"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 considerhishappiness 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'llbe 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 satisfiednow! 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, youwould! Youknowwhat 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, "youmustpromise 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.
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,hideit! 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.