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 washerselfshe 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—youmustn'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 tome!" Bob exclaimed. "Don't saydareto me!"
And Emily said, soothingly, "Martha, didn't I tell you not to let that man come here?"
"You didnot! 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'snother 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 blamingmefor? 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!"
"Ididintend 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.Thisis 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? Itoldyou 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.
Emily turned upon the subdued adults in front of her. She spoke first to Bob.
"You call Martha a fool! You say thatshe'sfoolish! 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 certainlyismy 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?"
"Ohyes! 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 patienceIneed. 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'llhaveto go back! He's justgotto 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 blamemefor this, Mrs. Kenworthy. ItoldMartha 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 blameme! Ididtell 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.Icouldn'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 readPère 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?"
"Itisher business. As she said Johnnie'sherboy."
"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 seenowwhat 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—ismarried! 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!Herheart 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—thinkabout 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!"