precautions and get panicky. They lose their heads." - -"I never heard of such a thing in my life," Emily babbled. - -"I don't suppose _you_ have!" The doctor spoke tartly. "When you -had this child, women had nerve enough to carry them through!" She -turned and looked almost scornfully at Martha. - -Martha had sat down abruptly on a chair. Emily helped her into her -coat. The doctor had been explaining to Emily: the girl ought to be -put to bed early for a while, well fed, allowed no dances, no -theaters, and kept much out-of-doors. And when Martha had sat down -abruptly, after putting her coat on, she said: - -"If you feel faint, you'd better get out into the air." And she -dismissed them from her presence. - -Falling, being hurled down, those sensations had been bad enough--but -the shock of this crashing landing! Those two women went out of that -office, down the elevator, out on to the street so dazed that their -minds seemed blank, so "taken aback" they were, so strongly jerked -back from the edge of destruction. Martha, standing pressed close -against her mother, one arm around her, staring into her face, stood -stuttering there in the winter darkness, on the curb. - -"D-d-d-do you believe it, mammie?" She began laughing and crying. -"Mammie! mammie!" she kept stuttering. "Do you believe it?" - -In the taxi they found, Martha gave way to hysterics. She laughed -and she sobbed crazily. "Oh, mammie, if she could be right! Can she -be right? Am I all right? She don't know what she's talking about. -Oh, tell me, can it be true?" She was shaking Emily, trying to shake -assurance out of her. "Tell me if it can be true, mammie!" - -"Why, Martha--a doctor--must know----" - -"No! She doesn't understand! How could it not be? Mammie, tell me. -Oh, suppose it's true; I can live! Mammie, I can see you don't -believe her! We can go home now. You won't tell dad! Oh, I will be -good to you. Didn't they say she was a good doctor? Mammie, what -did that nurse say about her? But I did try every day to think it -wasn't true. And it was. Why was I so sick every morning? Maybe -I've only got a cancer, mammie!" Crying out a phrase like that, the -child was in such a madness of hope. "Oh, suppose she's right!" - -"Martha, I feel like giving you the awfulest spanking anybody ever -got!" - -"Oh _yes_! Oh, I don't mind. Mammie, imagine if it isn't true; if -I'm saved. Here, here's your rings; I don't need rings!" - -When they drew up in front of the hotel, Emily forced her to be -quiet. But Martha, in their room, threw off her coat and her hat and -all restraint in a great gesture. She was lit up, she was drunk with -hope. She walked around the room babbling, her face ghastly pale and -bright, stopping to hug her mother, stretching out her arms, -stretching them above her towards the ceiling. - -"Suppose it's _true_! Suppose it's all right! Suppose I'm safe! I -can _live_ now. No operation, mammie! That woman must have been -fifty! She must know what she's talking about. Didn't you think she -looked like a good doctor? She must have examined thousands of -women. I'm free; I'm safe!" She stopped and looked at herself in -the mirror. "Oh, look at me!" she cried. "_That's_ how I feel." -And Emily, who had sunk down on to the bed in her bewilderment, -watching Martha, suddenly began to cry. That superhuman strength -seemed to have abandoned her. For the girl had looked for a moment -intently at her reflection, and then turned, half crazy with joy, to -her suitcase. She had snatched out her toilet things, she was -powdering her nose, she was rubbing something on her white cheeks, -herself again. "Oh, I can _live_ now! Live! Live!" And she turned -away from the glass and ran to Emily--she had heard her -sniffling--and began consoling kisses and penitential hugs and tears. - -"Let's go and get something to eat!" she said at length. She got up -and washed away signs of tears. She brushed her hair, she powdered -her nose, she got out a smarter pair of shoes. "Let's walk and -walk," she said. "I could walk all night." Out on the street there, -Emily felt Martha's strong arm impelling her along by the passion of -her relief. She walked with her head held high, she walked fiercely, -like an arrow sure of its target. When they stopped at a crossing, -her feet could not stop their triumph. Emily could feel her dancing. -She kept babbling, singing, running on. Emily said at length: "I -can't go any farther. I'm too tired." And then in a minute or two -they were turning into an opportune restaurant. - -It was a large, uncarpeted room, with two rows of white-tiled tables -on either side of a central aisle. Martha walked down that aisle -ahead of her mother. Her head was held that tense way, her eyes were -shining positively black against her white face, her air was wild. -People looked and started and continued staring at her as if they had -seen a pretty young lunatic at large, or an aggressive and beautiful -girl-ghost. And Martha, not thinking of them, walked straight to the -farthest table and would have sat down facing the crowd, if Emily had -not chosen that seat for herself. Emily was conscious of the -sensation their entrance had made. She was wondering how Martha's -excited pallor had triumphed over all the color she had applied, for -certainly she had stood dabbing rouge on--before her mirror. Martha -grabbed the menu. She had been talking of turkey, of lobster. She -was hungry enough to eat anything. She ordered a large steak for -two, with mushrooms. She ordered asparagus and fried potatoes, and -bread--a plateful of brown bread. She ordered coffee. She would -order a lobster later, she told the waiter. When he had gone, she -began whispering to Emily: - -"Mammie, did you get our reservations? Oh, I thought I would be -going home in a----!" - -"Don't!" murmured Emily. - -"Can we go and change them on our way home? Let's go on the eleven -o'clock. But no, we must go to another doctor to-morrow." - -Emily tried to calm her. It was herself the child was enjoying now, -as if her years of enjoying her thoughts had been preparing her for -this climax. She looked as if she might burst into flame. She did -burst forth when dinner was being set before her. The waiter was -arranging her great feast, when she cried out, suddenly unable to -smother the joy of some thought. She cried out, with a gesture of -her hands below the table, "Oh, my God!" so that the waiter fairly -jumped. People about were watching them. They smiled unanimously. -Martha didn't seem even to know she was in a restaurant. - -The next morning Martha said she hadn't slept well, but Emily had -watched her sleeping through the early morning, and when she -commented on the significance of that fact, Martha was elated again -above her weariness by happiness. She went for a walk in the morning -alone. Emily felt too exhausted to go with her. She ate more -heartily than she had been able to eat the evening before. That -great steak and those mushrooms she had not been able to give any -real attention to. She appealed to her mother every few minutes to -tell her the truth about the doctor's verdict, to comfort her about -the probable outcome of their visit to the next doctor. She walked -about excitedly. - -Late that afternoon the second doctor pronounced her free. - -They came back to their hotel almost without a word. In their room -they sat down; they looked at each other dazed; they each felt the -other trying to fathom the experience through which they had gone. -"How _could_ that have happened?" Martha demanded. "Do they think--I -IMAGINED that vomiting? Do they think I didn't try to believe I was -all right?" - -It seemed to Emily best to pass as lightly as possible over even the -word "hysteria." - -"You were worried, Martha. You were afraid." - -"Well, of _course_ I was afraid! All the time I thought, suppose -anything should happen to me. I was thinking all the time about -_you_, mother! Do you think I wanted to disgrace you? That's why I -wanted to--I thought I couldn't live. Oh, when your wire came, -mammie, I just had to see you again, _once_, before---- I didn't -_want_ to come. I was afraid you might find out! But I _had_ to -come and see you again once! How did you happen to come, mammie?" - -"Did you suppose I was going to let you wander around New York alone?" - -"Didn't you suspect anything?" - -"Martha! _No!_" - -"No, you couldn't believe it. Oh, I never wanted YOU to know. I'd -rather have told all the rest of the world, mother. I'll never -forgive myself for this as long as I live. You look--sick as a dog, -mammie!" - -"I'm all right. You needn't worry about _me_." - -"You just say that. You don't even scold me! I've learned my -lesson. You don't have to say anything! My God!" cried little -Martha Kenworthy. "What I've been through! And those filthy women -at school nosing around trying to find out what was the matter with -me!" - -"Oh, Martha!" - -"They _were_. They went sneaking around! They know too much, those -old hens, pretending they're so holy. I'm finished with that place!" - -"Well, now--everything is all right." It seemed better to her to -take that line. "We can go wherever we want to. You need a rest. -We'll go South, if you want to." - -"Yes. Let's not go home. Let's go South from here." - -"Oh, well--I don't know. I'd have to get some more clothes. -You'd--we'd better go home first. And we have our tickets; it's not -much shorter from here." - -"Dad might want to go with us--or drive us down." - -"I think we better go by train. It's much better to go home first." - -"You mean--so people can see me? So nobody can suspect anything?" - -"Martha, I didn't mean any such thing. Who's going to suspect us of -anything?" - -"Not you, of course. But I'll go home if you want me to. I'll do -anything you want me to, after this. You've been a brick; you've -stuck by me; you're the one that needs a rest. I don't look as -ghastly as you do, mammie." - -"Well, we can do anything we want to now; we can go any place." - -"I don't want to do anything. I just want to sleep a year." - -So they left for home that night. And the next day, as the train -hurried West, Martha's gloom and her humility deepened mile by mile. -She sat looking steadily out of the window, and Emily realized that -it could not be the scenery that fixed the expression of her face. -When her thoughts were recalled from some unhappy distance, she -considered her mother meekly, with solicitude. Her gratitude, the -sort of indebtedness, was painful to Emily. After they had changed -at Chicago into the train for home, Emily realized, even before -Martha spoke, that she was hardening herself for an ordeal. - -"Mammie," she said, "I don't want to--I mean--will you let me have -the guest room this time? I think I could sleep better in the guest -room." - -Emily Kenworthy had never taken a journey of any sort whose very -climax and last ineffable thrill had not been getting back again into -her very own house. She was that sort of woman. But never before -had she felt the joy of being at home and of waking up in her own -bedroom quite so keenly as she did that morning. She opened her -closet and took down her customary morning frock. It was a brown -jersey. It had a bit of tan-colored jersey down the front of it. On -the tan-colored jersey were rows of little brown jersey buttons, and -those top two buttons were hanging loosely; those two loose and -familiar buttons were reality, surely. They proved that New York had -been only a dream. She put the verifying frock on, and went out of -her room, and in the hall the radiator was burbling out its -confirming burbles. She sat down at her own breakfast table; Bob was -there, no phantom. And the percolator lid still had to be managed. -Its awkwardness had been a family failing for months now. Bob -couldn't apparently improve it. Emily began pouring coffee, with her -hands held as that percolator must be held, and she could scarcely -believe she had been in New York. Martha's hallucination was a -nightmare, and the percolator was truth and awakening. - -She could indeed have believed that morning that the days of terror -had been a delirium if, in the guest room, the pitiful stranger had -not been lying in bed. She was glad that Martha seemed willing to -stay there the first day or two, for it made her story more -impressive. - -"It's this quarrel with us, Bob, that's worked on her mind till she -couldn't eat. I wish you could have heard her that first night. She -just cried and cried, because she was so sorry about last summer, and -ashamed. She says she don't know what possessed her to act -so--naughty. I had just to make her stop crying. I told her it was -morbid; but I couldn't get her to eat. I ordered everything, but she -wouldn't take anything. The doctor says it's her nerves; she's got -to have a long rest." - -"But how'll you keep her from dancing, if you take her South?" - -"She won't want to dance; she's too sick." - -Bob seemed scarcely able to credit that, although he acknowledged -that she looked bad. - -Emily went on: "She's so ashamed of the things she said to you last -summer, Bob. She wanted me to apologize; or rather I said I would, -because she gets so worked up if she begins to talk about it. She -said no girl ever had a better father than you, Bob." - -"Did she say that, honestly, now, Emily?" Bob looked troubled. - -"Yes, she did, sitting at a table, not eating a thing. She'd have -burst out crying if I hadn't made her stop it." - -"By heck! Emily, the kid must be sick!" - -"Yes, she is. The doctor said I have to take good care of her and -keep her out of doors. When you go in to see her, Bob, just pretend -nothing's happened. Don't let her get started apologizing." - -"All right. Do you think--is she over that--that business with that -damned skunk?" - -"Oh yes, I think so. I think she's ashamed of it all." - -"Well, that's something, anyway." - -It was the neighbors who began coming in at once to inquire -sympathetically about Martha, who kept Emily uneasy. Each woman's -solicitude seemed to necessitate the hurried invention of new -details, and Emily, not used to deceit, could scarcely be sure her -stories tallied. Johnnie Benton gave her a moment of difficulty. He -wouldn't be content with vagueness. - -"Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, what is the matter with her, when you get -right down to brass tacks?" - -"Tut, tut, Johnnie! Do you think I haven't been right down to brass -tacks all the time?" - -"Nervous breakdown, that's just a sort of excuse for anything, I -thought." - -"You better think again. A nervous breakdown isn't anything to joke -about." - -"But isn't she going to get up? Aren't we going to see her at all?" - -"She'll be up in a day or two. But, look here, Johnnie, if she -prefers not to see you, I won't insist. I'm not going to have her -annoyed--not a bit, just now." - -"I'm not planning to annoy her." - -"Now don't get fussy. You know very well what I mean. She must be -humored." - -The next day he sent in a great bunch of roses. - -"These would go with the room, I thought," he said, meekly, to Emily. - -She hesitated about taking them in to Martha. She decided to do it, -and regretted her decision, for Martha read the message with them and -tore it up angrily and began to cry. - -Wilton ran in just to call, and asked about the New York doctor. He -was very tactful, very kind. Mrs. Benton came in and gave Emily a -terrible shock. - -"I have half a notion to go South with you, Emily. I can't wait -forever for my sister. I was going to California with her, but she -keeps putting it off. And, anyway, I don't know but what I'd rather -go with you." - -Emily would not urge her to go with them. She didn't dare even -mention such a possibility to Martha. She thanked her lucky stars -that Mrs. Benton's sister was going to be terribly angry if Mrs. -Benton went with Emily. - -When the girls came in, Martha said, wearily: - -"Oh, let them come up if they want to. I suppose they've got to see -me, if they want to. Hand me that vanity case, mammie, please." And -she sat up and rouged a little bit, to defy detection, as it were. - -The third day she was home she got up and came downstairs for lunch -and supper. "I won't have you carrying all those things up to me," -she said to Emily. On Friday she happened to be in the living room -when Greta came in. She received her with little cordiality, and -presently, as they sat there, Emily doing most of the talking, two -more girls came in. Emily was breathing a sigh of relief that the -afternoon had passed so smoothly, as they left. But when she turned -into the living room from seeing them out, Martha burst out: - -"Oh, for the love of Heaven, let's get away, mammie! I can't _stand_ -this. This house; this town. Let's go to-night, please, mammie!" - -"We aren't ready." - -"I am. I'm packed. I'll do your packing. Let's get out of this!" - -Emily wondered when she had got her things out of her painted room. -She had never seen her open the door of it. She said: "I thought you -didn't mind seeing the girls. You could have excused yourself." - -"Yes, I could, and they would have been wondering why. They make me -so sick. They just come prying about to see what they can find out!" - -"That's nonsense. You oughtn't to talk that way. They came just -naturally, because you weren't well." - -"Yes, and asked all those questions!" - -Martha wasn't to be humored in this. - -"I didn't see anything objectionable in what they asked," Emily -responded dryly. - -"You didn't? Didn't you hear Greta asking where Eve was? 'What's -become of Eve this vacation?' she said, just like that." - -"Well, child, why shouldn't she ask you where Eve is spending her -holiday? You've been in school with her all term. You'd be supposed -to know. You forget that Eve about lived in this house last summer." - -"I forget it, do I? Oh, look here, mammie, if I finish your packing, -won't you go to-night?" - -"Our reservations are for to-morrow night. You know that." - -"They'll change them; and if they won't, let's stay in Chicago a -night. I'd rather stay any place in the world than here, mammie." -She was pleading now, not resentfully, but humbly. - -"All right," said Emily, "if daddy agrees." - -Martha turned away impatiently. In the presence of death Bob -Kenworthy had appeared a good father. But Martha, having now to face -life, already found him only an irritation. "It isn't Bob's fault -this time that she wants to get away," Emily thought. - -"And, besides, you've told everybody that we're going to-morrow. And -it would be just like--Johnnie and everybody to be down to the -station to see us off--with a band." - - - - -_Chapter Seven_ - -They traveled directly south until they came to a town which, -stretching out along a blue-and-golden bay, had gone to sleep before -the Revolution and has never been disturbed since. They found it all -ease and dreams and laziness. The shadows of live oaks were its -swiftest motion, and the dancing of oyster schooners over its sea was -all its din. The Kenworthys arrived in the middle of a sunny -afternoon at the sort of hotel to which they had been recommended. -Although they had written they were coming, no one in authority was -in sight to receive them. A slovenly negro maid didn't know what -rooms they were to be in. Leaving their baggage on the veranda, -where the taxi driver had deposited it, they walked down through a -little garden to the snow-white sands and the golden clear water of -the bay. An old man sitting on a bench, his legs wrapped around in a -traveling rug, was sleeping, his bald head nodding, nodding, -helplessly. They walked out to the end of the little pier. They sat -down, and looked into the crystal shallows as jellyfish lapped about -softly. The sun on the water was a lullaby. Emily presently felt -her eyelids growing heavy. - -"This'll be a good place to sleep, anyway," Martha said. The trouble -was, in the days that followed, that Emily could never be sure that -Martha was sleeping. Sometimes when the girl went to her room and, -closing the door, begged not to be disturbed, Emily felt sure, as she -sat listening involuntarily, that she was lying sobbing -heart-brokenly. She never caught her in the act--she avoided -that--but the curves of Martha's cheeks had the shadows and shape of -many tears. - -Emily had helplessly to sit and watch her progressing into -bitterness. The first few days Martha said nothing; she watched the -sea by day; by night she sat and stared into the fire. When Emily -spoke to her, she would turn and bring herself into her mother's -presence bewilderedly. She would look about her wonderingly, like a -lost child in a strange world. Emily's remarks seemed scarcely to -reach her. Her silence was unnatural. Certainly, Emily reflected, -if she could utter the thoughts that seemed to be grinding her down, -she would feel better. She longed to have her begin talking again. - -Hints came out from time to time. Sometimes Martha was not able to -refrain from groaning. The first afternoon they walked away down the -beach, they came to an old cemetery with broken gnarled cypresses in -it, and violets ready to bloom on old French graves. - -Emily said, instinctively, "Let's go in." The gate stood open before -them. - -But Martha cried, "NO! I've had enough of THAT!" She shuddered. - -What Martha said, when she began talking, was frightful. She -resorted to speech only when her sense of outrage had become -intolerable. She burst forth with noise and fury. It happened one -evening that Emily had tarried, partly because Martha had refused so -curtly from the first to pass even the time of day with anyone in the -hotel, to be civil to an old and frail woman who sat alone at an -adjoining table. When she went into her room, she found Martha in -tears on her knees before the fire. She was always poking the fire; -often she poked it viciously. But now she seemed to have attacked it -brutally. She was tearing up papers, or something. - -"What are you doing?" Emily exclaimed. And then she saw. - -"Why, _don't_ do that! That's a library book!" - -But Martha was in a rage. "I don't care if it is! I'll burn up -every copy I ever get my hands on!" She wouldn't let Emily rescue it. -The tears were running down her face. "Such lies!" she raved. "How -can you stand it? Dirty, filthy, rotten, vile lies! That's what's -the matter! Books like that! I could kill that man!" - -There was something sobering in the mere sight of a book being torn -to bits. It was a strong book, powerfully written, and it resisted -its destruction. The pages had to be jerked out, almost one by one. -Martha kept tearing and poking, and urging the flames on. - -"Martha," Emily remonstrated, "you mustn't do that! Don't make it -flame up more!" She had never seen Martha in such a rage. She stood -helplessly watching her folly. - -"Didn't you read it?" Martha cried to her. There was scarcely -anything left of the book now, but the covers. - -"Yes, I read part of it," Emily began, protesting. - -"You believed it, I suppose?" - -"Well, I--I didn't care for it all, much." - -"You didn't care for it! My God! I'm never going to read a book -written by a man again as long as I live! It isn't that they're -fools only; it isn't possible for them to learn anything, even, dirty -fumbling idiots!" - -"That's not very nice language, Martha." - -"Language? What's language? Language isn't anything. Look at the -facts. Are _they_ nice? Look what that rotten man wrote down for -people to read!" - -Emily sat down, and Martha turned around and leaned her head against -her mother's knee and wept. She kept trying to express her contempt -for the book and its author; she felt the need of curses, but her -vocabulary failed her. "That horrid, rotten person," she cried two -or three times. "That nasty brutal old pig." And Emily stroked her -hair and wondered whether to command her to keep still or to -encourage her to talk it out. "He says----" Martha sputtered at -length, crying bitterly. - -"Never mind, child," Emily said quietly. - -But Martha would mind. She controlled her sobs. - -"He says--the filthy old rotten--idiot--that man in the book, he just -went around--you know--mother--falling in love, they call it--and -then he threw one woman away, mammie, because--he said--she didn't -enjoy it! Oh, I could _kill_ that man! _Enjoy_ it, he said, mother! -He said she was always afraid! My God! _He_ hadn't anything to -lose. He ran no risk! They just try to make out that women are like -men, mother, so that they can get them. You'd think women would tell -the truth, wouldn't you, mammie? I'd just like to see Mrs. Wharton -be an old maid and try to hide that child that way! She'd learn a -thing or two. It isn't fair, it's too cruel! They just try to make -girls believe lies like that so they won't be afraid. I was afraid, -all the time. But why wasn't I afraid enough? I must have been -crazy last summer. Honestly, mother, I must have been out of my -mind, to do that. It's women that are fools. It was my own fault. -Does it seem possible, mother, that women can love such--such filthy, -rotten messes as men? I couldn't have been in my right mind. So it -couldn't have been my fault, and look what happened to me! It makes -me so mad to think about it. It isn't fair! Why can't a woman just -turn over and go to sleep, too? Why should she have two lives to -risk, and a rotten, dirty man none at all? Mammie, you don't think I -was in my right mind last summer, do you? I never would have done -that if I'd had any sense. Were any of your people crazy, mammie? -Were daddy's people insane? I mean, two or three generations back?" - -"No, not so far as I know; not one of them. You've got sane people -behind you. Don't cry so, child. It's going to be all right yet." - -"There's no use saying things like that. I WAS crazy, mother. I -couldn't have---- It doesn't seem possible. If I hadn't been out of -my head, I never could have--loved him--a man. Didn't you ever -notice anything strange about me last summer, honestly?" - -"I--I couldn't understand it, but--girls _do_ fall in love. Your -father thought, though----" - -"What did he think?" she urged. - -"He sometimes thought you must be----" - -"Crazy! Did he say crazy?" She was eager to have that lesser -sentence passed on herself. - -"He _did_ say crazy, but you know, Martha, how we say it. Not -meaning literally crazy." - -"No, but I _was_ crazy. Look at the mess I got you into, mother. -What would we ever have done with that----" - -"We don't need to talk about that now. Don't mention it." - -"Yes, we _do_ need to talk about it. I AM a woman. I WILL think -about it. It isn't fair! It's cruel!" - -And on she raved, groaning out the old old groanings. Emily sat -overwhelmed and yearning, trying from time to time to ease her hurt -with the words of her happier experience. Her arguments were less -threadbare, having been used from the first only by women who felt -themselves tenderly loved. - -"It is hard luck to be a woman, if you're unlucky, Martha. But if -you're lucky, it's not women you're sorry for, but men." - -"How can you say that?" - -"Well, they haven't children; they can't have children; they miss -that, the realest joy. After all, children do belong to women. You -belong to me more than to your father." - -"Do you think I don't see through that? I'm not a fool NOW! I do -belong to you. It's _you_ I got into a mess. Dad sits home, not -worrying. And if he did know about it, he'd blame you; he'd say you -spoiled me. It's lovely to have a child like me!" - -"I don't care, Martha. Whatever has happened to you--to us--you've -been my happiness all these years. I don't care what you say, that's -a fact. This time will pass, and we'll be happy again. If you had a -child, you'd understand." - -"If! Don't say 'if' to me! Haven't I had a child?" - -"No, you haven't. You certainly haven't!" - -"I certainly have! Look here, mother, don't you really think I go -crazy, that I've been crazy twice now? It's insane to be hysterical! -Maybe I'll go stark crazy and get put in----" - -"Martha! Martha!" - -They sat there till long after midnight. Emily argued that what -Martha had done was not a symptom of insanity. What, then, was it, -Martha demanded, sorely. And Emily explained the brutal fact that -nothing in life is so perplexing, so inexplicable to look back upon, -as one's own conduct. She found the girl was full of the dread of -publicity. "If he could get his wife to divorce him because of--me, -he'd tell her in a minute!" she cried once. - -"Oh, surely not!" expostulated Emily. She was on the point of saying -that Mr. Fairbanks would never allow that. Then she remembered -bitterly that Mr. Fairbanks had promised to prevent--other things, -and had not been able to keep his promise. - -After all these dregs and outpourings, Emily took her into her own -bed, and realized, as she thought them over, that the girl was lying -sleepless beside her. What, she wondered, wearily, was there left -for her now? She had lost faith in her lover and all mankind. She -had lost faith in herself; she had lost confidence and security from -fear. But what she hated most violently was her own self, that sweet -little bathed and powdered body which Emily had adored every day -since her birth. The flowering of her body, its natural -fruitfulness, was what she resented unto death. She was utterly -undone. She had to be made anew. It was a bitter task to take up. -"I'm too old for it," Emily thought. - -Martha rose in a business-like manner the next morning, earlier than -usual. Usually from their beds they saw the schooner they had called -their own because it had castellated patches on its sail, move like a -dream of a castle through the misty distance. This morning they saw -it together from their place in the dining room. - -"I'm going to ask them to put a writing table in my room this -morning," Martha announced. And when they were walking, later, she -suggested that they go down to the little stores on Main Street. She -wanted, she said, to buy some paper. - -Emily was curious because of the quality and quantity of paper she -ordered. - -"What are you going to do with all that?" she asked, naturally, as -they left the shop. - -Then Martha made her announcement, grimly: "I'm going to write a -novel." - -Emily had supposed nothing could really surprise her ever again. She -found she had been mistaken. She was thoroughly "taken aback." - -Martha was suspicious of her silence. "Why shouldn't I write a -novel?" she challenged. - -"Why, how can you? How can you begin? I'd as soon--why, I'd as soon -try to make a whole train!" - -"I can begin. Don't you worry! It's no trick to write a novel!" - -"Well----" murmured Emily, unable to agree. - -"I made up my mind in the night; if nobody else will tell the truth, -I will! Girls will know a thing or two when they get through with my -novel, I'll bet!" - -Emily held her peace tightly. - -Martha went on defiantly: "I've got its name and everything. I'm -going to call it 'Blistered Women'--like 'Flaming Youth,' you know, -or else, 'Vomiting Love'!" - -"Oh, Martha!" - -"Yes, you'll say 'Oh, Martha!' all right, when you read it! They -used to sit and lecture us about Romance and Realism by the hour! It -took them hours! Idiots! Why couldn't they just say: Romance is -what men think about 'affairs,' the pigs; and Realism is what women -know. Mine's going to be a realistic novel!" - -Emily looked at her and repressed her sighs. She had on that racoon -coat and that small rosy hat. She strode along with her chin up, -defying anyone to stop her. - -After that morning Emily was free to do whatever she might fancy. -She might sit in the sun on the veranda and knit, or she might sit on -the end of the pier and watch the waves. She might walk oyster-shell -roads or sandy paths through turpentine groves. No plan of hers -could entice Martha away from that writing table. She rose early, -and she sat there day after day from nine till one-o'clock lunch. -When Emily ventured occasionally to go into her room, she would see -her writing away, and often her mouth was screwed up into hatred. -Her face seemed to say that if scribbling could kill, there would be -wide slaughter--not of innocents. And sometimes she would be writing -savagely, with tears running down her cheeks. - -Emily might like this novel-writing--and sometimes she thought it -would do Martha good to get this resentment all out of her mind, -expressed in words--of she might disapprove--for certainly Martha was -working as she had never worked before to Emily's knowledge--which -couldn't be good for her shattered nerves. But she was helpless. -She knew if she commanded Martha to stop it, Martha would refuse. -She had a call now; she had a mission in life. Somebody had to tell -the truth. And men, of course, didn't even know what truth was, and -they wouldn't tell it if they did know. Oh, they did make her sick -at her stomach! Emily had to register her protest at times against -Martha's description of what she was writing. - -"It's NOT a nice novel, I know that. I never intended it should be; -but I'll tell you right now, it's a lot nicer than things are in this -world, mammie!" - -In February Bob began writing of their coming home. He -threatened--that was the word Martha used--to come down and see them. -Emily would have welcomed him; she was lonely and unhappy. She said -miserably to herself more than once that what she needed was some -wise and sympathetic person with whom she might talk over Martha's -plight. If Bob was neither wise nor sympathetic, he was always -solicitous and tender at heart. And Martha was often irritable and -unreasonable, and sometimes unconsciously cruel. She seemed at times -to look upon her mother as one of the wrongs life had done her. One -afternoon they were standing together at the end of the pier, looking -at the opalescent sea and the flowery clouds about the sunset. - -She had begun, apropos of nothing but her constant musings, "Mother, -wasn't there something funny about Grandma Kenworthy?" - -"Funny? No. What do you mean?" - -"But she was terribly religious, wasn't she?" - -"She was--religious, certainly." - -"But wasn't she sort of fanatical?" - -"No, she wasn't! Don't you remember her? She was the dearest old -thing that I ever knew--the most companionable woman." - -"But somebody told me--or, anyway, I heard she used to pray, when she -was poor, and she used to believe her prayers were answered, too." - -"Well, that doesn't prove she was--funny. You meant--not quite right -in her mind, didn't you?" - -"Yes. And people say--it's all sort of the same thing, being too -religious--or--you know--like me, mammie." - -"Martha! She was as sane as any woman! What could she do but pray? -She hadn't any health. She hadn't any money for her little boys. -All that woman went through--if she hadn't had a strong mind, she -would have gone crazy! She must have been far better balanced than -most women, let me tell you. And look here, child----" - -"Well?" - -"Why do you go on thinking about insanity? Don't you see you only -did what every woman does? After all, every woman who ever bore a -child submitted to the preliminaries. Didn't she, now?" - -"Preliminaries! My God, mother! How you do talk! You're so high -and holy you never know what I mean! Sometimes I feel as if there -was a gulf between us--a great wide ocean!" - -"Oh, Martha!" - -"I do. You can't understand, mammie, you're so good. I don't know -how you could have had a child like me!" - -That statement explained a good deal of Martha's conduct. She had -been acting exactly as if she had been acutely and unhappily -conscious of her separation from her mother, and Emily tried to -reason her out of it. - -"We are infinitely nearer each other than we were last summer, child!" - -But that was an unfortunate way of putting it. "Oh, don't say last -summer to me, _please_!" Martha cried. - -A day or two later she announced, dryly: "There's no use of my -writing away at that novel. I don't know how. But I'm going to -learn how. It isn't so easy as I thought. I'm going to start in at -the University of Chicago the first of April. I'm going to study -English." - -She plainly wasn't asking permission; she wasn't going to tolerate -advice; she had made up her mind. And Emily, who had been wondering -what in the world to suggest for the immediate future, was relieved. -It might be a very good thing. It would be so great a change of -life; it would supply new food for thought. She had not the vaguest -idea that the novel would ever come to completion. - -She said, "Well, that's an idea. But you must come home for a few -days, child! To get your things, at least." - -"No, I don't want to. You can send them to me, if I need anything. -I never want to go back to that house again as long as I live!" - -"Well, if you feel that way----" - -"You mean I ought to go back, so people won't talk, so they won't -suspect anything?" - -"I didn't mean any such thing! People don't suspect you of anything. -Get that idea out of your head!" - -"I don't see why they shouldn't!" she retorted, cynically. She was -so unhappy, so abrupt and almost brutal, that Emily forgot her good -resolutions, after she was in bed that night, and just wept. She had -to go home without her child. In spite of all that she had planned -to prevent such a climax, Martha hated that house now more -vindictively than her mother had ever hated it. It wasn't Bob, -either, that had driven her away from it; it wasn't Bob that had -alienated her from her mother; it was just luck, it was fate. There -was no appeal. "It's because I stood by her through all this that -she can't stand the sight of me now!" Emily wept. "She's left me. -She's going to a hotel in Chicago alone, to get away from me." - -The day of their departure Martha was all but intolerably irritable. -Emily's patience was almost at an end. She wasn't sure but that her -daughter needed at this late date a thoroughly good spanking; but she -held her peace. It was fortunate indeed that Emily had cultivated a -good grasp on the peace of her mind, for that day she clung to it -desperately. And then it nearly got away from her, more than once. -However, as they were getting into their train at New Orleans, Martha -began, abruptly: - -"Look here, mother, it does make me sore to have you act as if I -couldn't go to a hotel and take care of myself without you. Don't -you think I've learned my lesson yet? Do you think I'm as much of a -fool yet as I was last summer? What can hurt a girl alone in a hotel -but men? I'm as safe as if I was in a desert, or locked in a cell. -If all the men in Chicago were on the bridge, and I got a chance, I'd -push them into the river, filthy little rats! I'd watch them sink. -I should think you'd understand that by now. But you've been good to -me, I know that. And if it will make you any happier, I'll go to the -Y.W.C.A. and stay there till I get a flat. Does that satisfy you?" - -It was so magnificent a concession that Emily blinked. "Oh yes, I -think that would be much better. I'd like that, Martha." - -"All right, then. _I_ won't like it; lots of old cats there; but I -don't want you to be worrying about me. I can take care of myself, I -should hope." - - - - -_Chapter Eight_ - -Wherever Emily went, at home again, she was beset by loquacious -pilgrims returned from a winter in the South or in the West. At -every gathering of women, the hum and babble held to that subject. - -"Well, my brothers have cleared three hundred thousand on their -Florida deals. And we're selling our house and leaving in October. -After all, as I said to John, what's the use of slaving at housework -in Illinois when you can get colored girls in Florida to do your -work?" - -"Well, I'd rather freeze scrubbing floors in Illinois than have those -horrid black women slopping around my house. Do you know, Emily, -what one of them actually said to me? There were no knobs or handles -or anything on the bureau drawers in my room. Shiftless things! And -when I protested, the maid said: 'Well, you don't need no handles. -Leave a stocking hanging out, and give it a jerk and the drawer will -come open.' I wouldn't stay in that hotel a day longer. I just told -Peter I'd stood enough. That's why we went to Daytona." - -"I can tell you a place where everything isn't swimming in cold -grease. They have a Northern cook. Deliver me from Southern fried -cooking." - -"And I found that all the cream that was to be had was shipped in -from Kentucky. That's three or four hundred miles. Imagine a town -that has to ship in cream! They have to paint their cows, or -something, and it don't agree with them." - -"Well, if you'd gone to California in the first place. We've got our -rooms reserved for next year. The view is superb. It scarcely rains -at all there." - -"I never was so sick of glare in my life. I just thought, let me get -back to Illinois. That's good enough for me." - -"The trouble with them is, they won't tip enough. It pays to hand -out money, on the coast, to be comfortable." - -And then they would turn upon Emily, to insist gluttonously upon -details of Martha's health. She had acquired a skill in suave -evasion that surprised her continually. It had all worked out very -well, she would tell them. Martha was much better. She hadn't her -color back, but that would come. Of course, Emily had thought it -would have been better for her not to go back into college so soon; -but she was so ambitious. After she had fallen behind her classmates -in her college, she thought she would stay nearer home, in Chicago. -So lucky that they had the quarter system in the university there. -And if Martha didn't seem able to do the work, Emily would take her -out at once. It was easier to keep an eye on her health if she -studied in Chicago, and she was living just now at the Y.W.C.A. No -one could detect a flaw in the Kenworthy respectability. "Why should -I suppose anyone suspects us of anything?" Emily asked herself. -"I've just got that habit from Martha!" - -She wanted every single passing day that spring to go and see her -daughter. And every day she had to remind herself that her daughter -was not anxious to be reminded of her folly. Her letters were short -and not frequent. And then she wrote briefly that she had taken a -room in an apartment of May Bissel's. Emily pondered that -information dejectedly. Martha must be a very lonely girl if she had -been forced back on to May Bissel for comradeship, for certainly at -home she would have scorned her. - -She abased herself to seek out Mrs. Bissel, to make inquiry about the -news. Mrs. Bissel gushed and reassured her. May hadn't an apartment -alone. No, indeed! Her mother wouldn't allow that, not for a -moment. She and two other girls had a sitting room and two bedrooms -which they rented by the month in the apartment of a grammar-school -teacher. This Miss Curtis used her kitchen from six-thirty until -seven-thirty in the morning, and allowed the girls to use it for -their breakfast for an hour after seven-thirty. They had their -lunches and their dinners out. Miss Curtis kept an eye on May. Not -that May tolerated any real chaperonage, of course, but Mrs. Bissel -felt always that, if May really got sick, or anything happened to -her, Miss Curtis would be there to let her mother know. Miss Curtis -was a thoroughly dependable woman, and she came from a town in -western Iowa where Mrs. Bissel's sister lived. - -And that was all the comfort Emily had. Every day she said to -herself time and again: "No, I must not go. She doesn't want to see -me; she told me so flatly." Finally--it seemed finally--though it -was only six low-spirited weeks after they had parted in Chicago, -Martha wrote and asked her mother to come and see her. The letter -was not affectionate; it was scarcely cordial. Either Martha was -ashamed of the way she was treating her mother, or she was -intolerably lonely. Emily didn't know which. - -When she saw the place her daughter of the painted room was living -in, she marveled at her endurance. It was an apartment building -which had been got ready hastily and cheaply for the Columbian -Exposition. On the second floor front was a muddily tempestuous -living room which Martha shared with the two girls. She showed it to -her mother contemptuously. "Imagine sitting in a place like this. -The art student did it--the one whose place I took. When they offer -anybody a chair, they dump its contents out on to the floor. They're -simply pigs." Out of this front room a tiny front bedroom opened, -which was Martha's. It was the most comfortable room in the house. -"I bought those curtains and the bedspread; but feel them, mammie. -They've been up three weeks now, and they're grimy. That smoke comes -in from across the street." She spoke dispiritedly. Behind the -living room was a bedroom with one window which the two girls shared; -behind that, off a dark hall, another bedroom, rented to a "medic"; -behind that, the dining room where Miss Curtis lived; behind that, -the kitchen. It was only at second sight that the bathroom seemed -disgusting. It was all dark, smoke discolored, meager. - -Her work in the university wasn't bad, she said. She wrote a theme -every day, and it was good practice. She had to read a lot of trash -in her literature courses. "I have to read every day a novel some -silly flea or other wrote." (Males had been pigs a few months ago in -her estimation. They had shrunk to rats, and now what less could -they become than fleas? Emily wondered.) "I don't finish them. I -get too sick. They revolt me. I tabulate them. Look, mammie!" She -showed Emily a large notebook. "Here's seventeen what they call -great novelists, and only two of them know anything, really. If they -show any signs of knowing the difference between men and women, I put -them in this column. 'Brass-tackers' I call them. Funny they're -both Russian, isn't it? All the rest of the idiots are here." She -had labeled them "Preliminaries," because they think that's all there -is to it. "Oh, mammie, you must read _Crime and Punishment_. -Dostoieffsky knew. That poor little Sonia, mother! I'll lend you -this. She just covered herself up with a green shawl and shuddered -when she came in. You could just see her shudder, if you were in -that room." But in that room on Fifty-seventh Street no one saw -Emily Kenworthy shuddering. "And that!" Martha pointed scornfully to -a volume of Wells. "They make me read even _that_ sort of stuff. -You wait till people read my novel; I'll bet you they'll begin to see -through those men. Why does Wells have all his maternal women sort -of freaks, or something, and all his heroines not maternal? There's -a reason, believe me!" - -"Are you still working on the novel?" - -Martha turned on her indignantly. "Well, I like _that_! What did -you think I was putting up with this filthy place for?" - -Emily suggested timidly at least occasional week-ends at home. - -"Don't talk to me about that!" Martha pleaded. - -Emily went back thoroughly discouraged. Was that any place of -healing for the child? It was no change, if Martha was to go on -working on that volume of hate. She was as hard as ever; she was -thinner and she was yellow. All the comfort Emily found was in -saying over and over to herself a line which had no connection in her -mind with anything. She thought vaguely perhaps it came from the -Bible. "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" She tried often -to think of what followed; of another wording for it. It was that -line, which she felt she was not saying correctly, that she lived by. -And sometimes, there in her living room, she thought of Mr. -Fairbanks' unfortunate daughter. Her wound, he said, had never -healed; it had corrupted and poisoned her. "I spoiled her," Emily -would muse. "She's been taken away from me; I've got to stand -aside." And then she would say again, because she couldn't help it, -"What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" - -She went on despising life. She would not desist from protesting -against it. She said, "If only Martha had quarreled with Bob, I -could go to her, sometimes. I could live with her in Chicago. I -don't suppose she will come back to this house now, if I should die. -I never thought she would hate both me and the house. I must do -something now, to keep from thinking. I better adopt a child for a -while. I ought to write and ask somebody to come and stay with me -this summer. There's that old Miss Jenson; but Bob would never stand -her. Or we might do over all the rooms downstairs. If Martha would -only come and help me. But if she would come and help me, I wouldn't -need to do it! I believe I'll try hybridizing hemorocalis. Or what -in the world will I do? If only I had had a house full of children! -If Bob would only take an hour or two off, now and then! I've got to -settle down to this. I mustn't fuss because Martha can't endure the -sight of me. It's my own fault. I spoiled her, some way. But I -never meant to! ... Thank God, it's time to clean house!" - -But now, as always, she entered that festival with no high-hearted -challenge to mess and accumulation. She followed Maggie from room to -room loyally but without enthusiasm. The idea of leaving the -abandoned painted room stagnant never entered the head of the old -servant. She attacked it so furiously that Emily hadn't the heart to -say to her that all her burnishings would be futile. She shut its -door at last with the feeling of spineless hope she had when she -looked, for some justifiable reason, at the baby clothes she had -folded away. There they were, all ready at hand, in case she ever by -some good luck might need them again--not that there was much hope, -of course. She loitered along after Maggie into the next battlefield. - -And then, when it was all done, when on the newly painted veranda -every summer chair had its freshest garments tied on, Emily, being -finished with dust, washed her hair one day and dried it in the sun -in the garden, remembering how Martha always protested against the -waste of time which so much long thick hair took for drying. It -seemed almost as if the spring and weather, pleased with the way the -brown hair rippled in its dampness, laid a trap to catch the little -girl who had played in that garden. For then a shower came up, after -noon, and passed over, and the sun came out with a dazzling soft -afternoon brilliance. In the blossoming apple trees orioles were -calling, and robins were hopping about in the wet petals below them. -The grass was all young, and heavenly green, and the air had a soft -and glittering cleanness. It was an afternoon to make even the dull -feel that to forget its very quality was to have lived in vain. -Emily had played about in the garden all the afternoon. She came -into the house to get some labels stowed away in a drawer in her -desk. She sat down and began sorting them---- - -And into the living room, bareheaded, laden with coats and bags, -walked Miss Martha. - -She came in quietly, as if it had been an ordinary coming. She was -bringing some one to her mother. - -"This is Miss Curtis, mother," she explained. "We drove out. It was -such a nice day. I suppose you can put us up? Gee! It smells good -here! How long till supper? We're starved, mammie. Sit down, Miss -Curtis, I'll bring the things in myself!" - -Emily saw a large and flabby-looking woman, in a nondescript -tan-colored coat and a small black hat, who might have been fifty. -She pulled off her hat and apologized for the untidiness of her -stringy hair, and good reason she had for apologizing. She had a -rather fine square face; she had kindly eyes. But the most -impressive thing about her was her utter weariness. - -And Martha came in again, with more bags and parcels. - -"Can't we have asparagus for supper, if I go out and cut it?" she -asked. - -Miss Curtis was eager to get out into the garden. There was not a -moment to be lost. The immortal afternoon was wearing away. They -would only run up to their rooms. - -"Can I have the little guest room, mammie?" Martha had asked. "I -want her to have the big one." - -And presently there she was, just as if nothing had happened, coming -out of the house and down the path towards her mother and Miss -Curtis, under the willow tree, bareheaded and carrying the very old -colander and the very old knife she had used for cutting asparagus -ever since, as a little girl, she had been allowed that privilege. - -"You've never eaten asparagus unless you've cut it," she was -explaining to her guest. "Ten minutes from the garden to the kettle, -that's when it's good, really." - -She was better, Emily said to herself. She was subdued; she was -thoughtful of her guest. She had ceased, for the moment, to rail. -She was showing Miss Curtis all the garden. The asparagus had -already been cut once that day, for Bob was fond of it. But there -was enough just for two. And this warm rain would bring more on by -to-morrow. And she took what she had found into the house, and -returned to show her wild-flower bed. - -"Look what a little cultivation does for violets here. They aren't -really modest, under mossy stones. They're only starved. They get -swanky enough when you give them a place to grow," she said. "And -look at the Dutchman's breeches! And here's my old -jack-in-the-pulpit. And look at the peonies! Gee, mammie! Mrs. -Benton will be budding all over the county before long." She made -Miss Curtis admire her willow tree, and the clear water gurgling -along beneath it. - -"You're a glutton for education, Martha," Miss Curtis sighed, "to be -living with me in the city when you might be out here at home!" And -she went in to get ready for supper. - -Left alone for a moment with her mother, Martha stood sniffling. - -"I had forgotten it smelled so good, so clean!" she said, wistfully. -"I simply hate Chicago. It's just sickening when spring comes. -Everybody goes out of town for week-ends. All the teachers go down -to the dunes, and bring nice little mossy things back with them, -mammie. That's why I came out here. They wanted Miss Curtis to go -with them; and she wanted to, too. But she can't afford it; it costs -two or three dollars, she says. It would cost me ten!--to go away -for a week-end. She's such a good old dear, isn't she, mammie? I -tried to get her to go some place with me for the week-end. But she -wouldn't hear of me paying the bills. I did want her to get away. -And then she said I could come down and visit her school; and I did. -My God! mammie! If you could see that room of hers on a spring -afternoon. Close is no word for it. Smelling of all the dirty -little wops that have never been bathed in their lives. All wiggling -and squirming and wanting to get out of doors, of course. I tell you -I could hardly stand it for an hour. And to see her sticking shut up -in there, day after day, for six years! It made me so mad! I just -made up my mind to bring her out here for the week-ends. That -wouldn't cost her even the price of a bed. I went and bought a car, -and she hadn't an excuse left. I'm going to put her to bed after -supper. She's ready to collapse. She had a chill the other evening, -she was so done up. We had to get the doctor. If you'd seen that -room, you'd wonder why she isn't dead. Isn't she a sort of nice old -thing, mammie?" - -"It is for this woman's sake she has come home," Emily was trying not -to think. "She never realizes _I'm_ lonely. I'm only her mother, -after all!" - -"I'm sure she needs a change, Martha. Are you still getting her -suppers?" - -"You wait till you see what a good cook I'm getting to be! There is -stuff you can get to eat for thirty cents, if you hunt round. Oh!" -exclaimed Martha Kenworthy. "There's dad home. I heard the car -stop," she sighed. - -In the living room she confronted him. - -"Hello, kiddo!" he cried. "You here?" He looked at Emily, and then -he grew cordial. He knew _he_ couldn't have made his wife's face -shine so. "It's pretty good to see you again!" He kissed her. "You -drove down? Did you borrow the car from the fire department? Whose -is it?" - -"It's mine," said Martha. - -"No!" - -"Yes, it's mine." - -"Huh! I'd have given you one at wholesale." - -Emily knew Bob felt brutally slighted. If there was one subject on -which he might expect a daughter to ask his advice, surely it was on -the purchase of a car. Emily felt that, but Bob never uttered one -word of complaint. It was unexpected nobleness of him. She knew -why: he had been worried by her dejection and loneliness. If having -that girl at home made Emily gay again, he was determined not to -antagonize her. - -So peace reigned over the asparagus at the supper table. Emily got -the candles out, because Martha loved them. And when the fragrant -dusk deepened, it was Martha who rose to light them, as usual. - -"Don't they make just a sweet light here?" she asked Miss Curtis. -She sat looking at them flickering; she watched the shadows of them, -and the way they lit up the apple-blossom bouquet she had brought in. - -She studied the room wistfully. "I'd forgotten the dining room was -so large," she remarked. She seemed reluctant to leave the -candle-light when supper was over. So the three women sat on; Martha -sat with her elbows on the table, dreaming towards the little flames, -as she had always done, but taking her part in the conversation -thoughtfully. Her one thought seemed to be for Miss Curtis's -enjoyment. - -Miss Curtis was interested in Mrs. Benton, and Martha rehearsed the -history of the swimming park, with now and then a twinkling comment, -not spontaneous, a remark calculated to entertain her guest, who -questioned her. Emily occasionally took her eyes from Martha's face -long enough to glance at Miss Curtis. Even dusk and twilight failed -to make her interesting. She looked now only like complete fag. But -Martha was mysterious, tantalizing to maternal interest. She was -thin, still. She was hushed; but she was steady. She was safe. -Miss Curtis wasn't sitting apprehensively waiting for outbursts of -bitterness. - -Martha had planned to drive Miss Curtis and her mother on Saturday -some distance down the river, and have a picnic. The day was fine -enough, but Miss Curtis found herself extremely tired from her ride -of the day before; besides, as she said, the garden itself was a -picnic for her; she would be content to stay there for months. -Martha had come downstairs that morning dressed for the day, as soon -as Bob had left the house, and had proceeded to the kitchen, where -she had got a tray daintily ready for her guest; and she had carried -it up to her as if she had always been in the habit of preparing -early breakfast for people. Then she had carried an easy chair and -cushions and rugs out almost to the river; and in the sun she had -prepared a sleeping-place for their morning, where they could all -three watch the orioles in the apple trees, and Martha could lie -about on the grass, now and then exerting herself to dig up a -dandelion. In the afternoon Miss Curtis, with a book, slept there, -while Martha, putting in the later "glads" with her mother, watched -the untidy head nodding towards rest with obvious satisfaction. When -she woke, after a few minutes, she recalled her duty. - -"Really, I ought to 'phone Mrs. Bissel that I'm here," she told -Martha. - -But Martha said: "We should worry. You can call her up--next -week--or the next time we're down." - -Emily heard that with satisfaction. She had known all the day that -Martha avoided even the front garden, where the neighbors would the -more surely learn of her return. It was lucky, the way everyone -happened to be too busy to "run in" that Saturday or Sunday. - -When the unworthy red car drove away on Sunday afternoon, both its -passengers declared it had been a most successful week-end. Emily -understood why Martha could say that truthfully. She had wanted Miss -Curtis to enjoy it, and Miss Curtis had enjoyed it, and that was -enough justification for it. It had been, in a way, a triumph for -the house. Martha had said she never wanted to see it again as long -as she lived, and she had seen it, not unhappily. She had even -acknowledged its dearness, she had stayed in the house with her -father, and she must have seen that when they both tried to, they -could get along without disagreement. She had promised, moreover, -chuckling over her success, to bring Miss Curtis back just as soon as -possible. Miss Curtis had asked her to, cunningly. For Emily had -taken Miss Curtis aside, and begged her, some way, to get Martha out -again soon for a week-end. Martha needed the change so much, Emily -had pleaded. Miss Curtis had agreed to that. - -"And she won't leave that work of hers for a day, as you know, unless -she thinks she's doing you a great favor," Emily had insisted. - -Miss Curtis was eager to do Mrs. Kenworthy whatever favor she could. - -"Only get Martha to bring you down; bring her home some way!" Emily -had pleaded, not adding, "That's more than I can do!" - -So for four week-ends the unequal pair arrived. Martha brought all -sorts of treats out for her guest, thick steaks and expensive -chocolates. "I'm not going to have you doing it all, mammie!" she -had answered to Emily's protests. She was always in the kitchen now, -helping Maggie. Emily understood that the kitchen was the part of -the house least tainted by memories. She was still rising to take -breakfast up to Miss Curtis. Emily scarcely ever got her to stay -late in bed, although she was herself distressingly thin and yellow. - -From Sunday till Friday Emily spent every free moment thinking over -all that her daughter had said, all the expressions of her face; all -the gestures of her significant little hands. It had been -impossible, of course, for Martha to avoid her old friends -altogether. She received them patiently, gravely. "That poor old -thing's got to have these days in the country," her manner seemed to -her mother to say, "so I just have to put up with these silly, -giggling girls for her sake." She felt separated from them by a -great distance; she got on better with people of Miss Curtis's age, -even with Mrs. Benton. That neighbor was showing Martha unusual -attention. Emily couldn't help wondering if Mrs. Benton was coming -to wish Martha would marry her boy. Why should she have made a point -of showing Martha's guest such kindness? She had a little lunch in -her honor. Emily marveled to see how Martha seemed to belong to that -tableful of women in their forties. Mrs. Benton wanted Miss Curtis -to come out for the annual opening of the beach. She suggested that -Martha take a class of little girls who wanted to learn dancing -during the summer. - -At that suggestion Martha announced flatly that she wasn't going to -be home for the summer. She had decided to go on studying during the -summer quarter. "I lost such a lot of time last winter, when I -wasn't well, that I've got to make it up," she announced, seriously, -looking straight and frankly at Mrs. Benton. - -This zeal for education led Cora Benton to say later to Emily, "You -ought to be thankful Martha wants to study all summer." And she gave -such a sigh that Emily said, quietly: - -"What's the news from Johnnie? When's he to be home?" - -"He's flunked. He isn't going to get his degree. He's not coming -home!" - -"Oh, Cora, that's too bad!" - -"Oh, I was prepared for it. Charles Fenton got a traveling -scholarship. I wish you'd spread the news, Emily. I don't enjoy -announcing it, especially." - -"Oh, well, Cora." - -"I knew you'd say that." - -"What else can I say?" retorted Emily. - -"I know it. There isn't anything to be said; but people will find -enough to talk about, you know that." - -"Has he got a job?" - -"Yes; that is--a sort of a job." Her voice forbade even friendly -inquiry. - -Martha said, when Emily told her of it, "I bet he's gone into the -movies." - -Emily was annoyed by her cynical comment. - -"Why should you think Johnnie's gone into the movies!" - -"Well, it would be just like him; and he's got such lovely ears. -People who can move their ears the way he can never have nice ones, -really. Or else he's playing baseball, or rubbing them down, or -something." - -Later Emily ventured timidly to protest against Martha's plan for the -summer. Although in Miss Curtis's quieting presence Martha never -railed, still, when she was with her mother alone, there came forth -at times spurtings of molten resentment and red-hot bitterness -against the nature of things in general, and her nature in -particular, so that Emily was never sure what the effect of her words -might be. On this occasion Martha turned upon her quickly, in a -manner which cried, "Get thee behind me, Satan!" - -"I suppose you want me to give up my novel altogether! It's not so -easy as I thought. I've started to do it all over. I didn't even -know what form was, when I began. It's all out of proportion! And -you want me just to loaf. If I don't tell the truth about things, -who's going to, I'd like to know? Do you think I'm going to let all -these idiots that call themselves realists just go on spoofing girls, -and never say a word to them? I'm going to have it all done by -Christmas, and send it to some publisher." - -One day the second week of July she called Emily up from Chicago by -'phone. Could she bring Miss Curtis and a little niece down for a -week or two? Could she, indeed! When Emily told Bob about that -'phone message, he looked at her. She thought it pitiful that he -should say with exaggerated eagerness: - -"Good! That's fine, Emily." - -Emily thought at first sight that Saturday morning, that the child -was quite as commonplace as her aunt. She was inclined to be fat; -she was shy; she had a featureless little soft face, and blue eyes, -and brown bobbed hair and a husky voice; but by noon Emily loved her. -Her disposition evoked admiration. She had a way of going suddenly -to her aunt and kissing her heartily, that was very spontaneous and -endearing. Without warning, as they all sat at the dinner table, she -rose from her place and went and threw her fat arms about Miss -Curtis's neck and gave her a resounding kiss, as though it was the -only thing to do, and then quietly went back to her chair. Bob was -amused by her lack of self-consciousness; and, during dessert, he -acquired quite suddenly an admiration that was all but awe for Miss -Curtis. - -She had happened to say that she had never, as a matter of fact, been -so well at the end of a school year. - -"But of course I was never so well taken care of in my life." She -was speaking towards Emily. "Never in my life, before, Mrs. -Kenworthy, have I happened to--be living--so that anybody brought my -breakfast to me in bed. That's never happened to me before." It -wasn't a complaint; it was merely a fact, stated impersonally. - -Emily knew perfectly what she meant, but she had to ask the question -to enlighten Bob. - -"Your colored girl comes early, then, now?" she asked. - -"Not the colored girl; this little white girl," she said, indicating -Martha affectionately. "This girl simply bosses me about I don't -dare to get up and get my breakfast, in my own house." - -Martha said: "Oh, that's nothing. Mother always did that for me." - -Emily saw that Bob was on the point of crying, "My God!" She blessed -him for refraining. - -But afterwards he said to her: "Well, you wouldn't think it, to look -at her, but there's something in that woman, Emily; she's a great -woman! I didn't suppose anybody in the world could get that girl up -in the morning. Don't you think the kid's sort of different?" - -"Improved, you mean?" - -"Well, yes, I guess so." - -"She's found somebody who needs her help. She always was a -tender-hearted child, and she's sorry for Miss Curtis. She just -about runs her flat for her." - -"Well, I hope she'll stick around awhile. She'll do the kid good." - -Emily was on the point of retorting, "She does you good yourself!" -for Bob's somewhat tentative forebearance was in part due to the -stranger's presence. When there had been young girls at the table, -Bob could "roast" Martha and them all together in one breath. And -Martha, who had established herself as a protector and commander of a -woman like Miss Curtis, couldn't act like a baby before her when she -was with her father. Emily was beginning to see that Miss Curtis, -pretending to be so docile, managed Martha by means of the slightest -little hints of ridicule. By one smile she could take all the wind -out of Martha's naughty sails. - -Emily was moved by the grave and tender manner in which Martha took -charge of the child, to relieve the aunt. She had told her on the -way down that there was in her mother's house a rainbow room prepared -for little girls, so that the child went into it eagerly, and -accepted it as gravely as Martha gave it to her. Its builder and -maker opened all its drawers and cupboards, displayed the electric -stove and the fudge-making dishes. - -Miss Curtis was on the point of expressing surprise that she hadn't -seen the room before. - -"Oh, we keep it locked; we never show it to anybody. It's too awful. -Mother let me have it done over to suit myself, and I can't endure -the sight of it!" - -"Well, I don't know; I think it's--rather--a nice room--after you've -looked at it a little." - -Emily was there. She felt Martha was annoyed for the moment by her -presence. - -She said, "It's a lovely room; it grows on you." - -"If I was you I'd have it papered, mammie. Make it into a good guest -room." - -"I will not!" said Emily, emphatically. Did Martha suppose she would -just agree to the idea that there should be no daughter's room any -longer in the house? - -"I'm afraid Ruth might spoil something, Martha. You don't mean to -let her turn your stove on. Ruth, don't do that!" - -"She can't hurt anything. The first day it rains I'll show her how -to make candy up here, or maybe we'll cook a little supper up here -and invite your aunt and my mammie." And Martha smiled gravely at -the happy child. "Nice days like this it's better to play out in the -yard. I'm going to show you how to make a beautiful kind of a -playhouse out there." - -They were running in and out of the house, collecting their -house-building material. They were up in the tree. Emily could have -imagined that Jim Kenworthy was playing there in the garden with his -little niece. For, after a little, four pieces of rope came dangling -down from certain limbs of that tree. Presently they were weighted -down taut by four bricks tied to them, just missing the grass. These -ropes were the four corners of the house. In a few minutes the walls -of old sheets were being safety-pinned into place. And a fifth taut -rope came down for the side of the door. And the rag rugs were being -spread on the grass inside. "And where are those old little chairs, -mammie? Where are my old things? Where's my little table been put?" -They were running up and down from the attic, dustily. At dinner -time Ruth was more talkative than ever before. Nobody else knew how -to build as nice playhouses as Uncle Jim, she told her auntie as they -sat down. He had invented that kind of playhouse. - -"Uncle Jim who?" asked Bob, suddenly. - -Ruth looked blank. "I don't know Uncle Jim who," she said. "I just -mean Martha's Uncle Jim." - -"Oh," said Bob. He looked at her keenly. He looked at Emily. -"Funny," his face seemed to say, "to hear this child of a stranger -talking about Jim." - -Ruth babbled on. She seemed to know a surprising lot about Uncle -Jim. She had appropriated him along with the painted room and the -playhouse. After lunch she took Bob by the hand and led him out to -see it. - -Emily hoped Martha saw the two of them walking down the path -together. The sight some way made her think of Bob in the graveyard -on Decoration Day--standing looking at the tombstone he had erected -there for his beloved brother. In spite of Emily's protest he had -engraved on it: "In memory also of his son James Kenworthy, -1903-1918--who died an unnecessary death, alone and unafraid." - -Mrs. Benton, of course, had been in and seen Ruth. At once she had -given orders to the guard that the child was to have special swimming -lessons. And she was at the beach with her aunt, the fourth day of -their visit, when Martha, having driven Emily about the town on some -errands, turned the car towards the country. - -"I want to tell you something, mammie!" she had said. - -Emily was gratified that Martha cared to talk to her alone, for -although she had been polite, always when Miss Curtis was there, she -had been distant. Now she chose a road little traveled, and, -settling down to drive slowly, she burst abruptly into intimacy. - -"Mother, I want to tell you something! It's the most surprising -thing you ever heard in your life! You won't believe it!" - -"Of course I will." - -"Well, guess who Ruth _is_! _Guess_, mammie!" - -"Why? Isn't she Miss Curtis's brother's child?" - -"She's Miss Curtis's own child. She's her mother, mammie!" - -Emily was dazed. She murmured her incredulity. - -"I _told_ you you wouldn't believe it! You could have knocked me -down with a feather when she told me. Did you ever hear of such a -thing in your life? It's too funny, mother. Why did we take so to -each other, in the first place? Why did she understand me so? -Because she'd been through the same hell herself! It's too strange!" - -"Why Martha! How old is she?" - -"I don't know how old she is, exactly. I don't think she's more than -thirty-five. She kept the child with her for four years; then she -had to have more money, and she came to Chicago to teach, and left -her there, not at her own house, but in Iowa. She was a very -delicate child, and she couldn't leave her and go teaching, with just -anybody. She has an awfully good home for her, and she's going to -bring her to Chicago when she starts high school, if she keeps well. -Imagine, mammie! It makes me boiling mad when I think of that woman -slaving away to support that child, and some damned man running -around not caring. Isn't she magnificent, mammie? Being good to all -those dirty kids in her school! That's why she never has a cent to -spend; that's why she eats thirty-cent suppers. And when I think how -I came along, and just took care of her and helped her all I could, -not knowing, I could just sing! You see those dresses Ruth has got? -I bought them all for her; she had only--sort of plain little things, -and not enough. They had to be washed out. Makes me so mad to think -about it." - -"But, Martha, how--how did you find this out?" - -"She _told_ me herself. You see--she wouldn't say what she was going -to do when her school was out, at first. She sort of hung off--she -wouldn't say who was coming into the flat, or when she'd rented it -for. Then when I insisted on staying--the other girls were -leaving--she said she wanted to keep it a few days, because she was -having company from the country. I knew she was tired out, so I said -I'd help her entertain them. I'd drive them around. But she didn't -want me to. I thought, maybe, they were--sort of funny country -people, or something. And, anyway, she didn't intend having any real -vacation. She said she was going to spend her vacation with her -sister, whose husband has T.B. of the bones, and she has a whole -family of children, and she does her own washing and everything. -Miss Curtis was going to take care of that man sick in bed, and of -the kids, and give her sister a rest. That's just like her, mother. -And I just put my foot down and said she had to come here and have a -few days' rest herself first. And then she hummed and hawed, and -said her niece wanted to come and see Chicago. And then, when all -the girls were gone, she told me. She said, 'She's my very own -child, Martha.' Just like that! I'd begun to suspect something -funny by that time; and even then I thought maybe she had adopted her -or something. I couldn't believe it. How could I believe that of a -woman like Miss Curtis? And then, mammie, I wish you'd have seen -those two when Ruth got there. They just sat down together and cried -for joy! You know me, mammie; I'm not sentimental, but I went into -my room and cried my eyes out when I remembered how they looked at -each other!" - -"Well, of all things!" - -"Yes! To _think_ that I found her! She said once to me that she'd -lived in that flat with students for six years, and she'd never let -anybody share her meals with her but me. She doesn't make friends -easily--naturally. We understood each other; I didn't know why, of -course! And I suppose the reason she talked to me about all her -relations so much was so I wouldn't suspect she was hiding anything! -Think what she's been through, mammie! Ruth doesn't live near her -people, you know. They're in Iowa. They must know about her, of -course, but apparently she doesn't take Ruth to them. She just goes -out there to see her, or takes her some place. And, mammie, that -family that keep her, they love her; they want to adopt her; they do -everything for her. Miss Curtis won't be jealous of them, but they -have her nearly all the time. My God! Mammie, when I think of it! -She can always come here, can't she, mammie? We can be friends to -her, mammie!" And when Martha turned to her mother her eyes were -swimming with tears. "Think of that child's future! Isn't she a -sweet little thing? She doesn't do very well in school; she's so -happy, she's lazy. Miss Curtis says she absolutely refused to bring -her here until I told her Mrs. Bissel and May had gone to the lakes." - -"Of course she can come here! We'll make a home for Ruth here!" - -"But we can't do much, mammie. Miss Curtis is so independent, I can -hardly manage her. You see, she won't accept anything from me, -hardly. But she can't refuse to let me get Ruth things. I got her -that doll, of course. I'd like to get hold of that child's father a -little while! I bet I'd put the fear of God into him! Mammie, I -can't tell you how worked up I've been over this, this last week. -When I look at that woman, I just sort of shiver with admiration. -She breaks me up so. Isn't she sporting? Isn't she a brick? Look -what she is and what she's been through! I look at her and wonder if -there's anything in the world a woman can't do! And like as not the -school board will find it all out, some day, and fire her! I'm never -going to lose track of that child; I'm going to keep friends with -her! Mammie, I've been--excited all week! I had to tell you! It -seems too strange!" - -"It does seem too strange," Emily repeated. - -"By heck! what a novel I'm going to write! This--sets me up; this -eggs me on so! I'm going to change a lot of it; I'm going to make it -hotter!" - -"Does Miss Curtis know about the novel?" - -"Yes. She knows I'm writing it; but she doesn't know why." - -Emily marveled; she kept on marveling. She was as excited as Martha -was the next few days. She had to keep from looking at Miss Curtis -too intently; that woman had become almost too poignantly -interesting. It was as if she was living Emily Kenworthy's life and -Martha's. It seemed impossible to believe Martha's story. Miss -Curtis was unromantic, so dull, so sensible. She seemed almost -stupidly passionless--except when the child came running to her. And -when Emily saw her draw little Ruth to herself, and push her fringe -of hair away from her forehead, and look at her, she had to believe -that Martha had stumbled upon the truth of the situation. The woman, -undoubtedly, was maternity itself. Had she some way guessed what -Martha had been through, and told her this secret for some unselfish -purpose? Could she have loved some one beyond all reason? How had -she managed to hide her shame? How had she endured the pity and the -jeerings of the secure and holy? Emily found herself in Martha's -state. She quivered with curiosity and reverence, and a desire to -befriend those two. Could that woman be living in fear that some day -when her secret would become known, she would be without a means of -earning her living? "I must pretend not to be very much interested -in her!" Emily kept saying. But she understood why Martha had felt -so lifted up by her discovery. - - - - -_Chapter Nine_ - -Mrs. Benton stepped in for a minute one afternoon, on her way home. -"Where's Bob?" she asked, cautiously. - -"He's gone downtown." - -"I just thought I'd tell you about Johnnie. He's going to be home in -about three weeks, I think, or maybe four. So it would have to come -out, anyway. Do you know what he's doing this summer?" - -"No. You didn't tell me." - -"Well, he got a job as a steward on a boat going to South America; a -steward, Emily. Carrying coffee around on a little tray; and from -there he went to Hong-Kong on some sort of a ship." - -"Goodness! What a lot of the world he's seeing!" - -"Yes; carrying coffee into women's staterooms, and they won't have -their hair combed!" - -"Still, he's seeing the world! How did he get the job?" - -"Oh, I don't know. Went with some of his boon companions to New -York, and there was a strike, and they just got jobs and went away. -He didn't wait to ask my advice, of course." - -Emily hesitated. - -"What's he planning to do next year?" - -"He won't be planning anything. I'm planning to have him go back and -get his degree. I'm going to my sister's for a little rest before he -gets home." - -"You haven't been away at all all summer." - -"Well, if I'm going to manage the beach, I've got to be on the job. -You haven't been away, either." - -"I couldn't think of leaving Bob." - -Mrs. Benton's glance spoke disagreeing volumes. - -A month later, Emily met Johnnie with his mother coming out of the -post office. Just the same old Johnnie, happy-go-lucky and careless, -grinning and frank. The Orient had conferred upon him no subtlety, -Spanish America had taught him no guile. A small chance they had -had, to be sure. A longer one would have been as ineffective. He -came to see Emily that same day. She looked at him curiously, -envying him his experience. To have smelled China! to have blinked -at Brazil! - -All he said was: "Sure I had a good time; I earned my own living, -anyway. And there's no garbage can in the world I can't eat out of -now, after what I lived on across the Pacific. When's Martha to be -home?" - -Emily didn't know. She gave him, rather reluctantly, her address. - -He drove up to Chicago the next day, in the new car his mother had -ordered as soon as he left Hong-Kong for San Francisco. Cora Benton -said he had gone to see Martha, she felt sure, because he refused to -take her with him. But what happened when their children met neither -mother knew. Presently Johnnie went back East to college, driving -the new car. Mrs. Benton said she really didn't need it. She wasn't -well, and she was going to California early, for all the winter. Her -tone implied that the town would just have to worry along without her -as best it might. She hated, she said, having the children's -Christmas party in the hall fall through. - -Emily was drawing all the comfort about her that she could get from -the fact that she was still, at any rate, with Miss Curtis, when -Martha wrote that she had left her flat. She had got a better place -in the apartment of a woman doctor in the neighborhood. The -announcement upset whatever peace of mind Emily had achieved. Could -Martha have quarreled with her friend? A woman doctor, Emily would -have thought, was the last person she would have taken up with. -There came a dull day when she said to herself that she didn't care -whether Martha wanted her or not, she was going to Chicago to see -where she was living. - -But in the train her heart grew heavier. Martha had said distinctly -that she had no room for company. She must have written that to warn -her mother not to come investigating. This doctor person wasn't one -you could just disturb. So Emily shopped all the afternoon, -dispiritedly. Once she tried in vain to get Martha by 'phone. She -sat in Field's tea-room an hour, determined not to go back home -without seeing her child, yet dreading to find herself unwelcome. -That would be more than she could endure. She felt tears coming into -her eyes, at length. "I can't stay here and make a fool of myself!" -she thought, angrily. She went down to the street into the darkness -and got into a taxicab. And, after a long time, during which Emily -commanded herself repeatedly not to be silly, the taxi stopped in -front of a very smart new apartment house. - -Emily announced herself up the speaking tube meekly, half expecting a -rebuff. "This is Martha Kenworthy's mother. Is Martha in?" - -"Ho!" cried an exuberant voice in surprise. "Wait a moment!" - -Some one was running down the stairs to show her the way up. Emily -was conscious of a richly carpeted hall, a large gay room, a stunning -seal-brown frock on a woman as large as herself, with a fine head, a -high color, a heart-warming sort of person of great vitality. - -"Mrs. Kenworthy! Do come in! I know all about you. Sit down. I'm -Isobel Stevenson. No, Martha isn't here just now; I'll 'phone her. -She's getting dinner at Miss Curtis's. I am glad to see you; I've -been curious about you, after all I've heard." - -She picked up the 'phone from a desk in the room, asked for the -number without looking it up, and went on talking all the time she -waited for her connection. - -"Jennie Curtis told me all about you, of course, about your husband -and the garden. I'd like to take her home for week-ends myself, but -it's too far. She doesn't stand driving well.--Hello, Martha! Your -mother's here.... I said your mother.... Why didn't you tell me she -was coming? ... Never mind, drop it. Come on over.... Well, come -and have supper with me. Tell Jennie to come.... Of course she'll -come. Tell her I said she was to come.... Leave a note for her, -then.... Oh, put them in water and let them stand till to-morrow; or -bring them along and cook them here.... She told me Martha bought -that car just to take her out home with. That's some girl of yours, -Mrs. Kenworthy. Of course, Jennie Curtis is pure gold, but you don't -often get a girl of Martha's age who knows gold when she sees it. -She came over the other day and asked me to take Martha in till my -friend comes back." She had seated herself near Emily, who had not -had a chance to say one word. She pointed now with a large gesture -at the pictures on the walls, the interesting-looking things which -Emily had only vaguely realized were about her. "I live here with a -friend who travels a great deal. All these things are hers, really. -So I took her in, just to please Jennie. And I must say I like her. -She's an awfully nice girl for her age. I find her companionable. -But tell me, Mrs. Kenworthy--there isn't much time; she'll be here in -a minute--hasn't she had some sort of affair, some disappointment, or -something?" - -The fact that she paused for an answer was as surprising as the -question she had asked, professionally, as it were. Her praise of -Martha, her vigor, the richness of the setting, her friendliness, all -of it was so contrary to Emily's mood and expectations that she was -overwhelmed. She felt tears coming into her eyes. - -"Oh yes!" she cried. "And you're a doctor. Do something for her. -She's been through--terrible things; she's so young!" - -"I knew it!" said the doctor, complacently. "I knew it the first -time I really talked to her. But she's getting over it; she don't -need any help; she's got stuff in her. Don't you worry." - -"No," murmured Emily, "I'm not worried, of course. I--I'm tired, I -guess. I--can't--I--may I go and wash my face? I don't know what -made me--do this." - -Emily was shown into Martha's bedroom. A white-tiled bath opened off -it. No comfort was lacking in that bedroom, which seemed to have -aspired originally to feminine austerity. Martha's familiar things -made it homelike. And in that room Martha found her mother, before -Emily had had time to powder her nose. - -Martha's greeting was warmer because of those tears. - -"What on earth's the matter, mammie?" she said, hugging her. "Why -didn't you let me know you were coming? You've been crying! What's -the matter?" - -Emily's impulse was to shout out the truth. "I've been so lonely for -you, so worried about you!" But she said, instead: "Oh, nothing's -wrong. I just got--bored. I--just felt--I couldn't stay in that -house a minute longer! I just had to get away or shriek." Emily had -heard women say things like that. Unwittingly she had touched Martha -deeply. - -"Well, you poor old thing! I always knew you must feel that way, -living with--in that house. But you'd never acknowledge it. How did -you find this place? Quite an apartment, isn't it? I was sick of a -rooming house! Have you seen the doctor?" - -"Yes." - -"She seemed pleased, didn't you think so? She didn't look annoyed. -I was told I couldn't have company here. It isn't often----" - -The doctor was there with them. - -"We're going to have a spread, Martha! The maid's out. You go and -get the lettuce, get two heads, get good ones; and some whipping -cream; and some bronze chrysanthemums. Oh, it's no trouble, Mrs. -Kenworthy! I feel just like it to-day. The time and place and the -loved ones to bother. If you can't get the chrysanthemums, get -some--something that color. And hurry back." - -The doctor had on a white apron, and the kitchen had made her cheeks -rosier. She set Emily down to rest for a little in the interesting -living room. Miss Curtis came in, and was ordered to sit and talk to -her. But every minute or two the doctor came in from the kitchen, -and with her a flood and whirlpool of words. Emily scarcely had a -chance to say a word all that evening; but the house excited her -until her color was almost as bright as the doctor's. - -Everything on the dining table was like the hostess. The table mats -were of a strong and superior unbleached linen; the vivid dishes -called aloud for admiration; the candle-light was flattering. Emily -sat excitedly studying the doctor. Whoever put herself into that -woman's care would never afterwards dare to call either body or soul -her own. But if she was high handed, she was also high hearted. She -talked almost without ceasing; and whatever little thing she talked -of, she enjoyed so merrily that the three women watching her, shared -her delight to some extent. And when she laughed a hearty laugh, -every time Emily thought surprisedly: "What a good time I'm having! -This is the best possible place for Martha!" - -"Did you ever taste any sort of canned meat as good as this chicken -in your life? Lobster simply isn't in it! It's fatted calf for me. -My mother keeps me in it; but I never open a jar when I'm alone; I'm -not _that_ selfish, anyway. Cold pack, of course, as you know, Mrs. -Kenworthy. We had a family scrap about it the last time I went home. -My sister Isobel--she's an awful woman as far as she can manage to -be--she said to me, 'Now look here, Isobel' (she's always trying to -boss me around), 'you can just find a deadly germ in canned chicken. -I'm not going to have mother worried to death canning chicken for you -to guzzle any longer. She's too old, and so are you. You can just -tell her you've got poisoned by it and you aren't going to eat it any -longer.' 'I'll be damned if I'll find a deadly germ in it,' I told -her. 'If you don't want mother doing it for me, you can do it -yourself.' After all you can't just stand your relations imposing on -you forever, can you? Not if you have as many as I have! I just -made an announcement then and there. My fees for removing appendices -are canned fat chicken, and those strawberry preserves they make in -the sun so they keep the right color of red. I'm not going to eat -city chickens that have been shut up in a little coop on -Fifty-seventh Street. I want contented hens that have crowed in the -barns I have played in. Nice sunny barn doors! Don't you love barn -doors on spring days when all the hens are cackling? What do I -practically keep a bed in the Presbyterian Hospital full of my -fifty-two first cousins for, anyway, if I have to eat canned salmon -on occasions of haste? There are limits to my patience. What are -you snickering at, Martha? That's not a pun!" - -With such banalities she kept them aroused, expectant. There was no -constraint; no one of the three was thinking of something amusing to -say; each knew very well she would have no chance to say anything -amusing, however well prepared she might be. The doctor never ceased -for a minute. - -Finally she folded up her tongue for the night and left them together -there. - -"Is she always like that?" Emily murmured. - -"Oh no, I don't think so. I don't know her very well. I never had a -meal here before. You've made a hit with her, mammie! She sort of -owns Miss Curtis. Maybe she took care of her through--THAT--or -something. Anyway, Miss Curtis told her about you, and that's why -she asked you to stay here. Of course, she just took me in because -Miss Curtis has been fussing about me studying in the kitchen ever -since she saw our house. She's made up her mind--the doctor -has--that Miss Curtis has got to put those girls out, when she can, -because they're so thoughtless about her, and everything, and that -I'm to have those front rooms and do them over to suit myself. She -bosses everybody around. I guess she thinks she's got a lot more -sense than most people, and so she ought to tell them where to get -off. You can see why she's got such a practice. Can't you just see -her sailing into somebody's sick-room with her tail up, that way, and -making them wild to get up and be strong as a horse, like she is? -Miss Curtis says she's the only woman who ever got through medical -school and got a practice without losing her color. She doesn't pay -very much attention to me. She's busy, 'most always. Sometimes she -gets to talking about some interesting case, and goes on half the -night. I never get a word in edgewise. I just listen." - -Emily, as she lay waiting for sleep, said to herself: "Well, if -horrible things happen to us when we don't expect them, so do lovely -things. If I'd searched this city over for two friends for Martha, -I'd never have found any equal to these two. The doctor's just a -clean gale blowing through Martha. She'll clean out her mind; she'll -do for her what I never could. Why should I want to do everything in -the world that's done for her? Why can't I be satisfied to see those -women helping her along?" - -She went back to her home more happy about Martha than she had been -for months. Mrs. Benton had already gone East and it promised to be -a quiet winter for club-women in general The one great event of it -was to be the annual Christmas party for children. Mrs. Benton had -instituted the custom the winter before, the first year of the new -dance hall. She had given a splendid party that once. She left a -committee behind her to try to follow her example. - -They were discussing it at lunch. Emily had realized that the women -across from her were talking about ways of finding good jobs for -girls who had to leave high school, when Mrs. Bissel leaned across -towards her and asked: - -"Mrs. Kenworthy, by the way, what's this new job Martha's got? -What's she planning to do?" - -There were four women who might be supposed to be listening in that -pause with more or less curiosity for Emily's reply. - -She had heard nothing of Martha's job. She smiled. "Oh, I don't -know," she replied, lightly. "I don't think it's anything -very--purposeful." - -"But do you approve of her leaving the university to take it up?" - -Emily had heard not a hint of Martha leaving the university. She -must have left in the middle of a quarter. - -She said, "Not altogether." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm afraid -her heart's never really been in the university. I wish she could -have gone on, in her own college, with her own class. But I do think -girls of her age have to decide these things for themselves." - -She left the meeting early. She had a notion to go straight to -Chicago. What job could Martha possibly have got? And why? And had -she left her two good friends? And did she mean deliberately to hurt -her mother's feelings by having her learn this through Mrs. Bissel? -"Perhaps," thought Emily, longingly, "she's taking somebody's place -for a few weeks. Perhaps just at Christmas; perhaps the doctor's -office girl has got ill, or something. I expect she's helping some -one. And she's been too busy to write. I ought to do some Christmas -shopping. I'll go up to-morrow and 'phone her, at least. I'll see -for myself what's she into." - -And after supper Martha called her by 'phone. The connection was -poor. Some operator had to relay the unsatisfactory message. All -that Emily understood was that Martha would meet her for tea the next -day at the usual place. - -But the next afternoon Martha led her to a new-found tea-room in an -office building--a remote place, one secure corner of which the two -of them had quite to themselves. Emily had to feel her way towards -her daughter carefully, for she saw at once that Martha was in an -evil mood. Around her eyes were the hollows and shadows of tears. - -She began directly: "I got a job; I didn't write you--because I've -been too blue. I've just felt like crying my eyes out every minute -the last week. I just had to 'phone you. I knew I ought to tell -you; I just thought I couldn't write. I'm working in a shop; it's a -classy place, believe me. Interior decorators, on Mich. Boul." - -"Do you like it?" - -"Well, I'm not mad about it by any means. It'll do." - -"You go to your lectures still at the U? You don't stay in this shop -all day?" - -"No. I'm done with that place. I'm going to smoke. You needn't -make a fuss; everyone's used to it here." - -"Perhaps this will be better than writing away on a novel," Emily was -thinking. She didn't want to seem to look too inquisitively at -Martha. She played about with her tea; she called Martha's attention -to the couple who had entered. "Why is it," she asked, to break the -silence, "that the more expensive the fur coat, the fatter the woman -inside it?" - -But Martha broke forth abruptly, "I've burned my novel up!" - -Emily was sharply stung by the bitterness of that confession. She -had always wanted that novel burned up, but she hadn't wanted Martha -to be so hurt by its destruction. - -"Why, Martie? What did you do that for?" - -"I needn't have been so hasty! I've got most of it--in rough form. -I could put it all together again; but it would be an awful lot of -work." - -"You worked on it nearly a year." - -"Yes, I had. And if I'd known everything _then_ I know _now_, I -wouldn't have burned it up, you can bet! I typed it all over without -a mistake, from beginning to end; it had seventy thousand words." - -"Goodness!" Emily murmured, impressed. - -"And I couldn't hardly sleep, I was so anxious to see what that old -idiot of a prof. would think of it. I might have known, handing it -in to an old rake of a man!" - -Emily let her go on unreproved. - -"And it was the funniest thing! I just _happened_ to find out what -he meant. You hand your work in, mammie, and then you go and have a -consultation with the prof. about it. Well, I'd never had any old -consultation before. And everybody says he is a horrid man; to -women, especially. He don't think women can write novels, of course. -He thinks it's his business to discourage them. I was scared out of -my wits to go and talk to him about my novel, to tell the truth. I -might have known something was wrong, for he was as nice to me as you -please. He was surprised to see me when I came in. He didn't know -me from Adam, before, of course. I suppose he thought I'd be foaming -at the mouth, or something. He jollied me along, the oily old rake; -said my work was interesting and everything; that I'd put a lot of -work in on it. And then he said: 'You know sometimes we think it -well--to refer these themes to other departments. The last one -before you,' he said, all smooth and gentle, 'I referred to the -biologist under whom the student works. And I had yours read by -Doctor Parson, Doctor Edith Parson; she is more able than I am--to -judge of the worth of this material,' he said. 'So I had her read it -over, and I suggest you go and consult her first, and then come and -talk it over with me.' All hemming and hawing, he was, the flea. So -I swallowed it all. I didn't know any better. I knew they did send -theses and things for grad. degrees around to a lot of profs. I -asked somebody there waiting to see him, a girl from the class, who -this Doctor Parson was, but she didn't know. So then, mammie, I went -home. This was a week ago last Thursday. I was in Doctor -Stevenson's living room that evening, and I naturally asked her if -she knew who Doctor Parson was. I didn't tell her WHY I was asking, -or anything. And, mammie, what do you think she said!" - -Tears came flooding into Martha's eyes. - -"What difference does it make what she said, child!" - -"Well, it may not make any difference to YOU, but it did to ME. 'I -know her,' she said, and she smiled sort of funny. So I said, 'Who -is she?' And she said, 'Oh, every little while some crazy woman gets -into the U, and Doctor Parson is the one that gets them into the -asylum. I had to help her once, one summer. She called me in -because I was near and strong.'" And suddenly Martha turned away, -shuddering in uncontrollable repulsion. She covered her face with -her hands, just for a second, and went on: - -"I had to sit there, mammie, not saying a word to give myself away, -and take it all. She said that woman--the one that went crazy--she -wanted to go right out in the street without any clothes on, and -everything. I thought she'd never get through talking. They had to -have three policemen that night. I thought I'd just die, I was so -scared. And I got away from her as soon as I could, and I got the -novel and went right down to the janitor and asked him to let me put -something into the furnace. So he did, and I saw it burning. I saw -it all curling up burned. And then I went and stayed with Miss -Curtis. She let me have a bed in her room; she was just sweet to me, -mammie. I told her I was sick. She wanted me to go home; she said I -needed a rest." - -"Martha, you _do_ need a rest, my dear. You've worked so steadily. -Why don't you come home with me?" - -"Mammie--no. I went and got a job. I had--to have something--else -to think about. I couldn't go home; I couldn't bear to go back to -the doctor's. I stayed with Miss Curtis for more than a week." - -"And now? Where are you now?" - -"Oh, I'm back at the doctor's, all right now. I'm not a bit -more--out of my head than she is, anyway. It doesn't always follow -that if a girl--or a woman--falls in love, as they say, that she's -crazy. Look at that Doctor Stevenson. Wouldn't you say she was -sane, mammie? Wouldn't you say that if anybody in the world is in -her right mind, it's that woman?" - -"Yes, I would certainly call her a well-balanced woman." - -"Well!" cried Martha, triumphantly. "You say _she's_ sane, and she -keeps a lover--there--in that apartment--all the time!" - -"Martha! You mustn't say that! Not so loud!" Emily looked around -her hurriedly. "You must not say things like that--gossip, like -that!" - -"I'm not repeating any gossip. You needn't get so excited. I'm not -telling anybody but you, and I saw it with my own eyes." - -Emily said, sharply, "I don't believe you know what you're talking -about." - -"I know _exactly_ what I'm talking about! She told me when I went to -live with her that she had a friend that came to stay with her, and -that when that friend came I had to clear out. Naturally, when a -single woman says a friend is coming to stay with her, you suppose -it's a woman. But it isn't. It's a man. I saw him!" - -"When? How?" Emily was intent upon refuting this mistake. - -"Well, he comes for Saturday and Sunday, and I had been staying all -week with Miss Curtis. And, anyway, they always go to the concert -Saturday night. I had to go and get some underwear out of my room. -I thought they would be at the concert, so I went in." - -"Well?" - -"Well, she heard me opening the door with my key, and she called to -me: 'Martha, is that you? Come in here!' she said to me. And I went -into her living room; and there was that man. A great big, tall man, -walking around with his hands in his pockets. She was sitting at her -desk, pretending to be looking at an account book. 'This is my -brother,' she said to me. And he never took his hands out of his -pockets. He said to me, growling, 'I am _not_ her brother!' just -like that. And she said, 'Oh, all right, then, you aren't. You -aren't any relation to me!' You know how she thinks she can carry -anything off, that way. Of course I felt terribly embarrassed. I -just got my stuff and fled. That man was staying in my bedroom. His -things were there. Did you ever hear anything like that in your -life, mother? The nerve of her! With all that practice, and -everybody thinking she's so respectable! Nobody thinks _she's_ -crazy. I'm glad I didn't burn up the first copy of my book." - -"But, Martha, look here! That doesn't prove that he's--that doesn't -prove anything." - -"Don't you fool yourself! I saw the man; I saw his face. You can't -tell me what a man means when he looks like that. And, anyway, Miss -Curtis saw me coming in. I bet she's in cahoots with her! She said, -'You haven't been at the doctor's, have you?' like that, sort of -excited. I said: 'Yes, I have. I thought she would have been at the -concert.' She said, 'You oughtn't to have gone there when she has -company.' And she didn't know whether to go on and say any more to -me, or not. But she didn't. So now I stay there, just as I always -did. If I'm mad, she's mad." - -"But you're just silly. I don't think either of you is the least -speck insane!" - -"Well, what did that oily old bird send me to that--woman for then?" - -"I don't know. Maybe she was a psychologist--or a--a psychoanalyst, -or something. What was in the novel? You must be reasonable, -Martha. The university isn't keeping a woman just to send students -to asylums. She has something else to do, surely?" - -"I don't think she has; not for a minute! If you'd seen that campus, -you'd think it kept a dozen specialists to weed out the nuts. And, -anyway, why did that prof. act so sort of gentle to me? Why did he -ask me so carefully if I was Martha Kenworthy, as if he couldn't -believe I was? Anyway, I'll tell you one thing, mammie; if the -doctor can keep a lover and a practice in the same apartment, I -should hope I can learn interior decoration without anybody saying -anything to me! Just imagine if anybody tried to make things -uncomfortable for the doctor; wouldn't she tell them where to get -off, though! If she can put that across, why can't I?" - -"Martha, really, I don't believe this. She doesn't look like that -sort of woman." - -"Well, of COURSE she doesn't! That's the whole point! Look at the -women that go parading around Hyde Park. None of them look it; -neither do I, for that matter. I don't suppose there's one of them -that's any better than I am; and they're not making any fuss about -what's happened! I can be as hardboiled as any of them; I can put on -holy airs with the rest of them; I'm understudying the doctor!" - -"Well, my opinion is that you're both of you good women and useful -women, and you don't need to put on airs!" - -"But you'll never understand either of us, if you do mean well; -you're too good, that's what's the matter with you. That's why I -feel--so much more at home--with Miss Curtis, and the doctor, -especially the doctor. Honestly, you can't imagine how blue I was. -I wanted to--well, I didn't know--whatever I was going to do, but -this bucked me up. Imagine, mammie! I'd like to see a doctor like -Doctor Stevenson, only more so--the best surgeon in Chicago--so that -people would just HAVE to have her operate to save them; and then I -wish she'd just go on living with all the men she wanted to--and snap -her finger at the whole bunch of them. I'm going into business. The -doctor said for me not to invest a cent with the boss; she was the -one that looked him up, and found he'd failed in New York. I told -her I hadn't any capital of my own, and I don't give a damn what -anybody suspects me of!" - -Martha was wearing long thin jade earrings, and she gave her head a -little jerk as she announced her intentions. She had on a green hat, -of a hard color. Could it be just the shadow of that green over her -eyes that made them seem ringed and bitter? - -"Oh, very well. But how about Christmas? You'll have a few days -off, I suppose?" - -"No, I won't have any. I'm going into this business. I've got to -stick at it. Look here, mammie, if you'll stay for dinner, I'll get -Mrs. Blacksley from my shop to meet us some place. I didn't want to -take you to the shop, for I knew her husband was to have dinner with -us. He's an idiot, but she's all right. I get along with her; she's -divorced one husband. If she'd consult me, I'd tell her to divorce -another." - -Mrs. Blacksley, Martha said, seldom spent even thirty cents on her -dinner. For that reason they awaited her in the Drake Café, and -planned to nourish her weariness with a thick rich dinner, and -beefsteaks were the one thing you could get better in Chicago than -anywhere else in the world, Martha declared, ignoring magnificently -her inexperience in most other places in the world. Mrs. Blacksley -joined them there. - -She joined them languidly, softly. She threw off a short black fur -coat, and a little black hat, carelessly, as if all the other women -in the crowded room were sitting bareheaded. She stood up for a -moment, regardless perhaps of the attention she was attracting. She -had on a little soft black wool frock, full skirted, with the waist -fitted cunningly over her delicate breast. It was a right little -frock; it was a bit too devilishly right for her. - -It made Emily think, even as Mrs. Blacksley chose to sit with her -back to the room: "Well, if what helps Martha in her friends is a -scandalous past or a compromising present, this woman is going to be -very useful to her." Nothing less like those utilitarian mentors of -Hyde Park could a girl have happened upon. Mrs. Blacksley was still -young--but her eyes had a past. Her lips had a history; her smooth -hair, drawn back so severely from those beautiful temples, so -cleverly from those little ears, had a beguiling present challenge. -Surely, for fifty generations, those gray eyes had been looking -cynically at eager lovers. Her mouth was soft and lovely; lips like -hers must have kissed only with mental reservations for centuries. -She was exotic, she was alluring. She had divorced one husband, had -she? She aroused a question then, immediately. How many men had -wanted to be her second? - -She said to Martha, later, as they were going together to her -train--she spoke suddenly, struck by an interesting thought: - -"Look here, isn't the doctor's name Isobel?" - -"Yes. Why?" - -"Well, but Martha, she said her sister's name was Isobel." - -"Did she? I didn't notice." - -"I did! She did say her sister's name was Isobel!" - -"Well, what of it?" Martha was curious. - -"Well, don't you see, there couldn't be two Isobels in one family? -They must be half-sisters, or step sisters, or something. Maybe that -man WAS a brother--of some kind." - -Then Martha laughed. She laughed just like Mrs. Blacksley, softly, -jeeringly. - -"You're the limit, mammie!" She laughed again, more naturally, from -sheer amusement. "You can't believe what I say, can you? You're too -good for this world, mammie! The doctor'll take care of herself. -Don't you worry about her!" - -"You can laugh at me, if you want to; but I don't believe it. -Anyway, why shouldn't a woman doctor have a man patient, if she wants -one?" - -"To be sure!" agreed Martha, "if she wants one," she added, in -another tone. "I don't admire her taste; but I'm willing to let her -have as many as she wants." - - - - -_Chapter Ten_ - -"Do a deed," they say, "and make a proverb." But why, Emily mused -more than once, should Martha, having done but one deed, go on making -proverbs indefinitely. Must she interpret life forever by that one -bitter mistake of hers? The more Emily thought of the doctor, the -more deeply she was convinced that Martha was mistaken about her -lover. She would have been a magnificent mother of a family of -rollicking boys. Was it likely that a hard-headed professional -woman, with a practice to maintain, was going to entangle herself -with awkward amorous relationships? Emily decided it was not. - -It was possible, too, that Martha had misunderstood Miss Curtis. -Emily longed to prove it. She wanted to go and ask Mrs. Bissel all -she knew of Miss Curtis's history. If a woman as conventional as -Mrs. Bissel knew anything of that discrediting sort, would she have -allowed her daughter to live in her flat? Certainly not, Emily said -to herself. But just suppose Martha could be right? The least -possibility of such a thing made it out of the question for Emily to -broach the gossipy subject to Mrs. Bissel. So she held her tongue. - -Then Martha walked in one snowy morning, like a normal child, home -for the holidays, happy to be home. She walked in unannounced, -alone, undefended by any stranger from intimacy with her mother! She -walked in and she gave Emily a hug--an old little-girl hug, the like -of which she had not had, since--THAT happened. Emily's neck could -scarcely believe the feeling of those arms about it. Emily's eyes -had to blink. Here now was that first little old Martha, the dear -one that had been away from her for so long. Martha had recovered -her real self; she was looking better; she was looking--bright, -again; she was looking--excited. Yes, that was the word; she was -excited through and through. Could she have fallen in love? Alas! -that was too much to hope for. When she went upstairs Emily stood -and listened. She half expected her to walk into the painted room. - -She went into the guest room, however. She wasn't quite completely a -daughter yet, then. - -When she came down and saw Maggie's condition, she took the -preparations for dinner out of her hands. The kitchen, some way, -seemed to belong to Martha. Even Maggie, who had never relinquished -it to Emily for a second, seemed conscious that it had changed -owners. Emily stood about, talking to her. - -"What," Martha cried, "the costumes aren't made! They haven't -rehearsed for a month! Why didn't you write to me, mammie? I'd have -come to help you." - -Had she forgotten how shortly she had refused to come home at all for -Christmas? Was she offering now, really, to plunge into the affairs -of this town whose very existence she seemed of late to have resented? - -"I'll go and get them. Let's have a seamstress to come here, and -have a bee, and get them all done. I'll bet Miss Trent would train -the children, mammie. She loathes Mrs. Benton." - -"You mustn't talk that way, Martie!" - -"Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" Martha derided, making faces. "That's what you -mean, really. Only you don't say it. You know you don't want to -fall down now--just because of what Mrs. Benton would say! I'd like -to show her a thing or two myself. I bet I could get a dozen women -into this, who'd work just for spite!" - -"That's not a nice way to work!" - -"But it cooks the hash, mammie!" - -Martha chuckled toward her mother. She kept repeating it--that new -gesture toward her. A perplexing sort of amused understanding of her -mother kept shining out of her eyes all the time she sat at dinner, -talking to her father. - -As soon as she had washed the dishes she took the car and set forth -twinkling to rally workers. She came back about five with two suit -cases full of cut or basted costumes. These she deposited on the -floor of the living room, and proceeded to examine them, talking all -the time of her success. White wings she shook out, and curious red -calico legs she unfolded. Emily was sitting on the sofa. And Martha -was standing by the living-room table--where she had stood, exactly, -when she announced, "Richard Quin is getting a divorce." She bent -down and lifted up a cerise crinoline sort of wide ruche. - -"Now, what do you make of this, mammie? This must be for a villain!" -And she put it around her neck--it had no fastening, yet--and holding -it tightly together, she danced across the room, and looked at -herself absurdly in a mirror. - -"Believe me, mammie, this is going to be a play!" - -Her manner was so triumphant, that Emily was overcome by her impulse. - -"Martha!" she exclaimed, "What HAS happened to you? What's the -matter?" - -The girl faced about abruptly. She stared intently at her mother. -And as she looked her face changed. It lost that new expression of -admiration with which she had warmed her mother's heart all day. And -when she spoke her voice was almost bitter. - -"Well, YOU'RE a nice one to ask me that!" - -"Why am I a nice one? What have I done now?" - -Martha spoke with an effort. "I suppose it doesn't matter; or you -think it doesn't matter. I suppose you did what you thought best for -me. I'm not judging you, but it would have made things a great deal -easier for me if you could have told me the truth." - -"The truth about what?" - -Martha was annoyed by the question. She hesitated, but decided to go -on. - -"I can understand you don't want to discuss it; neither would I, but -you must have meant to tell me eventually. After all, I have a right -to know, mother." - -Emily saw she was desperately in earnest. "What are you talking -about?" she asked, puzzled. - -Martha spoke slowly. "I mean--about my father--about Uncle Jim." - -Emily understood then. The shock brought a cry of horror from her. -"Oh, Martha!" - -Martha knew pain when she heard it. - -"Oh, mammie!" she cried back, running to Emily, sitting down close to -her. "Mammie, don't cry! Don't think I care! I'd a million times -rather have him for my father! I never loved you, really, before! I -didn't pry into it. Honestly, mammie, it just came to me, like the -morning; like light flashing into me, mammie!" - -Emily had drawn away from her and covered her face with her hands. -Martha thought she was crying. She besought her tenderly: - -"Mammie, don't you mind my understanding it. Oh, if you knew how I -felt about it! When I think of you living here all these years! I -started to come home to you the minute I realized it. It came to me -like a flash in front of Woolworth's in State Street, there. I was -walking along, blue enough to die; I just wanted to die, I was so -sore. And I saw that front and I remembered going into Woolworth's -_here_, between you and Uncle Jim. I don't mind calling him that; -it's a dear name for him. I remembered all of a sudden just how you -looked at each other. Mammie, it just stunned me when I understood. -I hadn't gone a block before I saw it all. I don't know why I didn't -always understand it. Because he always was just naturally my -father, wasn't he? Nobody ever had to teach me to love HIM! Dad -never felt that way about me, naturally. It wasn't his fault he -never had any interest in me. I knew why you stood Bronson, then! I -remembered how you looked after the funeral! I was so excited I just -couldn't stand up. I sat down on a bench in the public library -lobby, and just sat there! Oh, I never appreciated you till now, -mammie! I'm going to take care of you now. When I think of you -living year in and year out in this house with dad--I'll call him -that! I don't care about names! The way you've put it across right -here, in this dirty gossipy little town, and nobody DARED to suspect -you of anything! Not ANYTHING! Why do you look at me that way? You -intended to tell me some time, surely!" - -Now for the first time in her life Emily had drawn away from her -child in repulsion. She had started to speak; she had started to cry -out her denial. But that young, eager, relit face was close to hers. -No matter how illuminating the mistake was, the poor distorted child -must know the truth. But as Emily opened her lips to speak, the poor -distorted child went on; she had seized Emily's hand in both her own: - -"Oh, now I know what they mean, being born again. I was just born -again, mammie! I know now why you never scolded me--why you stood by -me; you understood. You've been through it! And everybody loves -you; they just bless you! You aren't afraid they'll find it out. -You just go on! I'm going on, too! My God! how I'm going on! If -you can put this across, so can I! You never were afraid of dad -finding it out, even, were you?" - -Emily Kenworthy murmured, "No." She meant to add, "There was never -anything to find out, you bad, silly girl!" but she didn't. - -She could find no excuse for her conduct, as she thought it over, -that night. She had simply been hypnotized by the beauty of that -child's eagerness. It had been such a long time since she had seen -eagerness, hopefulness, twinkling out of that little sweet face of -hers, that she hadn't had courage to darken it again. Martha had -just sat there, caressing her, babbling out her enjoyment of her -mother's infamy, until Greta's older sister had come in. Emily had -made her entrance an excuse for getting away to her room. And there -she had sat dazedly, hurt, ashamed of her daughter, more ashamed of -herself. How could I have hesitated a minute! I ought to have -corrected her the minute she dared to suggest that to me! But what -difference does it make? It's good enough for Bob! He never -appreciated her! What do I care what she thinks, if it does her any -good? I'm not high and holy any longer! I understand her! Hasn't -she any sense of honor at all, that she's so pleased? Why should I -be so shocked? Didn't I plan often enough to leave Bob and go to -Jim? She only accused me of what I often wanted to do! I gave that -up, and this is what I get for it! She wishes she was Jim's. She -thinks I went on living with Bob! "My God!" cried Emily. "But she -can't help it; she has to suspect somebody. It's her luck, after -what she's done. Why should I feel so sick about this?" - -And even while she sat there feeling sick at heart, Martha's voice -came dancing up the stairs. - -"Mammie, what are you doing? Can't you come down a minute?" - -And Emily had gone down, hardening her heart. "I'm never going to -tell her the truth," she was vowing. "Let her think that, if it does -her any good!" And all that evening she had talked and listened to -talking, like one in a dream. Whatever she said, it was of Martha's -base accusation that she was conscious. "Surely," she was thinking, -"if I gave Jim up once for this child, I can give up Bob and my -scruples, just in her mind, for a little while." She was so -preoccupied with her thoughts that she scarcely spoke during supper. -Bob noticed her quietness. She had been gay at dinner. He was the -more affable to Martha. - -"Where's Miss Curtis now? Is she coming down for Christmas?" - -"No. She's gone to Ruth--to Indiana." - -"Well, she's a nice sort of a woman, for a school-teacher." Emily -saw the cynical smile that came about Martha's mouth. - -"You bet she is!" she replied, enthusiastically. "But you ought to -see the doctor. Dad, she'd show you a thing or two." - -"That's what I like about Miss Curtis. You can trust her to mind her -own business. You feel safe with her." - -"Don't you, though? You can trust her absolutely, couldn't you, dad? -You could always be sure she'd be upright, couldn't you?" - -Upright was a strange adjective. Bob looked up to see if Martha had -begun spoofing him again. She looked innocent, but he changed the -subject. Martha looked knowingly across at her mother. Emily wanted -to spank her. - -Later in the evening again she experienced the same desire. She came -into the sitting room to hear Martha cajoling over the 'phone the -most conventional, conservative, disapproving woman who ever eyed -bobbed hair and short skirts maliciously. "But we want you so, Mrs. -Mason. Everybody says there's no one who can get as much work done -in one afternoon as you." And on she talked, till she hung up the -'phone triumphantly. - -"Martha, why in the world did you invite _her_ here?" Emily asked. - -Martha winked at her naughtily. "I just asked her because she's so -extra holy!" she answered, and she laughed. She had the upper hand -of life now, that girl! - -She ought to have been pitifully spanked, but now that she had got -things under way, there was scarcely time to reprove her. Emily -remembered the days when Bob had complained that he could never get -her alone long enough to "settle her." The house was bustling and -hurrying about, as Martha used to make it stir, full of her girl -friends coming and going, confused by committee women of inspired -importance. School children were singing their parts at the piano; -angels were adjusting their feathers in the hall; the 'phone was -ringing. Emily watched Martha "putting it across," each day a little -more naughtily, a little more triumphantly. She apparently intended -to be as highly respected in the town as her deceitful mother. It -was not pleasant, to say the least, to see her sitting deferring with -studied docility to the opinion of women whom Emily knew she was -scorning with all her might. Never before had she been quite such a -"nice girl." She was demure; she was discreet; she gave someone else -credit for every good idea she put forth quietly, graciously; she -made her elderly neighbors smile at her mother as if to say "What a -clever child this is of yours." And, when they left, she would hug -her mother, grinning, chuckling. Thick as two thieves they were, -together in conspiracy. - -The only thing that seemed difficult to explain about Martha was the -absence of admirers who had formerly beset her father round about. -Johnnie, of course, had not come home from the East, but there were -numbers of young collegians who had returned for Christmas. Why, -Emily wondered, did they avoid the Kenworthy house? She understood -one evening when she overheard a conversation between Greta and her -daughter. - -"I told Hally I was coming here. I asked him to come along, but he -wouldn't." A giggle. "Do you know what he said about you, Martha?" - -"What?" The tone was wholly indifferent. - -"He said: 'No; I'm not going there. Martie's mad. She's taken to -biting.'" - -Then Martha's voice, full of interest, "Did he honestly say that?" -She seemed gratified. - -"Yes, honest he did." - -"I didn't suppose he had that much sense," Martha said, simply. - -Later: "But why? Tell me the truth, Martie! Why aren't you dancing?" - -"I have told you the truth. I've learned my lesson; I can't stand -late hours. I don't want another breakdown like that one last -winter. I tell you I go to bed regularly early. I'm in bed every -night at half past ten." - -A silence. - -Then: "That'll do to tell! I bet if Johnnie Benton was here to dance -with, your health would be all right!" - -"Johnnie Benton?" Scorn and derision at such a suggestion. "Excuse -me if I seem to yawn. Anyway, he's engaged to somebody down East." - -"Who said so? You're making that up! I don't believe it." - -"Nobody told me. It's likely, you know that. The way he goes round -proposing to everybody." - -"He never proposed to me." - -"Oh, get out! He must have!" - -Martha was rejoicing in her own hypocrisy. She was guzzling down the -impression she made. People said it was too sweet of her to have -thought of bringing old Miss Knight to the party tenderly in her car. -For Miss Knight was a decrepit old primary teacher of Martha's -infancy, who seldom went out, and she had beamed every minute of the -afternoon upon the dancing children, and blessed Martha loudly for -her kindness in bringing her, as Martha had counted on her doing. -Martha had remembered the poor. The poor, now, were hard to find in -that town. But Martha had sought out a family whose house had been -burned recently, and bestirred even protesting Greta to help her to -succor them. - -"You mustn't be such a lazy selfish pig, Greta!" she had gurgled when -the room was fullest of listeners. She had talked, too, cunningly of -the turkey she was roasting for Christmas dinner. - -"I never had a chance to roast a turkey before," she said to mothers -whose daughters were known to be indifferent to cook-stoves, "but -I've always wanted to. I adore making mince pies; I'm making a lot -of mincemeat, all myself, to take back with me. Yes, I'm fond of -cooking. I get my own dinners with Miss Curtis, my friend in -Chicago. I have more time than she does. She teaches school; but, -of course, now that I'm in business, I'm busier." And she would look -at the neighbors simply, quietly. She even dared to say innocently -to her mother, just when the gossips might be supposed to be -listening: - -"Did I tell you, mammie, I met Eve the other day? She's given up New -York. Her father isn't well and she's going to stay in Chicago. -She's coming down for a week-end soon, if he's better." - -And when the neighbors would be gone she would run and give her -mother gloating hugs, which asked as plainly as her voice could have -spoken, "Don't I just get it across?" - -Emily had asked, afterwards: "Did you really meet Eve? When?" - -And she pretended to be indignant. "Did I meet her? I like your -nerve! Do you suppose I'm not telling you the truth? She is coming -down to see you. She said to me, right out, as soon as I saw her, -'Are you still sore about--that?' I just said: 'About what? -Where've you been all the time? Why don't you write mother oftener? -She wants to see you. Come on down with me.' This was at the -station, mammie, just when I was coming home the other day. If she -comes down here to stay with us, what can anybody say about----?" - -She held the situation in a tight grasp now. If any minute of those -busy days she had suffered one pang, remembering the desperate -Christmas a year ago, she had never once given a sign of it. Since -the day of her first accusation of her mother she had avoided the -subject of her paternity excessively. Emily, too, had been afraid of -it. She had told Martha firmly that she was not going to Chicago to -live with her. Martha, for fear she might make explanations, had not -argued the subject very far. - -"I never would be content to live in Chicago, you know that, Martha. -Our roots are here; I'm too old to be transplanted. I won't leave -this house." - -"But you get bored to death, mammie. You want to shriek sometimes. -You said you did yourself that night, at the doctor's. I hate to go -away and leave you here." - -"Stay here then. This is your home." - -"No. I've got to _do_ something. It's all right here, when there's -a party on, or something. But I couldn't stand it all the time. I'd -get to scrapping with dad, you know I would." - -The very mention of Bob brought up possibilities of uncomfortable -remarks. - -Martha hastened to continue. - -"I'll come back just as often as I can. And you come and stay with -me as much as you can. And in June we'll go to Europe together. -Nobody can talk about that! And maybe you'll like it well enough to -stay a year or two with me there; lots of people do. And that's the -only place really to learn about furnishings and furniture." - -Emily lay in her bed that night, ashamed and unhappy. "It's as if I -had told her the most enormous and fundamental lie," she reflected. -"Nothing good can ever come of this. Strange," she thought, "that I -can't remember ever going into Woolworth's with Jim! She remembers -something of him that I don't. How old would she have been then? -The five-and-ten must have come to town--well--before Bronson came. -She loved that store at first, when she was little." She grudged -Martha a memory that belonged essentially to her; she thought -greedily over every look of his she had ever treasured. She -remembered their early love; she recalled still how his dear hands -had gone longing, discreetly up inside her stiff cuffs. She -remembered his kisses; she remembered how he had come back in the -days of his weariness to his mother, and how they had looked across -at each other, with that innocent old woman between them. She -remembered how he used to sit with little Martha on his knee, in the -days of his ill health and bitterness, stroking her hair and looking -into her face, trying some way to get close to the mother through the -child. She thought of that summer, and of Bronson, and of Jim's -irrepressible crying-out to her. She stopped there. She tried -always not to think of his death. "He just kissed me," she said, -"and went away." - -"Oh," she cried to herself, "I'm going to Chicago to-morrow and tell -Martha the truth! He was too sweet, too dear. This isn't fair to -him. I don't care about Bob; but I won't have her thinking such -things of Jim. He was too good for such--baseness. He never forgot -I was his brother's wife. He did kiss me, but he went away then. -That's the point--he went away. I'll tell her that. - -"And if I tell her, she'll never believe me. She thinks I'm sly and -sneaking and adulterous now, and if I tell her the truth, she'll -think I'm lying to her. She hasn't enough experience yet to believe -the truth; she doesn't know enough to believe it. That's why she -hates it all so! herself, and passion. All she knows of passion is -its roots, in the dark ground; its blossom in the air, its sweet -lovely blossom in the sun she hasn't seen. She doesn't know -forbearance or tenderness, and that's the best part of it--for us. -She wouldn't believe me if I told her what sort of man he was. I -don't know what's going to become of her now; she'll never marry now. -Probably that way such a lot of women don't marry; the roots of it -all look so ugly, so brutal to them. If I could make Martha believe -in some one like Jim now! The whole tragedy is that she can't." - -When she fell asleep at last, she was thinking still of her -lover--not, however, that he went away, but that he kissed her. - -Martha hadn't been gone two weeks when that most astonishing news -came. Nothing could have stunned the town more than that. The -telegram came first to Emily. She heard it over the 'phone. - -Mrs. Benton had died suddenly, while motoring in California. - -People gathered in groups on the street to discuss it. It seemed a -thing that could not be true. To be sure, when you thought it over, -you realized that Mrs. Benton was but mortal; but it seemed so unlike -her, just to die, to quit, to lay things down. Her body, lifeless, -was to be sent home for burial. - -Recovering by degrees from the shock of the news; the cruder ones -began asking under their breaths what the more sentimental ones had -but pondered. Had she lived to hear of the success of the Christmas -party? They could not believe that she had. It didn't seem likely. - -Mrs. Benton's body was to arrive on a Thursday, from the West. -Johnnie arrived from the East on Tuesday morning, to find his home -swept and garnished and in possession of an old and silent aunt and a -young and gushing one. He came to Emily for refuge that evening. He -seemed almost stupefied by the event. Emily had never thought of him -as a nervous man before. He talked in a way unnaturally incoherent, -and he stirred about nervously, unable to sit down. The second time -she noticed his hand refrain spasmodically from a cigarette, she said: - -"Smoke if you want to." - -But he burst out: "No. I won't have people laughing--about THIS. I -won't have them talking about her." - -"But no one is going to talk about her if you smoke here with me." - -"Don't you think so? Nobody would see me?" - -"No. Nobody could find anything to laugh at in that." - -He was already lighting a match. "I thought they looked at me funny -when I went to light up," he said. Emily knew he spoke of his aunts. -"I want everything done right for her. I won't have people talking -about THIS. They say I have to be the chief mourner, Mrs. Kenworthy." - -"Well, you are that, Johnnie; you're nearest her." - -"I know it; but they made me stay in there to see the minister. He -asked me what chapter I wanted read! I felt like a fool, Mrs. -Kenworthy. I felt like a dirty hypocrite!" - -"I wouldn't feel that way. These things have got to be done, -apparently." - -"Do you think 'Jesus, Lover of my Soul' is better than 'Lead, Kindly -Light'? One wants one and the other wants the other, and they say I -can decide! Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, did you ever hear that mother -hadn't but a year to live? Did she ever tell YOU that?" - -"No, never. Why, dear?" - -"Aunt Ethel said the doctor in Chicago told somebody yesterday that -he told her last summer she hadn't a year to live. Didn't she tell -you that?" - -"No." - -"She never told me; she never told anybody." - -"Maybe she didn't believe it." - -He seemed relieved at the thought. He said, "Maybe that's it. But -she never told you where I was last summer, did she, until I was -about coming home? Do you know why?" - -"I didn't know why. Never mind, Johnnie!" - -"Yes, she didn't know where I was; I didn't tell her! I just lit -out; I never told her till I got to Hong-Kong. I knew she'd worry; I -didn't care if she did. I never thought of it coming out like this, -Mrs. Kenworthy! I made enough to come home on at Macao. You know, -gambling, she'd call it; it was, too. I won five hundred dollars, -almost---four hundred and seventy--so then I cabled her. Oh, I don't -know why I did that!" - -"There's no use grieving over it now, Johnnie." - -"But by the time I got her answer I had lost it all again. I came -home on the money she cabled me. She met me at the depot with a new -car! She never told me she wasn't well; she never told ME she hadn't -long to live! I'm glad I went back to college; she wanted me to do -that. I nearly didn't, I nearly lit out again. If they insist on -having the coffin open in church and me looking--in front of -everybody--I don't care. I'll do it; I won't have people laughing at -her _now_!" - -Then Emily remembered a certain hour. "Oh, Johnnie!" she began. -And, as she understood the significance of what she recalled, she -hesitated. - -"She told me once, not so very long ago, that she'd written out -directions for her funeral. She hated sensational funerals--and -people fainting. She wanted hers very simple." - -"When was this?" - -Now Emily remembered too distinctly, all of a sudden. - -"It was after somebody's funeral, as we were walking home from the -cemetery. I don't remember--when, exactly." Why should she tell the -boy it had happened when he was sailing away towards Brazil and his -deserted mother had learned her fate in loneliness? "I imagine if -you go down to Johnson and Larned's, they'll have her directions put -away with her will." - -"Oh, do you think--I ought to do that? I mean--I don't want to seem -to be grabbing her will in a hurry!" - -"Ask your aunts about it. I'll go over and tell them with you, if -you want me to." - -"Will you? Oh, do! But wait a little. Can't I have another smoke -here, first? It seems--strange, over there, this way." - -And as he walked around smoking, Emily thought: "Yes, and she knew -all the time as we walked home together that day that she'd be there -in the cemetery soon, and she never told me. She wanted me to know -she had given directions for her funeral, and she let me think she -had no special reason for giving them; and she didn't know where this -boy was, or whether she would ever see him again, and she never said -a word to me about it. And she pointed out to me Mrs. Johnson's red -lilies as we passed, and said she was going to move hers into the -sun!" - -Martha came down for the funeral, which was delayed with absolute -cruelty, Emily thought, by the aunts, until Saturday. Emily told her -of Mrs. Benton's stoicism, but not of Johnnie's unconscious hardness. - -And Martha sighed and said, merely, "Well, I suppose everybody has -something up their sleeve, mammie!" - -Johnnie came in on Friday evening, harassed and red eyed. - -"You here, Martie!" he exclaimed, touched by the sight of her. "For -the love of Mike, don't let anyone know I'm here. Let's go up to -your sitting room! Somebody'll be coming in. I want to smoke; I got -to have a smoke!" - -A pitiful Johnnie made Martha kind. - -"It isn't heated up," she said. "We don't heat it now, weather like -this. But you can come and wash dishes with me. You can smoke -there; nobody'll see you." - -It was the usual thing for Martha to insist on Emily's staying in the -living room when Martha was washing the evening dishes. So she -remained there, and people came in, as Johnnie had foreseen they -would. One hour passed, and another, and the supper dishes still -apparently detained the young things. After another half-hour Emily -went to the kitchen. She opened the door. - -The scene was scarcely what she had expected. The room was thick -with smoke; and there, huddled over the stove, sat old Maggie, who -was supposed to have gone to bed hours ago, and across her old rough -face her mouth stretched from ear to ear in one great beaming smile, -while her eyes looked straight at the chief mourner. He sat on the -kitchen table, near the prunes soaking in the bowl overnight. He -still had on the blue-gingham apron some one had tied about his -slender body. He was leaning forward alertly, and in his hand he -held a cigarette all lit and ready to go into his mouth the moment -the flow of his eager narrative ceased for an instant. His eyes were -fixed upon Martha, who sat on the high kitchen stool with her feet on -its upper rungs. She had on a red jersey frock; she sported a very -long purple-and-black cigarette holder and she sat listening -intently, her chin atilt. - -"And the chief--he was a good old sport--he says to the captain, -'It's the first time I was ever ordered to get a lady out of a----'" - -He saw the door opening. He saw Emily. She knew at once that she -had spoiled a perfect hour. Johnnie's normal light-heartedness -collapsed. Emily saw him recalling horribly the coffin and its -contents, and the hushed and exaggerated reverence of those that -waited about it. - -"Oh!" he groaned. "Oh, I forget!" - -But Martha had heard nothing of his quarrel with his mother and his -passionate desire to atone as far as he could by all conventional -decencies. - -"Well, go on!" she commanded. "Was the man dead?" - -But Johnnie had no gusto for the rest of his tale. "I was just -telling Martha about what happened on the _Pomona_," he murmured to -Emily, apologetically. "There was a woman drunk, and she locked the -door of her cabin and wouldn't open it; they couldn't hear the man -with her and they thought maybe she had done something to him." - -"But what happened in the end?" Martha insisted. - -"The captain broke in, and there was the man, reading in his bunk. -He said he wasn't going to try to get her to open the door; he knew -her. He'd been reading the History of Poland, with nothing but -biscuit to eat. He said he was used to it. I didn't know it was so -late. I got to be going." - -"Don't go yet," Emily urged. "We've never really heard anything -about your trip." - -"I didn't mean to stay so long. I don't want to make them sore at -me," he said, nervously. "They look at me so funny all the time." - -He went back to them. Bob and Martha sat for a while talking, and -Emily sat looking at them and thinking wistfully of what she had seen -in the kitchen. How happy those children had been together in their -young forgetfulness, a forgetfulness somewhat too facile, on -Johnnie's part, perhaps. Yet what a fine relief it had been for him -from the strain and depression of those unnatural days. Surely each -of them must be thinking how snugly, how cozily they had together -thrown off their burdens. If only it could have gone on! Martha -would have married him now, likely, since the maternal handicap was -removed--if that other thing had never happened. Johnnie, free and -with an income, wouldn't be long in marrying--someone, Emily was -convinced of that. But it would be a long time, a deplorably long -time, before Martha would be settling down. There was no use hoping -for so happy an ending to that story. - -It was perhaps her kindness to Johnnie that cleansed Martha's mind, -for the time, from its chilling cynicism. She was lovely that -evening and gentle, and subdued. Emily lingered about with her in -the guest room, and sat on her bed a long time with her, yearning -over her. She had never felt so sure and mature a sort of oneness -with her daughter before. Martha wouldn't let her get away. She -clung to her; her trivial words were little caresses. It was an hour -to be remembered, to be tasted carefully in memory, and relished -indefinitely. - -Emily's conscience smote her the more that night. How terrible this -deception of her was! All at once there came to her a thought -cuttingly vivid. People did die suddenly; no doubt about that; even -an extremely living woman like Cora Benton ceased without warning. -"Suppose I'd die suddenly, myself!" Emily gasped. "Suppose I should -die without ever telling her the truth! She'd have this house for -herself then; she might quarrel with her father; she might turn him -out of it in some evil moment. She might even tell him some time -what I let her think. To-morrow morning," Emily decided, "first -thing, I'll tell her the truth." She lay unhappily trying to screw -herself up to the necessary intensity of determination. - -In the morning, however, Martha didn't come down to breakfast. Emily -went up to her room. She said she was tired, and Emily saw at once -she had been crying. She offered to bring her up something, but -Martha refused shortly. She said she was going to get up; she -wouldn't stay in bed. Not one least hint of the conciliatory mood of -the evening before was left. Emily was afraid of her, afraid of the -bitter things that might come slashing out of her mouth. If only she -knew what she had been crying about! Was it because the -companionship of the evening had seemed as pleasant as unattainable? -Had she been by any chance thinking how happy she might have been -with Johnnie? Or had she been mourning the lover who had destroyed -himself in her mind? Emily came downstairs and set about her morning -work hesitant, cautious, and perplexed. - -Even as they sat side by side in the crowded church, Emily was -conscious of the hardness of her mood. Mrs. Benton might reasonably -have asked to have a sermon preached over her body in the great hall -she had built, but she had commanded that the service should be in -the small Congregational church. Emily, when she went to that -church, always thought of Jim's mother--rather than Bob's--and of his -father, whose heroic death was but a mildly interesting tale to -Martha. The crowded service promised at first to be all that Mrs. -Benton had hoped it never would be, but the minister, when he began -speaking, showed more sense than Emily had ever thought him capable -of. She saw Johnnie almost immediately lift his bewildered head to -listen. - -"Our sister," he said, "lies here silent. Her works praise her. -Which one of us," he asked, "can lift a voice to contradict them? -Dare we dispute with the bathing beach? Shall we try arguing with -the memorial hall?" He named over her civic accomplishments, -scarcely mentioning the flowers that were to bloom all over the -county in the spring--they, Emily thought, might have suggested to -the scoffing, or the conscience-smitten, a certain joyous derision. -"There had been women more gentle than she," he said, frankly, "But -the gentle women had dammed no river. There had been women more -popular, but the popular had built no bridges. What she had built, -she had built well. Let the town, now, if it could, reach the -standard of excellence which she had set. Her example of doing -things exactly right was a heritage not to be despised in these -shoddy days." - -But of all her works, he averred, the beach had the clearest voice -and the holiest. "Wash ye! Make ye clean!" the prophets of God had -been crying, through all the generations. And now the beach took up -the song, inviting all the children to throw themselves into the -cleanness of joy and to dive deep into the transparency of living. -It was the element of cleanness that she had made precious to the -children of the town. How many small boys of the town cared where -their winter clothes were put away for the summer? But how many of -them would there be who weren't conscious all the winter just where -their bathing suits were put away waiting for the summer? The snow -would scarcely be melted on the south slopes of the lawns until -children began shaking out their bathing suits and counting the weeks -until swimming began. The dancing feet of the young, and the music -of their youth, praised this woman all the winter months. And in the -summer, tanned and barefooted memorials of her would soon be running -down all the shaded streets to the river. And healthy dripping -tributes to her wisdom would be trudging home late to meals. When -there were no longer any children to love swimming, he said suddenly, -he hoped the town would build a stone memorial to its benefactress. - -He sat down. - -The church sighed its agreement. - -The coffin, unopened, was carried away. Johnnie said afterwards that -the minister had sense. - - - - -_Chapter Eleven_ - -That night Bob Kenworthy sat unsuspectingly reading a coon story in a -popular weekly, in his own living room, in the light of a lamp his -daughter had given him for Christmas. His wife sat at her desk near -the window, pretending to write letters, and every once in a while -she glanced slyly over at him to see if he was conscious of what she -was doing; and sometimes she even looked suspiciously at the curtains -to make sure no one was peeping in at the words she had guiltily -written. She had sat there more than an hour, and she was beginning -that letter in vain. A more distasteful task she had seldom decided -upon. To put down in black and white a denial of the grotesque -mistake she had suffered to continue in Martha's thought seemed -impossible. An acknowledgment of her complicity in the -misunderstanding seemed too humiliating. How could she be sure, -besides, into whose hands her written words might not come? Might -not that complacent husband of hers, sitting there, never imagining -how thankfully he had been discarded by his child, sometime come upon -the letter that must seem to him treacherous? Emily didn't intend -sending the letter to Martha; that course was too perilous to -consider. She intended to put it away, in case of such an emergency -as this last one of Cora Benton's. It seemed, however, the right -thing altogether for Cora Benton to have given directions for her -funeral. The community expected her to do that. But for Emily -Kenworthy to do it seemed silly melodrama. - -She sat with her arm hiding the words she had written, now that she -had begun for the fifth time, though there was no eye in the room to -behold them. She had finished. - -"My dear Child." She had got down a further sentence or two. "I -couldn't collect my wits in time the other day to tell you what a -mistaken idea you had of your father and me. I have never been -unfaithful to him in my life." She glanced again guiltily at Bob. -Poor old harmless thing! He had been certainly--good and a patient -husband. And, sitting there, he did look like Jim. The elusive -likeness between the two had always fascinated her; Jim's head had -been like that. His face was longer, finer, more delicate. It was -for Jim's sake, of course, and not Bob's she was writing this. She -would not have Martha thinking Jim a common old love pirate! She -took her arms from across the paper; she re-read what she had -written. "I have never been unfaithful to him in my life." Then she -added, impulsively, "I never had a chance to be." She studied her -achievement, and covered it up with a blotter and sat thinking. Then -she went at it again for a few minutes. "I am writing this to you -the day of Mrs. Benton's funeral in case I haven't an opportunity to -tell you personally." She was on the point of adding, "Your uncle -wasn't that sort of man." But suppose Bob should sometime see those -words? She might say, "The Kenworthy men are too good for that sort -of thing." Yes, that might do. - -Bob threw down his paper. Emily jumped. - -"Some coon story!" he yawned. "Let's go to bed." - -"You go on up, Bob," she said, earnestly. "I'm just coming." - -When he came up from "fixing the furnace" she was rearranging her -desk. In the center of it was a little compartment that could be -locked but seldom was. It was full of rather useless trifles. She -had found the little key to it now in a small adjoining drawer, and -she had locked away a small envelope inclosed in the very center of -several larger ones. It was addressed to Martha, "to be opened after -my death." As she went upstairs wondering where to hide that key, -she felt more like a perfect fool than she had felt in years. She -looked about the room. At one side of her bureau there hung an -enlarged snapshot of Martha as a four-year-old, hugging a puppy. -Emily had always thought it a perfectly beautiful picture. When Bob -was in the bathroom, she went cautiously over to it and tied the key -to the wire by which the picture hung. "Nobody would ever find it -there if I _should_ die," she said to herself; "and besides I -probably won't." But later, when she heard Bob sleeping, she got up -gently and hid the key in the bottom drawer of the bureau beneath -some summer underthings, for, of course, Maggie would dust that -picture as soon as she was able to be about, and demand to be told -what key that was. - -Afterwards she would say to herself, waking in the night: "Well, -suppose anyone _should_ find that key and open the desk and see the -letter. It's a very sensible thing to leave directions for your -funeral. Everybody ought to do it. Still..." - -And Johnnie Benton was about from time to time, reminding her of the -possibility of sudden death. He wouldn't go back to school. He -might have agreed, in the shock of his grief, to conform to all -burial conventions out of respect for his mother. But to go back and -try for a degree, he refused absolutely and confidently. - -"I haven't told THEM," he said to Emily, nodding his head towards the -house where his aunts still tarried. "Aunt Grace wants to keep house -for me!" The tone of his voice suggested she had proposed at least -to murder him. "I told them I'd go back as soon as it's settled, all -the business; but I couldn't get a degree in ten years if I did go -back. And goodness knows when things will be settled." The delay -wasn't annoying Johnnie. - -Even Emily grew uneasy about Johnnie as the weeks passed. She -wondered sometimes, remembering a sort of threat, if his mother had -really disinherited him. Her lawyers, whom he was always going to -consult in Chicago, were saying now that Mrs. Benton had gone to -California for the express purpose of investigating investments -there, and presently the results would come to light. Emily didn't -see clearly why Johnnie should have to drive up to Chicago three days -a week to learn such meager facts. He stayed in Chicago so much that -his aunts closed the house and went home. And then when he came home -he stayed with the Kenworthys. - -He stayed with them depressed, silent, and inactive. Emily was -troubled about his laziness; but, after all, she had been his -mother's stanchest friend and she owed him some sympathy and -patience. She was as kind to him as possible. - -But not so Martha. She came down suddenly for a week-end, the last -of February. Emily told her to go into the small guest room; -Johnnie's things were in the other. - -"Good night!" she cried. "Is he _here_, too?" - -Was he then so much in Martha's Chicago? - -"Now look here, mammie, I don't approve of this. He's taking -advantage of you. Why can't he stay at the hotel?" - -"Martha, if you like the hotel so well, you'd better go down and try -a meal there! It isn't a comfortable place, and you know it." - -"But why doesn't he stay at the Kendalls' or at the Johnsons'? Why -can't he stay with his friends?" - -"Those boys aren't at home now, you know that." - -"Well, he needn't try to--get a stand-in here just because his mother -is dead. Why don't he live in his own house, like anybody else -would?" - -"I didn't know you were coming down, child. I didn't know you would -object. After all, you can't live in Chicago and dictate who's to -stay with me here." - -"No, I suppose not. But you have enough to do without taking care of -Johnnie Benton. Why doesn't he go to work?" - -"He does work--sometimes. He works in the garage." - -Martha turned about, flabbergasted. "You mean--dad's garage?" - -"Yes." - -"Well, of all the nerve! Look here, mammie, I tell you just now -there's no use of dad trying to put that over on me. You can just -tell him----" - -"My dear child, don't be silly! Nobody's trying to put anything over -on you." - -"Of course, I can marry anybody I want to, as well as not! Women do -it all the time and never say a word! But you needn't think I'm -going to; you can get that idea out of your head right now!" - -"Oh, come out of it, Martha! Nobody's trying to make you do anything -you don't want to." - -It would, perhaps, have been foolish to try that. For Martha seemed -able to manage. Emily didn't know exactly how she had done it, but -Johnnie came up presently from down-town, saw her there, greeted her -quite undisturbed and casually, and announced he was going to Chicago -for the week-end. - -And all Martha said was, "I'll let you know next time before I come, -mammie." - -Emily felt encouraged about Martha in those days. About Johnnie she -grew less and less certain as the spring came on. - -Once she had to say to him: "Johnnie, I want to ask you something. I -want you to tell me what your plans are. What are you going to do?" - -He was walking about her living room gloomily, with his hands in his -pockets. He stopped and looked at her. She liked him, and she saw -she had hurt him deeply. - -"You getting sore at me, too?" he asked. - -"No," she said, "but you _are_ going to work sometime, of course?" - -"I'm working now," he said. He stopped in front of her. He stroked -his hair nervously. "I'm trying to persuade Martha to marry me!" he -said, bluntly. - -"Oh, Johnnie!" she exclaimed. - -"You mean she won't?" he asked. - -"Johnnie, no! I don't think she will. I don't think Martha'll -marry--young. It doesn't seem to me--that it's likely." - -"You mean--that affair--last summer--the summer before last?" - -If she had meant it she had not meant him to refer to it. "That -affair?" How could Johnnie Benton know about it? - -"Well--yes," she acknowledged, "and other things. She isn't very -domestic." - -"I beg to differ with you!" Johnnie spoke with some heat. "She _is_ -domestic. She loves houses. You know she loves houses and--things." - -"Well, anyway, Johnnie, I think--she'd be just as apt to marry -you--if you went to work; maybe more so. Not that I think----" - -Johnnie lifted his head, as if to ward off her reproof. "I'm sick of -this," he burst out. "People think I ought to settle down. Well, I -would settle down--if Martha'd agree. I'd settle down here, or any -place. It doesn't much matter what business I go into; I'll likely -be a failure in any of 'em. I'll have enough to live on for us both. -But if Martha won't, I'm going to pull out of this for a year or so; -let them settle the estate to suit themselves. I can't be bothered -with it. I'm going to sea for a year--till I get things into my own -hands." - -"Oh, Johnnie, what do you want to go to sea for? There's something -better than that, surely?" - -"Well, I'll have to earn my living--for a while, if things don't get -settled up. The bank's howling about advancing me any more money. -As if there wasn't plenty coming to me, some place! They won't let -me sell the house, even, till the estate's settled.". - -"Oh, were you thinking of that?" - -"Why not, Mrs. Kenworthy? Martha--wouldn't want to live in it." - -"Johnnie, I'd give that up, if I were you. I wouldn't count on that." - -"That's what I _won't_ give up. I mean I don't give a--cent--what -else happens." - -Emily exclaimed. "You know there's nothing I would have liked so -well." - -"If what?" - -"If it--were--possible," she contented herself with saying. "We -can't force these things, Johnnie." - -"But--it was all right _once_, Mrs. Kenworthy." - -Emily wondered. - -"Look here, what's Martha living with all those suffragettes -for--those school-teachers, and doctor women?" - -And then he said, bitterly: "It's natural she'd prefer them to--some -people. Martha's been stung once, and she's afraid. That's what's -the trouble with her." - -"Good heavens!" thought Emily. "This boy is too wise! What does he -know? And how does he come to know it?" - -After a minute she said, "Well, Johnnie, dear, I would like to see -you--all happy--and settled down, but I don't know--that Martha's the -woman for you; and I tell you frankly I think you ought to stop this -loafing about." - -"I'll ask Mr. Kenworthy for a steady job for a month, if you want me -to." - -"That's not good enough for you, Johnnie; you can't work in a garage. -But it's better than nothing." - -He stuck to the garage for three weeks, and then he threw it up and -departed abruptly on the spring day that Emily noticed the first tall -white iris blooming. She was rather out of patience with him. But -Bob--an amazing lot of sympathy Bob had for everything masculine--he -just grinned. - -"He's in love, the poor devil!" he said, and winked a sort of -familiar grimace across the table at Emily. It annoyed her. All he -had ever said of Martha was: "Well, if she's in love, she'll have to -get over it; that's all." It gave her almost satisfaction to get a -letter from Martha. - -"Johnnie's turned up again. I'm leaving the city for a holiday. -I'll write you about it next week." - -Not another word from that child for two weeks. No sign of Johnnie; -he might at least have had the decency to write whether or not he had -taken to the sea. And Martha, Emily planned as the days passed, was -going to get a thorough dressing down when she came back. Two weeks -without writing was a little too much of a good thing. Two weeks and -five days now, still no word had come. Emily was in the garden. She -was, in fact, exactly at the side of the house which Martha had -suggested adorning with a garage. She had been digging about her -"bleeding heart" and looking down towards the river, because she had -seen orioles for the first time that morning and planning what she -would say to Martha when she got a chance. She turned around -suddenly to see what car had stopped in front of the house. It was a -brand-new little blue runabout, and expensive-looking. - -And then Johnnie Benton jumped out of it, and turned about to give a -hand to some one--and Martha Kenworthy jumped out! All dressed up in -a new suit of rose color, with a lovely bit of soft fur and a new and -nifty hat. And new shoes and a new bag--glorious and smart entirely. -And she had caught sight of her mother, and came half running up to -her. Johnnie, too, dressed to kill--and beaming--was hurrying to -her. They were looking at each other. - -"You two are married!" Emily cried to them; and her heart sank in a -great pity for Johnnie. - -"Mammie, mammie!" Martha was crying, hugging her. They had pulled -her into the hall with cries and kisses. - -"Oh, Martha!" Emily murmured. - -The two were babbling. - -"What she's wanted all the time, and she's pretending to scold us. -Look at her, Johnnie." Martha was laughing at her mother's -consternation. "We wanted to surprise you. How did you _know_? I -suppose we _do_ look married, maybe." - -"I'm glad," said Emily. - -"You're _not_; you're crying! Didn't we surprise you? Did you get -my letter? Rather smooth of me, wasn't it--'Johnnie's turned up and -I'm leaving the city!' We'd only been married an hour when I wrote -that, mammie!" - -She shone, she twinkled, like not one star--but the whole canopy of -heaven. She adored her husband with her married eyes. She stood the -loveliest blossom of the season. Johnnie was explaining. Emily sat -breathless looking from one to the other of them. "They're utterly -married," she thought. "Martha isn't pretending. She isn't putting -something across now." She couldn't believe it. But the bridal -garments would have convinced her. Martha's very stockings were -shining bridally. She had taken off her rosy hat; her frock matched -her coat; she was powdering her nose before the hall glass; she was -cavorting about, and shining. She called upon her mother to admire -poor Johnnie. - -"Isn't he a dear?" she chuckled. "Don't you think he's a lamb, -mammie?" - -"Cut that out, kiddo!" he cried, enjoying it. - -"You bring the stuff in, my son. Mammie, we're going to open up the -room. But Johnnie can have the little guest room--just for his -things, can't he? I told you so, Johnnie. He's got to go down and -break the news softly to dad. You go on, Johnnie; I want to talk to -mammie. But don't you stay more than half an hour, I tell you. -We're going to turn out that room, mammie. I knew it wouldn't be -ready. I'll get out of my glad rags right away. Johnnie can help -me. He's good at housework." - -The door had finally scarcely closed behind the bridegroom when Emily -cried; "Are you happy, Martie? Why did you do this?" - -Side by side they placed themselves on the sofa instinctively; and -Martha threw her arms about her mother ecstatically. - -"Am I happy?" she repeated. "Can't you see I'm happy? Oh, mammie, -I've got so much to tell you. Oh, ain't I lucky, mammie? I didn't -know when I married him--I was just--mad, inside--I was hardboiled. -I didn't intend to be good to Johnnie. I didn't know what else to -do. I was sick of being called an old maid! I thought he could just -run the risk, if he would keep on asking me. I didn't intend being -nice to him, or anything. Mammie, people don't appreciate Johnnie. -I didn't. Not at first, and then I found out how SWEET he was! He -was just sweet to me, mammie, and I went and told him everything the -other night. I could just kiss the ground that man walks on, with -his dear old feet!" - -Tears came springing into little Mrs. Benton's eyes. - -"I told him everything about New York. I told him I'd been crazy. -He said we'd be a pair of nuts, then. Fifty fifty, he said, I told -him, no, mammie. A thousand to one, I told him. I tried to make him -see, but he said I just thought that because I was such a good little -kid! He said I was a good little kid, mammie. Those were his very -words! I tell you right now, mammie, nobody's ever going to say a -word about his mother to me! Because she WAS part of him, after all, -and he hates it. I never knew there was anything in the world so -darling as that man! You just ought to see him in his pajamas! He's -too sweet! Blue and white striped they are. I'll let you see them, -mammie!" - -"Rare treat," thought Emily, dazedly. - -"Don't you think he's a lamb, mammie? Don't you think he's too dear?" - -"I always liked Johnnie." - -"Oh, I don't mean that way! You just wait till you know him better! -But nobody can appreciate Johnnie till she's married to him!" - -"That seems too bad!" - -"Oh, I don't know. It suits me!" she retorted, immediately. "Nobody -wants a lot of women sitting around appreciating her husband. -Mammie, it was too funny the way it happened. You know, Mrs. -Blacksley and I had an awful row. She practically put me out of the -shop." - -"Oh?" - -"Yes, she did. It was too funny, when you think about it. You -see----" - -She chuckled. She could enjoy any joke herself in her high mood. -"She had to have some money to go on with, and she asked me straight -out if there was any chance of me putting some in. And I said no, -not unless she got rid of that man of hers. Mother, you can't -imagine what a temper that woman's got! I thought she was going to -pull my hair or slap me. I kept backing out towards the door, and -she kept coming after me. She called me----" Martha giggled. "She -called me an evil-minded little old maid! She said she'd like to see -me groveling--groveling, it was she said--before some man. And here -I am already just groveling! She said she hoped I'd have enough -sense some day to appreciate a real man. It was pretty rotten of me -to say that to her, because she is fond of him. She said his very -cough was precious to her; she said she hoped I'd fall in love till -I'd kiss somebody's false teeth when he wasn't there himself!" -Martha snickered and added, "But, of course, he'd take them with him, -his teeth, but I didn't think of that in time to answer her. I was -afraid of her. And I was mad, I can tell you. And then, of course, -Johnnie came along again. I was hardboiled and I went and married -him. Because, after all, you've got to marry or be called an old -maid in this world, haven't you, mammie? Let's ask her down now -after a while, for a week. Mrs. Blacksley, I mean. But maybe she -won't come. She's got such an awful temper." - -Emily cried, the moment there was a pause--suddenly: - -"Martha, I was never unfaithful to your father in my life--your -father, I mean Bob Kenworthy!" - -"You weren't?" She stared at her mother, taken aback. "Well, that's -sort of funny." - -"I ought to have told you that at once that day when you told -me--what you thought! But I didn't." - -Martha was looking at her thoughtfully. - -"Well, that's sort of funny. I was just thinking of that this -morning!" She had spoken slowly, but a thought quickened her pace -again. "Mammie, you just ought to see Johnnie in the morning! He's -too sweet! His hair never gets mussed up a bit, it's so short, and -sort of soft in the morning. And I was just thinking this morning -about what you said, or what I said to you, rather, and it would have -been a raw deal for dad, after all. Because really, if a woman's got -a good husband, she ought to treat him right, I think. Don't you?" - -"I CERTAINLY DO!" - -"I wouldn't want anybody treating Johnnie that way, I know that." -And her tongue wagged happily on. Mother's vices or virtues were -dismissed as slight things, in this new joy. They sat still there, -Emily listening to Johnnie's praises till he came back into the room -with Bob. - -The paternal blessing detained them only for a minute. They hurried -away to their housekeeping. A hurricane of happiness; seemed to be -moving the furniture in the painted room about, judging from the -noise. Bob and Emily sat side by side listening to the chortles of -mirth that came down to them. Bob couldn't stop grinning. - -"I always said this would happen, Emily. I always knew it would." - -"Right as usual!" said Emily. If a woman has a good husband, what's -the use of reminding him of all he doesn't know? she mused, happily. - -She scarcely knew the painted room itself when she went up to it -later. It was noon, but the curtains were pushed back as far as -possible, and the blinds rolled to the top, so that the sunshine came -crashing down like thunder from paradise on the roused and choral -colors. The Victrola was grinding out: - - Two for tea, - And tea for two. - A girl for me, - And a boy for you. - - -Johnnie cried out, "Come in, Mrs. Kenworthy!" - -Martha gurgled, jeering. "Mrs. Kenworthy! the nerve of you! Call -her mother!" - -They hadn't ceased dancing. Martha had a gaudy printed purple silk -thing, a man's belongings, pinned about her head, turban-wise, and -her arms were clasped firmly around her husband's waist. She made a -gesture with her head about the room. - -"It never looked better, did it, mammie? You always wanted it this -way." - -The beds were standing together, at length, where they had always -belonged. - -"I just let Johnnie arrange everything else to suit himself," she -said. - - - -THE END - - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PAINTED ROOM *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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 an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. 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 -www.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 unprotected by copyright law 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 other than 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 in the United States and - most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (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 website -(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 the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager 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 -works not protected by U.S. copyright law 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 1.F.3. 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 MERCHANTABILITY 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 are 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 information page at -www.gutenberg.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. 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 business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread 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 www.gutenberg.org/donate - -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 checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.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 forty 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 not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website 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. diff --git a/old/69549-0.zip b/old/69549-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f61f0ad..0000000 --- a/old/69549-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69549-h.zip b/old/69549-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 878c431..0000000 --- a/old/69549-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69549-h/69549-h.htm b/old/69549-h/69549-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 0a973a8..0000000 --- a/old/69549-h/69549-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14698 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html> -<html lang="en"> - -<head> - -<link rel="icon" href="images/img-cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> - -<meta charset="utf-8"> - -<title> -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Painted Room, by Margaret Wilson -</title> - -<style> - -body { color: black; - background: white; - margin-right: 10%; - margin-left: 10%; - font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; - text-align: justify } - -p {text-indent: 4% } - -p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } - -p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 200%; - text-align: center } - -p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 150%; - text-align: center } - -p.t2b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 150%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 100%; - text-align: center } - -p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 100%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - text-align: center } - -p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 60%; - text-align: center } - -h1 { text-align: center } -h2 { text-align: center } -h3 { text-align: center } -h4 { text-align: center } -h5 { text-align: center } - -p.poem {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 10%; } - -p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; - letter-spacing: 4em ; - text-align: center } - -p.letter {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -.smcap { font-variant: small-caps } - -p.transnote {text-indent: 0% ; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.intro {font-size: 90% ; - text-indent: -5% ; - margin-left: 5% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; - font-size: 85%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.finis { font-size: larger ; - text-align: center ; - text-indent: 0% ; - margin-left: 0% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -</style> - -</head> - -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The painted room, by Margaret Wilson</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The painted room</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Margaret Wilson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 15, 2022 [eBook #69549]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Al Haines</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PAINTED ROOM ***</div> - -<h1> -<br><br> - <i>The Painted Room</i><br> -</h1> - -<p><br></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - <i>By</i><br> -</p> - -<p class="t2"> - <i>Margaret Wilson</i><br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p class="t4"> - <i>Author of</i> "THE KENWORTHYS"<br> - <i>and</i><br> - "THE ABLE MCLAUGHLINS"<br> -</p> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="t3"> - <i>Harper & Brothers, Publishers<br> - New York and London<br> - 1926</i><br> -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="t4"> - <i>THE PAINTED ROOM</i><br> -</p> - -<p class="t4"> - Copyright, 1926, by<br> - Harper & Brothers<br> - Printed in the U. S. A.<br> -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> - -<p class="t2"> -<i>THE PAINTED ROOM</i> -</p> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter One</i> -</h3> - -<p> -Little Martha Kenworthy, to use her own careless -expression, was "in bad with her dad," as usual. But she was -not a girl to be disturbed by a trifle of that sort. She had been -home only a few days from her college in the east for her -second summer holiday, and had been followed too closely by -official comments on her term's work. The only explanation -she saw fit to give to her father on that subject was to the effect -that he should forget it. Her mother had taken him aside and -said privately, firmly, and coaxingly: -</p> - -<p> -"Now, Bob, I'm not going to have that child's life made -miserable by somebody else's brilliance. It isn't Martha's fault -that she hasn't phenomenal brains. I'm not going to have her -scolded for being like me." -</p> - -<p> -"Miserable! Huh! There's a fat chance of her being miserable. -It would be a mighty good thing if some one could make -her miserable a few minutes. That's what I'm trying to get at! -She's got enough brains, if she wasn't too lazy to use them. -She'll be fired next term if she isn't careful, and then where'll -you be? I'm going to make her quit this eternal fooling -around." -</p> - -<p> -"Bronson's spoiled you, Bob. That's all the matter with you. -You're always wishing Martha would dazzle people, sort of -make them sit up and blink, the way he used to. It's all right -for a boy to be so terribly clever, but it would be awkward -for a woman. It would make her conspicuous, Bob." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I wouldn't care so much, Emily, if I could even get -a rise out of her about it. I light into her, and you know what -she says! 'Yes, daddy! Yes, daddy!' like a little angel. And -she hasn't the least idea of doing anything about it. If she'd -get good and mad about it once, we could get some place. She -just goes on like a little mule!" -</p> - -<p> -"No one but you ever calls her a mule, Bob," Emily cajoled -him. "Other people seem to lead her about easy enough." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes! Toward a dance, they do. But how about a -trigonometry?" -</p> - -<p> -"You ought to have married a Phi Beta Kappa, Bob, with a -golden key. You never asked to see my school reports when -you married me; that's where you made your mistake. She's -her mother's own child, you know." -</p> - -<p> -"I never saw a kid less like her mother in my life! I never -saw anybody like her. I know I only got through exams. by the -skin of my teeth, but I did work now and then." -</p> - -<p> -"Martha works hard enough when anything interests her. -You ought to see people look at her room, Bob. Grace, -Mrs. Phillips, said to me day before yesterday, 'Goodness, Emily, -you've got a clever daughter. How old is Martha? I thought -she was only nineteen.' She doesn't think she's stupid, Bob. -You just wait. Martha'll make you proud of her yet!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'm waiting, all right. I've always been waiting. You -might hurry her along a bit, old girl!" -</p> - -<p> -So Bob had waited all that day, without seizing more than -two or three fleeting opportunities to "roast" her about that -report, and he was still waiting the next noon in a rather abused -mood for some of those signs of promise that his wife was -always talking about. He was thinking about it as he walked -up to dinner, when he suddenly shuddered to recognize his -car, that he ought to have been riding home in, disguised by loads -of flowers, overflowing with bobbed heads, young arms and -joys and shriekings, turned violently—to escape crashing into a -milk truck—up over the curb into a neighbor's lawn, just missing -an altogether unyielding elm. -</p> - -<p> -Martha was clever enough at least to avoid her father until -dinner was on the table. Emily, helping the crippled old -maid-of-all-work in the dining room, -heard them at it as they came in -toward the table. -</p> - -<p> -"I say you were coming around that corner at forty miles an -hour!" Then suddenly stopping: "What's this, Emily! No -company for dinner? Where's all the gang? My g-o-oodness! this -is a treat! I told you, Martha——!" -</p> - -<p> -Bob spoke with the abruptness of a man who sells hundreds -of cars a year, and repairs thousands while their drivers wait. -And Martha, when she bothered to reply to him, spoke like a -siren from some island of lotus eaters. Her sentences, instead -of ending crisply, trailed away rather, and were lost in -indifference. Emily scarcely knew what to make of her, at -times, nowadays. She had always been a quiet child. On the -occasions of high delight in her childhood, which made other -children laugh and shout and dance about with glee, little -Martha had always stood still, her hands clasped together, and -shone all over, with her gray eyes, her little pursed-up mouth, -her whole little soft face. The shouting, squealing, roaring sort -of little rejoicers are lovely, too, Emily had often thought. But -this distinctive rising into shining quietness which was so -characteristically Martha, had been a rare and fascinating kind of -infant charm. And now, in the blossom of her maidenhood, -Martha seemed instinctively to have chosen quietness, and -passivity for her weapon of defense and conquest. When she -flirted, and when she quarreled with her father, her voice was -like the falling of "tired eyelids on tired eyes." Emily had said -to Bob, perplexed by Martha's unconciliatory behavior to one -whom Emily would have called in her youth an admirer, -"Johnnie just wants to grab Martha and give her a shaking when -she looks at him like that." And Bob replied, indignantly: "You -bet your bottom dollar he does! That's why she does it!" -</p> - -<p> -And now Martha, consuming a chop with haste, displeased -with her father's outburst, lifted her eyes slowly toward him -and looked at him casually for a moment, and then, letting her -eyelashes fall, devoted herself to the chop, as she might have -given a moment's careless attention to an English sparrow -perched on the window sill of the house across the road. And -she drawled, unperturbed to the last degree: -</p> - -<p> -"I think you're mistaken, dad. I don't believe I was driving -that fast. And, anyway, I stopped in time. A miss is as good -as a mile, I suppose." -</p> - -<p> -"Not with my car, it isn't. Not by a damned sight! You'd -think it was a Lizzie the way you treat it. A mile is better than -a miss with you, and don't you forget it! If this happens again, -I won't let you drive the car all summer!" -</p> - -<p> -"I said I was sorry, didn't I? I said I wouldn't do it again. -You never saw me do a thing like that before, did you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I didn't, young lady. You didn't imagine I was anywhere -about, or I wouldn't have seen you this time, either! I -give you credit for that much sense, at least!" -</p> - -<p> -"How sweet of you, daddy!" -</p> - -<p> -"Can't you see what you did?" Bob demanded, excited by her -indifference. "Can't you see that if——" -</p> - -<p> -"You talk as if I'd plowed up all Parker's lawn. By the -way, why don't you get that bridge on Whinney's road fixed, -father? Have we got to go that dusty detour all summer every -time we want a game of golf, when we're only here three -months?" -</p> - -<p> -"Do you hear that, Emily? I try to put a little sense into her -head, and she begins blaming me because that road isn't mended. -Do you think the roads in this county are made for you kids? -'You haven't had that car a year,' Perkins says to me yesterday, -'and it looks like a bootleggers' express.' 'Bootleggers nothing! -It's the women,' I said. 'They may be frail, but fenders -crumble under them.' I remember I said to you——" -</p> - -<p> -"Mother, why don't you speak up? You aren't functioning. -After all, we worked all morning getting <i>you</i> those flowers, and -this is all the thanks we get for it. I tell you, mommie, there -are absolute <i>tubs</i> of delphiniums in Carson's cellar. Heavenly -blues! They'll look cooler than anything to-night. This -afternoon we're——" -</p> - -<p> -"How could you expect to see anything with all that stuff -piled in front of you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Stuff! He calls them 'stuff.' They're all named varieties," -she said, "with pedigrees behind them." -</p> - -<p> -"Emily, I tell you the car looked like a florist's moving. That -young fool of a Johnnie Benton riding clear home on the -running board with his arms full of——" -</p> - -<p> -"I wouldn't let him inside, mother." Martha spoke virtuously. -"I knew you didn't want them all crushed." -</p> - -<p> -"And if he hadn't seen that truck, and hollered and -jumped——" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, anyway, he saved the flowers, I'll say that for him. -It's more than I expected him to do, if he did get a fall." -</p> - -<p> -"And he didn't even have a shirt on, Emily. His coat flew -open as he fell——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Bob, surely he must have had a shirt on! What did he -have on, Martha?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sorry I don't know, mother. I didn't understand -father wanted me to examine all the fellows' B.V.D.'s. He'd -been playing tennis, and he just grabbed some sweater when we -hollered to him to come along. Next time I pick up a man, I'll -say to him, 'If you haven't got a nice proper undershirt on, you -can't go riding in my father's car.'" -</p> - -<p> -Bob snorted. -</p> - -<p> -"Who said anything about undershirts? A nice thing for a -girl like you to be talking about!" -</p> - -<p> -"You mean he didn't have an undershirt on? He wasn't -certainly stark naked, mother." Martha suddenly had become -prim. -</p> - -<p> -"All I say is, he wasn't dressed right to go riding with girls. -You listen to what I'm saying, Martha! If you had gone bang -into the truck, not a bone in your body——" -</p> - -<p> -And what happened then to interrupt him, Bob said happened -every time he tried to "settle" Martha. A hooting and a tooting -of horns, and laughing and whistles, from the street intervened. -Martha jumped up. -</p> - -<p> -"There they are," she said to her mother. "Send the car -up by three, dad. I suppose you can trust the old bus to me if -mother is along. It isn't a Rolls-Royce, after all." She stood -gobbling down the dessert. With her fork she pushed together -the last crumbs on her plate, and lifting it, she turned her -smooth bobbed head halfway towards her father, and practically -winking one gray eye towards her mother, she remarked, -demurely, with an indifference that made the words absurd: -</p> - -<p> -"My God! That was some cherry pie!" -</p> - -<p> -Bob watched her depart, wilting, and turned to his wife. -</p> - -<p> -"There you are, Emily!" he protested. It was as if he said, -"Look how your child acts." She was, in fact, still Emily's -child, as she had always been. Bob accepted responsibility now -for her no more than ever. "She talks as if I was a Long -Island millionaire. As if she couldn't waste her precious time -saving a mere Packard from a smash-up. How many times -have I told her not to pile more than eight people into the car? -And thirteen of them piled out. One after another. Sitting on -one another's laps. Just sitting on one another. A fat chance -of the boys using their own cars when they can get a girl to -hold on their knees. And when I bawled her out, she said there -were only two in the front seat! If Johnnie hadn't happened -to see that truck——!" Bob shrugged. "And all she says, in -the end, is, 'Send up the old bus. My God! What a pie!'" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, Bob, I've told you that she's reached years of -discretion——" -</p> - -<p> -"Discretion! That's a good one!" -</p> - -<p> -"She chooses to use your expressions. I'm not going to say -anything. I spanked her often enough for it when she was a -baby. Anyway, she only does it to annoy you. She never uses -it with me." -</p> - -<p> -"God alone knows what she uses when she's with that gang!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well, they're having a good time, Bob. She won't be -home many more summers." -</p> - -<p> -"Why won't she? Where's she going?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know—exactly. I mean—she'll be getting married. -She'll be taking up some work." -</p> - -<p> -And Emily, sitting there enjoying her juicy sweet cherries -thoroughly, found some pleasure in the situation. At least, it -had its elements of satisfaction in it, even though the -growing—what should she call it?—misunderstanding between Martha -and Bob made her sigh, often. For twenty years she had been -annoyed, inwardly and ineffectively, by Bob's choice of -expletives. And this chit of a child, by her occasional use of -them that made her father shudder, kept him free from them -for weeks together. If in her childhood he had ignored her, at -least undervalued her, he was getting well paid for it just at -present. -</p> - -<p> -"Just as if I hadn't said a word to her! 'Send up the car at -three,' she says, just like that, as if it was <i>her</i> car. You'd -think the only reason a father existed was to keep a car in -repair for her." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that is one reason for them existing. Besides, she -did say she was sorry. She said it two or three times. She -promised not to do it again. I'm never afraid when she's -driving, Bob. She never seems to me to lose her head." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no. Of course not. She's mighty careful to keep you -on her side. She wouldn't——" -</p> - -<p> -"On her side, old silly," Emily said, soothingly. "You talk -as if there was some quarrel between you two. You know -very well that if there was I'd never let her know I was, for a -second. She's worked like a Trojan for to-night. I didn't see -how I could possibly get over to Elgin this afternoon. And she -offered to drive me over." -</p> - -<p> -"Never you mind about <i>that</i>! She'll not miss anything. -She'll go shopping while you call, if she can find anything -worth buying. Or else she's made a date to meet somebody. -I bet three minutes after she leaves you there, she'll have some -young idiot making eyes at her in that car. I'll bet you a dollar -she's 'phoned some of them she's coming over." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, suppose she has, Bob. What do you expect of a girl? -Do you want her to sit in the car with her eyes shut till I'm -ready to come home? Why shouldn't she call up her friends?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I know it, Emily. But it's the principle of the thing. -They're such a lazy bunch. They never do a thing but spend -money and dance. That's what Fielding was saying to me." -</p> - -<p> -Emily giggled perversely—effectively. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well; have it your own way. They're all angels, if you -say they are. I never interfere with them. Give them enough -rope and they'll all hang themselves." -</p> - -<p> -"Have some more pie," Emily urged. "A little more pie -won't hurt you. I've got to begin canning cherries to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, can the canning! What do you want to stew in the -kitchen for, weather like this?" -</p> - -<p> -When Emily left the table she went quickly to the kitchen. -Strange how the maid's conscience could prick the mistress! -Old Maggie now was crippled and Emily had promised to take -the ironed clothes yesterday from the clothes horse and put -them away. She had forgotten, almost cruelly forgotten, for -to have something done on Thursday that should have been done -on Wednesday was pain to Maggie. To that pathetic sensitiveness -her years of faithful service had brought her. No woman -in town but Emily would have endured the crankiness of the -old thing, the neighbors said. But Emily from infancy had -been used to her tyranny, and to her any servant was better -than none at all. She apologized for having forgotten. And -Maggie, hobbling around, demanded that she look at Martha's -best "chimmey." The woman had scorched it, burned it, and -doubled her fault carefully in so Emily wouldn't see it. And -Emily looked at it, and grumbled a little, sympathizingly, and -then spoiled the effect of her good deed by saying the garment -was almost worn out, anyway. Whereat Maggie snorted. Did -that excuse the careless, lazy, sneaky woman for folding it in -so deceitfully? Certainly not, Emily hurried to assure her, -trying to sound efficient and superior, and knowing as she went -through the living room with an armful of mending that she -had seemed as usual but a broken reed to the old thing who -needed something strong, now, to lean on. -</p> - -<p> -Bob saw her task, and said, of course: -</p> - -<p> -"Why don't you make Martha do that for you?" -</p> - -<p> -"You know she's gone to work on the committee, getting -things ready for to-night. She's busy." -</p> - -<p> -"Busy! Huh!" remarked Bob. -</p> - -<p> -Emily had intended to get a lot of work done before Martha -came back for her. Those bathroom sash curtains really must be -changed. But a neighbor "ran in" for a minute. She wanted -to talk about her grandchild, and Emily forgot her hurry. And -then she thought she would take some of those lovely columbines -to her friend's mother in Elgin. And so she went out and cut -some, and wasn't at all ready to go when Martha came for her, -calling up to her to hurry if she wanted to get back by five. -But Emily seized her and made her wait. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, sit down a minute. Listen to me. You're a bad -child. You ought to be spanked. I wish——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I know it, mother," Martha answered, sincerely. "I'm -the limit. Can you imagine me talking that way to anyone -else? But dad does get my goat, some way. What does he -want to keep on after me for, after I've told him I'm sorry? -He's just got into the habit of ya-ya-ya-ing at me, and he'll just -have to get out of it. I'm not going to have it. Did you see him -writhe, mother, when I mygodded him?" And Martha -chuckled. -</p> - -<p> -"We've had enough of that now, Martha! You can stop -that just now. You know I don't think you're the one to correct -your father!" -</p> - -<p> -"But if I don't, who will? You're no good at it. You're too -good-natured with him, you old precious lamb. He knows you -don't like his godding. Does he stop? I know he doesn't like -mine. Do I stop? We've got to be logical." -</p> - -<p> -Emily smiled witheringly. -</p> - -<p> -"Your logic is always so unexpected. Do behave yourself. -You might at least ask him to send up the car, instead of -ordering him to. He doesn't keep it for your benefit, you know." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't know about that. If he keeps it just for himself, -he's a selfish pig. If he keeps it partly for ours, why -should we hesitate to acknowledge it? You're always defending -him." -</p> - -<p> -"Defending him from whom? He doesn't need any defense -that I know of. He hasn't got any enemies." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, maybe I shouldn't have said defense. That's not the -word, maybe. But you'll have to acknowledge that he needs a -good deal of—ahem—explanation, mother. You see for yourself -he stops swearing like a sailor when I take him in hand. -Everybody says 'My God.' But when he uses it you'd think he -was a drunken sailor. Mother, come along. There's all that -decoration to do when we get back. You can't trust them to do -anything unless somebody's there to boss them. Get your hat." -</p> - -<p> -They went out of the door together, and down the front -walk to where the car waited in thick shade. The famous -barberry hedge that divides the Kenworthy front lawn from -the street dozes faintly in June, waking really only in October. -But the lindens whose branches almost met across the narrow -street were in the murmurous climax of leaf and blossom that -day. Emily climbed into the car. Martha jumped in, slipped -into the driving seat, and banged the door after her. Now -Emily, when necessity compelled her to manipulate Bob's car, -approached it humbly and coaxed it into action, praying it would -get around the next corner safely. But Martha just seized it, -and slapped it into obedience, and imperiously commanded it -hither and thither hastily. Emily never saw her take charge of -it without a sort of impulse of awe. The car, like everything -else expensive, seemed to become the girl. She moved her -hands on the large steering wheel with that surprising -composure which Emily had admired from her babyhood. She -always drove bareheaded. The breeze scarcely disturbed her -hair, which was cut and combed almost as it had been ten years -ago, when Jim Kenworthy used to sit and stroke it thoughtfully. -There was never a day when Martha was at home that -Emily didn't notice how distinguished the absolute straightness -and fineness of that black hair seemed among shingled and -marcelled heads. Bob didn't like bobbed hair, but he didn't -make such an absolute fool of himself on the subject as some -men did. Emily herself liked to think that there had never been -any "putting up" of hair for her daughter. There had never -been a day when a box of hairpins definitely divided her -maturity from her childhood. There had never been any letting -down of skirts for Martha. Her frocks, still cut simply, hung -from her shoulders to—well, why should a man go fussing on -indefinitely about the length of his daughter's skirts, after they -had been determined! Of course, if Martha had had fat legs, -and shaky hips, like some girls whose names might be -mentioned, Emily might not have admired the prevailing styles so -sincerely. But Martha was built slenderly enough, gracefully -enough, to justify them, Emily thought, looking at her sitting -there like a little child, in that pink gingham frock, uncorseted, -unrestrained, all delicately and subtly blooming with color. -</p> - -<p> -And Emily, though she enjoyed her daughter in perfect whiffs -of satisfaction, looked at her not without uneasiness. For she -knew, when she sat looking at that child, that she was seeing -bodily before her eyes nineteen years of her life; and not the -quantity of it only, but the very quality, the very flavor of it. -Everything she had done she had done for that child; all that -she had left undone she had left undone for her. Even Jim, -the brother of her husband, whom she had loved, she had given -up, she had kept distant from, for this child's sake. Often since -he had died, six years ago, she had regretted that renunciation. -She had thought bitterly at times that if she had gone to him, -divorced or not divorced, child or no child, he might—who -knew?—be living still. But generally, when she thought of it -all, when Martha was with her, she had been glad of her -decision. Martha was surely reward enough for any sacrifice a -woman could make. -</p> - -<p> -Because Martha was happy. That was the whole point. If -her mother had divorced her father, or deserted him, surely -there must have been something like a shadow, a sort of dimness, -over the child's consciousness. But now how gay she was, -how perfectly gay and light-hearted. For Emily, who had -been an unhappy lonely young girl, that was enough. She -fervently now loved the months when the whole house rose up -to the zest of youth, when the rugs were rolled up and the -victrola going, when the refrigerator was raided nightly, when -the clothes lines were always adorned with swimming suits, the -bathroom overflowing with girls, the railings even of the -veranda lined with lads, cigarettes gleaming in the darkness of -the garden—why ask whether feminine or masculine cigarettes—when -there was no sleep till the last lingering car departing had -made the night strident. Bob grumbled incessantly about -Martha's company. But must not an only child, most of all, -have friends about? "You'd think the house was run for that -girl," Bob complained. And Emily answered to herself, for -she was a wise one: "If this house of mine is run eight months -of the year for you, why shouldn't it be run four months of the -year for her?" But she said only: "Too bad! It's just a shame." -</p> - -<p> -For physically, she got tired of it herself. Thank Heaven -the rush which had been accumulating for weeks would be -over this evening! It was an added misfortune that the old -friend visiting in Elgin had 'phoned that Emily must come to -see her this very afternoon, or miss her altogether. So here -she and Martha, in the midst of the preparations, were slipping -across counties together, as if distance was nothing. And -truly to Martha Kenworthy it was nothing worth raising an -eyelash excitedly about. They slipped silently by cornfields, -with straight little lines of green checking away geometrically -for level miles. They slipped by alfalfa-green fields, clover-green -fields, oat-green fields, wheat-green fields, farmhouses, -high loads of balancing hay, milk trucks. The sun was hot. -The air was clear. The sky was blue. And on the horizon -magnificently distant, beyond those subtle sloping fields, rose -towering white and blooming higher, in puff upon puff and fold -upon fold, huge white culminating clouds of dreams. Emily, -lulled almost to unconsciousness, saw a black one rising -ominously among them. -</p> - -<p class="t3"> -* * * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -"Look at that!" she murmured, breaking a fragrant silence. -</p> - -<p> -Martha looked. -</p> - -<p> -"We should worry!" she replied. She was right, of course. -Nothing less than an earthquake could spoil the climax of the -women's triumph now. -</p> - -<p> -The growth of their conception, the building of their dream -into concrete foundations and that perfect dancing floor, was -a thing that every woman who had had a hand in it was wondering -over this week, and Emily had more reason than most of -them to wonder. For she was by nature less a committee woman -than any of them. She had to think out every step of her -participation in it, to believe she was really part of it. She -always forgot even her most important motives, and puzzled -afterwards over all the reasons for her actions which at the -time had seemed obvious. In her early married life she had -been too poor and too busy to consider the women's club. -Besides, it had been bullied then by the aunt whose house Emily -had escaped from by marriage. And after the aunt died, and -Emily moved again into the good house her grandfather and -aunt had been rebuilding for some seventy years, she had not -wanted to take her place in the circle which might, she suspected, -be discussing the gossip about her husband's speculation with -some money her aunt had intrusted to him. And she had had -a baby then, soon after she had come back to the house, a poor -little starving son who kept her and Bob bending over him night -and day for nearly two years. And then Jim had come to -them, bringing his tragic son. And her old girlish love for -him had risen like a flood, like a flood that never burst its -dam, but pushed and pounded there against it—till Jim died. -</p> - -<p> -Life had collapsed then. Just collapsed. It had no content -at all. She had come to realize that most of the years of -her married life had been given their value by her love of her -first lover, her husband's brother. From the day he took -his departure from town until the next time he came to see -his mother, she had lived in anticipation of the days when he -would be about the house, "jollying" in his charming way, his -frail and doting mother, and playing about with Martha, and -every minute, under his discreet and brotherly words, loving -her, the girl he had so incredibly missed marrying. There had -been for her then that certainty, and besides that, some place -in the depth of her mind a vague, foolish, romantic, -unacknowledged hope of some time, some place, loving him -altogether. She had to believe that that little hope had been -the mainspring of her life. For, after his death, without it, -she couldn't go on, she had thought desperately. Life had -stopped. -</p> - -<p> -And just then that woman, Mrs. Benton, who had lived in -the next block for years, suddenly strode into Emily's -consciousness, in the same way that a few years before she had -landed with a running jump in the defenseless mind of the -community. Mrs. Benton had had an only daughter who had -been drowned. She had brooded over the fact for a while, -and then risen and said she was going to have every child in that -inland town taught to swim. As a memorial to that daughter -she would make the town a swimming beach. She had bought -a wooded stretch of the river bank. She had dammed the river. -She had made a great dark bottomless swimming place for the -strong lads, and little clear wading pools for the toddlers. She -had made sunny diving places and shady diving places and -steep gravel banks and grassy inclines, and dressing rooms -of varieties. And all summer she stationed guards there and -instructors, and got Johnnie Weismuller to come down to her -yearly water festivals, to do his stunts and encourage the -winners of all the water races. It was impossible to imagine a -swimming beach more skillfully managed. The Rotarians had -to acknowledge that the beach was the town's best booster. -Who could deny that farmers came now to trade in that town, -with their Fords and their Cadillacs packed full of eager -bathing suits who had been kept in order the whole week by -the promise of a swim on Saturday? -</p> - -<p> -After that, she had gone on to improve the city and ruin the -temper of the taxpayers. She had built and she had paved -and she had investigated, she had reformed and she had tested -laws, and she had hoisted taxes. Men said horrid things about -Mrs. Benton. They said, "she was out to raise municipal -hell," and that she was "just too damned efficient to live." And -when a small boy, a mere little unconsidered Hicks child, -quarreling with his playmate, cried, "You needn't think you -can go Bentoning around my back yard," they took up the -verb derisively and put it into all the male mouths of the -county, where it lives to this day. -</p> - -<p> -No sooner had the beach become a success beyond any -expectation, than Mrs. Benton had addressed the women's -club. "Our children," she said, "swim now from June to -October <i>de luxe</i>; and from October to June they dance—how? -Behind the Greek's candyshop, where those obscene pictures -were found, in the old hall that has no ventilation, or the old -opera house controlled by bootleggers. Why should the women -not build a winter gathering-place for their children equal to -the summer center?" The women had said, "We will." "I -wish I could afford to do it all myself," she said. And the -plan they made knocked the breath out of their menfolk. Why, -demanded husbands, couldn't they listen to common sense and -build an ordinary hall? They didn't want a cheap hall. Why -couldn't they build it in the town park? It was too low there, -and hot and crowded. Why must it be built on the hill across -the river from the beach, to which no paved road led, and no -bridge was convenient? They some way liked that hill. Why -not pave a road and build a bridge and make a great new municipal -parking place, which had to be done sooner or later? The -city council refused to have any such white elephant forced -upon them. White elephant, indeed, the women echoed, Mrs. Benton -leading them. A mere kitten for the baby to play with. -</p> - -<p> -If the council wouldn't accept it, very well. The women's -club would build it to suit itself, would manage it, and endow -it. And through four years of opposition and complications -they had worked steadily on, straight to the dedication of the -hall which now, full of the morning delphiniums, waited for -its evening christening. And Emily was very tired. -</p> - -<p> -For Mrs. Benton was clever enough to realize her own weaknesses, -and in launching the dancing-center plan she had felt -the need of some one to pour oil on the waters she troubled. -And there was Emily Kenworthy, just at hand, who was, as -Johnnie Benton said, a "natural born oil-can," an easy-going -woman who got along with anyone, even that cranky old -servant that bossed her around. So Mrs. Benton had pounced -upon Emily. And Emily had submitted, with misgivings, welcoming -any relief from the vacancy of life she had suffered since -Jim's death. The strife of it all was nothing to Emily. She -had never found stimulus in overcoming opposition. She had -no respect for committees, no interest in rules of order. Blue -prints made her yawn, and the very idea of signing her name -to a contract oppressed her. From the first she had seen the -project merely as a toy for Martha, a patch of sunlight in her -daughter's background. It had been only her interest in -Martha and all those children about her that had kept Emily -working away these five years, while one woman after another -had resigned in fury. -</p> - -<p> -Emily had been so unhappy as a child that her mind enjoyed -playing with the idea of a beautiful gathering-place all lighted -and shining by a multitude of happy boys and girls. She had -always liked the children who played about with Martha. And -since that summer during the war, when Jim's son, that dear, -befuddled, tragic Bronson, had carried the burden of his -unnecessary sorrow all those weeks unsuspected beneath her very -eyes, she had never passed a half-grown lad on the street -without a second wondering look at him. How could a town be -stupid, she often wondered, having in it a world esoteric, -unexplored, unimagined for the most part by adults, very jungles -of young terror hiding adolescent beds of precious ore. "How -do you come to know all the children in town?" women asked -Emily more than once. "They can't <i>all</i> come to see Martha." But -if you're interested, you do get to know them some way. -They run errands, they deliver groceries, they come about selling -tickets to high-school plays, they spray the apple trees in the -spring, they borrow books—they just some way hang about. -At least that was Emily's explanation. -</p> - -<p> -The whole community she had come to think of as a nursery -for Martha and her kind. Her grandfather, to be sure, had -laid out the main street of the town, and Bob had adorned one -corner of it recently with a huge yawning garage, but the real -importance to Emily of those streets was the fact that Martha -and her friends strolled along them towards their sundaes. Her -grandfather had planted the trees about the house. But Emily -had come to esteem them because they had afforded high swings -for little girls. Emily had first seen Jim Kenworthy under -the willow that leaned out over the river where her back -yard meets the water. Bob had proposed to her in that very -spot. But now that tree was precious because Martha's boat -was generally anchored there. And when Bob talked of sawing -off that lower limb, to build a new garage, she had risen in -arms because Martha had as a child spent hours in that broad -seat it made. She had never been allowed herself to climb -trees, but Martha had spent whole mornings there, and soon, -in not many years, well—who could tell, maybe Martha's own -boys and girls would be hiding their treasures in those lovely -soft hollow places within reach of young hands. She couldn't -just say to Bob that she was saving that very low limb for her -grandchildren, could she? And she never exactly said to -Mrs. Benton that she was working for the community hall -because she didn't want Martha to dance only out there in the -country club aloof from the life of the town. Emily had been -taught to consider the Western town a place scarcely worthy -of her Eastern breeding. She wasn't going to have any such -nonsense as that with Martha. She'd send her East to school, -but she was to feel herself altogether Western. And it was -high time she did, too, since she was the fourth generation to -live in the West. -</p> - -<p> -However, whatever the motives, whatever the difficulties, -the work had been accomplished. Day by day, all the spring -putting in whole mornings over the finishing of it, they had -labored away, and they would be infinitely relieved when it -was over to-morrow. Emily was weary with it all. The car -rolled along, smoothly, as usual, when Martha took it over the -bad roads, and, musing sleepily, she thought of all the women -had done, and wondered pleasantly why this old friend she was -going to see had decided so suddenly to return to her home that -Emily must come to see her a few minutes that very afternoon. -She was almost asleep when she heard Martha's voice, a rather -stern tone of it: -</p> - -<p> -"Mother!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't often criticize you, do I now?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not very often. I suppose you're a rather tolerant daughter, -as daughters go. What have I done now?" Emily yawned. -</p> - -<p> -"I was just thinking about things. Both dad and Uncle Jim -lived in this town when you were a girl, didn't they?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Why?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why didn't you marry Uncle Jim, then?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily sat up. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Martha Kenworthy! What put such an idea into -your head?" -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Dad</i> puts it there, of course. It's been there for years, off -and on. I didn't tell you what was in my head, when I was -a kid." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you didn't, didn't you?" The idea of her saying that! -</p> - -<p> -"No, I didn't dare. I——" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha!" Emily expostulated. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I didn't. I've often wondered about it. I told Maggie -once I liked Uncle Jim most, and she said bad little girls who -said things like that died in their sleep. It seems to me—of -course I was just a little kid then—some way, I had sort of -an affinity for Uncle Jim. Funny you never had. I wonder -sometimes—— Do you suppose if he was living now I would -still be so crazy about him?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Why not?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well, you know, mother, you do feel different about -your forbears when you're grown up. Dad didn't used to -seem—so—odious when I was a kid." -</p> - -<p> -"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Martha," Emily -answered, carelessly. She would not seem to take this -seriously. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't see why. Maybe Uncle Jim would have bored me -just as much. Of course you always <i>taught</i> me to love dad -when I was little. I simply had to, you might say. You used -to say he never had any time to play with me. But when you -come to think of it, he had loads more time than ever Uncle -Jim did. He was only here sometimes, when he came to see -grandma. But some way, when I look back at it, it seems as if -he played with me for years, almost." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of course he did play with you whenever he came. -He said it was a rest for him. He was always tired. He -enjoyed fooling about with you." -</p> - -<p> -"I know it. Do you remember the day he rolled up his -trousers and took me wading on his shoulder? There could -have been hardly any water in the river then, before it was -dammed, but I thought I would have drowned if I went near -it. And he played he was sinking, and ran round and round -splashing, and told me I had saved his life. I didn't know -whether I really had or not. Gee! mother!" Martha chuckled -reminiscently. "I'll bet I would just love him if he was -living." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure you would." -</p> - -<p> -"I asked you, in the first place, why you didn't marry him -instead of father. You would have if you'd consulted me about -it, all right. I bet I wasn't more than eight when I began to -think about that. He wouldn't have been always jawing me -every time I came in sight." -</p> - -<p> -Emily was wide awake now. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, child, I don't know, exactly. He was older than I -was—a little bit. What you remember of him—all his ways of -playing with you—wouldn't necessarily make a girl prefer him. -You don't ever think what sort of fathers these lads would -make for children, do you? These boys that play about with -you." -</p> - -<p> -Martha looked at her mother in indignation. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I should say I <i>do</i>! I'm going to have a first-class -father for <i>my</i> children!" This was what Emily delighted in, -Martha's frank way of discussing things unembarrassed with -her. There was never a grown woman she could have said a -thing like that to when she was a girl! "If anybody asks me to -marry him," Martha continued—-"I don't mean like Johnnie -and these boys—I mean in earnest——" -</p> - -<p> -"Do these boys ask you to marry them?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you know, mother. They'd ask anybody just to try it. -Johnnie's got to practice on someone—— -</p> - -<p> -"But suppose someone should accept him—now—I mean——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well, the risk would be all her own," Martha said, -serenely. "If anybody asked me seriously, I'd say to him: -'Let me hear you sing backwards. Let me see you go upstairs -rabbit and come down alligator.' And if he couldn't play -games nicely, like Uncle Jim, I'd say there's nothing doing." -</p> - -<p> -Emily laughed at the absurdity of the child. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm glad to hear it," she said railingly. And then she added: -"You'll wait a long time before you come across one like him. -There isn't one in a million." -</p> - -<p> -Martha turned and looked at her mother with deliberate -curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -"I should have thought you would just love him, mother!" -</p> - -<p> -"I did. We all did. He had such lovely ways." -</p> - -<p> -"You'd never imagine dad belonged to the same family." -</p> - -<p> -"Anybody could see they did. They're very much alike. -Martha, you don't do your father justice. You wait till you get -into trouble and you'll see whether he's a good friend or not." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Well, maybe I won't get into trouble. There's no -certainty. I know now very well what he'd do. He'd do -anything he could for me because I'm your little pet." -</p> - -<p> -"You're a ridiculous child, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"I know that. You say that whenever you don't want to -acknowledge I've hit the nail on the head." -</p> - -<p> -"I said plainly your dad is of another temperament." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll say he is!" -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't life too funny?" thought Emily. "Jim's boy has spoiled -Bob for Martha, and Jim makes Bob seem uninteresting to -Martha. Things go too much in circles in the family," she -thought to herself. And Emily sat there, not listening closely -to Martha's chatter. She was thinking about her startling -question. <i>Could</i> Martha really have wondered about that when -she was eight? What was the use of imagining one saw into a -child's mind! Had the child ever seen things on the face -of her uncle or her mother that had made her wonder things she -didn't yet dare to ask about? After all, Martha had been twelve -when Jim died. An hour before Emily would have laughed -at such an idea. And after all, suppose the child <i>did</i> -understand! If she did, she understood nothing -dishonorable—nothing a girl nowadays might not meditate upon. -</p> - -<p> -For girls nowadays—well, Bob the other night came into the -dining room declaring violently he couldn't sit on the veranda -with them. That Ellis girl had been saying—and Johnnie was -there, and that beach guard he runs about with—she had said -right in front of those men that she had to dramatize some part -of the Bible next fall term, and she had chosen the fall of -Jericho because of the harlot in it. And Martha had said, -"Goodness! You can find a story with more than one harlot -in it. Can't she, Johnnie?" And Johnnie had had the decency -to say he didn't know. He hadn't been to Sunday school for a -long time. Emily had been sure Martha had done it simply to -shock Bob. She defended the girls. "I don't care what you -say, Bob. It's a lot better than the way I was brought up. It's -just a good thing that they talk so frankly with me about such -things." And yet—once in a while—she had misgivings—not -so much about Martha, of course—who was a good child—but -about Eve, for instance, and other girls. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Two</i> -</h3> - -<p> -"You go right over to the hall," Emily had said to Martha as -they arrived home after five, "and I'll do your shoulder straps -for you." She had gone upstairs, and presently hurried, in a -comfortable mature way, to Martha's room. She opened the -door, and almost blinked, for the uncompromising afternoon -sun made even yet a startling welter of the purples and greens -and creamy yellows before her. And then she said: "Oh! You -here, Eve?" For in that whirl of gaudiness an auburn-haired, -hawk-nosed, thin-faced girl sat in flesh-colored B.V.D.'s, on -a black stool, with a dishpan half full of pitted cherries on the -floor beside her, and in her lap a green bowl half full of moist -seeds. -</p> - -<p> -"I got tired of hanging around over there. I wasn't doing -anything. They're just fooling around for somebody to come -and make them get to work." It was no concession to Emily's -sense of propriety that made her hitch a fallen shoulder strap -into decorum. Eve could have pitted cherries in Martha's -sitting room stark naked with serenity. She had gone into -shrieks of laughter the other day when Emily had described -the careful way in which she in her girlhood, in her own room, -with no man in the house, had put her arms into her wrapper -in her bed, and had the essential garment all ready to pull about -her as soon as she had put her first foot on the floor. -</p> - -<p> -Emily said to her now, "You needn't have done those -cherries, Eve." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well, I thought I'd better be doing something to make -myself popular. Everybody else is working—or pretending -to." Eve grinned ingratiatingly. "Somebody called up, too, just -now. That friend of Martha's. That Wilton, I think his name -is." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh! Is HE here?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Came out for to-night. Don't you like him?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. I like him. He's a nice boy. Clever, too." -</p> - -<p> -"That's what Martha said." Eve seemed always incredulous -about masculine brilliancy. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, he's always got scholarships. He's earned his way, -really, through college." -</p> - -<p> -"Hum!" commented Eve. College honors were nothing to her. -</p> - -<p> -"His father is the best barber in town, too," Emily continued. -</p> - -<p> -Eve turned and looked at her quickly. -</p> - -<p> -"The best what?" -</p> - -<p> -"Barber. You know that shop all plate glass and shining -enamel that makes all the rest of the street look dirty? That's -his shop. That's where we go for shampoos." -</p> - -<p> -Eve had been looking at Emily curiously, and the little grin -had grown into a spreading smile. -</p> - -<p> -"You're the limit, Mrs. Kenworthy!" she said, admiringly. -Then she saw Emily's purpose in coming, and got up. She -stretched up an arm, spread her dripping fingers gingerly apart, -and brushed back her hair with the inside of her elbow. "I'll -do those straps. I've almost finished. Wait a minute." And -she started, apparently, towards the bathroom. -</p> - -<p> -"Eve! Wait! I'll put your kimona on for you!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh! I'm sorry I forgot!" -</p> - -<p> -"It's almost supper time. Bob may be home any time now." -</p> - -<p> -And Emily wrapped about her shoulders a wisp of georgette. -And when the girl took a step forward with all the sunlight -shining through her, and Emily saw through the sheer thing -long pink legs, she suddenly realized why Bob had said -indignantly that he would as soon meet her naked in the hall as in -that thing. -</p> - -<p> -She laughed and said, "Eve, you really ought to have a -thicker dressing gown!" -</p> - -<p> -"I have got one," Eve assured her. "I had to get one. Dad -wouldn't go on the Pullman with me till he saw I had one. I -hate a lot of cotton flannels." -</p> - -<p> -"Crêpe de Chine would do." -</p> - -<p> -"I know it. But it's sort of dowdy—crêpe de Chine. Put -Martha's on me. I'll bring my own Victorian down to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -Very quick to take a suggestion, properly made, Eve was. -A gratifying girl to befriend, if a puzzling one. When Bob -had grumbled that he didn't see any use sending a girl to -college who didn't know enough to wear clothes, Emily had -replied: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, that girl is as good as gold, Bob. They all wear thin -things in the halls, Martha says." Emily liked her. To be -sure, the ease with which she had taken up her permanent abode -at the Kenworthys' was somewhat—nonplusing. Emily had -asked her, when Martha first brought her home, where she had -been brought up. And she had said: "Oh, I never was -brought up at all. I'm just the little prairie flower, growing -wilder every hour. Just hauled about from aunt to -boarding-school—between the devil and the deep sea all my tender -days." Though she had said it so frankly, so seriously, Emily -had thought it scarcely sufficient. But Martha had hooted at -Emily's quizzings. "It's too funny the way you act, mother, -as if maybe she wasn't fit to associate with your precious child. -At school I'm simply nothing. I'm the least worm in the -apple. But Eve's everything. The profs just eat out of her -hands. She's chairman of the student council—you know—the -gang that makes us all behave. She edits the magazine, -and she'll be president of her class next year, as like as not. -At school everybody wants to get a stand in with Eve. She'd -never looked at me if her dad hadn't moved to this town. And -now you don't know whether I better make her acquaintance or -not!" -</p> - -<p> -"You know I didn't mean that, child. I simply asked who -she was and where she had lived. That's only natural. I -think she's a dear." -</p> - -<p> -And Emily had been reassured because it was her theory that -women never again have such a capacity for judging one another -rightly, and choosing friends wisely, as they have in college. -No girl, she thought, looking at Eve's thin, rather over-bred -face, fools a campusful of her companions. Bob said her father -was always well spoken of. No one knew him very well. He -had bought a great elevator in town some time ago, one of -several he had in the state, and recently had bought a large old -house and settled his family in it. That had consisted of his -old bedridden mother and her nurse—until Eve's vacation had -begun. Martha had gone at once to see her there, and, coming -back, had said to Emily: "It's a funny sort of house, mother. -It's furnished all right, and everything. But it looks like an -orphan asylum." She had asked Eve to come and stay the night, -and Eve had accepted gladly. Her grandmother, she told -Emily, had been "out of her head, mildly" for months. Her -nurses weren't very easy to get along with. "Dad had a hard -enough time getting any he can trust grandma to," she had said, -very sensibly. "He's away so much. These two are awfully -good to her. I'll say that for them. They're sisters. So -why should I come home for three months and ball everything -up? I just keep still as a mouse and let them have their own -way. Grandma never knows me. I never go into the room." -</p> - -<p> -Well, that was a nice sort of place for a young girl to spend -her holiday, Emily had thought. "Stay with us," she had -suggested. And she hadn't had to suggest it twice. Bob -grumbled every day about this steady boarder, but that didn't -excite Emily unduly. She liked Eve better and better. How -sweet of her now, to think of doing those cherries! She was -always doing little things that Martha would never have thought -of. -</p> - -<p> -In fact, Emily had almost to acknowledge to herself that -Eve had certain traits that Martha might well have had. Bob, -of course, talked about them openly. Eve had a proper attitude -towards her father, for one thing. She had said, quite naturally, -that her dad was a lamb, a perfect duck, and a good old sport. -And the fourth evening she had been at Emily's, the four of -them, with another girl, Johnnie Benton, and another lad of -the town, had been sitting on the veranda, waiting for the -third lad to come in his car, so that the six of them could drive -over to the lake to dance. They had heard some one come in, -and called to him to come out, thinking it was the dilatory sixth. -And Eve's father had come out to them. -</p> - -<p> -Bob couldn't get over that scene. Eve had sprung up and -hugged him and kissed him and patted him. Emily, seeing even -that greeting, would have been sure that Eve's rather shocking -sophistication was only a pose. For she had started at once to -get her things together to go home with him. And when -Johnnie Benton had protested she had turned to him indignantly. -"I like your nerve!" she had cried to him. "Do you -suppose I'm going to a dance with you when I haven't seen my -dad for six weeks?" And she wouldn't go. They couldn't -persuade her. Bob, sitting there, had seen her father relishing -the situation. The man obviously overflowed with pride in his -"Evelyn." -</p> - -<p> -"Now, can you beat that?" Bob had demanded of Emily -afterwards. "Can you imagine Martha cutting a dance for me? -Maybe Eve'll do her some good. Can you beat that?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily couldn't possibly imagine Martha preferring her -father to a dance, or to very much else. But she wouldn't -acknowledge it. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well, Bob, that's another matter. It was sweet, the -way she did it. But Eve hadn't seen him for weeks. And -then, she hasn't got a mother. She's had to depend on him -always. It's much more normal, I must say, for a girl to -prefer a dance to her parents. You can't deny that." -</p> - -<p> -"I know it. But it's the principle of the thing." And he -had liked Eve, till he had met her coming from the bathroom -in what he called, "an obscene Mother Hubbard." -</p> - -<p> -And now, getting ready for supper, Emily wished she knew -why Eve had, once, mentioned father-in-law in connection with -Wilton. Bob would have laughed at her, if he had known, for -she thought every man in town was in love with Martha, he said. -A fat chance she had of getting near her as hard-headed a man -as Wilton. He had too much sense to fall for any such kid -as Martha, Bob had assured her. But how could she help -thinking about it when Wilton's father had told her that he -absolutely refused to leave his hospital work to come home for -any dance? He was interned already, by what he called a streak -of luck, but Emily knew it was rather his ability. And now he -was coming out to see Martha—and his father was a barber. -How could a mother help thinking about her child's matrimonial -possibilities, a lovely girl of that age? "When I was her age," -thought Emily, "I fell in love with Jim." And it was because -she had been thinking of the possibility, any time now, of -Martha's marriage, that she had tolerated the painted room. -</p> - -<p> -One thing Emily Kenworthy was sure of. She had almost -gritted her teeth in the intensity of her resolutions on this -subject for years, whenever she had had to think over the -surprising course of her own life. She had married really to -get out of this very house, made intolerable to her by the tyranny -of her aunt. But her daughter wouldn't ever marry to get -away from her. She would never marry for freedom! Not -while Emily Kenworthy knew what she was doing! Emily -had few strong convictions, but that one was unalterable. -</p> - -<p> -Emily loved every meal when Martha was home. That -evening at supper she sat cherishing her enjoyment. Afterwards -it was so amusing to be running in and out of the painted -room, where Eve and Martha were dressing. No sooner had -they gone up to dress, ready for the evening, than Martha -called to her from the bathroom, above the noise of water -steaming into the tub: -</p> - -<p> -"Mother!" -</p> - -<p> -When Emily went to her, there she stood, twinkling -importantly. -</p> - -<p> -"Got a secret to tell you, mother. Wilton said I might tell -you. You're not to tell a soul, yet. Not dad!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily's heart gave a protesting leap. She didn't manage to -speak indifferently. -</p> - -<p> -"Tell me what it is!" she commanded. -</p> - -<p> -"He's engaged, mother. He came out to break the news to -his dad. She's a nurse. That's good, isn't it? And he's crazy -as a loon about her. He said I could tell you. He's been -rushing that girl all summer, and his dad thinks he's working -himself to death!" Martha smiled cynically. -</p> - -<p> -What a relief! What a fine young man that Wilton was! -Emily wished him every happiness she could think of. Martha -didn't care a rap about him. Of course not! Trust Martha to -choose exactly the right man! "Wasn't I just silly to worry -about it?" Emily thought. -</p> - -<p> -The pleasure of this assurance was added to the excitement of -their preparations. Martha looked too sweet in that simple -little flesh-colored frock. Emily kissed her impulsively. Eve -looked lovely, too, but one didn't just kiss Eve on the impulse, -even if she did take one's part stanchly against tender derision. -Martha had been making her mother turn round and round to -display her new gown. "If you know the trouble I had getting -her to get it, Eve!" Martha had murmured. "It took me all -the spring vacation to persuade her. I never saw a human being -cling to old rags the way that woman does." And they surveyed -her. She was as large, almost, as the two of them, of -flowing line and generous bosom, gray-eyed, with soft brown -hair. But her color, Martha said falsely, was ghastly. "You're -tired out, mother. Now stand still. I bought this specially -for you this afternoon. Mine don't suit you. Now don't be -such a snob, mother. Stop rubbing it off! A little rouge isn't -going to corrupt your morals. You'll come home as pure as you -went! Mother! Oh, you're hopeless! When I try so hard to -make you look presentable!" Wasn't that delicious, when one -understood it? And wouldn't Bob have been annoyed to hear -the child's impertinence? "Eve, look at her!" Martha begged, -tragically. But Eve said: "Let her alone. You'd paint a lily, -Martha. You'd marcel Thomas Hardy himself, if you got a -chance. You look just sweet now, Mrs. Kenworthy!" And -they turned their attention again to their own long-considered -faces. -</p> - -<p> -Martha certainly managed her adorning skillfully. No crude -blotches of color for her. She knew what subtly became her. -Her mother hadn't thought she used rouge until a few days -before, when she came upon her in the act. "Why, Martha -Kenworthy!" she had protested, "where did you get that stuff?" And -Martha, turning to Eve, had imitated her very tone fondly. -"Where did I get that stuff? Isn't she priceless, Eve? Isn't -she a sort of an old treasure? I got it, to be precise, in a drug -store in Madison Avenue. Not far from the station." And -since then more than once she had turned her faintly tinted -cheeks naughtily up for her mother's inspection. "Am I pure, -mammie? Or am I painted?" she would ask. The doubt was -scarcely as objectionable as the question. Pure wasn't a word -girls ought to be throwing about just carelessly, it seemed to -Emily. But both the girls failed to see her point. "What's -the matter with 'pure,' mother? Do you like 'virgin' better?" They -were just naughty, trying to shock her. And she would -do better to keep her Victorian scruples, as they called them, -to herself. -</p> - -<p> -Or if she didn't want to keep them to herself, wrapped in -paper and stored away on some upper shelf, let her discard them -altogether. That was what the dancing, balloon-entangled mass -of youth seemed to say to the Emily and Mrs. Benton who -looked down upon it that evening from the platform. But Cora -Benton, that lordly and distinguished daughter of the American -Revolution, by her very presence retorted, as it were, "Yes! -Lay aside Victorian scruples and New England tradition. Have -I not Georgian scruples and Illinois decorum sufficient unto the -day?" The city band, in brand-new maroon uniforms, was -playing worse than ever, but they played—that was the point, -for they had said they would never play if wireless music was -to be chiefly used. The mayor and the councilors looked down -on the dancers—those gentlemen who had refused to accept -this hall as a gift—determined not to admit what their eyes -saw, but unable to refrain. The Presbyterian minister and the -Catholic priest, who planned to bless it by their presence but -momentarily, still tarried, wondering. The representatives of -the farm bureau and the granges were trying to estimate the -number of people on the floor. All the reluctant admirers, all -the gossipers, the obstructionists, the knockers, might stand on -that platform, and look down over that rhythmic mass, right -away to the farther side, where the dancers were swinging out -on to the wide verandas to the starlight, and back again into the -pink-shaded electric light—they might all gaze continually, -eager to find some impropriety, anxious to see, as they had -foretold, some daring lad come dripping in, in bathing suit from the -adjacent swimming-place—but in it all, nothing, nothing could -they find to shudder over. -</p> - -<p> -For Mrs. Benton had reinforced herself, as it were, by the -American Legion. He stood there with his hands in his -pockets, bull-necked, yellow-haired, low-foreheaded, somebody's -Dutch hired man. He had redeemed the Legion from the -hands of the disreputable and he rallied about it the decent -element of the community, re-established it financially—after its -treasurers had absconded—made its dances popular again, and -started to build it a permanent home. Mrs. Benton had wanted -her hall to have the added prestige of being a sort of memorial -to the county's soldiers. She had laid her plan before him, and -when he had considered it and announced publicly that he had -"no use for guys that was always knocking the dames," she -thought she had persuaded him, although, really, a pretty -farmer's daughter had put into the Legion's mind thoughts -of settling down and renting a farm of his own. So he was -weary of his public work. Why should he devote his evenings -to running around trying to collect money when the dames -were willing to leave him free to sit close to the farmer's -daughter? He backed Mrs. Benton to the limit of his great -ability. He had allowed no one, of late, to "dance vulgar" at -his dances. And now he stood on the platform with Mrs. Benton, -who knew that if he gave an order for the mayor himself -to leave the floor, the whole crowd would applaud him. He was -the community hero. But Mrs. Benton had no delusions about -him. "A young Lincoln" the sentimental called him. But she -remarked, grimly, "Easy enough to begin where Lincoln did, -in Illinois. The trick is to finish where he finished." -</p> - -<p> -The invited and distinguished guests began departing. The -oldest G.A.R. had hobbled away, and the representatives of -the Chamber of Commerce had left the platform in a body, -giving Mrs. Benton magnanimous congratulations which she had -received but impatiently for the dancing crowd kept still -increasing, and the committee in charge of the refreshments had -summoned her to a conference. They said cars were parked -one against the other right down to Main Street, and were -still arriving by dozens. All the ice cream in the town had -been eaten, and a dozen freezers were on their way from the -nearest source of relief. And as they spoke, all the women -breathed their success in deeply, wallowing in their sense of -victory. They consulted, and they gloated. They stood -looking down over the work of their hands, eying one another -significantly. They said to one another, "I told you so!" They -added, "But I never told you so much!" Mrs. Benton and -Emily were standing together when Johnnie made his way to -the platform. Presently Emily was standing between mother -and son. -</p> - -<p> -She had been standing between mother and son intermittently -for years. -</p> - -<p> -People who said that Mrs. Benton was queenly belittled her. -She was kingly. She was nearly six feet tall—Johnnie was an -inch or two taller. She had the neck and head of a Roman -Emperor—imperial, magnificent. She was wearing that night a -smart black net frock, girded about and corseted as regally as -usual. She had artificial pearls about her thick neck. She wore, -moreover, a crown. It was largely that coronation of great -black braids round her head that made the bobbed-hair femininity -near her seem to be bowing their insignificant heads, their thin -and modish shoulders before her like groveling subjects. She -had a habit of pulling one of those braids up to a sort of point -exactly above the middle of her forehead, because it became -her—that is—it suggested more vividly a crown. -</p> - -<p> -Seen from behind, the mother and the son were not unlike. -Johnnie had the same beautifully shaped head—and no line of -his was hidden beneath the billows of hair—beautifully set -on broad, thin shoulders. Seen from the side, he had the -advantage of her. He had a good chin. If Mrs. Benton's chin -had matched her crowned forehead, democracy probably would -not have tolerated her. Fortunately, it fell away and folded into -her neck—somewhat fatly. But a clever observer, studying -mother and son from the front, might have guessed the sorrow -of the mother. There was a gentleness, a sort of ease, about -the son's mouth, though a woman who had "inside information" -later called it the sweetest mouth in the world. She said, in -fact, that it was so sweet that his false teeth looked beautiful -even in a glass of water. He was certainly not effeminate. -How could a lad born of two male parents manage to be girlish! -He lacked what is called "push" perhaps. The engine of his -life had not been started. Hers was never turned off. One -could see it pounding impatiently away as she stood there. Her -eyes, as they looked, lorded it over the scene; when they roved -about, they reigned. They were even now seizing upon the -scene to command it. Johnnie looked at it and grinned, hoping -to see another pretty girl come dancing into his ken. He was -shockingly content with the world as he found it. Nature had -given him dancing feet, and "the dames" had made a perfect -floor for him. The tailor made him pockets and the banker gave -him check books. His mother had been sore with him ever -since he got home from college. And now he had squared -himself with her by getting such a crowd to come to the -opening of the hall. He reminded her and Emily that he deserved -credit for the multitude as he stood with them, a manicured -sum of frustration to maternal ambition. -</p> - -<p> -"You mustn't ask me to do anything for you if you don't -want it well done," he said to them. -</p> - -<p> -For Johnnie had posted announcements of this great opening -dance on the telephone poles of six counties, rising early and -coming home from his work late practically every day for two -weeks. This unusual industry was prompted by the most noble -filial reason possible. He wanted to please his mother. And he -had good reason for wanting to please her. Emily realized that -keenly, for not more than half an hour ago she had thought she -heard some wag in the crowd around the hall whistling one of -those absurd tunes. She wasn't sure it was one of those tunes -of Johnnie's "opera." All tunes sound so much alike, nowadays. -But she feared it, uneasily, right in the midst of their triumph. -For this Johnnie Benton had inadvertently brought half their -club committee, as well as his mother, into humming derision. -He had held up their past to jazzy scorn. Doggedly he insisted -that it was an accident. He had never intended writing -a comic opera for his college class. It had just happened. It -never entered his head that if he wrote up one of his mother's -activities, away down East, the news of it would ever get back -home. He acknowledged to Emily he had known that the editor -of the town daily "had it in" for the club women; that he had -been biding his time ever since they had bought the vacant -lots next to his dwelling for a parking place for the cars of the -dancers who came to their hall. The committee had openly -regretted the necessity of doing anything to spoil the peace of his -home. But as towns grow, apparently some provision for cars -must be made. They had not wanted to antagonize the press. -But they had been forced to. They had regretted it at the time, -but they had regretted it more two weeks ago. For then, one -day—Martha had just got home from college and Johnnie -Benton was to arrive the following morning—the town had been -startled at the horrid, leering headlines: -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - SCHOLASTIC HONORS OF OUR TOWNSMAN<br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -And beneath it, in smaller letters: -</p> - -<p class="t4"> - VERSE ON FAMILIAR TOPICS<br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Each verse was commented upon, with a sort of mock -literary criticism. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The needs of the poor<br> - For garden manure.<br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -That was bad enough. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The lack of barn litter<br> - Makes poverty bitter.<br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -That was worse. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Let her give us fertilizer<br> - If she wants us not to prize her.<br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -That was intolerable, almost. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Our need of land dressing<br> - Is truly distressing.<br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -That was absolutely and unpardonably intolerable. -</p> - -<p> -For Miss Sisson, poor old thing, who had moved in the -committee that perhaps the more elegant term of "land dressing" -might be substituted for "manure," which seemed coarse, had -made herself ridiculous at the time in the club. And now, when -she was mourning her sister, she was made ridiculous publicly. -Well, Johnnie Benton had a great deal to answer for! All the -women said that. -</p> - -<p> -For it had happened some years after Mrs. Benton had -bought one whole freight car full of peony plants at reduced -prices and had sold them off cheap to the women of her county. -She had been driving through the western suburbs of Chicago, -and had noticed certain sterile spots that during the war had -been used as allotment gardens. It was pitiful to her to see -those poor hard-working foreigners were still trying to grow -a few vegetables on sandy rubbish heaps. It made her consider -what a lot of manure was piled up in the barnyards around -her town. She laid the matter before the garden committee of -the club at once. If every farmer's wife who had bought a -peony would give one sackful of manure, the committee would -see that it was distributed among the needy allotments of Cook -County. The county adviser had opposed the scheme bitterly. -The Farm Bureau had condemned it. Every ounce of manure -was needed at home, the county bulletin said. But Mrs. Benton -asked how farmers working on their distant forties were -going to know how many sacks of manure their wives gave -away. Did they ever count them, wasteful managers that they -were? She would let the women know when the truck would -call for it. -</p> - -<p> -But this generous plan had been balked by Johnnie and his -kind. They said it had been all right enough to get the loan -of the family cars when they were freshmen in high school, and -to go driving about distributing peonies. But they drew the line -at manure. Mrs. Benton said to Emily that she had told Johnnie -he was a selfish boy, and that he had said: "Well, maybe I'm -selfish. But I'm certainly fragrant." Emily had never believed -Johnnie capable of that retort. She thought his mother had -made it up for the story. But now—well—she was beginning -to think maybe he had made it. -</p> - -<p> -Johnnie had arrived home from college two days after the -headline appeared, and his mother had been ready to receive -him. She said he had to apologize to the whole club publicly. -He refused. And Emily was trying to arbitrate between them. -"Honestly, Mrs. Kenworthy," he said, "it never entered my -mind that you'd ever hear of it in this town. Mother ought to -believe me when I say I wouldn't have done it for anything if -I'd known that man French was ever going to get hold of it. -I was in bad with the dean, sitting there in his office waiting to -get hauled over the coals about my work, as usual, and I -couldn't help hearing what he was saying. He was raving. He -told the class committee that if they couldn't get something -better than the drivel they had submitted, the annual play was -off. I was feeling low when he got through with me, believe -me. And I knew what I'd get at this end if I came home -flunking again. And that night when I was lying in bed it all -came to me at once, and I got right up and wrote it down." Johnnie -spoke now without awe of his inspiration. "There was -the chorus of high-brow old maids singing about the need of -the poor for garden manure. It isn't my fault they rhyme, is -it, now? I might have said that, Mrs. Kenworthy, but you -know I never would have poked fun publicly at old Miss Sisson. -I'd never have put in about land dressing. Would I, now?" And -Emily, considering the shyness of the poor elegant old -thing, believed that Johnnie would have had more mercy. -"And then," he went on, "I had that chorus of farmers, regular -stage hayseeds, with long gray beards and pitchforks, resisting -them. And the Bolshevists singing." Johnnie hummed: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Tis the lack of horse litter<br> - Makes poverty bitter.<br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -"It just all does rhyme. And I had a hero like me, refusing -to drive a truck, and eloping with a farmer's daughter in a -manure spreader. And every farmer in the chorus was leading -a calf or a pig with him as he danced. I told them not to have -those kids as animals. And when the audience began to -applaud, one of the little fiends rose up on his hind legs and -began to dance. And then they all did, of course. The people -nearly went into spasms, they laughed so. Oh, boy! It was a -hot show! I was popular for a while. The skirts just clung to -me at the dance afterwards. And everybody was wondering -what else might be in me. And I was going to strike mother for -a new car the minute I got home. Now, oh, Lordie, what a life -I lead!" -</p> - -<p> -And Emily, standing as usual, between mother and son, had -maintained to Mrs. Benton that Johnnie might have been deplorably -thoughtless, but he certainly hadn't been deliberately -malicious. How could he suppose that that man French could -get hold of it? It was simply brutal, as Emily realized, for that -horrid person to entitle his derision "Scholastic Honors." It -was rubbing salt into the deep wound of Cora Benton's soul. -For Johnnie most conspicuously lacked not only scholastic -honors, but even mediocre class attainments of common town -children. He had been pulled and shoved along from one -grade to another by the skin of his teeth. He had always been -the most careless boy in every class. Mrs. Benton was right -when she said it was because of his health. When he was nine -he had had infantile paralysis, and, recovering, had been sent -South. Mrs. Benton, a passionate mother, had thrown down -her Red Cross work and taken him to a Southern town in -which a cousin of hers was living. And that choice had -changed, she averred, the course of the boy's life. -</p> - -<p> -For the White Sox had been wintering there. And the -weary little boy, too uninterested in life to turn his thin hand -over, was carried out into the sun and coaxed into watching -them. Some of them noticed the pale child and spoke to him. -Presently Johnnie was no longer a pitiful invalid; he had become -an active humble little mortal peeping up at the great gods who -strode about this Parnassus upon which he had been thrown. -Like an eager disciple he watched their ways. He knew what -blessed street cars they took and at what hours. He knew the -hallowed spot they had their hair cut. Lying in his bed at night, -he could identify their manager's car by the sound. In his -dreams he was steadying his arm to send a terrible curve. His -nightmares were missed bases. Books and reading were -forbidden him. But at the end of that year he knew the names and -the positions of practically all the players in the League. -</p> - -<p> -It took a woman like his mother to get him into the schoolhouse -the next year. But even she could not induce his mind to -consider text-books. By the time he was sixteen he was in a -class with thirteen-year-old boys, and he looked small and -delicate among them. And then he began growing. His heart -was weak. He got pneumonia. The doctor said he would -never be well unless he was taken out of school again and let -"run wild." The year Bronson came to his Aunt Emily, -Mrs. Benton spent part of the winter in New Mexico and moved -from there because she couldn't endure the sight of her son -playing ball with lazy Mexicans whom he had inspired to the -game. She went to a vineyard in California, and there she had -to see him rally enough young Japs for his nine. She left him -that summer on a ranch in Arizona, safe from a baseball -atmosphere, she supposed. He found a camp of Boy Scouts by -riding not too many score of miles, and played with them till -he came back in the autumn, less inclined to sit at a desk than -ever before, and much stronger physically. And if people said -truly that only Mrs. Benton's incorrigible determination had -kept that boy alive to grow into a strong man, they might also -have said the same force finally got him into college. And all he -had ever done there, as she remarked bitterly to Emily, who -condoned his accidental operatic career, was to short-stop for -the second nine, and make his mother ridiculous in that -disgusting "opera." -</p> - -<p> -And now, Johnnie, having put in a good word for himself, -having diplomatically repeated every complimentary remark he -had heard all the evening about the extraordinary superiority -of the floor, intended going back to his play. Mrs. Benton -kept him standing there, however. Emily wondered if she -had determined to have the whole town see mother and son -chatting pleasantly together. For the whole town, like Emily -Kenworthy, often wondered, too curiously, exactly what the -relationship between the two was. Mrs. Benton kept her own -counsel like the proverbially close-lipped male. People could -only imagine what she thought of Johnnie's dancing every -evening at the country club from which she had withdrawn in -rage. The elders were known to have welcomed her withdrawal -like a gift from heaven. The young fry, it was commonly -said, couldn't have a single dance without Johnnie, who -danced "divinely." (Martha Kenworthy had said once, holding -a long-legged columbine swaying in her hand, that it looked -exactly like Johnnie Benton.) He was hail-fellow-well-met to -most of his mother's sworn enemies. Emily sometimes thought I -that must require determination almost equal to his mother's. -He just simply was a "nice boy," the town said. He had a -good disposition, and Bob Kenworthy was not the only one who, -saying that, added, "And the Lord knows he needed it!" -</p> - -<p> -"Whoever could have believed it?" Emily was saying. -"Where have they all come from?" they were thinking -together. You could count the faces you knew. The youth of -the town had been pushed aside by the youth of the whole -state, apparently. In a way, the very success was failure, for -the committee had enlarged their plans time after time to -provide against this indecent modern crowding. And now -people were simply wriggling about like fishing worms thick -in a can. Suddenly: -</p> - -<p> -"EMILY!" exclaimed Cora Benton. "WHAT'S MARTHA -DOING?" Sharply she had spoken, commandingly. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha?" exclaimed Emily, shocked. "Where? I don't -see her." She had scarcely seen her all evening. -</p> - -<p> -"Over there. Look!" She pointed with her eye to the -farther side of the crowd, where it was overflowing to the -veranda. -</p> - -<p> -Johnnie said—he spoke shortly, "She's dancing!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well! Well! Maybe she is." Mrs. Benton was condoning -already her tone of reproof. -</p> - -<p> -But Emily had at first sight thought it appropriate, because—well, -what in the world WAS Martha doing? Emily had fairly -started with annoyance when she saw her. To her first glance -it was disgusting. And then, as she looked, chagrined, -perplexed,—well—it wasn't disgusting. Really, perhaps, the -position in which Martha and her partner were obviously worming -their way about was not one which, after long deliberations on -the subject, the committee had thought best to forbid on the -floor. It was that man—his face—the way he was bending -down, being tall, to look at her. It was, most of all, Emily -realized in a flash, angrily, the way Martha was holding her -sweet little face, entranced, up to him. What in the world were -those two talking about? -</p> - -<p> -"Who is that man?" Emily asked Johnnie. She was too -annoyed to observe how keenly Johnnie was watching the sight. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. Never saw him before." -</p> - -<p> -"There's nothing we can take exception to in THAT!" Mrs. Benton -seemed almost to regret the fact. -</p> - -<p> -Johnnie looked at her indignantly and ineffectively. -</p> - -<p> -Emily resented the suggestion sharply. The very idea that -anyone might take exception to her daughter, that the committee -might disapprove of her child's attitude, hurt her deeply. For -Martha Kenworthy was distinctly a nice girl. Everybody had -always known that she was a very superior, quiet, well-behaved, -dear child. Mothers consulted her mother about their naughty -children. And now Cora Benton—but just the same, it did -look as if Martha in that little flesh-colored frock, was almost -cuddling up against—that—somebody—whom Emily at first -shocked sight heartily disliked. -</p> - -<p> -"Go and tell her I want to see her." Emily spoke to Johnnie -and regretted it. Mrs. Benton let no one know when she -corrected her son. But Emily Kenworthy's intention of reproving -her daughter was revealed to the world. -</p> - -<p> -"I wouldn't say anything to her. Look, there's a couple—lots -of them are dancing that way. It does leave something to -be desired," Cora Benton counseled. -</p> - -<p> -"I hadn't thought of saying anything about that to her," -Emily said, carelessly. She was surprised at the sharpness of -her resentment. After all, hadn't she often told even Cora -Benton how to manage her child! -</p> - -<p> -It seemed a long time before Johnnie came back, more or -less dutifully. She suspected him of having had several dances -in the meantime. -</p> - -<p> -"I can't find her," he reported. "It's like a needle in a -haystack. The river is as crowded as the floor. Pete McGill -says this is the largest crowd that was ever in this town. He -says there are five hundred more cars than there were on -Armistice Day. I'll keep my eye open for her. They're not -allowing any more cars across the bridge. Would I do—for -what you wanted her for?" -</p> - -<p> -"It doesn't matter," said Emily. "It wasn't anything, really, -thank you." -</p> - -<p> -But it was something, when presently she saw Martha again, -dancing that same way, with that same man, listening with her -face tilted up to him exactly as before. It made Emily think -of the time Martha had sat absorbed before some story that -Jim Kenworthy wove fantastically for her. That man—he -must be an old friend. Emily racked her memory. Some -girl's older brother, would it be, or some household where -Martha had stayed? She tried to fit him in, and as she watched -the two, she saw Martha suddenly sort of double down with -amusement, shrugging her shoulders, chuckling, while the man, -encouraged, peered more boldly into her face. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll put an end to that!" Emily said. And she hurried down -and sought out a place from which she might catch Martha's -eye. It was difficult to catch an eye so intent upon its interest. -She waited persistently till she had got her attention, and -signified to her that she wanted to speak to her at once. -</p> - -<p> -Martha came to her presently—alone—on to the platform, -flushed, shining, unashamed. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, mother!" she ejaculated. She sighed with unspeakable -satisfaction. "What a night! Could you have believed it!" -</p> - -<p> -But Emily said, "Martha, who was that awful man you were -dancing with?" -</p> - -<p> -Her tone surprised Martha. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," she said, "that was Sandy. You know Sandy Powers. -I had to dance with him. He was in my high school——" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't mean <i>him</i>! I know Sandy! I mean that dark person -you had this last dance with!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha gave a giggle of amusement. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you know who <i>that</i> was?" she demanded. She -seemed to think it a great joke. "Why, mother, that's Eve's -brother-in-law!" -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't know her brother-in-law was here. When did he -come?" -</p> - -<p> -"He just came to-day. I thought, of course, she would have -introduced him. Oh, mother, he's an interesting man. He's -been everywhere. I'll bring him over to you." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't like him!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily ruffled was so rare a sight that Martha seemed to -enjoy it. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, you will when you've seen him. You don't know -him," she assured her mother, critically, and adjusted a little -lock of hair. -</p> - -<p> -"Is his wife here?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. I don't suppose so." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," grumbled Emily, "don't be dancing with him all -evening. Where's Johnnie?" -</p> - -<p> -"I haven't danced with him all evening! We've had two -dances." Martha was really surprised. -</p> - -<p> -Emily felt she had been foolish. "Oh, all right," she said, -lightly. "I thought I didn't know——" -</p> - -<p> -Martha studied her. -</p> - -<p> -"I promised him another. Oh, he dances divinely! You're -tired out, mother. Have you been working every minute? -Why don't you go home?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. I'm staying till the end to-night. I'm not going -home." She might have added, "I'm not going to leave you." -</p> - -<p> -But the evening had wilted for her. The hours dragged on. -Bob came to her at one. Even Bob was full of congratulations. -"You ought to be satisfied, old girl," he said. "I heard Wilkinson -say that you ought to have credit for the whole thing. He -said really if it hadn't been for you——" -</p> - -<p> -"Where's Martha? Have you seen her?" -</p> - -<p> -"I saw her a while ago, up at the house. She had a new -Johnnie in tow." -</p> - -<p> -"Who? A large dark man?" -</p> - -<p> -And Bob, struck with an idea, said, "Well, if he's Eve's -brother-in-law, he must be a married man." -</p> - -<p> -"He certainly must!" -</p> - -<p> -Bob turned and looked at her. -</p> - -<p> -"He wasn't acting particularly married." -</p> - -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"Where's his wife?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. I don't even know whether she's here or -not. I told Martha not to dance with him again!" -</p> - -<p> -"She's minding as she usually does!" Bob commented. -</p> - -<p> -"Why didn't you stay at the house?" -</p> - -<p> -"They didn't seem to want me. Let's go home, Emily. Cut -out the rest of it." -</p> - -<p> -"No. I'm staying to-night until the end. We all are." -</p> - -<p> -They were home again, finally, towards morning, sinking -down deeply into the living-room cushions, spreading themselves -out, breathing out great sighs of contentment. Emily, -on the sofa, was adjusting hairpins in the coils of her brown -hair. Eve sat beside her, resting in the position she had fallen -into, her legs stretched out, her skirts up to her knees, her -thin arms extended limply, with dark little frail-looking -shadows beneath her eyes. Martha had paused to adjust her -color before the hall mirror, and then seated herself, fresh as -a morning flower, erect in an easy chair, her hands crossed in -her lap, her shoulders tilted slightly, light from the hall on the -smoothness of her black hair, dreaming, slight, detached. -When her father, who had insisted on going to the kitchen to -make lemonade, called out to Emily to know where the sugar -had been put, Martha, realizing, as it were, the group, joined -them without excitement. -</p> - -<p> -"Sit still, Eve. Don't go and get it for him. It's sitting -just where it has sat ever since I was born, and he can't help -seeing it. Well, anyway, you ought to be content, mother. It's -really your hall, and everyone knows it. Where'd Mrs. Benton -been, everybody wants to know, if it hadn't been for you? -Johnnie's just like her. He makes me tired. He went about -saying he'd got all that crowd there by his old posters. I told -him it would have been a lot nicer party if he hadn't got so -many to come." -</p> - -<p> -Bob came in just then, Martha's prophecy having been fulfilled -about the sugar. He heard Eve's remark: "I think the -Legion was by far the most interesting man there. I offered to -dance with him. He takes himself seriously, of course." -</p> - -<p> -Bob was feeling facetious. -</p> - -<p> -"You needn't set your heart on that man, Eve. What he -wants is a wife that'll do the midnight milking. Yes, midnight! -Didn't you even know the farmers around here milk four times -a day? To get more milk, of course. Twice at twelve, and -twice at six. That's the kind he is. And say, Martha, can't -you get a single man to lead around? Eve's sister will be -pulling your hair the next thing you know." -</p> - -<p> -Emily spoke up hastily. -</p> - -<p> -"Was your sister there, Eve? I didn't see her. Where do -they live?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. She isn't well. They're like the rest of us. They -don't live any place." She spoke reluctantly, and then, as if -she felt that something more was expected of her, she added: -"They have been abroad awhile. In Paris, mostly." -</p> - -<p> -But Martha took up Bob's challenge. "He's so distinguished," -she drawled. "Doesn't he dance divinely, Eve?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know," Eve replied, shortly. "I don't dance with -him." And then she added, abruptly, "Look here, Martha, -you needn't dance with him to please me!" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't worry about that. I dance with him to please myself. -You ought to hear him talk, mother. He's got the loveliest -foreign accent, hasn't he?" -</p> - -<p> -"Hasn't he! And he was brought up in Indiana!" Eve murmured. -</p> - -<p> -"He's been everywhere. I'm going abroad myself next -summer. He knew Tchekhoff. He was telling me about him." -</p> - -<p> -Eve sat up. Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "That's a new -one to me," she commented. "I don't believe it." The silence -became awkward. She broke it abruptly. "He's a four-flusher, -Martha. Take it from me. From the ground up. If he -ever saw a Russian in Paris, he'd have known Tolstoy himself, -and been bosom friend with Dostoieffsky. He's a journalist, -to put it mildly." -</p> - -<p> -It was painful, this way Eve had of saying nasty things -about her relations, as if it were a noble duty. She had -spoken so doggedly that her face was flushed an unbecoming -dark red. Martha grew pinker. The silence grew longer. -Emily said, carelessly, rising: -</p> - -<p> -"What pests these in-laws are! Let's go to bed. You've -ripped your hem, Martha. Did you know it? You're both to -sleep till noon." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you worry about that!" Bob jeered. -</p> - -<p> -But Eve replied: "I've got to be home for lunch. Dad's -going to be home." -</p> - -<p> -If Emily didn't sleep at once, it wasn't because from the -painted room came those stifled whispers and gigglings which -so often annoyed Bob after dances. The girls seemed to have -gone to sleep at once. But Emily kept thinking about Martha, -and Mrs. Benton's sharp voice. The man, of course, would be -leaving town at once. What would a journalist from Paris, a -friend of Tchekhoff find to amuse him in a little Illinois city? -And supposing he chose to stay all the summer, Martha could be -trusted. She had such common sense. And such good taste, -always. "It's just silly of me to worry about Martha," Emily -thought, not once only but many times, till she was thoroughly -tired of her foolish, wide-awake mind. "Thank goodness it's -over!" she said to herself again and again. "Thank goodness -that chapter's ended!" -</p> - -<p> -A long interesting chapter had indeed ended that evening, -more suddenly than Emily realized. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Three</i> -</h3> - -<p> -The next day at first seemed like any other morning of the -year, for Emily didn't get up as early as she had intended. There -still was heavy dew lying on the thick greenness of the lawn -when she sat down on the veranda to finish pitting the cherries. -Afterwards she pattered about in the kitchen, tending the ruby -mixture in the kettle till her cheeks were rosy red. And then -she had filled the Mason jars, and screwed on the lids, and -tested their inverted security, one by one, and put them in -rows on the shelf to cool, interrupted from time to time by -friends at the 'phone who must count over one by one the -evening's triumphs. She was busy thinking that she really -must take those fresh sash curtains up to the bathroom—it was -scandalous, the condition of those hanging there—when the -boy brought the raspberries she had ordered—far the best -ones she had seen all the season. The girls, she thought, -would love them for their breakfast. She prepared two saucerfuls, -and got the pitcher of cream ready on the tray, and went -up towards their room. Of course that was the way, Bob -said, she spoiled Martha, always waiting on her, carrying -something delicious up to her in the middle of the morning, when -the girl ought to have been up and doing all the housework -herself. Bob couldn't understand what a child Martha was, -how unfit yet for responsibility. Wait till she had a house -of her own. Just think of that painted room of hers, for -instance. That showed what the child could do when she -wanted to. -</p> - -<p> -Emily opened the painted door quietly. On a day bed at -one end of the room Eve was lying on her back reading, in -sea-green figured silk pajamas which must have cost a good -deal, one knee crossed over the other. Books were piled -on the floor beside her, nearly as high as her low pillow. -</p> - -<p> -She turned her head, and caught sight of the tray, and gave -a shriek of delight. She called to Martha, who lay asleep on -her bed-like device at the other end of the room, curled up -like a child, not even a sheet over her. And Martha, sitting up -in flesh-colored voile pajamas on the edge of the bed, -stretching, yawning, pink and sweet, began: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you rare lamb, mother! Isn't she a gem, Eve? No -wonder dad says she spoils me! Where did you get them?" Eve -had put a low table at Martha's side, and seated herself -on the other side of it. But Emily maturely sought out the -chair that was kept in the room as a concession to her dislike -of floor cushions. She sat watching them gobble daintily, -chattering away. Martha, who had made herself comfortable -against a pile of cushions, her knees drawn up, and the saucer -balancing on them, began wiggling her toes. She hadn't -outgrown that infant habit yet, Emily enjoyed noticing. How she -had watched this child's awakening with an impulse of delight -every day, almost from her first week, till this morning, when -she woke even yet delicately rosy and vividly red-lipped. Poor -old Bob never got any fun out of it. Martha had disturbed -him by waking too early, for years, and now she annoyed him -by sleeping too late. But Emily wouldn't stop to sigh long -over that, not these few summer mornings when she could -enjoy it, now that the child was grown, and away months -together. And just then Martha almost unconsciously bestirred -herself and with the saucer in one hand and the spoon in the -other, almost without ceasing to feed herself, went and pulled -down a blind to shut the glare of the sunshine away from that -rug of hers that tended to look too violently cerise. The girl, it -seemed, couldn't sit up in bed eating berries for breakfast -without thinking how the room might look if she should change -it just a little. -</p> - -<p> -It sobered Emily to see the ancestry driving her defenseless -daughter hither and thither like a slave. Would it not be -ironical, now, if this girl "turned out" like that aunt whom -Emily's childhood had so futilely resented! It seemed to Emily -that never in her young days had that house been free a -week from the sound of hammers or the smell of paint. She -had wondered, sometimes, in her maturity, whether she turned -instinctively away from the thought of "improving" her house -because she had so continually in her childhood revolted against -her aunt, or whether it was simply laziness that made her -tolerate any closet shelf, however inconvenient, rather than -bestir herself to alter it. Since she had inherited the house, -it had had peace. She had merely kept it in repair, and -tolerated the electric devices with which Bob filled it. But now, -looking at Martha, she saw again all her aunt's zeal for change -overflowing again. -</p> - -<p> -She had not suspected the child of any such constructive -inclinations until one day of the last Christmas vacation. They -had been talking carelessly together, when suddenly she had -heard: -</p> - -<p> -"Do you know what I'm going to do the first thing, mammie, -as soon as I get my money?" -</p> - -<p> -That was a question naturally never far from Emily's mind -then, because in fifteen months Martha would be twenty, and, -according to the terms of her great-aunt's will, she would then -receive the first monthly installment of an income of nearly -four thousand dollars. Emily had hated that will when she -first heard its terms, because it had been drawn up, she -understood, so as to keep the least control of the money away from -Bob Kenworthy. Exactly what grounds her aunt had had for -these suspicions, Emily never knew. She could have -discovered only by asking her husband, and it was the very -essence of her character that she would not ask him. The very -vagueness of that suspicion had been a wound that years of -Bob's respectability and kindness had healed. He had not -complained about the will at first—Emily had wondered why -he had not. Did he not dare? But now that the child had -grown up, without much regard for him, he thought it -outrageous that that old woman should have made her independent -of him. Emily herself, who loved ease with all her heart, who -was no manager, in the local sense of the term, had tried -faithfully to prepare her daughter to use her money wisely—if not -wisely, exactly, at least not too foolishly at first. So when -Martha brought up the subject, her mother had asked her once, -curiously: -</p> - -<p> -"What will be the first thing you do with it?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll chuck all that junk out of my bedroom and do it all -over." -</p> - -<p> -Emily had been shocked, but she had to smile presently; for -wasn't that the very thing she had done first herself, when she -had returned to the house after her aunt's death? To be sure, -she had later brought down from the attic the old pieces she -had especially hated in her childhood. But she remembered -with what joy she had stored them away, how she had taken -off shutters, and thrown away faded carpets, and gloried in -rugs. But Martha's was rather unreasonable, for her bedroom -Emily had furnished only six years ago, and most daintily. -She had given Martha some of the best things in the house; a -dear little chest of drawers that had been before in the spare -room, and two little old tables, and gone to great pains to get a -bed to suit them. And Martha now had called it "junk"! -</p> - -<p> -"What sort of furniture would you get?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh mother—it doesn't matter." Martha was apologetic. -"You wouldn't let me, anyway." -</p> - -<p> -"How do you know I wouldn't?" Emily had retorted. "I -don't know that I'm so tyrannical!" -</p> - -<p> -"I never said you were any such thing. But you know, -mother, you'd just sort of persuade me to get what you liked." -</p> - -<p> -"Why Martha! Maybe I would let you get what you wanted!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha went on with the subject hesitatingly. She spoke -wistfully, but without hope. -</p> - -<p> -"I'd throw all that junk out and paint it all over. I'd do -the floor a nice dull bluey purple— -</p> - -<p> -"A purple floor?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. And the woodwork I'd do all creamy yellow, like -good fresh butter, or a sort of sea green." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Martha, that floor's <i>oak</i>!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oak takes paint." -</p> - -<p> -"Mine doesn't." -</p> - -<p> -"But I'm just saying what I <i>would</i> do if it was mine. I -knew you wouldn't let me. I'd get a little pine chest made, to -paint just like my little old one. Oh, wouldn't I love to do it, -though! The girls have such lovely rooms, mother. You -ought to see Grace Richmond's. It's all vermilion and blue. -But she's an orphan, of course." Martha sighed. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha!" Emily had exclaimed, "what a lot you have -to look forward to! You'll be an orphan some day, and you -can paint the whole house purple!" -</p> - -<p> -"Now, mammie, that's just plain nasty of you. You egged -me on to say what I would do, and now you make fun of me!" But -Martha, mollified, had gone on to tell of the staggering -sights she had seen in other girls' homes, reeling colors, -threatening emerald ceilings, and cubistic ornamentations. -</p> - -<p> -And Emily had pondered the matter, Martha's sigh rankling. -"Her room is all vermilion and blue. But she's an orphan, of -course." Did her child, in spite of her mother's long -determination to the contrary, feel hampered, thwarted of joy by -parental preferences? Was she getting eager to get out of the -home, away some place to freedom, as her mother had run -once? After all, that floor wasn't so very valuable, and the -paper needed renewing. Martha wouldn't be at home -months together now, to get tired of her gaudiness. It wouldn't -cost such a lot, and no one would have to see it. The door -into the outer hall could be kept shut. -</p> - -<p> -A day or two later she had said: -</p> - -<p> -"Do you know what I'm going to give you for your birthday?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha guessed extravagantly: -</p> - -<p> -"A car, mammie? A little runabout to take back to school?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not much! I'm going to let you do your bedroom over to -suit yourself." -</p> - -<p> -And Martha had looked blank for a moment, and then -murmured: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no! It wouldn't do, mother. We couldn't. We'd—mother—we'd -<i>quarrel</i>, as sure as you live. I'd get started, -and I'd want my own way, and you wouldn't approve." -</p> - -<p> -"But I say I <i>will</i> approve. After all, it's <i>your</i> room. <i>I</i> don't -have to live in it. You can have it blue and vermilion, if you -want to!" -</p> - -<p> -And Martha had sat there for a moment without saying a -word, her eyes beginning to twinkle, her dimples all chuckling, -just shining and beaming, all her pleasure intensified by her -quietness. Then she had hugged Emily after that and had -run up to her room straight away. And up and down she ran, -hunting for scissors, for yardsticks, measuring, planning, -'phoning to carpenters, twinkling, utterly happy. It had been -Emily's sense of her utter happiness that had enabled her to -stifle her impulses to interfere. -</p> - -<p> -Once things had got rather serious. The child wouldn't -have a bed in the room. She wanted to turn it into a sitting -room. And when Emily had pointed out that she didn't need -a sitting room, Martha had hugged her and, warningly, "I -told you we'd quarrel, mother!" Emily had given way, and -Martha had gone on, working like a beaver. She had dyed, -and she had shopped in Chicago; she had "jollied" painters -whole mornings, and gone back to school in the end, leaving -her mother sewing balls of silken high-brow carpet rags. Her -very letters had been full of instructions about the room. And -during her spring vacation the whole house seemed to be an -orgy of renewal, so that Martha hadn't been far wrong when -she said that her mother only endured her nowadays through -gritted teeth. She had said it from her "studio" in the attic, -where she was painting tables, for there alone could she be -found that holiday. She had planned so well that in that -fortnight she had almost completed her purposes, and she had -hated leaving it to go back to college. And to that room she -had flown home again, not eager, as she generally was, to go -away for the summer. Not once had she mentioned the -Rockies or Canada, or even Europe. And her heart was so -absorbed in it that now, on awakening to raspberries and cream, -she had to go and adjust that blind and study the way the light -fell on the cerise—practically—rug. -</p> - -<p> -And Emily looked around, and smiled cautiously. It had -been the girl's idea to make the room "amusing." That was -the adjective she had continually used of her plan. And -certainly she had succeeded in inciting mirth at least in the elders -who beheld it. To be sure, with the blind down, the darkly -gleaming floor wasn't so bad after one had got used to it. The -sand-colored walls were matched by woodwork with little green -lines on it. And the rosy silken oval rugs and those black day -beds—hateful objects, which kept the edges of the bedding -always on the floor, piled by day with cushions like shrieking -parrots—all this was almost laughable. She had told Martha -firmly the beds ought to be side by side between the windows. -But Martha ignored the suggestion. The bookshelves had -absurd little cupboards at each end, which Martha opened to -show her friends, and an electric stove on a little tray which -you stood, so, on this little shelf which pulled out, so. She -had gathered a primitive sort of crockery bowls from New -York, which were called "just too quaint," and the coffee -things from the Chicago Ghetto. Emily had almost protested -against this miniature kitchen. Martha never would be making -fudge up there, she was sure. But then she had got to -thinking of Martha's outgrown playhouse under the willow. "I -used to let her have dishes and everything out there," she -remembered. And she had not only stifled her objections; -she had come heartily to admire this adolescent playhouse. -</p> - -<p> -For there, opening off this room, was the amazing dressing -room Martha had made from that large closet where formerly -clothes had hung drably. People in the town used to say -that, for the sake of having daylight in that closet and preserving -the symmetry of the outside of the house, Emily's aunt had -torn out and built over that wall seven times. Now Emily -had to take visitors up to see that closet, many and insistent -visitors, for all Martha's chums were bringing their mothers -enviously to show them "Martha's apartment." When she -heard their exclamations, she would look at her daughter -with that feeling which she experienced when the child, blowing -her horn, adjusting her brakes, watching the traffic "cop," drove -that panting great headstrong car so calmly, without hurrying -one eyelash, through the tangle of vehicles of any city that -might lie in her path. For Martha quietly had taken that long -narrow closet and lined it on both mirrored sides with -hanging wardrobes, and a great total and variety of cunningly -planned shelves, shallow and deep drawers, great and small, -pulling out on patent rollers; she had packed away a beautifully -lighted dressing table, with a stool that pushed back -into its own "ducky nook." She had painted all the drawers a -dull gold on the inside, and a creamy yellow on the outside, -and made them gold knobs and handles. The purple floor -and the glow of the rug, less violent than those of the larger -room, left her visitors quite mad with envy and surprise. -</p> - -<p> -"It's just Martha all over!" one girl sighed, and Emily had -pondered that. Was Martha then to be a lover of perfect -places to stow away things? There had been plenty of drawers -and closets in the house before, Emily had said to herself. -And when she had seen the child's delight in that huge big -topmost drawer, she had let her have a great pile of old soft -pieced quilts to pack away in it, just as she had given her -old hats years before for the games in the willow playhouse. -Was that dressing closet "just Martha all over"? Was the -child going to be an architect, as she had carelessly suggested -once, or an "interior decorator," possibly? Perhaps she was -yet going to be brilliant, and do many things as successfully as -she had done this, so that Bob would yet be proud of her. Or -perhaps she was going to be a furious housewife, delighting in -a family of children. And Emily grew serious thinking of -that. She had every reason to distrust too great interest in -housekeeping. She would see that Martha never loved furniture -more than children's ease of mind, never put order of a -room before its usefulness. She did hope Martha wouldn't -carry these things to excess, as her heredity might urge her to. -Here the child hadn't got all the rugs for this room home from -the woman who was making them, and she had already begun -to talk about enlarging the garage. It disfigured the whole -house, as it was, she had told her father. If she might be -allowed to double the size of it, making room for two cars—— -</p> - -<p> -Then Bob had interrupted: "I'm not going to keep two cars!" -</p> - -<p> -"But <i>I'll</i> have a car next year," she had suggested. -</p> - -<p> -"You don't <i>need</i> a car!" Bob had asserted, hotly. -</p> - -<p> -"Maybe I don't," Martha had answered, softly, infuriatingly, -for her lazily lifted eyes had added, defiantly, "But I'm going -to have one, anyway!" -</p> - -<p> -"If I could add another part to the garage and change that -hideous entrance so we could hide it with some—lilacs -and—things, mother, then I could change the west window of my -room into a door, and have the whole roof of the garage for -a veranda of my own, with an adjustable awning kind of over -it, and some roses up the supports of it. And how much nicer -it would be in the summer to sit there without a roof over us. -We'd get all the breeze there was there, don't you think, -mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha, give us a rest. Let's have some peace. -There's no reason why you should have a car, I tell you, -anyway at your age." Thus Bob received her suggestion. -</p> - -<p> -"We'll have to think it all over," Emily had replied. It -would have to stop some place. Martha couldn't just be allowed -to "express herself" all over the house whenever it suited her -fancy. If Bob would only stop threatening to forbid her to -use his car, maybe she wouldn't insist so frequently on having -one of her own next year. -</p> - -<p> -The raspberries stimulated Martha to action, for she dressed -as Eve and Emily sat discussing the evening. She had to go -and get some flowers for her room, before her guests came, she -said, departing. And Eve began spreading those day beds into -order. Emily bestirred herself to help. She had a notion to -move those beds into the middle of the room together. But -she refrained. She had to reflect that, though Martha decorated -with fury, she dusted with less zeal. In that, too, she resembled -her mother. She returned presently with her hands full of -lilacs for her red-copper bowls. She threw them down on -the bed and when Emily suggested arranging them she said, -"Wait, mother. I've 'phoned Johnnie to get me some blue -ones from the high-school garden." Emily began a faint -protest, knowing Mrs. Benton didn't allow anyone to gather -the flowers of that young hedge of hybrid lilacs which she had -given to the high school. Martha said: "Oh, I wanted one or -two. Mother, we've just got to have a place in the garden for -a very late lilac like that, because it makes the bouquets for -this room." And Johnnie came in immediately. With half -a dozen great blossoms right up the stairs he walked, and into -that—no, it wasn't a bedroom, but it still seemed strange to -have him making himself at home among the bedrooms. -Martha scolded him for bringing so many branches, but she had -to have at least two of those dark purply ones. "You can see -that for yourself," she insisted to Johnnie. Emily could see it -for herself. The flow of color melted and shifted about those -darkest blues as Martha lowered one shade and pushed up -another, grumbling because mignonette couldn't be got to bloom -earlier. If she had ever thought those delphiniums would -have been all crushed up that way the first dance last night, -she would have saved some for her room. -</p> - -<p> -Emily had told Johnnie to hand her the pile of books that -lay on the floor beside Eve's bed. Eve, to judge from the -literature with which she surrounded herself continually, -couldn't enjoy one book unless there were ten others as good -waiting at her elbow for their turn. She came out of the -dressing room while Johnnie was looking over the books he -had put on the shelf for Emily. -</p> - -<p> -He said, "Hello! You still here?" -</p> - -<p> -"You can't say anything. You're here again." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>I</i> was invited. <i>I</i> was 'phoned for." -</p> - -<p> -"But I'm leaving soon, and that's more than you're likely -to do." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm expecting to be kicked out any minute," he replied, -looking at Emily. "Nobody appreciates me here. Is this any -good?" he asked, carelessly fingering a book. -</p> - -<p> -"What is it?" -</p> - -<p> -He read the name out. Emily stood listening. It was the -book that had shocked her so entirely years ago—the book -about which she and Jim Kenworthy had quarreled so -destructively. -</p> - -<p> -"Haven't you read that?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. I've heard of it." -</p> - -<p> -"How intellectual of you! They make you read it, in most -schools, that is, if you're interested in technique. You'd call -it a thousand miles of sand. I haven't got any Robert -Chambers," Eve went on, looking over possibilities. "You -might try Michael Arlen, there. His style would be lost on -you, but the subject would appeal to your heart. There's -the Kreutzer Sonata. Have you read <i>Crime and Punishment</i>?" -</p> - -<p> -"Can't stand Russian stuff." -</p> - -<p> -"Does seem difficult, after the <i>Saturday Evening Post</i>," Eve -remarked. Skirts may have clung to Johnnie, but Eve wasn't -one of them. She had commented, on hearing of his masterpiece, -that its music was hackneyed, the verse was rot and the -theme disgusting. Martha had retorted that the theme, rather, -was rot. Johnnie and Eve quarreled on till Eve departed. -</p> - -<p> -"You're going to stay for lunch, Johnnie?" Emily asked. -</p> - -<p> -"I won't if you don't want me to." -</p> - -<p> -"How truly magnanimous!" Emily murmured. "No. You -stay and talk to the girls, but don't stay for lunch. You know -your mother wants you." Emily wondered then, and she -wondered later, why Martha had wanted Johnnie to stay. Did -she want him to hear what the Wright girls' mother was sure -to say about the dressing room? Did Martha care really what -Johnnie thought—Johnnie, who was always asking her to marry -him? -</p> - -<p> -And what <i>did</i> he think, as he stood lazily leaning against the -door into the dressing room, watching the women examine the -drawers? Mrs. Wright had brought with her a friend who was -planning a new house, a prosperous-looking person, and who -listened thoughtfully to Martha's answers to her questions. -This person was impressed. She kept looking at Martha when -they were seated at length in the painted room. -</p> - -<p> -"How much of this did you do yourself?" she asked. -"Hadn't you seen something like it somewhere?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha was sitting on a cushion at Emily's feet. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes. I'd seen one in New York. And I just told the -old Dane, the carpenter, how many drawers I wanted, and how -big, and he did it all himself. I couldn't measure them, or -anything like that. He had them all ready to put in when I -got home. I'd like to do over all the closets in the house." She -looked at her mother, against whom she was leaning. -</p> - -<p> -The guests looked at Emily. She had to say something. -</p> - -<p> -"But if all the closets in this house had so many drawers, we -wouldn't have enough to put into them." -</p> - -<p> -"I know it. Isn't that funny?" Martha turned to the -other. "People are so silly. The closets are so big there's -nothing to fill them with. Same way with our basement. It's -a horror!" Martha spoke with such conviction that her hearers -laughed. "Well, it is," she insisted to Emily. "There's a -wood room and a coal room, and drying room, and storeroom -with nothing but the hose and two old barrels in it. I could put -all those things into one room nicely, and have three great big -rooms. They could be billiard rooms, or play rooms, or nice -workshops. If I had a lot of children in this house I could -give them all two rooms apiece." -</p> - -<p> -Emily included Johnnie in her glance. He had his eyes fixed -hard on Martha—who avoided them innocently but persistently. -</p> - -<p> -And that thoughtful and prosperous-looking stranger said: -</p> - -<p> -"Wouldn't you like to drive over and look at my plans? -Our basement is going to cost an awful lot." -</p> - -<p> -Martha twinkled at the invitation. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I just love to look at plans!" she said. "I just love to -think about people's houses. I was thinking, if ever I'm a -reformer, do you know what I'm going to reform? Everybody's -closets!" -</p> - -<p> -Wasn't she lovely, sitting there innocently, Emily thought. -No wonder they admired her, all of them. -</p> - -<p> -"You come and reform all my closets," the stranger said. -But Mrs. Wright said: "Don't look at mine till I've had a -chance to go over them. You've made me a lot of trouble, -Martha. The girls won't give me a minute's peace now till I -let them start doing their rooms over." -</p> - -<p> -When Emily, having dismissed the visitors, turned from the -hall into her living room, the sight of these familiar things -almost shocked her. They stirred her, at least, to question -the very room she had for years taken for granted. The -glamour of that room upstairs seemed to make the rest of the -house faded, some way. The living room she had always sat -down in with satisfaction. Now it -looked—timid—meager—insipid—unexpectant. Its walls and -its woodwork were almost -the color of its neutral light pongee curtains. Those were -good rugs on the oak floor. They were rich, and they were -mellow. Emily had bought them recklessly with a large share -of the first installment of her inheritance, when she had moved -back to the house when Martha was a small girl, and she had -never regretted her fling. The davenport and the two chairs -that went with it, those most comfortable monstrosities, had -been done once in blue corduroy. Well, it was still corduroy. -That was about all that could be said for it. But its blue -dullness some way had seemed to match the rugs. That was a -good table. No one bought a table like that in any town in -Illinois. Nor was there a desk like that, which plainly had been -cherished for some generations. And how infinitely superior -were the pictures on the wall to most of the pictures on the -walls of that town. Emily's grandfather, once the Governor -of the sprawling infant state of Illinois, had brought that -engraving of Mt. Vernon sentimentality to the wilderness -because he remembered his mother holding her successive -babies up to see the dogs and horses that surrounded the father -of his country, who stood in a declamatory attitude on the -very brink of the Potomac, with his women folk and youthful -intimates hovering pictorially about him. -</p> - -<p> -Emily used to compare that picture, chuckling, to the picture -of Boston which one of her neighbors had made for herself, -upon her return from a memorable visit there. Mrs. Jennings -was chairman of the art committee and a busy woman, and -hadn't time to "do" many pictures, she said. So she just put -everything she wanted to remember into one. And Lexington -and Concord, Bunker Hill and the Common, Longfellow's -house and Faneuil Hall, jostled one another in a staggered and -staggering row all across the foreground. And there was -Mrs. Johnson's parlor. Every time Emily went into it she used to -say: "Well, my aunt might have been worse. She didn't paint -at least, thank God!" She had left no bilious works of her -brush behind her, and she deserved credit for it, considering -the fashion of her day. She had left a cherished large framed -photograph of the door of St. Mark's. Emily could recall -exactly the tone in which she used to say "The portal of -St. Mark's," for she had always added "by the sea," which mystified -the child. The geography said plainly that all Venice was -by the sea. Besides Italy and Mt. Vernon, there were what -Emily considered two perfectly lovely large "studies" of -Martha's head. A cousin who played with photography had -done them when the child was seven years old. She was the -cousin who had gathered the child into her arms, on one -occasion and cried, "Oh, twinkle, twinkle, little star!" Martha -hated them, and pleaded for their banishment, but Emily would -not listen to her, not for a minute. There sat a photo of Jim -on the desk, and one of his mother, and an early one of his -father. And there was, of course, that first seal of a -D.A.R. invulnerability, a framed sampler. Altogether, Emily had -always been secure that her living room was not just a common -small-town room. -</p> - -<p> -But after Martha's—well, what was wrong with it, she sat -wondering that morning, a bit ruefully. Some way it was -tamed and tolerating. Those high-handed colors upstairs dared -the world, and demanded. These young things went raging, -commanding, soaring into life. "Not like me," she thought, -vaguely. "I just hesitated—and submitted—and got along, -some way. How puny I was, and—sort of helpless. That -book—I shrank from it as if it had been some great thing. But -Eve snubs it. She ignores it. They fly, these children—they -just fly. But I rode just a bicycle. And this room wabbles -along on a bicycle. I must speed it up. I must—get these -things done over—or else I ought to get some new pictures, -or something. I better ask Martha, perhaps, to freshen it up -a little." -</p> - -<p> -Certainly that stranger had asked Martha's advice. The -memory of her respectful tone was wine to Emily. She had -to speak to Bob about it. She couldn't just let him go on -thinking that Martha "amounted" to nothing. -</p> - -<p> -"I could see that they thought it was wonderful for a girl of -her age to have planned it all," she told him. "That woman -asked Martha definitely to come and see the plans for her -house!" -</p> - -<p> -But he said: "The dickens she did! The kid's got her head -swelled enough now, without anybody asking her advice. The -dame must be hard up if she's got to come to Martha for -advice!" -</p> - -<p> -The girls played golf that afternoon. Emily's mind, when -it had intervals of leisure, dwelt upon the question of new -furniture—somewhat reluctantly. After all, maybe it would -be better to suffer the old faded colors than to flee to others -that you know not of. Such a lot of trouble, going to the city -to select things, and then, maybe, when you get them home, -they don't fit in, as you had intended them to. And she even -realized her reluctance. "That's the point about being young. -Martha would just jump into the shopping fray. She would -dive right in, without hesitation." These meditations kept -Emily from giving "that man" even a thought, until almost -supper time. Then, as she passed into the hall, Marion Wright, -giving her arms a sturdy swing, almost struck her, and drew -back, apologizing. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you! I was just practicing -that drive. I didn't want to forget it, such a classy one! -Richard Quin was just teaching us, you know, Mrs. Kenworthy." -</p> - -<p> -"Who's Richard Quin?" Emily asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, that's Eve's brother-in-law. Marion likes him. Don't -you, Marion?" Martha asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I can't say I'm crazy about him. But still, he can -play. I'm not particular who coaches me. I do prefer them -not so fat." -</p> - -<p> -"Fat!" murmured Martha. "He isn't fat. He's just a large -man. He's well built." -</p> - -<p> -"Of course they're more fun married," Marion went on, -trying to shock Emily. And then she asked, suddenly curious, -"Do you like him, Mrs. Kenworthy?" -</p> - -<p> -"Do I like him? Goodness, no! He's greasy looking." -</p> - -<p> -Martha said with dignity: "Mother doesn't know him. She -never said a word to him in her life. He's not greasy at all, -if you see him close. He shaves twice a day." -</p> - -<p> -"How do you know he does?" Emily demanded. -</p> - -<p> -"He's not reticent, anyway," Marion said laughing. -</p> - -<p> -"He just happened to mention it." -</p> - -<p> -"Did you see his wife?" Emily asked them both. -</p> - -<p> -"Eve told you she wasn't well. She wasn't there." -</p> - -<p> -Martha looked at her mother, perplexed. Emily looked at -her daughter uneasily. It was annoying of Martha to defend -that man! If Emily had known he was to be on the links, she -wouldn't have let Martha go to play. But now, of course the -wisest would be just to let the matter drop. Martha was always -so trustworthy. Certainly her good taste could be trusted. -</p> - -<p> -Yet for some reason, when Johnnie Benton came that evening -to take the three adorned girls to the dance, Emily was -more impressed by him than ever. She felt so safe when -Martha was under his care. She watched them drive away, -and then went out to potter about as usual in the garden, just -at dark. A neighbor came bringing her, in a strawberry box, -a few rare seedling pansies, and together they made a little -place protected from the heat in which they might be nursed. -And then they went and sat down inside the screened veranda -to escape the mosquitoes. -</p> - -<p> -They were still talking there when Bob came. But he took -his magazine and sat down a few chairs away, and they talked -on as if no one was within hearing of their voices. And indeed -no one was, for Bob habitually absented himself in the print -before his eyes. He was unconscious of everything around -him. Energetic, insistent demands and clamors could get only -a muttered "Uh-uh!" from him. He really didn't know when -the neighbor left, although he had sort of muttered at her. -</p> - -<p> -So Emily sat still and alone in the darkness, and glad of the -quietness. She thought over one by one the dozen men—Martha -called them men, though they scarcely deserved the -name—who would be dancing with the girls at the club. Emily -knew every one of them; some of them she had known for -years. She knew the families of most of them. Every time -she thought of Martha's partner of the evening before, they -seemed more acceptable to her. They were—decent. They -were—secure. They had no foreign accent, and they had not -pretended to know Tchekhoff. People gossiped about them, -but Emily believed their relationships with bootleggers were -merest flirtations. Their scrapes were ridiculous—like -Johnnie's opera—-but they were not vicious—often. Bob called -them "nail-polishers," and "shiny Johnnies," and thought -pessimistically about their chances of success in this competitive -life. But Emily, musing away, liked them all that night. -</p> - -<p> -Bob threw down his magazine, after a while, and returned -to Emily's presence. He got up and lit a cigar, and went -into the house. Emily heard him there talking to some one -by 'phone about insurance. He came out and sat down on the -railing in front of her. -</p> - -<p> -"Let's go to bed," he said. -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him. There he sat, a heavy, rather sluggish -man with a growth of black beard which he conspicuously did -not shave twice a day. His hair was not as thick as it had -been ten years ago, but not less unruly, and his digestion was -decidedly poorer. He was working hard, and making money, -and usually tired. He was still more even-tempered than -most men. From the time Martha went away to school till -she came home for holiday he scarcely spoke an irritable word. -</p> - -<p> -"I thought I'd wait till the girls come home." -</p> - -<p> -"You're dead tired." -</p> - -<p> -"I know it, but they'll be here soon. It's nearly twelve now." -</p> - -<p> -"Let's go out and get them." -</p> - -<p> -"All right. Let's." -</p> - -<p> -They had done that more than once. Bob was always ready -for a drive even over that road which they must take along -the river. Two miles of that sinuous and uncertain byway had -been the cause, like the rest of the country club, of a great wave -of hard feeling in the community. Were the taxpayers going -to keep it up for a few rich "sporty" families? asked the -indignant, so successfully that now the handful of members had -either to repair it themselves or endure its flooded ruts. The -country club had not been well managed. Mrs. Benton had -washed her hands of it in the beginning, prophesying its -downfall. The founders had not counted the cost. The less -wealthy couldn't stand the assessments and had dropped out. -Those who remained had to pay more. And it was all a -muddle and a burden and a quarrel—a perfect example of how -Mrs. Benton did not manage things. Emily was one of those -who still kept membership. She seldom used the place, but -she wanted Martha to have a place to play golf. The more -Martha danced there, the less she would disturb her father by -dancing at home. And really, it was a very nice crowd of -young people who gathered there. By night, as Bob and Emily -drove in, it looked gay and lovely, lit all up, among the trees, -with the dancers gliding about. By day, of course, its appearance -justified the scorn which neighboring towns poured upon -it. However, those towns, since last night's event, would be -less boastful. -</p> - -<p> -Bob stopped the car and they sat looking in. Now Martha -had had on a little dress faintly pink at the neck and deeply -carmine at the hem, so that, if she had been there, Emily -would have seen her in a moment. -</p> - -<p> -"Where <i>is</i> the kid?" Bob grumbled. Emily looked about -under the trees, and saw Johnnie Benton leave the couple with -whom he was smoking and come over to them. Bob repeated -his question immediately. And Johnnie said, indifferently, -looking in towards the lighted floor: -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't she there? I guess she's out having a petting party -somewhere with that dago necker." -</p> - -<p> -Emily was thoroughly annoyed by the boy's impertinence. -The idea of his daring to say a thing to her of Martha. -</p> - -<p> -"Who d'you mean?" Bob demanded. -</p> - -<p> -"You know, that bearded guy she's falling for." -</p> - -<p> -"Eve's brother-in-law?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." -</p> - -<p> -"Is she with that——" Emily nudged Bob violently. -</p> - -<p> -"She generally is!" So Johnnie wasn't so indifferent, after -all, to the fact as he had wanted them to believe. And then the -music stopped, and the girls came nocking out to the drive like -butterflies. Marion Wright called upon Johnnie to witness -that there was just one more dance, and then they would all -go home, and Martha, she said, had already gone, walking -home. -</p> - -<p> -Emily asked in reply, unconcernedly, if they were having a -good time, and told them not to hurry, and said, "No, they -wouldn't wait for an ice—the night was so hot they had thought -they would drive out to cool off." But here the ice was—and she -ate it hurriedly, fearing what Bob might say about Martha -before them, nudging him mentally, as it were, into silence. -</p> - -<p> -No sooner was the car turned towards home than Bob -broke out: -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I'll be damned! I won't have this, Emily." -</p> - -<p> -"Funny we didn't see them, if they're walking home." -</p> - -<p> -"I thought she had <i>some</i> sense. What's he doing out -here? Did you know he was coming?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. I never thought of it. Of course the family belongs." -</p> - -<p> -"The nerve of him! Does anyone else come uninvited?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Bob, we must be careful! Did you hear what Johnnie -said?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll settle that girl to-night. She isn't going to be running -around at midnight with any married man." -</p> - -<p> -"Now, Bob, we mustn't be hasty. You must think this over. -We don't want to—seem to take this—too seriously. He'll be -leaving, likely, in a day or two." -</p> - -<p> -"How do you know he will?" -</p> - -<p> -"I <i>suppose</i> he will. Didn't Eve say so?" -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't hear her. And it's the principle of the thing. She -thinks it's smart to be flirting with a married man." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't think she does, Bob. He's so different—from -these boys here." And then suddenly she begged: "Look, -Bob! Oh, let me do the talking to her!" For walking slowly -along, side by side, were the two of them, little rosy Martha -and the man that seemed always bending over her. So near -they were that Bob stopped the car with a jerk. -</p> - -<p> -"We'll give you a lift," he said, unceremoniously. "Get in!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha introduced her companion. Bob gave the shortest -possible sign of being aware of his existence. He was opening -the car door. -</p> - -<p> -"Get in!" he said to his daughter. -</p> - -<p> -"It's a glorious night for walking," Mr. Quin remarked, -standing still. -</p> - -<p> -"It's too late. Get in!" Bob again spoke directly to Martha. -</p> - -<p> -She turned to her escort. "It is rather muddy here. Let's -ride a little." And she got serenely in, and bade him follow her. -The car started. -</p> - -<p> -Emily turned around in her seat. -</p> - -<p> -"You staying long in town, Mr. Quin? I meant to call. But -Eve said your wife isn't well." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh—I'm not sure yet. It's all so interesting to me. A -Western town like this. It's quite surprised me." Hadn't Eve -said the man was brought up in Indiana? His tone annoyed -Emily so that she turned abruptly about in her seat. Martha -leaned forward to her. -</p> - -<p> -"He thinks it's the most ripping dance hall he ever saw, of -the kind, mother." Ripping, was it? Such a distinguished -word, so unlike this West, Emily was saying to herself. Where -was Bob going? Why didn't he take them directly home? He -had turned, and in a minute, before they knew it almost, they -had stopped in front of Eve's home. -</p> - -<p> -"We'll drop you here," said Bob. -</p> - -<p> -The stranger looked at Martha. -</p> - -<p> -She said, surprised: "No—— Oh—well——" -</p> - -<p> -"It's the way we have in these Western towns," Bob remarked, -shortly. The man said good night reluctantly and as -meaningly as possible, with Emily's eye upon him. -</p> - -<p> -In the light of the living room, Emily said: "Look at your -slippers, Martha! What made you walk home in them?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, mother, it was such moonlight. You were absolutely -rude to him, mother. I never saw you act so before," Martha -spoke grievedly. -</p> - -<p> -"I know a snubbing when I get one. He didn't ask me to -call on his wife." -</p> - -<p> -"But, mother, you know she isn't well. Eve said so." -</p> - -<p> -"If she isn't well I think he'd better devote himself -exclusively to her. Martha, I don't like this. He ought to know -better, if you don't. You'll get yourself talked about, if this -keeps on." -</p> - -<p> -Martha opened her eyes in unfeigned surprise. -</p> - -<p> -"That's a funny way for you to talk, mother. You always -say people have no right to go gossiping around about girls!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I certainly said girls oughtn't to do silly things to -start people talking." -</p> - -<p> -"I get sick of this town! It's only in a little crude hole of a -place like this a girl can't look at a man after he's married. -He knows more in a minute than all the boys in this place know -in a year. And just because he's got a wife I'm not to listen to -him, I suppose!" -</p> - -<p> -"You are certainly not to—to let him spend all his time -with you. You went with Johnnie. Why didn't you come -home with him? Did you know that he—this Quin person—was -to be there, Martha?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha stood there looking straight at her mother, as if she -had seen in her something new and perplexing. -</p> - -<p> -"What's the matter, mother? What's all the fuss about, -anyway?" -</p> - -<p> -"About this man. He's married. He oughtn't to be following -you about when his wife's at home sick. I'm disgusted -with you, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"Because he happens to be married?" -</p> - -<p> -"He doesn't <i>happen</i> to be married; he <i>is</i> married." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't follow you, mother." -</p> - -<p> -Martha spoke, with her head held high, in the lazy tone -she used to infuriate her father. -</p> - -<p> -Emily said, gently smiling: "There's no use your trying -that on me, Martha. You follow me exactly. You know -exactly what I mean, and you're to remember what I say." -</p> - -<p> -"You never spoke like this to me before, mother." She -would try being hurt. -</p> - -<p> -"I never had occasion to, thank goodness! And I'm not -going to speak to you this way again, either." They both -heard Bob coming in. "Now go to bed," Emily said, kissing -her, "and be a good girl." Martha kissed her in return, -without any sign of annoyance, and ran quickly upstairs. -</p> - -<p> -"Where is she?" Bob demanded. -</p> - -<p> -"She's gone to bed." -</p> - -<p> -"Just like her. She crawls out of everything. Did you -settle her once for all?" -</p> - -<p> -"I spoke to her about it. I told her we didn't like it." -</p> - -<p> -"You're too easy with her, Emily. I'm going to settle her -in the morning. I'm going to lay down the law to her!" -</p> - -<p> -He was going to lay down the law to her, was he, when he -had never in his life laid down his work for an hour for her -sake! Emily, that placid woman, for the third time in one -evening, was ruffled and resentful. Johnnie had disturbed her. -"That man" had annoyed her. And now, all of a sudden, Bob, -who had never done anything but stand aside and watch her -manage Martha, was going to take her in hand. He had -literally had no time for the girl since she was born; and now he -seemed to think she ought to listen to him. -</p> - -<p> -She said nothing, being wise, and he went up to bed. The -Wright girls came in, presently, with Johnnie and Chris -Phillips, all of them together making a little eddying whirlpool -of youth in the quiet room. Emily, moved by some instinct -of security for Martha, called up to her to come down. "Oh," -they said, "is Martha home?" Emily replied carelessly that -they had picked her up near the bridge, and instantly she -happened to look at Helen Wright. She had not been thinking of -the effect of her remark, but she saw Helen wink—yes, -undoubtedly just wink—at Johnnie, and she saw he didn't want -to be winked at on the subject. She felt a sharp mistrust of -that girl—her expressive, cynical face. What did she mean? -Did she know with whom Martha had chosen to walk home? -She thanked goodness that Helen Wright wasn't staying long. -She didn't like her. -</p> - -<p> -Martha had only tarried a minute—long enough to have -paid, perhaps, her tribute to the mirror, but by the time she -came down the boys had left. Johnnie said it would be a -change to go once before he got sent home. Martha didn't -deign to notice his absence. She talked serenely to her guests. -</p> - -<p> -But Emily, in her bed, remembered, sighing more than once, -how that horrid Helen had sat looking at Martha, with cynical, -initiated amusement. Perhaps that girl was encouraging her -in her naughtiness. If Martha wasn't careful—and she probably -wouldn't be—she would be getting into a horrible row with -her father. That consummation Emily Kenworthy would do -anything to avoid. If Bob "bawled her out" in the morning, -the world underneath their feet would be splitting. Martha -and that odious stranger would be on one side, and Bob would -be on the other. And Emily—well, there was never a moment's -doubt in her mind where she would be! -</p> - -<p> -She remembered, indignant at the thought of it, that -perfectly absurd situation of her friend, Mrs. Harding, whose -daughter had married, to the utter rage and final alienation of -her father. One day, months after that, Mrs. Harding had -come creeping into the Kenworthys' house, almost a stranger -then, and had begged for the loan of two hundred dollars, just -begged for it, ashamed and whispering, because her daughter -was ill, and without a penny, in a rooming house demanding its -rent. A girl friend of hers had seen her there, and had come -back to urge her mother to help her. In all her life Emily -had never had to consider the state of a woman living -comfortably without one cent of her own to put a finger on. "If -I were you," she had exclaimed to Mrs. Harding, "I would go -straight to her. I would bring her home, or take her some -place and take care of her." But Mrs. Harding dared not defy -her husband. He was an old man, and delicate, and it might -kill him. And Emily had been on the point of saying: "I -don't believe it! And if it does, he deserves it!" She had -entered heartily into that conspiracy, and it had all turned out -so well, and the two women had become friends. Yet Emily -essentially disapproved of her "kowtowing" to her husband. -There would be nothing like that in her house! If any great, -deep chasm was to come splitting across the ground on which -the Kenworthy family stood, Emily was going to be on the -side of her daughter! Was it likely that she would give up -that Jim Kenworthy—that she would have allowed her dear -lover to go away to die alone—for that child's sake, and now -give up the child merely for Bob Kenworthy? -</p> - -<p> -"Bob," she said, emphatically. -</p> - -<p> -"What's the matter?" He was sleepy. -</p> - -<p> -"You aren't to 'settle' Martha in the morning! You are to -leave her to me!" -</p> - -<p> -"What?" -</p> - -<p> -"I say you aren't to scold Martha in the morning about—that -man. I've talked to her about it, and that's enough." -</p> - -<p> -"She won't mind you, Emily." -</p> - -<p> -"She'll mind me at least as much as she would you. And -more, too. And I'm not going to have you two—quarreling -and arguing about—this—person. Do you understand that, -Bob? If you—speak to her about it, she'll get to thinking -that she's on one side with that man, and you and I are on the -other side." -</p> - -<p> -"She's on his side now." -</p> - -<p> -"No, Bob, she isn't. She is just—playing; she wants a little -rope." -</p> - -<p> -"She's got enough to hang herself now." -</p> - -<p> -"You won't speak to her, will you, Bob, now?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well," Bob grumbled, "she's your kid, Emily. You've -got to manage her. She won't listen to anything I say, -anyway." -</p> - -<p> -"But I mean, don't you just begin to—don't you forget and -bring the subject up, at all, will you, Bob?" -</p> - -<p> -"I won't say a word to her if you make her quit it. If you -don't, I'll take her in hand. I won't stand for her getting talked -about all over town!" -</p> - -<p> -"She's not going to get talked about, Bob!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well. Manage her to suit yourself." -</p> - -<p> -That was the most he could say. He could offer her no help. -All she could ask of him was that he would refrain from -interfering. But if Jim had been in Bob's place, Jim would have -known what to do. Martha would have listened if Jim could -have spoken to her. And Jim would have listened if Emily -had gone to him in perplexity about the girl. Hadn't she and -Jim sat together for hours discussing their children, enjoying -them together, having them in common, almost, in spite of -the barrier between them? Because Jim had always appreciated -little Martha Kenworthy. That was the essential wrong Bob -had done the child since birth. He had failed to appreciate -her. He had never in his life understood a woman. He had -never even given the proper value to his own mother. And -Jim's adulterous wife he had simply cursed whenever he thought -of her. It was only men that Bob could evaluate. There was no -use expecting him to judge Martha fairly. But Jim had -enjoyed every phase of her little girlhood, just as he had -played tenderly, reverently with his mother's heroisms and -weaknesses, just as he had so well understood every shade of -the service Emily had unconsciously rendered him when she -had loved his son. If Martha had a man like Jim about -familiarly, she wouldn't be impressed as she seemed to be with -the first pretentious masher that came her way. Jim would -have set a standard for the child, given her a taste for masculine -worth. And it all went back again to the old, old question: -Why didn't I marry Jim in the first place? Why did I ever -quarrel with him? Why was I brought up so that I could -quarrel with him, about a book, merely a book that is this -minute lying neglected on the shelf in the painted room because -the girls were bored with old classics? I married Bob to get -away from this house, said Emily. But Martha will never -marry to get away from that, Emily vowed again. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Four</i> -</h3> - -<p> -Afterwards, when Emily, thinking those summer weeks -over, used to ask herself again and again why she hadn't -prevented their climax, she could scarcely recall how her -realization of the situation had come about. She had told Martha that -she didn't want Eve's brother-in-law singling her out for his -attention. She had supposed that was sufficient. She had -gone with Martha to take the Wrights home the next day, and -all very merrily the afternoon had gone, just as afternoons -usually went before that man came rumbling on the horizon. -There had been no mention of him till towards supper time. -Martha's chum, Greta, had come in then, asking her to go for -a swim. Emily liked Greta, with reservations and allowances, -thinking her too pretty to be judged severely. She had dazzling -eyes: light-blue eyes when she wore light blue; dark-blue eyes -when she wore dark blue; gray eyes when she had on a gray -suit; and when she pulled that wicked little mauve hat down -over her forehead, her eyes were purple as dark pansies. One -had to forgive that girl for somewhat too deliberately flashing -those glances into male consciousness, Emily argued. But -Greta didn't—quite tell the very truth—always. Just lately -in a crisis she had told one tale, and Martha had told another -of what happened, and it had all had to come out, Martha -justified, a truthful child, and Greta—well, perhaps she had -learned her lesson. Emily believed so. -</p> - -<p> -Now that afternoon when she came in on her way to the -beach, Martha was indiscreet, to say the least. She said -demurely enough, when Greta urged her: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't know whether I'm allowed to go swimming. -Am I, mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily had asked innocently, "Why not?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, there's sure to be some married men about, some -place." And Greta had smiled, as if she understood Martha's -cause for complaint. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be silly!" Emily had replied. They had gone swimming. -Afterwards Emily wondered if Martha had known that -man would be there, if she had taken that way of warding off -subsequent reproof. She wondered, but she could reach no -conclusion. She could never make out clearly how it had -gone on. She hadn't even known for certain that Martha was -seeing the man. She had thought it better to trust her. -</p> - -<p> -Eve had returned the next day, and Emily had been glad, -feeling that Eve would be a protection. The girls had gone -together to spend the week-end at Geneva with friends. That had -been planned days ago. Bob had remarked uneasily, looking -up from the daily at noon on Monday: -</p> - -<p> -"That bird's in Geneva, Emily!" -</p> - -<p> -"Who?" -</p> - -<p> -"Quin, that brother-in-law of Eve's." -</p> - -<p> -"Why shouldn't he be?" Emily had asked, carelessly. And -she asked herself the same question, but not so carelessly. -What was more natural than that he should have gone fishing? -Didn't everybody go fishing? Wasn't there a long list in the -paper every Monday of all the men from the town who had -gone, even though they went regularly every Saturday of the -season? The editor had to have something to fill up his -columns, and that list, and the list of those who went to Chicago -daily to shop, could always be depended upon. Still—— -</p> - -<p> -Afterwards she sometimes thought that she should have said -to Martha: "Did you see Mr. Quin at Geneva? Did you know -he was going to be there?" She might have asked that question -the following Wednesday. Perhaps that was where she had -made her great mistake. She should have asked Martha -directly what had happened there. -</p> - -<p> -For Eve came home that day from the links alone, and -announced she was going to Chicago at once to her father; that -she had thought when she came to live in this town that at -least she wouldn't have her sister hanging around, and her -brother-in-law. She wasn't going to come back till they cleared -out, she said, angrily red. Afterwards Emily knew that she -ought to have asked her exactly what the quarrel had been about. -She had, however, practically asked Martha later. Martha had -said indifferently she supposed Eve was tired of the little town. -It wasn't good enough for her, perhaps. She had spoken -sarcastically. She didn't regret Eve's departure. She had gone -on her way undisturbed. Perhaps she had spent more time -with her friends than she usually did. At home she was quiet; -but she had always been that. She had always sat excited, as -it were, by her thoughts, chuckling to herself about what was -in her mind. Her Uncle Jim had said of her child that it was -<i>herself</i> she seemed always to be enjoying. She had seemed -to have a hidden source of delight to muse on. Johnnie was -no longer about the house. When Emily commented on this -fact, Martha had explained indifferently that he had an awful -case on a De Kalb girl. -</p> - -<p> -One afternoon Emily sat talking to an old, trustworthy -friend. "When's Eve coming back? You know her sister?" -Grace Phillips had asked. -</p> - -<p> -Emily couldn't believe she had asked it in malice. She -thought afterwards it might have been a well-meant warning. -Emily had said she had not even seen the sister. She wasn't -receiving callers. -</p> - -<p> -"You see more of him, I suppose?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily had repressed her surprise, and answered, vaguely, -"No; that is, not a great deal. Eve—not when Eve isn't here." -</p> - -<p> -What did Mrs. Phillips mean? Had she seen Martha with -that man? -</p> - -<p> -"I hear the old grandmother gets worse all the time," -Mrs. Phillips had innocently continued. Emily had said she didn't -know. -</p> - -<p> -It was after four then; soon after that there had come a -long-distance 'phone call: four friends in the next county -were driving up to dance in Chicago. Would Martha go with -them? They'd be along soon after seven. As Emily hung up -the receiver she saw a sort of chance. She would go out to the -golf course and bring Martha home to get ready for the evening, -and take occasion to see exactly who was playing there, -and then she would be rid of this uneasiness. She hated taking -the car herself, but it was time she made sure of what was -going on. -</p> - -<p> -So she drove out, inch by inch around by the dusty detour, -over the well-known ruts. She turned the car anxiously -through the gates, which always looked so narrow when she -was driving that to miss their post seemed almost miraculous. -She chose her place of stopping very carefully, a large place -easy to turn around in, in case Martha wasn't there and she had -to go back by herself. -</p> - -<p> -She shut off the engine, congratulating herself the more -upon the neatness of her achievement because some other -woman had stopped her car—but not her engine—wrong way -about, at some distance, so that she sat almost facing Emily. A -stranger she was. With a swanky little scarlet hat on, and -rouged; waiting for some one, looking intently towards the -path through the trees by which the players came up to the -shack of a clubhouse. -</p> - -<p> -And then it occurred to Emily that that woman must be -Eve's sister, because that must be the car that Eve drove. -She looked, naturally, with renewed interest. The face was -in some ways like Eve's. But it was no wonder Eve didn't like -her. She was a discontented woman, ill-natured, with hollows -about her eyes, like Eve, but more accentuated; altogether -hard faced. She was probably waiting for her husband. -</p> - -<p> -"Shall I go and speak to her, or shall I not?" Emily -wondered. The woman hadn't once looked in her direction. -Either she was intent upon the path and had not heard anyone -coming, or purposely avoided chances of being intruded upon. -</p> - -<p> -Emily had not been sitting there undecided one minute when -the woman leaned suddenly forward, shifting her position to -get a better view of something. Emily's eyes turned, naturally, -to see what she was so eagerly looking at. There were four -people walking towards them at a little distance, two in front, -young Mr. and Mrs. Williams, two behind, little Martha -Kenworthy and that man. Martha had on a pleated white skirt and -a belted overblouse of pale yellow crêpe de Chine, with a square -neck, and she was walking along, slight and young, bareheaded, -of course, with her face all flushed pink, looking up, all smiling -and interested, to that man, who seemed, as always, to be leaning -down over her. They came walking towards her. They -were talking about something so amusing, so intimately -interesting, that they paid no attention to the two cars. Emily -sitting there, sickening, saw Mrs. Williams call Martha's -attention to her mother. She saw the absorbed two turn from their -topic and look towards her. -</p> - -<p> -She had looked again quickly at the woman. She knew what -she had been waiting for. She saw the discontented face flush -angrily, as Eve's did sometimes; and then, just as that man -drew near, when he had seen his wife sitting there, she started -her car and drove hastily away. -</p> - -<p> -Martha was coming up to her mother. Mrs. Williams was -with her. The men had stopped to talk together about -something, a few steps away. Had the Williamses seen that -woman? Would they know who she was? -</p> - -<p> -"Hello, mother!" Martha said, quite naturally. And Emily, -she hoped undismayed, explained to her and Mrs. Williams why -she had come. "I thought I'd better come and get you, so you'd -have time enough to get ready," she said. -</p> - -<p> -Martha jumped in, taking her place at the wheel. She had -come out with Greta, whom Emily saw at some distance, coming -towards her. She asked Mrs. Williams to tell her she had -gone home. They whirled away. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha!" Emily said, sternly, "I came out here to get you. -And this is what I find. Do you know who was in that car?" -</p> - -<p> -"What car?" -</p> - -<p> -"That one ahead, that just drove out." Martha looked down -the road. -</p> - -<p> -"Eve?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Her sister. She came out here to see if her husband was -with you," Emily's voice trembled with dismay. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, mother!" Martha was indignant. "What makes you -say such a thing?" -</p> - -<p> -"I saw her expression. She was waiting to catch him with -you. Do the Williamses know her? Oh, I wonder if they saw -that—if they understood? Mr. Jenkinson was sitting on the -porch there. Martha, this is the end of that. I didn't like -you being with that man before; but, now I've seen her, I -simply won't have it. She's jealous. Why, Martha, a girl -might get into an awful mess, this way! That woman—driving -away in that way. Quarreling in public—that way!" -</p> - -<p> -"She quarrels with everybody, Eve says," Martha commented, -indifferently. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, she's not going to have any excuse for quarreling -with us. You hear what I say, Martha? You're not to play -golf, or swim or ride or walk or dance or even smile at that -man in public, any place, where anybody can see you." -</p> - -<p> -"It'll look sort of funny, mother, when he's everywhere I am." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't care how it looks. It'll look a lot better than having -his wife watching him flirting with you." -</p> - -<p> -Martha raised her head proudly. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know why you should say a thing like that to me! -I was NOT flirting, I was just talking to him, mammie! This -seems so—unworthy of you." -</p> - -<p> -"Very well, then. You aren't to talk to him any more. -You've got to obey me! You've got to do exactly what I say -in this, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know why you get so worked up over this! You -never talk so about anybody else!" -</p> - -<p> -"You never look that way at any other man!" -</p> - -<p> -"No. I never find anyone so interesting!" -</p> - -<p> -"It's disgusting. You ought to be spanked!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not a child!" -</p> - -<p> -"You certainly are!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm twenty in April." -</p> - -<p> -"Can she know how that threat—yes, sheer threat of -independence—hurts me?" Emily wondered. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha, you mustn't be—you <i>mustn't</i>! It isn't fair. -That woman is unhappy! She's haggard! She's sick, and she -sees him playing about with you!" -</p> - -<p> -"Am I so dangerous? Can't she even let him talk to a child?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not going to argue with you. I've simply laid down -the law, for once. You're not to be seen even talking with -that man again. Do you understand that?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." -</p> - -<p> -"Didn't you understand it before?" -</p> - -<p> -"I never thought you'd act this way about it." -</p> - -<p> -"I never thought for a minute you'd go on, after what I said -to you." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you want me to tell him I'm not allowed to speak to him?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't care what you tell him. You're able to make a -man understand when he's not welcome, I hope, at your age." -</p> - -<p> -"A mere child like me, mammie?" Martha asked. But Emily -didn't deign to notice her sarcasm. They rode the rest of the -way in silence. Martha went directly to her room. She came -down for supper, and ate in silence. When it was over she -began clearing away the dishes. Was she going to be a martyr? -She passed through the living room, when she had finished -them, on the way to her room. -</p> - -<p> -"If they call for me, you can tell them I'm not going," she -told Emily. -</p> - -<p> -But the girls, when they came, wouldn't take any such answer. -They ran into the house and up to the painted room. They -must have persuaded her, for she came down with them, all -dressed and ready, and, after they had told Emily they were -going to keep her till the next afternoon, she said good-by coolly -and departed with them. -</p> - -<p> -And Emily was glad. Anything to get the child's mind away -from the afternoon, from "that man." She wished Martha -would stay with those nice young girls and go playing about -with the lads they played with for a week. Perhaps that -man would have left town by that time. Perhaps Eve would -come back. And there was Mary Carr, who was to come for -a visit some time during the holiday, and other girls. If -Martha would only invite them for next week! Emily, sitting -on the dark veranda, clung eagerly to these hopes. Remembering -the expression of that woman's face, she planned almost -frantically. She would take Martha and go—to Estey's -Park—or—to Banff; she would go to Alaska or—Italy—Norway—any -place. Home had become—not a refuge, not a playground -of happy security, but a dangerous, threatening place. She -wished devoutly that Eve and her family had never come to the -town. -</p> - -<p> -However, when Emily suggested Colorado, Martha said it -was too hot to travel. Trains would be horrible such nights. -And that was true. "This house," Martha remarked, truly, -"is cooler than any place else is." When Emily asked about -the visit Martha had been looking forward to, she replied: -"Dorothy's father has broken his leg. I don't think they want -me now." When Emily asked, after a discreet interval, when -Mary Carr was to be expected, Martha said: "I don't know -yet—exactly. It's such a lot of work for you now, company, -in the heat. It's sort of nice to have a rest, for a change." This -was something new. And there was something new about -the atmosphere of the house. Martha had stopped baiting her -father. She had stopped chattering with her mother. She -sat through the meals a well-behaved and silent child. She -offered to help about the house more thoughtfully than she -sometimes had. And when she had finished her tasks, she -withdrew to the painted room. -</p> - -<p> -She had said she wanted a sitting room, and she had got -one. But Emily had never foreseen that she meant to withdraw -from the family altogether. When her friends came now, -they went upstairs to her. Emily felt strangely alone, deprived -of their chatter. When she went up to them, the girls received -her as usual. Their tongues wagged on still. They seemed -not to notice Martha's withdrawal, but Emily did. She told -herself that she had been trying always to get Martha to -rest. And now when Martha was going to bed early, when she -was lying on her bed reading, or pretending to, sleeping, or -pretending to, all the afternoons, Emily was uncomfortable. -Even Bob said: "What's got into the kid? Where's the -gang?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily wouldn't ask Bob about "that man." She saw him -one day on the street. The next day Martha announced she -was going to Chicago. She had to get something for cushions, -and a tray. Emily offered to go with her. Martha expressed -no eagerness for her company, but showed a desire to go -alone. She went, and came back with her purchases. -</p> - -<p> -She went again the next week. Emily was glad to have her -away, for a change. She had never gone to play golf since that -afternoon. She went about with her girl friends when she -couldn't avoid going. She went nearly every evening for a -swim with some of them. When she came back, sometimes -she went and sat alone in the boat tied under the willow until -bedtime. Emily's heart smote her when she saw the girl sitting -alone there, in the starlight, a dimmed firefly among the -shining ones. That boat, that willow—were for two. She had -to think soberly about the deserted veranda, where Bob sat -now without blushing. And where were the boys that had -been "hanging about" before? Martha had said more than -once that they came just to "jolly" her mother. They weren't -coming now for that purpose. Johnnie passed back and forth -every day up and down the street, but he never came in, unless -his mother had sent him on an errand. -</p> - -<p> -The first week of August Emily met Eve downtown. That -was a jolt. "Have you been back long?" she asked, carelessly. -And Eve hurried to say that she had been back a few -days, but she was trying to help at home. Her grandmother -was very bad. The nurses were busy every minute. But Eve -was going to find time to come down. "I meant to come and -see YOU," she asserted, with eager sincerity, with just a little -stress on the "you." "I'm going to be here all the time now. -My sister's gone," she added cheerfully. -</p> - -<p> -When she went on her way, Emily sighed with deep relief. -Those people and their shadow over the Kenworthys had left, -finally. Maybe things would be gay now, as they used to be. -But Martha, who had given no sign and never mentioned either -of them again to Emily, seemed to be unaware of their -departure. She was tired, and it was hot, and she wanted to rest. -She stated her case with dignity, gently. There was nothing -Emily could object to in her bearing. -</p> - -<p> -There was nothing they could object to in her manner the -next week, when she refused to drive to Springfield with her -father and mother. Bob would do the driving, and she had -never liked riding alone in the back seat. So the Kenworthys -went alone, and spent the day, and came driving back towards -home through the country darkness about midnight. -</p> - -<p> -The day had added to the burden on Emily's mind, instead -of lightening it. She had been visiting a friend while Bob -had been hurrying through his business. They had been -silent for miles, when Emily began talking, wearily: -</p> - -<p> -"Fanny was telling me about her niece, Bob. She wondered -if we could get her a job in town here. Her husband has left -her with those two children. She learned typing, but she -hasn't had any experience. She wants to get some place where -she can make a home for them. She'll have to divorce him. I -wondered—if she could get some work here, maybe I could -help her with the children, sometimes. I said we'd look round -and see if we could do anything," Emily sighed. -</p> - -<p> -"She married that Grey, didn't she? Who vamped him?" That -was the way Bob WOULD put it, of course. Everything he -thought of as some woman's fault. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. He's no good. They tried every way to get -her not to marry him." Emily sighed again. These daughters—these -tragedies. The rumbling of incredible possibilities on -the horizon—Emily fell silent, sighing sometimes. -</p> - -<p> -The car drew up to the house, and Emily reproved herself -for worrying. It was lighted up; the victrola was playing. It -would be gay with dancing within. But the blinds were down, -strange to say. Never mind that—Martha was happy again. -She was having a party of friends. Bob and Emily went up -the walk and into the front hall, both of them relieved and -eager, and through it into the living room, to put down their -parcels on the table. -</p> - -<p> -And there Emily stopped by the table, without unloading -her hands. Bob stopped behind her. They just stood looking -for a critical second—looking at Martha and "that man," who -were stopping their dance, drawing away from each other, -returning their gaze. -</p> - -<p> -"You're late," said Martha, quite naturally, unperturbed. -</p> - -<p> -The man spoke to them. Emily murmured something. She -didn't know what to say. Martha went to the victrola and -stood there, turning it off. Bob said nothing. Richard Quin -looked at Martha inquiringly. -</p> - -<p> -"It's late," he said. "Really, I'd better be going." -</p> - -<p> -Bob took a step towards the table and divested himself of -three large bottles of choice olives and a long sprayer for roses. -He strode towards the man. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you'd better be going," he said. "If you're wise, you'll -be staying away." He stood glaring at him, threateningly. -</p> - -<p> -Emily came and stood close to Bob. And Martha came -towards "that man," with her head held high. She spoke to -him with the most gentle sweetness, looking straight at her -father. -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't have a hat, did you?" she asked him. "It was -so nice of you to think of coming in." She was going with him -towards the door. She went with him into the hall. "Good -night," they heard her say. "Good night." She stood in the -hall after the door had shut behind the man. She waited there. -Emily called her. And when she came into the light from the -darkness of the hall, it was plain that for once in his life Bob -Kenworthy had "got a rise" out of Martha. She came straight -at him. She was white with anger. -</p> - -<p> -"How dare you do such a thing! How dare you speak to -my friends that way!" Emily had never seen her so furious. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha!" she cried, warningly. -</p> - -<p> -"I won't stand this! I'll never ask another friend to this -house as long as I live!" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't talk that way to <i>me</i>!" Bob exclaimed. "Don't say -<i>dare</i> to me!" -</p> - -<p> -And Emily said, soothingly, "Martha, didn't I tell you not -to let that man come here?" -</p> - -<p> -"You did <i>not</i>! You told me not to appear in public with him. -Is this public? We've been up in my room till just now. I -pulled the blinds down as soon as we came down!" -</p> - -<p> -"My God!" cried Bob. "You pulled the blinds down! You -haven't any sense at all. Have those blinds been down before -all summer? You're a perfect fool!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not going to be cursed, mother." She started towards -the stairs proudly. -</p> - -<p> -"You took him up to your bedroom?" Bob exploded. -</p> - -<p> -"It's <i>not</i> her bedroom, Bob," Emily was saying. -</p> - -<p> -He cried, "Come here and listen to me!" -</p> - -<p> -"I won't," replied Martha. "You can't talk to me in that -condition. I'm going to bed." -</p> - -<p> -Emily saw Bob start towards Martha. She thought he -was intending seizing her by the arm, pulling her into the -room, making her listen. So she sank down into a chair. -</p> - -<p> -"Bob!" she cried, "come here!" and she began crying. -</p> - -<p> -He let Martha go up the stairs. He came and stood raging -near Emily. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you worry! I'll put an end to this. I'll settle her yet. -Don't cry. I'll put some sense into that girl's head. She's not -going to take married men up to her bedroom in this house!" -</p> - -<p> -"Bob, stop it! That's not her bedroom! You just make -things worse!" -</p> - -<p> -"I make things worse, do I?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you do! It's bad enough to have this thing going on! -But you go and quarrel with her. You never can stop it this -way! The sillier she is, the wiser we have to be. Oh, we must -be careful! I won't have you saying such things to each other!" -</p> - -<p> -"What are you blaming <i>me</i> for? You said you'd tell her to -quit this, and that's all the good it's done us. Everybody'll -be wondering why the blinds were down when we're away." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I wish you hadn't done that! I wish—you looked as if -you were intending to knock him down, Bob!" -</p> - -<p> -"I <i>did</i> intend to! He's lucky! If he comes hanging around -here, I will beat him up. What business has he got in this -house at midnight?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily was rising. She wiped her eyes. "I'll go up and -talk to her," she said. -</p> - -<p> -When she came into the painted room, Martha, who was -sitting on a day bed, looked at her in surprise, and said, shortly: -"What are you crying about? Did he do anything to you?" She -spoke as if her father might have struck her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"I was crying because you're so—because you speak that -way to your father. I can't stand it, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -"You ought to have got me a civilized father, then—a human -being. I get so mad at him!" -</p> - -<p> -"You've got to stop it! I'm not going to live in a house -with you two quarreling all the time." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'll clear out! I'm not anxious to stay. You wait till -I'm twenty!" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, you needn't act this way. You needn't try to make -out you're the offended one. Did you know he was coming here -to-night?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha looked at her mother defiantly. She hesitated. She -was a truthful child, at least. She said, shortly, after a second, -"Yes, I did." -</p> - -<p> -"Did you ask him? Did you arrange to have him come when -we were away?" -</p> - -<p> -"You never asked me questions like this about other people." -</p> - -<p> -"I want to know, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I did. I asked him." -</p> - -<p> -"You know I didn't want you to do that." -</p> - -<p> -"You told me not to appear in public with him, mother. I -didn't appear in public. I minded you. I don't see anything -to be ashamed of. I don't see why we should keep it secret. -He wanted to see me, and I wanted to talk to him. I knew you -wouldn't understand it. You just insist on misjudging him. -You won't try to get acquainted with him. I knew dad would -make a fool of himself if he saw him here." -</p> - -<p> -"What did he need to see you about?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I—I don't know why—I don't know what right—— If -I'd been ashamed of myself, I could have sent him home -before you came, and you'd never even have known he'd been -here." -</p> - -<p> -Emily went over and sat down by Martha. She put her arm -around her. She tried to pull her close against her, but -Martha was for sitting erect, stiffly. Her attitude made Emily's -coaxing tone futile. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, he didn't have any business here. He knew he -wasn't welcome here. Unless he's absolutely stupid, he understood -that before daddy said a word to him. If he was a decent -man he would never have come or he would have gone earlier." -</p> - -<p> -Martha bristled. "He did have business here. He had to see -me." -</p> - -<p> -"Why?" -</p> - -<p> -The girl rose. She walked about the room excitedly. She -began once, and stopped. She came and stood in front of -Emily. -</p> - -<p> -"Now look here, mother. I don't think you ought to ask -me questions like that. As though you don't believe me. But -if you'll stop all this fuss, I'll tell you the whole thing next -week." -</p> - -<p> -"What whole thing?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll tell you why he came to-night." -</p> - -<p> -"Why don't you tell me now, Martha?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. I'm not going to tell you now. I'll tell you next -week. I'll tell you on Monday or Tuesday. It isn't anything -to be ashamed of, mother." Martha spoke with dignity, -reprovingly. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't suppose it is." -</p> - -<p> -"Then what makes you look at me like a thief? Why do -you let dad swear at me and curse me?" -</p> - -<p> -"That's just silly of you! He wasn't cursing you, and you -know it. That's just his way." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm tired of his way. I won't have him using my friends -like that." -</p> - -<p> -"He never spoke like that to any other friend, Martha. He's -patient with them all. He never—— -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I don't want him sitting round to be PATIENT with my -friends. I can never tell when he'll fly off the handle and beat -some of them up." -</p> - -<p> -"You know why he doesn't like this man. No father would -like to see his daughter——" -</p> - -<p> -"What?" Martha challenged. -</p> - -<p> -"Having her name connected with a married man." -</p> - -<p> -"There you go, mother. You can't find any objection to -him but that." -</p> - -<p> -"That's enough for us." -</p> - -<p> -"We don't seem to agree." -</p> - -<p> -"We've got to, Martha." Emily felt herself trembling. She -felt that she was calling to her very child across a great gulf. -The living room with its hideous tableau stretched out distantly, -and Martha and "that man" stood together by the victrola -there, away, away beyond an alienating stretch, and she and -Bob stood together by the door, trying to speak to her. She -felt it so vividly that her voice touched the angry girl; for -Martha came and sat down by her and said, earnestly: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, mammie, I—I wouldn't quarrel with you for anything. -It doesn't matter about dad. But you—mother—you always -understood me before. What is the matter now? Can't you -trust me? What do you think I'm going to do—to commit -some crime?" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, you are a child. You are a young girl, with no -experience. And I tell you you must be careful. You mustn't -run risks. You—— There are so many dangers, child!" -</p> - -<p> -"That's just saying those nasty things about him—to talk -like that—about danger. Do you think I'm a fool? Dad does!" -</p> - -<p> -"I think you're—young, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"That's the same thing when you say it that way, mother. -Honestly, it'll be all right when I tell you! If you'll call dad -off till next week!" -</p> - -<p> -With that much comfort Emily went back to Bob. And she -lived till the next Monday a trembling flag of truce between -two armies furious to spring into combat. -</p> - -<p> -On Friday Martha stayed in bed till late in the morning, and -then came down and said to her mother: -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to Elgin. Do you want to go with me?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily couldn't well go. -</p> - -<p> -"I won't be back till three or four. And I'm going to have -supper with Greta. You needn't worry about me. Richard -Quin went to Chicago last night. I don't want to stay in the -house all day Sunday with father, so I'm going over to-morrow -to Wrights'. They've asked me. You don't mind if I go? I -won't be seeing anybody you object to. They'll bring me back -Sunday evening." -</p> - -<p> -The prospect of another scene between Bob and Martha -was more frightful to Emily than whatever explanation was -forthcoming next week. She couldn't help believing that in -some way Martha would clear herself from blame. She wanted -to believe that she was unreasonable, that her daughter was right. -But she would insist on Martha apologizing to Bob as soon as -they both cooled down. She could always manage Bob, some -way—by tears, if by nothing else, because she had never -exercised their authority over him; he wasn't used to them. She -knew he surrendered when one tear showed in her eyes. And -now since this burden of fear for the child weighed her down, -no feigning was required. Tears were just there, waiting to -come. Why couldn't Martha appreciate Bob? And why should -Bob be irritable only with his poor little daughter? A man -who was so successful in managing a lot of overalled workmen. -If only Martha had been a boy! Emily, like Bob, had never -before been sorry she was a girl. Never! That is—except -just now, when she wouldn't get on with her father. -</p> - -<p> -By Monday Emily had practically convinced herself that -Martha, by some simple explanation, was about to set everything -right. They were together in the living room, waiting for -Bob, who was late coming up to dinner. When he came in he -laid the mail on the table, paper and letters, and immediately -Martha was there, taking hers. -</p> - -<p> -"Who're those letters from?" Bob said. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll be able to tell after I've opened them," she replied, -because, even with Emily there, their tones said, "Do you get -letters from that damned masher?" and, "What's it to you -whom I get letters from!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily interposed. "Dinner's ready, Bob." Her presence -begged them not to quarrel. So Martha took her letters and -went out to the veranda, and Bob went to wash. And they -sat down at the table without more conflict. Martha's face -was pink and she ate little. But she hadn't for some days had -much appetite, as Emily had silently marked. When they rose -and went into the living room again, Martha shut the dining -room door behind her. Bob had taken up the daily, and sat -down on the davenport, lighting a cigar. -</p> - -<p> -"Mother," said Martha. At the stillness of her voice Bob -had looked up at her. She was standing erect at the living-room -table. She had taken a letter from the front of her little -lavender gingham frock. Emily sank down beside Bob. -</p> - -<p> -"I said I'd tell you something to-day." Both hands were -clasped breast-high about that letter. Her shoulders were -atilt. Her eyes were gleaming. "I'm afraid you won't like -it." -</p> - -<p> -She had spoken gently, with sincerity, with dignity. She -paused. She swallowed, trying to go on quietly, but the -words came rushing out. -</p> - -<p> -"Richard Quin is getting a divorce!" -</p> - -<p> -The joy of the girl sang out in that sentence. It sang out -through the tenseness of the room as if all the lovers of the -world were there to listen and chorus. Emily and Bob, for a -second, sat dumfounded, just staring at her. Then Emily, from -very pity, gave a sort of moan. And at that sound Bob got up -ominously. He could hardly find his voice. -</p> - -<p> -"What's that to you? Let me see that letter!" He reached -out for it. -</p> - -<p> -Martha stuffed it hastily down the square neck of her frock, -for safety. -</p> - -<p> -"It's my letter." She faced him, and not one of her scornful -eyelashes fluttered at all, though he was glaring at her as if -he would like to tear her into bits. -</p> - -<p> -"So this is what you fixed up Friday night, with the blinds -down. The God-damned scoundrel! You think you're going -to marry him when he's got one wife?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not discussing it with you. I won't have him called -names." -</p> - -<p> -Emily sobbed, "Bob!" entreatingly. -</p> - -<p> -He turned sharply round and looked at her. And then he -turned passionately towards Martha. -</p> - -<p> -"Look at there!" he cried, with a gesture. "Look at your -mother! You can't make her cry!" He was helpless. He had -to entreat his child. "You can't do this, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha had gone to her mother while Bob was speaking. She -had thrown herself down against her, caressingly, trying to -creep into her arms. But Emily's head was buried in her hands. -She would not let her tear-stained face be uncovered. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't want her to cry! I wouldn't make her cry for -worlds. I was afraid you wouldn't like it—at first. Don't cry, -mammie! It'll be all right when you know him." But Emily -wept on. "He hasn't been happy, mother!" Martha entreated -her. -</p> - -<p> -Her words seemed to mock Bob. He spluttered out his fury. -</p> - -<p> -"Happy! Who gives a damn whether he's happy or not?" he -cried, as if he couldn't believe that his ears had heard such an -inopportune suggestion. "Emily! Don't you cry, Emily! I'll -stop this!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha!" Emily moaned. -</p> - -<p> -Then Bob cried, suddenly, "Let me see that letter!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha got up and spoke quietly. -</p> - -<p> -"Mother doesn't want us quarreling," she said. "You know -that. It makes her feel worse. That's my letter and I'm not -going to let you see it. I won't talk to you now. You're too -mad. I'm going upstairs. You can talk it over together." -</p> - -<p> -Bob sat helplessly down near his wife. He wanted so greatly, -so clumsily to comfort her, that she lifted her face to him. -She wiped her eyes, but her thoughts were too painful. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, did you hear how she said that? She's in LOVE with -him, Bob!" She wept again. -</p> - -<p> -He answered, shortly: "Well, don't you worry. If she is, -she'll have to get over it. What business has she got being in -love with a married man?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's too horrible! It makes me sick. I see it all now. She -has been infatuated with him since that first night. The way -she looked at him—even then!" -</p> - -<p> -"He's a skunk, Emily. He's a damned skunk. The nerve -of him, coming down here to tell her he was getting a divorce! -She thinks she's going to marry him. Why, the girl's a perfect -fool! I'm going to see Fairbanks about this! Who is he, anyway? -I'll get the goods on him! I'll put an end to this, once -for all. Don't you cry, old girl! We can't have this going on -any longer!" -</p> - -<p> -That was true. They could not have this going on. They -considered what to do. But every time Emily thought of the -child saying that—of those words "Richard Quin is getting a -divorce"—as if the words came fresh out of glory, she had to -hold her breath to keep from sobbing. The poor, silly, -inexperienced girl, caught in this trap of pain. They sat there -bewilderedly, trying to plan—to hope— -</p> - -<p> -Then Johnnie Benton knocked on the screen and walked -into the room, as he often did. He was embarrassed about -something and dead in earnest. He saw at once that Emily -had been crying. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" he began apologetically. "I didn't—— I want to see -Martha." -</p> - -<p> -Bob, intending naturally to hide the family sorrow from sight, -got up and went to the stairs and called up: -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, here's Johnnie." -</p> - -<p> -He got no answer, and repeated it shouting. -</p> - -<p> -Martha opened her door and answered: -</p> - -<p> -"I'm busy. I haven't got time to see him." -</p> - -<p> -"Come in again later," Bob said to him. "She's dressing, -or something." -</p> - -<p> -But Johnnie wasn't satisfied. -</p> - -<p> -"Well—I want to—— No. This is important. I can't -wait. I'm in a hurry." -</p> - -<p> -Bob shouted up again: -</p> - -<p> -"Martha! Johnnie's in a hurry! It's something important. -Come on down." -</p> - -<p> -Johnnie heard her answer. Emily heard it. There was no -misunderstanding it. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not coming down. I don't want to see him." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not going away till I see her." -</p> - -<p> -"What's the matter?" asked Emily, annoyed by his persistence. -He stood there as if he was planted deep in the rug. -</p> - -<p> -"Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, I want this announced. We're -engaged. Maybe we ought to have told you before, but it's -going to be announced right now." -</p> - -<p> -"Who's engaged?" Bob exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha and I." -</p> - -<p> -"Why, <i>Johnnie</i>!" Emily babbled. She had suddenly leaned -forward, and was sitting up, looking at the boy. -</p> - -<p> -He grew red, but his eyes never wavered under her scrutiny. -He was dead in earnest, for once. "You ask her to come down," -he begged. -</p> - -<p> -Emily got up slowly. Was she, then, waking from a hideous -nightmare? Oh, if it was only some nice boy like Johnnie that -could make the girl's voice shake! -</p> - -<p> -"Martha!" she called up, and her voice was so alive with -excitement that Martha came to the top of the stairs. -</p> - -<p> -"What is it, mother?" she asked, eager for conciliation. -</p> - -<p> -"Come down here, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -So Martha came down. She came into the living room -slowly, warily. She looked at Johnnie. She looked at her -mother inquiringly. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha," said Emily, quietly, "Johnnie says—— You tell -her," she said to him. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, we're going to announce our engagement to-day. -Right now!" -</p> - -<p> -The girl stood looking at him steadily in composed -disapproval. "Whom are you engaged to? Why the excitement?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm engaged to you, Martha." He wasn't going to be fooled -with. -</p> - -<p> -"What a——" It seemed plain that she was about to say -"lie," but she thought better of dignifying his statement by -emphasis. -</p> - -<p> -"What makes you say a thing like that?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"You know very well what makes me say it." -</p> - -<p> -Bob could not tolerate her indifference. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you engaged to him or not?" he demanded. -</p> - -<p> -"I certainly am not," she said. "Is that all you wanted?" -she asked her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"Now look here, Martha," Johnnie burst out with determination, -"it's time to stop this fooling. That other thing's -announced. That's in the paper. <i>This</i> is going to be announced." -</p> - -<p> -"What's in the paper?" Bob cried, suspiciously. -</p> - -<p> -"Everything except her name. Everybody knows who it is." And -Johnnie stopped short in confusion, looking at Emily. -"You were crying——" he pleaded for his excuse, lamely. -"I thought you knew." -</p> - -<p> -Bob had jumped for the paper. "What is it?" he cried. -</p> - -<p> -"I thought, of course, you had seen it." And as Bob urged -him, he pointed to it almost without looking, as if he knew by -heart the very place the words had in their column. And Bob -read, spluttering, gurgling: -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Richard Quin, who has been visiting her father, -returned this morning to Chicago to start divorce proceedings -against her husband. She names as corespondent the daughter -of a prominent family of this town." -</p> - -<p> -"I thought, of course, you knew," Johnnie murmured. -</p> - -<p> -"He did," said Martha. "I told them." -</p> - -<p> -Emily had been to look over Bob's shoulder. She was -taking the paper into her own hands, as if, unless she looked at -it closely, she could not believe the words. -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't tell us THIS! You said HE was getting the -divorce!" She had reduced Bob again to spluttering. -</p> - -<p> -"What difference does it make?" she murmured. And Bob -could only echo her words dazedly. But Johnnie was -challenging her. -</p> - -<p> -"As soon as I saw you were in trouble, I made up my mind. -I'm not going to wait any longer." There was no mistaking -either his words or his tone. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" And then, "Am I in trouble?" She spoke with -indifferent curiosity, as if the idea was unimportant to her. -"What trouble am I in?" -</p> - -<p> -"My God!" Bob shouted at her. "Are you in trouble! Cut -that out, I tell you. You ought to be thankful to get a decent -man to marry you, after this." -</p> - -<p> -She paid no attention to him. She was still looking -imperturbably at Johnnie. -</p> - -<p> -"You think it is a disgrace, I suppose, to have my name -connected with his. So you come over and offer to marry me. -To give me your precious name! Are you going into the -movies, Johnnie?" -</p> - -<p> -It is altogether likely that Bob, at this point, would have -seized her by the arm and given her that shaking she had been -so long inviting, if into the room just then had not stalked the -cause of Johnnie's haste. His mother seemed to be perfectly -in tune with the occasion, for she demanded, excitedly, having -looked about and fixed her eyes on Emily: -</p> - -<p> -"What has he been saying? I <i>told</i> you I'd tell the -Kenworthys! Emily, what has Johnnie been saying to you?" -</p> - -<p> -Before Emily could answer, Bob, to save her the trouble, -exclaimed: -</p> - -<p> -"He says he's engaged to her!" And then from those four, -Emily being at one side, in less than a minute there came a -volley of sharp sentences, as if they were standing in a circle -firing at a target in the center. -</p> - -<p> -Instantly Mrs. Benton exploded: -</p> - -<p> -"Well, he isn't! He can't be! I will NOT give my consent! -He can't stop school. He never earned a cent in his life. I -won't allow him to marry! Understand that!" -</p> - -<p> -Johnnie, ignoring her, cried to Bob, "I CAN earn my living!" -</p> - -<p> -"You can't!" Mrs. Benton fired on him. "I will NOT support -your wife!" -</p> - -<p> -"Who asked you to?" Bob demanded. "I'll give you a job, -Johnnie! I'll see you don't starve!" -</p> - -<p> -And crack! crack! Martha spoke quietly, scornfully, to -Mrs. Benton: "You needn't worry! I have not the least -intention of marrying him!" -</p> - -<p> -"You will marry him!" Bob popped. "You'll drop that -skunk and marry him, or you'll get out of this house. I'm not -going to stand any more nonsense from you!" -</p> - -<p> -A fusillade from the heavy artillery. -</p> - -<p> -"Whose house is this, anyway, Bob Kenworthy? What right -have you got to turn anyone out of it? If I was Emily I'd -turn YOU out for saying such a thing! I tell you I won't have -Martha to support!" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you worry! I don't feel the need of you for my -mother-in-law!" Martha Kenworthy dared to turn directly to -her father. "This'll be my house some day, and I'll turn you -all out if I want to!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily, still holding that staggering newspaper in her hand, -heard these dangerous sentences bursting around her child; -they weren't saving her—they were destroying her. A panic -took possession of her—and fury. And she rose with almost a -jump and seized Martha by the arm. These four sharpshooters -saw something that they had never seen before. Anger unused -for many years cuts sharp. Emily, with it, mowed them down. -</p> - -<p> -"Keep still!" she cried to Martha. "Don't say another word! -I'm ashamed of you! Go up to your room, and don't you come -down till you apologize!" But she stood holding her tightly -by the arm and glaring about her. Her eyes were fixed on -Mrs. Benton. "You stand there saying things as if you could unsay -them! A nice example you set these children!" She turned -to Bob. "Isn't this MY house?" Bob Kenworthy had never -been asked in all his married life before to acknowledge that -fact. "And you come here," she went on, furiously, to Cora -Benton, "and turn people out of it!" -</p> - -<p> -She stopped, and from sheer amazement no one uttered a -word. She glared at them all. -</p> - -<p> -"Johnnie, you go home! You're the only one that seems to -have any sense left! I don't know whether we're fit for you -to associate with! You better turn Bob out of the garage, and -I'll turn your mother out of her house, and we'll be done with -it!" And she sent her dumfounded daughter upstairs with an -unmistakable gesture. -</p> - -<p> -Johnnie went slowly out of the front door. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Five</i> -</h3> - -<p> -Emily turned upon the subdued adults in front of her. She -spoke first to Bob. -</p> - -<p> -"You call Martha a fool! You say that <i>she's</i> foolish! If I -ever saw anything in my life to equal you two! I should think -you'd be glad Johnnie wants to marry a nice girl like Martha!" -she cried to Mrs. Benton. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not objecting to Martha, Emily; you know that. He -hasn't any business to begin talking about marriage at his age! -A nice husband he would make for anybody. He never earned a -cent in his life; you know that." She spoke guardedly now. -</p> - -<p> -"Why shouldn't he be thinking about marriage at his age? -It's exactly the age he would think about it! I tell you they -could both do a lot worse than this. I wish she would marry -him. But you went and told her to, Bob. You're a perfect -idiot, sometimes. She'll never marry him now." -</p> - -<p> -"She'll never get anybody to marry her if she don't watch her -step. Getting mixed up in cases like this!" -</p> - -<p> -"You don't need to worry about this case, Emily," Mrs. Benton -announced. "I'll settle that. I told Johnnie he needn't -get so excited. Everybody in town will know, the minute they -see that item, that French put it there for spite, because we did -build our parking place there. I'm going to make him apologize. -I'm going to call my committee together at once. The family -of every woman on it is not going to be at the mercy of that -unscrupulous man. First Johnnie's play; then this about -Martha. Johnnie says she's only played golf a little with him. -I'm going straight down to his office. I've got to go before -Johnnie gets there. He wants to fight him, of course!" She -actually started towards the door. -</p> - -<p> -"You keep your hands off this case!" Bob cried at her, -looking at Emily. -</p> - -<p> -She faced about angrily towards him. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to have an understanding with that man!" But -she too stopped to look at Emily. -</p> - -<p> -"You leave this to me! It's none of your business!" Bob -commanded, excitedly. -</p> - -<p> -"It certainly <i>is</i> my business, and I'm going to see about -it!" She turned defiantly to go. -</p> - -<p> -But Emily rushed between her and the door, and she was -desperate. If Cora Benton knew all the truth, would she dare -to ask for an apology? -</p> - -<p> -"This is my case!" she cried, "If you take it up I'll never -speak to you again as long as I live! I'll go over to French! -I'll go over to the other side! And if you promise me now—that -you won't—not say a word to him till we think it over, -I tell you I'll never let Martha marry Johnnie! I'll get him to -go back to college! I'll persuade him! Honestly, Cora! Bob, -go and stop Johnnie! Find out where he is! Don't let him do -anything!" -</p> - -<p> -He obeyed. Standing at the screen door, the two women -watched him hurry down the street. Emily turned her head -suddenly, hearing a strange noise. Could Mrs. Benton be -sniffling? Yes. Into those kingly black eyes suddenly tears came -springing. -</p> - -<p> -"Emily—I feel—bad about this! I'm sorry for you! I know -how I felt when I saw—about Johnnie—in that paper. And it's -worse for a girl!" -</p> - -<p> -"Cora, honestly, I don't think Martha intends marrying -Johnnie. I only wish she did!" -</p> - -<p> -"You aren't worried about her, Emily?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh <i>yes</i>! I'm worried. I'm—sick—about this, Cora. Don't -say a word to anyone yet! I'll tell you all about it. I'll tell -you what to say to people for me—as soon as I can! I haven't -had time—even to talk to her yet—since I saw it in the paper! -Martha'll apologize to you, Cora; I'm sure she will!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, don't worry about that, Emily! I know just how you -feel! Haven't I cried myself to sleep often enough about that -boy to understand!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily had opened her red eyes in astonishment at this statement. -</p> - -<p> -"You might be thankful she's a girl. I'll tell you now, -Emily, since this has happened—that I've told Johnnie plainly -if he doesn't settle down and do some work next term, I'll never -leave him a cent. I'll leave my money to charity. I'd rather -leave it to the town council to manage. When I think of the -man my father was——" She spoke sniffling, wiping her eyes -angrily. Emily had to comfort her. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well, Cora, he's young yet." -</p> - -<p> -"No, he isn't young. He's at least two years behind most -boys. He ought to have finished college two years ago. Look -at Jim Black. Look at Wilton! I tried to have a serious talk -with him when he came home. If only he'd take something -seriously. Why can't he take up medicine? I asked him why -he wouldn't take up law and go into politics. And he said -maybe he would. He said, Emily, 'Look where Landis got to -by being a lawyer!'" She almost sobbed. "He meant that -horrid federation of baseball clubs. He was serious about -that." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Cora, he is a good boy. He has a nice disposition." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes. I know what people say. He needs it, they say, -to live with me. But they never think what patience <i>I</i> need. -Emily, I'd be ashamed to tell you how much he spent last year. -I don't know what to do with him. I can't threaten to take -him out of college—he doesn't want to go back, anyway. He'll -<i>have</i> to go back! He's just <i>got</i> to get his degree. And now -Bob goes and encourages him. He says he'll support him!" -</p> - -<p> -"Cora, Bob was just excited. He didn't mean that. He -wouldn't support him a minute, really. He lost his head, -really." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, so did I. I acknowledge that. But it's a nice thing to -have him telling me not to interfere. As if it was none of my -business when my own boy married. I've got a headache, Emily. -I had a bad night. He brought me my breakfast himself and -was so nice about everything. And then—I was napping—he -tore into the room with the paper in his hand and said he was -going to get married right away—the first I'd heard of it. -And he wouldn't listen to me. He acted awful. I just got up -and dressed and came over this way." She made a gesture -towards the old blue foulard she had slipped on. Her hair -wasn't so brushed and shining as usual, and her face was lined -now, and her eyes red. "I thought I ought to tell you." -</p> - -<p> -"Cora, why don't you go and see a doctor in Chicago? You -aren't well. You are tired out, and he oughtn't to have excited -you this way. I think you ought to go home and go to bed, -and I'll come over and tell you later everything Bob says to -French. I'll talk to Johnnie, too. I think Bob will be sorry -he said such things, Cora, when he cools down." -</p> - -<p> -"He'd better cool down. The idea of him speaking to -Martha that way! I felt sorry for her, and for you too, Emily. -It's bad enough to have to try to raise a child without a father -to interfere all the time. You've got them both on your hands -to manage." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know about that!" Emily started to protest, loyally. -They were standing face to face in front of the screen door, and -they saw Eve drive up and come towards them. She had been -crying, too. She spoke to them quietly, going into the living -room. Mrs. Benton went away, and Emily came in and sat -down by her, and almost at once Eve had insinuated herself into -Emily's arms, crying: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, don't blame <i>me</i> for this, Mrs. Kenworthy. I <i>told</i> -Martha this would happen. I told her as sure as she lived -something like this would happen." -</p> - -<p> -"Something like what? Don't cry, child!" -</p> - -<p> -Bob was coming in. -</p> - -<p> -"We——, I've settled Johnnie," he announced. And then -he saw Eve, and the sight displeased him. -</p> - -<p> -"What do you know about this?" he demanded, shortly. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't blame <i>me</i>! I <i>did</i> tell her! I told her it would happen. -Maybe I didn't tell her enough." -</p> - -<p> -"Enough what?" -</p> - -<p> -"I mean—I didn't tell her, really, it had happened before." -</p> - -<p> -"What had?" Bob scorned vagueness. -</p> - -<p> -"I told her my sister was—jealous. I told her she couldn't -stand that pig even looking at a woman. I told her if he did, -she was sure to make a row. She's done this before." -</p> - -<p> -"What has she done before?" -</p> - -<p> -"Once before she got jealous—of a girl—and she threatened -to—divorce him." -</p> - -<p> -"You mean—she named her—as a corespondent?" Bob had -no scruples about cross-examining this witness. -</p> - -<p> -"She threatened to. She hadn't any case, really. Oh!" -Eve cried to Emily. "You didn't like me for not liking her. -You thought I—said—nasty things about her—because she was -my sister. If you knew what I might have said, you wouldn't -have always been looking at me that way—as if I was a sort -of underbred scrub! I tell you she's despicable!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Eve!" Emily protested. -</p> - -<p> -"What's she done?" cried Bob, eagerly. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, she's awful! Look at this dirty work. Dad'll make -her apologize. I know he will, Mrs. Kenworthy. I've -telegraphed for him to come home. He'll come right away. He'll -think grandma's dying." -</p> - -<p> -"What?" cried Bob. "What'll he do, Eve?" -</p> - -<p> -"I know dad'll settle it. I know he will. She never meant -to divorce him. She just wants to frighten Martha because -she's got money." -</p> - -<p> -"You mean—— Isn't she going to divorce him?" Bob insisted. -</p> - -<p> -"No. Don't you ever think she is! Oh——" cried Eve, -in bitter humiliation, as if now she was compelled to confess the -worst, "Mrs. Kenworthy, she—she LOVES that pig! You -Wouldn't believe it, maybe. She cries herself sick if he looks -at anybody! And ever since she heard that Martha's got money -she's been just wild." -</p> - -<p> -"What's that got to do with it?" -</p> - -<p> -An outraged parent on either side of Eve was trying to -grasp the situation. -</p> - -<p> -"She knows he won't—leave her, or anything, for anybody -without any money. She thinks Martha's going to be awfully -rich. I didn't know how much she was going to have. <i>I</i> -couldn't tell her." -</p> - -<p> -Emily sat silenced by the very vileness of life. To think -of Martha's money, her great-grandfather's hard-earned money, -lying there accumulating through those years of her sweet -childhood, to become now a factor in this—pollution of her. -Pollution, pollution, said Emily to herself. -</p> - -<p> -Bob demanded, suddenly, "Has she got a lot of money?" -</p> - -<p> -"Only what she squeezes out of dad. She gets a lot. I don't -know how much he gives her. She just bleeds him," she cried, -angrily. "Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, YOU know dad. You -know what a darling he is! I get so mad at her I could just -kill her, the way she treats him. You wouldn't believe it. -Didn't you ever read 'King Lear'? Didn't you read <i>Père -Goriot</i>? You wouldn't think there were such men in the world. -But dad's just like them. He's worse. Look how he lives. He -was rich when I was a little girl; he had a great business -exporting flour. My grandfather had had it, and it went bust after -the war. He hadn't a cent. And now look at him starting all -over, knocking around from town to town, buying grain and -elevators, in these filthy hotels. He never has one comfort! -He never spends one cent on himself. He keeps that house—an -asylum it is, for grandma. He keeps me, but I don't spend -a lot of money. I'm going to work the very minute I get out of -school. SHE spends it all; she comes home with a new lie -whenever she's hard up. He brought her up to have a lot of money, -he says. He's sorry for her. She hadn't a mother and she -didn't get started right, he says. She divorced her first -husband." -</p> - -<p> -"She did, did she!" Bob cried. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Of course, dad took her part in that, too. I don't -know the truth of it; I was a little girl!" -</p> - -<p> -"Eve," said Emily, hesitating, "I wish—you'd tell us what -happened—how this happened before, if you don't mind." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't mind. It was after the war. We didn't have -any home at all. I was in a boarding school, and my aunt asked -me there for the vacation summer. She wasn't my own aunt; -she was the wife of my mother's brother. Oh, they had the -loveliest house, and all just full of fun; and they were so gentle -and so kind—just like you, Mrs. Kenworthy. My cousins were -all grown up, and they were just lovely to me. And then my -sister turned up, for a week or two, with HIM. And of course -she couldn't stand one of the girls even looking at her precious -pig. And there was one of those girls, the one I liked best of -all, of course. And she—sort of named her—just like this, so -she wouldn't get into trouble—-didn't mention her name. And -of course dad came and denied it—but what good did that do? -All of them were furious, naturally. It's a little old town of -Friends. It wasn't my fault. I've never been invited back -since. People like me when they don't know my sister. But -I can't get away from her any place. This'll be all over school. -It'll get back to that town. I know the girls from there at -college. I tell you honestly—poor dad'll feel just sick about -this. And the next time she turns up with a hard-luck story -he'll take it all in again. He bought them a house—a good -one—because she hadn't any home—in Philadelphia. And she sold -it—and went to Paris. He told me they wouldn't be here this -summer, if I came out to him. He's so sentimental. He just -begins talking about mother when I try to get him to kick them -out I'm never going to speak to her again, or stay one night -in the same house with her. You mark my words, he'll have -to choose between having her or me." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you worry, Eve. Nobody's going to blame you for -anything." Bob spoke kindly because her sincere little tribute -to Emily had, of course, touched him. "I'll see your father -about this. What time will he be here?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you don't need to see him. He'll do it himself. I -know he will. We'll come down and see you about it. Don't -say anything to hurt his feelings, will you, Mr. Kenworthy? -Because it isn't his fault. He's a good, good man. I -mean—he'll feel worse about this than anyone"——she looked at -Emily—and added, "almost." -</p> - -<p> -After she had gone, Emily roused herself. -</p> - -<p> -"It doesn't seem as if that could be true, does it, Bob? How -would a woman DARE to do a thing like that? She might get -into trouble—sued." -</p> - -<p> -"She didn't use anybody's name. If Martha hadn't—been -running around with that man, this couldn't have hurt her." -</p> - -<p> -"But—why, maybe she doesn't intend to divorce him at all! -Eve said she didn't, didn't she?" And then Emily remembered -Martha's exalted announcement. "Suppose she doesn't divorce -him!" she moaned. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that'd settle it. I think I'll go downtown—as if -nothing had happened. As if I didn't know who was meant. I'll -go and see what Mrs. Benton's doing. I better make sure she -isn't—balling it all up." -</p> - -<p> -"Let her alone, Bob. She promised me not to do anything; -not ANYthing. I'm sure she won't. She isn't feeling well -enough to do anything. She's sick, for one thing. She isn't -well enough to go downtown." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that's one piece of luck!" -</p> - -<p> -"You were hard on her, Bob." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, what did she want to walk in here for? Why can't -she mind her own business?" -</p> - -<p> -"It <i>is</i> her business. As she said Johnnie's <i>her</i> boy." -</p> - -<p> -"I haven't got anything against that kid, Emily. But I'd -hate to have her for my mother-in-law. My God! What would -the boy do between those two—Martha and that woman?" -</p> - -<p> -"You needn't worry about that. Martha'll never marry him -now." -</p> - -<p> -"What you going to do with her now, Emily?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know." -</p> - -<p> -"'Tisn't as if she had good sense!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, maybe she hasn't. But I'll tell you one thing, Bob. -We're not going to have any more melodrama about turning -anybody out of this house. If Martha goes out of it, I go with -her. You might as well understand that. She needs me more -than you do. And she's going to have me, no matter what she -does. No matter who she marries. If people talk about her, -they've got to talk about me." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't mean that, Emily. You'd never leave me. You're -just talking wild." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll never leave her! That's sure." -</p> - -<p> -"I guess I got sort of excited, Emily. I know this is -your home. I didn't mean anything—much. I'm going to see -Fairbanks. I'll do all I can, Emily. It's a dirty mess for you, -that she's got herself in." -</p> - -<p> -"But the worst of it is—she's in love, Bob!" -</p> - -<p> -"She'll have to get over it; that's all there is to it." -</p> - -<p> -It seemed so simple to Bob. Emily sat still for a minute, -thinking batteredly, after he went. She was thinking that she -must be careful. She would think it all over, all this sickening -confusion, before she went up to talk to Martha. But Martha -apparently had been listening for her father's departure. For -no sooner had his car started away than she called down, -eagerly: -</p> - -<p> -"Mammie! Come up here." -</p> - -<p> -And she met her at the top of the stairs, and they went -together into Emily's room, the nearer one. Inside the door -Martha came close to her mother, taking her hand, and saying, -gently: -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sorry I was so nasty to Mrs. Benton, mammie. I'll -go and tell her so, if you want me to. You aren't really -ashamed of me, are you? Mammie, now that everything's -settled, will you do something for me? Will you ask him down -here? Won't you try to get acquainted with him, mother? -Won't you stop crying about it? You'll just love him, mother!" -</p> - -<p> -They had sat down together on the bed. Emily was dazed by -this beginning. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't look at me that way; it isn't fair, mammie. I'll -even— Look here! I'll apologize to Johnnie, if you want me to. I -suppose he meant well." And when Emily still said nothing: -"Mother, if you make me, I'll even tell dad I'm sorry. But you -heard what he said! You heard him tell me I HAD to marry -Johnnie. You see <i>now</i> what sort of a man he is! But if you -really want me to, of course, I'll—forgive him. I don't want -to make you—miserable. You'd understand, if you knew -him—if you'd ask him to come down here so you could get to -know him." -</p> - -<p> -The child WAS crazy! To ask a thing like that! To suppose -for a moment that her mother—— What shall I say to -her? Emily wondered. What's the use of trying to talk to her? -The gulf between them seemed to be widening every minute. -</p> - -<p> -"You don't know what you're saying, child! Why, -Martha——!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, what, mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why, he—is <i>married</i>! He isn't divorced. I don't know -that he ever will be! And you ask me—NOW—to invite -him——" Emily was unable to go on. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, of course he is married—in a way, mother. But that -isn't anything. If you knew how unhappy he'd been with her, -mammie! She isn't a nice woman. You don't call THAT any -marriage, do you? Why, it's nothing but a legal contract!" -</p> - -<p> -"But, Martha, a legal contract is SOMETHING—if it is only -that." -</p> - -<p> -"It's only the law of marriage, mother. There's no heart -in it. It isn't real! It—isn't—mother—when they don't love -each other." -</p> - -<p> -"Eve says she does love him! <i>Her</i> heart may be in it." -</p> - -<p> -"Eve!" -</p> - -<p> -"Eve doesn't think she intends to divorce him at all, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"She doesn't know anything about it." Martha lifted her -head proudly again. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, tell me what you know about it. Did he tell you -your name was going to be mentioned?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. He didn't know that. But you needn't worry about -that, mother. I consider it an honor. I don't mind it, if it -gets him his freedom—if it makes him happy." -</p> - -<p> -"He must have known this was liable to happen. Eve says -it has happened before." -</p> - -<p> -"What business is it of Eve's? She's trying to make trouble. -What did she come down here for, anyway now, mother?" -</p> - -<p> -What was the use of talking to this undone child? -</p> - -<p> -"She says her father will stop it. He'll make her apologize." -</p> - -<p> -"Stop what?" -</p> - -<p> -"The divorce. Having your name in it." -</p> - -<p> -"Mother!" Martha cried out, poignantly. And then she -recovered herself instantly. "It doesn't matter; he'll have his -freedom. He can divorce her, if she won't divorce him. Maybe -she won't; it would be just like her. But, look here, mother, -why can't Eve let it alone? What's she got against him? She -has it in for him. She's got to let this alone." -</p> - -<p> -"She was thinking of you—of us all." -</p> - -<p> -"Why doesn't some one think of him? You never think of -him. You never care what happens to him. You're just afraid -of people talking!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I'm afraid of it—of people talking—about you." -</p> - -<p> -"But you always understood before. You always said—Oh, -I can't make you understand!" she cried, and was silent. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, if it was any other man, any unmarried man—you -were—your name was—connected with, I wouldn't mind. If -it was even a—married man—I—could—have any respect for, I -wouldn't have cared so much. Not even if it had been the -Legion! But I don't want you to—<i>think</i> about this man, even. -I don't care how much he's divorced and single! If he was -a decent man, he would have come to us about this first—if he -had to speak to anybody about it while he's still—bound to -his wife. If he was a straightforward man, or honest, he -would have asked us!" -</p> - -<p> -"Mother, that's bunk! That's not fair. Whoever asks a -girl's people first now? That's Victorian. You didn't even -do it yourself, when you were young. You told me you went -to Chicago and married dad when your aunt didn't even know -where you were! Did dad ever ask your aunt first if he could -marry you?" -</p> - -<p> -"That's different." -</p> - -<p> -"Did he, now?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, he didn't. But I knew him; I knew his mother; I -knew his family, and everything." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, come with me to Chicago and ask him about his -family," Martha pleaded. "If you think there's anything -disgraceful about it, we could go to some place—some hotel—on -the west side—where nobody'd have to know anything -about it." -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Martha Kenworthy!" -</p> - -<p> -"Look here, mammie! I'm not going to quarrel with you! -I've quarreled with everybody else. If you'll just try to be -reasonable. I'm not asking you to promise you'll like him, or -anything; I just ask you to get acquainted with him. I know -you'd like him. Just hear his side of it once. You said you -felt sorry for people that were unhappy—with their wives. -You said you thought Mrs. Green ought to get a divorce, -mother. That night Helen was here, when we were sitting on -the porch. You said yourself that such a marriage wasn't -anything. Mother, you always said that. You pitied other -people." -</p> - -<p> -"I pity Eve's sister, too." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, but why don't you pity HIM? Because you don't know -him! You won't even try to get to know him. It isn't fair, -mother!" -</p> - -<p> -"How can I think of him? I'm thinking of you!" -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose that's natural." Martha was determined to be -conciliatory. She searched about for some effective argument. -"Mammie," she said, lovingly, "you just look tired out. I -just hate to see you worrying this way. Especially when you -don't really need to. Mammie, do you want me to go now to -Mrs. Benton's?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, no! Wait a little; wait till—Mr. Fairbanks gets home." -</p> - -<p> -"What's he got to do with it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Eve says—he'll take your name out of it." -</p> - -<p> -"My name wasn't in the paper." -</p> - -<p> -"Eve said—if she really meant to—go on with it—she could -name some one else—if she needed to." -</p> - -<p> -"That's just like Eve to say that." Martha left the room -with dignity. -</p> - -<p> -And Emily sat on her bed, too stunned to change her position. -All her life her lazy body had turned away from emotional -necessities. She had never been able to get really angry -without feeling physically exhausted afterwards. And now she -couldn't think clearly. She was conscious only of horror—of -the pain of fear. Martha wasn't going to be happy. Martha -was going to suffer over this. Martha was running eagerly, -irrevocably, into the arms of tragedy. Surely this couldn't -have happened to HER child—to that good little, sweet, dear -child who had always been just pure joy. She sat there crying -out against the truth—she sat there, not moving—groping -about—-praying to Fate. -</p> - -<p> -She sat there till Martha came in again, fresh and beautiful -from her bath. She gave a little cry of protest, catching sight -of her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't sit there that way. Don't look that way, mammie. -The world isn't coming to an end because of any old dirty -newspaper." She stroked her mother's head entreatingly. And -then she said—the foolish child—"It's really beginning, if -you look at it right." Again her voice quivered with its ecstasy. -She stood trying to coax Emily. "You lie down awhile, mother. -And go and wash your face. Shall I bring you some water? -Do you mind, mammie, if I go and play golf?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I do. Wait, Martha, until Mr. Fairbanks comes -back—until it's settled." -</p> - -<p> -"All right, if you'd rather. Is there anything you want -me to do for supper?" -</p> - -<p> -Supper! What was supper? The details of ordinary life -seemed to have faded into nothing. -</p> - -<p> -"I think everything is—ready," Emily murmured, getting up. -</p> - -<p> -Martha came upstairs after a little while. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Fairbanks is downstairs, mammie. He wants to see us -all. Mammie, don't!" She thought better of protesting against -her mother's expression. "Go and wash up; put on something. -I'll 'phone dad." -</p> - -<p> -Emily, bestirring herself, heard Martha at the upper 'phone -saying to Bob that her mother wanted to see him a minute. -She refrained from mentioning Mr. Fairbanks' name. Her -voice suggested anything but scandal and tears. She waited -in her mother's room, and when Emily would have gone down -she urged her to wait till Bob came. Emily was too tired to -protest, and went down with Martha only when they heard -the car arrive. -</p> - -<p> -She looked at Eve's father with intensified curiosity, since -he was the man who seemed to hold Martha's destiny carelessly -in his hand. His appearance flatly denied his daughter's account -of him. Could a red-faced, hawk-nosed, round-chinned, -jovial-looking bald-head be a cursing Lear or a bleeding Goriot? He -was extremely well dressed. His rotundity suggested pleasure -in steaks and chops. His voice belied his appearance as -surprisingly as his daughter had. For when he began to -speak—he remained standing, and he kept stroking the back of his -shiny head—-Emily immediately thought he must be a man of -extraordinary reserve, of powerful self-control. "Martha must -respect what he says!" she thought. "He CAN help us." -</p> - -<p> -"This is a very unpleasant affair, Kenworthy," he began, -smoothly. "I left Eve crying her eyes out. She wanted to -come with me, but I wouldn't have it. I don't know what -she's said to you, but it probably wasn't—correct—altogether. -You HAVE been good to her, Mrs. Kenworthy. My girls—Eve -especially—have got to depend too much on friends like -you. I mean—I was worried, I was—uncomfortable because I -couldn't arrange—something for her here, in this town—like -what you've meant to her, but she's so hard to suit. I can't -arrange anything for her—I can't buy or rent her friends. I -can't make her like any sensible woman. I can't tell you how -relieved I was to have her take to you so—from the first. She -says now—she says people will see some—reference to you—to -Martha—in this—item in the paper. I don't see that that -follows. I don't see why they should. But of course I went -to see the editor at once—just in case—you were—upset." He -looked closely at Emily. He saw she had been crying. He -looked at Martha, more shrewdly, and felt relieved that she -showed no sign of concern. "I must say he was decent about -it. Very reasonable, I found him. Though young Benton -said there was some sort of spite work behind it." -</p> - -<p> -"What's he done about it?" Bob demanded. -</p> - -<p> -"He's denying it in to-morrow's paper. He's saying it was -a mistake." -</p> - -<p> -He could not help realizing how intently the three of them -were waiting his words. -</p> - -<p> -"I ought to explain—I suppose I ought to tell you—how -things are with my married daughter—with -Elinor—Mrs. Kenworthy. You'll understand -my situation. She's a very -sick woman. She suffers——" the pain in his voice told too -well how she suffered. "She walks the floor for hours together -at night. Eve can't understand it. She's never had a pain in -her life. I know positively that for three days and nights -before she went to Chicago she hadn't an hour's sleep. If -you could see—the fight she—puts up—against—drugs—against -things to relieve her, Mrs. Kenworthy!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily had to murmur, moved by his voice, "Oh, I didn't -realize she was so bad!" -</p> - -<p> -"I told the paper man. I explained it to him—I didn't -mention your name, even, or any women's clubs. I told him she -had been—just beside herself with pain, and if she ever said -any such thing, she didn't know what she was doing. Because, -you understand, Mrs. Kenworthy," he cried, eagerly, "she -isn't that sort of woman. She never would have published -such a statement if she had intended doing anything. I told -him that if she ever saw such a thing in his paper, I didn't -know what she might do. It would drive her crazy. I told -him he would be responsible—for a great deal—too much harm, -perhaps. He understood at once. He said he was sorry. He -let me word it. I'll show you." -</p> - -<p> -He took a folded sheet of paper out of an inside pocket of -his coat, and handed it to Emily. Bob went to her, bending -over her chair, and read with her: -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p class="quote"> -There is no truth whatever in the rumor that Mrs. Richard Quin -contemplates divorce proceedings. -The editor regrets its publication the -more because Mrs. Quin is in very poor health -and in no condition to -bear the annoyance caused by such rumors. -She and her husband left -the first of the week for Rochester, -where she will be under the care of -the Mayos for some weeks. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -"I don't know—what more you could have done," Emily -murmured. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you satisfied, Martha?" Mr. Fairbanks was taking the -paper from Emily and handing it to the girl. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, me?" she asked, innocently, as if he had surprised her -by supposing she was concerned in the matter. Emily, looking -quickly across at her, marked the way her eyes were shining, -and murmured, "Martha!" imploringly. -</p> - -<p> -But Martha paid no heed to her. She tilted her head dangerously -and, looking straight at him, drawled with utter contempt -and scorn: -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose you never consider <i>his</i> happiness at all!" -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Fairbanks grew redder. He fairly blinked. He stood -looking at her indignantly for a moment of silence. Emily -wondered if he now would break forth and give Martha a -thoroughly good "dressing down." -</p> - -<p> -But when he began speaking, his words were soft and suave. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I'm more or less responsible for HER happiness, -Martha. I'm not for his. I pay him. He's necessary to her—she's -very affectionate, really. I pay him to contribute to her -happiness, just as I pay for my mother's nurses." He spoke -slowly. Obviously he wanted to consider himself a fair man, -always. "And I can't say," he went on, carefully, "that he -always plays the game. Sometimes I think she would be -happier without him. He doesn't—— Sometimes, that is, I -wonder if he's worth——" He hesitated. -</p> - -<p> -So Martha completed his sentence for him. -</p> - -<p> -"What you pay him?" she asked, and the finish of her -insolence made even Emily, harassed as she was, wonder where -she had ever learned the tone. For, looking straight at him, -she got up and deliberately started to leave the room. -Mr. Fairbanks, it seemed, was not afraid of girls, for he put out -his arm and took hold of hers, intending to detain her. She -broke away angrily as he spoke her name gently, and, standing -in the door into the hall, he watched her sail defiantly up the -stairs. -</p> - -<p> -He turned around; he looked from Emily to Bob. They, -watching him sharply, saw consternation slowly gain control of -his face. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" he murmured. "He hasn't—you don't think——" -</p> - -<p> -He could no longer look at Emily. He addressed his mumblings -to Bob. "I didn't realize—— Eve said something, but I -didn't—think it amounted to anything." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, what can we do now?" Emily moaned. -</p> - -<p> -Then Bob cried, "The damned skunk!" -</p> - -<p> -"Kenworthy! You must be—careful! That's why Elinor's -teeth ache!" His earnestness startled them. "Elinor's teeth -are all out, but they all still ache! It's nerves. They call it -hysteria! They can't do anything for her. Not in Europe, -even. It's because she fell in love with that first scoundrel. -He broke her heart, as they say. She lived with him two years, -and there was nothing left of her. They mean he broke her -nerve, her temper, her character—everything! I tell you she -was a magnificent girl, Kenworthy! She had more common -sense than any girl I ever saw! She was a partner to me, -more than a daughter. And there's nothing left of her but -toothache! I wouldn't have—anything—happen to Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -He was so distressed that Emily heard herself saying: "Oh, -<i>she'll</i> be all right. Martha's all right. Don't worry." -</p> - -<p> -"But they take it so hard. They fall so in earnest. Look -here, Mrs. Kenworthy, you don't want him around—in town, -do you? You want him to clear out?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes!" -</p> - -<p> -"Very well, then. He won't come back. I won't let him -set foot in this town again. There are some limits to what -I'll stand from him." -</p> - -<p> -"Are you going to see him? Where is he now?" Bob asked. -</p> - -<p> -"I think he's with Elinor. You never can know, exactly. -But I'll see him." -</p> - -<p> -"Tell him for me that if he doesn't let Martha alone, I'll kill -him—married or divorced." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll tell him something worse than that! You needn't -worry." He spoke grimly. A smile that was surprisingly -evil came over his round face. "I'd like to tell you what I did -to the first man. It would comfort you. But it's a secret." -</p> - -<p> -Emily shivered. She didn't like Eve's "sweet old lamb." He -was a wolf, perhaps, at heart, and she was afraid of his -cruelty. "He'll make that man afraid, too, if he looks at him -like that!" she thought. -</p> - -<p> -He left abruptly, and Emily went upstairs to Martha. What -she saw in the painted room terrified her. She had to realize -that the fire in Martha's heart burned passionately enough to -make everything its fuel. For when she shut the door behind -her, Martha raised herself up angrily from the day bed crying -furiously: -</p> - -<p> -"Mother! I hope you're satisfied <i>now</i>! I don't know how -you could sit there with that vile man! Did you ever hear -anything so—vile—vile!" She sobbed. "He talks as if Richard -was a dog to amuse that dirty woman! You'd think he was a -slave! Nobody takes his part! Nobody cares for him! And -YOU aren't sorry for him, even! Oh, it makes me so mad!" -</p> - -<p> -After a little Emily said, "I felt sorry for HER, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you <i>would</i>! You <i>know</i> what a liar she is. Even Eve -said she was a liar. Even Eve said she pretended to be sick -so she could get money out of her father! Why do you believe -them? Oh!" cried Martha, "he's a vile man! Vile! When I -think of Richard having to live with those people——" When -her sobs let her speak, she went on, "Mother, can't you see -what a position he is in?" -</p> - -<p> -"It doesn't seem a position that does any man any credit, -Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"All right!" cried Martha. "All right, let it go at that. I'll -never speak to you about him again, never." She never did. -</p> - -<p> -It was well that there was a painted room in the house, those -four weeks before she went back to college. There was nothing -else bright about it. Bob waited to intercept letters from "that -skunk" who, Mr. Fairbanks said, was to be for some time in -Rochester with his wife; but no letters seemed to come. -Martha appeared not to be humiliated by the fact that she had -practically declared her love for a man hopelessly, permanently -married. In her secluded room she bided her time, a smile -on her lips, the sweetest dream in her eyes. She was ignoring -her mother not only purposefully, but unconsciously. She had -greater things than a mother's anxiety to think about. -</p> - -<p> -Her coldness sickened Emily every minute of the day. She -scarcely knew how to get through the hours, so burdened were -they with yearning over the silly girl. Never had the garden -bloomed so hilariously before in August and September. -Never had it had such care before. Emily watered her dahlias -sometimes till midnight, dreading a sleepless bed when she went -into the house. She rose up early and watered them under -stars she had seldom seen setting. Once out there, hoping, -praying, she had looked up and in the very early dawn seen -Martha sitting dreaming at her window. And the sight of that -distant, alienated child took all the color from the dawn and -heaven. -</p> - -<p> -Life indeed had assumed the color of dread and heart-sickness. -Johnnie had waited a few days, and then departed. -Emily was glad she had seized an occasion to say to him -secretly, hurriedly, "Johnnie, I'm very fond of you!" He had -given her a surprised and precious look. But he had not even -said he was leaving. His mother said he had gone down to -have some coaching in philosophy—it was his last year in -college. Eve never came to the house. Emily met her occasionally -on the street, in the stores. And once she said, passionately: -"Oh, I hate to run into you this way! I'm ashamed to -look you in the face!" And in her own house the atmosphere -was either very cold, when she and Martha were together, or -very sultry, when Bob was with them, so that she lived in -terror of some further deadly burst of thunder. -</p> - -<p> -Martha announced one day that she was going to Chicago -for shopping. She would naturally do that several times, -getting her clothes ready for the school year. -</p> - -<p> -Emily said to her: "Before you go, Martha, you must -promise me one thing. You must promise me you will NOT -see—at all—that man." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't trust me any more?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, Martha. It's your judgment. I don't trust your -judgment." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I suppose not. I see." -</p> - -<p> -"Will you promise me that, Martha?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I don't think so. I don't think I will." -</p> - -<p> -"What am I to do now?" thought Emily. "Shall I say that -she can't leave this house till she promises me that?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha was looking at her hostilely, steadily. "I'll tell you -what I'll do. I'll think it over. I'll tell you to-morrow what -I'll do," she said. -</p> - -<p> -On the morrow, she said, "Mother, if it will do you any -good, I'll promise—what you want me to." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha!" Emily cried to her, "you <i>must</i> promise me -that, absolutely! Martha, I just couldn't let you go away to -school again, unless you promise me that!" -</p> - -<p> -"All right, I promise you. If you can't trust my—judgment, -as you say"—she spoke sarcastically—"I suppose you -can—believe—what I say." -</p> - -<p> -Bob's eyes dwelt resentfully upon his daughter, and loyally -on his distressed wife, all those painful last days before Martha -left for the East. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll bet you lost twenty pounds this summer, Emily!" he -said, ruefully, when they were alone at length. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, thank goodness for that!" she retorted, loyal to the -child. "I wish I'd lost twenty more." She knew he would -count grudgingly all the ounces she suffered. Yet it was no -great thing to him if Martha had lost her very heart. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Six</i> -</h3> - -<p> -They gathered their green tomatoes, to save them from -the frost. Emily and Maggie, in the delicious kitchen, made -chilli sauces and the good kind of vegetarian mincemeat. The -house was filled with the excellent odors of the ends of the -earth. Java and Jamaica were stirred into Illinois, and sealed -away in sturdy bottles which took their places chronologically -in the cupboard next to the wild grape and the crab-apple -jelly below the spiced peaches. The bottles had to be pushed -close against one another, now, to make room for them in -the crowded shelves. -</p> - -<p> -But when Emily looked into the cupboard of her heart, it -was bare. -</p> - -<p> -She had dug the gladiolas; she had cut the last of the -lavender statice, which she had sown in happier days to make -glamour in the painted room, and hung it head downward to -dry with the rosy strawflowers. The frosts came and turned -the hard maples gaudy. The old Fiske place seemed always to -lose its head completely in the fall. There grew a barberry -hedge along the front walk, which Emily's father had planted -when he took down the white picket fence. He had simply put -those little dry-looking shoots into the ground one rainy spring -morning years ago, never imagining what riot he was planting. -For years now, on every brilliant Sunday afternoon, while the -leaves were falling, townspeople had walked out to see that -hedge, to hear its rejoicings. The knowing had taken cuttings -of it, to their disappointment, for even that offspring hedge -just across the road had never been able to achieve quite such -giddiness. Some people said it was the soil that did it. Others -maintained it was the way in which the water soaked down to -the river just there. Such cherries of ripeness, such roses -and purple grapes and bleeding pomegranates of hues, such -plums and persimmons and exotic luminous loquats glowing -together, such oranges and oracles of color, no other hedge -could summon. People got joy out of it according to their -moods and natures. But Emily, for once, could take no -pleasure in it. -</p> - -<p> -"Last year," she would say to herself, resentfully, "I enjoyed -just sitting at this window mending socks. Anything made me -happy last year." But now, when she sat down with her -sewing, she wasn't seeing what was before her—the hedge, or -anything else. The fingers of one hand would be intertwined -tensely with the fingers of the other, and she would be sitting -as it were, screwed up tight against herself, seeing that face -bending down over Martha, that hateful, alienating face. She -was seeing Martha in a gingham frock standing at that table, -saying in a voice like the angel of some heavenly annunciation, -"Richard Quin is getting a divorce." "I'm a fool!" she would -say angrily to herself over and over, resolving not to worry. -When one day some child with bitter-sweet had reminded her -of a promise to Martha made early in June, she had got -Bob to drive her out to where the vine grew heavily on a -barbed wire fence. She and Martha had been chattering just -there in July, as they drove along, and Martha had made her -promise to gather some of it for the painted room. And that -afternoon, after she had arranged it in the red copper bowls, -she had lain down on a day bed and just cried and cried like a -silly girl, so that, in spite of her precautions, Bob had eyed -her at supper and laid another charge against Martha in his -memory. -</p> - -<p> -Martha would not come home for Thanksgiving. Emily had -never suggested it to her before. They had agreed that it -wasn't worth while coming so far for so few days. But this -year Emily had hoped that some way, if she came, they might -come to some understanding. But Martha refused to come. -Her letters arrived as regularly as ever, as if she had -determined that in this disagreement she was to be found in the -wrong not at all. She was going to do her duty to her mother, -however unsatisfactory that mother might be. She wrote -regularly, therefore, such noncommittal and indifferent letters as -she might have written to her father had necessity arisen. And -Emily counted the weeks wearily till she would have the child -with her again. Surely the separation, if nothing else, would -bring her to her senses; and she tried not to worry. Martha -had given her her word of honor that she would not see the -man again. She had always been a truthful child; there was no -gainsaying that. -</p> - -<p> -Then one day, shortly before the Christmas holiday, Emily -got a most disturbing letter from Eve. She wrote loyally in a -very storm of perplexity. She had promised Martha faithfully -that she would not write this to her mother, she began. And -the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that -she must write it. Martha scarcely spoke to her—she never -did if she could manage not to without being noticed. Martha -had said two days ago to her that she was not going home for -Christmas. And everybody was saying how bad Martha -looked. She was sick; she had no color; and all the girls said -she was changed. And Eve had to cry about it, because she -believed it was that horrid affair of last summer. Martha had -never been the same since. And if she wasn't going home for -Christmas, certainly some one ought to tell her mother how -bad she looked. Eve begged Emily never to tell Martha she -had written—to deny it up and down, if Martha guessed. But -she was just sick about Martha. "After all, I'm older than -she is, and I have more sense," Eve wrote. "And I can't help -feeling that it's our fault. I would wish with all my heart we -had never gone to Illinois—only then I wouldn't have known -you." -</p> - -<p> -And the next day Martha's letter had come, announcing her -intention of spending the vacation in New York. Just New -York, if you please, no address given, no intimation of her -company. "You know what will happen if I come home," she -wrote. "I'll just quarrel with father and you'll be miserable. -It's better for me to stay away." -</p> - -<p> -Martha had left this announcement, naturally, to the very -last minute. But Eve's letter had prepared Emily. She -telegraphed at once, knowing she had likely just time to reach -Martha before she left college, that she was to meet her in a -certain hotel in New York the next afternoon. She said -nothing to Bob about Eve's letter. Eve's anxiety and Martha's -impertinence between them had upset her completely. Did -Martha imagine she was going to be allowed to announce her -departure for unknown places and companies in this -high-handed manner? What was the child thinking of? Was it -possible—that she might not get the telegram? Was it possible -that if she did, she wouldn't obey? -</p> - -<p> -Emily had chosen that hotel hastily. She usually stayed -with cousins in New York. But at Christmas time they might -be having a house full. Besides, she couldn't endure the -thought that Martha might be indifferent to her before them. -</p> - -<p> -So she moved about the room she had taken in the hotel. -She arranged the things she had unpacked, and rearranged -them. She looked at the time, and she looked out of the -window to the crowded street very far below. Martha was -already a little bit late. Suppose she never came at all! -Suppose she hadn't come by dinner time, by bed time! Emily -couldn't sit still. -</p> - -<p> -And then she heard some one; she opened the door; Martha -was there, in her racoon coat, in a rosy little hat of many -colors, pulled down over a sallow face; Martha was in her -arms, and crying; in a second Martha, coat and all, was lying -on the bed, her face in her mother's lap, repenting with bitter -tears. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I've been so horrid to you, mammie! I've been so -horrid to you! I'm so sorry!" She was hugging her, clinging -to her, imploring her pardon. -</p> - -<p> -So Emily cried, too, for surprise and relief, and comforted -her, and urged her to stop crying. This was better than -anything she had dared to hope for. But she had known all the -time Martha would come to herself. The child hadn't meant -anything, really. She had always been such a good girl. Emily -in a second could have forgotten every minute that had not -been satisfactory. This was well worth having come to New -York for. -</p> - -<p> -Martha wasn't succeeding in regaining her composure. -Emily attempted to take her coat off, but thought it better not -to bother her. She just lay and cried. And she had never -been a crying child. Emily had seen to that. All these tears, -all this passion of repentance, showed what a loving little heart -she had. "How I have wronged the child!" Emily mused, -wiping her eyes. "I thought she might not come at all!" And -she caressed her, and waited patiently. "Don't cry any more -now, Martha," she said. "We'll forget all about it." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I wish I'd been a good girl!" And having said that, -she wept on. -</p> - -<p> -She cried too long. -</p> - -<p> -Emily said, presently: "Your feet are making a mark on -the bedspread. Get up. Take off your coat." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm cold, mammie." She sat up, fumbled about, and kicked -off her low shoes, and lay down again, trying to cuddle her -feet up under her coat. -</p> - -<p> -"Cold?" The room had been so hot a moment ago that -Emily had the windows both opened. She got up and went -and shut them. -</p> - -<p> -"Where's your baggage?" she asked in a matter-of-fact -way, to stop the tears. -</p> - -<p> -"I had it taken to my room." -</p> - -<p> -"Your room?" -</p> - -<p> -"I took a room for myself. I didn't know you would have -two beds in here." -</p> - -<p> -Emily was on the point of saying, "You might at least have -inquired." But Martha went on: -</p> - -<p> -"I'm so tired, mammie, I just had to have a room for myself. -I could sleep a week straight off." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said Emily, doubtfully. She turned on the light. -Martha hadn't even taken her little hat off. It was crushed -down over an ear. Her nose was red. She looked like a wreck. -She didn't like her mother's scrutiny. -</p> - -<p> -"Turn off that light," she pleaded. -</p> - -<p> -Emily turned it off. -</p> - -<p> -"Get up and wash your face," she said. -</p> - -<p> -But Martha cried, "Oh, mammie, honestly, I never -meant—to hurt you!" and threw herself down, sobbing, her face buried -in her hands. -</p> - -<p> -Emily remembered Eve's letter, and grew more pitiful. "I -never would have thought this would prey on her mind so -much," she thought. "How am I going to make Bob understand -this? I wish he could hear her now." It was very bad -for her to cry so deeply, however. -</p> - -<p> -"Where is your room, Martha? I want to see it. Brace up." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll show it to you—after a while." She still was sobbing -aloud. She seemed hysterical. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha," said Emily, with some sternness, "stop that; -stop crying. Get up. You must get ready for dinner." -</p> - -<p> -Martha sat up, huddled together on the edge of the bed. -She spoke very humbly. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't want any supper, mammie. Honestly, I don't feel -like eating. I'm tired. I want to go to my room. I'd rather -go to bed." -</p> - -<p> -Emily stood looking at her wiping her eyes. Poor Lamb! -Poor tender-hearted child! She did look wretched. Perhaps -she ought to be humored—just for this once. -</p> - -<p> -"All right. We'll have our supper up here. We'll have a -regular spread." -</p> - -<p> -"Honestly, I don't want anything to eat." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, you've got to eat something. That's all there is to it." -</p> - -<p> -"All right, mammie." -</p> - -<p> -They went together to look at Martha's room, two floors -above Emily's. Martha was repressing sobs, now, like a -threatened child. Emily asked about the college, to compose her. -Had she done good work this term? But she said meekly she -didn't think she had done very well, not lately, anyway, when -she had been so sort of tired. Emily was eager to question -her, but thought it better to wait. She offered to help unpack -the suitcase, but Martha was jealous of it, as if it was filled -with Christmas presents. -</p> - -<p> -Emily went back to her room, to wait for the supper she had -ordered. She sang to herself. "O come, all ye faithful," she -hummed, "joyful and triumphant." She was infinitely relieved -and lifted up. She had an impulse to telegraph Bob that -everything was right again. No, but as soon as supper was over, she -would write him a long letter. She would explain the child's -repentance, her sweet, humble coming back. She was so happy -that, when Martha came in, she just naturally took her in her -arms and kissed her. -</p> - -<p> -Martha had come in steady and composed, but wearing the -coat of a suit. Emily said, naturally, "Why have you got that -on?" Her remark upset Martha entirely. She sobbed again. -Emily reproved herself and scolded Martha lightly. Here was -their supper. What a lot of dishes! Oh, what a good -time they would have, cozily here, together. She called -Martha's attention to the pink lamp-shade. "Not bad," she -said, "for a hotel room." -</p> - -<p> -But Martha sat like a punished child, not whimpering aloud, -but shaking from time to time with stifled sobs. When Emily -had insisted, she had ordered coffee and an alligator-pear salad, -and it seemed to Emily that the salad was mentioned hurriedly, -as an afterthought, to propitiate a mother. When the salad -was set before her, she wasn't eating it. She said apologetically -that the oil wasn't quite fresh. Emily had offered her some -chicken, and insisted on her taking some. And so she did, and -swallowed it obediently. And she asked for more coffee. No -wonder she was thin, if this was the way she had been eating. -Emily was about to refuse her more coffee. But, surely, -to-morrow, after a night's sleep, she would be herself again. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to stay in bed till noon to-morrow, mammie," -she said. -</p> - -<p> -"Aren't we going home to-morrow?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no, not to-morrow! Let's wait—a little while—till -I—feel rested," she begged. So that was agreed. And there -seemed nothing else to say. For Martha sat looking at her -mother wistfully, wiping away tears that kept flowing. And -Emily refrained from talking because she seemed to be -making matters worse. They were perfectly silent while their -supper was being carried away. And when the door shut -behind the waiter, Martha said—she had been standing looking -down out of the window, and she turned about towards Emily: -</p> - -<p> -"Are the bulbs in the window, mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -"What bulbs? At home?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. The Poet's narcissi in the hall window." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. They're almost out—the first ones. I've got a -surprise for you, Martie!" -</p> - -<p> -"What?" -</p> - -<p> -"I've got three purple hyacinths almost ready to bloom, -for your room—in glasses, you know!" -</p> - -<p> -Now did not that seem an innocent remark? Yet Martha -began simply to boo-hoo. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to bed," she sobbed. -</p> - -<p> -"I think you'd better." Emily wouldn't be sarcastic, but -she spoke dryly. She insisted on going up and helping her -get to bed. She kissed her shortly, for fear of more bewailings, -and promised not to waken her in the morning. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm nervous, because I can't sleep always," Martha apologized. -"I'd rather sleep than do anything else. I'll never -forgive you if you wake me up in the morning. I'll get up -and come down to you just as soon as I wake up. Nobody -ever had a better mother than I've got!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, cut out the sobby stuff, Martie!" Emily exhorted her. -"Don't be crying yourself to sleep. Have you got anything to -read, if you don't think you'll sleep?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes. I don't need anything. Nothing." -</p> - -<p> -After twelve the next day Emily returned from a morning's -shopping. The Christmas crowds had thrust her about. They -had pushed her and jostled her and jammed her into corners. -But she was in a mood for it all. She could take it -light-heartedly. They couldn't take the song from her. "O come, -all ye faithful!" she kept humming to herself. Wasn't she -prepared for Christmas? Wasn't she eager to kneel and -worship the Eternal Child! It was almost as if Martha had been -born to her again. She tipped the elevator boy exuberantly just -because she was so happy, as she went up to her room. -</p> - -<p> -Martha wasn't there. She couldn't be sleeping, surely, at -that hour. She would go up to her room. She stood close to -Martha's door. She called her softly; she called her not quite -so softly, but carefully. Martha was awake inside. Martha -was coming to the door. -</p> - -<p> -Martha had on her fur coat, and her rosy hat, ready to go -out. She drew her mother in. They kissed. "She's been -crying again!" Emily thought. "She looks ghastly! She must -have cried all night." Her eyes were dry, but ringed about -with sunken circles. She spoke quietly. She seemed to be -speaking from a great depth of—what?—not worry—a depth -of hopelessness, Emily thought, quickly. -</p> - -<p> -"You been shopping, mammie? Weren't the crowds terrible?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, terrible! But I did want to get a few things before -we go home. Are you feeling better? Shall we go -to-morrow? if we can get reservations?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha sat thinking. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. I think we'd better go to-morrow, if you can get -them." -</p> - -<p> -"You're ready to go for lunch?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes; if you—— Yes, I'm ready." -</p> - -<p> -"Have you had breakfast?" -</p> - -<p> -"I had enough." -</p> - -<p> -"What did you have, Martha?" -</p> - -<p> -"I—didn't feel like much. I had coffee and toast." -</p> - -<p> -But when they sat in the darkest corner of a crowded, noisy -restaurant, she only pretended to be eating. She scarcely -spoke, and when she did her voice was—strange, so that Emily -sat thoughtfully watching her. -</p> - -<p> -"Can you go and get the reservations after we've finished?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I can. Aren't you coming with me?" -</p> - -<p> -"I want to go out for just a thing or two, mammie. But -look here, can't you just—pay part of the tickets? You don't -have to pay it all to-day, do you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why? Why not?" -</p> - -<p> -"I mean—if I don't feel well enough to go to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"This is no place to begin to catechise her," Emily thought, -"but I've got to find out what's the trouble with her, some way, -before long." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know whether they will reserve them that way or -not. I'll ask, if you want me to." -</p> - -<p> -"I think it would be—a good plan." -</p> - -<p> -Martha was sitting with her back to the room, her elbow on -the table, and her head on her hand—not in a correct way, -nor a graceful way. Emily looked at her. After all, look -how other people sat—well-dressed people, but not nice-looking -people. Horrid-looking girls, some of these were. Who, she -wondered, were they? If Martha preferred not to talk, there -was much for a small-town woman to be looking about at, in -the room: smart clothes, painted faces. It was absolutely a -thrill to see a woman so shamelessly vicious-looking, with some -sort of green paint to make shadows under her eyes. Emily's -unsophisticated glance was intent upon the person. The waiter -was putting her parfait before her, when a bomb, thrown from -Martha's colorless lips, made her almost jump. -</p> - -<p> -"Tell father—- I mean—he doesn't know how much I -appreciate him, mammie. He's been a good father to me, always." -</p> - -<p> -Goodness gracious me! What in the world? The child -must be out of her mind! -</p> - -<p> -"Martha!" said Emily, sharply, "what is the matter with -you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sorry I've always been so—horrid to him." -</p> - -<p> -"Now look here, Martha, let that drop! You mustn't be -morbid about this. I'll explain everything to him for you, if -you want me to." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, do, mammie." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll take that child to a doctor to-morrow!" Emily resolved. -</p> - -<p> -They parted abruptly when they rose from the table. Martha -went out to get her few things. Emily went to the station for -her reservations, curiously. And she dallied about. They were -to have tea together at four-thirty. It was Emily's suggestion. -Anything to get Martha to eat, she had thought. -</p> - -<p> -She came back to the hotel carrying a large box of the most -tempting chocolates she could find, and candied fruits, which -Martha had been eager for. She didn't like the hotel she had -chosen. The lobby, the whole floor, was full of groups of men, -business men, perhaps, standing around importantly pretending -to be discussing affairs of moment, and covertly eying -every woman who entered. Well, thank goodness, she was no -longer either young or conspicuous. But how they must look -at Martha! She went to the desk and asked for her key. -</p> - -<p> -Now the sleek-haired young man standing there, instead of -handing it to her promptly, went and spoke to a more important -young man somewhat older. This man heard what he said and -looked curiously at Emily, while the second one approached -her. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you Mrs. Kenworthy?" he asked, suavely. -</p> - -<p> -She said she was. -</p> - -<p> -"Will you step this way, please?" -</p> - -<p> -She hadn't time to ask why. He had come out from behind -the counter-like desk and was showing her the way—a few -steps down a passage. -</p> - -<p> -"Just here," he was saying. "The manager wants to speak -to you." -</p> - -<p> -And he threw open a door into a lighted office, and said, -"This is Mrs. Kenworthy," and went out, and closed the door -behind him. -</p> - -<p> -Emily, wondering mildly, saw in a glance a sort of office; -a room in which, perhaps temporarily, a good deal of extra -furniture was crowded—several easy chairs pushed close -together, beyond a long bare oak table, with shaded desk lamps. -Three men were standing there, by the table, the shadow of the -lamp-shade hiding their faces. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you Mrs. Kenworthy?" one of them asked her. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she said. She didn't like this. -</p> - -<p> -"Has your daughter a dog?" -</p> - -<p> -The man didn't seem facetious. -</p> - -<p> -"Pardon me!" Emily spoke coldly. -</p> - -<p> -The man was looking at her keenly. -</p> - -<p> -"I said, has your daughter here a dog?" He made a gesture -and—— -</p> - -<p> -Why, there was Martha, sunken down in the farther one of -those crowded armchairs—that was her coat and hat, at least; -her face was hidden. Emily moved quickly towards her. -</p> - -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"Madame, this young lady has been trying to buy poison -for her dog." -</p> - -<p> -"There is some mistake about this." Emily felt herself -begin to tremble. "My daughter hasn't a dog." -</p> - -<p> -"We didn't think she had." -</p> - -<p> -"What happened, Martha?" Emily's hand was on her -shoulder, but Martha never lifted her head. -</p> - -<p> -"What—do you mean?" Emily faltered. They looked so -ominous—so excited. Nobody spoke. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, will you tell me what you mean?" Emily cried out. -Something frightful was here. -</p> - -<p> -"Madame, we have to protect ourselves. We can't have -some one—taking her own life—in our rooms every month in -the year. This girl—we kept her here—we didn't think she -had a dog. She was trying to buy poison, madame!" -</p> - -<p> -"You're mistaken! Martha, what were you doing?" She -tried to get her to speak. -</p> - -<p> -"Madame, we have had to offer a reward—to any employee -who prevents—such a thing. This bell-boy"—he was actually -indicating a negro standing near him—"just happened to be in -a drug store, and saw your daughter refused—this poison. He -recognized her; he followed her into another drug store. -Who'd sell a girl with that face—anything? He called this -policeman." -</p> - -<p> -"I think you're all mistaken. She hasn't been well. I'll take -her up and put her to bed," Emily babbled. She was kneeling -on the floor by Martha, shaking Martha's arm, and urging -her to explain. -</p> - -<p> -"No, madame, not to the ninth floor, not a girl in that -condition. We have to defend ourselves. We'll let you talk to -her here." He started towards the door. "Just ring here, I'll -come back for you." -</p> - -<p> -"Martha! Baby! What is this? What were you doing? -What happened after I left you? Tell me! Tell me, Martha! -Why didn't you explain to those men?" -</p> - -<p> -When Emily tried to pull her hands away from her face, -Martha stirred and jerked back, and buried it in her coat sleeve. -Her little thin voice came out, muffled, gasping: -</p> - -<p> -"I've got to die." -</p> - -<p> -Could it be that the child still loved that man so? What -else could it be? -</p> - -<p> -"You mustn't say such things, Martie! Martha, why didn't -you say to them you weren't trying to buy—anything. Were -you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, yes. I've got to die." -</p> - -<p> -Emily's hand was stroking her arms tenderly. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly Martha simply cried out, "Oh, can't you understand?" -</p> - -<p> -"I may be stupid. I don't know what this means!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll say it, then. I'll say it to you!" -</p> - -<p> -Finally she did say it. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to have a baby. I can't——" -</p> - -<p> -The arm that was around Martha fell away. The hand that -was stroking her ceased its motion. Emily knelt there, against -the coat, against the chair; she went on kneeling there, and -moments passed. -</p> - -<p> -Martha was stirring herself. She was trying to rise. -</p> - -<p> -"Let me go," she moaned. -</p> - -<p> -Emily's arms tightened around her knees. She held her fast. -</p> - -<p> -"Where you going?" -</p> - -<p> -"I've got to die, some way." -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, you don't know what you're saying. It isn't true. -You're not going to have——" -</p> - -<p> -"It is true. Let me go." -</p> - -<p> -"I won't let you go. You can't die. I'm saving -you." Emily didn't really know what she was saying. -</p> - -<p> -"Let me go!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going with you everywhere. I'm going to see you -through it, then. I won't let them hurt you." -</p> - -<p> -Martha began sobbing. "Won't you let me go?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I won't." -</p> - -<p> -"Will you stay with me?" -</p> - -<p> -"You are my child." Martha's sobs reassured her. "Don't -ever say that—promise me not to think of—dying. Martha, -promise me. I'll take care of you, Martha, if you promise." -</p> - -<p> -"How can I live?" -</p> - -<p> -"How can I let you—die? Oh, how awful of you, to think of -such things. Is this why you came to New York?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. I ought to, mammie. You don't want me—living -now. Dad won't." -</p> - -<p> -Emily rose up. She was recovering from the shock—the -stunning. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll take care of you. Don't worry. We must go upstairs. -We must talk it over. I don't know." -</p> - -<p> -She led the child towards the door. She opened it. The -policeman stood there, guarding it. He would not let them -out. "I'll call the manager," she said. -</p> - -<p> -But Martha had recoiled, moaning: "Don't let that man -touch me! That man caught hold of my arm, mother!" -</p> - -<p> -And the moment the manager entered, Emily spoke to him -composedly. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm taking this child to my room. She isn't well. I must -put her to bed." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sorry, madame; you can't take her to the ninth floor—not -in that condition." -</p> - -<p> -How could he see her condition, when she was hidden behind -her mother? Emily was annoyed. She controlled her voice. -</p> - -<p> -"Can we have another room at once, then, lower down?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, madame; we have no empty room." -</p> - -<p> -"What do you mean? Can't we have a room?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, madame; we're full." -</p> - -<p> -"You mean you want us to leave?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm afraid you'll have to." -</p> - -<p> -Emily couldn't believe him. -</p> - -<p> -"You mean you don't want us to stay here?" -</p> - -<p> -"It comes to that. We've had unfortunate things—too many -of them—lately. Leave the young lady here. I'll take charge -of her while you pack your things. Or shall I have them -brought down for you?" -</p> - -<p> -She went out of the door, into Martha's shame, into the -lobby where all eyes seemed to be upon her, into the elevator. -The negro youth seemed to be pointing her out, a disreputable -woman being turned out of the hotel. She got her things -together; she went to Martha's room; she sent their luggage -down; she went down and paid her bill at the desk window. -Years afterwards she could feel those men looking at her -curiously. She went to the room where Martha sat a prisoner. -The manager was solicitous. He told the boy to have her -things put in a taxi at the less conspicuous entry. She took -Martha out, therefrom, down a quiet hall. -</p> - -<p> -"Where to?" asked the chauffeur. -</p> - -<p> -"To the Pennsylvania Station," she said. -</p> - -<p> -It was almost dark, and very cold, and the taxi seemed not -to move at all through the crowds. -</p> - -<p> -"What are you going to do with me now?" Martha moaned. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know," said Emily. -</p> - -<p> -At the station she put Martha down where she could watch -her from a telephone booth. She daren't turn towards the -mouthpiece to speak for more than a second. Suppose Martha -should disappear. She 'phoned one hotel after another. None -of them had a room on the second floor. A horror was in her -mind—a girl falling, falling, to destruction. By the time -she had heard her fourth refusal she felt faint. She went back -out to the waiting room. Everyone was going home. Everyone -was loaded down with Christmas gayety. She sat there. -And Martha sat there. They had no place to go. It was -Christmas time, but there was no room for them in any inn, -because of a baby. -</p> - -<p> -Some place to hide; some place to plan and think. She -remembered a country hotel on Long Island. Would it be -open at this season? But no, it was on the Sound. She was -afraid of water and that desperate girl. After a little she -thought of the right place. There was a little hotel in a small -New Jersey town. Years ago she and her aunt had gone there, -quite unannounced, for a night, to visit an old cemetery in the -neighborhood. They could go there. -</p> - -<p> -Jostled and pushed about in the jam of the local train, Emily -got back some of her presence of mind. She got out, with -Martha, at the station, and stood looking about. She didn't -remember the place at all. Cars were waiting for most of those -who arrived. She asked a newsboy about the hotels. He would -carry her things up and show her the way. -</p> - -<p> -They turned into the quiet little main street. Yellow lights -from the shops were shining out across the snow. People were -hurrying along in one direction. The boy was talkative. It -was only a little way to the hotel. When they drew near it, -he said: "Look! Look at the Christmas tree!" -</p> - -<p> -A little way farther down the street, across from the hotel, -a crowd was gathered around an old lighted-up tree just near -the sidewalk, in what seemed to be the front yard of a dwelling -house. -</p> - -<p> -"It's a real tree. It's not a cut-down one!" he informed -them. "They sing there." -</p> - -<p> -"I always remembered what a quiet place you had here," -Emily said to the clerk. "I've always been wanting to get -back." She wanted to make their arrival—on Christmas -Eve—a natural thing. Would the man be suspicious? -</p> - -<p> -But no. He took them in; they had a roof over them again, -a room, comfortless enough, but a room, and one double bed, -on which Martha had thrown herself down. They must have -supper in their room to-night. Emily had begged something, -anything hot. She pulled the curtains down and opened the -bags, and started to get Martha to bed. -</p> - -<p> -When the maid came with the supper tray, outside there, -under the great glimmering tree, the crowd was singing praise -to God become Baby through a woman's body; and inside -Emily was looking at Martha's little breast, and her sobbing -white abdomen, and a girl's flesh seemed to have become hell. -</p> - -<p> -Emily had to probe her ignominy that night, for the thought -kept coming to her, even after what she had seen, that Martha -couldn't know what she was talking about. She had to ask -her—terrible things; there was no help for that. She had to -realize that her daughter had lied to her directly, thoughtfully, -and cunningly. This affair had begun in the summer, before -Martha had promised her never to see that man again. She -had promised not to see him, knowing when they were to meet -next, in Chicago. "I was so sure, mammie!" she sobbed. "I -knew it would be all right when you knew him! I just loved -him so!" Martha had gone back to college to lie cunningly -there, to get permission to spend every week-end in New York, -to study dancing, which her mother was so keen to have her -take up, she had averred. Well, she had been punished, -punished by having to look in the terrible face of Death. Suppose -that colored bell-boy hadn't been in the drug store, -there—— Emily's arms tightened about her. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, what are you going to do with me now?" Well might -little Martha Kenworthy ask that. There seemed no good -reason why she shouldn't go on crying indefinitely, forever. -But Emily, drawing her close against her in bed, tucking the -covers about her, trying to get her warm, hoped doggedly to -find comfort for her, to get her quiet. There were worse -things than having a baby, she told her once, crooning over her. -</p> - -<p> -And Martha said, "What?" And then added, "Oh, you -mean being discarded!" -</p> - -<p> -Discarded? Martha Kenworthy discarded? -</p> - -<p> -"She is beyond me in knowledge," Emily thought. "I've -never known bitterness." -</p> - -<p> -She had to ask her, "Does that man know about this?" -</p> - -<p> -"I—told him. He said——" She couldn't say it for -weeping. -</p> - -<p> -"Never mind. It doesn't matter." -</p> - -<p> -But after a while Martha did say it: -</p> - -<p> -"He said I'd got him into a dirty mess." -</p> - -<p> -Emily reproached herself. She wouldn't ask, even, where -he was now, where his wife was, whether he was divorced. -She wouldn't have Martha marry that man now, if he was able -to marry her a hundred times over. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, you mustn't cry this way. You mustn't. You'll -make yourself sick." -</p> - -<p> -"No, it won't; it can't. Nothing makes me sick enough. -I've tried everything." -</p> - -<p> -"What? What have you tried?" -</p> - -<p> -And Martha, lying cuddled against her there, recounted -horrors. "At school," she sobbed, once resentfully, "there isn't -any privacy. Those girls just come singing and laughing right -into your room. I tried things week-ends, when I was in the -city." -</p> - -<p> -"Alone?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, mammie. I thought I'd killed myself once—two weeks -ago. When I tried to get up I fainted. I fell on the floor, and -I thought I was dying; and I couldn't ring for anybody—they -might find out." -</p> - -<p> -Emily had to hear all that—to imagine it. -</p> - -<p> -She said, after a while, "I'm going to take you to a doctor -to-morrow—-day after to-morrow. The best one I can find." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll go to Mexico; I'll hide somewhere; I'll go to South -America!" -</p> - -<p> -"We could never be sure we had hidden ourselves." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I know it. Oh, I've thought of everything. In books -they do it; in books no one ever finds out. There's 'The Old -Maid.' We could do it." -</p> - -<p> -"We'd always be afraid. We'd never have any peace of -mind again." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't need to go with me. I can go." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to see you through this. I think home would -be the best place, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I won't go home! Never, mother. Oh, imagine what -dad would say to me!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily had thought of that. She had decided. "That's my -house!" she had said as they came out on the train. "I'll take -my child home to it. If Bob wants to leave, he can leave." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't appreciate your father. If we should go home,—this -way—to him, he would stand by us. There's no use -saying he wouldn't." -</p> - -<p> -"He would stand by you, mother. I'll say that much for -him. He wouldn't leave you when you're in trouble. He's not -like—— But he would be always hating me; if he didn't scold -me, he would be wanting to. I couldn't stand that. I won't -go home. I won't let you tell him this. I'd rather——" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't say that!" Emily moaned. -</p> - -<p> -"We can go abroad. We could go to Sweden, or the Philippines." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, all right. Now stop crying, Martha. Try to go to -sleep. I'll make arrangements. I'll fix it all up for you." -</p> - -<p> -The girl dozed at length, moaning. The clock struck, and -the hours passed, and Emily lay there, open-eyed, fleeing in -vain terror from one corner of her consciousness to the other, -whacked and battered through the soul by fact after brutal -fact. She was in no condition to think clearly. It was her -habit of mind to blame herself for a great deal that was -never her fault, perhaps because all her tender years she had -had the sense of her aunt's disapproving eyes upon her. And -now she shouldered all the blame of this tragedy. This child -was what she had made her; she had spoiled her indeed. She -had only wanted her to be happy, and where was happiness -now? Her child, the work of her hands, the fruit of her body -and soul, had lowered herself to deliberate lying. Yes, and -even that Emily Kenworthy could have pardoned if the child -had lied for a worthy man. She had been found lacking the -essential womanly instincts of self-preservation—of child -preservation. She hadn't known how to make herself -cherished. She had failed fundamentally. "What was it I -neglected?" Emily moaned. "What didn't I teach her? Bob -always said I spoiled her. Bob knew. I have failed. I have -failed more than she has. I thought only about her being -happy. What am I going to do for her now?" -</p> - -<p> -After a long while—it was towards morning, though Emily -had no thought of time—Martha rose with a start. She began -scrambling hastily out of bed. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sick!" she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -"Lie down! Wait! I'll get you something!" -</p> - -<p> -"A towel! Hand me a towel!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily jumped up and felt for the light. The room was -bitterly cold. She looked about for something to serve -Martha's need. She searched hastily for her dressing gown. -</p> - -<p> -"Get back into bed," she commanded. "Cover up!" She -sat down on the bed beside her, shivering violently, trying to -help her. For Martha was leaning out over the side of the bed, -retching, choking, trying to stifle the sound of her misery by -covering her face with the towel. Paroxysm after paroxysm -of nausea followed. Between them Martha lay back in bed, -shivering, blue-lipped, sweat on her forehead, tears in her eyes, -harrowing to behold. -</p> - -<p> -"Try to lie still, Martha! Lie flat on your back!" -</p> - -<p> -"Can't. Oh——" And on went the sickening sounds. -</p> - -<p> -She was so blue, so frightening to look at, that Emily -started to go to the door. -</p> - -<p> -"What are you doing?" Martha cried. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to wake somebody up! I'm going to get some -hot water—a hot-water bag for you." -</p> - -<p> -But the girl was in terror, and cried out: -</p> - -<p> -"I never have anything, mammie. Don't! They might -guess! I'll be all right, mammie. Come into bed with me; -that'll warm me up!" -</p> - -<p> -So Emily made the room as decent as she could. -</p> - -<p> -"Hide that, <i>hide</i> it! I'll manage in the morning. I don't -want anybody to suspect anything!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily got into bed, sickened, and gathered the child to her. -She was passionate with hate. A man, any man, who inflicted -one such hour on a girl——"I could just kill that man!" -she was raging. If a decent boy had given her child a box of -sickening chocolates, by accident, what a fuss there would have -been! How he would have had to grovel! And as she raged -in her mind, she heard Martha imploring comfort. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, how long is this going to go on, mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -"How long has it gone on?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, weeks! From the first! Oh, I was so afraid they -would hear, at school!" -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly a memory flashed over Emily. She felt the hours -she had suffered such discomfort—for the sake of this undone -child. She and Bob had been living in their wretched little -rooms over the drug store on Main Street. And she could see -Bob standing there, in his nightshirt, a lamp in his hand, -solicitous and dumfounded, because she lay sick and laughing, -tears in her eyes, and singing on her lips, shaken with delight -over the significance of her symptoms. She had been beside -herself with happiness at the prospect of a baby. Certainly -never before in her life, and seldom since, had she known such -heavenly satisfaction as during those weeks. The very sensation -of that dear expectancy came back to her. -</p> - -<p> -And Martha, in her arms, moaned wearily. -</p> - -<p> -Then Emily turned away from her, towards the wall, and, -covering herself up to the eyes, began an utterly sick and bitter -weeping. At every gasp some new phase of her misery came -to contrast its horror with the former loveliness. The years -came all tumbling down in great crushing masses upon her, -and the beauty of that baby, her little parties, her sweet little -coats. It was Christmas morning, she remembered, and she -could see the little thing in her footed sleeping suit standing -twinkling in ecstasy about a stocking from which a red-headed -doll peeped out.—Dolls, what lots of dolls, to teach her -motherhood—and Jim playing with her! It was for this child's sake -that her mother had refrained from all the life she might have -had with her dear Jim. And now—— This was the end of -it all. "If I had left her—deserted her—gone with him, could -she have been worse off than she is now?" Emily asked; and -she went on weeping. She saw the painted room from which -the child had shut herself out. She had made herself a dark -house of regret now, this house-loving girl who had destroyed -herself. Where should they go now? "To whom can I go -for help?" Emily cried. If Jim were living, if she could go -to New York and tell Jim all this, so he could help her—— There -was no one living to whom she could turn. "I'll take -her to Wilton," she moaned; "he'll know what to do!" Home -was impossible. Could she take her lovely daughter there—this -child whom she had watched them admire? That woman -would find them there, that jealous, married, wild woman, who -had open, unquestioned cause now for scandals and fury. She -heard Martha speaking to her, imploring her, crying with her, -but she paid no heed to her. The heat in the steam pipes began -pounding. Daylight came into the room. Martha got up to -conceal what signs she might find of her sickness. Martha -showed strange skill in furtiveness now. She seemed to have -acquired habits of cunning. Presently she was standing there, -lying glibly to the wondering chambermaid. Her mother was -ill; her mother had had news of bereavement. She must have -some breakfast brought up. -</p> - -<p> -Emily had been forty-three years old when she had left -home last. But after Christmas Day, it was months before -she thought of herself as anything but an old woman. It -was not so much a day, the twenty-fifth of December, -as an epoch—a desert of disappointment from which she was -never likely to recover fully. She got up and dressed that -morning, scarcely knowing what she did. She sat down in -desperation and just looked at Martha. She rallied after a -while, enough to suggest that they go out together for a walk. -But Martha refused. There were lots of girls in her college -who lived in New Jersey. She might meet somebody who -would ask what in the world she was doing in that little hotel -upon such an occasion. She lay down, and Emily covered her -warmly. -</p> - -<p> -She sat watching her sleep. The afternoon faded away. -The darkness came, and they went to bed. There they lay. -Martha slept till the evil hour of morning came, and passed -distressfully. -</p> - -<p> -They got up, and Emily began to put her things into her -bag. As she moved about, peace came to her some way. It -was as if she realized at length that she was sentenced to death -and there was no escape possible. She must die quietly. -Afterwards, she used to marvel over that strange consciousness -that came to her, that she could go through this horror, and -any other that might be coming to her, without frenzy, without -any outcry. She knew that whichever hideous alternative she -had to go through, as long as Martha was saved alive to her, -she was able some way, quietly, to bear it. She had never -experienced before such an exalted feeling of strength. Even -Martha felt it. She grew quieter. She listened without a -murmur to her mother's plans, because Emily's voice was smooth -again. -</p> - -<p> -She had decided that as soon as they got to New York she -would 'phone from the station to the head nurse of a hospital -to which she had once gone to see a friend. She remembered -vividly the assured and adequate manner in which those nurses -had moved about. She was loath to trouble them. She would -say that she was a stranger in the city, without friends, -suddenly in need of a gynecologist. She wanted a woman, and -the very best one. Would the nurse recommend a perfectly -reliable one? -</p> - -<p> -There was no hitch in the plan. The nurse recommended -three, for she thought it likely that some of them might be away -for the holidays. Emily was able to get an appointment with -the first one, but only late in the afternoon, after the other -patients had been seen. She turned calmly from that 'phone, -and took Martha to the Brevoort Hotel. She got a room on -the third floor. She wouldn't have been afraid then of any -height. It was no wonder that Martha had to exclaim, as -soon as the door was shut behind the porter with their luggage: -</p> - -<p> -"How could you do it, mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -"Let's not talk about it," she answered. -</p> - -<p> -There was an hour to wait for lunch. Only once did she -have that feeling of panic. Her strength almost failed her -when she picked up the morning paper defensively and saw -the advertisements of "white sales." Baby clothes were -illustrated there. She threw the paper hastily down. She mustn't -think of such a child in her house, playing in her willow tree. -She would hate that child; she wanted Martha to hate it. Yet -they would have to make some sort of hateful preparations for -it. -</p> - -<p> -After a while they rose and went down into the restaurant, -and found a place among untrapped, unmaddened men and -women, who didn't look as if they felt their lives reeling -through destruction. Mother and daughter said but little. If -anyone near had looked at them attentively, he would have -thought, probably, of two women who looked rather bored with -life and in need of diversion. -</p> - -<p> -When the coffee came, Martha, who had chosen to sit with -her back to the room, was leaning on the table, her hand over -her eyes. She had been looking in grim dejection at her -mother's hands. She stirred, and said, nervously: -</p> - -<p> -"Nobody would ever suspect you of anything, mother." -</p> - -<p> -"Let's not talk about it," Emily almost whispered. -</p> - -<p> -"I mean—I mean—I don't suppose you will have to take -your gloves off, will you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Where?" -</p> - -<p> -"I mean—in the doctor's office." She looked around her -slyly to see if she might be overheard. -</p> - -<p> -"No, I don't suppose so." Emily thought best not to -question her. -</p> - -<p> -But Martha persisted. -</p> - -<p> -"Mammie, no one could suspect you of anything! Lend me -your ring—your wedding ring." Her voice died away. -</p> - -<p> -Emily's voice never faltered. "All right, if you want it." She -spoke as if she had been asked for a nickel for the -telephone. She put her hands down under the table and tugged -away at the ring. Her fingers were larger now than they had -been the day Bob put the ring on, in the City Hall in Chicago, -in that room where, she still remembered, the spittoons sat in -rows. She hadn't taken that ring off for years. She was -handing it over now, with another one—a diamond one—which -Bob had given her two years ago, at Christmas time, -to her deserted daughter. Bob seemed, just then, not so bad -a husband, after all. Martha reached over for the rings, closed -her fingers about them, and put them furtively away in her -purse. -</p> - -<p> -After an interminable afternoon the two of them, with their -story ready, came into the doctor's waiting room—a large -office which served the patients of several doctors; it was so -full that people were standing. Yet as soon as the Kenworthys -entered, a woman older than her mother, after one glance at -Martha, rose hastily to offer her a place to sit down. The -women made a place for Emily, crowding together. Emily -didn't even wonder how many, like herself, were dreading a -death sentence—a sentence of life. She sat there, in the -unspeakable intensity of consciousness of her wound, realizing -nothing of the room but the fact that Martha was sitting -huddled down in the next sofa, her hat pulled down to hide her -shrunken face. Her lips only could be seen, from where her -mother sat, but they were not trembling. And they sat there, -hour after hour, year after year; they had to sit waiting till -almost every one had been called in through one or another of -those doors. -</p> - -<p> -The day was over, the night was on them. It was half past -six when Emily finally took Martha into the room before the -judge. They sat down before her in the full light. She sat -behind that little desperately business-like desk, her face half -hidden by the lamp-shade. She looked from one to the other -of them with shrewd, cynical, prosaic eyes. Emily, as the words -came out of her mouth, knew every one of them was being -weighed. She was being cross-questioned. What made her -think her daughter wasn't strong enough to have a child? What -made Emily suppose she was a delicate young woman? The -whole slender history of Martha Kenworthy's child illnesses -was brought forth and examined. The doctor's very questions -seemed to pronounce her a most rugged person. Emily hadn't -thought to prepare any lying account of previous illnesses. She -hadn't been skilled enough in deceit for that. -</p> - -<p> -The woman got up and turned on pitiless lights. She made -preparations; she gave Martha directions, shortly. Emily sat -there. She heard her heart pounding. -</p> - -<p> -Once Martha moaned, lying on that white table. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't do that. Don't make that noise." -</p> - -<p> -"You hurt me," Martha apologized. -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all," answered the doctor. She went poking on. -Her manner was not ingratiating. If she scented any tragedy -before her, she had no sympathy—no one ever need to cry -to that woman for help, Emily realized. -</p> - -<p> -The doctor had finished. She turned away to a basin and -stood washing her hands. She reached for an immaculate -towel, and with it in her hands she turned about and stood -looking at her patient. Martha was sitting up on that hospital-like -table. The doctor went on drying her hands. Finger after -finger she dried, one at a time, studying Martha mercilessly. -By the time she had finished that fourth finger, Emily could -stand the suspense no longer. She managed to ask with only -ordinary concern: -</p> - -<p> -"What do you find?" -</p> - -<p> -The doctor kept her eyes steadily on Martha as she -answered: -</p> - -<p> -"As a matter of fact, though you get your mother to do all -the talking, the truth is that you are scared out of your wits -at the mere thought of a baby. Don't look at your mother; -answer me yourself!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Martha murmured, faintly. "I didn't—I don't -want——" -</p> - -<p> -The doctor spoke grimly: "Well, don't worry. You're -not going to have one." -</p> - -<p> -She was still drying those hands. -</p> - -<p> -Emily and Martha babbled together almost incoherently. -</p> - -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"You're not pregnant at all. There's not a sign of pregnancy." -</p> - -<p> -And as neither of the women moved, she added: -</p> - -<p> -"Get down and dress." -</p> - -<p> -Emily gasped, at length: "How can this be? How——" -</p> - -<p> -The doctor spoke more kindly as soon as she turned to -Emily to answer: "It's hysteria. It's nothing but hysteria." -</p> - -<p> -"But those symptoms—those——" -</p> - -<p> -Emily was incredulous. -</p> - -<p> -"I've had three cases of this this week. They distrust their -precautions and get panicky. They lose their heads." -</p> - -<p> -"I never heard of such a thing in my life," Emily babbled. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't suppose <i>you</i> have!" The doctor spoke tartly. -"When you had this child, women had nerve enough to carry -them through!" She turned and looked almost scornfully at -Martha. -</p> - -<p> -Martha had sat down abruptly on a chair. Emily helped -her into her coat. The doctor had been explaining to Emily: -the girl ought to be put to bed early for a while, well fed, -allowed no dances, no theaters, and kept much out-of-doors. And -when Martha had sat down abruptly, after putting her coat -on, she said: -</p> - -<p> -"If you feel faint, you'd better get out into the air." And -she dismissed them from her presence. -</p> - -<p> -Falling, being hurled down, those sensations had been bad -enough—but the shock of this crashing landing! Those two -women went out of that office, down the elevator, out on to the -street so dazed that their minds seemed blank, so "taken aback" -they were, so strongly jerked back from the edge of destruction. -Martha, standing pressed close against her mother, one arm -around her, staring into her face, stood stuttering there in the -winter darkness, on the curb. -</p> - -<p> -"D-d-d-do you believe it, mammie?" She began laughing -and crying. "Mammie! mammie!" she kept stuttering. "Do -you believe it?" -</p> - -<p> -In the taxi they found, Martha gave way to hysterics. She -laughed and she sobbed crazily. "Oh, mammie, if she could be -right! Can she be right? Am I all right? She don't know -what she's talking about. Oh, tell me, can it be true?" She -was shaking Emily, trying to shake assurance out of her. "Tell -me if it can be true, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Martha—a doctor—must know——" -</p> - -<p> -"No! She doesn't understand! How could it not be? -Mammie, tell me. Oh, suppose it's true; I can live! Mammie, -I can see you don't believe her! We can go home now. You -won't tell dad! Oh, I will be good to you. Didn't they say -she was a good doctor? Mammie, what did that nurse say about -her? But I did try every day to think it wasn't true. And -it was. Why was I so sick every morning? Maybe I've only -got a cancer, mammie!" Crying out a phrase like that, the -child was in such a madness of hope. "Oh, suppose she's -right!" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, I feel like giving you the awfulest spanking -anybody ever got!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh <i>yes</i>! Oh, I don't mind. Mammie, imagine if it isn't -true; if I'm saved. Here, here's your rings; I don't need -rings!" -</p> - -<p> -When they drew up in front of the hotel, Emily forced her -to be quiet. But Martha, in their room, threw off her coat and -her hat and all restraint in a great gesture. She was lit up, -she was drunk with hope. She walked around the room babbling, -her face ghastly pale and bright, stopping to hug her -mother, stretching out her arms, stretching them above her -towards the ceiling. -</p> - -<p> -"Suppose it's <i>true</i>! Suppose it's all right! Suppose I'm -safe! I can <i>live</i> now. No operation, mammie! That woman -must have been fifty! She must know what she's talking about. -Didn't you think she looked like a good doctor? She must -have examined thousands of women. I'm free; I'm safe!" She -stopped and looked at herself in the mirror. "Oh, look at -me!" she cried. "<i>That's</i> how I feel." And Emily, who had -sunk down on to the bed in her bewilderment, watching Martha, -suddenly began to cry. That superhuman strength seemed to -have abandoned her. For the girl had looked for a moment -intently at her reflection, and then turned, half crazy with joy, -to her suitcase. She had snatched out her toilet things, she -was powdering her nose, she was rubbing something on her -white cheeks, herself again. "Oh, I can <i>live</i> now! Live! -Live!" And she turned away from the glass and ran to Emily—she -had heard her sniffling—and began consoling kisses and -penitential hugs and tears. -</p> - -<p> -"Let's go and get something to eat!" she said at length. She -got up and washed away signs of tears. She brushed her hair, -she powdered her nose, she got out a smarter pair of shoes. -"Let's walk and walk," she said. "I could walk all night." Out -on the street there, Emily felt Martha's strong arm -impelling her along by the passion of her relief. She walked with -her head held high, she walked fiercely, like an arrow sure of its -target. When they stopped at a crossing, her feet could not -stop their triumph. Emily could feel her dancing. She kept -babbling, singing, running on. Emily said at length: "I can't -go any farther. I'm too tired." And then in a minute or two -they were turning into an opportune restaurant. -</p> - -<p> -It was a large, uncarpeted room, with two rows of white-tiled -tables on either side of a central aisle. Martha walked -down that aisle ahead of her mother. Her head was held that -tense way, her eyes were shining positively black against her -white face, her air was wild. People looked and started and -continued staring at her as if they had seen a pretty young -lunatic at large, or an aggressive and beautiful girl-ghost. And -Martha, not thinking of them, walked straight to the farthest -table and would have sat down facing the crowd, if Emily had -not chosen that seat for herself. Emily was conscious of the -sensation their entrance had made. She was wondering how -Martha's excited pallor had triumphed over all the color she -had applied, for certainly she had stood dabbing rouge -on—before her mirror. Martha grabbed the menu. She had been -talking of turkey, of lobster. She was hungry enough to eat -anything. She ordered a large steak for two, with mushrooms. -She ordered asparagus and fried potatoes, and bread—a plateful -of brown bread. She ordered coffee. She would order -a lobster later, she told the waiter. When he had gone, she -began whispering to Emily: -</p> - -<p> -"Mammie, did you get our reservations? Oh, I thought I -would be going home in a——!" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't!" murmured Emily. -</p> - -<p> -"Can we go and change them on our way home? Let's go on -the eleven o'clock. But no, we must go to another doctor -to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -Emily tried to calm her. It was herself the child was -enjoying now, as if her years of enjoying her thoughts had been -preparing her for this climax. She looked as if she might burst -into flame. She did burst forth when dinner was being set -before her. The waiter was arranging her great feast, when she -cried out, suddenly unable to smother the joy of some thought. -She cried out, with a gesture of her hands below the table, -"Oh, my God!" so that the waiter fairly jumped. People about -were watching them. They smiled unanimously. Martha didn't -seem even to know she was in a restaurant. -</p> - -<p> -The next morning Martha said she hadn't slept well, but -Emily had watched her sleeping through the early morning, -and when she commented on the significance of that fact, Martha -was elated again above her weariness by happiness. She went -for a walk in the morning alone. Emily felt too exhausted to -go with her. She ate more heartily than she had been able to -eat the evening before. That great steak and those mushrooms -she had not been able to give any real attention to. She -appealed to her mother every few minutes to tell her the truth -about the doctor's verdict, to comfort her about the probable -outcome of their visit to the next doctor. She walked about -excitedly. -</p> - -<p> -Late that afternoon the second doctor pronounced her free. -</p> - -<p> -They came back to their hotel almost without a word. In -their room they sat down; they looked at each other dazed; -they each felt the other trying to fathom the experience through -which they had gone. "How <i>could</i> that have happened?" -Martha demanded. "Do they think—I IMAGINED that vomiting? -Do they think I didn't try to believe I was all right?" -</p> - -<p> -It seemed to Emily best to pass as lightly as possible over -even the word "hysteria." -</p> - -<p> -"You were worried, Martha. You were afraid." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of <i>course</i> I was afraid! All the time I thought, suppose -anything should happen to me. I was thinking all the time -about <i>you</i>, mother! Do you think I wanted to disgrace you? -That's why I wanted to—I thought I couldn't live. Oh, when -your wire came, mammie, I just had to see you again, <i>once</i>, -before—— I didn't <i>want</i> to come. I was afraid you might -find out! But I <i>had</i> to come and see you again once! How -did you happen to come, mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -"Did you suppose I was going to let you wander around -New York alone?" -</p> - -<p> -"Didn't you suspect anything?" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha! <i>No!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -"No, you couldn't believe it. Oh, I never wanted YOU to -know. I'd rather have told all the rest of the world, mother. -I'll never forgive myself for this as long as I live. You -look—sick as a dog, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm all right. You needn't worry about <i>me</i>." -</p> - -<p> -"You just say that. You don't even scold me! I've learned -my lesson. You don't have to say anything! My God!" -cried little Martha Kenworthy. "What I've been through! -And those filthy women at school nosing around trying to find -out what was the matter with me!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -"They <i>were</i>. They went sneaking around! They know too -much, those old hens, pretending they're so holy. I'm finished -with that place!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, now—everything is all right." It seemed better to -her to take that line. "We can go wherever we want to. You -need a rest. We'll go South, if you want to." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Let's not go home. Let's go South from here." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well—I don't know. I'd have to get some more clothes. -You'd—we'd better go home first. And we have our tickets; -it's not much shorter from here." -</p> - -<p> -"Dad might want to go with us—or drive us down." -</p> - -<p> -"I think we better go by train. It's much better to go home -first." -</p> - -<p> -"You mean—so people can see me? So nobody can suspect -anything?" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, I didn't mean any such thing. Who's going to -suspect us of anything?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not you, of course. But I'll go home if you want me to. -I'll do anything you want me to, after this. You've been a -brick; you've stuck by me; you're the one that needs a rest. -I don't look as ghastly as you do, mammie." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, we can do anything we want to now; we can go any -place." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't want to do anything. I just want to sleep a year." -</p> - -<p> -So they left for home that night. And the next day, as the -train hurried West, Martha's gloom and her humility deepened -mile by mile. She sat looking steadily out of the window, and -Emily realized that it could not be the scenery that fixed the -expression of her face. When her thoughts were recalled from -some unhappy distance, she considered her mother meekly, with -solicitude. Her gratitude, the sort of indebtedness, was painful -to Emily. After they had changed at Chicago into the train for -home, Emily realized, even before Martha spoke, that she was -hardening herself for an ordeal. -</p> - -<p> -"Mammie," she said, "I don't want to—I mean—will you -let me have the guest room this time? I think I could sleep -better in the guest room." -</p> - -<p> -Emily Kenworthy had never taken a journey of any sort -whose very climax and last ineffable thrill had not been getting -back again into her very own house. She was that sort of -woman. But never before had she felt the joy of being at -home and of waking up in her own bedroom quite so keenly as -she did that morning. She opened her closet and took down -her customary morning frock. It was a brown jersey. It -had a bit of tan-colored jersey down the front of it. On the -tan-colored jersey were rows of little brown jersey buttons, and -those top two buttons were hanging loosely; those two loose and -familiar buttons were reality, surely. They proved that New -York had been only a dream. She put the verifying frock on, -and went out of her room, and in the hall the radiator was -burbling out its confirming burbles. She sat down at her own -breakfast table; Bob was there, no phantom. And the percolator -lid still had to be managed. Its awkwardness had been -a family failing for months now. Bob couldn't apparently -improve it. Emily began pouring coffee, with her hands held as -that percolator must be held, and she could scarcely believe she -had been in New York. Martha's hallucination was a nightmare, -and the percolator was truth and awakening. -</p> - -<p> -She could indeed have believed that morning that the days -of terror had been a delirium if, in the guest room, the pitiful -stranger had not been lying in bed. She was glad that Martha -seemed willing to stay there the first day or two, for it made -her story more impressive. -</p> - -<p> -"It's this quarrel with us, Bob, that's worked on her mind -till she couldn't eat. I wish you could have heard her that first -night. She just cried and cried, because she was so sorry about -last summer, and ashamed. She says she don't know what -possessed her to act so—naughty. I had just to make her stop -crying. I told her it was morbid; but I couldn't get her to eat. -I ordered everything, but she wouldn't take anything. The -doctor says it's her nerves; she's got to have a long rest." -</p> - -<p> -"But how'll you keep her from dancing, if you take her South?" -</p> - -<p> -"She won't want to dance; she's too sick." -</p> - -<p> -Bob seemed scarcely able to credit that, although he -acknowledged that she looked bad. -</p> - -<p> -Emily went on: "She's so ashamed of the things she said to -you last summer, Bob. She wanted me to apologize; or rather -I said I would, because she gets so worked up if she begins to -talk about it. She said no girl ever had a better father than -you, Bob." -</p> - -<p> -"Did she say that, honestly, now, Emily?" Bob looked -troubled. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, she did, sitting at a table, not eating a thing. She'd -have burst out crying if I hadn't made her stop it." -</p> - -<p> -"By heck! Emily, the kid must be sick!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, she is. The doctor said I have to take good care of -her and keep her out of doors. When you go in to see her, -Bob, just pretend nothing's happened. Don't let her get started -apologizing." -</p> - -<p> -"All right. Do you think—is she over that—that business -with that damned skunk?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, I think so. I think she's ashamed of it all." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that's something, anyway." -</p> - -<p> -It was the neighbors who began coming in at once to inquire -sympathetically about Martha, who kept Emily uneasy. -Each woman's solicitude seemed to necessitate the hurried -invention of new details, and Emily, not used to deceit, could -scarcely be sure her stories tallied. Johnnie Benton gave her -a moment of difficulty. He wouldn't be content with vagueness. -</p> - -<p> -"Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, what is the matter with her, -when you get right down to brass tacks?" -</p> - -<p> -"Tut, tut, Johnnie! Do you think I haven't been right down -to brass tacks all the time?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nervous breakdown, that's just a sort of excuse for -anything, I thought." -</p> - -<p> -"You better think again. A nervous breakdown isn't anything -to joke about." -</p> - -<p> -"But isn't she going to get up? Aren't we going to see -her at all?" -</p> - -<p> -"She'll be up in a day or two. But, look here, Johnnie, if she -prefers not to see you, I won't insist. I'm not going to have -her annoyed—not a bit, just now." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not planning to annoy her." -</p> - -<p> -"Now don't get fussy. You know very well what I mean. -She must be humored." -</p> - -<p> -The next day he sent in a great bunch of roses. -</p> - -<p> -"These would go with the room, I thought," he said, meekly, -to Emily. -</p> - -<p> -She hesitated about taking them in to Martha. She decided -to do it, and regretted her decision, for Martha read the -message with them and tore it up angrily and began to cry. -</p> - -<p> -Wilton ran in just to call, and asked about the New York -doctor. He was very tactful, very kind. Mrs. Benton came in -and gave Emily a terrible shock. -</p> - -<p> -"I have half a notion to go South with you, Emily. I can't -wait forever for my sister. I was going to California with her, -but she keeps putting it off. And, anyway, I don't know but -what I'd rather go with you." -</p> - -<p> -Emily would not urge her to go with them. She didn't dare -even mention such a possibility to Martha. She thanked her -lucky stars that Mrs. Benton's sister was going to be terribly -angry if Mrs. Benton went with Emily. -</p> - -<p> -When the girls came in, Martha said, wearily: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, let them come up if they want to. I suppose they've -got to see me, if they want to. Hand me that vanity case, -mammie, please." And she sat up and rouged a little bit, to -defy detection, as it were. -</p> - -<p> -The third day she was home she got up and came downstairs -for lunch and supper. "I won't have you carrying all those -things up to me," she said to Emily. On Friday she happened -to be in the living room when Greta came in. She received her -with little cordiality, and presently, as they sat there, Emily -doing most of the talking, two more girls came in. Emily was -breathing a sigh of relief that the afternoon had passed so -smoothly, as they left. But when she turned into the living -room from seeing them out, Martha burst out: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, for the love of Heaven, let's get away, mammie! I -can't <i>stand</i> this. This house; this town. Let's go to-night, -please, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -"We aren't ready." -</p> - -<p> -"I am. I'm packed. I'll do your packing. Let's get out of -this!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily wondered when she had got her things out of her -painted room. She had never seen her open the door of it. -She said: "I thought you didn't mind seeing the girls. You -could have excused yourself." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I could, and they would have been wondering why. -They make me so sick. They just come prying about to see -what they can find out!" -</p> - -<p> -"That's nonsense. You oughtn't to talk that way. They -came just naturally, because you weren't well." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, and asked all those questions!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha wasn't to be humored in this. -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't see anything objectionable in what they asked," -Emily responded dryly. -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't? Didn't you hear Greta asking where Eve was? -'What's become of Eve this vacation?' she said, just like that." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, child, why shouldn't she ask you where Eve is spending -her holiday? You've been in school with her all term. -You'd be supposed to know. You forget that Eve about lived -in this house last summer." -</p> - -<p> -"I forget it, do I? Oh, look here, mammie, if I finish your -packing, won't you go to-night?" -</p> - -<p> -"Our reservations are for to-morrow night. You know that." -</p> - -<p> -"They'll change them; and if they won't, let's stay in Chicago -a night. I'd rather stay any place in the world than here, -mammie." She was pleading now, not resentfully, but humbly. -</p> - -<p> -"All right," said Emily, "if daddy agrees." -</p> - -<p> -Martha turned away impatiently. In the presence of death -Bob Kenworthy had appeared a good father. But Martha, -having now to face life, already found him only an irritation. -"It isn't Bob's fault this time that she wants to get away," -Emily thought. -</p> - -<p> -"And, besides, you've told everybody that we're going -to-morrow. And it would be just like—Johnnie and everybody to -be down to the station to see us off—with a band." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Seven</i> -</h3> - -<p> -They traveled directly south until they came to a town -which, stretching out along a blue-and-golden bay, had gone to -sleep before the Revolution and has never been disturbed since. -They found it all ease and dreams and laziness. The shadows -of live oaks were its swiftest motion, and the dancing of oyster -schooners over its sea was all its din. The Kenworthys arrived -in the middle of a sunny afternoon at the sort of hotel to which -they had been recommended. Although they had written they -were coming, no one in authority was in sight to receive them. -A slovenly negro maid didn't know what rooms they were to be -in. Leaving their baggage on the veranda, where the taxi driver -had deposited it, they walked down through a little garden to -the snow-white sands and the golden clear water of the bay. -An old man sitting on a bench, his legs wrapped around in a -traveling rug, was sleeping, his bald head nodding, nodding, -helplessly. They walked out to the end of the little pier. They -sat down, and looked into the crystal shallows as jellyfish lapped -about softly. The sun on the water was a lullaby. Emily -presently felt her eyelids growing heavy. -</p> - -<p> -"This'll be a good place to sleep, anyway," Martha said. -The trouble was, in the days that followed, that Emily could -never be sure that Martha was sleeping. Sometimes when -the girl went to her room and, closing the door, begged not to -be disturbed, Emily felt sure, as she sat listening involuntarily, -that she was lying sobbing heart-brokenly. She never caught -her in the act—she avoided that—but the curves of Martha's -cheeks had the shadows and shape of many tears. -</p> - -<p> -Emily had helplessly to sit and watch her progressing into -bitterness. The first few days Martha said nothing; she -watched the sea by day; by night she sat and stared into the -fire. When Emily spoke to her, she would turn and bring -herself into her mother's presence bewilderedly. She would look -about her wonderingly, like a lost child in a strange world. -Emily's remarks seemed scarcely to reach her. Her silence -was unnatural. Certainly, Emily reflected, if she could utter -the thoughts that seemed to be grinding her down, she would -feel better. She longed to have her begin talking again. -</p> - -<p> -Hints came out from time to time. Sometimes Martha was -not able to refrain from groaning. The first afternoon they -walked away down the beach, they came to an old cemetery with -broken gnarled cypresses in it, and violets ready to bloom on -old French graves. -</p> - -<p> -Emily said, instinctively, "Let's go in." The gate stood open -before them. -</p> - -<p> -But Martha cried, "NO! I've had enough of THAT!" She -shuddered. -</p> - -<p> -What Martha said, when she began talking, was frightful. -She resorted to speech only when her sense of outrage had -become intolerable. She burst forth with noise and fury. It -happened one evening that Emily had tarried, partly because -Martha had refused so curtly from the first to pass even the -time of day with anyone in the hotel, to be civil to an old and -frail woman who sat alone at an adjoining table. When she -went into her room, she found Martha in tears on her knees -before the fire. She was always poking the fire; often she -poked it viciously. But now she seemed to have attacked it -brutally. She was tearing up papers, or something. -</p> - -<p> -"What are you doing?" Emily exclaimed. And then she -saw. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, <i>don't</i> do that! That's a library book!" -</p> - -<p> -But Martha was in a rage. "I don't care if it is! I'll burn -up every copy I ever get my hands on!" She wouldn't let -Emily rescue it. The tears were running down her face. "Such -lies!" she raved. "How can you stand it? Dirty, filthy, rotten, -vile lies! That's what's the matter! Books like that! I could -kill that man!" -</p> - -<p> -There was something sobering in the mere sight of a book -being torn to bits. It was a strong book, powerfully written, -and it resisted its destruction. The pages had to be jerked -out, almost one by one. Martha kept tearing and poking, and -urging the flames on. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha," Emily remonstrated, "you mustn't do that! Don't -make it flame up more!" She had never seen Martha in such -a rage. She stood helplessly watching her folly. -</p> - -<p> -"Didn't you read it?" Martha cried to her. There was -scarcely anything left of the book now, but the covers. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I read part of it," Emily began, protesting. -</p> - -<p> -"You believed it, I suppose?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I—I didn't care for it all, much." -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't care for it! My God! I'm never going to read -a book written by a man again as long as I live! It isn't that -they're fools only; it isn't possible for them to learn anything, -even, dirty fumbling idiots!" -</p> - -<p> -"That's not very nice language, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"Language? What's language? Language isn't anything. -Look at the facts. Are <i>they</i> nice? Look what that rotten man -wrote down for people to read!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily sat down, and Martha turned around and leaned her -head against her mother's knee and wept. She kept trying to -express her contempt for the book and its author; she felt the -need of curses, but her vocabulary failed her. "That horrid, -rotten person," she cried two or three times. "That nasty brutal -old pig." And Emily stroked her hair and wondered whether -to command her to keep still or to encourage her to talk it out. -"He says——" Martha sputtered at length, crying bitterly. -</p> - -<p> -"Never mind, child," Emily said quietly. -</p> - -<p> -But Martha would mind. She controlled her sobs. -</p> - -<p> -"He says—the filthy old rotten—idiot—that man in the -book, he just went around—you know—mother—falling in love, -they call it—and then he threw one woman away, mammie, -because—he said—she didn't enjoy it! Oh, I could <i>kill</i> that man! -<i>Enjoy</i> it, he said, mother! He said she was always afraid! -My God! <i>He</i> hadn't anything to lose. He ran no risk! They -just try to make out that women are like men, mother, so that -they can get them. You'd think women would tell the truth, -wouldn't you, mammie? I'd just like to see Mrs. Wharton be an -old maid and try to hide that child that way! She'd learn a -thing or two. It isn't fair, it's too cruel! They just try to make -girls believe lies like that so they won't be afraid. I was afraid, -all the time. But why wasn't I afraid enough? I must have -been crazy last summer. Honestly, mother, I must have been -out of my mind, to do that. It's women that are fools. It was -my own fault. Does it seem possible, mother, that women can -love such—such filthy, rotten messes as men? I couldn't have -been in my right mind. So it couldn't have been my fault, -and look what happened to me! It makes me so mad to think -about it. It isn't fair! Why can't a woman just turn over and -go to sleep, too? Why should she have two lives to risk, and a -rotten, dirty man none at all? Mammie, you don't think I was -in my right mind last summer, do you? I never would have -done that if I'd had any sense. Were any of your people crazy, -mammie? Were daddy's people insane? I mean, two or three -generations back?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, not so far as I know; not one of them. You've got -sane people behind you. Don't cry so, child. It's going to be -all right yet." -</p> - -<p> -"There's no use saying things like that. I WAS crazy, mother. -I couldn't have—— It doesn't seem possible. If I hadn't been -out of my head, I never could have—loved him—a man. Didn't -you ever notice anything strange about me last summer, -honestly?" -</p> - -<p> -"I—I couldn't understand it, but—girls <i>do</i> fall in love. -Your father thought, though——" -</p> - -<p> -"What did he think?" she urged. -</p> - -<p> -"He sometimes thought you must be——" -</p> - -<p> -"Crazy! Did he say crazy?" She was eager to have that -lesser sentence passed on herself. -</p> - -<p> -"He <i>did</i> say crazy, but you know, Martha, how we say it. -Not meaning literally crazy." -</p> - -<p> -"No, but I <i>was</i> crazy. Look at the mess I got you into, -mother. What would we ever have done with that——" -</p> - -<p> -"We don't need to talk about that now. Don't mention it." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, we <i>do</i> need to talk about it. I AM a woman. I -WILL think about it. It isn't fair! It's cruel!" -</p> - -<p> -And on she raved, groaning out the old old groanings. Emily -sat overwhelmed and yearning, trying from time to time to ease -her hurt with the words of her happier experience. Her -arguments were less threadbare, having been used from the first -only by women who felt themselves tenderly loved. -</p> - -<p> -"It is hard luck to be a woman, if you're unlucky, Martha. -But if you're lucky, it's not women you're sorry for, but men." -</p> - -<p> -"How can you say that?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, they haven't children; they can't have children; they -miss that, the realest joy. After all, children do belong to -women. You belong to me more than to your father." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you think I don't see through that? I'm not a fool -NOW! I do belong to you. It's <i>you</i> I got into a mess. Dad -sits home, not worrying. And if he did know about it, he'd -blame you; he'd say you spoiled me. It's lovely to have a -child like me!" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't care, Martha. Whatever has happened to you—to -us—you've been my happiness all these years. I don't care -what you say, that's a fact. This time will pass, and we'll -be happy again. If you had a child, you'd understand." -</p> - -<p> -"If! Don't say 'if' to me! Haven't I had a child?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, you haven't. You certainly haven't!" -</p> - -<p> -"I certainly have! Look here, mother, don't you really think -I go crazy, that I've been crazy twice now? It's insane to be -hysterical! Maybe I'll go stark crazy and get put in——" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha! Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -They sat there till long after midnight. Emily argued that -what Martha had done was not a symptom of insanity. What, -then, was it, Martha demanded, sorely. And Emily explained -the brutal fact that nothing in life is so perplexing, so inexplicable -to look back upon, as one's own conduct. She found the girl -was full of the dread of publicity. "If he could get his wife -to divorce him because of—me, he'd tell her in a minute!" she -cried once. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, surely not!" expostulated Emily. She was on the point -of saying that Mr. Fairbanks would never allow that. Then -she remembered bitterly that Mr. Fairbanks had promised to -prevent—other things, and had not been able to keep his -promise. -</p> - -<p> -After all these dregs and outpourings, Emily took her into -her own bed, and realized, as she thought them over, that the -girl was lying sleepless beside her. What, she wondered, -wearily, was there left for her now? She had lost faith in her -lover and all mankind. She had lost faith in herself; she had -lost confidence and security from fear. But what she hated -most violently was her own self, that sweet little bathed and -powdered body which Emily had adored every day since her -birth. The flowering of her body, its natural fruitfulness, was -what she resented unto death. She was utterly undone. She -had to be made anew. It was a bitter task to take up. "I'm too -old for it," Emily thought. -</p> - -<p> -Martha rose in a business-like manner the next morning, -earlier than usual. Usually from their beds they saw the -schooner they had called their own because it had castellated -patches on its sail, move like a dream of a castle through the -misty distance. This morning they saw it together from their -place in the dining room. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to ask them to put a writing table in my room -this morning," Martha announced. And when they were walking, -later, she suggested that they go down to the little stores -on Main Street. She wanted, she said, to buy some paper. -</p> - -<p> -Emily was curious because of the quality and quantity of -paper she ordered. -</p> - -<p> -"What are you going to do with all that?" she asked, -naturally, as they left the shop. -</p> - -<p> -Then Martha made her announcement, grimly: "I'm going to -write a novel." -</p> - -<p> -Emily had supposed nothing could really surprise her ever -again. She found she had been mistaken. She was thoroughly -"taken aback." -</p> - -<p> -Martha was suspicious of her silence. "Why shouldn't I -write a novel?" she challenged. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, how can you? How can you begin? I'd as soon—why, -I'd as soon try to make a whole train!" -</p> - -<p> -"I can begin. Don't you worry! It's no trick to write a -novel!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well——" murmured Emily, unable to agree. -</p> - -<p> -"I made up my mind in the night; if nobody else will tell the -truth, I will! Girls will know a thing or two when they get -through with my novel, I'll bet!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily held her peace tightly. -</p> - -<p> -Martha went on defiantly: "I've got its name and everything. -I'm going to call it 'Blistered Women'—like 'Flaming Youth,' -you know, or else, 'Vomiting Love'!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you'll say 'Oh, Martha!' all right, when you read it! -They used to sit and lecture us about Romance and Realism -by the hour! It took them hours! Idiots! Why couldn't they -just say: Romance is what men think about 'affairs,' the -pigs; and Realism is what women know. Mine's going to be a -realistic novel!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily looked at her and repressed her sighs. She had on -that racoon coat and that small rosy hat. She strode along with -her chin up, defying anyone to stop her. -</p> - -<p> -After that morning Emily was free to do whatever she might -fancy. She might sit in the sun on the veranda and knit, or -she might sit on the end of the pier and watch the waves. She -might walk oyster-shell roads or sandy paths through turpentine -groves. No plan of hers could entice Martha away from -that writing table. She rose early, and she sat there day after -day from nine till one-o'clock lunch. When Emily ventured -occasionally to go into her room, she would see her writing -away, and often her mouth was screwed up into hatred. Her -face seemed to say that if scribbling could kill, there would be -wide slaughter—not of innocents. And sometimes she would -be writing savagely, with tears running down her cheeks. -</p> - -<p> -Emily might like this novel-writing—and sometimes she -thought it would do Martha good to get this resentment all out -of her mind, expressed in words—of she might disapprove—for -certainly Martha was working as she had never worked before -to Emily's knowledge—which couldn't be good for her -shattered nerves. But she was helpless. She knew if she -commanded Martha to stop it, Martha would refuse. She had a -call now; she had a mission in life. Somebody had to tell the -truth. And men, of course, didn't even know what truth was, -and they wouldn't tell it if they did know. Oh, they did make -her sick at her stomach! Emily had to register her protest at -times against Martha's description of what she was writing. -</p> - -<p> -"It's NOT a nice novel, I know that. I never intended it -should be; but I'll tell you right now, it's a lot nicer than things -are in this world, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -In February Bob began writing of their coming home. He -threatened—that was the word Martha used—to come down -and see them. Emily would have welcomed him; she was lonely -and unhappy. She said miserably to herself more than once -that what she needed was some wise and sympathetic person -with whom she might talk over Martha's plight. If Bob was -neither wise nor sympathetic, he was always solicitous and -tender at heart. And Martha was often irritable and -unreasonable, and sometimes unconsciously cruel. She seemed at -times to look upon her mother as one of the wrongs life had -done her. One afternoon they were standing together at the -end of the pier, looking at the opalescent sea and the flowery -clouds about the sunset. -</p> - -<p> -She had begun, apropos of nothing but her constant musings, -"Mother, wasn't there something funny about Grandma Kenworthy?" -</p> - -<p> -"Funny? No. What do you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"But she was terribly religious, wasn't she?" -</p> - -<p> -"She was—religious, certainly." -</p> - -<p> -"But wasn't she sort of fanatical?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, she wasn't! Don't you remember her? She was the -dearest old thing that I ever knew—the most companionable -woman." -</p> - -<p> -"But somebody told me—or, anyway, I heard she used to -pray, when she was poor, and she used to believe her prayers -were answered, too." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that doesn't prove she was—funny. You meant—not -quite right in her mind, didn't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. And people say—it's all sort of the same thing, being -too religious—or—you know—like me, mammie." -</p> - -<p> -"Martha! She was as sane as any woman! What could she -do but pray? She hadn't any health. She hadn't any money -for her little boys. All that woman went through—if she -hadn't had a strong mind, she would have gone crazy! She -must have been far better balanced than most women, let me -tell you. And look here, child——" -</p> - -<p> -"Well?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why do you go on thinking about insanity? Don't you -see you only did what every woman does? After all, every -woman who ever bore a child submitted to the preliminaries. -Didn't she, now?" -</p> - -<p> -"Preliminaries! My God, mother! How you do talk! -You're so high and holy you never know what I mean! Sometimes -I feel as if there was a gulf between us—a great wide -ocean!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -"I do. You can't understand, mammie, you're so good. I -don't know how you could have had a child like me!" -</p> - -<p> -That statement explained a good deal of Martha's conduct. -She had been acting exactly as if she had been acutely and -unhappily conscious of her separation from her mother, and -Emily tried to reason her out of it. -</p> - -<p> -"We are infinitely nearer each other than we were last -summer, child!" -</p> - -<p> -But that was an unfortunate way of putting it. "Oh, don't -say last summer to me, <i>please</i>!" Martha cried. -</p> - -<p> -A day or two later she announced, dryly: "There's no use -of my writing away at that novel. I don't know how. But -I'm going to learn how. It isn't so easy as I thought. I'm -going to start in at the University of Chicago the first of April. -I'm going to study English." -</p> - -<p> -She plainly wasn't asking permission; she wasn't going to -tolerate advice; she had made up her mind. And Emily, who -had been wondering what in the world to suggest for the -immediate future, was relieved. It might be a very good thing. -It would be so great a change of life; it would supply new food -for thought. She had not the vaguest idea that the novel would -ever come to completion. -</p> - -<p> -She said, "Well, that's an idea. But you must come home for -a few days, child! To get your things, at least." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I don't want to. You can send them to me, if I need -anything. I never want to go back to that house again as long -as I live!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, if you feel that way——" -</p> - -<p> -"You mean I ought to go back, so people won't talk, so -they won't suspect anything?" -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't mean any such thing! People don't suspect you of -anything. Get that idea out of your head!" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't see why they shouldn't!" she retorted, cynically. -She was so unhappy, so abrupt and almost brutal, that Emily -forgot her good resolutions, after she was in bed that night, -and just wept. She had to go home without her child. In -spite of all that she had planned to prevent such a climax, -Martha hated that house now more vindictively than her -mother had ever hated it. It wasn't Bob, either, that had driven -her away from it; it wasn't Bob that had alienated her from -her mother; it was just luck, it was fate. There was no appeal. -"It's because I stood by her through all this that she can't -stand the sight of me now!" Emily wept. "She's left me. -She's going to a hotel in Chicago alone, to get away from me." -</p> - -<p> -The day of their departure Martha was all but intolerably -irritable. Emily's patience was almost at an end. She wasn't -sure but that her daughter needed at this late date a thoroughly -good spanking; but she held her peace. It was fortunate -indeed that Emily had cultivated a good grasp on the peace of -her mind, for that day she clung to it desperately. And then -it nearly got away from her, more than once. However, as they -were getting into their train at New Orleans, Martha began, -abruptly: -</p> - -<p> -"Look here, mother, it does make me sore to have you act -as if I couldn't go to a hotel and take care of myself without -you. Don't you think I've learned my lesson yet? Do you -think I'm as much of a fool yet as I was last summer? What -can hurt a girl alone in a hotel but men? I'm as safe as if -I was in a desert, or locked in a cell. If all the men in Chicago -were on the bridge, and I got a chance, I'd push them into the -river, filthy little rats! I'd watch them sink. I should think -you'd understand that by now. But you've been good to me, -I know that. And if it will make you any happier, I'll go to -the Y.W.C.A. and stay there till I get a flat. Does that -satisfy you?" -</p> - -<p> -It was so magnificent a concession that Emily blinked. "Oh -yes, I think that would be much better. I'd like that, Martha." -</p> - -<p> -"All right, then. <i>I</i> won't like it; lots of old cats there; but -I don't want you to be worrying about me. I can take care of -myself, I should hope." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Eight</i> -</h3> - -<p> -Wherever Emily went, at home again, she was beset by -loquacious pilgrims returned from a winter in the South or in -the West. At every gathering of women, the hum and babble -held to that subject. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, my brothers have cleared three hundred thousand on -their Florida deals. And we're selling our house and leaving -in October. After all, as I said to John, what's the use of -slaving at housework in Illinois when you can get colored girls -in Florida to do your work?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I'd rather freeze scrubbing floors in Illinois than have -those horrid black women slopping around my house. Do you -know, Emily, what one of them actually said to me? There -were no knobs or handles or anything on the bureau drawers -in my room. Shiftless things! And when I protested, the -maid said: 'Well, you don't need no handles. Leave a stocking -hanging out, and give it a jerk and the drawer will come open.' I -wouldn't stay in that hotel a day longer. I just told Peter I'd -stood enough. That's why we went to Daytona." -</p> - -<p> -"I can tell you a place where everything isn't swimming in -cold grease. They have a Northern cook. Deliver me from -Southern fried cooking." -</p> - -<p> -"And I found that all the cream that was to be had was -shipped in from Kentucky. That's three or four hundred miles. -Imagine a town that has to ship in cream! They have to -paint their cows, or something, and it don't agree with them." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, if you'd gone to California in the first place. We've -got our rooms reserved for next year. The view is superb. -It scarcely rains at all there." -</p> - -<p> -"I never was so sick of glare in my life. I just thought, let -me get back to Illinois. That's good enough for me." -</p> - -<p> -"The trouble with them is, they won't tip enough. It pays -to hand out money, on the coast, to be comfortable." -</p> - -<p> -And then they would turn upon Emily, to insist gluttonously -upon details of Martha's health. She had acquired a skill in -suave evasion that surprised her continually. It had all worked -out very well, she would tell them. Martha was much better. -She hadn't her color back, but that would come. Of course, -Emily had thought it would have been better for her not to -go back into college so soon; but she was so ambitious. After -she had fallen behind her classmates in her college, she thought -she would stay nearer home, in Chicago. So lucky that they -had the quarter system in the university there. And if Martha -didn't seem able to do the work, Emily would take her out at -once. It was easier to keep an eye on her health if she studied -in Chicago, and she was living just now at the Y.W.C.A. No -one could detect a flaw in the Kenworthy respectability. "Why -should I suppose anyone suspects us of anything?" Emily asked -herself. "I've just got that habit from Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -She wanted every single passing day that spring to go and -see her daughter. And every day she had to remind herself -that her daughter was not anxious to be reminded of her folly. -Her letters were short and not frequent. And then she wrote -briefly that she had taken a room in an apartment of May -Bissel's. Emily pondered that information dejectedly. Martha -must be a very lonely girl if she had been forced back on to -May Bissel for comradeship, for certainly at home she would -have scorned her. -</p> - -<p> -She abased herself to seek out Mrs. Bissel, to make inquiry -about the news. Mrs. Bissel gushed and reassured her. May -hadn't an apartment alone. No, indeed! Her mother wouldn't -allow that, not for a moment. She and two other girls had a -sitting room and two bedrooms which they rented by the month -in the apartment of a grammar-school teacher. This Miss -Curtis used her kitchen from six-thirty until seven-thirty in the -morning, and allowed the girls to use it for their breakfast for -an hour after seven-thirty. They had their lunches and their -dinners out. Miss Curtis kept an eye on May. Not that May -tolerated any real chaperonage, of course, but Mrs. Bissel felt -always that, if May really got sick, or anything happened to -her, Miss Curtis would be there to let her mother know. Miss -Curtis was a thoroughly dependable woman, and she came from -a town in western Iowa where Mrs. Bissel's sister lived. -</p> - -<p> -And that was all the comfort Emily had. Every day she -said to herself time and again: "No, I must not go. She doesn't -want to see me; she told me so flatly." Finally—it seemed -finally—though it was only six low-spirited weeks after they -had parted in Chicago, Martha wrote and asked her mother to -come and see her. The letter was not affectionate; it was -scarcely cordial. Either Martha was ashamed of the way she -was treating her mother, or she was intolerably lonely. Emily -didn't know which. -</p> - -<p> -When she saw the place her daughter of the painted room -was living in, she marveled at her endurance. It was an apartment -building which had been got ready hastily and cheaply for -the Columbian Exposition. On the second floor front was a -muddily tempestuous living room which Martha shared with -the two girls. She showed it to her mother contemptuously. -"Imagine sitting in a place like this. The art student did -it—the one whose place I took. When they offer anybody a chair, -they dump its contents out on to the floor. They're simply -pigs." Out of this front room a tiny front bedroom opened, -which was Martha's. It was the most comfortable room in the -house. "I bought those curtains and the bedspread; but feel -them, mammie. They've been up three weeks now, and they're -grimy. That smoke comes in from across the street." She -spoke dispiritedly. Behind the living room was a bedroom with -one window which the two girls shared; behind that, off a dark -hall, another bedroom, rented to a "medic"; behind that, the -dining room where Miss Curtis lived; behind that, the kitchen. -It was only at second sight that the bathroom seemed disgusting. -It was all dark, smoke discolored, meager. -</p> - -<p> -Her work in the university wasn't bad, she said. She wrote -a theme every day, and it was good practice. She had to read -a lot of trash in her literature courses. "I have to read every -day a novel some silly flea or other wrote." (Males had been -pigs a few months ago in her estimation. They had shrunk -to rats, and now what less could they become than fleas? Emily -wondered.) "I don't finish them. I get too sick. They -revolt me. I tabulate them. Look, mammie!" She showed -Emily a large notebook. "Here's seventeen what they call great -novelists, and only two of them know anything, really. If they -show any signs of knowing the difference between men and -women, I put them in this column. 'Brass-tackers' I call them. -Funny they're both Russian, isn't it? All the rest of the idiots -are here." She had labeled them "Preliminaries," because they -think that's all there is to it. "Oh, mammie, you must read -<i>Crime and Punishment</i>. Dostoieffsky knew. That poor little -Sonia, mother! I'll lend you this. She just covered herself -up with a green shawl and shuddered when she came in. -You could just see her shudder, if you were in that room." But -in that room on Fifty-seventh Street no one saw Emily -Kenworthy shuddering. "And that!" Martha pointed scornfully -to a volume of Wells. "They make me read even <i>that</i> sort -of stuff. You wait till people read my novel; I'll bet you they'll -begin to see through those men. Why does Wells have all his -maternal women sort of freaks, or something, and all his -heroines not maternal? There's a reason, believe me!" -</p> - -<p> -"Are you still working on the novel?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha turned on her indignantly. "Well, I like <i>that</i>! What -did you think I was putting up with this filthy place for?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily suggested timidly at least occasional week-ends at -home. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't talk to me about that!" Martha pleaded. -</p> - -<p> -Emily went back thoroughly discouraged. Was that any -place of healing for the child? It was no change, if Martha -was to go on working on that volume of hate. She was as -hard as ever; she was thinner and she was yellow. All the -comfort Emily found was in saying over and over to herself -a line which had no connection in her mind with anything. -She thought vaguely perhaps it came from the Bible. "What -wound did ever heal but by degrees?" She tried often to think -of what followed; of another wording for it. It was that line, -which she felt she was not saying correctly, that she lived by. -And sometimes, there in her living room, she thought of -Mr. Fairbanks' unfortunate daughter. Her wound, he said, had -never healed; it had corrupted and poisoned her. "I spoiled -her," Emily would muse. "She's been taken away from me; -I've got to stand aside." And then she would say again, -because she couldn't help it, "What wound did ever heal but by -degrees?" -</p> - -<p> -She went on despising life. She would not desist from -protesting against it. She said, "If only Martha had quarreled -with Bob, I could go to her, sometimes. I could live with her -in Chicago. I don't suppose she will come back to this house -now, if I should die. I never thought she would hate both me -and the house. I must do something now, to keep from thinking. -I better adopt a child for a while. I ought to write and -ask somebody to come and stay with me this summer. There's -that old Miss Jenson; but Bob would never stand her. Or -we might do over all the rooms downstairs. If Martha would -only come and help me. But if she would come and help me, I -wouldn't need to do it! I believe I'll try hybridizing -hemorocalis. Or what in the world will I do? If only I had had a -house full of children! If Bob would only take an hour or -two off, now and then! I've got to settle down to this. I -mustn't fuss because Martha can't endure the sight of me. It's -my own fault. I spoiled her, some way. But I never meant -to! ... Thank God, it's time to clean house!" -</p> - -<p> -But now, as always, she entered that festival with no -high-hearted challenge to mess and accumulation. She followed -Maggie from room to room loyally but without enthusiasm. -The idea of leaving the abandoned painted room stagnant never -entered the head of the old servant. She attacked it so -furiously that Emily hadn't the heart to say to her that all her -burnishings would be futile. She shut its door at last with -the feeling of spineless hope she had when she looked, for -some justifiable reason, at the baby clothes she had folded away. -There they were, all ready at hand, in case she ever by some -good luck might need them again—not that there was much -hope, of course. She loitered along after Maggie into the next -battlefield. -</p> - -<p> -And then, when it was all done, when on the newly painted -veranda every summer chair had its freshest garments tied on, -Emily, being finished with dust, washed her hair one day and -dried it in the sun in the garden, remembering how Martha -always protested against the waste of time which so much long -thick hair took for drying. It seemed almost as if the spring -and weather, pleased with the way the brown hair rippled in its -dampness, laid a trap to catch the little girl who had played -in that garden. For then a shower came up, after noon, and -passed over, and the sun came out with a dazzling soft afternoon -brilliance. In the blossoming apple trees orioles were -calling, and robins were hopping about in the wet petals below -them. The grass was all young, and heavenly green, and the -air had a soft and glittering cleanness. It was an afternoon -to make even the dull feel that to forget its very quality was -to have lived in vain. Emily had played about in the garden -all the afternoon. She came into the house to get some labels -stowed away in a drawer in her desk. She sat down and -began sorting them—— -</p> - -<p> -And into the living room, bareheaded, laden with coats and -bags, walked Miss Martha. -</p> - -<p> -She came in quietly, as if it had been an ordinary coming. -She was bringing some one to her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"This is Miss Curtis, mother," she explained. "We drove -out. It was such a nice day. I suppose you can put us up? -Gee! It smells good here! How long till supper? We're -starved, mammie. Sit down, Miss Curtis, I'll bring the things -in myself!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily saw a large and flabby-looking woman, in a nondescript -tan-colored coat and a small black hat, who might have been -fifty. She pulled off her hat and apologized for the untidiness -of her stringy hair, and good reason she had for apologizing. -She had a rather fine square face; she had kindly eyes. But -the most impressive thing about her was her utter weariness. -</p> - -<p> -And Martha came in again, with more bags and parcels. -</p> - -<p> -"Can't we have asparagus for supper, if I go out and cut it?" -she asked. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Curtis was eager to get out into the garden. There -was not a moment to be lost. The immortal afternoon was -wearing away. They would only run up to their rooms. -</p> - -<p> -"Can I have the little guest room, mammie?" Martha had -asked. "I want her to have the big one." -</p> - -<p> -And presently there she was, just as if nothing had happened, -coming out of the house and down the path towards her mother -and Miss Curtis, under the willow tree, bareheaded and carrying -the very old colander and the very old knife she had used -for cutting asparagus ever since, as a little girl, she had been -allowed that privilege. -</p> - -<p> -"You've never eaten asparagus unless you've cut it," she -was explaining to her guest. "Ten minutes from the garden -to the kettle, that's when it's good, really." -</p> - -<p> -She was better, Emily said to herself. She was subdued; she -was thoughtful of her guest. She had ceased, for the moment, -to rail. She was showing Miss Curtis all the garden. The -asparagus had already been cut once that day, for Bob was -fond of it. But there was enough just for two. And this -warm rain would bring more on by to-morrow. And she took -what she had found into the house, and returned to show her -wild-flower bed. -</p> - -<p> -"Look what a little cultivation does for violets here. They -aren't really modest, under mossy stones. They're only starved. -They get swanky enough when you give them a place to grow," -she said. "And look at the Dutchman's breeches! And here's -my old jack-in-the-pulpit. And look at the peonies! Gee, -mammie! Mrs. Benton will be budding all over the county -before long." She made Miss Curtis admire her willow tree, -and the clear water gurgling along beneath it. -</p> - -<p> -"You're a glutton for education, Martha," Miss Curtis sighed, -"to be living with me in the city when you might be out here -at home!" And she went in to get ready for supper. -</p> - -<p> -Left alone for a moment with her mother, Martha stood -sniffling. -</p> - -<p> -"I had forgotten it smelled so good, so clean!" she said, -wistfully. "I simply hate Chicago. It's just sickening when spring -comes. Everybody goes out of town for week-ends. All the -teachers go down to the dunes, and bring nice little mossy things -back with them, mammie. That's why I came out here. They -wanted Miss Curtis to go with them; and she wanted to, too. -But she can't afford it; it costs two or three dollars, she says. -It would cost me ten!—to go away for a week-end. She's -such a good old dear, isn't she, mammie? I tried to get her to -go some place with me for the week-end. But she wouldn't -hear of me paying the bills. I did want her to get away. And -then she said I could come down and visit her school; and I did. -My God! mammie! If you could see that room of hers on a -spring afternoon. Close is no word for it. Smelling of all -the dirty little wops that have never been bathed in their lives. -All wiggling and squirming and wanting to get out of doors, of -course. I tell you I could hardly stand it for an hour. And to -see her sticking shut up in there, day after day, for six years! -It made me so mad! I just made up my mind to bring her out -here for the week-ends. That wouldn't cost her even the price -of a bed. I went and bought a car, and she hadn't an excuse left. -I'm going to put her to bed after supper. She's ready to -collapse. She had a chill the other evening, she was so done -up. We had to get the doctor. If you'd seen that room, you'd -wonder why she isn't dead. Isn't she a sort of nice old thing, -mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -"It is for this woman's sake she has come home," Emily -was trying not to think. "She never realizes <i>I'm</i> lonely. I'm -only her mother, after all!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure she needs a change, Martha. Are you still getting -her suppers?" -</p> - -<p> -"You wait till you see what a good cook I'm getting to be! -There is stuff you can get to eat for thirty cents, if you hunt -round. Oh!" exclaimed Martha Kenworthy. "There's dad -home. I heard the car stop," she sighed. -</p> - -<p> -In the living room she confronted him. -</p> - -<p> -"Hello, kiddo!" he cried. "You here?" He looked at -Emily, and then he grew cordial. He knew <i>he</i> couldn't have -made his wife's face shine so. "It's pretty good to see you -again!" He kissed her. "You drove down? Did you borrow -the car from the fire department? Whose is it?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's mine," said Martha. -</p> - -<p> -"No!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, it's mine." -</p> - -<p> -"Huh! I'd have given you one at wholesale." -</p> - -<p> -Emily knew Bob felt brutally slighted. If there was one -subject on which he might expect a daughter to ask his advice, -surely it was on the purchase of a car. Emily felt that, but -Bob never uttered one word of complaint. It was unexpected -nobleness of him. She knew why: he had been worried by her -dejection and loneliness. If having that girl at home made -Emily gay again, he was determined not to antagonize her. -</p> - -<p> -So peace reigned over the asparagus at the supper table. -Emily got the candles out, because Martha loved them. And -when the fragrant dusk deepened, it was Martha who rose to -light them, as usual. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't they make just a sweet light here?" she asked Miss -Curtis. She sat looking at them flickering; she watched the -shadows of them, and the way they lit up the apple-blossom -bouquet she had brought in. -</p> - -<p> -She studied the room wistfully. "I'd forgotten the dining -room was so large," she remarked. She seemed reluctant to -leave the candle-light when supper was over. So the three -women sat on; Martha sat with her elbows on the table, -dreaming towards the little flames, as she had always done, but -taking her part in the conversation thoughtfully. Her one -thought seemed to be for Miss Curtis's enjoyment. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Curtis was interested in Mrs. Benton, and Martha -rehearsed the history of the swimming park, with now and then -a twinkling comment, not spontaneous, a remark calculated to -entertain her guest, who questioned her. Emily occasionally -took her eyes from Martha's face long enough to glance at Miss -Curtis. Even dusk and twilight failed to make her interesting. -She looked now only like complete fag. But Martha was -mysterious, tantalizing to maternal interest. She was thin, still. -She was hushed; but she was steady. She was safe. Miss -Curtis wasn't sitting apprehensively waiting for outbursts of -bitterness. -</p> - -<p> -Martha had planned to drive Miss Curtis and her mother on -Saturday some distance down the river, and have a picnic. The -day was fine enough, but Miss Curtis found herself extremely -tired from her ride of the day before; besides, as she said, -the garden itself was a picnic for her; she would be content to -stay there for months. Martha had come downstairs that morning -dressed for the day, as soon as Bob had left the house, and -had proceeded to the kitchen, where she had got a tray daintily -ready for her guest; and she had carried it up to her as if she -had always been in the habit of preparing early breakfast for -people. Then she had carried an easy chair and cushions and -rugs out almost to the river; and in the sun she had prepared -a sleeping-place for their morning, where they could all three -watch the orioles in the apple trees, and Martha could lie -about on the grass, now and then exerting herself to dig up a -dandelion. In the afternoon Miss Curtis, with a book, slept -there, while Martha, putting in the later "glads" with her -mother, watched the untidy head nodding towards rest with -obvious satisfaction. When she woke, after a few minutes, she -recalled her duty. -</p> - -<p> -"Really, I ought to 'phone Mrs. Bissel that I'm here," she -told Martha. -</p> - -<p> -But Martha said: "We should worry. You can call her -up—next week—or the next time we're down." -</p> - -<p> -Emily heard that with satisfaction. She had known all the -day that Martha avoided even the front garden, where the -neighbors would the more surely learn of her return. It was -lucky, the way everyone happened to be too busy to "run in" -that Saturday or Sunday. -</p> - -<p> -When the unworthy red car drove away on Sunday afternoon, -both its passengers declared it had been a most successful -week-end. Emily understood why Martha could say that -truthfully. She had wanted Miss Curtis to enjoy it, and Miss -Curtis had enjoyed it, and that was enough justification for it. -It had been, in a way, a triumph for the house. Martha had -said she never wanted to see it again as long as she lived, and -she had seen it, not unhappily. She had even acknowledged its -dearness, she had stayed in the house with her father, and -she must have seen that when they both tried to, they could get -along without disagreement. She had promised, moreover, -chuckling over her success, to bring Miss Curtis back just as -soon as possible. Miss Curtis had asked her to, cunningly. -For Emily had taken Miss Curtis aside, and begged her, some -way, to get Martha out again soon for a week-end. Martha -needed the change so much, Emily had pleaded. Miss Curtis -had agreed to that. -</p> - -<p> -"And she won't leave that work of hers for a day, as you -know, unless she thinks she's doing you a great favor," Emily -had insisted. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Curtis was eager to do Mrs. Kenworthy whatever favor -she could. -</p> - -<p> -"Only get Martha to bring you down; bring her home some -way!" Emily had pleaded, not adding, "That's more than I -can do!" -</p> - -<p> -So for four week-ends the unequal pair arrived. Martha -brought all sorts of treats out for her guest, thick steaks and -expensive chocolates. "I'm not going to have you doing it -all, mammie!" she had answered to Emily's protests. She was -always in the kitchen now, helping Maggie. Emily understood -that the kitchen was the part of the house least tainted by -memories. She was still rising to take breakfast up to Miss -Curtis. Emily scarcely ever got her to stay late in bed, -although she was herself distressingly thin and yellow. -</p> - -<p> -From Sunday till Friday Emily spent every free moment -thinking over all that her daughter had said, all the expressions -of her face; all the gestures of her significant little hands. -It had been impossible, of course, for Martha to avoid -her old friends altogether. She received them patiently, -gravely. "That poor old thing's got to have these days in -the country," her manner seemed to her mother to say, "so I -just have to put up with these silly, giggling girls for her -sake." She felt separated from them by a great distance; she got on -better with people of Miss Curtis's age, even with Mrs. Benton. -That neighbor was showing Martha unusual attention. Emily -couldn't help wondering if Mrs. Benton was coming to wish -Martha would marry her boy. Why should she have made a -point of showing Martha's guest such kindness? She had a little -lunch in her honor. Emily marveled to see how Martha seemed -to belong to that tableful of women in their forties. Mrs. Benton -wanted Miss Curtis to come out for the annual opening -of the beach. She suggested that Martha take a class of -little girls who wanted to learn dancing during the summer. -</p> - -<p> -At that suggestion Martha announced flatly that she wasn't -going to be home for the summer. She had decided to go on -studying during the summer quarter. "I lost such a lot of -time last winter, when I wasn't well, that I've got to make it -up," she announced, seriously, looking straight and frankly -at Mrs. Benton. -</p> - -<p> -This zeal for education led Cora Benton to say later to -Emily, "You ought to be thankful Martha wants to study all -summer." And she gave such a sigh that Emily said, quietly: -</p> - -<p> -"What's the news from Johnnie? When's he to be home?" -</p> - -<p> -"He's flunked. He isn't going to get his degree. He's not -coming home!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Cora, that's too bad!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I was prepared for it. Charles Fenton got a traveling -scholarship. I wish you'd spread the news, Emily. I don't -enjoy announcing it, especially." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well, Cora." -</p> - -<p> -"I knew you'd say that." -</p> - -<p> -"What else can I say?" retorted Emily. -</p> - -<p> -"I know it. There isn't anything to be said; but people will -find enough to talk about, you know that." -</p> - -<p> -"Has he got a job?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes; that is—a sort of a job." Her voice forbade even -friendly inquiry. -</p> - -<p> -Martha said, when Emily told her of it, "I bet he's gone into -the movies." -</p> - -<p> -Emily was annoyed by her cynical comment. -</p> - -<p> -"Why should you think Johnnie's gone into the movies!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, it would be just like him; and he's got such lovely -ears. People who can move their ears the way he can never -have nice ones, really. Or else he's playing baseball, or rubbing -them down, or something." -</p> - -<p> -Later Emily ventured timidly to protest against Martha's plan -for the summer. Although in Miss Curtis's quieting presence -Martha never railed, still, when she was with her mother alone, -there came forth at times spurtings of molten resentment and -red-hot bitterness against the nature of things in general, and -her nature in particular, so that Emily was never sure what -the effect of her words might be. On this occasion Martha -turned upon her quickly, in a manner which cried, "Get thee -behind me, Satan!" -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose you want me to give up my novel altogether! It's -not so easy as I thought. I've started to do it all over. I didn't -even know what form was, when I began. It's all out of -proportion! And you want me just to loaf. If I don't tell the -truth about things, who's going to, I'd like to know? Do -you think I'm going to let all these idiots that call themselves -realists just go on spoofing girls, and never say a word to -them? I'm going to have it all done by Christmas, and send it -to some publisher." -</p> - -<p> -One day the second week of July she called Emily up from -Chicago by 'phone. Could she bring Miss Curtis and a little -niece down for a week or two? Could she, indeed! When -Emily told Bob about that 'phone message, he looked at her. -She thought it pitiful that he should say with exaggerated -eagerness: -</p> - -<p> -"Good! That's fine, Emily." -</p> - -<p> -Emily thought at first sight that Saturday morning, that -the child was quite as commonplace as her aunt. She was -inclined to be fat; she was shy; she had a featureless little -soft face, and blue eyes, and brown bobbed hair and a husky -voice; but by noon Emily loved her. Her disposition evoked -admiration. She had a way of going suddenly to her aunt and -kissing her heartily, that was very spontaneous and endearing. -Without warning, as they all sat at the dinner table, she rose -from her place and went and threw her fat arms about Miss -Curtis's neck and gave her a resounding kiss, as though it -was the only thing to do, and then quietly went back to her -chair. Bob was amused by her lack of self-consciousness; and, -during dessert, he acquired quite suddenly an admiration that -was all but awe for Miss Curtis. -</p> - -<p> -She had happened to say that she had never, as a matter of -fact, been so well at the end of a school year. -</p> - -<p> -"But of course I was never so well taken care of in my life." She -was speaking towards Emily. "Never in my life, before, -Mrs. Kenworthy, have I happened to—be living—so that -anybody brought my breakfast to me in bed. That's never -happened to me before." It wasn't a complaint; it was merely a -fact, stated impersonally. -</p> - -<p> -Emily knew perfectly what she meant, but she had to ask -the question to enlighten Bob. -</p> - -<p> -"Your colored girl comes early, then, now?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Not the colored girl; this little white girl," she said, indicating -Martha affectionately. "This girl simply bosses me about -I don't dare to get up and get my breakfast, in my own house." -</p> - -<p> -Martha said: "Oh, that's nothing. Mother always did that -for me." -</p> - -<p> -Emily saw that Bob was on the point of crying, "My God!" She -blessed him for refraining. -</p> - -<p> -But afterwards he said to her: "Well, you wouldn't think it, -to look at her, but there's something in that woman, Emily; -she's a great woman! I didn't suppose anybody in the world -could get that girl up in the morning. Don't you think the -kid's sort of different?" -</p> - -<p> -"Improved, you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, yes, I guess so." -</p> - -<p> -"She's found somebody who needs her help. She always -was a tender-hearted child, and she's sorry for Miss Curtis. -She just about runs her flat for her." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I hope she'll stick around awhile. She'll do the kid -good." -</p> - -<p> -Emily was on the point of retorting, "She does you good -yourself!" for Bob's somewhat tentative forebearance was in -part due to the stranger's presence. When there had been -young girls at the table, Bob could "roast" Martha and them -all together in one breath. And Martha, who had established -herself as a protector and commander of a woman like Miss -Curtis, couldn't act like a baby before her when she was with -her father. Emily was beginning to see that Miss Curtis, -pretending to be so docile, managed Martha by means of the -slightest little hints of ridicule. By one smile she could take -all the wind out of Martha's naughty sails. -</p> - -<p> -Emily was moved by the grave and tender manner in which -Martha took charge of the child, to relieve the aunt. She had -told her on the way down that there was in her mother's house -a rainbow room prepared for little girls, so that the child went -into it eagerly, and accepted it as gravely as Martha gave it to -her. Its builder and maker opened all its drawers and -cupboards, displayed the electric stove and the fudge-making -dishes. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Curtis was on the point of expressing surprise that -she hadn't seen the room before. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, we keep it locked; we never show it to anybody. It's -too awful. Mother let me have it done over to suit myself, -and I can't endure the sight of it!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I don't know; I think it's—rather—a nice room—after -you've looked at it a little." -</p> - -<p> -Emily was there. She felt Martha was annoyed for the -moment by her presence. -</p> - -<p> -She said, "It's a lovely room; it grows on you." -</p> - -<p> -"If I was you I'd have it papered, mammie. Make it into -a good guest room." -</p> - -<p> -"I will not!" said Emily, emphatically. Did Martha suppose -she would just agree to the idea that there should be no -daughter's room any longer in the house? -</p> - -<p> -"I'm afraid Ruth might spoil something, Martha. You don't -mean to let her turn your stove on. Ruth, don't do that!" -</p> - -<p> -"She can't hurt anything. The first day it rains I'll show -her how to make candy up here, or maybe we'll cook a little -supper up here and invite your aunt and my mammie." And -Martha smiled gravely at the happy child. "Nice days like -this it's better to play out in the yard. I'm going to show -you how to make a beautiful kind of a playhouse out there." -</p> - -<p> -They were running in and out of the house, collecting their -house-building material. They were up in the tree. Emily -could have imagined that Jim Kenworthy was playing there in -the garden with his little niece. For, after a little, four pieces -of rope came dangling down from certain limbs of that tree. -Presently they were weighted down taut by four bricks tied -to them, just missing the grass. These ropes were the four -corners of the house. In a few minutes the walls of old sheets -were being safety-pinned into place. And a fifth taut rope -came down for the side of the door. And the rag rugs were -being spread on the grass inside. "And where are those old -little chairs, mammie? Where are my old things? Where's -my little table been put?" They were running up and down -from the attic, dustily. At dinner time Ruth was more -talkative than ever before. Nobody else knew how to build as nice -playhouses as Uncle Jim, she told her auntie as they sat down. -He had invented that kind of playhouse. -</p> - -<p> -"Uncle Jim who?" asked Bob, suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -Ruth looked blank. "I don't know Uncle Jim who," she -said. "I just mean Martha's Uncle Jim." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," said Bob. He looked at her keenly. He looked at -Emily. "Funny," his face seemed to say, "to hear this child -of a stranger talking about Jim." -</p> - -<p> -Ruth babbled on. She seemed to know a surprising lot about -Uncle Jim. She had appropriated him along with the painted -room and the playhouse. After lunch she took Bob by the -hand and led him out to see it. -</p> - -<p> -Emily hoped Martha saw the two of them walking down -the path together. The sight some way made her think of Bob in -the graveyard on Decoration Day—standing looking at the -tombstone he had erected there for his beloved brother. In -spite of Emily's protest he had engraved on it: "In -memory also of his son James Kenworthy, 1903-1918—who -died an unnecessary death, alone and unafraid." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Benton, of course, had been in and seen Ruth. At -once she had given orders to the guard that the child was to -have special swimming lessons. And she was at the beach -with her aunt, the fourth day of their visit, when Martha, -having driven Emily about the town on some errands, turned -the car towards the country. -</p> - -<p> -"I want to tell you something, mammie!" she had said. -</p> - -<p> -Emily was gratified that Martha cared to talk to her alone, -for although she had been polite, always when Miss Curtis was -there, she had been distant. Now she chose a road little -traveled, and, settling down to drive slowly, she burst abruptly -into intimacy. -</p> - -<p> -"Mother, I want to tell you something! It's the most surprising -thing you ever heard in your life! You won't believe -it!" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course I will." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, guess who Ruth <i>is</i>! <i>Guess</i>, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -"Why? Isn't she Miss Curtis's brother's child?" -</p> - -<p> -"She's Miss Curtis's own child. She's her mother, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily was dazed. She murmured her incredulity. -</p> - -<p> -"I <i>told</i> you you wouldn't believe it! You could have knocked -me down with a feather when she told me. Did you ever -hear of such a thing in your life? It's too funny, mother. -Why did we take so to each other, in the first place? Why did -she understand me so? Because she'd been through the same -hell herself! It's too strange!" -</p> - -<p> -"Why Martha! How old is she?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know how old she is, exactly. I don't think she's -more than thirty-five. She kept the child with her for four -years; then she had to have more money, and she came to -Chicago to teach, and left her there, not at her own house, -but in Iowa. She was a very delicate child, and she couldn't -leave her and go teaching, with just anybody. She has an -awfully good home for her, and she's going to bring her to -Chicago when she starts high school, if she keeps well. -Imagine, mammie! It makes me boiling mad when I think of -that woman slaving away to support that child, and some -damned man running around not caring. Isn't she magnificent, -mammie? Being good to all those dirty kids in her school! -That's why she never has a cent to spend; that's why she eats -thirty-cent suppers. And when I think how I came along, -and just took care of her and helped her all I could, not knowing, -I could just sing! You see those dresses Ruth has got? I -bought them all for her; she had only—sort of plain little -things, and not enough. They had to be washed out. Makes -me so mad to think about it." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Martha, how—how did you find this out?" -</p> - -<p> -"She <i>told</i> me herself. You see—she wouldn't say what she -was going to do when her school was out, at first. She sort -of hung off—she wouldn't say who was coming into the flat, -or when she'd rented it for. Then when I insisted on staying—the -other girls were leaving—she said she wanted to keep it a -few days, because she was having company from the country. -I knew she was tired out, so I said I'd help her entertain them. -I'd drive them around. But she didn't want me to. I thought, -maybe, they were—sort of funny country people, or something. -And, anyway, she didn't intend having any real vacation. She -said she was going to spend her vacation with her sister, whose -husband has T.B. of the bones, and she has a whole family -of children, and she does her own washing and everything. -Miss Curtis was going to take care of that man sick in bed, -and of the kids, and give her sister a rest. That's just like her, -mother. And I just put my foot down and said she had to -come here and have a few days' rest herself first. And then -she hummed and hawed, and said her niece wanted to come -and see Chicago. And then, when all the girls were gone, she -told me. She said, 'She's my very own child, Martha.' Just -like that! I'd begun to suspect something funny by that time; -and even then I thought maybe she had adopted her or something. -I couldn't believe it. How could I believe that of a -woman like Miss Curtis? And then, mammie, I wish you'd -have seen those two when Ruth got there. They just sat down -together and cried for joy! You know me, mammie; I'm not -sentimental, but I went into my room and cried my eyes out -when I remembered how they looked at each other!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of all things!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes! To <i>think</i> that I found her! She said once to me -that she'd lived in that flat with students for six years, and -she'd never let anybody share her meals with her but me. She -doesn't make friends easily—naturally. We understood each -other; I didn't know why, of course! And I suppose the reason -she talked to me about all her relations so much was so I -wouldn't suspect she was hiding anything! Think what she's -been through, mammie! Ruth doesn't live near her people, you -know. They're in Iowa. They must know about her, of -course, but apparently she doesn't take Ruth to them. She -just goes out there to see her, or takes her some place. And, -mammie, that family that keep her, they love her; they want to -adopt her; they do everything for her. Miss Curtis won't be -jealous of them, but they have her nearly all the time. My -God! Mammie, when I think of it! She can always come -here, can't she, mammie? We can be friends to her, mammie!" And -when Martha turned to her mother her eyes were swimming -with tears. "Think of that child's future! Isn't she a -sweet little thing? She doesn't do very well in school; she's -so happy, she's lazy. Miss Curtis says she absolutely refused -to bring her here until I told her Mrs. Bissel and May had -gone to the lakes." -</p> - -<p> -"Of course she can come here! We'll make a home for -Ruth here!" -</p> - -<p> -"But we can't do much, mammie. Miss Curtis is so independent, -I can hardly manage her. You see, she won't accept -anything from me, hardly. But she can't refuse to let me get -Ruth things. I got her that doll, of course. I'd like to get -hold of that child's father a little while! I bet I'd put the fear -of God into him! Mammie, I can't tell you how worked up I've -been over this, this last week. When I look at that woman, I -just sort of shiver with admiration. She breaks me up so. -Isn't she sporting? Isn't she a brick? Look what she is and -what she's been through! I look at her and wonder if there's -anything in the world a woman can't do! And like as not the -school board will find it all out, some day, and fire her! I'm -never going to lose track of that child; I'm going to keep -friends with her! Mammie, I've been—excited all week! I -had to tell you! It seems too strange!" -</p> - -<p> -"It does seem too strange," Emily repeated. -</p> - -<p> -"By heck! what a novel I'm going to write! This—sets -me up; this eggs me on so! I'm going to change a lot of it; -I'm going to make it hotter!" -</p> - -<p> -"Does Miss Curtis know about the novel?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. She knows I'm writing it; but she doesn't know why." -</p> - -<p> -Emily marveled; she kept on marveling. She was as -excited as Martha was the next few days. She had to keep -from looking at Miss Curtis too intently; that woman had -become almost too poignantly interesting. It was as if she -was living Emily Kenworthy's life and Martha's. It seemed -impossible to believe Martha's story. Miss Curtis was -unromantic, so dull, so sensible. She seemed almost stupidly -passionless—except when the child came running to her. And -when Emily saw her draw little Ruth to herself, and push her -fringe of hair away from her forehead, and look at her, she -had to believe that Martha had stumbled upon the truth of -the situation. The woman, undoubtedly, was maternity itself. -Had she some way guessed what Martha had been through, -and told her this secret for some unselfish purpose? Could she -have loved some one beyond all reason? How had she managed -to hide her shame? How had she endured the pity and -the jeerings of the secure and holy? Emily found herself in -Martha's state. She quivered with curiosity and reverence, and -a desire to befriend those two. Could that woman be living -in fear that some day when her secret would become known, -she would be without a means of earning her living? "I must -pretend not to be very much interested in her!" Emily kept -saying. But she understood why Martha had felt so lifted up -by her discovery. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Nine</i> -</h3> - -<p> -Mrs. Benton stepped in for a minute one afternoon, on -her way home. "Where's Bob?" she asked, cautiously. -</p> - -<p> -"He's gone downtown." -</p> - -<p> -"I just thought I'd tell you about Johnnie. He's going to -be home in about three weeks, I think, or maybe four. So -it would have to come out, anyway. Do you know what he's -doing this summer?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. You didn't tell me." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, he got a job as a steward on a boat going to South -America; a steward, Emily. Carrying coffee around on a little -tray; and from there he went to Hong-Kong on some sort of -a ship." -</p> - -<p> -"Goodness! What a lot of the world he's seeing!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes; carrying coffee into women's staterooms, and they -won't have their hair combed!" -</p> - -<p> -"Still, he's seeing the world! How did he get the job?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't know. Went with some of his boon companions -to New York, and there was a strike, and they just got jobs -and went away. He didn't wait to ask my advice, of course." -</p> - -<p> -Emily hesitated. -</p> - -<p> -"What's he planning to do next year?" -</p> - -<p> -"He won't be planning anything. I'm planning to have him -go back and get his degree. I'm going to my sister's for a -little rest before he gets home." -</p> - -<p> -"You haven't been away at all all summer." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, if I'm going to manage the beach, I've got to be on -the job. You haven't been away, either." -</p> - -<p> -"I couldn't think of leaving Bob." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Benton's glance spoke disagreeing volumes. -</p> - -<p> -A month later, Emily met Johnnie with his mother coming -out of the post office. Just the same old Johnnie, happy-go-lucky -and careless, grinning and frank. The Orient had conferred -upon him no subtlety, Spanish America had taught him -no guile. A small chance they had had, to be sure. A longer -one would have been as ineffective. He came to see Emily -that same day. She looked at him curiously, envying him his -experience. To have smelled China! to have blinked at Brazil! -</p> - -<p> -All he said was: "Sure I had a good time; I earned my own -living, anyway. And there's no garbage can in the world I -can't eat out of now, after what I lived on across the Pacific. -When's Martha to be home?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily didn't know. She gave him, rather reluctantly, her -address. -</p> - -<p> -He drove up to Chicago the next day, in the new car his -mother had ordered as soon as he left Hong-Kong for San -Francisco. Cora Benton said he had gone to see Martha, she -felt sure, because he refused to take her with him. But -what happened when their children met neither mother knew. -Presently Johnnie went back East to college, driving the new -car. Mrs. Benton said she really didn't need it. She wasn't -well, and she was going to California early, for all the winter. -Her tone implied that the town would just have to worry along -without her as best it might. She hated, she said, having the -children's Christmas party in the hall fall through. -</p> - -<p> -Emily was drawing all the comfort about her that she could -get from the fact that she was still, at any rate, with Miss -Curtis, when Martha wrote that she had left her flat. She had -got a better place in the apartment of a woman doctor in the -neighborhood. The announcement upset whatever peace of -mind Emily had achieved. Could Martha have quarreled with -her friend? A woman doctor, Emily would have thought, was -the last person she would have taken up with. There came a -dull day when she said to herself that she didn't care whether -Martha wanted her or not, she was going to Chicago to see -where she was living. -</p> - -<p> -But in the train her heart grew heavier. Martha had said -distinctly that she had no room for company. She must have -written that to warn her mother not to come investigating. -This doctor person wasn't one you could just disturb. So -Emily shopped all the afternoon, dispiritedly. Once she tried -in vain to get Martha by 'phone. She sat in Field's tea-room an -hour, determined not to go back home without seeing her -child, yet dreading to find herself unwelcome. That would be -more than she could endure. She felt tears coming into her -eyes, at length. "I can't stay here and make a fool of myself!" -she thought, angrily. She went down to the street into the -darkness and got into a taxicab. And, after a long time, during -which Emily commanded herself repeatedly not to be silly, the -taxi stopped in front of a very smart new apartment house. -</p> - -<p> -Emily announced herself up the speaking tube meekly, half -expecting a rebuff. "This is Martha Kenworthy's mother. -Is Martha in?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ho!" cried an exuberant voice in surprise. "Wait a -moment!" -</p> - -<p> -Some one was running down the stairs to show her the way -up. Emily was conscious of a richly carpeted hall, a large gay -room, a stunning seal-brown frock on a woman as large as -herself, with a fine head, a high color, a heart-warming sort -of person of great vitality. -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Kenworthy! Do come in! I know all about you. -Sit down. I'm Isobel Stevenson. No, Martha isn't here just -now; I'll 'phone her. She's getting dinner at Miss Curtis's. -I am glad to see you; I've been curious about you, after all I've -heard." -</p> - -<p> -She picked up the 'phone from a desk in the room, asked for -the number without looking it up, and went on talking all the -time she waited for her connection. -</p> - -<p> -"Jennie Curtis told me all about you, of course, about your -husband and the garden. I'd like to take her home for week-ends -myself, but it's too far. She doesn't stand driving -well.—Hello, Martha! Your mother's here.... I said your -mother.... Why didn't you tell me she was coming? ... Never mind, -drop it. Come on over.... Well, come and have supper with -me. Tell Jennie to come.... Of course she'll come. Tell her -I said she was to come.... Leave a note for her, then.... -Oh, put them in water and let them stand till to-morrow; or -bring them along and cook them here.... She told me Martha -bought that car just to take her out home with. That's some -girl of yours, Mrs. Kenworthy. Of course, Jennie Curtis is -pure gold, but you don't often get a girl of Martha's age who -knows gold when she sees it. She came over the other day -and asked me to take Martha in till my friend comes back." She -had seated herself near Emily, who had not had a chance -to say one word. She pointed now with a large gesture at -the pictures on the walls, the interesting-looking things which -Emily had only vaguely realized were about her. "I live here -with a friend who travels a great deal. All these things are -hers, really. So I took her in, just to please Jennie. And I -must say I like her. She's an awfully nice girl for her age. -I find her companionable. But tell me, Mrs. Kenworthy—there -isn't much time; she'll be here in a minute—hasn't she -had some sort of affair, some disappointment, or something?" -</p> - -<p> -The fact that she paused for an answer was as surprising -as the question she had asked, professionally, as it were. Her -praise of Martha, her vigor, the richness of the setting, her -friendliness, all of it was so contrary to Emily's mood and -expectations that she was overwhelmed. She felt tears coming -into her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes!" she cried. "And you're a doctor. Do something -for her. She's been through—terrible things; she's so young!" -</p> - -<p> -"I knew it!" said the doctor, complacently. "I knew it the -first time I really talked to her. But she's getting over it; she -don't need any help; she's got stuff in her. Don't you worry." -</p> - -<p> -"No," murmured Emily, "I'm not worried, of course. I—I'm -tired, I guess. I—can't—I—may I go and wash my face? -I don't know what made me—do this." -</p> - -<p> -Emily was shown into Martha's bedroom. A white-tiled -bath opened off it. No comfort was lacking in that bedroom, -which seemed to have aspired originally to feminine austerity. -Martha's familiar things made it homelike. And in that room -Martha found her mother, before Emily had had time to -powder her nose. -</p> - -<p> -Martha's greeting was warmer because of those tears. -</p> - -<p> -"What on earth's the matter, mammie?" she said, hugging -her. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming? You've -been crying! What's the matter?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily's impulse was to shout out the truth. "I've been so -lonely for you, so worried about you!" But she said, instead: -"Oh, nothing's wrong. I just got—bored. I—just felt—I -couldn't stay in that house a minute longer! I just had to get -away or shriek." Emily had heard women say things like that. -Unwittingly she had touched Martha deeply. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, you poor old thing! I always knew you must feel -that way, living with—in that house. But you'd never -acknowledge it. How did you find this place? Quite an apartment, -isn't it? I was sick of a rooming house! Have you seen the -doctor?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." -</p> - -<p> -"She seemed pleased, didn't you think so? She didn't look -annoyed. I was told I couldn't have company here. It isn't -often——" -</p> - -<p> -The doctor was there with them. -</p> - -<p> -"We're going to have a spread, Martha! The maid's out. -You go and get the lettuce, get two heads, get good ones; and -some whipping cream; and some bronze chrysanthemums. Oh, -it's no trouble, Mrs. Kenworthy! I feel just like it to-day. -The time and place and the loved ones to bother. If you can't -get the chrysanthemums, get some—something that color. And -hurry back." -</p> - -<p> -The doctor had on a white apron, and the kitchen had made -her cheeks rosier. She set Emily down to rest for a little in -the interesting living room. Miss Curtis came in, and was -ordered to sit and talk to her. But every minute or two the -doctor came in from the kitchen, and with her a flood and -whirlpool of words. Emily scarcely had a chance to say a -word all that evening; but the house excited her until her color -was almost as bright as the doctor's. -</p> - -<p> -Everything on the dining table was like the hostess. The -table mats were of a strong and superior unbleached linen; the -vivid dishes called aloud for admiration; the candle-light was -flattering. Emily sat excitedly studying the doctor. Whoever -put herself into that woman's care would never afterwards -dare to call either body or soul her own. But if she was -high handed, she was also high hearted. She talked almost -without ceasing; and whatever little thing she talked of, she -enjoyed so merrily that the three women watching her, shared -her delight to some extent. And when she laughed a hearty -laugh, every time Emily thought surprisedly: "What a good -time I'm having! This is the best possible place for Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -"Did you ever taste any sort of canned meat as good as -this chicken in your life? Lobster simply isn't in it! It's -fatted calf for me. My mother keeps me in it; but I never -open a jar when I'm alone; I'm not <i>that</i> selfish, anyway. -Cold pack, of course, as you know, Mrs. Kenworthy. We had -a family scrap about it the last time I went home. My sister -Isobel—she's an awful woman as far as she can manage to -be—she said to me, 'Now look here, Isobel' (she's always -trying to boss me around), 'you can just find a deadly germ in -canned chicken. I'm not going to have mother worried to -death canning chicken for you to guzzle any longer. She's -too old, and so are you. You can just tell her you've got -poisoned by it and you aren't going to eat it any longer.' 'I'll -be damned if I'll find a deadly germ in it,' I told her. 'If you -don't want mother doing it for me, you can do it yourself.' After -all you can't just stand your relations imposing on you -forever, can you? Not if you have as many as I have! I -just made an announcement then and there. My fees for -removing appendices are canned fat chicken, and those -strawberry preserves they make in the sun so they keep the right -color of red. I'm not going to eat city chickens that have been -shut up in a little coop on Fifty-seventh Street. I want -contented hens that have crowed in the barns I have played in. -Nice sunny barn doors! Don't you love barn doors on spring -days when all the hens are cackling? What do I practically -keep a bed in the Presbyterian Hospital full of my fifty-two -first cousins for, anyway, if I have to eat canned salmon on -occasions of haste? There are limits to my patience. What -are you snickering at, Martha? That's not a pun!" -</p> - -<p> -With such banalities she kept them aroused, expectant. -There was no constraint; no one of the three was thinking of -something amusing to say; each knew very well she would have -no chance to say anything amusing, however well prepared she -might be. The doctor never ceased for a minute. -</p> - -<p> -Finally she folded up her tongue for the night and left -them together there. -</p> - -<p> -"Is she always like that?" Emily murmured. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no, I don't think so. I don't know her very well. I -never had a meal here before. You've made a hit with her, -mammie! She sort of owns Miss Curtis. Maybe she took -care of her through—THAT—or something. Anyway, Miss -Curtis told her about you, and that's why she asked you to stay -here. Of course, she just took me in because Miss Curtis has -been fussing about me studying in the kitchen ever since she -saw our house. She's made up her mind—the doctor has—that -Miss Curtis has got to put those girls out, when she can, -because they're so thoughtless about her, and everything, and -that I'm to have those front rooms and do them over to suit -myself. She bosses everybody around. I guess she thinks -she's got a lot more sense than most people, and so she ought -to tell them where to get off. You can see why she's got such -a practice. Can't you just see her sailing into somebody's -sick-room with her tail up, that way, and making them wild -to get up and be strong as a horse, like she is? Miss Curtis -says she's the only woman who ever got through medical school -and got a practice without losing her color. She doesn't pay -very much attention to me. She's busy, 'most always. Sometimes -she gets to talking about some interesting case, and goes -on half the night. I never get a word in edgewise. I just -listen." -</p> - -<p> -Emily, as she lay waiting for sleep, said to herself: "Well, -if horrible things happen to us when we don't expect them, -so do lovely things. If I'd searched this city over for two -friends for Martha, I'd never have found any equal to these -two. The doctor's just a clean gale blowing through Martha. -She'll clean out her mind; she'll do for her what I never could. -Why should I want to do everything in the world that's done for -her? Why can't I be satisfied to see those women helping her -along?" -</p> - -<p> -She went back to her home more happy about Martha than -she had been for months. Mrs. Benton had already gone East -and it promised to be a quiet winter for club-women in general -The one great event of it was to be the annual Christmas party -for children. Mrs. Benton had instituted the custom the winter -before, the first year of the new dance hall. She had given a -splendid party that once. She left a committee behind her to -try to follow her example. -</p> - -<p> -They were discussing it at lunch. Emily had realized that -the women across from her were talking about ways of finding -good jobs for girls who had to leave high school, when -Mrs. Bissel leaned across towards her and asked: -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Kenworthy, by the way, what's this new job Martha's -got? What's she planning to do?" -</p> - -<p> -There were four women who might be supposed to be listening -in that pause with more or less curiosity for Emily's reply. -</p> - -<p> -She had heard nothing of Martha's job. She smiled. "Oh, -I don't know," she replied, lightly. "I don't think it's -anything very—purposeful." -</p> - -<p> -"But do you approve of her leaving the university to take -it up?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily had heard not a hint of Martha leaving the university. -She must have left in the middle of a quarter. -</p> - -<p> -She said, "Not altogether." She shrugged her shoulders. -"I'm afraid her heart's never really been in the university. -I wish she could have gone on, in her own college, with her -own class. But I do think girls of her age have to decide -these things for themselves." -</p> - -<p> -She left the meeting early. She had a notion to go straight -to Chicago. What job could Martha possibly have got? And -why? And had she left her two good friends? And did she -mean deliberately to hurt her mother's feelings by having her -learn this through Mrs. Bissel? "Perhaps," thought Emily, -longingly, "she's taking somebody's place for a few weeks. -Perhaps just at Christmas; perhaps the doctor's office girl has -got ill, or something. I expect she's helping some one. And -she's been too busy to write. I ought to do some Christmas -shopping. I'll go up to-morrow and 'phone her, at least. I'll -see for myself what's she into." -</p> - -<p> -And after supper Martha called her by 'phone. The connection -was poor. Some operator had to relay the unsatisfactory -message. All that Emily understood was that Martha -would meet her for tea the next day at the usual place. -</p> - -<p> -But the next afternoon Martha led her to a new-found tea-room -in an office building—a remote place, one secure corner -of which the two of them had quite to themselves. Emily had -to feel her way towards her daughter carefully, for she saw at -once that Martha was in an evil mood. Around her eyes were -the hollows and shadows of tears. -</p> - -<p> -She began directly: "I got a job; I didn't write you—because -I've been too blue. I've just felt like crying my eyes out -every minute the last week. I just had to 'phone you. I knew -I ought to tell you; I just thought I couldn't write. I'm -working in a shop; it's a classy place, believe me. Interior -decorators, on Mich. Boul." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you like it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I'm not mad about it by any means. It'll do." -</p> - -<p> -"You go to your lectures still at the U? You don't stay in -this shop all day?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. I'm done with that place. I'm going to smoke. You -needn't make a fuss; everyone's used to it here." -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps this will be better than writing away on a novel," -Emily was thinking. She didn't want to seem to look too -inquisitively at Martha. She played about with her tea; she -called Martha's attention to the couple who had entered. "Why -is it," she asked, to break the silence, "that the more expensive -the fur coat, the fatter the woman inside it?" -</p> - -<p> -But Martha broke forth abruptly, "I've burned my novel up!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily was sharply stung by the bitterness of that confession. -She had always wanted that novel burned up, but she hadn't -wanted Martha to be so hurt by its destruction. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Martie? What did you do that for?" -</p> - -<p> -"I needn't have been so hasty! I've got most of it—in rough -form. I could put it all together again; but it would be an -awful lot of work." -</p> - -<p> -"You worked on it nearly a year." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I had. And if I'd known everything <i>then</i> I know -<i>now</i>, I wouldn't have burned it up, you can bet! I typed it -all over without a mistake, from beginning to end; it had -seventy thousand words." -</p> - -<p> -"Goodness!" Emily murmured, impressed. -</p> - -<p> -"And I couldn't hardly sleep, I was so anxious to see what -that old idiot of a prof. would think of it. I might have -known, handing it in to an old rake of a man!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily let her go on unreproved. -</p> - -<p> -"And it was the funniest thing! I just <i>happened</i> to find out -what he meant. You hand your work in, mammie, and then you -go and have a consultation with the prof. about it. Well, I'd -never had any old consultation before. And everybody says he -is a horrid man; to women, especially. He don't think women -can write novels, of course. He thinks it's his business to -discourage them. I was scared out of my wits to go and talk to -him about my novel, to tell the truth. I might have known -something was wrong, for he was as nice to me as you please. -He was surprised to see me when I came in. He didn't know me -from Adam, before, of course. I suppose he thought I'd be -foaming at the mouth, or something. He jollied me along, -the oily old rake; said my work was interesting and everything; -that I'd put a lot of work in on it. And then he said: 'You -know sometimes we think it well—to refer these themes to -other departments. The last one before you,' he said, all -smooth and gentle, 'I referred to the biologist under whom -the student works. And I had yours read by Doctor Parson, -Doctor Edith Parson; she is more able than I am—to judge -of the worth of this material,' he said. 'So I had her read it -over, and I suggest you go and consult her first, and then come -and talk it over with me.' All hemming and hawing, he was, -the flea. So I swallowed it all. I didn't know any better. I -knew they did send theses and things for grad. degrees around -to a lot of profs. I asked somebody there waiting to see him, -a girl from the class, who this Doctor Parson was, but she -didn't know. So then, mammie, I went home. This was a -week ago last Thursday. I was in Doctor Stevenson's living -room that evening, and I naturally asked her if she knew who -Doctor Parson was. I didn't tell her WHY I was asking, or -anything. And, mammie, what do you think she said!" -</p> - -<p> -Tears came flooding into Martha's eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"What difference does it make what she said, child!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, it may not make any difference to YOU, but it did to -ME. 'I know her,' she said, and she smiled sort of funny. -So I said, 'Who is she?' And she said, 'Oh, every little while -some crazy woman gets into the U, and Doctor Parson is the -one that gets them into the asylum. I had to help her once, -one summer. She called me in because I was near and -strong.'" And suddenly Martha turned away, shuddering in -uncontrollable repulsion. She covered her face with her hands, -just for a second, and went on: -</p> - -<p> -"I had to sit there, mammie, not saying a word to give -myself away, and take it all. She said that woman—the one -that went crazy—she wanted to go right out in the street -without any clothes on, and everything. I thought she'd never get -through talking. They had to have three policemen that night. -I thought I'd just die, I was so scared. And I got away from -her as soon as I could, and I got the novel and went right down -to the janitor and asked him to let me put something into the -furnace. So he did, and I saw it burning. I saw it all curling -up burned. And then I went and stayed with Miss Curtis. -She let me have a bed in her room; she was just sweet to me, -mammie. I told her I was sick. She wanted me to go home; -she said I needed a rest." -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, you <i>do</i> need a rest, my dear. You've worked so -steadily. Why don't you come home with me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Mammie—no. I went and got a job. I had—to have -something—else to think about. I couldn't go home; I couldn't bear -to go back to the doctor's. I stayed with Miss Curtis for more -than a week." -</p> - -<p> -"And now? Where are you now?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'm back at the doctor's, all right now. I'm not a bit -more—out of my head than she is, anyway. It doesn't always -follow that if a girl—or a woman—falls in love, as they say, -that she's crazy. Look at that Doctor Stevenson. Wouldn't -you say she was sane, mammie? Wouldn't you say that if -anybody in the world is in her right mind, it's that woman?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I would certainly call her a well-balanced woman." -</p> - -<p> -"Well!" cried Martha, triumphantly. "You say <i>she's</i> sane, -and she keeps a lover—there—in that apartment—all the time!" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha! You mustn't say that! Not so loud!" Emily -looked around her hurriedly. "You must not say things like -that—gossip, like that!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not repeating any gossip. You needn't get so excited. -I'm not telling anybody but you, and I saw it with my own -eyes." -</p> - -<p> -Emily said, sharply, "I don't believe you know what you're -talking about." -</p> - -<p> -"I know <i>exactly</i> what I'm talking about! She told me when -I went to live with her that she had a friend that came to stay -with her, and that when that friend came I had to clear out. -Naturally, when a single woman says a friend is coming to -stay with her, you suppose it's a woman. But it isn't. It's a -man. I saw him!" -</p> - -<p> -"When? How?" Emily was intent upon refuting this mistake. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, he comes for Saturday and Sunday, and I had been -staying all week with Miss Curtis. And, anyway, they always -go to the concert Saturday night. I had to go and get some -underwear out of my room. I thought they would be at the -concert, so I went in." -</p> - -<p> -"Well?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, she heard me opening the door with my key, and -she called to me: 'Martha, is that you? Come in here!' she -said to me. And I went into her living room; and there was -that man. A great big, tall man, walking around with his -hands in his pockets. She was sitting at her desk, pretending -to be looking at an account book. 'This is my brother,' she -said to me. And he never took his hands out of his pockets. -He said to me, growling, 'I am <i>not</i> her brother!' just like -that. And she said, 'Oh, all right, then, you aren't. You aren't -any relation to me!' You know how she thinks she can carry -anything off, that way. Of course I felt terribly embarrassed. -I just got my stuff and fled. That man was staying in my -bedroom. His things were there. Did you ever hear anything -like that in your life, mother? The nerve of her! With all -that practice, and everybody thinking she's so respectable! -Nobody thinks <i>she's</i> crazy. I'm glad I didn't burn up the first -copy of my book." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Martha, look here! That doesn't prove that he's—that -doesn't prove anything." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you fool yourself! I saw the man; I saw his face. -You can't tell me what a man means when he looks like that. -And, anyway, Miss Curtis saw me coming in. I bet she's in -cahoots with her! She said, 'You haven't been at the doctor's, -have you?' like that, sort of excited. I said: 'Yes, I have. -I thought she would have been at the concert.' She said, 'You -oughtn't to have gone there when she has company.' And she -didn't know whether to go on and say any more to me, or not. -But she didn't. So now I stay there, just as I always did. If -I'm mad, she's mad." -</p> - -<p> -"But you're just silly. I don't think either of you is the -least speck insane!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, what did that oily old bird send me to that—woman -for then?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. Maybe she was a psychologist—or a—a -psychoanalyst, or something. What was in the novel? You -must be reasonable, Martha. The university isn't keeping a -woman just to send students to asylums. She has something -else to do, surely?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't think she has; not for a minute! If you'd seen that -campus, you'd think it kept a dozen specialists to weed out the -nuts. And, anyway, why did that prof. act so sort of gentle -to me? Why did he ask me so carefully if I was Martha Kenworthy, -as if he couldn't believe I was? Anyway, I'll tell you -one thing, mammie; if the doctor can keep a lover and a practice -in the same apartment, I should hope I can learn interior -decoration without anybody saying anything to me! Just -imagine if anybody tried to make things uncomfortable for the -doctor; wouldn't she tell them where to get off, though! If -she can put that across, why can't I?" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, really, I don't believe this. She doesn't look like -that sort of woman." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of COURSE she doesn't! That's the whole point! -Look at the women that go parading around Hyde Park. None -of them look it; neither do I, for that matter. I don't suppose -there's one of them that's any better than I am; and they're -not making any fuss about what's happened! I can be as -hardboiled as any of them; I can put on holy airs with the rest -of them; I'm understudying the doctor!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, my opinion is that you're both of you good women -and useful women, and you don't need to put on airs!" -</p> - -<p> -"But you'll never understand either of us, if you do mean -well; you're too good, that's what's the matter with you. That's -why I feel—so much more at home—with Miss Curtis, and -the doctor, especially the doctor. Honestly, you can't imagine -how blue I was. I wanted to—well, I didn't know—whatever -I was going to do, but this bucked me up. Imagine, mammie! -I'd like to see a doctor like Doctor Stevenson, only more -so—the best surgeon in Chicago—so that people would just HAVE -to have her operate to save them; and then I wish she'd just -go on living with all the men she wanted to—and snap her -finger at the whole bunch of them. I'm going into business. -The doctor said for me not to invest a cent with the boss; she -was the one that looked him up, and found he'd failed in New -York. I told her I hadn't any capital of my own, and I don't -give a damn what anybody suspects me of!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha was wearing long thin jade earrings, and she gave -her head a little jerk as she announced her intentions. She -had on a green hat, of a hard color. Could it be just the -shadow of that green over her eyes that made them seem -ringed and bitter? -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, very well. But how about Christmas? You'll have a -few days off, I suppose?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I won't have any. I'm going into this business. I've -got to stick at it. Look here, mammie, if you'll stay for dinner, -I'll get Mrs. Blacksley from my shop to meet us some place. I -didn't want to take you to the shop, for I knew her husband -was to have dinner with us. He's an idiot, but she's all right. I -get along with her; she's divorced one husband. If she'd -consult me, I'd tell her to divorce another." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Blacksley, Martha said, seldom spent even thirty cents -on her dinner. For that reason they awaited her in the Drake -Café, and planned to nourish her weariness with a thick rich -dinner, and beefsteaks were the one thing you could get better -in Chicago than anywhere else in the world, Martha declared, -ignoring magnificently her inexperience in most other places -in the world. Mrs. Blacksley joined them there. -</p> - -<p> -She joined them languidly, softly. She threw off a short -black fur coat, and a little black hat, carelessly, as if all the -other women in the crowded room were sitting bareheaded. -She stood up for a moment, regardless perhaps of the attention -she was attracting. She had on a little soft black wool frock, -full skirted, with the waist fitted cunningly over her delicate -breast. It was a right little frock; it was a bit too devilishly -right for her. -</p> - -<p> -It made Emily think, even as Mrs. Blacksley chose to sit -with her back to the room: "Well, if what helps Martha in -her friends is a scandalous past or a compromising present, -this woman is going to be very useful to her." Nothing less -like those utilitarian mentors of Hyde Park could a girl have -happened upon. Mrs. Blacksley was still young—but her eyes -had a past. Her lips had a history; her smooth hair, drawn -back so severely from those beautiful temples, so cleverly from -those little ears, had a beguiling present challenge. Surely, -for fifty generations, those gray eyes had been looking cynically -at eager lovers. Her mouth was soft and lovely; lips like -hers must have kissed only with mental reservations for -centuries. She was exotic, she was alluring. She had divorced -one husband, had she? She aroused a question then, -immediately. How many men had wanted to be her second? -</p> - -<p> -She said to Martha, later, as they were going together to -her train—she spoke suddenly, struck by an interesting -thought: -</p> - -<p> -"Look here, isn't the doctor's name Isobel?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. Why?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, but Martha, she said her sister's name was Isobel." -</p> - -<p> -"Did she? I didn't notice." -</p> - -<p> -"I did! She did say her sister's name was Isobel!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, what of it?" Martha was curious. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, don't you see, there couldn't be two Isobels in one -family? They must be half-sisters, or step sisters, or -something. Maybe that man WAS a brother—of some kind." -</p> - -<p> -Then Martha laughed. She laughed just like Mrs. Blacksley, -softly, jeeringly. -</p> - -<p> -"You're the limit, mammie!" She laughed again, more -naturally, from sheer amusement. "You can't believe what I -say, can you? You're too good for this world, mammie! The -doctor'll take care of herself. Don't you worry about her!" -</p> - -<p> -"You can laugh at me, if you want to; but I don't believe it. -Anyway, why shouldn't a woman doctor have a man patient, -if she wants one?" -</p> - -<p> -"To be sure!" agreed Martha, "if she wants one," she added, -in another tone. "I don't admire her taste; but I'm willing -to let her have as many as she wants." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Ten</i> -</h3> - -<p> -"Do a deed," they say, "and make a proverb." But why, -Emily mused more than once, should Martha, having done but -one deed, go on making proverbs indefinitely. Must she -interpret life forever by that one bitter mistake of hers? The -more Emily thought of the doctor, the more deeply she was -convinced that Martha was mistaken about her lover. She -would have been a magnificent mother of a family of rollicking -boys. Was it likely that a hard-headed professional woman, -with a practice to maintain, was going to entangle herself with -awkward amorous relationships? Emily decided it was not. -</p> - -<p> -It was possible, too, that Martha had misunderstood Miss -Curtis. Emily longed to prove it. She wanted to go and ask -Mrs. Bissel all she knew of Miss Curtis's history. If a woman -as conventional as Mrs. Bissel knew anything of that discrediting -sort, would she have allowed her daughter to live in her flat? -Certainly not, Emily said to herself. But just suppose Martha -could be right? The least possibility of such a thing made it -out of the question for Emily to broach the gossipy subject to -Mrs. Bissel. So she held her tongue. -</p> - -<p> -Then Martha walked in one snowy morning, like a normal -child, home for the holidays, happy to be home. She walked in -unannounced, alone, undefended by any stranger from intimacy -with her mother! She walked in and she gave Emily a -hug—an old little-girl hug, the like of which she had not had, -since—THAT happened. Emily's neck could scarcely believe -the feeling of those arms about it. Emily's eyes had to blink. -Here now was that first little old Martha, the dear one that -had been away from her for so long. Martha had recovered -her real self; she was looking better; she was looking—bright, -again; she was looking—excited. Yes, that was the word; -she was excited through and through. Could she have fallen -in love? Alas! that was too much to hope for. When she -went upstairs Emily stood and listened. She half expected her -to walk into the painted room. -</p> - -<p> -She went into the guest room, however. She wasn't quite -completely a daughter yet, then. -</p> - -<p> -When she came down and saw Maggie's condition, she took -the preparations for dinner out of her hands. The kitchen, -some way, seemed to belong to Martha. Even Maggie, who -had never relinquished it to Emily for a second, seemed -conscious that it had changed owners. Emily stood about, talking -to her. -</p> - -<p> -"What," Martha cried, "the costumes aren't made! They -haven't rehearsed for a month! Why didn't you write to me, -mammie? I'd have come to help you." -</p> - -<p> -Had she forgotten how shortly she had refused to come -home at all for Christmas? Was she offering now, really, to -plunge into the affairs of this town whose very existence she -seemed of late to have resented? -</p> - -<p> -"I'll go and get them. Let's have a seamstress to come here, -and have a bee, and get them all done. I'll bet Miss Trent -would train the children, mammie. She loathes Mrs. Benton." -</p> - -<p> -"You mustn't talk that way, Martie!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" Martha derided, making faces. -"That's what you mean, really. Only you don't say it. You -know you don't want to fall down now—just because of what -Mrs. Benton would say! I'd like to show her a thing or two -myself. I bet I could get a dozen women into this, who'd work -just for spite!" -</p> - -<p> -"That's not a nice way to work!" -</p> - -<p> -"But it cooks the hash, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha chuckled toward her mother. She kept repeating -it—that new gesture toward her. A perplexing sort of amused -understanding of her mother kept shining out of her eyes all -the time she sat at dinner, talking to her father. -</p> - -<p> -As soon as she had washed the dishes she took the car -and set forth twinkling to rally workers. She came back about -five with two suit cases full of cut or basted costumes. These -she deposited on the floor of the living room, and proceeded -to examine them, talking all the time of her success. White -wings she shook out, and curious red calico legs she unfolded. -Emily was sitting on the sofa. And Martha was standing by -the living-room table—where she had stood, exactly, when -she announced, "Richard Quin is getting a divorce." She bent -down and lifted up a cerise crinoline sort of wide ruche. -</p> - -<p> -"Now, what do you make of this, mammie? This must be -for a villain!" And she put it around her neck—it had no -fastening, yet—and holding it tightly together, she danced -across the room, and looked at herself absurdly in a mirror. -</p> - -<p> -"Believe me, mammie, this is going to be a play!" -</p> - -<p> -Her manner was so triumphant, that Emily was overcome by -her impulse. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha!" she exclaimed, "What HAS happened to you? -What's the matter?" -</p> - -<p> -The girl faced about abruptly. She stared intently at her -mother. And as she looked her face changed. It lost that -new expression of admiration with which she had warmed her -mother's heart all day. And when she spoke her voice was -almost bitter. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, YOU'RE a nice one to ask me that!" -</p> - -<p> -"Why am I a nice one? What have I done now?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha spoke with an effort. "I suppose it doesn't matter; -or you think it doesn't matter. I suppose you did what you -thought best for me. I'm not judging you, but it would have -made things a great deal easier for me if you could have told -me the truth." -</p> - -<p> -"The truth about what?" -</p> - -<p> -Martha was annoyed by the question. She hesitated, but -decided to go on. -</p> - -<p> -"I can understand you don't want to discuss it; neither -would I, but you must have meant to tell me eventually. After -all, I have a right to know, mother." -</p> - -<p> -Emily saw she was desperately in earnest. "What are you -talking about?" she asked, puzzled. -</p> - -<p> -Martha spoke slowly. "I mean—about my father—about -Uncle Jim." -</p> - -<p> -Emily understood then. The shock brought a cry of horror -from her. "Oh, Martha!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha knew pain when she heard it. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, mammie!" she cried back, running to Emily, sitting -down close to her. "Mammie, don't cry! Don't think I care! -I'd a million times rather have him for my father! I never -loved you, really, before! I didn't pry into it. Honestly, -mammie, it just came to me, like the morning; like light flashing -into me, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -Emily had drawn away from her and covered her face with -her hands. Martha thought she was crying. She besought -her tenderly: -</p> - -<p> -"Mammie, don't you mind my understanding it. Oh, if you -knew how I felt about it! When I think of you living here all -these years! I started to come home to you the minute I -realized it. It came to me like a flash in front of Woolworth's -in State Street, there. I was walking along, blue enough to -die; I just wanted to die, I was so sore. And I saw that front -and I remembered going into Woolworth's <i>here</i>, between you -and Uncle Jim. I don't mind calling him that; it's a dear name -for him. I remembered all of a sudden just how you looked at -each other. Mammie, it just stunned me when I understood. -I hadn't gone a block before I saw it all. I don't know why I -didn't always understand it. Because he always was just -naturally my father, wasn't he? Nobody ever had to teach me to -love HIM! Dad never felt that way about me, naturally. It -wasn't his fault he never had any interest in me. I knew why -you stood Bronson, then! I remembered how you looked -after the funeral! I was so excited I just couldn't stand up. -I sat down on a bench in the public library lobby, and just sat -there! Oh, I never appreciated you till now, mammie! I'm -going to take care of you now. When I think of you living -year in and year out in this house with dad—I'll call him that! -I don't care about names! The way you've put it across right -here, in this dirty gossipy little town, and nobody DARED to -suspect you of anything! Not ANYTHING! Why do you look -at me that way? You intended to tell me some time, surely!" -</p> - -<p> -Now for the first time in her life Emily had drawn away -from her child in repulsion. She had started to speak; she had -started to cry out her denial. But that young, eager, relit face -was close to hers. No matter how illuminating the mistake -was, the poor distorted child must know the truth. But as -Emily opened her lips to speak, the poor distorted child went -on; she had seized Emily's hand in both her own: -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, now I know what they mean, being born again. I was -just born again, mammie! I know now why you never scolded -me—why you stood by me; you understood. You've been -through it! And everybody loves you; they just bless you! -You aren't afraid they'll find it out. You just go on! I'm -going on, too! My God! how I'm going on! If you can put -this across, so can I! You never were afraid of dad finding -it out, even, were you?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily Kenworthy murmured, "No." She meant to add, -"There was never anything to find out, you bad, silly girl!" -but she didn't. -</p> - -<p> -She could find no excuse for her conduct, as she thought it -over, that night. She had simply been hypnotized by the beauty -of that child's eagerness. It had been such a long time since -she had seen eagerness, hopefulness, twinkling out of that -little sweet face of hers, that she hadn't had courage to darken -it again. Martha had just sat there, caressing her, babbling -out her enjoyment of her mother's infamy, until Greta's older -sister had come in. Emily had made her entrance an excuse -for getting away to her room. And there she had sat dazedly, -hurt, ashamed of her daughter, more ashamed of herself. How -could I have hesitated a minute! I ought to have corrected her -the minute she dared to suggest that to me! But what difference -does it make? It's good enough for Bob! He never appreciated -her! What do I care what she thinks, if it does her -any good? I'm not high and holy any longer! I understand -her! Hasn't she any sense of honor at all, that she's so -pleased? Why should I be so shocked? Didn't I plan often -enough to leave Bob and go to Jim? She only accused me of -what I often wanted to do! I gave that up, and this is what -I get for it! She wishes she was Jim's. She thinks I went -on living with Bob! "My God!" cried Emily. "But she can't -help it; she has to suspect somebody. It's her luck, after what -she's done. Why should I feel so sick about this?" -</p> - -<p> -And even while she sat there feeling sick at heart, Martha's -voice came dancing up the stairs. -</p> - -<p> -"Mammie, what are you doing? Can't you come down a minute?" -</p> - -<p> -And Emily had gone down, hardening her heart. "I'm never -going to tell her the truth," she was vowing. "Let her think -that, if it does her any good!" And all that evening she had -talked and listened to talking, like one in a dream. Whatever -she said, it was of Martha's base accusation that she was -conscious. "Surely," she was thinking, "if I gave Jim up once -for this child, I can give up Bob and my scruples, just in her -mind, for a little while." She was so preoccupied with her -thoughts that she scarcely spoke during supper. Bob noticed -her quietness. She had been gay at dinner. He was the more -affable to Martha. -</p> - -<p> -"Where's Miss Curtis now? Is she coming down for Christmas?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. She's gone to Ruth—to Indiana." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, she's a nice sort of a woman, for a school-teacher." Emily -saw the cynical smile that came about Martha's mouth. -</p> - -<p> -"You bet she is!" she replied, enthusiastically. "But you -ought to see the doctor. Dad, she'd show you a thing or two." -</p> - -<p> -"That's what I like about Miss Curtis. You can trust her -to mind her own business. You feel safe with her." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you, though? You can trust her absolutely, couldn't -you, dad? You could always be sure she'd be upright, couldn't -you?" -</p> - -<p> -Upright was a strange adjective. Bob looked up to see if -Martha had begun spoofing him again. She looked innocent, -but he changed the subject. Martha looked knowingly across -at her mother. Emily wanted to spank her. -</p> - -<p> -Later in the evening again she experienced the same desire. -She came into the sitting room to hear Martha cajoling over -the 'phone the most conventional, conservative, disapproving -woman who ever eyed bobbed hair and short skirts maliciously. -"But we want you so, Mrs. Mason. Everybody says there's no -one who can get as much work done in one afternoon as you." And -on she talked, till she hung up the 'phone triumphantly. -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, why in the world did you invite <i>her</i> here?" Emily -asked. -</p> - -<p> -Martha winked at her naughtily. "I just asked her because -she's so extra holy!" she answered, and she laughed. She had -the upper hand of life now, that girl! -</p> - -<p> -She ought to have been pitifully spanked, but now that she -had got things under way, there was scarcely time to reprove -her. Emily remembered the days when Bob had complained -that he could never get her alone long enough to "settle her." The -house was bustling and hurrying about, as Martha used to -make it stir, full of her girl friends coming and going, confused -by committee women of inspired importance. School children -were singing their parts at the piano; angels were adjusting -their feathers in the hall; the 'phone was ringing. Emily -watched Martha "putting it across," each day a little more -naughtily, a little more triumphantly. She apparently intended -to be as highly respected in the town as her deceitful mother. -It was not pleasant, to say the least, to see her sitting deferring -with studied docility to the opinion of women whom Emily -knew she was scorning with all her might. Never before had -she been quite such a "nice girl." She was demure; she was -discreet; she gave someone else credit for every good idea she -put forth quietly, graciously; she made her elderly neighbors -smile at her mother as if to say "What a clever child this is -of yours." And, when they left, she would hug her mother, -grinning, chuckling. Thick as two thieves they were, together -in conspiracy. -</p> - -<p> -The only thing that seemed difficult to explain about Martha -was the absence of admirers who had formerly beset her father -round about. Johnnie, of course, had not come home from the -East, but there were numbers of young collegians who had -returned for Christmas. Why, Emily wondered, did they avoid -the Kenworthy house? She understood one evening when she -overheard a conversation between Greta and her daughter. -</p> - -<p> -"I told Hally I was coming here. I asked him to come along, -but he wouldn't." A giggle. "Do you know what he said -about you, Martha?" -</p> - -<p> -"What?" The tone was wholly indifferent. -</p> - -<p> -"He said: 'No; I'm not going there. Martie's mad. She's -taken to biting.'" -</p> - -<p> -Then Martha's voice, full of interest, "Did he honestly say -that?" She seemed gratified. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, honest he did." -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't suppose he had that much sense," Martha said, -simply. -</p> - -<p> -Later: "But why? Tell me the truth, Martie! Why aren't -you dancing?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have told you the truth. I've learned my lesson; I can't -stand late hours. I don't want another breakdown like that -one last winter. I tell you I go to bed regularly early. I'm in -bed every night at half past ten." -</p> - -<p> -A silence. -</p> - -<p> -Then: "That'll do to tell! I bet if Johnnie Benton was here -to dance with, your health would be all right!" -</p> - -<p> -"Johnnie Benton?" Scorn and derision at such a suggestion. -"Excuse me if I seem to yawn. Anyway, he's engaged to -somebody down East." -</p> - -<p> -"Who said so? You're making that up! I don't believe it." -</p> - -<p> -"Nobody told me. It's likely, you know that. The way -he goes round proposing to everybody." -</p> - -<p> -"He never proposed to me." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, get out! He must have!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha was rejoicing in her own hypocrisy. She was guzzling -down the impression she made. People said it was too -sweet of her to have thought of bringing old Miss Knight to -the party tenderly in her car. For Miss Knight was a decrepit -old primary teacher of Martha's infancy, who seldom went out, -and she had beamed every minute of the afternoon upon the -dancing children, and blessed Martha loudly for her kindness -in bringing her, as Martha had counted on her doing. Martha -had remembered the poor. The poor, now, were hard to find -in that town. But Martha had sought out a family whose -house had been burned recently, and bestirred even protesting -Greta to help her to succor them. -</p> - -<p> -"You mustn't be such a lazy selfish pig, Greta!" she had -gurgled when the room was fullest of listeners. She had talked, -too, cunningly of the turkey she was roasting for Christmas -dinner. -</p> - -<p> -"I never had a chance to roast a turkey before," she said to -mothers whose daughters were known to be indifferent to -cook-stoves, "but I've always wanted to. I adore making mince -pies; I'm making a lot of mincemeat, all myself, to take back -with me. Yes, I'm fond of cooking. I get my own dinners -with Miss Curtis, my friend in Chicago. I have more time -than she does. She teaches school; but, of course, now that -I'm in business, I'm busier." And she would look at the neighbors -simply, quietly. She even dared to say innocently to her -mother, just when the gossips might be supposed to be listening: -</p> - -<p> -"Did I tell you, mammie, I met Eve the other day? She's -given up New York. Her father isn't well and she's going to -stay in Chicago. She's coming down for a week-end soon, if -he's better." -</p> - -<p> -And when the neighbors would be gone she would run and -give her mother gloating hugs, which asked as plainly as her -voice could have spoken, "Don't I just get it across?" -</p> - -<p> -Emily had asked, afterwards: "Did you really meet Eve? -When?" -</p> - -<p> -And she pretended to be indignant. "Did I meet her? I -like your nerve! Do you suppose I'm not telling you the -truth? She is coming down to see you. She said to me, right -out, as soon as I saw her, 'Are you still sore about—that?' I -just said: 'About what? Where've you been all the time? -Why don't you write mother oftener? She wants to see you. -Come on down with me.' This was at the station, mammie, -just when I was coming home the other day. If she comes -down here to stay with us, what can anybody say about——?" -</p> - -<p> -She held the situation in a tight grasp now. If any minute -of those busy days she had suffered one pang, remembering the -desperate Christmas a year ago, she had never once given a -sign of it. Since the day of her first accusation of her mother -she had avoided the subject of her paternity excessively. -Emily, too, had been afraid of it. She had told Martha firmly -that she was not going to Chicago to live with her. Martha, -for fear she might make explanations, had not argued the -subject very far. -</p> - -<p> -"I never would be content to live in Chicago, you know that, -Martha. Our roots are here; I'm too old to be transplanted. -I won't leave this house." -</p> - -<p> -"But you get bored to death, mammie. You want to shriek -sometimes. You said you did yourself that night, at the -doctor's. I hate to go away and leave you here." -</p> - -<p> -"Stay here then. This is your home." -</p> - -<p> -"No. I've got to <i>do</i> something. It's all right here, when -there's a party on, or something. But I couldn't stand it all -the time. I'd get to scrapping with dad, you know I would." -</p> - -<p> -The very mention of Bob brought up possibilities of -uncomfortable remarks. -</p> - -<p> -Martha hastened to continue. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll come back just as often as I can. And you come and -stay with me as much as you can. And in June we'll go to -Europe together. Nobody can talk about that! And maybe -you'll like it well enough to stay a year or two with me there; -lots of people do. And that's the only place really to learn -about furnishings and furniture." -</p> - -<p> -Emily lay in her bed that night, ashamed and unhappy. "It's -as if I had told her the most enormous and fundamental lie," she -reflected. "Nothing good can ever come of this. Strange," -she thought, "that I can't remember ever going into -Woolworth's with Jim! She remembers something of him that I -don't. How old would she have been then? The five-and-ten -must have come to town—well—before Bronson came. She -loved that store at first, when she was little." She grudged -Martha a memory that belonged essentially to her; she thought -greedily over every look of his she had ever treasured. She -remembered their early love; she recalled still how his dear -hands had gone longing, discreetly up inside her stiff cuffs. -She remembered his kisses; she remembered how he had come -back in the days of his weariness to his mother, and how they -had looked across at each other, with that innocent old woman -between them. She remembered how he used to sit with little -Martha on his knee, in the days of his ill health and bitterness, -stroking her hair and looking into her face, trying some -way to get close to the mother through the child. She thought -of that summer, and of Bronson, and of Jim's irrepressible -crying-out to her. She stopped there. She tried always not -to think of his death. "He just kissed me," she said, "and went -away." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," she cried to herself, "I'm going to Chicago to-morrow -and tell Martha the truth! He was too sweet, too dear. This -isn't fair to him. I don't care about Bob; but I won't have -her thinking such things of Jim. He was too good for -such—baseness. He never forgot I was his brother's wife. He did -kiss me, but he went away then. That's the point—he went -away. I'll tell her that. -</p> - -<p> -"And if I tell her, she'll never believe me. She thinks I'm -sly and sneaking and adulterous now, and if I tell her the -truth, she'll think I'm lying to her. She hasn't enough -experience yet to believe the truth; she doesn't know enough to -believe it. That's why she hates it all so! herself, and passion. -All she knows of passion is its roots, in the dark ground; its -blossom in the air, its sweet lovely blossom in the sun she hasn't -seen. She doesn't know forbearance or tenderness, and that's -the best part of it—for us. She wouldn't believe me if I -told her what sort of man he was. I don't know what's going -to become of her now; she'll never marry now. Probably that -way such a lot of women don't marry; the roots of it all look -so ugly, so brutal to them. If I could make Martha believe in -some one like Jim now! The whole tragedy is that she can't." -</p> - -<p> -When she fell asleep at last, she was thinking still of her -lover—not, however, that he went away, but that he kissed her. -</p> - -<p> -Martha hadn't been gone two weeks when that most astonishing -news came. Nothing could have stunned the town more -than that. The telegram came first to Emily. She heard it -over the 'phone. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Benton had died suddenly, while motoring in California. -</p> - -<p> -People gathered in groups on the street to discuss it. It -seemed a thing that could not be true. To be sure, when you -thought it over, you realized that Mrs. Benton was but mortal; -but it seemed so unlike her, just to die, to quit, to lay things -down. Her body, lifeless, was to be sent home for burial. -</p> - -<p> -Recovering by degrees from the shock of the news; the -cruder ones began asking under their breaths what the more -sentimental ones had but pondered. Had she lived to hear of -the success of the Christmas party? They could not believe -that she had. It didn't seem likely. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Benton's body was to arrive on a Thursday, from the -West. Johnnie arrived from the East on Tuesday morning, to -find his home swept and garnished and in possession of an -old and silent aunt and a young and gushing one. He came to -Emily for refuge that evening. He seemed almost stupefied -by the event. Emily had never thought of him as a nervous -man before. He talked in a way unnaturally incoherent, and -he stirred about nervously, unable to sit down. The second -time she noticed his hand refrain spasmodically from a cigarette, -she said: -</p> - -<p> -"Smoke if you want to." -</p> - -<p> -But he burst out: "No. I won't have people laughing—about -THIS. I won't have them talking about her." -</p> - -<p> -"But no one is going to talk about her if you smoke here -with me." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you think so? Nobody would see me?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. Nobody could find anything to laugh at in that." -</p> - -<p> -He was already lighting a match. "I thought they looked -at me funny when I went to light up," he said. Emily knew -he spoke of his aunts. "I want everything done right for her. -I won't have people talking about THIS. They say I have -to be the chief mourner, Mrs. Kenworthy." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, you are that, Johnnie; you're nearest her." -</p> - -<p> -"I know it; but they made me stay in there to see the -minister. He asked me what chapter I wanted read! I felt like -a fool, Mrs. Kenworthy. I felt like a dirty hypocrite!" -</p> - -<p> -"I wouldn't feel that way. These things have got to be -done, apparently." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you think 'Jesus, Lover of my Soul' is better than 'Lead, -Kindly Light'? One wants one and the other wants the other, -and they say I can decide! Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, did -you ever hear that mother hadn't but a year to live? Did she -ever tell YOU that?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, never. Why, dear?" -</p> - -<p> -"Aunt Ethel said the doctor in Chicago told somebody yesterday -that he told her last summer she hadn't a year to live. -Didn't she tell you that?" -</p> - -<p> -"No." -</p> - -<p> -"She never told me; she never told anybody." -</p> - -<p> -"Maybe she didn't believe it." -</p> - -<p> -He seemed relieved at the thought. He said, "Maybe that's -it. But she never told you where I was last summer, did she, -until I was about coming home? Do you know why?" -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't know why. Never mind, Johnnie!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, she didn't know where I was; I didn't tell her! I -just lit out; I never told her till I got to Hong-Kong. I knew -she'd worry; I didn't care if she did. I never thought of it -coming out like this, Mrs. Kenworthy! I made enough to -come home on at Macao. You know, gambling, she'd call it; -it was, too. I won five hundred dollars, almost—-four hundred -and seventy—so then I cabled her. Oh, I don't know why I -did that!" -</p> - -<p> -"There's no use grieving over it now, Johnnie." -</p> - -<p> -"But by the time I got her answer I had lost it all again. -I came home on the money she cabled me. She met me at -the depot with a new car! She never told me she wasn't well; -she never told ME she hadn't long to live! I'm glad I went -back to college; she wanted me to do that. I nearly didn't, I -nearly lit out again. If they insist on having the coffin open -in church and me looking—in front of everybody—I don't care. -I'll do it; I won't have people laughing at her <i>now</i>!" -</p> - -<p> -Then Emily remembered a certain hour. "Oh, Johnnie!" -she began. And, as she understood the significance of what -she recalled, she hesitated. -</p> - -<p> -"She told me once, not so very long ago, that she'd written -out directions for her funeral. She hated sensational -funerals—and people fainting. She wanted hers very simple." -</p> - -<p> -"When was this?" -</p> - -<p> -Now Emily remembered too distinctly, all of a sudden. -</p> - -<p> -"It was after somebody's funeral, as we were walking home -from the cemetery. I don't remember—when, exactly." Why -should she tell the boy it had happened when he was sailing -away towards Brazil and his deserted mother had learned her -fate in loneliness? "I imagine if you go down to Johnson and -Larned's, they'll have her directions put away with her will." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, do you think—I ought to do that? I mean—I don't -want to seem to be grabbing her will in a hurry!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ask your aunts about it. I'll go over and tell them with -you, if you want me to." -</p> - -<p> -"Will you? Oh, do! But wait a little. Can't I have another -smoke here, first? It seems—strange, over there, this way." -</p> - -<p> -And as he walked around smoking, Emily thought: "Yes, -and she knew all the time as we walked home together that -day that she'd be there in the cemetery soon, and she never -told me. She wanted me to know she had given directions for -her funeral, and she let me think she had no special reason for -giving them; and she didn't know where this boy was, or -whether she would ever see him again, and she never said a -word to me about it. And she pointed out to me Mrs. Johnson's -red lilies as we passed, and said she was going to move -hers into the sun!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha came down for the funeral, which was delayed with -absolute cruelty, Emily thought, by the aunts, until Saturday. -Emily told her of Mrs. Benton's stoicism, but not of Johnnie's -unconscious hardness. -</p> - -<p> -And Martha sighed and said, merely, "Well, I suppose everybody -has something up their sleeve, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -Johnnie came in on Friday evening, harassed and red eyed. -</p> - -<p> -"You here, Martie!" he exclaimed, touched by the sight of -her. "For the love of Mike, don't let anyone know I'm here. -Let's go up to your sitting room! Somebody'll be coming in. -I want to smoke; I got to have a smoke!" -</p> - -<p> -A pitiful Johnnie made Martha kind. -</p> - -<p> -"It isn't heated up," she said. "We don't heat it now, weather -like this. But you can come and wash dishes with me. You -can smoke there; nobody'll see you." -</p> - -<p> -It was the usual thing for Martha to insist on Emily's staying -in the living room when Martha was washing the evening dishes. -So she remained there, and people came in, as Johnnie had -foreseen they would. One hour passed, and another, and the -supper dishes still apparently detained the young things. After -another half-hour Emily went to the kitchen. She opened the -door. -</p> - -<p> -The scene was scarcely what she had expected. The room -was thick with smoke; and there, huddled over the stove, sat -old Maggie, who was supposed to have gone to bed hours ago, -and across her old rough face her mouth stretched from ear -to ear in one great beaming smile, while her eyes looked straight -at the chief mourner. He sat on the kitchen table, near the -prunes soaking in the bowl overnight. He still had on the -blue-gingham apron some one had tied about his slender body. He -was leaning forward alertly, and in his hand he held a cigarette -all lit and ready to go into his mouth the moment the flow of -his eager narrative ceased for an instant. His eyes were fixed -upon Martha, who sat on the high kitchen stool with her feet on -its upper rungs. She had on a red jersey frock; she sported a -very long purple-and-black cigarette holder and she sat listening -intently, her chin atilt. -</p> - -<p> -"And the chief—he was a good old sport—he says to the -captain, 'It's the first time I was ever ordered to get a lady -out of a——'" -</p> - -<p> -He saw the door opening. He saw Emily. She knew at -once that she had spoiled a perfect hour. Johnnie's normal -light-heartedness collapsed. Emily saw him recalling horribly -the coffin and its contents, and the hushed and exaggerated -reverence of those that waited about it. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" he groaned. "Oh, I forget!" -</p> - -<p> -But Martha had heard nothing of his quarrel with his mother -and his passionate desire to atone as far as he could by all -conventional decencies. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, go on!" she commanded. "Was the man dead?" -</p> - -<p> -But Johnnie had no gusto for the rest of his tale. "I was -just telling Martha about what happened on the <i>Pomona</i>," he -murmured to Emily, apologetically. "There was a woman -drunk, and she locked the door of her cabin and wouldn't -open it; they couldn't hear the man with her and they thought -maybe she had done something to him." -</p> - -<p> -"But what happened in the end?" Martha insisted. -</p> - -<p> -"The captain broke in, and there was the man, reading in his -bunk. He said he wasn't going to try to get her to open the -door; he knew her. He'd been reading the History of Poland, -with nothing but biscuit to eat. He said he was used to it. I -didn't know it was so late. I got to be going." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't go yet," Emily urged. "We've never really heard -anything about your trip." -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't mean to stay so long. I don't want to make them -sore at me," he said, nervously. "They look at me so funny all -the time." -</p> - -<p> -He went back to them. Bob and Martha sat for a while talking, -and Emily sat looking at them and thinking wistfully of -what she had seen in the kitchen. How happy those children -had been together in their young forgetfulness, a forgetfulness -somewhat too facile, on Johnnie's part, perhaps. Yet what a -fine relief it had been for him from the strain and depression -of those unnatural days. Surely each of them must be thinking -how snugly, how cozily they had together thrown off their -burdens. If only it could have gone on! Martha would have -married him now, likely, since the maternal handicap was -removed—if that other thing had never happened. Johnnie, free -and with an income, wouldn't be long in marrying—someone, -Emily was convinced of that. But it would be a long time, a -deplorably long time, before Martha would be settling down. -There was no use hoping for so happy an ending to that story. -</p> - -<p> -It was perhaps her kindness to Johnnie that cleansed Martha's -mind, for the time, from its chilling cynicism. She was lovely -that evening and gentle, and subdued. Emily lingered about -with her in the guest room, and sat on her bed a long time -with her, yearning over her. She had never felt so sure and -mature a sort of oneness with her daughter before. Martha -wouldn't let her get away. She clung to her; her trivial words -were little caresses. It was an hour to be remembered, to be -tasted carefully in memory, and relished indefinitely. -</p> - -<p> -Emily's conscience smote her the more that night. How -terrible this deception of her was! All at once there came to her -a thought cuttingly vivid. People did die suddenly; no doubt -about that; even an extremely living woman like Cora Benton -ceased without warning. "Suppose I'd die suddenly, myself!" -Emily gasped. "Suppose I should die without ever telling her -the truth! She'd have this house for herself then; she might -quarrel with her father; she might turn him out of it in some -evil moment. She might even tell him some time what I let her -think. To-morrow morning," Emily decided, "first thing, I'll -tell her the truth." She lay unhappily trying to screw herself up -to the necessary intensity of determination. -</p> - -<p> -In the morning, however, Martha didn't come down to breakfast. -Emily went up to her room. She said she was tired, -and Emily saw at once she had been crying. She offered to -bring her up something, but Martha refused shortly. She -said she was going to get up; she wouldn't stay in bed. Not -one least hint of the conciliatory mood of the evening before -was left. Emily was afraid of her, afraid of the bitter things -that might come slashing out of her mouth. If only she knew -what she had been crying about! Was it because the companionship -of the evening had seemed as pleasant as unattainable? -Had she been by any chance thinking how happy she -might have been with Johnnie? Or had she been mourning the -lover who had destroyed himself in her mind? Emily came -downstairs and set about her morning work hesitant, cautious, -and perplexed. -</p> - -<p> -Even as they sat side by side in the crowded church, Emily -was conscious of the hardness of her mood. Mrs. Benton might -reasonably have asked to have a sermon preached over her body -in the great hall she had built, but she had commanded that the -service should be in the small Congregational church. Emily, -when she went to that church, always thought of Jim's mother—rather -than Bob's—and of his father, whose heroic death was -but a mildly interesting tale to Martha. The crowded service -promised at first to be all that Mrs. Benton had hoped it never -would be, but the minister, when he began speaking, showed -more sense than Emily had ever thought him capable of. She -saw Johnnie almost immediately lift his bewildered head to -listen. -</p> - -<p> -"Our sister," he said, "lies here silent. Her works praise her. -Which one of us," he asked, "can lift a voice to contradict them? -Dare we dispute with the bathing beach? Shall we try arguing -with the memorial hall?" He named over her civic accomplishments, -scarcely mentioning the flowers that were to bloom all -over the county in the spring—they, Emily thought, might have -suggested to the scoffing, or the conscience-smitten, a certain -joyous derision. "There had been women more gentle than -she," he said, frankly, "But the gentle women had dammed no -river. There had been women more popular, but the popular -had built no bridges. What she had built, she had built well. -Let the town, now, if it could, reach the standard of excellence -which she had set. Her example of doing things exactly right -was a heritage not to be despised in these shoddy days." -</p> - -<p> -But of all her works, he averred, the beach had the clearest -voice and the holiest. "Wash ye! Make ye clean!" the prophets -of God had been crying, through all the generations. And now -the beach took up the song, inviting all the children to throw -themselves into the cleanness of joy and to dive deep into the -transparency of living. It was the element of cleanness that -she had made precious to the children of the town. How many -small boys of the town cared where their winter clothes were -put away for the summer? But how many of them would there -be who weren't conscious all the winter just where their bathing -suits were put away waiting for the summer? The snow would -scarcely be melted on the south slopes of the lawns until -children began shaking out their bathing suits and counting the -weeks until swimming began. The dancing feet of the young, -and the music of their youth, praised this woman all the winter -months. And in the summer, tanned and barefooted memorials -of her would soon be running down all the shaded streets to -the river. And healthy dripping tributes to her wisdom would -be trudging home late to meals. When there were no longer -any children to love swimming, he said suddenly, he hoped the -town would build a stone memorial to its benefactress. -</p> - -<p> -He sat down. -</p> - -<p> -The church sighed its agreement. -</p> - -<p> -The coffin, unopened, was carried away. Johnnie said -afterwards that the minister had sense. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> - -<h3> -<i>Chapter Eleven</i> -</h3> - -<p> -That night Bob Kenworthy sat unsuspectingly reading a coon -story in a popular weekly, in his own living room, in the -light of a lamp his daughter had given him for Christmas. His -wife sat at her desk near the window, pretending to write -letters, and every once in a while she glanced slyly over at him -to see if he was conscious of what she was doing; and sometimes -she even looked suspiciously at the curtains to make sure -no one was peeping in at the words she had guiltily written. -She had sat there more than an hour, and she was beginning -that letter in vain. A more distasteful task she had seldom -decided upon. To put down in black and white a denial of -the grotesque mistake she had suffered to continue in Martha's -thought seemed impossible. An acknowledgment of her -complicity in the misunderstanding seemed too humiliating. How -could she be sure, besides, into whose hands her written words -might not come? Might not that complacent husband of hers, -sitting there, never imagining how thankfully he had been -discarded by his child, sometime come upon the letter that must -seem to him treacherous? Emily didn't intend sending the -letter to Martha; that course was too perilous to consider. She -intended to put it away, in case of such an emergency as this -last one of Cora Benton's. It seemed, however, the right -thing altogether for Cora Benton to have given directions for -her funeral. The community expected her to do that. But for -Emily Kenworthy to do it seemed silly melodrama. -</p> - -<p> -She sat with her arm hiding the words she had written, now -that she had begun for the fifth time, though there was no eye -in the room to behold them. She had finished. -</p> - -<p> -"My dear Child." She had got down a further sentence or -two. "I couldn't collect my wits in time the other day to tell -you what a mistaken idea you had of your father and me. I -have never been unfaithful to him in my life." She glanced -again guiltily at Bob. Poor old harmless thing! He had been -certainly—good and a patient husband. And, sitting there, he -did look like Jim. The elusive likeness between the two had -always fascinated her; Jim's head had been like that. His -face was longer, finer, more delicate. It was for Jim's sake, -of course, and not Bob's she was writing this. She would not -have Martha thinking Jim a common old love pirate! She -took her arms from across the paper; she re-read what she had -written. "I have never been unfaithful to him in my life." Then -she added, impulsively, "I never had a chance to be." She -studied her achievement, and covered it up with a blotter -and sat thinking. Then she went at it again for a few minutes. -"I am writing this to you the day of Mrs. Benton's funeral in -case I haven't an opportunity to tell you personally." She was -on the point of adding, "Your uncle wasn't that sort of man." But -suppose Bob should sometime see those words? She might -say, "The Kenworthy men are too good for that sort of -thing." Yes, that might do. -</p> - -<p> -Bob threw down his paper. Emily jumped. -</p> - -<p> -"Some coon story!" he yawned. "Let's go to bed." -</p> - -<p> -"You go on up, Bob," she said, earnestly. "I'm just coming." -</p> - -<p> -When he came up from "fixing the furnace" she was rearranging -her desk. In the center of it was a little compartment -that could be locked but seldom was. It was full of rather -useless trifles. She had found the little key to it now in a small -adjoining drawer, and she had locked away a small envelope -inclosed in the very center of several larger ones. It was -addressed to Martha, "to be opened after my death." As she -went upstairs wondering where to hide that key, she felt more -like a perfect fool than she had felt in years. She looked about -the room. At one side of her bureau there hung an enlarged -snapshot of Martha as a four-year-old, hugging a puppy. Emily -had always thought it a perfectly beautiful picture. When Bob -was in the bathroom, she went cautiously over to it and tied -the key to the wire by which the picture hung. "Nobody would -ever find it there if I <i>should</i> die," she said to herself; "and -besides I probably won't." But later, when she heard Bob sleeping, -she got up gently and hid the key in the bottom drawer of -the bureau beneath some summer underthings, for, of course, -Maggie would dust that picture as soon as she was able to be -about, and demand to be told what key that was. -</p> - -<p> -Afterwards she would say to herself, waking in the night: -"Well, suppose anyone <i>should</i> find that key and open the desk -and see the letter. It's a very sensible thing to leave directions -for your funeral. Everybody ought to do it. Still..." -</p> - -<p> -And Johnnie Benton was about from time to time, reminding -her of the possibility of sudden death. He wouldn't go back -to school. He might have agreed, in the shock of his grief, -to conform to all burial conventions out of respect for his -mother. But to go back and try for a degree, he refused -absolutely and confidently. -</p> - -<p> -"I haven't told THEM," he said to Emily, nodding his head -towards the house where his aunts still tarried. "Aunt Grace -wants to keep house for me!" The tone of his voice suggested -she had proposed at least to murder him. "I told them I'd go -back as soon as it's settled, all the business; but I couldn't get a -degree in ten years if I did go back. And goodness knows -when things will be settled." The delay wasn't annoying -Johnnie. -</p> - -<p> -Even Emily grew uneasy about Johnnie as the weeks passed. -She wondered sometimes, remembering a sort of threat, if his -mother had really disinherited him. Her lawyers, whom he was -always going to consult in Chicago, were saying now that -Mrs. Benton had gone to California for the express purpose of -investigating investments there, and presently the results would -come to light. Emily didn't see clearly why Johnnie should -have to drive up to Chicago three days a week to learn such -meager facts. He stayed in Chicago so much that his aunts -closed the house and went home. And then when he came home -he stayed with the Kenworthys. -</p> - -<p> -He stayed with them depressed, silent, and inactive. Emily -was troubled about his laziness; but, after all, she had been his -mother's stanchest friend and she owed him some sympathy and -patience. She was as kind to him as possible. -</p> - -<p> -But not so Martha. She came down suddenly for a week-end, -the last of February. Emily told her to go into the small -guest room; Johnnie's things were in the other. -</p> - -<p> -"Good night!" she cried. "Is he <i>here</i>, too?" -</p> - -<p> -Was he then so much in Martha's Chicago? -</p> - -<p> -"Now look here, mammie, I don't approve of this. He's -taking advantage of you. Why can't he stay at the hotel?" -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, if you like the hotel so well, you'd better go down -and try a meal there! It isn't a comfortable place, and you -know it." -</p> - -<p> -"But why doesn't he stay at the Kendalls' or at the -Johnsons'? Why can't he stay with his friends?" -</p> - -<p> -"Those boys aren't at home now, you know that." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, he needn't try to—get a stand-in here just because his -mother is dead. Why don't he live in his own house, like -anybody else would?" -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't know you were coming down, child. I didn't -know you would object. After all, you can't live in Chicago -and dictate who's to stay with me here." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I suppose not. But you have enough to do without -taking care of Johnnie Benton. Why doesn't he go to work?" -</p> - -<p> -"He does work—sometimes. He works in the garage." -</p> - -<p> -Martha turned about, flabbergasted. "You mean—dad's -garage?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of all the nerve! Look here, mammie, I tell you just -now there's no use of dad trying to put that over on me. You -can just tell him——" -</p> - -<p> -"My dear child, don't be silly! Nobody's trying to put -anything over on you." -</p> - -<p> -"Of course, I can marry anybody I want to, as well as not! -Women do it all the time and never say a word! But you -needn't think I'm going to; you can get that idea out of your -head right now!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, come out of it, Martha! Nobody's trying to make you -do anything you don't want to." -</p> - -<p> -It would, perhaps, have been foolish to try that. For -Martha seemed able to manage. Emily didn't know exactly -how she had done it, but Johnnie came up presently from down-town, -saw her there, greeted her quite undisturbed and casually, -and announced he was going to Chicago for the week-end. -</p> - -<p> -And all Martha said was, "I'll let you know next time before -I come, mammie." -</p> - -<p> -Emily felt encouraged about Martha in those days. About -Johnnie she grew less and less certain as the spring came on. -</p> - -<p> -Once she had to say to him: "Johnnie, I want to ask you -something. I want you to tell me what your plans are. What -are you going to do?" -</p> - -<p> -He was walking about her living room gloomily, with his -hands in his pockets. He stopped and looked at her. She -liked him, and she saw she had hurt him deeply. -</p> - -<p> -"You getting sore at me, too?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"No," she said, "but you <i>are</i> going to work sometime, of -course?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm working now," he said. He stopped in front of her. -He stroked his hair nervously. "I'm trying to persuade Martha -to marry me!" he said, bluntly. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Johnnie!" she exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -"You mean she won't?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Johnnie, no! I don't think she will. I don't think Martha'll -marry—young. It doesn't seem to me—that it's likely." -</p> - -<p> -"You mean—that affair—last summer—the summer before -last?" -</p> - -<p> -If she had meant it she had not meant him to refer to it. -"That affair?" How could Johnnie Benton know about it? -</p> - -<p> -"Well—yes," she acknowledged, "and other things. She isn't -very domestic." -</p> - -<p> -"I beg to differ with you!" Johnnie spoke with some heat. -"She <i>is</i> domestic. She loves houses. You know she loves -houses and—things." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, anyway, Johnnie, I think—she'd be just as apt to -marry you—if you went to work; maybe more so. Not that I -think——" -</p> - -<p> -Johnnie lifted his head, as if to ward off her reproof. "I'm -sick of this," he burst out. "People think I ought to settle -down. Well, I would settle down—if Martha'd agree. I'd -settle down here, or any place. It doesn't much matter what -business I go into; I'll likely be a failure in any of 'em. I'll -have enough to live on for us both. But if Martha won't, I'm -going to pull out of this for a year or so; let them settle the -estate to suit themselves. I can't be bothered with it. I'm going -to sea for a year—till I get things into my own hands." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Johnnie, what do you want to go to sea for? There's -something better than that, surely?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I'll have to earn my living—for a while, if things don't -get settled up. The bank's howling about advancing me any -more money. As if there wasn't plenty coming to me, some -place! They won't let me sell the house, even, till the estate's -settled.". -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, were you thinking of that?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why not, Mrs. Kenworthy? Martha—wouldn't want to -live in it." -</p> - -<p> -"Johnnie, I'd give that up, if I were you. I wouldn't count -on that." -</p> - -<p> -"That's what I <i>won't</i> give up. I mean I don't give a—cent—what -else happens." -</p> - -<p> -Emily exclaimed. "You know there's nothing I would have -liked so well." -</p> - -<p> -"If what?" -</p> - -<p> -"If it—were—possible," she contented herself with saying. -"We can't force these things, Johnnie." -</p> - -<p> -"But—it was all right <i>once</i>, Mrs. Kenworthy." -</p> - -<p> -Emily wondered. -</p> - -<p> -"Look here, what's Martha living with all those suffragettes -for—those school-teachers, and doctor women?" -</p> - -<p> -And then he said, bitterly: "It's natural she'd prefer them -to—some people. Martha's been stung once, and she's afraid. -That's what's the trouble with her." -</p> - -<p> -"Good heavens!" thought Emily. "This boy is too wise! -What does he know? And how does he come to know it?" -</p> - -<p> -After a minute she said, "Well, Johnnie, dear, I would like -to see you—all happy—and settled down, but I don't know—that -Martha's the woman for you; and I tell you frankly I think -you ought to stop this loafing about." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll ask Mr. Kenworthy for a steady job for a month, if -you want me to." -</p> - -<p> -"That's not good enough for you, Johnnie; you can't work -in a garage. But it's better than nothing." -</p> - -<p> -He stuck to the garage for three weeks, and then he threw -it up and departed abruptly on the spring day that Emily noticed -the first tall white iris blooming. She was rather out of -patience with him. But Bob—an amazing lot of sympathy Bob -had for everything masculine—he just grinned. -</p> - -<p> -"He's in love, the poor devil!" he said, and winked a sort -of familiar grimace across the table at Emily. It annoyed her. -All he had ever said of Martha was: "Well, if she's in love, -she'll have to get over it; that's all." It gave her almost -satisfaction to get a letter from Martha. -</p> - -<p> -"Johnnie's turned up again. I'm leaving the city for a -holiday. I'll write you about it next week." -</p> - -<p> -Not another word from that child for two weeks. No sign -of Johnnie; he might at least have had the decency to write -whether or not he had taken to the sea. And Martha, Emily -planned as the days passed, was going to get a thorough dressing -down when she came back. Two weeks without writing was a -little too much of a good thing. Two weeks and five days now, -still no word had come. Emily was in the garden. She was, -in fact, exactly at the side of the house which Martha had -suggested adorning with a garage. She had been digging about -her "bleeding heart" and looking down towards the river, -because she had seen orioles for the first time that morning and -planning what she would say to Martha when she got a chance. -She turned around suddenly to see what car had stopped in front -of the house. It was a brand-new little blue runabout, and -expensive-looking. -</p> - -<p> -And then Johnnie Benton jumped out of it, and turned about -to give a hand to some one—and Martha Kenworthy jumped -out! All dressed up in a new suit of rose color, with a lovely -bit of soft fur and a new and nifty hat. And new shoes and a -new bag—glorious and smart entirely. And she had caught -sight of her mother, and came half running up to her. Johnnie, -too, dressed to kill—and beaming—was hurrying to her. They -were looking at each other. -</p> - -<p> -"You two are married!" Emily cried to them; and her heart -sank in a great pity for Johnnie. -</p> - -<p> -"Mammie, mammie!" Martha was crying, hugging her. They -had pulled her into the hall with cries and kisses. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Martha!" Emily murmured. -</p> - -<p> -The two were babbling. -</p> - -<p> -"What she's wanted all the time, and she's pretending to -scold us. Look at her, Johnnie." Martha was laughing at her -mother's consternation. "We wanted to surprise you. How -did you <i>know</i>? I suppose we <i>do</i> look married, maybe." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm glad," said Emily. -</p> - -<p> -"You're <i>not</i>; you're crying! Didn't we surprise you? Did -you get my letter? Rather smooth of me, wasn't it—'Johnnie's -turned up and I'm leaving the city!' We'd only been married -an hour when I wrote that, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -She shone, she twinkled, like not one star—but the whole -canopy of heaven. She adored her husband with her married -eyes. She stood the loveliest blossom of the season. Johnnie -was explaining. Emily sat breathless looking from one to the -other of them. "They're utterly married," she thought. "Martha -isn't pretending. She isn't putting something across now." She -couldn't believe it. But the bridal garments would have -convinced her. Martha's very stockings were shining bridally. -She had taken off her rosy hat; her frock matched her coat; -she was powdering her nose before the hall glass; she was -cavorting about, and shining. She called upon her mother to -admire poor Johnnie. -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't he a dear?" she chuckled. "Don't you think he's a -lamb, mammie?" -</p> - -<p> -"Cut that out, kiddo!" he cried, enjoying it. -</p> - -<p> -"You bring the stuff in, my son. Mammie, we're going to -open up the room. But Johnnie can have the little guest -room—just for his things, can't he? I told you so, Johnnie. He's -got to go down and break the news softly to dad. You go on, -Johnnie; I want to talk to mammie. But don't you stay more -than half an hour, I tell you. We're going to turn out that -room, mammie. I knew it wouldn't be ready. I'll get out of -my glad rags right away. Johnnie can help me. He's good at -housework." -</p> - -<p> -The door had finally scarcely closed behind the bridegroom -when Emily cried; "Are you happy, Martie? Why did you do -this?" -</p> - -<p> -Side by side they placed themselves on the sofa instinctively; -and Martha threw her arms about her mother ecstatically. -</p> - -<p> -"Am I happy?" she repeated. "Can't you see I'm happy? -Oh, mammie, I've got so much to tell you. Oh, ain't I lucky, -mammie? I didn't know when I married him—I was just—mad, -inside—I was hardboiled. I didn't intend to be good to -Johnnie. I didn't know what else to do. I was sick of being -called an old maid! I thought he could just run the risk, if -he would keep on asking me. I didn't intend being nice to him, -or anything. Mammie, people don't appreciate Johnnie. I -didn't. Not at first, and then I found out how SWEET he was! -He was just sweet to me, mammie, and I went and told him -everything the other night. I could just kiss the ground that -man walks on, with his dear old feet!" -</p> - -<p> -Tears came springing into little Mrs. Benton's eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"I told him everything about New York. I told him I'd been -crazy. He said we'd be a pair of nuts, then. Fifty fifty, he -said, I told him, no, mammie. A thousand to one, I told -him. I tried to make him see, but he said I just thought that -because I was such a good little kid! He said I was a good little -kid, mammie. Those were his very words! I tell you right -now, mammie, nobody's ever going to say a word about his -mother to me! Because she WAS part of him, after all, and he -hates it. I never knew there was anything in the world so -darling as that man! You just ought to see him in his -pajamas! He's too sweet! Blue and white striped they are. -I'll let you see them, mammie!" -</p> - -<p> -"Rare treat," thought Emily, dazedly. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you think he's a lamb, mammie? Don't you think he's -too dear?" -</p> - -<p> -"I always liked Johnnie." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't mean that way! You just wait till you know -him better! But nobody can appreciate Johnnie till she's -married to him!" -</p> - -<p> -"That seems too bad!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't know. It suits me!" she retorted, immediately. -"Nobody wants a lot of women sitting around appreciating her -husband. Mammie, it was too funny the way it happened. You -know, Mrs. Blacksley and I had an awful row. She practically -put me out of the shop." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, she did. It was too funny, when you think about it. -You see——" -</p> - -<p> -She chuckled. She could enjoy any joke herself in her high -mood. "She had to have some money to go on with, and she -asked me straight out if there was any chance of me putting -some in. And I said no, not unless she got rid of that man of -hers. Mother, you can't imagine what a temper that woman's -got! I thought she was going to pull my hair or slap me. I -kept backing out towards the door, and she kept coming after -me. She called me——" Martha giggled. "She called me an -evil-minded little old maid! She said she'd like to see me -groveling—groveling, it was she said—before some man. And -here I am already just groveling! She said she hoped I'd have -enough sense some day to appreciate a real man. It was pretty -rotten of me to say that to her, because she is fond of him. -She said his very cough was precious to her; she said she hoped -I'd fall in love till I'd kiss somebody's false teeth when he -wasn't there himself!" Martha snickered and added, "But, of -course, he'd take them with him, his teeth, but I didn't think of -that in time to answer her. I was afraid of her. And I was -mad, I can tell you. And then, of course, Johnnie came along -again. I was hardboiled and I went and married him. -Because, after all, you've got to marry or be called an old maid -in this world, haven't you, mammie? Let's ask her down now -after a while, for a week. Mrs. Blacksley, I mean. But maybe -she won't come. She's got such an awful temper." -</p> - -<p> -Emily cried, the moment there was a pause—suddenly: -</p> - -<p> -"Martha, I was never unfaithful to your father in my -life—your father, I mean Bob Kenworthy!" -</p> - -<p> -"You weren't?" She stared at her mother, taken aback. -"Well, that's sort of funny." -</p> - -<p> -"I ought to have told you that at once that day when you -told me—what you thought! But I didn't." -</p> - -<p> -Martha was looking at her thoughtfully. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that's sort of funny. I was just thinking of that this -morning!" She had spoken slowly, but a thought quickened her -pace again. "Mammie, you just ought to see Johnnie in the -morning! He's too sweet! His hair never gets mussed up a -bit, it's so short, and sort of soft in the morning. And I was -just thinking this morning about what you said, or what I said -to you, rather, and it would have been a raw deal for dad, -after all. Because really, if a woman's got a good husband, -she ought to treat him right, I think. Don't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I CERTAINLY DO!" -</p> - -<p> -"I wouldn't want anybody treating Johnnie that way, I know -that." And her tongue wagged happily on. Mother's vices -or virtues were dismissed as slight things, in this new joy. They -sat still there, Emily listening to Johnnie's praises till he came -back into the room with Bob. -</p> - -<p> -The paternal blessing detained them only for a minute. They -hurried away to their housekeeping. A hurricane of happiness; -seemed to be moving the furniture in the painted room about, -judging from the noise. Bob and Emily sat side by side -listening to the chortles of mirth that came down to them. Bob -couldn't stop grinning. -</p> - -<p> -"I always said this would happen, Emily. I always knew it -would." -</p> - -<p> -"Right as usual!" said Emily. If a woman has a good husband, -what's the use of reminding him of all he doesn't know? she -mused, happily. -</p> - -<p> -She scarcely knew the painted room itself when she went up -to it later. It was noon, but the curtains were pushed back as -far as possible, and the blinds rolled to the top, so that the -sunshine came crashing down like thunder from paradise on the -roused and choral colors. The Victrola was grinding out: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Two for tea,<br> - And tea for two.<br> - A girl for me,<br> - And a boy for you.<br> -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Johnnie cried out, "Come in, Mrs. Kenworthy!" -</p> - -<p> -Martha gurgled, jeering. "Mrs. Kenworthy! the nerve of -you! Call her mother!" -</p> - -<p> -They hadn't ceased dancing. Martha had a gaudy printed -purple silk thing, a man's belongings, pinned about her head, -turban-wise, and her arms were clasped firmly around her -husband's waist. She made a gesture with her head about the -room. -</p> - -<p> -"It never looked better, did it, mammie? You always wanted -it this way." -</p> - -<p> -The beds were standing together, at length, where they had -always belonged. -</p> - -<p> -"I just let Johnnie arrange everything else to suit himself," -she said. -</p> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="t3"> -THE END -</p> - -<p><br><br><br><br></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PAINTED ROOM ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. -</div> - -<div style='margin-top:1em; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE</div> -<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE</div> -<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -To protect the Project Gutenberg™ 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™ License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -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™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ 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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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™ 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™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law 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™ mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg™ 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™ License when -you share it without charge with others. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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™ work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ 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: -</div> - -<blockquote> - <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most - other parts of the world 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you - are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws - of the country where you are located before using this eBook. - </div> -</blockquote> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (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™ -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ 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™ License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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™ License. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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™ work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website -(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™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -provided that: -</div> - -<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ 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.” - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • 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™ - 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™ - works. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • 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. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. - </div> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ -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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg™ 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 1.F.3. 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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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™ electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -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™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ 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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ 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™ 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 information page at www.gutenberg.org. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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. 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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread -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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, -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. -</div> - -</div> -</body> - -</html> - diff --git a/old/69549-h/images/img-cover.jpg b/old/69549-h/images/img-cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 075dd5f..0000000 --- a/old/69549-h/images/img-cover.jpg +++ /dev/null |
